James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Asha swallowed. "What… what do you mean, all of us ?"

"For myself, and my brothers. Four hunt. One hides, cognizant of what he is. A true traitor. An escherii ." The man gazed at her. "And I Watch."

Suddenly shouts echoed from outside, and the hooded figure rose.

"I must go." He leaned forward. "I ask only one thing of you. When the time comes, do not let Vhalire suffer."

Before Asha could respond, he was gliding out the door.

Once she was certain she was alone, the crushing fear that she’d been holding at bay finally came crashing down on her. Trembling, she leaned forward and tried to steady herself against the table, light-headed. From the corner of her eye she could see Jin’s body lying motionless, the pool of red still slowly spreading outward.

She stayed that way, motionless, until the Shadows found her.

Wirr flipped one of their few remaining coins from hand to hand.

“I think I have an idea about how we can make more of these,” he announced, gazing down through the trees at the township below.

Davian glanced sideways at his friend. "Safely?"

Wirr caught the coin and turned, giving Davian an injured stare. "Of course." He hesitated. "Relatively."

Davian sighed. “I suppose that’s the best we can hope for, right now. Let’s have it.”

Wirr explained his reasoning. Davian listened intently; when his friend was finished he sat back, considering for a few moments.

“That’s a terrible plan, Wirr,” he said eventually. “It’s going to take them two seconds to realise something’s amiss.”

Wirr raised an eyebrow, hearing the hesitation in Davian’s tone. “But?”

Davian made a face. “But you’re right. We’re out of supplies; we need the coin.” He stood, brushing bits of dead leaves from his clothing. “Let’s go and meet the locals.”

Davian tried to look inconspicuous.

The tavern, like much in Desriel so far, surprised him by how normal it seemed. It was well-lit and cheerful, full of men who were taking their ease after a long day of farming or selling their wares. The proprietor circulated through the room continuously, laughing with regulars and trying to ingratiate himself with new customers. A young man with a flute played a merry tune in the corner, and occasionally would get the crowd clapping along to a favourite verse. Davian and Wirr had been to a few Andarran taverns on their journey, and the atmosphere between those and here was almost indistinguishable.

There were differences, of course. The serving girls were more modestly clad than their Andarran counterparts; men flirted, but did not take the same liberties they might have done back home. The tables were made from white oak, an extremely hardy wood unique to northern Desriel and a commodity the Gil’shar refused to export.

Then there was the plate by the doorway, above which loomed the sigil of the god Talkanar. Wirr had insisted that they drop one of their few remaining coins into it; according to him, each tavern in Desriel was aligned with one of the nine Gods, and it was good form – if not law – to make an offering if you intended to partake of any of the tavern’s wares. He’d apparently been right, because the barkeep had given them an approving nod as they sat down.

Davian stared back at the offering plate in fascination. It was nearly overflowing with silver; in Andarra the entire thing would have vanished within minutes, gone in the hands of some enterprising thief. Here, however – despite many of the tavern’s occupants looking to be of the less reputable sort – nobody was giving it a second glance.

“There are a lot of coins on that plate,” he murmured to Wirr.

“The Gil’shar torture and execute people who steal from the gods,” Wirr whispered.

“Good to know,” Davian whispered back.

They fell silent for a few moments, observing everyone in the large room. Davian fiddled absently with the sleeve of his shirt. Its tight fit had made it uncomfortable to wear on the road, which meant that it was in a better state than most of the other clothes he’d bought after leaving Caladel. He’d taken the time to bathe in a nearby river before coming into town, too. He needed to look at least vaguely respectable for this.

Finally Wirr nodded towards a small group of men gathered around a table.

“Them,” he said, keeping his voice low.

Davian followed Wirr’s gaze to a booth in the corner of the room. The three heavily-muscled men sitting there were better dressed than most of the people in the tavern; there were empty seats around them, as if the other patrons were wary of getting too close. Each of the men held a fistful of cards and wore expressions of intense concentration.

“They look important. And much bigger than us,” said Davian doubtfully.

“They look wealthy,” Wirr corrected. “More likely to take it on the chin if they lose a few pieces of gold here and there.”

Davian shrugged. “If you say so.”

They stood. Wirr hesitated, biting a fingernail, then laid a hand on Davian’s shoulder. “Whatever happens, just stay calm. Okay?”

Davian frowned, a little irritated that Wirr thought he would crumble under the pressure, but nodded. They walked over to the table, which fell silent as they approached. One of the finely-dressed men glanced up from his cards, giving them a disdainful look. He had jet-black hair, and sported the same neatly trimmed beard as the other two.

“Can we help you?” he asked, his expression indicating he had no desire to do any such thing.

Wirr gestured to one of the empty seats. “Looks like you could use a fourth.”

The man raised an eyebrow, obviously taking note of Wirr’s age. “I don’t know who you think you are, boy, but this is a private game. So run along.”

Wirr sighed, turning. “Figures. You look to be the type who can’t take a little competition.”

The whisper of steel being unsheathed seemed to fill the room, and suddenly conversation in the tavern stopped, every eye turning towards them. All three of the men were standing and had their blades drawn, though none – as yet – were actually pointing at Wirr.

“Perhaps I should have mentioned from the start. We’re playing Geshett . This game is for blooded Seekers only.” The man leaned closer, smiling to reveal a row of perfectly white teeth. “So. You ever faced an abomination, boy? Put it down so it can’t get back up?”

Davian used every ounce of his will to keep still, to not turn and flee. ‘Seeker’ was the word they used in Desriel. In Andarra, these men were known as Hunters.

Wirr, however, barely twitched. “I haven’t,” he said, “but my friend here has.”

Davian tried to look neither shocked nor terrified as the men turned to him as one, inspecting him sceptically. Finally the man who had first spoken gave a derisive laugh. “I don’t believe you. He looks like someone’s carved into him, rather than the other way around. He doesn’t even have a blade. He couldn’t kill a cockroach.” The others chuckled in agreement.

Wirr scowled, then reached into his bag, tossing something onto the table with a metallic clank. Davian started as he realised it was the two Shackles they had taken from the Hunters back in Talmiel. “That scar is not from a cockroach,” said Wirr.

The man’s smile faded as his gaze went from the Shackles, to Davian, then back again. Eventually he gave a slight nod, pushing the torcs back towards Wirr and turning to Davian. “Who taught you?”

“Breshada.” Davian regretted it as soon as it left his mouth, but it was too late; the question had caught him by surprise and it had been the only thing he could think to say. Still, it seemed to have an effect on those around the table, and a low murmur went around the tavern as the name was repeated to others who hadn’t been near enough to overhear. Everyone was still watching, Davian realised, fascinated by the exchange. He just hoped they wouldn’t be spectators to his and Wirr’s sudden and untimely deaths.