James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Davian ran his hands through his hair, wavering. Finally he nodded to Wirr. “It’s a risk either way. And if they’re here to turn us in, they’ll just end up breaking down the door anyway.”

Wirr grimaced. “True.” He unlocked the door, opening it to admit two rough-looking men. One was thin with long, stringy hair and a moustache, while the other was square-faced and almost bald. They bustled in, looking around before turning their attention back to the boys.

“You ready to go?” the long-haired man asked.

Davian and Wirr both nodded, watching the men closely. The balding man stared back at them for a second, then gave a curt gesture towards the hallway. Relaxing a little, Davian grabbed his pack and headed towards the door.

Suddenly Wirr gave a startled shout; before Davian could turn his left arm was being twisted behind him and had something hard touched to it. The Shackle was sealed before he realised what was happening.

Davian spun, only to be met with a fist crashing into his nose. He collapsed, too stunned to cry out in pain. Dazed, he saw Wirr on the floor further back in the room, holding the side of his head where he had evidently been punched. The cold black of a Shackle glinted on his arm, too.

“Bleeders,” spat one of the men. “You’d think they’d be smart enough not to come here any more.”

Davian tried to get to his feet, only to have a heavy boot crash down between his shoulder blades, pressing him back to the hard wooden floor.

“More gold for us, Ren,” said the long-haired man cheerfully. “We don’t even need to split the profits with Quendis this time. No cloaks and no Shackles, so they’re runaways. Sharenne will take them off our hands direct.”

Rough hands searched Davian for any hidden weapons, after which he was hauled to his feet and his wrists bound. He shook his head to try and clear it, wincing as he wrinkled his nose. He didn’t think it was broken, but there was definitely blood trickling from his nostrils. He glanced dazedly across at Wirr, who looked like he was having trouble focusing. Whether it was from the blow to the head or the effects of the Shackle, Davian wasn’t sure.

Suddenly there was movement at the door, and Davian turned to see the young woman from the common room standing there, watching what was happening with an odd expression on her face. She looked… regretful. Almost sad.

The long-haired man grinned at her. “Sorry Breshada, not this time. These ones are ours,” he said, tone cheerful. “Saw you had your eye on them downstairs. I’m surprised you didn’t move sooner.” He spoke casually, as if to an old acquaintance.

Breshada grimaced, her waist-length blonde hair swinging from side to side. She gazed at Wirr and Davian for a long moment, then turned her attention to the other two men. “Renmar. Gawn. Please know that I am truly sorry it was you.” She took a couple of steps inside the room, flicking the door shut behind her with her heel.

Both men froze. “What are you doing?” asked the one called Renmar, a confused look spreading across his face.

Features set in a grim expression, Breshada reached over her shoulder, drawing her longsword. It gleamed darkly in the candlelight, and suddenly the room seemed… quieter, as if the sound from outside was now coming from far away. An odd sensation ran through Davian as he watched the blade; there was something not quite right about the sword, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what.

Rasping steel filled the sudden silence as Renmar and Gawn drew their own swords. “Breshada,” said Gawn, tone a mixture of fear, warning and query. “We got them first, fair and square. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“I know,” said Breshada softly.

It was over in seconds. Breshada was quick and elegant despite the size of her sword and the confined space; even with Renmar and Gawn trying to use the boys as shields, they stood no chance. There were no cries of pain, no lingering deaths. When Breshada’s sword touched their flesh, they simply crumpled to the ground, eyes glassy. Davian and Wirr just watched in mute, horrified shock.

Once Gawn’s lifeless form had joined Renmar’s on the floor, Breshada stood for a moment in front of the boys, examining them through narrowed eyes. She was barely breathing hard, though the exertion had brought a slight flush to her cheeks.

She shook her head. “I don’t see it,” she muttered, disgust thick in her voice. She grabbed Davian by the shoulder; at first he was sure she was going to strike him, but instead she simply steadied him before slicing through the cords binding his hands. Then she did the same for Wirr.

Davian felt a loosening around his arm, and suddenly his Shackle was clattering to the floor. A few moments later, Wirr’s was doing the same. Davian stared at the open metal torcs in confusion.

“Death breaks the Contract,” an impatient-sounding Breshada said by way of explanation, seeing Davian’s expression. She looked at them warily. “Do not attack me. And do not use your powers, else there will be an army of Administrators here within minutes. My saving you will have been for naught.”

Wirr inclined his head. “I wasn’t going to,” he said cautiously. “And thank-you.”

Breshada scowled, and Wirr and Davian both took an involuntary step back. The look of hatred and disgust that suddenly raged in her eyes was unmistakable. “Do not thank me,” she hissed. “I have killed my brethren here to save your worthless lives. Two skilled Hunters for two stupid gaa’vesh . Tell Tal’kamar that the debt is repaid, a thousand times over.” She paused, looking like she was going to be sick. “If I see you again, I will kill you.” She spun, flung open the door and stormed out of the room, not looking back.

Wirr moved slowly over to the door, shutting it again. He looked at Davian with a dazed expression. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” Davian said shakily. “You?” He rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation, then grabbed a cloth, dabbing at his nose and grimacing when the material came away soaked a dark red.

“The same.” Wirr touched his head where he’d been struck, looking pale, though he seemed to be suffering no serious ill effects from the blow. “I wonder what that was about.”

Davian stared at the door. “A Hunter saving Gifted. That must be a first.”

“Not that she was particularly happy about it,” pointed out Wirr. He paused. “And who in fates is Tal’kamar?”

Davian shook his head, grunting as it exacerbated the pounding inside his skull. “No idea. But I think we owe him a drink if we ever meet him.”

“I won’t argue with that.” Wirr glanced down at the two corpses lying on their floor, his brief smile fading and tone sobering, as if what had just transpired was finally sinking in. “I won’t argue that at all.”

A soft knock at the door made Davian start fully awake.

He hadn’t really been asleep but rather lying drowsily, his concerns mixing together in his head to create a disquieting sense of unease. He sat bolt upright and took a quick glance out the window. It was late night; there was still noise from outside, but less than there had been earlier. The blue lanterns had burned down to a dull glow, and the streets looked almost empty.

Wirr was moving before Davian could stand, cocking his head as he listened for anything suspicious outside the door. “Who is it?”

“Anaar,” came the reply. The smuggler’s gravelly voice was unmistakable.

Wirr unlatched the door, opening it a crack and peering through before swinging it wide. Anaar and an impressively muscular man stood in the hallway, both looking as calm as if they were about to retire for the evening. Anaar’s eyes widened when he looked through the doorway and took in the corpses lying on the floor, though. He examined the boys’ faces, taking particular note of Davian’s bloodied nose.