The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows

by Crilley, Paul

  Cutter looked over his shoulder. A skycoach was approaching.

  Keep him talking, Cutter thought. Maybe there was still a way out of this.

  “Who are you?”

  “Who am I?”

  The warforged was silent for a moment, and when it spoke again it was in a soft whisper that caused the hair on the back of Cutter’s neck to rise.

  “I am the unnamed. I am the fear of darkness. I am the night stalker. I am the will of the Shadow, and I do his bidding.”

  Cutter swallowed. The Shadow?

  “Enough of this,” said the warforged. “It is time for you to embrace the darkness.”

  “Embrace your own darkness.”

  Cutter swung …

  Dedication

  To my parents, for always making sure I had plenty of books to read when I was growing up.

  To Caroline, for always being there. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be where I am today, writing the dedication in my very first book. Thank you.

  And to Isabella. If your life is filled with a fraction of the wonder I feel every time I look at you, you’ll have a happy life indeed.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue: The first night of Long Shadows

  Chapter One: The first night of Long Shadows

  Chapter Two: The first night of Long Shadows

  Chapter Three: The first night of Long Shadows

  Chapter Four: The second day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Five: The second day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Six: The second day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Seven: The second day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Eight: The second day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Nine: The second day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Ten: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Eleven: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Twelve: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Thirteen: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Fourteen: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Fifteen: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Sixteen: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Seventeen: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Eighteen: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Nineteen: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Twenty: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Twenty-One: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The third day of Long Shadows

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The third day of Long Shadows

  Epilogue: Dawn

  The first night of Long Shadows

  Zor, the 26th day of Vult, 998

  Torin heard the noise again, a loud banging as if someone was pounding on the walls.

  He frowned and looked up. The shelves of Morgrave University library receded from the tiny pool of light his everbright lantern created, melting into the shadows of deep night. He listened, but all he could hear was the rain pouring down outside the huge window behind him. He looked over his shoulder. The panes of lead-lined glass revealed only the darkness of Sharn. The panels glimmered slightly as runnels of rainwater caught the light of a distant skycoach.

  He was alone. Or at least, he thought he was. Who else would be here at this time of night? He shouldn’t even be here, but Wren had told him to do a bit of research for a case he was thinking of taking on. A bit of research. That was a joke. He’d been here half the night already and he still hadn’t found the information Wren wanted.

  But that was typical of the way things worked. Torin did all the leg work while Wren threw one of his lavish parties.

  There. There it was again. A muffled thud. But louder this time. And it hadn’t come from inside the library, but from outside, in the university commons.

  Torin swiveled around and carefully slid off the high stool, landing on the wooden floor with a slight thud. He gave a small sigh. Why didn’t they supply chairs for people his size, anyway? It wasn’t as if dwarves were a rarity in academia.

  He padded silently to the stairs, leaning over the banister and looking down. The stairwell descended into blackness. He couldn’t see any lights or anything else that would reveal that someone was inside. So where had the noise come from?

  Then he heard a loud crash, like something smashing through a wall, from the floor below him. Torin hurried down the stairs and paused on the landing. It led into a corridor where some of the professors had their living quarters.

  Maybe it wasn’t any of his business …

  He heard a cry of pain. No, something was going on. Torin ran down the passage to the door through which the noises were coming. He tried the handle and the door swung open into a brightly lit room.

  Torin took a small step inside.

  And froze, his eyes widening in shock at the scene before him.

  A huge man, over six feet tall, with two strangely curved blades held in each hand, stood over a horribly mutilated body. The man was covered in blood and breathing heavily, staring down at the victim.

  A gasp escaped Torin’s lips and the intruder swung around to face him. The man’s hair was so short that he looked almost bald. Strange tattoos worked their way up his arms and around his neck, partially concealed beneath the blood and gore.

  Torin fumbled in his jacket for his knife. The hilt snagged in the lining. He tugged at it, desperate to free it before—

  He looked up. Too late. The man was running straight for him. Torin stumbled backward, managing to free the knife. The man lashed out, smacking the dwarf in the face and sending him crashing into the door frame. Torin quickly climbed to his feet, his blade held defensively before him, but the man was running up the stairs.

  Torin sprinted after him, grabbing the banister and hauling himself up the steps in pursuit. When he reached the library, he stopped, sucking in great gulps of air, and peered up the stairwell. The man was already at the top floor. There was no way the dwarf could catch him.

  Torin winced, feeling a stitch coming on. Host, but he was unfit. It was all that expensive food Wren insisted on eating. How was he supposed to resist it?

  He turned and walked slowly back down the stairs. He’d have to find someone and tell them what had happened.

  At least the murderer shouldn’t be too hard to find. A six-and-a-half foot tall maniac with a dragon tattoo on his arms?

  Even the Sharn Watch should be able to handle that.

  The first night of Long Shadows

  Zor, the 26th day of Vult, 998

  Earlier that night.

  Cutter’s brother used to say there were two ways you could live.

  One, you fought against everything, spent every moment of your life wanting to be somewhere else, regretting you hadn’t done better, made more money, married that girl you knew when you were younger. You fought yourself with every breath and blamed everyone else for the mess you were in.

  Or two, you accepted your lot no matter what the deal, and you lived your life in each and every moment, not waiting for the future or looking back over the past.

  You lived now.

  His brother had lived according to number two. He died in the War, but he left behind a legacy of good deeds and good advice.

  Cutter hated him for it. He could almost feel his brother’s ghost hovering over his shoulder, shaking his head at the choices Cutter made, at where those choices had led him.

  Here. Staring out a grubby window in the back room of a seedy Lower Menthis tavern.

  Rain thundered from the night sky. It streamed down the cracked glass of the window and trickled inside, soaking into the damp wood beneath his fingers. Everbright lante
rns were spaced widely along the street, covered in an oily grime even the rain couldn’t wash away. The light they cast was sickly and jaundiced, and so faint that all they did was create thick pools of lurking shadow for the cutpurses to hide in.

  It always rained here. Even if the sky was clear up above, the runoff from the upper wards—sluice water, condensation, sweat, and slops—all blended into a muggy mixture that trickled down the mile high buildings and fell over the lower wards in a fine, misty drizzle that made the skin feel oily. You couldn’t shake that feeling—as if you were coated in a constant sheen of grease and dirt.

  Or maybe that was just the company he kept.

  Cutter heard his name spoken behind him. He frowned and turned from the window.

  Nothing had changed. Elian was still tied to the chair, his arms bound tightly behind him. He was breathing raggedly, his thin face covered with blood. Cutter could tell he was trying not to look at the pointed ear lying in a small puddle of blood by his feet.

  Tiel had done that. He always got carried away with the violence.

  Cutter shifted his gaze and looked at the halfling. Tiel crouched on the warped floorboards, his hands dangling between his legs as he stared unblinkingly at his captive. He’d been holding that position for half a bell, his wiry muscles supporting him without even a tremble of complaint.

  He put Cutter in mind of a desert snake, watching its prey as it waited for the best moment to strike.

  “The thing is,” said Tiel in his reasonable voice, “it’s not just me you’re letting down. When you don’t pay me what you owe, I can’t pay my people what I owe, and they tend to get upset. Isn’t that right, Cutter?”

  “That’s right.”

  Elian looked at Cutter. Cutter stared back, unblinking. Cutter was a big guy—over six-three, with a thick neck and dark hair so short it was barely stubble. A dragon tattoo crawled up his arms and around his neck, seeming to writhe whenever he tensed his muscles. He knew he looked scary. That was why he did what he did. He was good at it.

  Cutter could see the fear in the elf’s eyes, the fear that he was going to die. That was how Tiel liked to work. Take everything away from them, then give something back. Gratitude alone usually made them cough up what they owed. But Cutter still had to work them over a bit. Just so they didn’t try it again.

  “And Cutter here”—Tiel paused and slapped the elf’s foot—”look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  The elf jerked his head back to look at the halfling.

  “That’s better. As I was saying, Cutter needs his money.” Tiel leaned forward conspiratorially. “See, his woman’s a courtesan, and Cutter likes to give her money so she doesn’t have to work so much.” He rocked back on his haunches again. “Me, I could never be with someone who gets paid for sex, but that’s just me. I have my pride.”

  This time Cutter didn’t meet the elf’s gaze. He looked away, uninterested in the conversation. He’d heard it all before. It used to annoy him, the way Tiel put him down, talking about him like he wasn’t there. But not anymore.

  Bren, Tiel’s bodyguard, had approached him one of the first times Tiel talked like that, when Cutter was leaning against the bar trying to stop himself from shoving a knife into Tiel’s stomach.

  “You respect him?” Bren had asked.

  Cutter hadn’t moved. “What?”

  “I said, do you respect him?”

  Cutter turned his head to look at him. “Who? Tiel?”

  Bren grinned and nodded. “Yeah, Tiel. Is he someone who’s opinion matters to you?”

  Cutter thought for a moment. “Not in the slightest.”

  “Then why do you act like what he says makes a difference? You don’t respect him. He knows that. So he takes shots at you. He wants to see how far he can push you. See, he knows he’s got me to watch over him.”

  “And you’re good at what you do?”

  “The best. So stop letting him get to you. You’re ugly enough without me having to rearrange your face.”

  Just then, Bren was leaning in the shadows against the far wall, clenching and unclenching his new adamantine arm. He was about the same height as Cutter, with long, black hair, but his build was slimmer. That didn’t mean he was weak. Cutter had once seen him drop a half-orc with one well-placed punch. No. He definitely wasn’t weak. His strength was simply … more focused.

  Cutter knew he was listening, even though it looked like he wasn’t. Cutter still didn’t know Bren’s story. Just that he’d been kicked out of his Dragonmarked House and ended up here. With all the rest of the rejects and outcasts.

  “So what should I do?” asked Tiel. “What would you do?”

  Elian licked his lips, trying to work up some moisture. “Uh … I’d—I’d let you go.”

  “Would you now? You hear that, boys? He’d let me go. How nice of you.”

  “B-but with a warning.”

  “With a warning. Well, why didn’t you say so? That seem fair to you, Bren?”

  Bren glanced up. “Not really.”

  “Well, it sounds fair to me. My friend, today is your lucky day.”

  Elian’s face brightened with tentative hope. “You’re letting me go?”

  Tiel smiled. “No. I’m not. Cutter? Do your job.”

  Tiel got up and stretched, then backed away. He didn’t like getting blood on his clothes. Cutter sauntered forward, letting the fear build. There was an art to being a bruiser. It wasn’t just about beating a guy until he passed out. At least, not to Cutter. The aim was to scare him, to make sure he was healthy enough and willing enough to pay up next time.

  The way Cutter did this, he caused head wounds. They bled a lot, scared the mark. A couple of punches to the face to add some real pain, and the guy was usually begging to pay Tiel.

  Cutter didn’t bother untying the elf. He picked up the chair by the arms and threw it against the wall. The elf cried out as his head slammed against the uneven plaster. He fell to the floor, the chair breaking apart beneath him. Cutter hung back a second, letting the elf feel his head for the wound, his hand coming away covered in blood. Then Cutter picked him up by his shirt. Two sharp jabs. One to the nose. Another to the jaw. Blood flowing now from the scalp wound, dripping from his eyebrows, blood from the nose sliding warmly down the back of his throat. He knew exactly what the elf was feeling.

  “That was by way of introduction,” said Cutter. “Now, here’s how it goes. You tell me where Boromar can get his money, and you get to keep your teeth. You don’t talk, we keep doing this until you do.” Cutter pulled the elf closer. He could smell the sweat and fear on him. “And believe me, they always talk. It’s just a matter of how long they can hold out.”

  Elian looked at Cutter in confusion. “Boromar?” he mumbled. “He’s not a Boromar.”

  Cutter stared at the elf, not really believing what he had just heard. Could someone actually be that stupid?

  “What did he say?” demanded Tiel.

  “I’d keep your mouth shut if I were you,” said Cutter in a low voice.

  “But he’s not. I know Saidan Boromar. You hear that?” He pushed himself away from Cutter and looked at Tiel. “I know Saidan. He doesn’t have any sons.” Elian staggered, then steadied himself against the wall.

  Cutter wondered if maybe he’d hit the elf too hard, because he certainly wasn’t thinking straight. Nobody said that to Tiel. What the truth of the matter was, Cutter didn’t know. All Bren had told him was that Tiel claimed to be the son of Saidan Boromar, head of one of the biggest crime families in Sharn. But Boromar had never acknowledged Tiel as blood, a fact that Tiel couldn’t accept. Bren said the halfling was trying to work his way up the chain in the hope that his father would name him heir.

  Cutter didn’t think that would ever happen. He didn’t think Tiel really thought so either, which was probably why he went shifter on anyone who was stupid enough to say anything about it.

  He glanced at Tiel. The halfling just stood there, staring at Elian. He didn
’t look angry. Maybe he wasn’t going to—

  Then he lunged forward and punched Elian hard in the stomach. Tiel was strong for a halfling. Cutter had seen him beat a man almost as big as Cutter until he was unconscious. Elian was no match.

  The elf flew back against the wall and Tiel charged after him, throwing punches to his chest and stomach. When the elf sagged to his knees, Tiel focused on his head, raining blow after blow on him until his face looked like it had been dipped in a bucket of red paint. Cutter glanced at Bren, eyebrows raised. Tiel’s bodyguard nodded slightly and walked forward.

  “Tiel,” he said.

  The halfling ignored him. Elian collapsed to the floor. Tiel traded his punches for kicks. Elian groaned every time a boot connected.

  “Tiel, we need him alive,” said Bren. “He needs to tell us where the money is.”

  Tiel stopped his attack, breathing heavily. He looked at Bren, then down at the elf. He wiped his brow with his forearm and squatted in front of the moaning figure. He grabbed Elian’s face, pulling him up so he had no choice but to look Tiel in the eyes. “Who is my father?” he asked.

  Elian mumbled something unintelligible.

  Tiel shook the elf. “Who is my father?” he shouted.

  “Sa … Saidan Boromar,” mumbled Elian.

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  Tiel pushed the elf back to the floor and stood. He looked at the blood that spattered his shirt and trousers.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” he said. “My clothes are ruined.”

  Some time later, Cutter walked through the streets of Dragoneyes, the hood of his oiled cloak pulled low over his forehead. The rain drummed a steady tattoo on the leather, almost drowning out the sounds of the night life around him.

  And there was plenty of that, thought Cutter, holding the edge of his hood and looking around. The three days of Long Shadows were upon the city. It was only the first night of the festival and already things were getting more dangerous than usual.

  It was said that when the Sovereign Lord Aureon brought magic into the world, he created a creature of darkness that stole his shadow to use as its vessel. The Shadow fed on death and despair, granting power to those who pursued dark magic. The monsters of Droaam, even those that had relocated to Sharn, bowed down before this dark god. As did anyone who followed the black paths of magic.