"Halt." The man's voice sent a chill down Asha's spine. It was deep, whispery. Old.
Not quite human.
Then it turned to Jin. "Leave us. I must talk with this one."
Jin swallowed, looking for all the world as though he wanted to do as the stranger had said, but he shook his head. "I'm not leaving Lissa alone."
"As you wish."
It happened in an instant. The figure glided forward, faster than Asha would have believed possible. Its hand flicked out, and suddenly it was holding something dark and insubstantial. Little more than a shadow, but elongated and shaped. An ethereal blade.
It sliced silently across Jin's neck.
Jin stared at the man in disbelief, hands frantically trying to seal up the gaping wound in his throat. Blood, red and bright, seeped out between his fingers.
Then he collapsed, a bubbling gasp the only sound he could make as he died.
Asha watched in mute horror, her limbs leaden as fear paralysed her. The black-cloaked man - if it truly was a man - turned to her, ignoring the corpse at his feet.
"Do not run, Ashalia Chaedris," he said, his voice raising the hairs on the back of Asha's neck.
Asha gritted her teeth and nodded, sinking back into her seat, trying not to look at the growing pool of crimson on the floor. "What do you want with me?" she whispered, fear making her voice catch.
"I wish to know if you are here to kill me."
Asha blinked, then forced her gaze up. She couldn't see beneath the man's hood, but she could feel his eyes on her.
"No." She shook her head slowly, clenching her hands into fists to stop them from shaking. "No, of course not. Why would you think that?"
"Because your presence marks the beginning. It means death is coming, for all of us. It has been Seen," said the man quietly.
Asha swallowed. "What... what do you mean, 'all of us'?"
"For myself, and my brothers. Four hunt. One hides, cognizant of what he is. A true traitor. An escherii." The man gazed at her. "And I Watch."
Suddenly shouts echoed from outside, and the hooded figure rose.
"I must go." He leaned forward. "I ask only one thing of you. When the time comes, do not let Vhalire suffer."
Before Asha could respond, he was gliding out the door.
Once she was certain she was alone, the crushing fear that she'd been holding at bay finally came crashing down on her. Trembling, she leaned forward and tried to steady herself against the table, light-headed. From the corner of her eye she could see Jin's body lying motionless, the pool of red still slowly spreading outward.
She stayed that way, motionless, until the Shadows found her.
- Chapter 10 -
Wirr flipped one of their few remaining coins from hand to hand.
“I think I have an idea about how we can make more of these,” he announced, gazing down through the trees at the township below.
Davian glanced sideways at his friend. "Safely?"
Wirr caught the coin and turned, giving Davian an injured stare. "Of course." He hesitated. "Relatively."
Davian sighed. “I suppose that's the best we can hope for, right now. Let's have it.”
Wirr explained his reasoning. Davian listened intently; when his friend was finished he sat back, considering for a few moments.
“That’s a terrible plan, Wirr,” he said eventually. “It’s going to take them two seconds to realise something’s amiss.”
Wirr raised an eyebrow, hearing the hesitation in Davian's tone. “But?”
Davian made a face. “But you’re right. We’re out of supplies; we need the coin.” He stood, brushing bits of dead leaves from his clothing. “Let’s go and meet the locals.”
***
Davian tried to look inconspicuous.
The tavern, like much in Desriel so far, surprised him by how normal it seemed. It was well-lit and cheerful, full of men who were taking their ease after a long day of farming or selling their wares. The proprietor circulated through the room continuously, laughing with regulars and trying to ingratiate himself with new customers. A young man with a flute played a merry tune in the corner, and occasionally would get the crowd clapping along to a favourite verse. Davian and Wirr had been to a few Andarran taverns on their journey, and the atmosphere between those and here was almost indistinguishable.
There were differences, of course. The serving girls were more modestly clad than their Andarran counterparts; men flirted, but did not take the same liberties they might have done back home. The tables were made from white oak, an extremely hardy wood unique to northern Desriel and a commodity the Gil’shar refused to export.
Then there was the plate by the doorway, above which loomed the sigil of the god Talkanar. Wirr had insisted that they drop one of their few remaining coins into it; according to him, each tavern in Desriel was aligned with one of the nine Gods, and it was good form – if not law – to make an offering if you intended to partake of any of the tavern’s wares. He’d apparently been right, because the barkeep had given them an approving nod as they sat down.
Davian stared back at the offering plate in fascination. It was nearly overflowing with silver; in Andarra the entire thing would have vanished within minutes, gone in the hands of some enterprising thief. Here, however – despite many of the tavern’s occupants looking to be of the less reputable sort – nobody was giving it a second glance.
“There are a lot of coins on that plate,” he murmured to Wirr.
“The Gil’shar torture and execute people who steal from the gods,” Wirr whispered.
“Good to know,” Davian whispered back.
They fell silent for a few moments, observing everyone in the large room. Davian fiddled absently with the sleeve of his shirt. Its tight fit had made it uncomfortable to wear on the road, which meant that it was in a better state than most of the other clothes he'd bought after leaving Caladel. He'd taken the time to bathe in a nearby river before coming into town, too. He needed to look at least vaguely respectable for this.
Finally Wirr nodded towards a small group of men gathered around a table.
“Them,” he said, keeping his voice low.
Davian followed Wirr’s gaze to a booth in the corner of the room. The three heavily-muscled men sitting there were better dressed than most of the people in the tavern; there were empty seats around them, as if the other patrons were wary of getting too close. Each of the men held a fistful of cards and wore expressions of intense concentration.
“They look important. And much bigger than us,” said Davian doubtfully.
“They look wealthy,” Wirr corrected. “More likely to take it on the chin if they lose a few pieces of gold here and there.”
Davian shrugged. “If you say so.”
They stood. Wirr hesitated, biting a fingernail, then laid a hand on Davian’s shoulder. “Whatever happens, just stay calm. Okay?”
Davian frowned, a little irritated that Wirr thought he would crumble under the pressure, but nodded. They walked over to the table, which fell silent as they approached. One of the finely-dressed men glanced up from his cards, giving them a disdainful look. He had jet-black hair, and sported the same neatly trimmed beard as the other two.
“Can we help you?” he asked, his expression indicating he had no desire to do any such thing.
Wirr gestured to one of the empty seats. “Looks like you could use a fourth.”
The man raised an eyebrow, obviously taking note of Wirr’s age. “I don’t know who you think you are, boy, but this is a private game. So run along.”
Wirr sighed, turning. “Figures. You look to be the type who can’t take a little competition.”
The whisper of steel being unsheathed seemed to fill the room, and suddenly conversation in the tavern stopped, every eye turning towards them. All three of the men were standing and had their blades drawn, though none – as yet – were actually pointing at Wirr.
“Perhaps I should have mentioned from the start. W
e’re playing Geshett. This game is for blooded Seekers only.” The man leaned closer, smiling to reveal a row of perfectly white teeth. “So. You ever faced an abomination, boy? Put it down so it can’t get back up?”
Davian used every ounce of his will to keep still, to not turn and flee. ‘Seeker’ was the word they used in Desriel. In Andarra, these men were known as Hunters.
Wirr, however, barely twitched. “I haven’t,” he said, “but my friend here has.”
Davian tried to look neither shocked nor terrified as the men turned to him as one, inspecting him sceptically. Finally the man who had first spoken gave a derisive laugh. “I don’t believe you. He looks like someone’s carved into him, rather than the other way around. He doesn’t even have a blade. He couldn’t kill a cockroach.” The others chuckled in agreement.
Wirr scowled, then reached into his bag, tossing something onto the table with a metallic clank. Davian started as he realised it was the two Shackles they had taken from the Hunters back in Talmiel. “That scar is not from a cockroach,” said Wirr.
The man’s smile faded as his gaze went from the Shackles, to Davian, then back again. Eventually he gave a slight nod, pushing the torcs back towards Wirr and turning to Davian. “Who taught you?”
“Breshada.” Davian regretted it as soon as it left his mouth, but it was too late; the question had caught him by surprise and it had been the only thing he could think to say. Still, it seemed to have an effect on those around the table, and a low murmur went around the tavern as the name was repeated to others who hadn’t been near enough to overhear. Everyone was still watching, Davian realised, fascinated by the exchange. He just hoped they wouldn’t be spectators to his and Wirr’s sudden and untimely deaths.
“The Breshada?” asked the man, more surprised than dubious now.
Davian inclined his head, trying to look confident. “I was in Talmiel with her just last week. We cut these off a couple of abominations that were stupid enough to come into town.”
The man just stared at Davian for a few seconds, then nodded, gesturing to the empty chair. “A student of Breshada the Red is welcome at our game anytime,” he said, only a little reluctantly.
Davian gave him a tight smile, hoping it made him look arrogant rather than relieved, and sat. Seeing that nothing else interesting was going to happen, the rest of the patrons went back to their conversations, though Davian could still see a few of them casting sidelong glances in his direction.
Inwardly, he cursed Wirr. His friend hadn’t batted an eyelid. He’d known they were Hunters, and had kept Davian in the dark for fear he wouldn’t go along with the plan.
He would kill him if they made it through this in one piece.
The man who had been doing the talking stuck out his hand. “I am Kelosh,” he said, all traces of surliness gone now that he had made the decision to believe them. “This is Altesh and Gorron.” The other two men nodded to him as Kelosh said their names.
“Shadat,” said Davian, a common name from Desriel that he’d decided upon earlier.
“Keth,” supplied Wirr, who was still standing.
Kelosh glanced up at him. “You want to play?”
Wirr shook his head as he took a seat to the side. “Rounds are too short with five. Besides, Shadat already took all my money,” he added with a grin.
Kelosh chuckled, though he and the others gave Davian an appraising look. “Very well,” he said, shuffling and starting the deal.
Davian took a deep breath, concentrating. Geshett was fairly simple; Wirr had taught him the game over the past few hours. How Wirr had known these men here were playing it, though, Davian had no idea.
“So you’ve come from Talmiel,” said Kelosh, his tone conversational. “You wouldn’t have heard about the trouble up north?” Davian shook his head and Kelosh paused, evidently excited to find someone new to tell. “A boy in one of the villages up there found out he had the sickness a couple of weeks ago. First abomination in Desriel in ten years.” Kelosh’s lip curled. “He went mad. Killed his entire family, half the rest of the villagers too.”
Davian didn’t have to fake his reaction. “That’s awful.” Then he frowned. “Wait. How?” The First Tenet should have stopped one of the Gifted from hurting anyone, regardless of where they were born.
Kelosh nodded solemnly, clearly having anticipated the question. “That’s what has everyone talking.”
“They say he doesn’t have the Mark,” interjected Altesh.
Kelosh shot him a look of irritation, then turned back to Davian. “I heard that too, but unlike my idiot friend here, I don’t believe every whisper in Squaremarket. The Gil’shar are taking him to Thrindar for a public execution - making an example of him and all that – so they have it under control. They’ll let us know if we need to start looking for something new.” He rubbed his hands together nervously. “Still, word’s out that he was from here; I had three people today ask me if we were thinking of setting up posts in Thrindar again. People are talking about another Outbreak.”
Davian set his face into as grim a mask as he could muster. “Meldier send that day never comes,” he said, invoking the name of the Desrielite god of knowledge.
“I’ll drink to that,” replied Kelosh, and the others muttered their agreement.
Davian breathed a sigh of relief as the conversation died out, the others focusing on their cards. He mentally ran through the rules of Geshett again. Everyone started with ten cards. Players either passed – eliminating them from the round – or lay one, two, or three cards face-down on the table, called their value, and made a bet of any amount. The card value called had to be higher than any previously played.
Once a bet had been made, another player could claim ‘Gesh’ – becoming the Accuser - indicating that they thought the cards laid down were not of the value called. If Gesh was invoked, the cards were turned face-up. If the call had been honest, the Accuser paid the player double their bet. If it had been false, though, the player not only honoured their bet, but gave the same amount to the Accuser.
Whoever finished the round having played the highest cards – either honestly or without being caught – collected everything that had been bet during that round.
Davian settled in, focusing. It was meant to be a game of skill, where a person’s ability to bluff was key. He wasn’t sure how successful his own bluffing abilities would be, but as for the others, he knew they had no chance.
For a split second, he almost pitied them.
***
Kelosh slapped Davian on the back as Gorron continued to glare at the overturned cards.
“Do you ever bluff, my friend?” he asked as Gorron reluctantly slid two silver pieces in Davian’s direction.
Davian took them and added them to his pile, which had grown large in the last hour. “Only when I know you won’t call me on it,” he replied with a grin.
Kelosh roared with laughter. The drinks had been flowing, and the big man’s demeanour had loosened considerably since Davian had first sat down. Davian was grateful for that. He’d been careful in his play, as Wirr had advised – losing occasionally, letting the smaller bluffs go uncalled – but he had still won enough coin to last a couple of months, maybe more. And Wirr had been right. While the men had not enjoyed losing, Kelosh and Altesh had taken it in stride, almost seeming amused that they were being beaten by a boy.
Gorron had been less amiable. To be fair, his pile had dwindled the most of the three, and now consisted of little more than a few copper pieces. Once those disappeared, the game would likely finish for the evening. To that end, Davian intended to call Gesh the very next time he saw a puff of shadows coming from Gorron’s mouth. Despite feeling a little more comfortable than at the beginning, he still itched to be far, far away from these men.
“Breshada must be as good a teacher as she is a Seeker,” Gorron said with a growl as he watched his coins disappear into Davian’s pile.
“One eight. Three coppers,” said Altesh
, laying a single card on the table. He looked across at Davian. “Tell us more about Breshada, Shadat. Is what they say about Whisper true?”
Davian tried not to panic. There had only been gentle banter around the table thus far; the game generally required too much concentration for small-talk. This was the first time he had been asked a question that he didn’t know the answer to. What was Whisper?
“I don’t know. What do they say?” he asked, trying to sound casual. He laid two cards face-down. “Two twos. One silver.” It was his standard bet, now he had the money. Small enough to not matter if he didn’t win the round, large enough to be worthwhile if someone called Gesh on him. Kelosh had been right – he always played it true, and folded if he couldn’t. He had a guaranteed way of making money. There was no point in gambling.
Kelosh snorted. “You know the stories. Whoever holds it cannot be touched, by abominations or the Gods themselves. One cut from Whisper steals your very soul and makes the blade stronger. That sort of thing.” He stared at his hand for a moment. “Two sevens. Six coppers.”
Davian hesitated. Kelosh was lying about his cards, but Davian ignored it, instead thinking back to that night in Talmiel when the young woman had rescued them. He thought about the way their captors had died. “I don’t know about stealing souls,” he said quietly, “but all it takes is a nick, and you’re dead. Instantly. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
There was an impressed silence for a few seconds, then Gorron snorted. “Likely story,” he said, shaking his head in derision. “Three eights.”
Davian prepared himself. Gorron had lied. It was finally over.
However Gorron paused before making his bid, then stood, unbuckling the silver-sheathed sword from around his waist. He drew it out, laying both sword and sheath on the table. The blade itself was beautiful, elegantly curved with delicately worked gold inlay on the hilt. It looked more than ornate though. Like the sword of a master craftsman.
“The gold alone is worth about ten times what any of you have in front of you,” he said. “But the blade? The killer of a thousand heretics and abominations? It is priceless.”
The Shadow Of What Was Lost (Book 1) Page 12
