by Damien Lake
Marik rose. Landon slashed at a knife wielder atop the table. The thug was skilled enough to deflect the longer blade. Kerwin engaged the bastard who had killed Shalla, his smaller sword sailing through the air in a dance. Neither had scored a kill. Dietrik stood in the hall doorway, rapier in his good hand, finding no room to join the fight.
Rage, burning, furious, all-consuming, flared inside Marik, growing by the second, scorching like the sun. Perhaps mages are an evolved form of your One Soul, Shalla. If that’s the case, then this is for you!
With his mental hands, he swept in the available etheric power, avoiding the energy traces that still bore Shalla’s personal signature. He flooded his reservoirs and formed the one attack he was skilled with. After an entire winter and spring of Tollaf’s nagging he had become quite proficient at it.
Though unnecessary, Marik raised his right hand, fingers wide, palm facing his target. He wanted to be certain this son-of-a-bitch saw it coming.
In the air directly before his palm he formed his etheric sphere. Six inches wide, the ball was composed of raw energy. Marik continued pouring power into the sphere until it could be clearly seen by non-mages. It glowed white like a miniature star within his grasp.
The sphere flickered, emitting flashes that illuminated the room in lightning strikes. Enough pure energy flooded the ball that it could be heard as crackling static sparks. Light from the fireplace drowned beneath the incandescence of Marik’s orb.
All fighting stopped. With everyone’s attention focused awestruck on him, Marik glared at the sword wielder. “You!” Cruel satisfaction danced in his heart when the eyes behind the mask widened in stark terror.
Before he could run, Marik released his attack. The etheric sphere shot from his hand faster than any arrow. A backlash of vortex wind gusted his hair and clothing in a hurricane frenzy when the orb parted the air with a whip-crack.
The sphere struck the murderer squarely in the gut before Marik angled it upward. Its tremendous force lifted him from his feet, only to slam him into the kitchen wall an instant later. A louder crack sounded, either the wall being damaged or his spine and ribcage shattering. Apparently he wore mail underneath his tunic. Thousands of cherry-red sparks hissed away in long arcs as the mail succumbed to the orb’s power.
An explosion occurred when the sparks met the air-born grain floating from the sacks. A brief fireball the table’s size burst across the wall. It engulfed the thug while a bloody tidal wave exploded from his mouth and nose. Most of the flames vanished with the incinerated grain. The body fell. It hit the floor with wet thump.
Marik, already forming a new sphere, spun on the other thugs by the backdoor. They fought each other frantically to leave. Three got clear. The doorway still framed the last when Marik let fly.
His orb struck the thug’s back and hurled him across the alleyway. The body folded in half. With the sphere pressed against the lower spine, head and feet bent backward until both touched. He crashed against the opposite building several feet up the wall, then his body also fell, clearly dead. A vaguely human-shaped blood smear marked the wall where his flesh had smashed apart.
Marik stepped into the alleyway. The thugs had vanished faster than water over dry sand. Spotting their auras would not be worth the effort of running five miles to catch them.
Inside, Landon and Kerwin doused the burning grain. Using strength born from abrupt need, they had ripped the heavy table away from wall. They tipped the water-barrel over the sacks before the fire could grow.
Still angrier than ever before in his life, realization made Marik shout, “Who the flaming shit is protecting Hilliard?”
“Relax, mate. We shoved him into a hall closet on the second floor with his blade. He’s got two robed brothers keeping him company, and orders to see to their safety.”
Which was quick thinking, Marik understood. Given Hilliard, he would love nothing better than to be on the frontline, yet would take the duty of protecting those weaker than he seriously enough not to look for trouble.
With the fire out, the kitchen resembled a war zone. Kerwin and Landon tossed aside the empty barrel. While the archer bent to examine the swordsman’s corpse, Kerwin whistled in admiration for a mess well caused.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that side of you,” he admitted. “Remind me never to ‘arouse your ire’. You tore them apart!”
Marik hung his head over Shalla’s body. “Poor repayment for all she’s done for us.” He wiped his hand across his tunic, hating the way he felt. The idea of using pure magic to kill an opponent had never sat well with him. Having done so, he felt dishonorable. His words to Ercsilon earlier that day echoed emptily. Rage quickly ebbed under self-recrimination, both for what he had done, and that he had not done so soon enough to save Shalla.
Dietrik sensed his turbulent emotions. His friend grasped his shoulder, saying, “I’ve been thinking you might want to carry two swords around with you. A shorter blade would come in handy whenever we pull town duties such as this.”
“Maybe,” he allowed. “For the present let’s worry about this contract. What are you doing?”
Landon paused in his examination. “This event changes my thinking. Attacking us this persistently is out of character for a street gang, despite the losses we dealt them. Had we been making a concentrated effort against them, such a response on their part would be understandable.”
“We were defending ourselves,” Marik finished. “Maybe we stepped on bigger toes than we realized.”
“I’m inclined to believe there is more to this story. I think Seneschal Locke’s fears might have had a solid foundation after all.”
Kerwin stepped outside. Dietrik mentioned, “Locke’s man told him the dark guilds were only just starting to consider attacking the fosterlings.”
“Which might have been deliberate on the part of the thieves’ inner circle. If they have a man inside Duke Tilus’ house, they might have deliberately passed false information to certain of their own members. When their inside man discovers which set of facts the seneschal has, they know which among them is selling secrets.”
“Damn it, and double damn it to the hells,” Marik muttered. “Why attack us here?”
“Easy,” Kerwin answered, dragging in the second body by an ankle. “Once we reached our destination, we felt safe, didn’t we? We let our guard down. Plus, if Hilliard fell to street thugs in Thoenar, it could never be proved that the dark guilds in Spirratta had anything to do with it, no matter how much Tilus knew it for the truth.” He dropped the carcass beside Landon’s.
“But these had to be locals! You said that yourself!”
“Yeah,” Kerwin admitted. “Which means the Dark Fathers in both cities are cooperating on this. I wonder how much the Spirratta Father had to pay to get this one to play along.”
Marik’s expression tightened in renewed anger. If that was true, they were in a very dangerous situation.
Landon sifted through the swordsman’s clothing. “He’s not carrying anything except his weapons. We won’t learn anything from him.” He shifted to the second body when Hilliard, sword drawn, entered the room.
“We heard the fighting cease,” he explained, then noticed Shalla’s body. “Oh, no! No! Shalla!” He dropped to one knee to check for life signs.
They ignored him. Landon’s second search came up dry as well.
Hilliard demanded, “Who did this? Was it one of them?”
“Yeah, that one,” Marik responded with an absent gesture. His thoughts were running rampant, reviewing the available options.
Hilliard blanched when he stepped near enough to see the thug’s corpse. The damage was incredible. “W…what?”
“Marik was fairly angry with him after he killed our friend,” Kerwin commented offhandedly, but with respect for Shalla in his tone.
“But how…”
“Don’t ever get on the bad side of a mage.”
Hilliard whirled, studying Marik anew, eyes wide. Kerwin�
��s comment only rubbed salt further into Marik’s conscious. Mood foul, he snapped, “Forget that! We need to move away from this place!”
“Not in this darkness,” Dietrik said. “You might have scattered them to the four corners, mate, but they could pull their tails from between their legs. All we need to make this a perfect night is to run into another bloody ambush.”
“Let’s move on at first light,” Landon offered. Dietrik began searching the bodies when Landon stood. “We can move to the Swan’s Down with greater caution.”
“The Swan’s Down?” Marik mused. “I’m not so sure. If they do know what our plans were, they might be waiting for us there.”
The archer spread his hands. “They found us here. I think we can assume they have ways of ferreting us out no matter where we hide, so we might as well go there. It’s in a better district, so the cityguard will be active. Plus, much of the room costs have already been paid for.”
“I guess. Dietrik?”
His friend tugged on the legs of the swordsman’s breeches. “What’s this now?”
Landon bent. “Hmm. I thought that was the grain, but that’s not so.”
Hundreds of white flecks were stuck to the fabric at the boot’s rim. When Dietrik tugged harder, the entire cuff pulled free. Liberally sprinkled across the lowest leg was a higher concentration of flecks.
“What is it?” Marik asked. “It’s not grain?”
“No. I’m not certain.” Landon pulled a larger fleck free, sniffed it, then placed it on his tongue. Quickly, he spat it out. “Nor anything from this kitchen. Whatever it is, it may be important.” Landon cut away a sizable swatch of cloth with his knife.
“Why are you taking that? You aren’t planning on tracking these bastards down, are you?” Wading into a thieves’ den with only his companions, no matter how better skilled they were at fighting, hardly appealed to him.
“Most likely not,” Landon admitted. “But we shouldn’t leave such a find behind.” He rolled the cloth and placed it within his belt pouch. He then checked the knife-wielder for white powder but found none. “If this is actually a cooperative effort between the dark guilds in both cities, then Spirratta’s surely must have sent a representative to oversee the operation. If we can kill him, the local guilds may lose interest in the assassination plan.”
“Or maybe not. That’s a long shot.”
“No harm in learning whatever we can,” Kerwin countered. “Probably it will come to nothing, yet stacking our odds won’t hurt in the least.”
“Fine. Whatever you say, but we can’t do anything until morning. Let’s barricade the doors and pile into an upstairs room. And we have to tell the others about Shalla.”
They closed the backdoor as best they could before shoving the table flush against it. With a still shocked Hilliard in tow, they retreated into the house, Marik’s angry rage and sorrow flip-flopping every few minutes.
* * * * *
Dawn finally broke three or four years later. The One Soul order members saw them off, all deeply grieving, though none blamed their guests. Unable to find suitable words, Marik left, guilt-ridden. He should have been able to say something that did not sound trite to his own ears!
Armed with explicit directions, they marched for Swan’s Down Inn and Common Room. Twice they lost their way until cityguard patrols set them straight. Swan’s Down operated in western Thoenar. Since they needed a legitimate reason to enter the Circle, they followed the wall between it and Second Ring. It made for a longer journey than cutting through the original city.
They passed every type of building, business, shop and park Marik had ever seen, including several he had never guessed at. Ordinarily his curiosity would have compelled him to explore these. Except now he moved in battle readiness. Every face, every posture, every stranger was analyzed for hostility during the journey.
Hilliard continued casting furtive glances at Marik. He remained silent the whole time. The others knew him well enough to understand he blamed himself for Shalla’s death. If he were truly a target, then he had called down the raid through his mere presence.
In the late afternoon they finally reached their inn. Lunch had ended and it would be a mark before the early dinner patrons began showing. Exhausted from his constant wariness, Marik would have accepted the place even if it were a rundown shanty.
It wasn’t, of course. If anything, it reminded him of the Randy Unicorn on the Southern Road. Large and square, it loomed four stories tall. Windows lined the second floor up, each marking a separate room. A signboard suspended on a pole over the door proclaimed it to be the Swan’s Down, complete with a skillfully carved white swan in flight trailing feathers behind it.
Marik, throwing the door open, almost knocked over a serving girl cleaning the coat pegs. A quick examination testified to the inn’s higher quality. The floor was clean, the walls were paneled, the space was well lit and several paintings graced the common room. He sent the girl to find the proprietor with news that they had a reservation under Garroway.
Less than a minute passed before a portly man with graying hair flew toward them. “Hilliard Garroway! Hilliard Garroway! Oh, thank the heavens and all the gods, it is indeed you, my lord!”
He nearly swept the young noble up in a hug, causing Marik’s hand to tighten on his hilt. The innkeeper took no notice of his peril.
“Paddy sent me word days ago that you’d left your mounts with him because you forgot say if you wanted your tack cleaned, but then you didn’t show up at all! I’ve been biting my fingernails wondering what happened you! If any harm had come you, I’m sure your father and Seneschal Locke would stew me alive!”
“You know my father?”
“Oh, indeed! He guests as the Down when he needs visit Thoenar, and he sent me a letter saying I’d better look after you!” The innkeeper began twisting his hanging shirttail. “When you didn’t show, I went straight over Paddy’s, make sure he hadn’t been mistaken. I filed a report with the cityguard this morning, but they couldn’t tell me anything, the idiots.”
“I’m afraid we encountered trouble with the rougher residents in the city.”
The innkeeper’s hands flew to his neck, twisting the laces on his shirt collar. “How terrible! But you arrived safe and sound for all that. Truly, it can only be expected from a contender for the Arm!”
Marik butted in. “That’s right. But we’ve had a long day already and would like to drop off our packs.”
“Of course. How silly of me. Come, this way. This way.”
The staircase had been built in a spiraling square. Six steps up, a small landing then six steps ninety degrees to the right. Located at the base under the first flight, a desk holding a thick book filled the cramped nook. Blank pages contained only lines where guests wrote in their names.
Hilliard signed, the innkeeper, named Walsh, adding a ‘plus four’ notation next to the name. He also wrote several other symbols, none of which were familiar to Marik.
“Three rooms, on the third floor, facing the street,” Walsh explained, handing them three keys. He took them upstairs to their lodgings. “My lord Garroway’s room is this middle one. The others hold two beds each, so you can stay by his side. We have a bathing facility on the ground floor and I’ve provided soap cakes for each of you in your rooms, as well as towels.”
“Is there anything ready to eat in your kitchens?” Dietrik asked. “We haven’t eaten a thing since this morning, and I’m famished!”
“I can have food prepared,” Walsh assured them. “Come down the common room when you’re ready.”
Marik unlocked his and Dietrik’s room. He was impressed despite his fatigue. Two actual beds lined the east and west walls, separated by a long, low dresser filled with drawers under the window. Standing wardrobes provided space beyond what they would need and a wash table sat beside the door. A mirror, not so large as Tollaf’s had been, rested atop it, along with a wash bowl, small hand towels and a honed razor.
Dietri
k sat on his bed, stating, “I don’t know. This might be too soft, after what I’m used to. I’ll bet my back aches like blazes in the morning.”
“I hope that’s the worst of our troubles. Let’s get fed and watered.”
Landon joined them in the hall. “Hilliard doesn’t feel like coming down yet, so Kerwin will stay close by.”
“A good idea,” Dietrik agreed. “We don’t want to underestimate these blokes again.”
Walsh ushered them into a booth, several of which lined the east and south walls in the common room. The westernmost one afforded them a clear view of the room and its occupants.
“What’s the next move?” Marik queried while they waited for the kitchen to throw together sustenance.
“I’m not certain,” Landon admitted. “Your little show last night might have scared them off for good.”
“Or perhaps not,” Dietrik countered. “If they are being paid enough, they might be tenacious.”
“I don’t feature sitting still, looking over my shoulder, waiting for a knife in the back,” Marik stated.
“Sounds as if you’ve taken a shine to Landon’s idea.”
“I suppose. Maybe it’s right, maybe it’s not, but like Kerwin said, it won’t hurt to pad our hand.”
“Possibly we might not need to. The other fosterlings are as likely to have been attacked. Sloan or Kineta might have put an end this hypothetical ringleader from Spirratta.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me, but we can’t count on it.” Marik faced Landon. “What can we do?”
Landon pulled the roll of cloth from his pouch. “Only the first body had this white substance on the clothing. That could mean this won’t take us anywhere after all. For all we know, it’s flaking paint from a meat pie cart that fellow bought his lunch at.”
Dietrik took the cloth. Sniffing the white powder, he answered, “No. Remember it was stuck to the material under his boot. Wherever he picked it up, it was from the place where he pulled on his breeches in the morning. If it stuck to the rest of his clothing, the chap must have dusted it off after he dressed. It doesn’t smell like any kind of paint I know. It smells odd, in fact.”
