Paul Collins - Swords Of Quentaris

He fumbled above the lintel. The key! It was always there! He tried again, both hands patting the dusty ledge. Not there! Where had the old biddy put it? He spun around and pushed his back against the door, frantic with indecision.

Something prodded him. He jerked around.

The key! His aunt had left it in the lock. Rad

sighed with relief, turned it, then entered the small apartment and locked the door.

He fled to the window and scanned the street below for pursuit. There appeared to be none.

The Order of the Humble was causing its own turmoil, though. The improbable sect members walked backwards wherever they went, for they believed in loss of ego and leaving behind all possessions. They wanted for nothing, and owned nothing. Walking backwards seemed to cause more problems than it solved, to Rad's mind.

It was said that the ancient sect descended from the Hamil. Rad hoped this wasn't true. How would he feel knowing that his own lineage had something to do with such a pack of wastrels?

So intent was he on watching the spectacle below, Rad did not see Vindon Nibhelline cross the street and storm into the stairwell. The sudden pounding on the door left no doubt in his mind that he had been caught day-dreaming. He recognised Vindon's voice demanding he open the door. That was partly good news. At least he wasn't going to be killed.

Roughed up a little, perhaps, and the sceptre

and its cargo would definitely be stolen.

How had Vindon become involved in this? It was definitely him — Rad would recognise that braying voice anywhere. A voice belonging to someone who always got what he wanted. Rad's mind spun. Was Vindon Nibhelline involved with the Thieves' Guild? More likely he had heard that Rad had something valuable and he wanted his share.

Rad looked anxiously down at the two-storey drop below. Did he really want to break both legs to escape?

From beyond the door Vindon yelled, 'You're a gutless wonder, Raddy!' in his hee-hawing voice. 'Come out and fight like a man!'

It made Rad fume with impotence. A gutless wonder, gah! The thug was only twice his size!

If his friend Hulk Duelph had been there, he would gladly confront Vindon. But then again, if Hulk were present, Vindon wouldn't have dared come to his aunt's door in the first place.

The drop was only two storeys, Rad told himself. But the last time he had jumped, he had torn the sausage vendor's canvas awning. A solid

hiding from the merchant and the loss of two months' pay from vigil watching had taught him one thing—jumping from windows to elude a bully was not advisable.

Still, monetary loss and a strapping from a sausage merchant paled into insignificance next to losing the map and getting thumped by Vindon Nibhelline. He looked again at the bustling street below. According to some, yesterday had been the day of the Donkey. Donkeys kicked when least expected. He eyed the door. It seemed to be imploding from Vindon's sledgehammer thumps. Would a donkey care about facing such a monster? Probably not. In the short term, the donkey would remain unscathed. But of course, anyone suffering humiliation from a kicking might exact their revenge.

And the day of the Donkey had been yesterday, not today.

All of these things raced through Rad's mind as Vindon ranted and raged behind the shuddering door.

Rad quickly scanned the map in his shaking hands. The fiftieth reading of it gave no more

insight about its authenticity than the other forty-nine. It was a map of the rift caves — more importantly, one particular rift cave. A rocky fissure etched into the granite high up in the cliff known as the Scar. Few, if any, adventurers bothered with it, because there were many more accessible rift caves than this one.

Rad squinted again. The winking lights were indecipherable — of course, if they were centuries old, that was understandable. He mumbled the spidery words that were scrawled in squid ink in the margin of the map. All the while came the poundings on the door, punctuated by unspeak-able oaths.

In the time before the Crull swept across the desert like a plague of locusts and laid waste the venerab1e northern cities of H'lice, Vrilotol and M a t r i n e , and long before the dark plague that made day into night— long before all these things — t h e r e lived a Race called the Hamil.

Such was their power, no blight dark—

ened their world; no warlord, no being

neither natural nor unnatural could usurp them. So godly were the Hamil that they visited this world at whim and treated its people as their own.

Till this day they can be spied in the night skies, winking t h e i r eyes at the follies of their subjects, the people of Quentaris.

Mere mortals be warned: a creature of terrible power stands guard within the Scar. Unleash its fury at your own peril —

for only one of virtue who passes the three tests may reclaim the legacy of the Hamil.

Rad looked up from the map. The door caved in, and Vindon Nibhelline tumbled through the shattered doorway.

Rad threw the sceptre at Vindon and, without waiting to check the accuracy of his aim, scrambled over the window sill and jumped. The awning saved him once again. The sausage vendor's eyes popped as his stall became enveloped by canvas. 'I'll kill you!' he threatened as Rad untangled himself and limped into the gathered crowd.

Torn between saving his sausages from the ravenous peasants and their even more ravenous dogs, the sausage merchant, livid with rage, threw a salami at Rad. Someone from the crowd reached out for it before it could hit its victim and the crowd surged forward.

Rad thanked his lucky gods a moment too soon. He couldn't resist a glance at the irate vendor as the crowds flocked to his shattered stall. In those seconds someone crept up behind him and suddenly dragged him backwards and up. He kicked air and went nowhere.

'Gotcha!' rasped a voice.

Rad kicked backwards with all his might. His left foot missed the man's shin, but the right didn't and Rad dropped to the ground. He spun to face his assailant. It wasn't Vindon Nibhelline.

Rad looked over the man's shoulder. Two of his accomplices were scattering people in their haste to reach him. Rad took flight.

Like all good street urchins, Rad knew the alleyways almost as well as he did the rooftops. He flew through a fishmonger's cart, exacting oaths of revenge, and kept running. Coffin Alley was

perhaps the best in which to hide, since the more superstitious citizens believed that you only entered Coffin Alley in a casket. Certainly the Undertakers' Guild did their best to keep that particular legend alive.

Panting, and dearly in need of time to think, Rad hid behind a row of exquisitely designed coffins. He knew one of his followers by face only.

He was a member of the Thieves' Guild. It followed, of course, that his companions were also Guild members. Surely the map was worth more than he could ever have imagined!

Ever since he had gained possession of the wretched map he had been on the run. The fact that the fence had been killed for it spoke volumes. Now he was on someone's death list.

Vindon Nibhelline was obviously a lackey paid to apprehend him. The Nibhellines' arch-enemies, the Duelphs, would grant him sanctuary, but then he would be a political pawn. Offering the map to the Thieves' Guild was no longer an option.

The map was a magical object of considerable value — which made Rad uncomfortable. Magic

had a habit of creating disaster, especially in the hands of a commoner.

A scraping sound intensified until it drowned his befuddled thoughts. Rad barely had time to fold the map and hide it within his tunic before the standing coffins in front of him toppled like dominoes. He scurried out from behind them as the last casket thundered to the ground.