The City of Towers: The Dreaming Dark - Book I (17 page)

“Thank you so much, Dek,” Lei said, with a brilliant smile. “I knew I could rely on you. If we ever can afford to put money on one of the races, we’ll certainly come to you.”

“Oh, my pleasure,” Dek said. “Anything for a friend. Here, I suppose you’d better take these back.” He tossed Daine the coins he’d been given earlier and smiled. “I’ll see you around.”

W
atching Daine and Lei enter the inn, Pierce clung to the scant shadows of the alley, his mithral plating blending into the darkness. He had been built to serve as a scout and skirmisher, and a talent for stealth had been forged into his soul. He held his great bow in one hand, an arrow at the ready. There was no sign of danger, but Pierce had been a soldier since the day he was born, and he never lowered his guard.

The city felt strange and unnatural to Pierce. He was twenty-eight years old, and he had spent his entire life on the battlefields of Cyre. Even after Cyre was destroyed, exploring the Mournland was much like fighting a war. Horrors far more dangerous than any Brelish soldier filled the devastated land. It was hard for him to conceive of a life without conflict, to look at the bustling street without evaluating the threat posed by each traveler. A part of him yearned for a sudden attack, an ambush, something that would justify his vigilance.

“Do you miss war so much?”

The voice was soft and warm, as was the hand that touched his shoulder.

During the siege of Felmar Valley, the Valenar elves had played games with the Cyran defenders, killing sentries and leaving the corpses standing at their posts. After a time, Pierce began playing a game of his own—making himself an inviting target, then bringing down any elf who thought he
could approach undetected. He’d caught five would-be assassins this way, though he had a few arrow-marks from elves who’d wisely chosen not to play his game. But no one had ever come close enough to touch him without his noticing. Until now.

It was not in Pierce’s nature to fear for his life. He was made to fight, and if he died in battle he would know that he had served his purpose. Rather than fear, he felt a deep sense of disappointment at his failure to spot this potential threat—and the need to regain the upper hand as quickly as possible. He turned to face the stranger and took a long step back, trying to get enough room to draw back his bow.

But even as he stepped away, the stranger moved forward, perfectly matching his stride. She wore a dark cloak with a deep hood, and she moved as silently and smoothly as a shadow, remaining inches from his chest.

Pierce was at a loss. This woman had taken no directly hostile action, and the folds of the cloak suggested her hands were empty. He was larger and presumably stronger than her. Should he drop the bow and lash out with a steel fist? Or was this some sort of misunderstanding?

“I suppose in battle the answers are always clear,” she said.

Her voice was low and musical. Had Pierce been made from flesh and blood, it might have sent a shiver down his spine. As it was, he merely noted the clarity and enunciation, the unknown accent that suggested a homeland beyond the Five Nations.

“If you mean me no harm, back away slowly.”

The woman took a few steps back. “My apologies,” she said.

She looked up to meet his gaze, and her hood fell back far enough to reveal her pale skin and finely sculpted features. Green eyes glowed within a halo of black hair, and her lips twisted with the slightest hint of a smile. To Pierce’s eyes she seemed human, though it was hard to tell for certain, with the shadows and the hood.

“I have little experience with your kind,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I was not startled,” Pierce replied.

The stranger’s smile widened ever so slightly, and Pierce
wondered why he felt the need to defend himself. He set down the bow and pulled his flail off of his back. The woman was unarmed, but still he felt the need to be prepared for battle.

“You didn’t answer my question.” If she felt threatened by the flail, she didn’t show it.

“What do you want with me?” Pierce was used to dealing with allies and enemies. Abstract conversation was not something he’d had much time for on the battlefield. He’d listened to the lady and the captain argue with one another, and he enjoyed the healer’s wordplay, but he wasn’t used to being the target of such things.

“The answer to a question, nothing more. Do you have a place in a world without war?” Her eyes flickered down to encompass the flail. “Or are you just a weapon, worthless when there is no blood to be spilled?”

Pierce stared at her, trying to find the words to answer. It was not a new question. In fact, it was what he’d been asking himself before the stranger showed up. Did she know that?

Even as he searched for an answer, he caught the glimpse of motion in his peripheral vision, two figures stepping into the alley. The possible threat was a welcome release from the question, and he relaxed and let his reflexes take over, stepping back against the wall and setting the chain of his flail in motion. But there was no threat. Just Captain Daine and Lady Lei, exiting the tavern.

Captain Daine eyed the spinning flail, glanced at the bow on the ground, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. “What’s wrong?”

Pierce let the flail come to a stop. “Nothing, Captain. A misunderstanding. I was just …” He glanced toward the stranger, but she was nowhere to be seen. If he’d had eyelids, Pierce would have blinked in surprise. She had slipped away as smoothly as she had appeared. “… thinking,” he finished.

The captain shrugged. “Let’s get moving then. I’ll fill you in a long the way.”

Pierce nodded. He returned his flail to its harness and picked up his bow, studying the empty alley. He listened to Daine’s words, but his thoughts were far away.

T
he trip to the tavern had done one thing. It had taken Lei’s mind off of her own misfortune. Lei was full of questions as the trio headed back to High Walls, while Pierce was, if anything, quieter than usual.

“Do you suppose these Tarkanans could have killed his hippogriffs? Maybe they’d been hired by one of these opposing beast groups, and he was trying to find out who was behind it.”

“Possibly,” Daine said. “That, or he knew who killed his mounts and thought that the Tarkanans could help him get revenge on the killers. I suppose that finding the Tarkanans is the next step.”

“It sounds dangerous.”

“This from the woman who fought three hundred warforged?”

“Do you have an army I don’t know about?”

“Good point. Still, there’s something that’s bothering me.”

“What’s that?” Lei said. She was momentarily distracted by a small tower up the street. It appeared to be formed from overlapping steel plates.

“Alina implied that Rasial served her as a smuggler, bringing in contraband through the air. So if he was still flying, if he was still in Sharn, why’d he quit racing?”

“Perhaps he was still trying to find out who sabotaged his
earlier bouts,” Lei said. “He didn’t dare return until he’d identified his foe.”

“It’s possible,” Daine said. “But … he was a member of the Sharn Watch! Why would he turn to a group of assassins instead of the forces of the law? Why would they have anything to do with him?”

“I don’t know.”

They walked a ways in silence, eventually reaching the lift. Three other people boarded the lift with them. Beggars by the look, dressed in worn cloaks and tatters. There was a muscular half-orc, a tall, lean man, and a young halfling woman. As the lift began to fall, something about the halfling caught Daine’s eye. She was covered with dirt, and her cloak was torn wool. At a glance, she seemed like any of the hundreds of beggars Daine had seen over the years. But as he watched, a rat came crawling out of the folds of her cloak and climbed up toward her face. It chittered and squeaked, and she whispered quietly to it. Daine remembered the rat he’d seen in the King of Fire, and a chill ran down his spine.

Looking up, Daine saw that the thin man had moved closer to him. Beneath the hood of his cloak, the stranger’s face was horribly disfigured, scarred by pustules and the ravages of disease. His robes carried a sweet odor of rot and decay.

He looked down at Daine and spoke in a deep, rasping voice, “You have information I require, Mourner.”

The stranger seemed quite confident, considering that both he and his companions were completely unarmed. Daine put his hand on the hilt of his sword, making the motion as obvious as possible.

“And you are?”

“I am Bal of the House of Tarkanan, and you will tell me what I wish to know. Or you will not leave this lift alive.”

“I guess that takes care of our next step,” said Lei.

“Is this going to happen every time we get on a lift?” Daine said. “Because I may start taking the stairs.” He drew his sword but kept the point to the side. “Now. Shall we start this conversation again?”

“I believe that we shall.” Bal spun forward in a blur of
motion. Before Daine even realized what was happening, the rotting man smashed Daine’s hand with a powerful kick. The sword went spinning through the air and came to a halt against the railing. Bal drew his cracked lips back from decaying teeth. “Shall we begin?”

Daine nodded. He cursed himself for underestimating his foe … but he could see the same overconfidence in Bal. “All right. Let’s see if we can’t shed some
light
on things.”

Lei slipped her hand into her belt pouch, obviously catching Daine’s signal. She pulled a golden sphere from her pouch and flung it between the halfling and the half-orc. Both cried out as a cloud of blinding golden particles engulfed them.

Pierce drew his long flail from his back. As he shook the chain free from the haft, he sent Daine’s sword spinning across the lift with a well-placed kick. Daine knelt and caught the sword with his right hand, drawing his dagger with his left. He rose to his feet and leveled his sword at the chest of his foe.

“All right,” said Daine. “Let’s talk.”

Bal came forward again, moving with eerie speed and grace. But this time Daine was prepared. He ducked out of the way and drew a long, shallow cut along his enemy’s shin.

“You have no idea what you are dealing with,” Bal hissed through gritted teeth. Slipping past Daine’s guard as if he were a ghost, the rotting man pressed the palm of his right hand against Daine’s throat.

Suddenly ice was flowing through Daine’s blood. Chills ran along every nerve, and it was all that he could do to stay on his feet. He made a weak thrust, but Bal slipped under the blow. The next thing Daine knew, he was on the floor of the lift with Bal standing above him. The pain grew worse. He could see Pierce standing over the fallen body of the half-orc, with Lei and the rat girl beyond.

“Hold!” Bal called out, in a voice like a winter wind. “If I touch your friend again, he will die.”

Lei froze. Pierce kept the chain of his flail spinning, forming a singing web of steel, but he did not strike. “Should I shatter your comrade’s head,” he said, “I suspect that he will also die.” His voice was calm and collected.

There was a moment of tension that seemed to last for an eternity … and then Bal laughed, a long, dry rasp. “True enough.” He stepped back. “I apologize for my uncalled-for aggression. Perhaps we can help each other.”

Behind him, the half-orc moaned and brought a hand to his head.

Daine rose to his feet. He was dizzy and nauseous, but the pain seemed to be subsiding. “What do you want?” he growled.

“We are looking for Rasial. Zae”—he nodded toward the halfling, who was rubbing her eyes and glaring at Lei—“heard you mention him. I’ve never seen you before. How do you know him?”

The lift was approaching the ground. “I think I’d like to hear your story before I say much more. I know an inn not far from here. Can I offer you a cup of tal?”

Bal glanced at his comrades, the rat girl huddled in the corner and the warrior stretched out on the floor. “Perhaps that would be for the best.”