Марк Энтони: Crypt of the Shadowking

Caledan guided the gray mare to the narrow road that wound back and forth up the steep southern face of the Tor. The presence of guards at the city’s gates still nagged at him, but that wasn’t the only thing that seemed different about the city. The torches that guttered in the air along the streets were few and far between, casting more shadows than light. The streets themselves were grimy and littered with trash, and foul-smelling water flowed darkly in the gutters, pooling into black, stagnant puddles in the middle of every intersection.

Yet even more disturbing was the city’s silence. The streets were empty of all but a few individuals, and these walked quickly past Caledan, their eyes cast down toward the dirty cobbles as if they were in a hurry to be inside, though the sun was no more than an hour set. When Caledan had last visited Iriaebor, the bustling trade city’s torch-lined streets had been nearly as full at midnight as they were at midday, crowded with merchants and jongleurs, nobles and thieves. But these dark and sullen streets seemed to have little to do with the cheerful, brightly lit avenues he remembered. Of course, it had been seven years since he left, and he supposed his memories might have become overly fond. Still, he couldn’t shake the growing impression that something was amiss.

As Mista steadily ascended the narrow road into the Old City, the tall towers closed over the streets so that riding through them was like riding through a tunnel. They passed an ill-kept tavern, the ruddy light of its fire spilling out of its doorway like blood onto the street. The sound of raucous laughter drifted out with the light, but it was a sinister rather than merry sound, and Caledan chose to ride on.

He considered going to see if the Sign of the Dreaming Dragon still stood on the very western edge of the Tor. He thought it likely he might find an old friend or two there. But Caledan was not certain he was ready for the memories that came with meeting old friends. Instead he guided Mista toward another inn called the Wandering Wyvern, where he knew he could find good drink and good rest.

Just then a shadowy form shambled from the dark maw of an alley, and Caledan’s hand slipped to the knife in his boot. The form stepped into the dim circle of illumination below a sputtering torch. Seeing it was an old woman, Caledan relaxed. She was clad in tattered rags wrapped about her shapeless form, and her white hair was filthy and matted against her head. She didn’t seem to see Caledan riding toward her, and she stumbled before Mista so that he was forced to rein the mare hard lest the old woman be trampled.

“Good evening, old mother,” Caledan said as the haggard woman gazed up at him with dull, rheumy eyes. “Shouldn’t you be home on as chill a night as this?”

The old woman shook her head, moving her lips silently, mumbling to herself as if she was trying to remember something. Then her eyes cleared for a moment, and her gaze met Caledan’s.

“I have no home, sire,” she said finally, her voice cracked and hollow. Caledan reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a gold coin, which he pressed into the woman’s gnarled hand.

“Then find one with this, old mother, at least for tonight.”

She looked at the coin for a moment as if puzzled by it and then nodded as she turned down the street. Caledan watched her as she shambled away, mumbling to herself. He shook his head as he nudged Mista onward. He didn’t remember that the elderly had ever been turned out onto the city’s streets before, either. It seemed there was a lot he didn’t remember.

He soon found himself before the Wandering Wyvern. To his relief it looked much as it had on the day he left, a blocky, comfortable-looking building with the High Tower of the city lord looming above it. “I was beginning to think I had come to the wrong city, Mista,” Caledan said to his mount.

In the small courtyard Caledan called for the stable boy, who appeared moments later, bleary-eyed and with straw in his hair, apparently having been asleep in the barn.

“I’m sorry, milord,” the lad said. “We don’t usually have travelers after dark.”

“Take this,” Caledan said, flipping a copper coin to the boy as the lad led Mista toward the stable. “And if you tell her several times over what a lovely horse she is, it’s likely she won’t even try to bite you.”

“Aye, milord!”

The interior of the inn was comfortably warm, but there were few patrons, and most of these cast mistrustful looks at Caledan before huddling back down over their food or drink. Caledan took a place on a bench at one of the long wooden tables, and when the innkeep, a nervous little man, came to him, he ordered a plate of whatever food there might be in the kitchen and a mug of ale.

“I’m sorry, milord,” the innkeep said fretfully, “but there’s no ale served after sundown.”

“What?” Caledan said, completely taken aback.

“It’s in the rules.” The innkeep gestured furtively toward a large, crudely drawn placard nailed to one of the walls. The placard was filled with line after line of writing scrawled too poorly to be legible at a distance, though the large words which headed it were clear enough. They read: Lord Cutter’s Rules.

“Since when are there rules about drinking ale in Iriaebor?” Caledan asked with growing annoyance.

“Since that lout Cutter came, that’s when,” a rough voice growled next to Caledan. He turned to see a burly, red-faced man sitting nearby. The comment seemed to make the innkeep uncomfortable, for the nervous little man looked hurriedly about, as if to make certain no one was watching, and then disappeared into the kitchen. “Every day there’s another of Cutter’s rules come down from the tower,” said the big man, who from his dress and size appeared to be a dockhand.

Cutter . That was the name the guards at the gate had spoken. Curious, Caledan moved over and sat next to the man, whom the other patrons seemed to be purposefully ignoring.

“Just who is this ‘Cutter’?” Caledan asked, trying to make his tone as sympathetic as possible. “Is Cutter the city lord?”

“Aye,” the dockhand said glumly. “Ever since good old Bron disappeared a year or so ago. Wasn’t so bad at first, but that didn’t last long. Seems old Cutter never runs out o’ rules, and all of them boil down to the same thing—there’s nothing worth having or doing that’s allowed no more. And you learn quick enough all right not to break any of ’em. You do that, and Cutter’s guards haul you away, and no one ever sees you again.” He paused for a moment, taking a reflexive pull on his mug and frowning when he realized it was only water. By the look of him, he must have swallowed as much ale as he could possibly hold before the sun had set. “You just come into the city?” he asked.

Caledan nodded. “I’ve been traveling for a long time.”

“Well, you shouldn’t ’ave come here,” the dockhand said, and after that he fell into a gloomy silence. Caledan left him in peace.

The nervous innkeep came back not long after with a plate of food for Caledan. The fare was good—a thick stew, cheese, and brown bread—but there wasn’t much of it. He had just finished eating when the door of the inn opened, and a tall, fierce man clad in the livery of a city guard stepped through. A tense hush fell over the common room. Conversations halted in midsentence, and forks froze in midair.

The guard scanned the room slowly with hard eyes. His countenance was harsh and proud, his sharp cheekbones each outlined by a thin white scar. His hand rested with practiced ease on the polished sword hilt at his hip. This man was a warrior, and a dangerous one at that, Caledan thought.

“Innkeep, bring me food,” he barked in a guttural voice. “Make it your best, and make it quick. Otherwise I might get angry.” A cruel smile touched his thin lips, and his dark eyes glittered perilously. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”