Paul Crilley - Night of Long Shadows

He stood in an atrium that fed into a wide corridor. Paneled doors opened off both sides of the corridor. Sofas and bookshelves furnished the room. Cutter got the impression it was some sort of gathering area for the university staff.

Against one wall was an old diagram of the college, illustrating the different levels. Cutter stood on the floor that held the administrative and faculty offices. The level below held the vast library. And beneath that were rooms belonging to the staff who lived on the premises. That was where he needed to go.

Cutter headed down the corridor and found the stairs. He peered over the banister to make sure no one was in sight, then padded down to the next level. Light streamed from the library. He paused one turn above and listened. He heard noises below. The soft sigh of pages being turned and the scratching sound of quill on paper. Someone was doing research.

He crouched down, but he could see only the main library desk. Empty. He crept down the stairs, keeping the banister to his back. As he moved lower, he could see a study desk to the right. Someone was there-a dwarf. And he didn’t look too happy. He slammed a book shut. Cutter froze while the dwarf dumped the book onto a pile at his feet and pulled another vast tome from the pile on the desk. He opened it, muttering obscenities about someone who was making him work.

Cutter got moving. He slid around the turn and headed down to the next level. No one challenged him, which was a relief. Now all he had to do was find Rowen’s professor. How was he going to do that?

He thought back to everything Rowen had said about her visits to the Professor. Hadn’t she said once that she looked out of his windows and saw that some students had defaced the flag on Karrnath Spire?

He walked to the end of the hallway and looked out the window. He stared for a while but it was no use. He couldn’t see far enough through the rain. He carefully tried the handle of the door to his left. Locked. So was the one on his right. He made his way slowly up the corridor, checking each door for any clues.

About halfway down the hall, he found a dark stain on the wooden floorboards. He knelt down and touched it. His fingers came away sticky. Blood.

He straightened and tried the door. It was unlocked. Cutter paused, listening for sounds of movement. Nothing. Light spilled through the crack. It was bright, not the kind of light that might be left on while someone slept. He gently pushed the door and peered inside. A neat sitting room lay beyond, lit by delicate lamps. Low couches formed a circle around a sunken fireplace. Rugs were strewn around the floor, so people could sit and soak up the warmth. Cutter looked around the doorframe. A red carpet covered the floor beyond the couches. And doors opened into other parts of the residence.

Cutter slipped inside and closed the door. His eyes searched the area for signs of Rowen, but nothing betrayed her presence. Then again, he wasn’t sure these were the right rooms. He swallowed, feeling his stomach tense up. If he wanted to find out if this was the right place, he was looking in the wrong room.

He rested his head briefly against the door and closed his eyes.

Come on, he told himself. You knew the deal going into this relationship. He smiled grimly. Yeah, but he had been arrogant enough to think that he could change her, that she wouldn’t want to sleep with other men after she’d been with him. He opened his eyes. How many men had made that mistake?

He headed around a couch, aiming for the rooms that opened off the lounge.

And that was when he found the professor. Or what was left of him. He had been ripped apart. Literally. One arm lay half-concealed beneath the couch, the fingers splayed. They had been broken, probably before the arm was ripped off. His stomach was a gaping hole, crimson and purple with exposed organs, the blood congealing into viscous pools. His intestines had been pulled out. His other hand was holding them as if he had fought to keep them inside.

His lower jaw had been torn from his face. It lay next to his right ear, the teeth starkly white against the blood. His tongue hung from the gaping mess that was the lower part of his head. It dangled, swollen and blue.

Rowen . Cutter pushed himself to his feet and threw the first door open. It was a bathroom. Empty. He turned quickly, almost slipping in the blood. He grabbed hold of the doorframe to balance himself and lunged into the next room. This one was the bedroom. He frantically searched the floor, but there was no sign of her body anywhere. He paused and inhaled deeply, relief flooding through his body. He had to think about this. He walked over to the bed. The sheets were a jumbled mess and he could smell Rowen’s perfume on the pillows. She’d definitely been here.

So the question was-what happened, and where was she now?

He turned, planning a more detailed search of the room. But instead, he froze. Something wasn’t right. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he suddenly felt he wasn’t alone.

And then the shadows came alive and lunged at him. Something rock hard smacked him in the chest, lifting him into the air and sending him flying backward over the bed. He landed on the edge of the mattress and tumbled to the floor, his chest and ribs flaring with pain. He rolled to his feet, eyes frantically searching for his assailant, but he could see nothing in the dimly lit room. He backed against the wall and pulled out his Khutai knives, holding them in the ready position along his forearms.

He slid along the wall, creeping toward the doorway. Still no sign of his attacker. Cutter glanced to his left, checking the door.

When he turned back, he found himself staring into a pair of glowing white eyes. A black metal face hovered only inches from his own. It tilted to the side, birdlike, studying him for an instant. Then it jerked forward, head-butting him.

Cutter staggered backward into the wall, blood spraying from his nose. He slashed out with the knives, hearing the scrape of metal on metal. He ducked low, barely avoiding a fist that smashed into the wall where his face had been. Plaster showered his head. He stabbed upward with the Khutai, but the blade was turned aside by armor plating. He pushed himself forward, diving headlong across the floor. He scrambled to his feet and pulled the shutter off the everbright lantern near the bed. Yellow light flooded the room.

And Cutter could see what he was facing.

A warforged, but unlike any he had ever seen before. The figure was completely black. Light bounced away from its carapace. Shadows wrapped themselves around its form, almost as if it gathered the darkness as a cloak.

If it had been a human, Cutter would have described it as lithe and sinewy. Its movements were precise, not a motion wasted. He couldn’t quite place what it reminded him of.

But when the warforged stepped away from the wall, he realized what it was.

It reminded him of a hunter stalking its prey. This warforged was more animal than anything else.

It loped toward him, and Cutter saw that the face wasn’t crafted to look like the usual Cannith-issue faceplate. It was thin, like a fox, sharp and pointed, the mouth pulled into a permanent snarl.

“Where is she?” The voice was quiet, unrushed. It sounded male. “Where is she?”

“Where is who?” asked Cutter. He feinted to the side, but the warforged darted forward and grabbed hold of his neck. It lifted Cutter from the floor and pulled him close. The head tilted again and it sniffed, moving over Cutter’s face and neck.

“The girl,” it said. “You have her stench all over you. Where is she?”

Rowen. The ‘forged was talking about Rowen. Cutter struggled in its grasp. “Why?” he gasped. “What do you want with her?”