chapter 2
Amric swirled the tankard of ale in a slow circle, staring into the dark liquid ripples. Two days in this blasted city chasing every stray rumor, and a galling lack of progress to show for it. He felt a twinge of regret for turning Halthak away when they arrived in Keldrin’s Landing. For all the healer’s naiveté, he had seemed far more comfortable within the confines of the city walls than Amric felt. The warrior had to admit that despite the information he had gathered in advance, despite his efforts to prepare, the sheer magnitude of everything here was overwhelming.
He knew the city’s origins decades ago as a military camp established by the dauntless explorer, Keldrin. It was the barest toe hold on the coast of a wild and ancient land dominated by primordial forests. One could still see those martial origins in the grid-like layout of the oldest sections: the docks, the military quarter and the trade district, in particular. From there, with the discovery of the abundance of mineral riches in the region, the growth of Keldrin’s Landing had been far too rapid to maintain its orderly structure. The trade district had spilled over its containment, flowing into new thoroughfares. The huge estates of the wealthiest merchants squatted on a long bluff overlooking the city center, each one an opulent walled fortress in its own right. The residential district encircled the others in a great arc, and the outer wall surrounding everything had been collapsed and rebuilt at various times to accommodate the city’s expanding girth. These days, refugees were arriving from the countryside by the hour, further swelling the city past capacity.
No, Amric had expected the city to have grown from its modest origins, but not this much. Faced with this unexpected sea of humanity, his plan––to enter the city and ask around until he located the specific information and individuals he sought––had produced nothing so far, and the approach now struck him as far too ingenuous to be effective. Valkarr was still wandering the city, hoping to discern a comment or other reaction to his presence that indicated some knowledge of the Sil’ath that had passed this way. His efforts might pay dividends, but suffered from the same problem; it was like attempting to track a particular fish through a vast ocean. The invading sense of futility set Amric’s teeth on edge.
He realized he was swirling the tankard in curt, rapid motions, and its contents threatened to slosh over the lip. He leaned back with a sigh, setting the vessel on the oaken table before him. The din of the Sleeping Boar’s grand common room pressed in about him once more. He pushed a hand through his close-cropped hair and took a steadying breath.
He needed a new plan.
He scanned the crowded room, searching again for new inspiration. Like the rest of the city’s occupants, the patrons of the Sleeping Boar Inn hailed from many races and regions. While the majority of them were human like him, Amric observed a short bird-like creature at the great stone hearth, three furry broad-shouldered figures exchanging whispers at a table near the bar, and a cloaked figure at a corner table whose snout protruded from its deep cowl. Amric frowned at the number of individuals he observed in ornate robes. He assumed them to be magickers of some sort, and wondered how many more were not so clearly marked. There were, of course, no Sil’ath to be seen.
The owner of the inn, a stout Duergar named Olekk, was polishing the bar with devoted ferocity. He paused, his swarthy face flushed with effort, and squinted down its length. Straightening, he threw the cloth over one broad shoulder, and expanded his possessive scan to include the rest of the room. Finally, with a satisfied nod, he swung away and passed through the doorway into the kitchen. As he went, he exchanged a slight nod with the hulking figure standing at the back wall, a Traug––a truly massive specimen of its kind––that he employed to remove troublemakers from the premises. It was a job the Traug did with dispassionate efficiency, as Amric could attest after two days of hunting rumors among the inn’s itinerant patrons.
Amric’s roving gaze caught on a grey-haired man seated alone in the shadows of a corner table. The fellow wore a sardonic smile, and as he locked eyes with Amric, he inclined his head in a slight nod toward him. The swordsman had passed through this common room countless times in the past two days, and did not recall ever seeing the man, let alone conversing with him enough to reach familiarity. He shrugged to himself. Perhaps the man had overheard him seeking information, and felt he had some to share or sell. Regardless, given the lack of competing leads, Amric could not afford to let any potential opportunity go unexplored.
As he gathered himself to stand, he noticed two tall, slender figures wending their way toward him between the tables of the common room. Clad in dark leather, they moved with graceful purpose, balanced and alert, remaining precisely arm’s length apart at all times. Practiced predators accustomed to hunting together, Amric noted. He settled back into his chair, donning a neutral expression above the table while beneath it he palmed a throwing knife from its concealed sheath behind his belt. The stranger in the corner would have to wait.
They drew to a halt as they reached him, fanned out on the opposite side of the table. Their arms hung relaxed at their sides, their postures confident, almost insolent. They gazed down at Amric with matching smiles but did not speak, and Amric took the opportunity to study them in this close proximity.
They had fine builds and finer features. Their eyes were larger than a human’s, liquid glimmers beneath long, delicate brows. That they had Elvaren blood was evident at once, but they were at the same time unlike any of that lineage he had seen before. They had striking white shocks of hair, and their pale skin held a dusky tinge, like layers of translucence over something darker. From features to dress to mannerism, they appeared identical in every detail.
They waited, their manners mocking and expectant, and Amric somehow felt that to speak first was to cede some obscure advantage in this encounter. He passed an unhurried stare from one to another and waited as well. He realized that the room had become hushed as the duo’s odd behavior had drawn attention. Or, Amric reflected, they were known well enough to the inn’s patrons to warrant the reaction; all the more reason to exercise caution. He felt a sudden nagging itch at his perceptions, and on impulse he flicked a glance toward the old stranger in the corner. The man had withdrawn even further into the dimness there, arms folded across his chest, his enigmatic smile a mere suggestion in the shadows. He appeared to be regarding Amric still across the room, and some trick of the light gave his eyes a lambent glow.
Yes, Amric mused, he would definitely need to understand this man’s interest in him soon. He returned his attention to the pair before him.
It seemed that taking his attention from them, even momentarily, had accomplished what exchanging stares did not. Amric read irritation plain upon their features at being ignored so, and the one to his right finally spoke.
“It is churlish for not offering us to join its table,” he said.
“Indeed so, brother,” replied the other. “And here it sits, compounding its stunning lack of manners with every breath.” They cocked their heads to the side in unison, studying him as if he were some loathsome insect.
Amric raised an eyebrow. “I do not believe we have met—” he began.
“The umbrage of our employer is, certainly, less of a mystery now,” one continued, as if he had not spoken.
“Agreed,” the other intoned, the solemnity of his delivery belied by the cruel twist of his smile.
Try as he might, Amric could not make sense of their statements. It? Employer? He decided to venture another entry into the conversation. “Do you bring information for a price? If you know the whereabouts of those I seek—”
“Still it prattles on,” one exclaimed in mock surprise. “So oblivious to the gravity of its situation, is it then?”
“I fear so, brother. Be it our duty to educate it?”
“Ah, you raise an interesting question, and I stand here shamed that we did not think to clarify this point with our employer.”
“And I as well. But he is a busy and important man, and cannot be troubled to clarify every little obstacle we might encounter as his agents in this matter. Perhaps we can infer his wishes?”
“An excellent line of reasoning, brother. Let us extend that line further, then. Think you he would wish it to expire in ignorance as to its affronts, or to pass into that dark with eyes opened?”
The other put a long, slender finger to his chin in thought. “Given the strength of his feelings on the subject, I surmise that he would wish it to know, to realize the fullness of the sentence that has been passed over it, and to agonize in vain over the fate its companions will share.”
Amric sat forward. “Companions? Do you mean the Sil’ath party I seek, that came this way—”
Again he was ignored, as the sibling gave an earnest nod. “I must concur. He impressed us as a man of highly cultured tastes, inclined to savor this familial indulgence.”
“Then we are decided, we must converse with it first.”
The pair returned their attention to Amric, the infuriating smiles spreading across their features once more. Amric, for his part, met their stares as his mind raced to assemble the fragments of their strange conversation. He assumed himself to be the it featured in their dialogue, though the choice of pronoun was still a mystery. They were in the employ of some as yet unnamed individual who bore him a grudge, for unspecified reason, and that enmity extended to Amric’s companions. The plural of that latter designation was intriguing; his only current companion was Valkarr, but if they knew or assumed his connection with the Sil’ath party he was tracking, they would be the first he had encountered in Keldrin’s Landing with any such knowledge. As his first and only lead, he was compelled to pursue it, despite the fact that these two clearly considered themselves tasked with exacting vengeance on behalf of his unknown adversary.
With his free hand, he gestured at the chairs before them, on the opposite side of the table from him. His other hand remained below the table, the throwing knife held ready. The table was too heavy to kick up into them without proper leverage, so he would need another distraction to increase the odds of his throw finding a mark that would disable or kill. Their lithe, certain movements hinted at great speed, and he would need precious time to stand and draw his swords as well as room to wield them. He had no allies here, and in fact being involved in an altercation inside the Sleeping Boar would elicit for him the same unwelcome attention his opponents would face from the inn’s enforcer. With his peripheral vision, Amric verified that the mountainous figure of the Traug was still by the bar, gimlet eyes focused upon the confrontation.
The pair slid into the chairs with identical movements.
Amric decided to vacate the role of the flushed quarry. If he was to be off-balance, he could at least return the favor. “Keep your hands in sight!” he commanded, raising his voice sharply to draw attention.
They exchanged an amused glance. “And if we do not?” the one on the left purred.
Amric brought his throwing knife into view and brandished it before them, high enough to be visible to all. With a rumbling growl that shook nearby tables, the Traug moved forward in a surge. The room went silent. The heads of the Elvaren whipped around, and they took in the advancing giant.
“He is much faster than his size would indicate,” Amric observed. “And that hide is nearly impervious to blades. But I would wager you already know that.”
Their heads swiveled back to him. Amric wore a wolfish smile now.
“Yesterday I saw him throw someone about your size out those front doors, and the fellow didn’t touch down until he struck the building across the way. To be fair, I cannot say which of his broken bones resulted from the landing and which were from the initial grapple. I am certain I heard snapping sounds when those huge hands wrapped around the poor sot.”
Their smirks had vanished, replaced by icy glares. Their hands flashed to the table’s surface. “It has made its point. It will put away its blade now, so that we may converse with it.”
“Yes,” Amric said. “Let us not involve the whole place in our conversation.” He lowered the knife, slipped it back into the concealed sheath behind his belt, and then raised both hands in a slow wave to the Traug. The latter halted, studying the table for a long, mute moment, and then made a ponderous turn back to the bar. A subdued murmur seeped into the silence of the room and built from there, and more than a few patrons cast inquisitive looks in their direction.
Amric lowered his hands to the table, and met the seething gazes of the Elvaren.
“I will be direct,” he said. “I have no quarrel with you. I do not even know you. I am newly arrived to this city, and to my knowledge I have offended no one, unless by asking after the whereabouts of missing friends. Whom do you represent?”
“His identity is his alone to share, should he choose to do so,” one snarled. “But it is incorrect, for it has indeed offended, and our esteemed employer must preserve family honor by defending the wronged.”
The familial reference again, another puzzle. So he had made an enemy of someone with a powerful relative? “You mentioned my companions sharing my fate,” he continued. “Do you know the whereabouts of the five Sil’ath I seek?”
“It attempts a ploy!” came the accusing reply. “We are neither fooled nor intimidated. Its one Sil’ath companion will be no easy mark, but it wanders the city unaware even now.”
Amric frowned. “But you mentioned more than one companion.”
The Elvaren shrugged. “The Half-Ork is no warrior and of little consequence, but it shared in the offense and therefore will share in the penance.”
Amric’s thoughts spun in a new direction. They meant Halthak! He and Valkarr had parted ways with the healer immediately upon entering Keldrin’s Landing, and they had not seen him since. The only acquaintances they shared were the guards at the city gates and the mercenaries in the camp the night they had met. Amric followed the line of reasoning to its most probable conclusion. Vorenius. The fool had known where they were headed from their own comments; he must have enlisted local resources and set out to avenge his wounded ego. Amric considered for a moment whether he should have taken the man’s head back at the bandit camp. No, he decided, it had not been warranted at the time. But now the man seemed determined to raise the stakes.
“So there is a price on all three of our heads now?” Amric asked.
“It wastes breath on questions that have already been answered,” one of the Elvaren chided, “when there are far more pertinent ones to be asked.” Their eyes glittered with malice.
His stomach plummeted. Knowing the answer, he said anyway, through clenched teeth, “Enlighten me.”
The Elvar on the right licked his lips in an exaggerated motion, as if savoring an exquisite flavor. “It must now wonder, how many more such as we are stalking it and its companions? When will the strikes come? Are they taking place at this very instant, as it sits here trading words with us?”
Amric cursed to himself. They were right, of course. They might even be here for the sole purpose of detaining him, while other agents of Vorenius and his benefactor made attempts on the lives of Valkarr and Halthak. Isolate and destroy; an effective strategy when hunting dangerous prey.
In a blur of motion, he kicked his chair back and bolted to his feet, both swords seeming to appear in his hands. Eyes wide, the pair slithered from their chairs, backing several rapid paces from the table. Their hands hovered at their sides, but they drew no weapons.
“You came here for my life,” Amric said. “So come and take it.”
So sudden was the act that the Traug’s startled response came a long moment later. From the other side of the room came a sound between a choking gasp and a roar, and then the huge creature was striding forward, brushing aside a heavy table that fell with a crash. The Duergar owner, Olekk, emerged from the back room, his bristling beard whipping about as he sought the source of the commotion.
The Elvaren were smiling once more. “It has succeeded admirably in convincing us how unsuitable is the current setting for our task. We will relish it looking always over its shoulder, until one time soon it looks an instant too late.”
With mocking salutes, they turned and glided out the front doors of the inn. Calming his breathing, Amric resisted the urge to pursue them. An unnecessary conflict here in the open would only serve to involve the city watch, and he could ill afford any such delay if he was to warn Valkarr and Halthak of the danger to them, in particular if more hired blades waited out there in the shadows.
The thunderous approach across the common room reminded him of the risk he had accepted in forcing the hand of the Elvaren. He sheathed his swords and raised his empty hands in apology. The Traug slowed and his rumbling growl subsided in volume, but still he approached, his great thick hands flexing open and shut. Amric looked past him to find Olekk at the bar. He met the Duergar’s suspicious glare as he produced three heavy coins from his money pouch, and then laid them with exaggerated care upon the table. He then raised his open hands and took a step back.
Olekk glanced down to the coins, and then back at Amric. After momentary consideration, he barked an order and jerked his bearded chin back toward the bar. The Traug ground to a halt and fixed Amric with a scowl that spoke volumes about an exhausted supply of free warnings, and then lumbered back to his favored corner of the room. On his way, he righted the table he had overturned, and the care he exhibited in handling it showed he considered the stout oaken furniture as fragile as finest porcelain in his grasp.
Amric started to leave, but paused for a glance back at where the elderly stranger had been sitting. That corner table was empty. Odd, he thought. All the exits from the common room were well visible from Amric’s position, and he had not seen the man pass through any of them. Amric shook his head; the man was a riddle for another day. He strode through the doors and into the afternoon swelter.
Halthak worked his way through the thick of the trade district. A shop owner pressed in at his side, pacing him for a few steps as he hawked his wares with a broad, ingratiating smile. Halthak continued on, shaking his head in what he hoped was a courteous manner as he passed. He knew better than to smile back; baring a mouthful of sharp teeth inevitably caused others to read unintended aggression in his features. He inhaled the rich, heady aromas of spices and cooking food, and his eyes drank in the colors and activity around him. Although his errand in the trade district had been unsuccessful, he had lingered for hours afterward and found a growing affection for the place. Here in Keldrin’s Landing, with its diverse collection of different races and cultures, he was just another in the crowd, no more or less unusual than the next traveler.
He saw several full-blooded Orks standing in a cluster apart from the other races. They were thicker of limb and deeper of chest than he, and they bristled with crude weapons and studded armor. They turned scowls upon him, but did not follow up with the prejudice he could expect in a different setting. He kept a wary eye on them until he was well past, and as a result he did not see the elderly man in his path until he slammed into him.
The air whooshed from Halthak’s lungs and he staggered back, doubling over. Leaning upon his staff to catch his breath and his balance, he looked up to see a slender old man in grey robes. The fellow’s silvery hair was slicked back along his skull, and despite his evident age, his pale, smiling face radiated an intense vitality. The man appeared unaffected by the collision, and Halthak peered past him in disbelief. It felt like he had run headlong into a boulder; surely he had contacted something more solid than this kindly old fellow! The man stooped forward and helped him upright with a grip like cold iron.
“I––I am––” Halthak managed to gasp, still struggling for breath.
“Please accept my humblest apologies, young sir,” the man said, his voice low and yet somehow cutting through the din of the crowd. “The years have made me clumsy indeed.”
The old man released Halthak’s arm and gave a gentle pat to his shoulder as he moved past, disappearing into the crowd. The healer stared after him for a moment until his breath came unhindered again, and then he resumed walking.
It was but moments later that he heard an angry shout followed by a commotion behind him, and he turned to look. The crowd parted to give him a clear view of the scene several shops back. He saw the same old man with whom he had collided reaching down to help an irate individual up from the ground as two other men looked on in surprise. The old fellow’s familiar words carried across the distance as if Halthak stood beside him.
“Please accept my humblest apologies, young sir! The years have made me clumsy indeed.”
The man on the ground surged to his feet, spitting oaths and swatting aside the proffered hand. He faced the silver-haired fellow, leaning forward with fists clenched, and his two friends moved to join him. Halthak noted their cruel demeanor and their unkempt appearance, and he knew them in an instant for common cutthroats. He felt an immediate fear for the old man’s safety, and he took a step in that direction. Even as he did, however, the three brutes faltered and fell back a pace. The old man’s posture was mild, but the men cowered back from something in his expression. They made a wide circle around him, glancing at one another, and then all three of them looked in Halthak’s direction. No, not in his direction, he realized; they were looking directly at him. Seeing him looking back at them, their expressions hardened and they averted their gazes, feigning sudden interest in the nearest shop.
Despite the oppressive heat of the early evening, Halthak felt a chill run down his spine.
The old man turned to look back at him and held his gaze with unnerving intensity. His smile was gone, and he gave a slow nod to Halthak before turning and melting into the crowd.
Halthak studied the cutthroats once more. They cast furtive glances at him, growing restless under his scrutiny. He searched for a familiar face, perhaps from the bandit camp, but did not recognize any of them. He could not fathom their interest in him, but he had a growing certainty as to its nature. They would not need to skulk about if they meant him well, and robbery was unlikely, given his poor attire and obvious lack of coin. No, they intended harm or capture, and he had no desire to ascertain which. Regardless, he doubted he would have spotted them without the commotion, so he was indebted to the strange old fellow for the warning that might have saved his life.
Though he was only saved, he reminded himself, if he managed to evade them.
He debated his course. He could remain in public here, staying close to highly visible store fronts. This might prevent capture, but the ebb and flow of the populace here might leave him vulnerable to a stealthy blade in the press of the crowd. He could go to the city watch, but they were nowhere to be seen at the moment and would require more to act on than his suspicions and some hard looks cast in his direction. He wanted to flee the trade district, as its welcoming atmosphere had palled of a sudden, but he was unsure how to prevent them from following, or even where he could go to be safe. He had almost exhausted the last of his meager funds, and the stable he had been sneaking into each night to sleep seemed quite exposed, all of a sudden.
He found himself wishing again that he had been able to stay longer with the warriors Amric and Valkarr, as he had little doubt they could handle these cutthroats as easily as they had managed the bandit camp. His every interest in their mission here had been rebuffed, however, and they had insisted on parting company with him once he was safe inside the city walls. They had seemed so determined, so purposeful.
He had no such solid plan of his own; he had traveled to this remote, dangerous place in the hopes that his healing talent could be of us in the conflict here. It seemed foolish to him now. Of what use was he? He could not even get here safely on his own. He had hoped to find his purpose, and yet he was just as adrift here as anywhere else, it seemed. And so he had bid the warriors farewell, removing at least one unnecessary burden from their path.
Halthak shook himself. Standing there dumbstruck was doing him no good. He set off at a quick pace, staying close to the stores. If he could put enough distance between himself and his pursuers, he could duck down a side alley and lose them. If he chanced upon a city watch patrol before then, he could shadow the watch until another opportunity arose to escape.
He peered down the alleys between shops as he passed. They were narrow and deep in shadow already, and would only get less inviting as the sun continued to set, but they were his best chance of disappearing. One yawned ahead, a dark portal just past a busy food market. He veered toward it. At the corner, he craned his neck for a look back and felt another chill. The men were shoving their way through the crowd and closing the distance with alarming speed, their gazes fixed upon him. They were far too close, almost at his heels, and entering the alley would be sheer folly now; no one would witness the attack there, and his assailants could flee its aftermath in relative safety.
Halthak turned away from the mouth of the alley, but a figure loomed at out of the shadows. With a startled cry he swung his staff in an overhand chop at the figure’s head, but his opponent batted it aside. A powerful arm shot out and seized his robes, yanking him forward into the shadows and sending him staggering down the alley. Halthak threw a hand against the wall to keep from falling, and spun to put his back to it, raising his staff before him. He cursed his own stupidity. Of course they had more than the trio he had seen in the open, encircling him to ensure he could not escape so easily. His fists tightened on the burled ironwood staff. It was a stout weapon, but he was no fighter. He had no illusions about the odds of him fending off one skilled attacker, let alone four or more.
The three thugs entered the alley at a run, becoming black silhouettes like the figure before him against the still bright sun of the main street. They skidded to a halt as they entered the shadows, daggers held low and ready, and for a moment all was still. Halthak had just inhaled to shout for help when the scene exploded. He heard startled oaths as the cutthroats lunged forward at the figure who had hauled him into the alley, and there followed a flurry of activity too fast for him to follow in the poor light. There was a loud grunt and one shape went down heavily. The mysterious figure cut between the other two, and another shape was propelled across the alley to slam into the wall, where it crumpled. The figure spun around the last of the thugs and then approached Halthak at an unhurried pace. Behind him, the final thug pitched face-first to the ground. The entire fight had taken only a few seconds.
Halthak realized that his hands were shaking, and his cry for help had died in his throat. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom and the figure drew near, recognition dawned.
“Valkarr!” he exclaimed.
The Sil’ath halted before him. In a thick, guttural voice the lizardman said, “Come, we must join Amric.”
Halthak swallowed and nodded. Striving to emulate Valkarr’s casual demeanor, he followed the warrior out of the alley. As he passed, he noted the cutthroats lying in spreading pools of blood, their own daggers jutting from their still forms. He shuddered. Valkarr bore not a scratch, not a stray drop of blood; he had not even drawn his own weapons in the brief scuffle.
Back on the main street of the trade district, Valkarr received a few curious looks, but no one appeared alarmed. Like Halthak, the cutthroats had not even managed to raise a cry before the action was over. Amric emerged from the crowd and flashed Halthak a grin.
“I am relieved you are still well, healer. It seems you will be safer in our company for a time after all, as there is a price on all our heads.” He held up a hand as Halthak’s mouth dropped open. “Save your questions for now. We must leave the streets immediately. I sent the watch patrol to the docks with a false report of a disturbance there, so that we could operate without interference here, but they will be returning soon with a host of uncomfortable questions. And those buffoons in the alley were merely the most impatient and least skilled of those who will be after us.”
Halthak shot a panicked glance to either side. “Where can we go to be safe?” he stammered.
“Safe? Nowhere in this city, I’m afraid,” Amric replied. Then a boyish grin spread across his features. “But until we have a better plan, I know where we can go that will make most attackers think twice.”
Amric pushed the food around on his plate, lost in thought. Across the table, Valkarr was wolfing down his meal with typical abandon, and Halthak showed almost as much enthusiasm for his own. Amric hid a smile as he pretended not to notice the abashed glances the healer shot in his direction. It was evident that the healer did not frequently enjoy a full belly, and hunger had overwhelmed his manners on a meal he accepted with outward reluctance and inward relief. The warrior found it hard to fault him, as the Sleeping Boar served excellent food indeed.
The Duergar Olekk emerged from the kitchens and cast a baleful eye in their direction, but made no more strenuous objection to their presence. Amric had paid their stay for the week in advance, though it had taken much of his remaining coin, and in so doing had bought a measure of the Duergar’s good will by way of providing insurance against their continued good behavior. He had gone so far as to promise Olekk that they would initiate no trouble on the premises, and if the Duergar noted the careful wording, he let it pass.
The Traug hunched against the far wall like some massive boulder, impassive as ever, but Amric noted with some amusement that the creature’s gaze lingered most often in their direction. In return, Amric exercised the warrior’s reflex by scanning the bark-like hide for vulnerable points. He had no quarrel with him or his employer; they were merely protecting their business against an often unruly crowd. All the same, there might come a day when he had to face that mountain of muscle and be unable to talk his way out of it. No, it would grieve him to slay the Traug, but neither could he allow those huge mitts to clasp him and reshape his spine.
Amric turned his attention back to the matter at hand. The price on their heads was a complication he did not need. They could ignore it and be harried every step of the way, or seek out their faceless adversary and become more deeply embroiled in whatever pointless local conflict was behind it. Either way, it served only to delay them from their true objective, that of finding their missing compatriots.
He was certain of one thing, at least: they could not remain here, as the trail was only growing colder.
Movement caught at the corner of his eye. The tall, iron-bound front doors stood open and, along with all the windows, pulled a cooling breeze through the Sleeping Boar and drew away the hanging heat of the day. A sliver of night detached itself from the darkness outside and passed through the doorway. Amric’s fork stopped on his plate; Valkarr’s did not, though he tilted his wedge-shaped head to take in the new arrival. It was the old man in grey robes from earlier, and he favored them with a broad smile as he walked through the common room and claimed a secluded corner table.
Halthak noticed the sudden stillness of the two warriors, and followed Amric’s stare to the silver-haired gentleman trading words with the serving girl. The old fellow followed her with his eyes as she went to the kitchens with a pretty flush and a flustered smile, and then he settled back into the shadows to boldly return the swordsman’s gaze. As before, his eyes caught the light in a strange way, casting it back at the observer like tiny pinpoints of flame.
“That’s him!” Halthak exclaimed in a whisper. “That’s the old man I ran into in the trade district, the one who identified the cutthroats following me!”
As he said this, the grey man touched two fingers to his forehead in a salute. Amric frowned. The timing made it appear he had somehow heard Halthak’s hushed words across the clamor of the busy room, but that had to be coincidence. In any event, the man had made his interest in them evident enough, and Amric’s own curiosity was certainly piqued. Amric exchanged a look with Valkarr, then stood and left his companions at their table. A low growl from the Traug trembled the floorboards beneath the swordsman’s feet. Gimlet eyes set deep under a heavy brow ridge tracked his every step across the room, but the creature took no other action.
The old man waited with that expectant smile. Amric stopped before his table, and asked, “Sir, may I join you?”
“I would be most disappointed if you did not,” the other replied. “Please, take a seat.”
Amric did so, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table as he studied the fellow. This close, he appeared less aged, possessed of an uncommon vitality that was almost palpable. Eyes so pale they were almost white regarded him with a piercing intellect that gave no ground to the advance of the years. His expression was warm but controlled, somehow authentic and calculating in equal parts, and Amric decided at once that the man’s outward demeanor was a tool he employed with scalpel efficiency.
“My name is Amric.”
“And I am Bellimar,” the man returned. The name tugged at Amric’s memory, but he could not place the reference. Bellimar studied his expression, waiting. The serving girl came to their table, setting a large tankard of ale before them both.
“Thank you, my dear,” Bellimar murmured in velvet tones, eliciting another pink blush. His eyes tracked the girl for a moment as she hastened away. Amric’s scalp prickled; had he imagined a faint thrum of power there in the man’s voice? And it did not escape his notice that the fellow had placed an order for two drinks before Amric even stood to approach.
“Are you a sorcerer, Bellimar?” Amric demanded.
Bellimar cocked his head to the side, but his smile did not falter. If anything, it broadened instead. “A curious opening to our conversation, friend Amric.”
The swordsman took a deep breath. “I apologize for my poor manners, but I have little trust for things magical, and you have that air about you. My friends and I owe you a debt of gratitude for your intervention in the trade district. You seem to have taken an interest in us, and I would like to understand why.”
Bellimar shook his head. “I took no offense. It is fair to say that magic was a field of study for many years for me, but I do not tamper with such forces any longer.”
“And your interest in us?”
“How could I not be interested in you, Amric? You are a fascinating riddle.”
Amric folded his arms across his chest. “That is not an answer.”
“True enough,” Bellimar said. “Allow me to elaborate, then.”
He put forth one pale, slender hand and began to punctuate each point with a finger tap on the surface of the table. “You travel with a Sil’ath warrior who calls you sword-brother. Most Sil’ath can barely tolerate humans, finding them unpredictable and soft, and this one names you with a term of highest respect and affection. Moreover, he defers to you without reservation as he would his tribal warmaster, and you are an outsider of unique stature if you occupy such a position among the Sil’ath. Quite unheard of, in my recollection.”
Bellimar paused to chuckle. “Do not look so surprised, Amric. Knowledge of the internal workings of Sil’ath society is rare, and my learning on the subject is meager since I have not lived among them as you have, but I was an avid student of history and this world’s various cultures long before you were born. And I am not finished.”
He continued to tick off points, each a staccato click of one of his nails on the table. “You bear a price on your head and the enduring ire of a powerful nobleman for having rescued a penniless half-breed from a band of brigands. You did not take the life of that worthless bag of gas Vorenius in the bargain, showing remarkable restraint, if not sound judgment. You faced down two notorious assassins in this very room without apparent fear, and have now taken the Half-Ork under your protection, despite his obvious inherent ability and your personal aversion to all things magical. You show uncommon tact and wit for a simple swordsman, and you gather enigmas as you go.”
Amric raised an eyebrow. “So you would have me believe that I am irresistible to a scholar such as yourself because I use words on occasion before swinging my blade, or because I keep company that would be unusual in any other city? I have seen races in Keldrin’s Landing that I cannot even identify. The diversity gathered here and the tales I hear of nameless things outside these city walls make one wandering swordsman seem mundane in the extreme.”
Bellimar laughed and gave the table a resounding slap. “By the gods, but I like you, swordsman!” He made a sweeping gesture, as if brushing aside all his previous points. “You are correct. Everything I have just listed has only deepened my initial interest, which is owed to something else entirely.”
“And that is?”
Bellimar leaned back and regarded him over steepled fingers. “You have no aura.”
Amric blinked, and waited for elaboration.
Bellimar studied him for a long moment before nodding. “I wondered if you knew, if it was somehow done intentionally, but I believe you. Every living creature has an aura, varying greatly in magnitude depending on many factors. It is the breath of primal essence intrinsic to the individual, marking one’s life force and affinity to magical forces. Call it the spark of life, if you will.”
“Then there is no great mystery,” Amric said. “I do not have, and do not wish for, any aptitude for magic.”
“Your dislike for magic has little relevance as to its affinity for you, swordsman,” Bellimar said, leaning forward again. “But there is more to it than that. As I said, every living creature has an aura. It can be faint or potent, but it is always present. For that matter, every unliving creature will have an aura as well, though it would be imbued or converted rather than inborn.”
“Unliving? You mean the animated dead, ghosts and wights and the like?”
“And the like,” Bellimar agreed. “Do you think me a foolish old man, telling fireside tales when I speak of such creatures? Or that they haunt only the dusty crypts of ancient kings, as heroic fables would have us believe?”
Amric shook his head, expression grim. “I might have disregarded your words mere months ago, and been skeptical of the tales of the things lurking in the forests here, but I can testify that the same taint has begun to spread much further south as well. No, I do not doubt that Keldrin’s Landing makes its plea for help in earnest.”
“Good. I find it tiresome penetrating that kind of ignorance. And many of the ranks of Unlife are drawn irresistibly to strong auras as a source of sustenance, so they are relevant to our topic in more ways than one.”
“We have wandered from that topic, Bellimar. You were telling of your interest in me?”
“So I was,” Bellimar said. “As I was saying, every living creature has an aura, and its character, intensity and magnitude define that creature. Or from another perspective, that creature’s defining attributes are reflected in its aura. Whichever stance you take, there is a strong and undeniable connection. Beyond even affinity for magical energies, many attributes are reflected in one’s aura, such as charisma, magnetism, leadership, drive and empathy; other creatures respond to these attributes and to that intrinsic energy out of reflex.”
“And you can see these auras around creatures?” Amric asked.
“Yes, I can. Of the many fields of research my long years have afforded me, you could say that the study of auras is my greatest enduring passion. It requires concentration and training to see them, akin to engaging another sense, a separate kind of sight, if you will. But this is not a unique skill, as countless practitioners of the arts can do the same.”
Amric’s jaw tightened. “I thought you had nothing to do with magic any longer.”
“You may as well resolve to abstain from gravity, swordsman!” Bellimar said with a laugh. “Magic is inherent in this world, and surrounds us at all times. No, you misheard me; I do not manipulate such forces any longer, but I retain my learned skills to observe them. Is that more clear?”
The warrior relaxed somewhat and gave a curt nod. Bellimar leaned forward further yet, his expression intent. Seeming to operate of their own accord, his long fingers began tracing idle patterns on the table between them.
“Which brings us back to you, my friend. Judging from your interactions with others, your ability to draw others to you, the uncommon skill you must have to reach your rank with the Sil’ath, and what I suspect is a very colorful personal history, I would wager you to have a potent aura indeed. And yet I see none at all when I bring up my Sight. You emanate as much visible life energy as the chair you are sitting upon.”
“So I am dead, then?” Amric meant the query in jest, but he fidgeted despite himself. He could not decide which topic he found more disquieting, the thought of pervasive magic surrounding him at all times or the revelation that he had no discernible life force. Anger followed on the heels of discomfort. Why should it bother him, the absence of something of which he had not known until moments ago? He had eschewed interaction with sorcerous forces his entire life, and he should feel relief that he had none inside him.
“No, clearly not,” Bellimar replied with no trace of mirth. “You are a man of uncommon vitality, and so you represent an enigma that I must unravel. Amric, you must let me accompany you for a time, to study this phenomenon. I have knowledge and skills that will prove invaluable to you. I know, for example, that you are seeking a party of Sil’ath that came through Keldrin’s Landing two months ago, and that you have had little luck in determining their whereabouts or their fate. I can help with this. I know this city well, and I know how information flows here. I can gather in hours what would take you weeks to obtain. I know the identity of Vorenius’s benefactor, the man behind the price on your heads, and I might be able to call in favors to ease that vendetta. Even if you leave the city, I am a hardy traveler and will be no burden to you, and I will be a great asset inside or outside the city. What say you?”
The man had a feral, unwavering intensity to his gaze. Amric glanced down to where Bellimar’s fingers moved faster and faster in their patterns on the table. In the old man’s rising fervor, his nails had somehow scored the hard oak and raised long, thin curls of wood behind them. Following Amric’s eyes, Bellimar took in the marred surface of the table, and the hand retreated to his lap. He cleared his throat, and it seemed an effort to pull his equanimity back about himself. When he spoke, however, his eyes still gleamed.
“What say you, swordsman?”