Paul Crilley - Night of Long Shadows

“Interesting,” mused Wren. “Torin, what am I thinking?”

Torin had stepped forward from his place by the door when Savia started talking. He cleared his throat. “You’re thinking this Cutter couldn’t handle his girl sleeping with other men. That he killed this professor in a jealous rage.”

Wren winked at Savia. “Taught him everything he knows,” he said. “What do you think? Does it sound feasible?”

Savia shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know this Cutter fellow. I’ve only seen him in passing.”

Wren stood up. “Come, Torin. I know you wanted to get home to that lively wife of yours, but duty calls.” He took Savia’s hand and kissed it. “Always a pleasure. Call me if you ever change your mind about dinner. The invitation is always open.”

Torin was waiting for him by the door. They exited the rooms and headed into the corridor.

“Does your wife really not like me?” asked Wren.

“Hates you. Do you find that hard to believe?”

“Frankly … yes. I think you’re lying just to upset me.”

Torin sighed. “Believe what you want, Wren. Let’s just get this over with.”

The second day of Long Shadows

Far, the 27th day of Vult, 998

Cutter dumped the skycoach a few districts away and returned to the Tufted Feather on foot. He was aching all over from the fight with the warforged, and he was sure the last two fingers on his right hand were broken, or at the very least, dislocated. He couldn’t even remember how that had happened.

He slipped through the front door and headed straight for the stairs. The rain had washed much of the blood from him, but he still looked a mess. Luckily, no one paid him any attention.

He checked Rowen’s room to make sure she hadn’t returned. It looked the same as he had left it. He stood at the foot of her bed and tried to think it through.

She was still out there somewhere. But where? It made sense that she would return here to Cutter. He could protect her.

Unless she thought she was being followed or she feared the warforged would be waiting for her.

So where else could she be? She had no family. Her only brother had been killed last year in a tavern brawl. She had no home. All her friends lived around the district.

Unless she was already-

No. He couldn’t think that way. The warforged had asked Cutter where she was, so she must have escaped the professor’s rooms. All he had to do was find her and they could sort this whole thing out. In the meantime, he needed to figure out what had happened in the professor’s rooms. And Salkith was the key. Cutter needed to track down the courier to find out the part he played in the night’s events.

He returned to his room and changed his clothes, slipping on a leather vest beneath a clean shirt. It didn’t offer much protection, but it was better than nothing, and he preferred its flexibility to any kind of mail shirt. He located his short-hafted war hammer and attached its loop of leather to his belt. It weighed him down. He preferred the Khutai blades, but the heavy hammer would be more useful against the warforged. One side of it was spiked, and he reckoned he’d do more damage with it than the Valenar knives. Cutter took a small money pouch from the drawer and weighed it in his hands. Tiel hadn’t paid him for the last month’s work, so he had been dipping into his meager savings. Not much left.

Tiel. He’d be wondering where Cutter was with his money. Regardless, Cutter couldn’t spare the time to seek him out and tell him what had happened. He’d have to leave it for the moment. There were more important things to think about.

A knock came at the door, soft and hesitant.

Cutter froze, then looked around his room to make sure he had everything he needed. He unhooked the hammer and crept across the wooden boards to the door. He took a deep breath, then yanked it open.

A woman was standing there. She stifled a scream and stepped backward, staring at Cutter with wide eyes. It was Renaia, a courtesan from a brothel over in the Firelight District. He lowered the hammer and stepped backward, opening his mouth to apologize.

At the same moment, the window behind him exploded inward, showering the room and Cutter’s back with shards of glass.

Cutter spun, slamming the door shut as he did so, and saw the warforged landing on the floor at the foot of his bed. Cutter swung the hammer in an overhand arc. It slammed into the warforged with a dull clang, driving it to its knees. The warforged lashed out with an arm, punching Cutter hard in the stomach. His leather vest absorbed some of the blow, but it still sent him staggering back into the wall, gasping for breath.

The warforged straightened and surveyed the room. It must have followed Cutter, hoping to find Rowen.

Cutter flipped the hammer around and pushed himself away from the wall. The warforged was ignoring him for the moment while it searched for Rowen. Big mistake.

Cutter swung the hammer as hard as he could and felt the spike punch through the metal plating on the warforged’s back. The ‘forged arched its back with an animal-like cry of agony and jabbed its elbow into Cutter’s cheek. His head jerked back. Cutter felt a bloom of red-tinged pain as the skin split and blood flowed.

Cutter staggered backward, blinking to clear the flashes before his eyes. The warforged reached over its shoulder and pulled the hammer free. Blinking, Cutter managed to focus just in time to see the hammer flying end over end toward him. He dropped, and it smashed into the wall, punching a deep hole in the plaster.

The warforged sniffed the air, but when it decided Rowen wasn’t hiding anywhere, it turned its attention to Cutter. It held its arms out at its sides. Cutter heard the scrape of metal on metal as two blades slid from the backs of its hands.

“You don’t know where she is.”

“I …” Cutter pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the hammer. “I already told you that.”

“Then you are of no use to me.”

The warforged advanced on him. Cutter took one look at the blades and grabbed the hammer, thrusting it into his belt. He couldn’t be any help to Rowen dead.

So he jumped out the window.

It was a pretty stupid thing to do considering his room was on the top floor of the building, but he didn’t have any other choice.

Cutter turned just before he dropped from the window and grabbed hold of the window ledge. He shinnied across and pulled himself up at the next window. The eaves of the roof were about five feet above him. He jumped and caught hold, but the gutter came away in his hand and almost sent him tumbling to the ground. He steadied himself and tried again, this time catching hold of the wooden supports beneath the roof tiles. He looked back and saw the warforged leaning out the window. The construct grabbed hold of the window frame and climbed out.

Cutter cursed the creation of all warforged and pulled himself up onto the roof. He ran carefully along the center peak and leaped across the gap onto the next building.

The three neighboring buildings were all part of the same structure, giving him space to build up speed. But he was rapidly running out of roof. The street on which the Feather was built was nestled between huge towers that soared up on either side. On the lower levels of Sharn, any kind of empty space between tower bases was a much sought after prize.

Cutter glanced over his shoulder and saw the black metal of the warforged glinting in the light of the surrounding city. That glow was always there, a permanent facet of city life gleaming from windows and everbright lanterns and passing skycoaches. Cutter was thankful for it as he reached the end of the roof, because it enabled him to search for a means of escape.