Free The Storm's Own Son (Book 1) by Anthony Gillis Page A

a good chance of a trap there, but no time to deal with it. He grabbed a heavy bronze urn nearby, and with help from Arax and two others, smashed it through the door like a battering ram. A little metal needle shot from the lock, but clanged harmlessly into the urn.
    Beyond was the richly, even gaudily decorated office, but not Cratus.
    But then, Talaos hadn't expected him to be there.
    He checked the inlayed wood panels on the wall behind the gang bosses' desk and felt for what he thought was the right spot. Talaos had only ever seen Cratus use it once, back when the latter had tried to convince him to at last join formally as one of his captains, to take the full oaths, and see the secrets.
    He found it. Pressed a little wooden tile, and there was a click at a section of floor under the rug. He motioned to the others, and two hurried over to move the rug.
    "This looks like my area," said Sorya, as she walked over to the trap door, drew out her lock picks, and put them to work on the lock.
    " Without the push of that panel, you'd be getting a half a dozen poison needles springing at you about now," Talaos added helpfully.
    "Lovely," she replied, finishing her work with a satisfying click.
    "Stand back," Talaos said, motioning her and the others away.
    Sorya and Katara flanked him, but the rest made some distance.
    There would almost certainly be at least one more trick. He wedged a pick of his own, of particular design, with a loop at the end, in the lock. He put a little cord through it, and stepped around behind the trap door. He pulled, lifting the door up from behind. There was a sound of springing steel. Six crossbow bolts flew out from the stairs under the trapdoor, and into the far wall.
    " He's clever," said Sorya with black humor as she eyed the bolts.
    "Whatever else he is, Cratus is no fool," replied Talaos. With that, he stepped watchfully around the trap door. There at the base of the stairs, as he expected, was a ballista with places for six shots and a complex triggering device rigged to the trapdoor.
    Down the stairs he went, to a place he'd never wanted to see again.
    Behind him were Katara, Sorya, and twenty armed men. Before him was the short hallway that opened onto a sort of foyer. There was neither sign nor sound of opposition. The bare stone walls of the hallway had niches carved in them. In each niche were a few bones, and sometimes teeth or little personal trinkets.
    Katara looked at them with a grim curiosity, but many of the others seemed disturbed. Talaos silenced them with a gesture. This was not a time to talk, and the explanation would not help. He knew that this was where Cratus liked to keep mementos of slain enemies. At least he used to. Last time the bones had been clean and tidy, and some niches had held little candles for light. Now they were covered in dust and the hallway was dark.
    They came to the foyer, still with no one else around. The foyer at least had not changed. It was a deceptively nice place, with tapestries on the walls, lit lamps on tables, and a few chairs. In the hallway on the right were four cells where Cratus used to keep favored prisoners, though the absence of whimpers or pleas for help meant they might not be in use at present.
    To the left were vaults for valuables, treasures that they wouldn't have time, at present, to investigate. Their business was ahead, beyond a pair of richly carved, brass-fitted doors with a lock more decorative looking than strong. Past them was a guard room, and then Cratus's playroom, where in the old days he had entertained himself exploring how slowly he could make certain enemies die. Not to question them. Just for fun. Cratus was an artist in a way, and he'd been proud to show off his work. Talaos had watched, and many illusions had vanished.
    Now, however, Cratus was going to have visitors of another sort.
    Talaos made an estimate of what they might face. He was sure Cratus would be down here, but there couldn't be too many men on