Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

“I apologize for this, Master Arthen,” Niam said. “My brother is short-tempered and we are in the midst of an important transaction.”

“Do not apologize to the Thrane cur!” Yarold said, pointing one pudgy finger in his brother’s face.

“Niam, there is no need to be insulting,” Niam said. “The Thrane have often proven worthy allies.”

“Of worth in your eyes, perhaps,” Yarold said. He looked up at Zed again. “Master Arthen, if you are truly as harmless as you claim, then you will surrender your weapon and submit to my questions.”

Zed sighed. Fighting his way out of this could be rough, especially if he couldn’t signal Eraina. At least compliance might buy some time. Maybe he could even learn something. He unslung the sword from his shoulder. He held it out in both hands to show that it was safely sheathed before walking to the corner and leaning it against the small table with exaggerated care. He paced his way back along the wall to the corner of the room, hands buried deep in his pockets. One of the thugs moved between Zed and his sword. Yarold watched the inquisitive suspiciously, but at least his seething rage had been replaced with simmering anger.

“Ask your questions,” Zed said.

“Why are you in Nathyrr?” Yarold demanded.

“I was desperate for work,” Zed said. “I’ve been moving from place to place since the war ended. Somehow I always make a bad impression on the authorities when I stay in town for too long.” He reached into his coat, causing the guards to go for their swords. He froze, gave what he hoped would be a soothing smile, and slowly drew his pipe and smoking pouch from his pocket.

“Picking fights with knights is an odd way to look for work,” Yarold said.

“Yeah, well.” Zed shrugged, striking a tindertwig and lighting his pipe.

“If you disapprove of the Knights so highly, why not try Breland?” Yarold said.

“Tried that already,” Zed said. “Didn’t like the climate. It was time to come back home.”

“Listen to him, Yarold,” Niam said. “Look at his clothing. Obviously someone in such a state isn’t a threat. He’s just an old soldier desperate for work.”

“Hm,” Yarold said. “He certainly looks like a vagabond. I’ll admit that.”

Mildly surprised, Zed looked down at himself. He hadn’t noticed how dirty and ragged his coat had become in the last few weeks. He really did look like a desperate vagrant. It wasn’t intentional; this was just his favorite coat. He felt relieved and mildly insulted at the same time.

“I’m not quite certain what to do with you, Master Arthen,” Yarold said, eyeing the inquisitive meticulously.

Zed realized he was going to have to take control of this situation fast, or Yarold’s paranoia was going to get the better of him. He glanced at the men surrounding him, looking for clues to what they were thinking. Yarold cracked his fingers, one at a time, eyeing Zed all the while. Niam looked embarrassed. His gaze was locked soundly on his own feet. The other guards were all tense, as if they were expecting him to attack at any moment. The inquisitive breathed a long plume of smoke into the air.

“Listen,” Zed said. “First, I’m sorry I came at a bad time. Last thing I want to do is interfere. I keep getting the feeling that someone screwed up, badly. My guess is that someone threw you off whatever schedule you’re trying to keep. What’s more, I bet it has something to do with that cart outside. You want to get that shipment out of here before the locals start wondering what could be inside so many coffins, but something is getting in the way. Either something got lost, or somebody died. Which is it?”

Niam looked up, eyes wide. Yarold’s face darkened in anger.

“Who are you working for?” the undertaker demanded. “Have you been spying on us?”

“I just pay attention,” Zed said. “Be calm. Maybe I can help.”

“How dare you presume to speak to me in such a fashion,” Yarold said. “We do not need your assistance, cur. If not for my brother, you would already be dead.”

Zed gave a soothing smile again and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry,” he said. “Not trying to cause trouble.”

“Bah,” said an irritated voice from the darkness. “This is a waste of time.”

One of Yarold’s guards fell forward, eyes bulging as he clutched his throat. Blood gushed between his fingers. A thin elf in black silk materialized from the shadows behind the dying man, a long dagger in each hand. With a flick of his wrist, a second guard fell across the room, blade lodged in his forehead.

“Khyber,” Zed swore.

“Kill them both!” Yarold shrieked, drawing a shortsword from within his cloak.

The closest guard brought his sword up and charged Zed. Zed flicked his pipe at the man, scattering hot ashes in his face. The man screamed and faltered. Zed stomped on a loose floorboard while the guard was distracted. Zed’s sword, carefully balanced on the other end, catapulted into his hand. By the time the guard had recovered his senses, Zed had unsheathed the heavy blade and brought it down across the man’s chest. He turned to meet another guard’s charge with a heavy kick, followed by a punch to the bridge of the nose. The guard rolled to his feet in time to meet the next heavy cleave of Zed’s sword.

Across the room, the two remaining guards charged the elf. The intruder seized the closer man’s wrist with his free hand and twisted, diverting his momentum and driving the thug’s sword into his comrade’s path, impaling him. With a backhand slice, the elf brought his dagger neatly across the first man’s throat and let them both fall at his feet. The elf looked at Zed with a mischievous smile.

“Your mode of investigation is far too time-consuming, Arthen,” the elf said.

Yarold had not moved. He still stood clutching his sword inexpertly in both trembling hands. Niam had taken several steps back and looked from Zed to the newcomer in terror. Zed held his bloody sword, point low, eyes on the elven assassin.

“You bastard, Arthen,” Niam said. “You’d planned to kill us all.”

“I won’t deny that I’m a bastard,” Zed said, watching everyone carefully. He slowly circled away from the elf, toward the nearest window, “but I don’t even know who this elf is.

“If you’re of a mind to signal your paladin accomplice, feel free,” the elf said with a cheerful grin. “I won’t interfere.”

“Who are you?” Zed demanded.

“I think you know,” the elf said, laughing. “Don’t worry; I’m here as an ally. You’re far too interesting to kill for free, Arthen.”

Zed stopped dead. “Shaimin d’Thuranni?” he said.

The elf smiled broadly, pleased to be recognized.

“You have terrible handwriting,” Zed observed.

Shaimin’s smile became a confused grimace.

Zed lifted pulled up the shade over the nearest window and waved frantically. The window faced the alley where Eraina was waiting. Hopefully she would see and help him figure out how to deal with this.

Shaimin ignored Zed and faced the undertakers. “Now, Kenricksons. What to do with you?” Shaimin said, flipping his daggers in his hands.

“The sons of Cyre will never yield,” Niam said, voice quavering.

“Spare us,” Yarold said, dropping his sword. He fell to his knees, clasping his hands. “I’m no match for a Thuranni assassin. We’ll tell you what you want to know. I don’t want to die!”

Shaimin looked at Zed, mildly surprised. “A strange reversal. Amazing what happens to people when they feel their death is imminent.”

Niam glared at his brother in disgust. He snatched the shortsword from the floor and buried it Yarold’s back. Yarold gasped in pain and surprise, feebly reaching over his shoulder to try to dislodge the weapon as he crumpled to the floor.