Paul Crilley - Night of Long Shadows

The first night of Long Shadows Zor, the 26th day of Vult, 998

Torin heard the noise again, a loud banging as if someone was pounding on the walls.

He frowned and looked up. The shelves of Morgrave University library receded from the tiny pool of light his everbright lantern created, melting into the shadows of deep night. He listened, but all he could hear was the rain pouring down outside the huge window behind him. He looked over his shoulder. The panes of lead-lined glass revealed only the darkness of Sharn. The panels glimmered slightly as runnels of rainwater caught the light of a distant skycoach.

He was alone. Or at least, he thought he was. Who else would be here at this time of night? He shouldn’t even be here, but Wren had told him to do a bit of research for a case he was thinking of taking on. A bit of research. That was a joke. He’d been here half the night already and he still hadn’t found the information Wren wanted.

But that was typical of the way things worked. Torin did all the leg work while Wren threw one of his lavish parties.

There. There it was again. A muffled thud. But louder this time. And it hadn’t come from inside the library, but from outside, in the university commons.

Torin swiveled around and carefully slid off the high stool, landing on the wooden floor with a slight thud. He gave a small sigh. Why didn’t they supply chairs for people his size, anyway? It wasn’t as if dwarves were a rarity in academia.

He padded silently to the stairs, leaning over the banister and looking down. The stairwell descended into blackness. He couldn’t see any lights or anything else that would reveal that someone was inside. So where had the noise come from?

Then he heard a loud crash, like something smashing through a wall, from the floor below him. Torin hurried down the stairs and paused on the landing. It led into a corridor where some of the professors had their living quarters.

Maybe it wasn’t any of his business …

He heard a cry of pain. No, something was going on. Torin ran down the passage to the door through which the noises were coming. He tried the handle and the door swung open into a brightly lit room.

Torin took a small step inside.

And froze, his eyes widening in shock at the scene before him.

A huge man, over six feet tall, with two strangely curved blades held in each hand, stood over a horribly mutilated body. The man was covered in blood and breathing heavily, staring down at the victim.

A gasp escaped Torin’s lips and the intruder swung around to face him. The man’s hair was so short that he looked almost bald. Strange tattoos worked their way up his arms and around his neck, partially concealed beneath the blood and gore.

Torin fumbled in his jacket for his knife. The hilt snagged in the lining. He tugged at it, desperate to free it before-

He looked up. Too late. The man was running straight for him. Torin stumbled backward, managing to free the knife. The man lashed out, smacking the dwarf in the face and sending him crashing into the door frame. Torin quickly climbed to his feet, his blade held defensively before him, but the man was running up the stairs.

Torin sprinted after him, grabbing the banister and hauling himself up the steps in pursuit. When he reached the library, he stopped, sucking in great gulps of air, and peered up the stairwell. The man was already at the top floor. There was no way the dwarf could catch him.

Torin winced, feeling a stitch coming on. Host, but he was unfit. It was all that expensive food Wren insisted on eating. How was he supposed to resist it?

He turned and walked slowly back down the stairs. He’d have to find someone and tell them what had happened.

At least the murderer shouldn’t be too hard to find. A six-and-a-half foot tall maniac with a dragon tattoo on his arms?

Even the Sharn Watch should be able to handle that.

The first night of Long Shadows

Zor, the 26th day of Vult, 998

Earlier that night .

Cutter’s brother used to say there were two ways you could live.

One, you fought against everything, spent every moment of your life wanting to be somewhere else, regretting you hadn’t done better, made more money, married that girl you knew when you were younger. You fought yourself with every breath and blamed everyone else for the mess you were in.

Or two, you accepted your lot no matter what the deal, and you lived your life in each and every moment, not waiting for the future or looking back over the past.

You lived now .

His brother had lived according to number two. He died in the War, but he left behind a legacy of good deeds and good advice.

Cutter hated him for it. He could almost feel his brother’s ghost hovering over his shoulder, shaking his head at the choices Cutter made, at where those choices had led him.

Here. Staring out a grubby window in the back room of a seedy Lower Menthis tavern.

Rain thundered from the night sky. It streamed down the cracked glass of the window and trickled inside, soaking into the damp wood beneath his fingers. Everbright lanterns were spaced widely along the street, covered in an oily grime even the rain couldn’t wash away. The light they cast was sickly and jaundiced, and so faint that all they did was create thick pools of lurking shadow for the cutpurses to hide in.

It always rained here. Even if the sky was clear up above, the runoff from the upper wards-sluice water, condensation, sweat, and slops-all blended into a muggy mixture that trickled down the mile high buildings and fell over the lower wards in a fine, misty drizzle that made the skin feel oily. You couldn’t shake that feeling-as if you were coated in a constant sheen of grease and dirt.

Or maybe that was just the company he kept.

Cutter heard his name spoken behind him. He frowned and turned from the window.

Nothing had changed. Elian was still tied to the chair, his arms bound tightly behind him. He was breathing raggedly, his thin face covered with blood. Cutter could tell he was trying not to look at the pointed ear lying in a small puddle of blood by his feet.

Tiel had done that. He always got carried away with the violence.

Cutter shifted his gaze and looked at the halfling. Tiel crouched on the warped floorboards, his hands dangling between his legs as he stared unblinkingly at his captive. He’d been holding that position for half a bell, his wiry muscles supporting him without even a tremble of complaint.

He put Cutter in mind of a desert snake, watching its prey as it waited for the best moment to strike.

“The thing is,” said Tiel in his reasonable voice, “it’s not just me you’re letting down. When you don’t pay me what you owe, I can’t pay my people what I owe, and they tend to get upset. Isn’t that right, Cutter?”

“That’s right.”

Elian looked at Cutter. Cutter stared back, unblinking. Cutter was a big guy-over six-three, with a thick neck and dark hair so short it was barely stubble. A dragon tattoo crawled up his arms and around his neck, seeming to writhe whenever he tensed his muscles. He knew he looked scary. That was why he did what he did. He was good at it.

Cutter could see the fear in the elf’s eyes, the fear that he was going to die. That was how Tiel liked to work. Take everything away from them, then give something back. Gratitude alone usually made them cough up what they owed. But Cutter still had to work them over a bit. Just so they didn’t try it again.

“And Cutter here”-Tiel paused and slapped the elf’s foot-”look at me when I’m talking to you.”