Paul Crilley - Night of Long Shadows

“That,” said the warforged, “is none of your business.”

It stepped forward and rammed Cutter into the wall. His body smashed through the plaster, his head hitting the wooden wall framing.

“I ask again,” said the warforged. “Where is she?”

The warforged stepped to the side and jerked Cutter away from the wall. He hit the floor, landing awkwardly on his arm. Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet. He’d managed to hold onto his knives, but they seemed useless against the warforged’s plating.

He looked around. The warforged had vanished again.

Cutter realized that the warforged was toying with him, like a predator with harmless prey. Anger coursed through his body and he straightened up. This time he saw the attack coming. He leaned away from the sound of movement and swung his arm in an overhand thrust. He felt the blade connect and sink in, heard a hiss of pain.

Cutter yanked the blade out again.

So the warforged wasn’t invincible. It was just a matter of finding the vulnerable parts.

Cutter dropped into a crouch and swung both knives. They connected but didn’t penetrate. Sparks flew, then something smashed into Cutter’s face. Pain exploded in his cheek. Light flashed before his eyes like lightning strikes stabbing into his head. He was pulled off his feet. He fought, disoriented, but all he could do was scrabble feebly at the metal armor. The warforged pulled him close, then thrust him away again in one smooth, fluid movement. The room flew by, then he was in the light again as he sailed into the lounge.

He landed on his back, his breath exploding from his lungs. He heard a horrible cracking beneath him, then wetness spread along his back. Cutter tried to push himself up but kept slipping every time he did so. What was going on?

Then he realized. He had landed on top of the professor. He felt the bile rise in his throat. He rolled over, momentarily face to face with the shattered visage, then kicked away. He pushed himself to his knees, wincing at the pain shooting through his body. The professor’s blood covered him.

The warforged strode out of the bedroom. Cutter shuffled sideways into the sitting area, putting the couch between himself and his assailant. The warforged didn’t pause. It walked straight over the professor’s body, leaned down and grabbed hold of a couch, and straightened again, sending the heavy piece of furniture crashing into the wall.

Cutter fell back a step. He remembered the sunken fire pit behind him and stepped around it. All he could think about was getting out of this alive. Rowen was in trouble somewhere and he had to find her. He glanced over his shoulder. The door was only a few feet away. If only-

He turned back and shouted in surprise. The warforged was in midair, sailing toward him like a spider gliding along webs.

Cutter dove forward, the warforged passing above him. He tucked his shoulder and rolled straight to his feet, whirling around with his blades held ready.

The construct stood directly in front of him. It grabbed Cutter’s neck, lifting him from the floor. Cutter stabbed beneath its arms, but this time there was no give.

“I will ask one last time,” it said. “Tell me where she is.”

The warforged squeezed. Cutter felt his throat constrict, pushing all the air from his lungs.

“I … I don’t … know.”

“A pity.”

The fingers tightened even more. Cutter dropped his knives and desperately tried to loosen the grip, but it was impossible. The warforged was too strong. Blackness appeared at the edge of his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting his last sight to be that of his murderer. He thought of Rowen, and he prayed that she was somewhere safe, that she hadn’t gotten involved in anything stupid. His lungs screamed for air. He felt a lump in his chest, slowly rising, cutting off all feeling as it went. It hit his throat, demanding air, but there was none. It rose higher, into his head, and he felt himself drifting, falling …

Cutter hit the floor. A moment later he realized that the fingers were gone from his throat. He opened his mouth and pulled in a screaming gasp, air burning, coursing into his body, driving the blackness away. He rolled onto his back, sucking in great mouthfuls of air, as much as he could get. Cutter opened his eyes and rolled over, wondering what was happening, waiting for the killing blow to fall. He tried to get to his feet but his hand slipped and he collapsed, catching the metallic butcher smell of blood in his nostrils. Cutter stared blearily at the red pool beneath him. He had rolled into the professor’s blood again.

Cutter finally pushed himself up. He looked around and saw his Khutai blades lying nearby. He stretched out and grabbed hold of the pommels, dragging them toward him.

He winced and climbed to his feet, looking about the room. There was no sign of the warforged. It had just disappeared. But why?

He heard a gasp of surprise. He turned, still foggy, and saw a dwarf-the dwarf from the library-standing in the doorway, staring at Cutter.

Cutter looked down at his blood-covered body crouched over the corpse of the professor, bloodied knives in his hands.

He looked up at the dwarf. He was reaching into his jerkin for something. Cutter shook his head, knowing there was no point in proclaiming his innocence here. It looked too incriminating.

He staggered toward the door. Whatever the dwarf was trying to reach was caught inside his clothes. Cutter swung his fist, hitting him in the side of the head. The dwarf fell against the door frame, then collapsed to his knees.

Cutter swept past him and sprinted up the stairs to the rooftop, his breath burning in his lungs and his heart beating erratically in his chest. He crawled back through the window and ran across the bridge.

Only when he was gliding through the air, safe in the sky-coach, did he allow himself a sigh of relief.

The first night of Long Shadows

Zor, the 26th day of Vult, 998

Abraxis Wren stood on a small hill in Skysedge Park and let his eyes drift down the sweep of neatly-trimmed grass to the crowds milling below him like …

What were they like? Sheep? No, not sheep. Like expensively dressed and bejeweled peacocks, strutting about with their feathers in the air-or in this case, positioning themselves in strategic locations so that their jewels caught the light of the gently bobbing lanterns.

He took a sip of his wine and winced, holding it up to check its color. This was supposed to be from Aundair? He didn’t think so. He made a mental note to check how much his supplier had pocketed by palming this goblin’s piss onto him. How did the idiot think he would get this past a half-elf?

He turned his attention back to the ebb and flow of bodies-

— ants! They were like ants. That was it!

He stared at them, looking for something, anything remotely interesting to catch his eye. There wasn’t much. The usual sycophants and boot-lickers, flatterers of women, curriers of favor. He’d already had to fend off three people looking for work, five people wanting an introduction to Celyria ir’Tain-something he couldn’t do if he wanted to, as he didn’t know her-and three rather intriguing invitations he might follow up on, depending on how the rest of the evening turned out.

He sighed and headed down the slope, aiming for a group of people gathered around a particularly annoying young man he’d had the misfortune of meeting at a gala dinner a couple of months previously.

As he drew closer, Wren could hear the young man’s irritating voice as he regaled his audience.

“The thing is, you don’t have time for fear. All you do is get on with the job. And even though my superior officer had died in my arms and handed over command of the unit to me, I had to think about it logically.”