Paul Crilley - Night of Long Shadows

“Who-” Salkith licked dry lips. “Who are you?”

“Here’s how it works. You’ve already wasted my time-”

“I’ve been asleep,” he protested.

“Is that what you call it? Anyway, that’s not my problem. I’ve been waiting here more than half a bell now, and that’s all the time I was going to give you. Which means you need to talk very fast to tell me what I want to know.”

Salkith strained against the bindings, his corded muscles standing out against his tanned skin. Cutter was glad he’d tied him up. The halfling looked like he could be quite a handful.

“I’ll kill you,” said Salkith. “And your family. Do you have a wife? A woman? Children? They’re dead, you hear me? I’m going to strip their skin and hang it out to dry!”

Cutter stared at him for a moment. “You have no idea what a bad choice of words that was,” he said softly. He leaned over the incapacitated halfling. “Listen to me carefully,” he whispered. “I’m going to hurt you now. I’m going to keep on hurting you until you tell me what I want to know. If you scream, I’ll kill you. I’ll slit your throat. If you make any sound above a whimper, any sound that can be heard outside this room, you’re dead. Do you believe me? Just nod.”

Salkith stared into his eyes. After a long, trembling pause, he nodded.

“Good.” Cutter drew the razor-sharp edge of the blade down Salkith’s arm. Blood welled from the cut and stained the white sheets. Salkith squirmed and moaned, his eyes never leaving Cutter’s.

“That was to show you I’m being serious. Now, what happened tonight at the professor’s rooms?”

Salkith’s brows drew together at the sudden change in topic. “What … happened? I don’t understand.”

Cutter punched Salkith in the face. Hard. The halfling’s head jerked to the side. Droplets of blood sprayed over the white wall.

“Wait!” he snarled. “I don’t understand! What do you want to know?”

“What happened?”

“But … nothing happened. I was supposed to pick something up from him. A … a package. But he changed his mind and didn’t want to give it to me.”

“You were supposed to pick it up from him?”

Salkith nodded desperately.

“What was in the package?”

“I don’t know. I’m just a courier!”

“So what did you do?”

“I left. I wasn’t about to argue with him. I reported it and came here. That’s all I know.”

Cutter frowned. “What were you supposed to do with the package?”

“I was supposed to meet someone at a tavern in Khyber’s Gate. The … the Goblin’s Revenge, it was called.”

“Khyber’s Gate?” said Cutter in surprise. “But that’s Daask territory.”

“That’s all I know! I swear.”

“Last question. Did you see a girl there? With red hair?”

Salkith frowned. “Nobody else was there. We were alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am! Now let me out of here!”

Cutter gathered his knives, then leaned over and picked up the vial of dreamlily the nurse had been holding. The bottle held at least twenty doses.

Cutter poured it all down Salkith’s throat, clamping the halfling’s mouth shut so he was forced to swallow.

That should keep him out of commission for a while, he thought, closing the door on the halfling’s incoherent cries.

Cutter sighed. Another dead end. He was no closer to finding Rowen. He sheathed his knives. What was he supposed to do now?

Dajin was nowhere to be seen. Cutter yanked open the door that led to the corridor.

Two men stood there. Cutter reached for his knives but someone gripped his arms from behind. He kicked out, feeling his boot connect with a hard stomach. One of his attackers staggered back, struggling to regain his breath.

Cutter was just about to kick out again when the other man lifted a glass vial filled with white fluid. He splashed it into Cutter’s face.

The scent of the liquid hit him and seemed to crawl down his throat of its own accord. He felt it course through his body, a trail of warmth and heaviness.

Couldn’t swallow.

Couldn’t breathe.

His veins felt like they were filled with sluggish fluid. His whole body felt heavy. He sagged, his eyelids drooping.

The last thing he saw was the boot of the man he had just kicked coming at his face.

Cutter yawned and stoked the fire, sitting close to the low flames in an attempt to feed some warmth into his body. Dawn was approaching, a single line of pink and orange that stretched across the wide horizon. The solitary cry of an eagle echoed over the steppe. He looked up, but the bird was invisible against the night-touched sky.

A slight wind shivered the short grass of the steppe, but it was warm, carrying the scent of flowers and rain. Finally, thought Cutter. The first hint of spring.

The camp began to stir as the morning slowly brightened. Elves crept from their low, stretched-out tents and called greetings to each other. Wood was piled atop banked fires, hands held before the flames. The wind might promise spring, but the early mornings still belonged to winter.

He heard movement behind him, the scuffing of soft leather soles on the dry scrub. A moment later, Thalian knelt next to him.

“The Ancestors bless your day,” the Keeper said formally.

“And yours,” replied Cutter.

Thalian didn’t say anything else. Cutter glanced sideways at him, studying his angular face. The young elf was a Keeper of the Past, the priesthood of the Valenar elves that maintained the memory of the great elf heroes of Xen’drik. They had known each other for three years now, so Cutter could tell when something was bothering the elf.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The messenger who arrived yesterday …” began Thalian.

“Yes?”

“King Vadallia has called our clan to serve him in Taer Valaestas.”

“And?”

“And, slaves are … frowned upon by the King.”

Cutter frowned and turned to the fire. The events of three years ago ran through his head. It was as if he were seeing them in the flames, replayed in the fire like they were replayed every night in his dreams.

He had been sleeping when it happened-or more accurately, passed out. He awoke to the horrendous rending of splintering wood as the ship he traveled on hit a reef off the southeast coast of Valenar. He was flung from his bed into the cabin wall. All around him was pitch darkness. He hadn’t bothered to activate the everbright globe when he started drinking that afternoon. He could hear the screams of the passengers, the shouts of the captain and his crew as they tried to do something to save the foundering vessel. But it was too late. He crawled on hands and knees to where he thought the hatch should be, and yanked it open. Icy cold water lapped at his hands and knees. A few seconds later, it was up to his wrists.

He staggered up to the deck and saw the captain and his first mate lower the tiny fishing boat strapped to the side of the ship and make their escape. Everyone else was forced to leap into the sea and fight for their lives against the fierce breakers that tried to pound them against lethally sharp rocks.

Out of thirty, only seventeen survived, dragging themselves to the shore and gasping for air, crying out thanks to the Sovereign Host and the Silver Flame.

They should have saved their prayers. All they’d done was exchange one danger for another. Malleas and his war clan had skirted the coastline as the ship sailed north. The Valenar captured the weakened group, the chief’s pet wizard binding them with a spell that he said was infinitely more powerful than cold steel.

Cutter hadn’t believed him. That first night, he tried to escape.

As soon as he stepped beyond the boundaries of the camp, his whole body exploded with pain. Burning fire surged through this limbs, every vein a tiny river that carried red-hot lava to every part of his being. Each step he took increased the intensity of the pain, sent slivers of splintered glass stabbing into his brain until he had no idea who he was or where he was going. All he knew was that he had to keep moving, had to escape.