by Dorian Hart
“Dowlyn.” The woman flicked her gaze around to the rest of them; her eyes came to rest on Aravia and Pewter.
“I do not want animals in my building.”
“Pewter is extremely well-behaved,” said Aravia. “I can assure you he will not leave my shoulder, let alone do any damage to your establishment.”
“I don’t know you,” said Dowlyn flatly. “Please remove your cat, or we will be unable to do business.”
Boss, it’s fine. I’ll wait outside. I’ll do some scouting around while you’re trading in your chits and talons.
Pewter, we don’t know anything about this city. What if cats are considered a delicacy?
Given the number of rats I’ve seen since we arrived, it’s more likely cats are treated like kings. Even more than is typical, I mean.
Fine. But be careful.
Pewter hopped down from her shoulder, and Aravia held the door open for him as he slipped outside.
“Thank you,” said the woman. “Now, let me take a look at your coins.”
Dowlyn placed her loupe-frame back on her face and emptied out four silver talons from Grey Wolf’s pouch into her palm. The magnifying lenses made her brown eyes look huge as she peered intently down. A small hiss of surprise escaped her lips.
“Where did you get these?”
“That’s our money from back home,” said Tor. “Uh, from south of the wastes.”
“So you said. But as I suspected, these are not coins from Ocir or Seresef. Or from the Jewels of the Plains, Dir Tolia, Tev, Delfir, Bederen, or any other country with which I am familiar. But the shape and striking technique are reminiscent of…hmm…let me see…”
She stepped to a large cabinet of many small drawers, each with a little pull-knob and a rectangle of parchment tacked above it. Her finger traveled down four columns of labels and was half-way down the fifth before she found what she sought and pulled open a drawer. She removed a dirty, ancient-looking silver coin, careful to touch only its edge, and held it up to her loupes.
“Remarkable,” she said.
“Which is why you’re remarking on it, I’m sure,” said Dranko. “But does it help you figure out how many miracs our silvers are worth?”
She gingerly returned the coin to its drawer and walked back to where Horn’s Company waited. She hefted Grey Wolf’s money pouch. “I have a small and rare collection of coins that is purportedly over four hundred years old. The provenance of that collection, according to the documentation handed down with it, is that the coins come from a land called Khargan, on the far side of the Forbidden Sea. This was presumably from a time before Posada churned the waters in his wrath at being challenged by an upstart demigod for control of the oceans.
“I would say that your silver pieces, while relatively modern, have more in common with the pieces from that collection than with any Kivian currencies I know of. I would conclude from your appearance and your accent that you have come recently from Khargan, were such travel not forbidden by Posada.”
Dowlyn placed the pouch down on the counter and crossed her arms. Her wrinkled face betrayed no sign of how she regarded her theory. Did she consider their presence a heresy? Was she curious or intrigued? Was she still willing to do business with them? They needed money to resupply, and Aravia chafed at the delay. They had walked for six days just to get as far as Trev-Lyndyn, and the farmers they had questioned en route only knew that Djaw lay many more weeks travel to the south. Their hopes of quickly finding the Crosser’s Maze and bringing it back to Charagan had already been dashed, but that only made her feel the urgency more keenly.
Dranko leaned forward. “What I’m hearing is that you consider our coins to be collector’s items, with historical significance beyond the value of their weight. Yes?”
Boss, heads up. A gang of people just turned onto Silver Street and are headed in your direction. All the other people walking around are scrambling to get out of their way. They’ve got weapons and don’t look very nice. No reason to think they have anything to do with you, but I thought I’d mention it.
Understood. Thanks, Pewter.
The numismatist clicked her tongue. “You’ve done this before, half-blood. I cannot be certain of anything so soon. Your coins could be clever fakes. You say that these are coins from your own lands, yes? It would help the accuracy of my assessment if you would tell me where you come from.”
Aravia felt for a drawn-out moment as though they teetered on the edge of something, as if the answer to that question would mark them as either nobility or criminals. No one wanted to answer…except for Tor.
“Yes, we’re from Charagan!” he exclaimed. “It’s called ‘Charagan’ and not ‘Khargan,’ and I suppose it is on the other side of the Uncrossable Sea. But don’t worry—we found a way to get here without crossing the water itself, so we’re sure Posada didn’t mind. All of our coins are from there, so you can add them to your collection.”
Grey Wolf and Dranko turned their heads to Tor in perfect synchronicity, and their mortified looks were nearly identical.
“I’m starving,” said Tor. “Like Dranko said, we can’t buy food without local money. Does it matter where we’re from?”
The numismatist blinked in surprise.
Duck! Someone’s pointing a—
The store’s small lone window shattered in a shower of glass fragments. Something sharp and cold punched Aravia hard in the back of her shoulder, knocking her into the counter.
“Aravia!” Tor pointed at her, his mouth open.
For a second of silence, everyone looked at her shoulder, at the piece of metal-tipped wood sticking out of it. Was that her blood splattered on the coin-merchant’s countertop?
She experienced a strange flash, a vision, of the thick green forest from her dreams. She stood at the edge of the clearing, the same clearing she always saw. It was empty—no people, no birds, no rodents—and yet she was certain that something waited there, watching her, holding its breath…
Boss, what happened?
I…She fought to stay focused through a blooming haze of pain. I have a crossbow bolt in my shoulder, but I don’t think it’s fatal. Stay hidden!
Now they’re throwing something else.
A round clay pot, a string of black smoke trailing from a hole in its lid, flew through the window. It shattered against a wooden display case and flames erupted from the point of impact. Smoke billowed up.
Grey Wolf reacted first. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Pewter, we’re coming out.
Not the front door! They’re waiting for you! There’s a back exit; fewer men guarding it.
Tor had reached the door, his sword drawn, a look of fury on his face Aravia had never seen before.
“No!” she cried. “It’s a trap. Back door! Back door!” Her voice sounded weak and trembling in her ears, but Grey Wolf heard it and echoed her warning.
“Tor, not that way.” Grey Wolf turned to Dowlyn, who was still frozen with shock. “Where’s the back door? Where is it?”
Smoke was rapidly filling the room, making it hard to see. The cold feeling in Aravia’s shoulder shifted to a terrifying and painful throbbing. She couldn’t lift her right arm. The crossbow bolt jutted straight out of her body.
Dowlyn snapped out of her dismayed astonishment, groped through the smoke, and unlatched a hook that allowed her to lift up a section of the counter. “This way! Out the back of the storeroom!”
The storeroom had not yet filled with smoke. Dozens of small padlocked strongboxes were stacked in the corners and along the walls. The old woman moved to the back door, a slab of iron-banded wood with several keyholes and at least four deadbolts. She lifted a set of keys from a nearby hook.
“This’ll take a minute,” she said.
I’m up on the roof. There are four of them waiting at the back, two on either side of the door. Swords and knives. It’s an alleyway; not much room to maneuver. It’s a maze of alleys back there.
Tor and Ernie st
ationed themselves by the opening back to the shop proper, in case the assailants decided to charge in through their own flames. Aravia sat down on one of the larger strongboxes, her shoulder in agony, her shirt damp with blood. When she leaned back against the wall, something stuck into her back and the pain flared. Distracted by the smoke and chaos, she only belatedly realized that the bolt had obviously gone all the way through her body and stuck out both sides of her shoulder blade. The thought of it made her feel sick, but she kept her focus. Of course she kept her focus; it’s what she did.
“Listen!” she croaked. “Pewter says there are four men in the alley outside, two on either side. The ones closest have knives, and the others have swords. Ten more men are still waiting by the front door.”
“I don’t understand,” said Ernie. “Why are they attacking us? We haven’t done anything!”
“Maybe the fire people had a way of tracking us,” said Morningstar, her fingers flexing around the grip of her mace as she watched Dowlyn turning her keys. Aravia blinked smoke-drawn tears from her eyes.
“Fire people? You are fleeing from the Delfirians?” Dowlyn finished with the locks and began drawing the bolts. “You brought assassins of Delfir to my shop?”
Even through the pain, Aravia bristled at that. “They couldn’t have tracked us. We teleported dozens of miles away in a random direction.” By the time she finished speaking, she couldn’t feel the fingers on her right hand.
Boss, some of the goons out front are starting to think you’re not coming out that way. The sooner you get out of there, the fewer of them you’ll have to fight.
“Pewter says we should go now.”
Dowlyn sighed and drew the last bolt.
“I promise we didn’t mean for this to happen,” Ernie told her, his voice full of its usual sincerity. “We’ll make restitution if we can.”
“Let’s focus on surviving the next five minutes,” said Grey Wolf. “Dowlyn, after we’re out, bolt the door again. I don’t think the fire will spread quickly in here, and it’s a good bet it’s us they’re after, not you. Wait as long as you can before you leave. Aravia, can you run?”
The pain would have been intolerable had Aravia allowed it to be. But pain was just the body’s way of letting the brain know something was wrong. In and of itself, it shouldn’t prove a hindrance. “I think so, but don’t count on any spell-casting.”
Grey Wolf took a last look at Tor, Ernie, and Morningstar, and yanked the door open.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Grey Wolf had seen plenty of fighting men in his time, but Tor was a gods damned force of nature.
The boy leapt through the door with his sword already in motion. A grunt of pain sounded from around the corner to the left. By the time Grey Wolf stepped through, ready to block and move aside to make room for Ernie and Morningstar, Tor, bellowing with rage, had already cut down one assailant and was in the process of driving his sword into a second. Grey Wolf had no time to admire Tor’s technique; a short but sinewy thug on his right, his face wrapped in a black scarf that left only his eyes uncovered, lashed out with a one-two combination of knife thrusts, one in each hand. Grey Wolf parried one with his sword and twisted his body sideways to avoid the other, but there was no chance to counterattack. Behind the knife-man loomed a towering brute in similar black wrappings, swinging a sword with both hands over the head of his shorter fellow. Grey Wolf ducked and staggered backward.
Even as he fell back, Ernie came rushing out of the door into the alley, ending up directly between Grey Wolf and his two foes. The knife-man lunged forward, his blades flashing with dismaying speed. Grey Wolf cringed, expecting to see Ernie’s entrails spilling out, but Ernie cut down and across with Pyknite with such precision that he knocked one of the daggers clean out of his attacker’s hand. The tall man’s sword came thundering down, but Ernie had his sword back up in time to guide the bigger blade off to his left and into the ground. Ernie took a hasty step back, allowing Grey Wolf the opportunity to dart forward and hack deep into the big man’s elbow, eliciting a howl of pain.
The little fellow with the knives looked down at his maimed comrade, then over Grey Wolf’s shoulder to where Morningstar had joined Tor in wreaking havoc. “Tavros ain’t paying us enough for this,” he muttered. He scrambled backward and vanished around a corner, but two more black-clad toughs replaced him. These approached more cautiously, crouched, blades out. The alley was barely wide enough for the pair to stand side by side.
Tor’s voice came from behind him. “Follow me!”
If Tor considered himself the front of the line, then Grey Wolf and Ernie had just become the rearguard, with Dranko and Aravia in the protected middle. Grey Wolf edged backward, flicking glances over his shoulder to see which way Tor led them. The two attackers followed warily, making some feints but not testing his defensive posture. Grey Wolf suspected that the thugs were simply biding their time until more of their friends arrived, but the narrowness of the alley would nullify their enemies’ advantage of numbers.
The company headed deeper into a maze of connected passages between buildings, some so narrow as to be impassable, though they allowed glimpses of other attackers dashing about nearby. The sounds of clashing blades rang constantly, punctuated by angry shouts from Tor. From time to time Grey Wolf stepped over a body, some showing the slashing wounds from Tor’s sword, others the pulpy perforations from Morningstar’s mace. Blood was splattered liberally on the ground, the walls, a few small windows. Grey Wolf thanked the gods each time that the corpses were not those of his team.
By the fifth such body, their two pursuers looked openly nervous, though Grey Wolf still couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being herded. How many of these ruffians were there? Even Tor would grow tired, but there wasn’t enough room for Grey Wolf and Ernie to help him, and doing so would leave Aravia and Dranko unprotected. Tor and Morningstar would just have to keep carving their way through their enemies until they reached a street.
“Protect Aravia!” Tor shouted, seconds before Grey Wolf stumbled into a small open space, not more than a dozen feet on a side, that marked an intersection between four alleyways. Thankfully Tor had realized that he couldn’t simply cut a path out of it; enemies charged in from all four directions.
Tor blocked one alley and Morningstar another, both engaging in clanging skirmishes. Ernie pivoted to take on a large man charging down a third. That left Grey Wolf to face the two men who had been trailing them. He hoped they wouldn’t understand the implications of the new tactical layout, but he hoped in vain. The larger of the two men, a hulking, stoop-shouldered fellow with a short sword, grinned and rushed him, batting his sword aside and crashing into him with his shoulder. The second man leaped past the two of them into the intersection, but Grey Wolf could do nothing about him; the larger man landed on top of him, pinning Grey Wolf’s sword arm with an elbow while bringing up his own blade. Grey Wolf grabbed his attacker’s wrist with his free hand, keeping the sword from his face, but without any leverage the best he could do was maintain that position, arm locked.
Around him rang the sounds of battle, but he couldn’t even turn his head. The thug atop him was an ugly bastard: ridged eyebrows, scarred face, one eye slanted downward as if his cheek had partially melted. His breath stank. Grey Wolf felt him shifting his bulk, adjusting his legs, as though he had figured out a way to break their stalemate.
From somewhere behind him came a hoarse shout from Aravia; a body flew overhead, smashing into one of the building corners with such force that bits of old masonry showered away from the point of impact. And from farther off came a new sound, a series of high-pitched whistles, and even more shouting.
The slant-faced thug slammed his right knee into Grey Wolf’s arm. Grey Wolf kept his grip on the man’s wrist long enough to bring the thug’s sword down to the ground by his torso, but he had lost all his leverage. His foe pulled his sword arm free of Grey Wolf’s weakened grasp and raised it above his head. Grey Wolf tried to r
oll sideways, but it was futile. He was a dead man.
A second sword appeared, going in one side of the thug’s neck and out the other. Ernie came after it, his eyes round with fear, falling right on top of Grey Wolf in a torrent of blood. He rolled off of Grey Wolf and jumped to his feet, blade out and waving.
Morningstar stood above another brute’s body, and a second chose that moment to turn and flee. Like Ernie, she and Tor were covered in blood, but all of their assailants, for the moment, were either dead or had run off. Tor rushed to Aravia’s side, where Dranko frowned at the crossbow bolt still stuck through her shoulder.
Dranko checked her pulse. “Weak and fluttery. It’s not my area of expertise, but I’d say casting her hooligan-flinger used up energy her body needs to survive.”
“More people are coming,” warned Morningstar. “We need to get out of here.”
Dranko shook his head. “We can’t risk moving her, not until I’ve healed her.”
“Hurry up then!” urged Tor.
Dranko rolled up his sleeves. “Be thankful you’re unconscious. Otherwise this would feel pretty awful.” He grabbed the end of the crossbow bolt and drew it the rest of the way through Aravia’s shoulder, which resulted in a sickening gout of blood pouring down her shirt.
“Lord Delioch, I pray for healing, that Aravia be made sound and whole.”
Grey Wolf silently urged him to be quick about it. There could be no doubt that he was favored by Delioch, having saved the lives of his companions several times now. But looking down at Aravia, Grey Wolf couldn’t forget the first time he heard Dranko utter words like that, when they did nothing, and Mrs. Horn had died. And Dranko was still a boor, still goblin-touched—
