Paul Crilley - Night of Long Shadows

With that, Cutter lifted Malleas’s arms and forced the elf to cut his own throat, the razor-sharp blades slicing deep into the soft skin of his neck.

Malleas gurgled as he tried to speak, the action causing bubbles to burst from the wound. Then he twitched and fell backward into the fire, sending up an explosion of sparks and smoke.

Cutter staggered away from the flames, then fell to his knees. He was aware that he was holding Malleas’s blades. When had he grabbed them?

He lifted his head to face the death he knew was coming. The elves hadn’t moved. They stood watching Malleas’s body as his clothes caught fire and the flames consumed him.

Then one stepped forward. Vael. He was-had been-Malleas’s second in command. He stood before Cutter, looking down at him.

Cutter tried to smile. “Do what you will. I die free.”

“You will not die this day, Cutter. You have fought fairly and honorably against an armed opponent. Your ancestors would be proud.”

Oh, really? You hear that, brother? Cutter’s thoughts dripped with sarcasm.

“Many here were not … comfortable with Malleas’s leadership of the clan. We-I-planned on challenging him when we reached Taer Valaestas, with the High King as witness.”

And now I’ve done your dirty work for you. Cutter laughed inwardly.

Vael seemed to sense what he was thinking. “Travel with us, Cutter. As a free man.” Vael glanced around, then dropped to his knees so he was level with Cutter. He leaned forward and placed his forehead against Cutter’s, his hand over his heart. “You are a fighter of skill and honor. I invite you to join our clan. Will you accept?”

Cutter hesitated. “Release the others-the slaves.”

“Done. Slavery has no place in my clan.”

Cutter raised his hand and placed it over Vael’s heart.

“Are we one?” asked the elf.

“We are,” said Cutter, and then his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed.

Cutter opened his eyes to darkness.

Is it still night, then? His head swam.

He should get back to sleep. They were moving in the morning, heading west to Taer Valaestas. It would be a long ride, and he needed his rest. His head throbbed. His mouth was parched. He smacked his lips, trying to find some moisture, but it was a pointless exercise. Had he been drinking last night? Couldn’t remember. Regardless, he needed water.

He tried to get up but found that he couldn’t move. His hands and legs were tied to a chair. What was this? Betrayal? Cutter blinked his dry eyes, trying to focus on something, anything, in the dim light. Vague shapes began to materialize-crates, barrels of ale, a few chairs, a broken table.

It took him only a moment more to realize he wasn’t in Valenar. He was in the storeroom beneath Silvermist. He thought back to what had happened. Opening the door onto his attackers. That noxious fluid in his face.

Dreamlily. They had given him a concentrated dose of dreamlily. A wave of panic washed over him. How long had he been under? How much time had passed?

He strained against the ropes binding his arms, but they were too tight to give. He tested the bindings around his legs and found they were a bit looser. He braced himself and strained against the bonds. The old chair creaked, the wood slowly giving. He paused for breath then tried again. The wood creaked and splintered, groaning as if in pain. Then, with a final crack , the right front leg snapped and the chair collapsed beneath him. He landed on one knee, the jolt sending a wave of pain through his body.

Cutter winced and pushed himself up. He was hunched over, a leg and both arms still tied to the broken chair. He hopped over to the wall and swung his body around, slamming the chair as hard as he could into the stonework until it smashed apart. He quickly untied the rope and picked up one of the broken legs. It wasn’t heavy, but it would have to do as a weapon. The bastards had taken his blades.

What did they want with him, anyway?

He could make out a faint rectangle of light outlining the door. He hurried through the darkness and put his ear to the wood.

Then he pulled away. He could hear voices on the other side, the sound of people approaching.

He looked quickly around the room. It was too late to pull out another chair and pretend he was still tied up. He had to face them.

He pushed himself up against the wall. A moment later, the door opened and the light from the hall flooded into the room. He could see the shadows of two men in the swath of light that fell across the floor.

“-couldn’t believe it when I saw him. Word is, Tiel wants him bad.”

Tiel? What in Khyber’s name does he want?

Then it hit him. The money he was supposed to collect. Tiel thought he’d stolen it. Cutter frowned. Tough for him, then. He didn’t have time for this.

The two men entered the room. They froze when they saw the pieces of broken chair, but Cutter didn’t give them a chance to do anything more. He stepped forward and swung the chair leg into the back of the near one’s head. The man cried out and dropped to his knees. Cutter shifted his grip and swung again, this time backhand. It slammed across the face of the other man. His head jerked to the side and Cutter brought the leg back for another hit, sending him sprawling on his face. The first man was trying to get to his feet. Cutter brought the leg down on his skull. Blood sprayed across the floor and he collapsed to the side, his head hitting the floor first.

Cutter didn’t hang around. In the room beyond were a table and two chairs. On the table were an empty bottle, two glasses, and a pile of cards.

And his blades. Sitting near a small pile of coins. The bastards were playing cards for his weapons.

He picked up his knives and the money, then climbed the stairs to the club beyond.

The second day of Long Shadows

Far, the 27th day of Vult, 998

Wren and Torin hurried along the crowded streets of Callestan, dodging between drunken revelers and worse-for-wear courtesans.

“How much did this information cost you?” asked Torin.

Wren cleared his throat. “Not much,” he said evasively.

“Wren, he found out where this Salkith hangs out in under two hours! That kind of service doesn’t come cheap.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“So how much?”

Wren sighed. “Thirty galifars,” he said, and winced, waiting for the explosion.

“Thirty galifars!” shouted Torin. Some of the less drunk stragglers turned to stare. Torin glanced at them and lowered his voice. “Are you mad? You have to stop throwing money about like that. We’re not even getting paid for this!”

“No, but Larrien will be indebted to us, and that is much more valuable than money, my tight-fisted friend. By the way, you’re bordering on cliched behavior again.”

“It’s got nothing to do with me being a dwarf!”

“Oh? What does it have to do with?”

“With you being insane!”

“Oh, pish-posh, Torin. Relax.”

“Don’t-! Hey, isn’t that him?”

“Where?”

“Over there. Coming out of the alley.”

Wren looked to where Torin was pointing and saw a big man staggering into the main street. He didn’t look well. “Are you sure that’s him?”

“Definitely.”

“Why is he stumbling around like that?” asked Wren.

“How would I know? Maybe he’s been drinking to forget what happened.”

“Ah,” said Wren sorrowfully. “A mistake that brings many a downfall.” Wren patted Torin on the shoulder. “You could tell him a few stories about that, couldn’t you, Torin?”

Torin shook his head. “Are we going to follow him?”