Shadowblade (3 page)

But as the trio approached, they seemed to take no notice of Zach. They were definitely of the same affiliation as the previous group, each was wearing the same red sash. And they were certainly discussing something urgent.

“When we get to that fork in the road, we must use caution. Gunthar, you will go ahead and approach silently through the woods while Crensh and I come from the road.” The man in the dark robes seemed to be the one in command. “We will find the one who accosted our brethren.”

Brethren,
he wondered. It seemed an odd term for hired hands and mercenaries to use for each other. Still, now he knew what they called themselves, though he did not know why. And then there was the issue of the fork in the road that the man had mentioned.
How could I have missed a fork in the road?

“
I
saw it,” came the indignant response of the unseen voice. Zach wanted to go crazy right there! He wanted to swing, and swing, and swing, his mighty blade until he struck something. Then he calmed himself. Whatever the source of the unseen voice, it had not yet harmed him and so he chose to tolerate its presence for now. The approaching men still carried on, angry and spoiling for a fight, but they were completely oblivious to his presence.

Finally, they passed him by with murder in their eyes. Once they were out of sight, Zach sheathed his sword. He held the dagger aloft, staring it in wonder for its appearance had just changed! Now the entire length of the weapon, from tip to pommel, was blood red. The eyes of the skull that adorned the pommel were black, and the face of the skull seemed to bear an expression of satisfaction.

Was it the dagger that had spoken to him? He wondered, not for the first time, as he made his way closer to the great city which could only be Powyss. As he made his way closer to the main gate, he hid
Morloth
in a deep pocket on the inside of his coat. The road he was on came to an intersection ahead with roads adjoining from both right and left. A number of travelers were going to and from the city on each of the two intersecting roads. His road, however, was the road less traveled for none but himself were upon it.

He moved onward, toward the city, and fell in behind a merchant wagon bearing fruits from some exotic and warmer climate. The merchant was driving the wagon and complaining loudly that he had been “taxed” on the road no less than three times by bandit gangs who claimed to be keeping the highway safe from bandit gangs, and thus he bemoaned the potential loss of profits when he made his deliveries in the city markets. He remained near this merchant wagon, hoping to pick up useful information.

“Make no mistake, Marga,” the driver went on scandalously to his female companion. Although the man was definitely speaking Cklathish, it was not exactly the same variety of Cklathish as his own native language of Hybrandese. But it was close enough for him to piece together what they were talking about. “We will be forced to pay at least
three
more ‘taxes’ to them Red Dragons before we ever reach the market!”

Zach made a note of that, and was glad now for the local currency he acquired from the dead soldiers; it would certainly come in handy when paying bribe-taxes. He also took note of the fact that the nearer they came to the great city gate, the quieter the grumblings of the old wagon driver. Zach looked off to his right, seeing the coastline he was reminded a bit of Hybrand. The great cliffs overlooking the sea with clouds of gulls, and merchant ships at anchor in the harbor, all reminded him of home. He knocked that thought from his mind quickly. He was nearing the guard at the gate, moving away from this merchant and avoiding remaining too close to another.

A great wall climbed high above the city and guards armed with bows and crossbows lined the battlements. Great cauldrons that could be filled with boiling oil or tar were positioned above the various gates in the wall and hundreds of arrow slots threatened death to any who might try to enter the city of Powyss without permission. A pair of guards wearing red sashes flanked the gate leading into Powyss. One of the guards was collecting money from each traveler who approached. Those who paid the necessary fee were allowed to enter without undue harassment while those who complained were set upon by the remaining guards to be searched or otherwise detained. When it was his turn, Zach proffered the requisite bribe and was allowed into the city without question.

And what a city it was!

Powyss was one of the largest cities Zach had ever been in. Perhaps it was not as big as the great Arnathian cities, but it dwarfed Hybrand and Dockyard City. Just inside the gate was a market selling hot drinks and fresh food for weary travelers. But Zach was a savvy enough traveler to know that anything offered for sale so close to the convenience of the main gate would be extremely overpriced. Yet there were many who were either foolish enough, or weary enough, to pay the exorbitant prices for the products offered for sale here.

He moved beyond the gate and deeper into the city. The buildings here were tall and the streets crowded. The people he saw walking to and fro seemed to have little joy in their lives, perhaps that was due to the abundance of mean-looking, red-sashed, patrols on every street. He knew enough about these Red Dragons to know that they were charging exorbitant tolls for the “privilege” of traveling down a particular street.

Zach made his way to the Port District, doing his best to avoid the toll collectors, there he found a number of inns offering meals and lodging. With so many inns to choose from, Zach decided to go with the one with the most interesting name:
The Fighting Hens.
Half expecting to find a common room with chicken fights at the center, he was pleasantly surprised to find a clean, if humble, establishment. The common room was filled with modest, yet well-crafted tables and chairs with comfortable cushions. Light was provided through an assortment of oil lamps and the hearth was blazing with a nice fire. Beside the hearth was a small stage where performers could entertain the guests while they ate.

After getting his key Zach went straight to the common room, which was empty at the moment. A server brought him two full plates of eggs, toast and sausage for which he was extremely grateful. A warm fire roared in the great hearth at the end of the common room and Zach stared lazily into its crackling flames as he ate. To his disappointment, no one else entered the common room, he had been hoping to eavesdrop and gain more information about the goings on in Powyss.

Though he wasn’t full, he decided to make his way upstairs to his room; he certainly didn’t want to spend all his stolen coin on food. The room was simple but it was furnished with the necessities: bed, table, chair, chest of drawers, and an oil lamp. A window looked out over the alleyway that ran between the
Fighting Hens
and the brothel next door. He opened the window to let in the cool night air. But instead of a refreshing breeze, he was accosted by the odor of the waste from the street below and hastily shut the window.

He kicked off his boots, and lay upon his bed, thinking about what he would do next. When he arrived in Powyss, Zach wasn’t sure what he would do. After all, he could go anywhere he chose. But for some reason he felt compelled to remain in Powyss for a time. He wanted to learn more about the Red Dragons and the black robed man who promised to meet him again. But he also thought he might find wealth here in this large city that would likely boast any number of profitable criminal enterprises.

He drifted off to sleep thinking about riches and power, when a voice urgently whispered to him: “Wake up!”

“Wake up!” hissed the voice again, seemingly groggy as though it had been sleeping too. “Say nothing.”

He gave up trying to figure out the source of the voice that always seemed so close and yet remained invisible. He decided to heed the warning. He lay on his bed, alert; eyes glancing toward the window. It was dark, he had no idea what time it was. Warily, he glanced around the room in the dim light that filtered in from his unshuttered window, but saw nothing amiss. The door was closed and the latch was secure, the window firmly shut.

And yet he sensed that something bad was going to happen. Soon.

Morloth
was tucked under his pillow, where he had left it, within easy reach of his hand. His sword was within reach, leaning against the nightstand and his pack was on the floor beneath his sword. Everything he owned was within a half-second’s reach. His rational mind told him to go back to sleep, but his survivor’s instinct told him to remain as he was, frozen, in the appearance of blissful oblivion.

Then, he sensed a presence gathering in the room. An evil, pervasive presence that made his skin clammy and turned his toes cold. The temperature dropped noticeably, the window rattled ever so slightly in its pane. As his hand closed upon the dagger’s handle, his senses became heightened once more. His awareness seemed superhuman now, and it was as though he could hear every miniscule piece of dust as it floated through the air and bumped into other minuscule pieces of dust.

He sensed a palpable tendril of fear trying to touch his heart amidst the invasive evil gathering in his room. It seemed that whatever was trying to form itself in his room was using fear magic against him. His warrior’s training helped him remain calm. He found that he was able to repel this magical attack designed to cow him, but he still had to force his breathing to remain under control.

The shadows in the room, and seemingly those from the street outside his room, drifted through the air and settled in one spot not far from the foot of his bed. It seemed to Zach that the robed man’s dramatic disappearance from the roadway earlier was now happening in reverse. Slowly, and very quietly, the shadows coalesced into a vaguely man-like shape. Finally, Zach knew there was a person in the room.

Zach had shifted to his side when the voice first woke him. And though he was now facing toward the door and feigning sleep, his mind’s eye allowed him to see what was transpiring so close to his own bed. His hand on
Morloth,
ready to throw in an instant; his other hand was prepared to grasp his sword.

The figure was attired in the same manner as the man he had seen earlier, black robe and hooded cassock with a black ram’s head staff that would shine if there were enough light to see by. The hood was drawn low but it seemed to Zach’s extraordinary level of perception that the being appeared confused. The hooded head looked this way and that, discernibly angry. Could it be that the intruder did not
see
him?

Then the intruder turned away from the bed, seeming to glide across the floor to the door, his back to Zach. At that moment, acting purely on instinct and without thinking, Zach hurled
Morloth
at the intruder and the blade sank deeply into the intruder’s back. The figure turned and dropped to his knees, now facing the bed, eyes glaring angrily from the depths of the hood.

Red hands covered with sores thrust out from voluminous sleeves, and Zach knew the man intended to batter him with sorcery. But Zach crossed the distance quickly and delivered a savage kick to his enemy's gut, forcing the stranger to double over, disrupting whatever vicious spell he had been about to cast. Then Zach struck the side of the man’s head with the palm of his hand. Stunned, the intruder fell facedown into a crumpled heap on the floor. Zach bent down to retrieve his dagger but was surprised to find it in his hand once more! The dagger seemed to know when he wanted it, or when he simply wanted to look at it, and it just appeared in his hand.

Zach yanked the man’s hood back violently, and saw by the assailant’s face that this was, in fact, the same man whose accomplices had accosted him on the road earlier in the day. Was he here to kill Zach in retaliation? It all seemed very odd. Whatever the man’s game, he was a magic-wielder of no small talent to simply appear in Zach’s room in such dramatic fashion. And Zach knew the man had been looking right at him lying on the bed and but had not seen him; perhaps this was yet another manifestation of
Morloth’s
powers.

Using the magic-wielder’s hair as a handle, Zach turned the man over so he was on his back, face toward the ceiling. Zach shook the man, trying to rouse him and was annoyed that he could fall into unconsciousness so easily. Then he put the tip of
Morloth’s
blade against the man’s exposed neck hoping cold steel and pain would bring him back to consciousness.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his own voice seeming as cold and dead as the grave. When the man did not answer he grabbed him by the hair, forcing the assailant to face him. “Answer me!”