Beauford’s eyes were as round as saucers, listening to him. He looked to Henri for confirmation that they just heard the same thing, then back at Logan and then still in disbelief, back to Henri again. Both of them burst into uncontrollable laughter, although Logan did notice Henri only started nervously chuckling after the shopkeeper began. Beauford was slapping his stubby thigh, laughing so hard tears built up in his eyes, causing Logan to giggle himself, with a confused look on his face.
“Oh boy…oh, you do know how to make this ‘old timer’ smile.” He said, as he gathered his composure, straightening his bushy white moustache with one hand and mussing the hair back into place around his ears. “Ain’t no such thing as no scorchin’, lad.” The gnome explained as he motioned to Henri, who handed him a small brown parcel, putting a small pencil in his waiting hand and moving a tiny clipboard up for the signature of receipt.
“Are you trying to tell me that you travel to the surface world?” Logan scoffed in disbelief at the incredulous thought. No one had traveled to the surface lands, now referred to as the scorched plains, in centuries, since the Jotnar Invasion had made life up top impossible.
“Well hell no lad. I ain’t no old timer, but still that trip is too long for these bones to take…these days, anyhow.” Henri waved to Logan in the background as he zipped back out of the store, no doubt on to his next delivery. “No…I have friends what get me these things.” He said, sipping his tea and motioning for Logan to do the same.
“Friends huh…friends just go up to the surface, risking their lives, and get you this stuff? Must be nice to be that popular, wish I had friends like that.” His voice dripped with sarcasm in response to the man’s ludicrous claims.
The gnome grew silent, reaching down to remove the cloth and get back to work adding the illegal enhancements to Logan’s hand. “Don’t expect you actually would want friends like that, way you treat others. Look boy, I’m only telling you this because I know people. You think I don’t get all sorts of ‘em in here? Be gettin’ ‘em all, don’t ye be doubtin’ it. C’mon now kid, ye got to be too smart to still be believin’ in those old wives’ tales about the surface.” He spoke lowly, jabbing tools into the gears, then sealing his work with the tiny jewelry torch.
“Most folk come in here just to get some o’ my nice victuals, or maybe even a book lost to the ages to read. Helps ‘em forget for a while ye know? Helps ‘em stick their heads in the sand a bit longer.” He explained, causing Logan to wonder what sand was, but he went with it, nodding.
“Yeah, I see you understand what I’m sayin’ here and you can make all the empty jest in the world, but I can see the truth in your eyes, boy. You can just feel something is off ‘round here, can’t ye?” he closed one eye, pointing at Logan with the tip of his tiny mallet, waiting for a response.
“Absolutely….” He lied, although he was not sure if it was to himself or the gnome. “But that still doesn’t answer how you get all this merchandise.”
“Well boy, that’s my business, isn’t it? I do have my ways, not too easy being tucked away in the back corner of the city, but my friends sure do provide, as you can see my little network extends deep and far.” He bragged, opening up to Logan. “And why shouldn’t it, even outcasts need to eat, am I right?”
“Don’t seem to be much of an outcast to me, looks like you have it all figured out pretty good, actually.” Logan said sincerely, though he doubted the gnome’s claims, he had to admit the shopkeeper had a decent little thing going here, which made the man smile up at him.
“Right you be, boy, I do mighty fine for me self. However, I am referrin’ to the outcasts of New Fal, those that been kicked over the wall. Someone’s got to keep some provisions going to the poor wretches after they get booted out to the ‘wild lands’ after all.” He made the claim as if it was the most sensible thing to assume, but Logan scrunched his eyebrows wearing the confusion plain on his face. “But…they got to pay for them provisions, eh?” he continued, as way of an explanation.
Logan caught onto his reasoning now. It was rooted in whispered tales told around campfires when he was a child, if you broke the laws of New Fal, the council would send you over the wall. Exile into the wild lands was akin to a death sentence, but as a kid he never took the warnings seriously, nothing more than ghost stories told to frighten children into behaving. He could almost hear Elder Morgana’s words, echoing in his ears, “Be good or the Elders will grab you and send you into the deep dark.”
As he grew older he still heard the stories, but with a different twist, only the vilest criminals would be punished in such a way. You would really have to be a depraved cretin to be exiled from the kingdom. That was a rare sentence reserved for murderers, rapists, and the like. But this little old gnome, in a tiny shop tucked away in the corner of the capitol, was claiming he exchanged supplies with outcasts in return for them bringing him back relics from the surface world? The whole thing seemed far-fetched to Logan, yet looking around the room at the strange items, he could just hear the ring of truth somewhere lost in the madness of it.
“Hmmm...survival for scavenging, huh? Interesting stuff old time…err...Mr. Beauford.” He thought aloud.
“I can see it in ye lad, mind as well be wearin’ it on your sleeve. Got a taste for the adventure, eh? Maybe you’re thinking of doing a run to Malbec?” he inquired, hitting Logan’s intentions about leaving Fal to travel to their neighboring kingdom, a place renowned as breeding grounds for treasure hunters. It was the very reason he wanted to get the upgrades, so that he could find adventure.
“And why would I be interested in going to Malbec?” he inquired with as much innocence as he could muster.
“You know why.” The little gnome wheezed, chuckling to himself. “Anyhow I got a job for ye right here to get ye started. You do that one first and then we can see bout havin’ you make some real coin.” He dangled the proposition out there, polishing off the last spot on his hand as it cooled down.
“Wait, do you think I’m going to smuggle for you?” he asked. The little man looked disappointed at the remark, waving off the notion.
“We ain’t talkin ‘bout no smugglin’, this here is just a simple delivery I need made.” He explained, washing the oil off his hands, and neatly storing his equipment.
“A delivery? You just had the damned service here a second ago, why didn’t you give it to that Henri kid?” Logan asked.
“This one needs a bit of…discretion.” Beauford cryptically replied.
Logan straightened himself out, stretching to admire the gnome’s handiwork, flawless in design. There was not even a scratch on the mechanical hand, no indication whatsoever of the modifications he had just paid for. The gnome walked over, pressing a small coin purse with a tiny scroll tied to it, into his palm.
“What is it?” Logan inquired.
“Drop this off at the House of Alderman, and be sure to deliver it to Lady Cassandra personally. After you do so, come back and see me and I’ll have some real work for ye.” It was all the answer he was likely to offer.
“What makes you think I’m going to do this for you? I don’t even know where to find this Cassandra woman.” Logan asked, even though he was already putting the coin purse inside the folds of his jacket.
“You’re a resourceful lad I don’t doubt, something tells me you will find a way.” He winked, flipping a gold coin to Logan. ”In the meantime, here’s a little something for your troubles.”
Logan eagerly caught the money, the eccentric old bastard was right; he was definitely up for a little taste of back alley dealings.
“How do you know I won’t just run off with this?” he teased.
“Well first in, I know people, which I already explained to ye. I like a nice capable lad like yourself lookin’ all eager and what not. Second in, if you cross me I’ll just have some of my lads go down to Riverbell and pay a visit to your brother, Corbin, and his nice lass there, just for a bit of fun.�
�� Mr. Beauford replied, wearing a sinister grin as he laid the reality of the promise out. The statement was shocking; he could not help wondering how this shopkeeper seemed to know so much about his personal life.
“But that ain’t gonna be our relationship, right boy? You just go on and get that in the Lady’s hand for me now, eh? I know you gonna be just fine.” He added, pouring sugar over the warning to help Logan see it with clarity. The gnome was not threatening him as much as revealing the extent of his knowledge and making it clear that double-crossing would not be in the cards.
Logan’s head was still spinning in circles over the conversation, as he headed toward the exit, but then a thought occurred to him.
“Wait…one other question. If the surface is not really scorched, why don’t you just go back up there?” he asked.
The gnome turned to him wearing a grave expression, which was flat and unwavering. “Might be the scorching tale has holes but sure enough the Jotnar be waiting and watching boy…waiting and watching.”
Mr. Beauford closed the door to his shop behind his visitor, watching the lad make his way up the alley, through a soot covered window. He wondered at life for a moment, its vast mystery never seemed to amaze him. After all these years of waiting, finally the lad was here and at the most unexpected of times. The control of power was shifting in the kingdom of New Fal for the first time since its founding and he needed that parcel delivered to warn Lady Cassandra from trusting her enemies too deeply. However, that was the least of the plans he had for young Logan Walker. He had waited years to meet him and had plenty of time to devise the proper chain of events that would need to occur next. No, the boy would have a greater part to play in the coming of the Fourth Age before everything was over and done. Yes…a much larger part to play indeed.
Logan stepped out into the cool evening air, still trying to figure out how the little black-market shopkeeper knew so many personal details about his life. During the evenings, the Great Crystal would dim to a dull indigo. His father used to tell him stories about the nights on the surface of Acadia, saying that the sky was so bright in the daytime people had to wear blacked out glasses just to see, and at night when Sol would dip below the horizon all the stars of the universe could be seen in the heavens above. But also, that night’s up there were much darker than the lands they now lived in, so people had to light candles in the evening to keep the demons away and protect their loved ones.
Somehow, that had always stuck with him. Perhaps it was how frightened he was as a child of the idea, the thought of not being able to see in that ancient dark land. Not knowing what might be waiting for him with grasping hands in the shadows. Logan felt his throat tighten up at the memory of his father.
“Wow where did that come from?” He wondered, shaking his head and letting the memories fall away. Gazing up at the Great Crystal, he had to smile, knowing the nights here would always be lit and he needed no candles to protect himself.
The sounds of the brothel faded in the distance as he retraced his steps back to the market square. Back home everyone would already be settling in calling it a night by this time. Mainly it had to do with the fog that would roll in off the riverbanks, making it difficult to see outside. But even more so, it had to do with all the farmers who woke in the early hours, toiling in the fields to grow their crops.
Here in the capitol it could not be more different, with no fog rolling through these streets, just cool crisp evening air. People were still hustling and bustling whether he turned down an alley or cut across one of the main roads. He admired his new hand as he walked along lost in a daydream, happy over the modifications he just had installed and eager to complete the job Mr. Beauford had tasked him.
Lost in his reverie, Logan almost walked into one of the peddlers, who he recognized as the man who had given him the belt earlier in the day. The merchant’s eyes were glazed over, his own thoughts clearly looking inward. It was almost as if the peddler had no expression whatsoever, as he just ambled along past Logan.
“That’s strange, he almost seems asleep.” He thought, as he looked away and curiously noticed several others wearing similar expressions the further he went down the alley. Two older women in cowls quickly skittered out of his path, their heads bowed to stare at the ground.
Just as Logan thought this was starting to get strange, the source of everyone’s behavior became clear. His heart froze, growing cold in his chest as a lump welled up in his throat. Somewhere distant, he could hear himself thinking how odd it was that his feet were locked in position. As much as he willed them to move forward, they did not seem to care.
About thirty feet up the alley, he could see the young peddler boy he had aided earlier. Even though he was too far away to tell for sure, something in the air electrified around him, sending shivers across his skin, telling him it was certain. The boy’s earlier joyful reaction to his help flashed across his mind.
The lump of bloody, beaten flesh lying in the dirt, under tattered clothes, was unmistakably the very same boy. Somehow Logan’s body finally moved, as if someone else were controlling it, he was numb from the outside, only dimly aware that he was holding the boy’s ragged form while screaming into the night for help. He knew somewhere deep inside that help would mean nothing to the dead child, but for some reason he could not stop the screaming, which had a life of its own. The boy’s face was covered with so much blood, from a large wound where someone had caved in his skull that he could not understand how it all came from his tiny frail form. He frantically looked back and forth to the people walking by, none of which acted as if he existed. Logan called to one of the older men, who only a few hours ago cheered him on for protecting this kid, pleading for him to go get help, only to receive a frown, while the merchant stared down at the ground unable to meet his gaze.
Finally two of the city watchmen came running down the alley, but they were fuzzy and unfocused. Crying was such a foreign concept to him; he almost thought something was wrong with his vision, realizing suddenly that there were tears streaming down his face. He quickly wiped them away embarrassed, as the men slowed to a walking pace coming closer to the cause of the commotion.
“Help me, this boy has been attacked, and he needs medical attention!” He insisted, pulling the child’s limp body up from the ground, expecting one of the watchmen to aid him.
“Aw, c’mon mate…is this what you were making all that ruckus about?” the taller lawman said. Logan recognized him from next door to the Grey Crow; he was the one who had buried his face in the woman’s breasts.
“I need your help to move him.” Logan tried to explain, thinking these men clearly did not know what to do in an emergency. Logan struggled to keep the boy upright, the limp body flopping like jelly.
The short, pudgy lawman finally moved in to take the kid’s weight off him. Except instead of helping to carry the child, he carelessly dropped him back to the ground, with a loud crack of bone meeting stone echoing down the alley.
“Effin’ country bumpkin’s, I ain’t getting myself all bloody for some street rat.” He nudged his partner, having a laugh at Logan. The taller watchman did not join in, but proceeded to scold him, clearly annoyed at being disturbed from his festivities.
“Get him to the medical center...and how would he have paid for that then, eh? The kid’s gone already anyhow.”
Logan knew the man was trying to calm him down but something about their complete indifference to the sweet kid’s murder made his blood boil, snapping something inside the core of his reasoning.
“He would still be alive if you two sorry sacks of shite were out here doing your job instead of spending all your time with whores!” he blurted out in frustration.
The pudgy guard flinched, and then snarled “And who the bloody fack cares? Look around you idjit, no one’s upset here but you.” He got right in Logan’s face, raising his voice with every word. “All I see is one less rat on the streets to feed. Who are you to come d
own here to my district acting all high and mighty, anyhow?” his words were flecked with spittle and the vein on his forehead was throbbing.
“Look, you better clear off before things get ugly here.” The taller watchman warned, circling around to Logan’s side with his nightstick drawn.
“Nah, fack that Tommy, this country bumpkin’s got big words to be saying.” The short guard spat to his side. “This little shite wants to question our dealings, and in our neighborhood?” Logan had clearly upset the man beyond reason. This was turning south quickly, moving so rapidly he did not understand how it went from him calling for help to being cornered by armed city watchmen.
“You want to come down here, preaching to me about what I should be doing?” the angry guard spat again, waving his own nightstick around in the air as he spoke.
Logan noticed the taller man, named Tommy, seemed to be feeding off his partner, a hungry look growing in his eyes.
“The way it looks to me and Ralph here is you killed this lad to steal the earnings off his corpse. Lucky we arrived on the scene just in time to stop you from making off without paying your city taxes, eh?” Tommy insinuated, just before he swung his weapon hard across the back of Logan’s neck, the force of the blow sending him tumbling unexpectedly to the ground. The short guard squealed his delight, like the pig he was, as he moved in to slam his own nightstick across Logan’s thigh. Stars shot across his vision from the pain, while both men stood there laughing over him.
Logan lashed out blindly, his metal fist cracking right through Ralph’s shin, splintering the bone like a dried twig. The sound of it was so loud, everyone in the area actually stopped to see what had happened.
Before the taller man could react, Logan kicked the legs out from under him. Back on his feet, he noticed the pudgy guard pulling out a pistol. Logan stomped hard on the fat bastard’s arm, sending the gun skittering across the alley, and gave him two quick raps on the side of his head with his natural fist, knocking him out cold. Aware that Tommy had gotten back up, he tried to block the arm attempting to lock him in a chokehold from behind. He struggled to rise, as the watchman cut off the air from his lungs. Vendors nearby ran away screaming in fear, obviously not wanting to be blamed for any of what was happening. Logan threw his weight backward, sending Tommy into the air and landing on him hard enough to loosen the man’s grip.
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