To Steal from a Demon: A Wielders Novel, #2

By Anthony James

Having dispatched the recent threat to the ancient city of Hardened with a steel toe-cap up the rear end and the pointy bit of a dagger in its eye, the Wielder Tan Skulks finds himself promoted to high office.

With new responsibilities come new opportunities and Skulks finds himself challenged by mad wizards, a master thief and on top of that, someone is most definitely trying to kill him. As if that wasn't enough, there's a top-secret mission which only a man of Skulks' calibre has any hope of completing.

Dastardly miscreants are everywhere and it's a good job Skulks is one of them, because it's going to take all his powers of cunning, guile, stealth and outright thievery to emerge from this one moderately unscathed. Can he face the Demon King and come up smelling of roses and stolen coins?

This book was originally published under the author name Max Anthony.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony James
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224321001

Book preview

TO STEAL FROM A DEMON

Having dispatched the recent threat to the ancient city of Hardened with a steel toe-cap up the rear end and the pointy bit of a dagger in its eye, the Wielder Tan Skulks finds himself promoted to high office.

With new responsibilities come new opportunities and Skulks finds himself challenged by mad wizards, a master thief and on top of that, someone is most definitely trying to kill him.

As if that wasn’t enough, there’s a top-secret mission which only a man of Skulks’ calibre has any hope of completing.

Dastardly miscreants are everywhere and it’s a good job Skulks is one of them, because it’s going to take all his powers of cunning, guile, stealth and outright thievery to emerge from this one moderately unscathed. Can he face the Demon King and come up smelling of roses and stolen coins?

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SOMEWHERE NEAR BURDEN

(Year Five of the Lower Rhultian Wars)

The countryside had been turned to ash. Perhaps this was too strong a description, for here and there one could see an outcropping of greenery standing defiant against the man-made flames which had scoured the ground recently. Smoke still rose in plumes where the land had been richest. In the places it blew across the road, it left the few brave travellers with a greasy, unpleasant odour which was hard to wash from their clothing, for more than just crops had been burned. Certainly the crops which had grown here wouldn’t be harvested this year. Probably not the next either, for all of the farmers had been killed and set alight with them. King Warmont was getting desperate.

The roads near the city of Burden were no longer safe, for semi-feral soldiers were amok. With their chain of command smashed, broken and flushed down the toilet, they were free to roam, looking for mischief as such men might do. Not the mischief of knocking on a door and running away, or stealing apples from a tree in a farmer’s back yard. Their sort of mischief entailed sticking swords into people who had no reason to have a sword stuck into them. A few of Warmont’s soldiers were already defecting to the banner of a new king, but for now this area so close to Burden was lawless. Queen Happy couldn’t afford the men to patrol outside her city’s walls.

Gazing upon this scene, one would have found it unusual, nay, particularly unusual to see children skipping along the road without an apparent care in the world. But skipping they were, two children of about ten years each, hand in hand as they bounded past the recent devastation, singing a merry counting song to keep time as they progressed.

La-la-la, one, two, three, sang the girl.

Tri-hi-hi, four, five, seven, sang the boy.

The skipping stopped abruptly.

It’s four, five, SIX! insisted the girl.

No it isn’t! It’s four, five, seven! said the boy.

SIX!

SEVEN!

Their lively discourse was interrupted by the sound of a voice. Accompanying that voice was a man. He was a scruffy individual, wearing a patchwork of leather armour but with a metal breastplate. He didn’t appear to have shaved in at least two weeks and, as soon became apparent by his odour, he’d not likely seen a bath this side of Ploster’s rising. From the direction of his travel, it could be seen that he’d emerged from a semi-derelict cottage wherein he’d been lurking. Not that he’d have classed it as lurking, mind you. Lurking implied he had no right to be there, when as far as he was concerned he had every right to be there because he’d killed the former occupants. If that didn’t give him legal rights to live in a house, he didn’t know what did. The man was a coward, of course and following behind him were four equally disreputable individuals, all as unkempt and unwashed as he.

Children, children! he addressed the squabbling pair, attempting his most jolly and avuncular tones. Shouldn’t you be safely at home? There’s a war going on here you know! While the man was thoroughly unpleasant and with a hairy back, he hadn’t yet resolved to kill the children. His patience was sorely tested when the boy turned and blew a raspberry in his direction.

Go away, mister! We’re going to see our aunty!

And which aunty might this be? the man enquired of them, looking around in an exaggerated fashion as if taking in the absence of human life nearby. I see no aunties here.

Well our aunty IS here, said the girl. Our Aunty Happy lives just over there in that city.

Aunty Happy?

YES! Our Aunty Happy is a very important woman and we’re going to see her!

The man paused to scratch his head. Surely they couldn’t mean Queen Happy? The same queen who had rebuffed the amorous advances of her rival King Warmont, before gradually defeating his resultant military advances over the last five years?

One of his colleagues elbowed him surreptitiously in the ribs. At least it might have been surreptitious to an observer sitting forty leagues away.

’Ere, Bob. We could get a few Monties for these two, said he, referring colloquially to King Warmont’s currency, which was known officially as the King’s Virtues. His whispering tones carried clearly to the two children on the road in front of them.

Don’t you think to stop us! announced the girl. Aunty Happy will be very cross. Very, very cross!

The man whose colleague had betrayed his name as ‘Bob’ gave a hearty chuckle and held his hands open in a gesture he hoped was reassuring.

Come on children, your old Uncle Bob will see you get to Aunty Happy safe and sound. It’s your lucky day to have found me, for I’m well-known for my love of children. I’m always helping them I am, aren’t I lads?

The motley collection of bodies nearby made a few mutterings, none of which sounded especially friendly or welcoming. Bob took a few paces forwards, coming to within an arm’s reach of the defenceless boy and girl.

Right! Get ‘em, lads! he shouted, making a lunge towards the girl and attempting to grab her by the arm.

There was a twanging noise. It was as if someone had wedged a wooden ruler under the lid of their school desk and had pressed down on the end of it. The twanging noise was closely followed by a ‘Waaaah’, the volume of which rapidly diminished. The reason for this diminishing was because the utterer of the waaaah, being the aforementioned Bob, was sailing through the air at high speed as if he’d been unexpectedly flung out of an invisible catapult. The waaaah became a thud as Bob’s momentous arc was interrupted by a collision with a fat tree trunk, sturdy enough to have survived the burning. His body slid downwards, coming to rest on the ground with his neck at a funny angle, though he was too dead to find any humour in the situation.

The remaining four men tried to complete the work that Bob had started, seemingly oblivious to the fact that their self-styled leader had just flown through the air with the greatest of ease until he’d struck a tree. It wasn’t something one saw every day, so in a feat of collective ignorance, they managed to subconsciously pretend it hadn’t happened. They’d capture these children and then Bob would reappear back amongst them, as surly a git as ever.

There was a woi-oi-oi-ng. The sort of noise one might hear if a gentleman playfully tugged at a lady’s garter, before he received a punch on the nose. Then there was a warbling sound. Two more of the men were rudely plucked from the ground and hurled at random, one of whom was fortunate enough to land in a well two hundred yards away. He’d escape but it would be ten days later and he’d have a severe case of trench leg, this being a considerably more painful version of trench foot.

The remaining two men were cowards amongst cowards. The sort of people who will always hang back until the dangerous bits are over, at which point they will launch themselves most enthusiastically into the fray. These two men managed to bring themselves to a complete stop a few feet away from the angelically smiling children, who looked for all the world like they should be at their happiest playing hopscotch with a two Monty coin in their pocket for a bag of boiled sweets later.

Those men weren’t very nice, said the girl to the boy.

No. And they were smelly.

Uhm a-hur-hur, said one of the remaining men. We didn’t mean you no harm or nothing, did we Klot?

Hur-hur, no we didn’t not mean no one no harm at all, said Klot, attempting a quintuple negative, but settling for a quad. Klot started to whistle, indicating to all the world just how innocent he was of any crimes he may have been suspected of involvement in. Come on Coops, let’s go this way, over here. To see that thing we’ve been meaning to see, that’s over there. He raised his arm, indicating an empty field in the opposite direction to which the children had been travelling.

Coops’ face brightened in understanding. "Yeah, that thing that we’ve been meaning to look at. We’d best get over there and have a look at it." He sidled slowly away from the children, little realising that he’d already grown a tail, sprouting from his back just above his buttocks. This tail would have a mind of its own and would aggrieve him for the rest of his short life by lashing out randomly at strangers and attempting to steal cakes whenever it got the opportunity. Klot hadn’t yet noticed the third eye growing in his forehead, which would wink lasciviously and inappropriately at everyone he’d strike up a conversation with.

As they watched, the Warp and the Weft skipped away cheerfully along the road leading to the city of Burden, still arguing about which number came after ‘five’.

Oof! said Klot as something gave him a smack across the back of his head. He looked at Coops.

Wasn’t me.

As Klot and Coops made urgent haste across the field to see that thing they’d been meaning to look at, they failed to notice another figure which had been watching the whole confrontation. There was no reason they should have noticed it, for it was very good at remaining unseen. Even on an open road in full daylight it might pass by without notice. Not that anyone would really want to notice it, for it definitely wasn’t human. The demon, for that’s what it was, loomed seven feet tall with spindly arms and legs ending in sharp claws, though these claws made no noise as it passed. It moved with a speed and grace which defied its nature. Grinning to itself with filthy, sharp teeth on display, it continued following the two children as they skipped happily along the road.

A NONDESCRIPT HOUSE

This was a house like any other house. It was in an average neighbourhood of an average district. It occupied a section of the ground and first floors of a taller building, which also housed a butcher’s shop, a small bakery and seven other families. The only thing which made it stand out from the other dwellings was that it was self-contained. One didn’t need to go through this house in order to reach any of the other shops or houses contained here. This made it quite unusual in the city of Hardened, the most communal of all cities, where one might return from work to find a new house had been built upon one’s roof and an access doorway knocked through into one’s living room. Mostly people didn’t mind and they just got on with life.

Tonight, there was a pair of eyes looking at this house, sizing it up. Hardened was a bustling city, but everyone had to sleep at some point and for now the streets were as close to deserted as they would become. Looking left and right, the owner of the eyes scooted across the paved street and up the outer wall without seeming to break stride. Nearly fifteen feet off the ground, nimble fingers went to work on the window, deftly removing two sprung blades and a needle trap as they sought entry.

Soon the window was open, and the eyes entered the room within, pausing for a moment as they adapted to the increased darkness. A pair of ears listened intently for a sound their owner knew would lead to its target. And there was a sound. A wheezing noise was heard, like a worn blacksmith’s bellows heaving and grunting with the effort of sucking and expelling the cold night air.

Without noise, feet padded along a corridor until their owner located the room from which the sound was emanating. A hand reached out and carefully, gently turned the knob, opening the door to the chamber within. The sound was louder here, much louder. Now so close, this interloper could have been fooled into thinking that a herd of exhausted cattle was crowded inside, gasping and rasping as their lungs sought to draw in enough oxygen.

But cattle it was not. There was a bed here and upon it lay a man, lying on his side with his mouth open. Even in his comatose state he was wearing a hat; a hat so ridiculous that someone must have placed it upon his unknowing head as a practical joke. His intake of breath caused his body to rise and fall in time with the grunting and snuffling sounds that were coming from his mouth. The room reeked of alcohol, exuded by the man’s body, sweating in spite of the coolness. Nearby on the bed there were paper-wrapped parcels, though it could be seen that they had been partially torn open, perhaps by the curious nuzzling of a beast unknown. Inside these parcels the eyes could make out the semi-eaten remains of a double portion of fried potatoes and shavings of pig offal, once tender and juicy, but now drying and curling at the edges.

Resisting the temptation of these sweetmeats, the hands were already at work, tugging at the clothing of the figure, seeking something. A momentary clumsiness resulted in a digit poking into the prone victim’s nose, though it elicited no more than a grunt and a slight rustling sound. At last the figure located that which it had come for. Two dagger-swords were concealed in sheaths at the victim’s waist, looking for all the world like they’d been churned out of any Five-Sliver armoury. Hands carefully pulled them free.

The Solids which were scattered liberally about the dresser nearby and visible in an open chest in the corner were seen but left untouched. With prizes firmly clutched, the thief retreated from the room and fled, pausing only briefly to help itself to a brown, overripe banana from an otherwise untouched bowl of ageing fruit on the living room table.

1

Captain Tan Skulks, newly elevated to his position as the head of Hardened’s Office of Covert Operations, was going to have a bad day. Not the sort of bad day where one accidentally stands in a plump dung on the way to work in one’s new shoes. Not even the sort of day where one gets to work and realises in horror that one has forgotten to wear one’s trousers. Tan Skulks’ bad day would be a real humdinger.

Firstly, he had a hangover. With nothing in particular to celebrate he’d found himself in the Poet’s Grimace the previous evening, wherein he’d partaken of an ample surfeit of their high-quality ales and beverages, sung a number of bawdy songs and bumbled his way home in the early hours. This wasn’t unusual and in itself was insufficient for him to class the day as a bad one.

Secondly, he’d recently remembered that during the previous evening’s inebriation he’d spent the entirety of this week’s wages on a new hat. This hat had looked smart after however many mugs of Julian’s Stotting Headache he’d got down his neck before he decided that he needed it. However, in the cold light of day it made him look like the epitome of a twit, with its gaudy colours and ridiculous feathers. Even Chamber Member Heathen Spout, a lady known for her sobriety and seriousness had openly laughed at him when she’d seen it. He’d been forced into lying and saying he’d paid five Slivers for it from a beggar he’d taken pity on, when in fact he’d paid two hundred Solids at a high-end hat boutique, thinking it would impress. He’d thought about returning to the shop and demanding a refund, but the hat already had beer stains on the rim. Presently it was squashed in the bin by his desk, with a boot print on top of it where he’d trodden it as far down as he could manage, hoping that his grinding heel could expunge the shame.

Thirdly, and more importantly, he’d woken up to find his dagger-swords were missing. Had they been cheap traveller’s knives (as their appearance suggested) he would have simply bought two more. Unfortunately, they had been made by the finest craftsman and enchanted by wizards of his acquaintance. It would take Skulks months, if not years of dedicated effort, by which he meant stealing, to get a new pair made. He’d certainly not be welcome in Hardened for long if he had to steal enough money to accomplish that goal and it would not be seemly for the head of Hardened’s Office of Covert Operations to be implicated in the vast application of thievery it would entail. He might even be forced into tendering his resignation.

As he was mulling this over, with his eyes stinging in the dull light of his office, a knock on the door heralded the arrival of the Chamber Building’s gentleman in charge of catering. He looked nervous. Skulks croaked out a greeting, the words feeling as if they were scraping a twin-bladed saw across his tonsils.

Good morning. Where’s my breakfast? His guest didn’t dare remind him that it was already early afternoon.

Good day, Captain Skulks. I’ve been going around all the offices telling people that our deliveries failed to show up this morning. So there’s no fresh food today. He could see that this news was failing to improve the mood of Captain Skulks. It might be here later, he added helpfully.

Good god, man! No fresh food? What am I to do for my breakfast?

I can bring you a slice of toast? ventured the man. Skulks considered this, wincing slightly as he imagined forcing pieces of sharp, dry toast down his throat. He was quite hungry though.

Toast, then. And water. A very, very big jug of water. He looked up to find the man still in his office. What is it? Skulks asked.

It’s just that the water supply to the office is off today. There was a message sent around about it. Asking people to bring in their own water. They’re upgrading our pipework.

Skulks shook his head. Fruit juice then!

The rats have got into the fruit juice, Captain Skulks and we’ve had to throw it away.

Well what CAN you serve me? demanded Skulks.

You can have a glass of warm vinegar? The man’s nervous smile quickly faded as he realised his joke was not appreciated. Or milk! Though it might be slightly sour.

Skulks sighed and waved the man away. He left his desk and his mounting to-do tray and headed off into the Chamber Building gardens and through to the streets. With his paltry three Slivers he bought himself a half-loaf of bread and an enormous jug of cold fruit juice, which he polished off in one swig, sticky juices running down his chin and inside his tunic, where they’d spend the rest of the day irritating him and attracting wasps.

Looking around, he could see that life was already getting back to normal after the recent woodmen and bargemen strikes which had been resolved amicably a few weeks ago. He’d have paid at least five Slivers for his half-loaf and juice back then, so would have needed to revert temporarily to the Old Tan Skulks and stolen a couple of extra coins.

As he was mustering the energy to return to his office and his groaning to-do tray, something caught his eye, further diminishing his humour. On a nearby newspaper stand, he could make out the headline of the Hardened Times. Hoping that he’d read it wrong, he squinted, wondering if his eyesight was failing. It wasn’t. Even when he took several steps closer to the newspaper it still flaunted the same words in big letters:

462 nd Annual Wizards’ Convention Comes to Hardened! it boasted.

A few of the people in the street nearby were looking at him in concern now, for Skulks was stock still and staring straight ahead as if he might keel over at any moment. The anxious citizens were relieved to see him shake his head vigorously before he spun about on his heel and strode back the way he’d come, batting at a wasp which had settled on his tunic. One or two of those with keener ears heard him speak.

Gods! I hate wizards!

Back at his office, Skulks paused at the door. Since they hadn’t been quite sure what to do with him or where to situate him, he was put away in the bowels, in a small and dusty ground floor office next to the privies and with a single window. The sign on the door simply read ‘Captain T Skulks’, in keeping with the semi-secret nature of his role. He pushed it open and entered.

With pink eyes and a thirst which had returned within moments of his return to the Chamber Building, Skulks picked up the first new document on his to-do pile. Unsolved burglaries in Hardened! it proclaimed, with an unprofessional exclamation mark. He scanned over it with his eyes slightly glazed. Someone or someones had been taking advantage of the recent strikes, rat gods and aborted assault on the city to provide cover for their more mundane thefts. Skulks stuck it to the bottom of his pile. He was meant to be a spy, not an enforcer of the law.

The next document was titled Klump the Frivolous seeks trade terms with Hardened. This too was shoved to the bottom of the pile, promoting the burglaries missive further up the tray. Skulks wondered if he was doing this all wrong. He’d hoped that he’d be getting asked to break into buildings and spy on people, or steal their goods at the behest of the state. Instead, it all seemed to be humdrum matters for people with responsibility. People such as the New Tan Skulks, he thought glumly.

As he leafed through the papers, Skulks found his mind wandering back to