“Fair travel, Captain Aidan, ‘tis a chill wind blowin’ this eve,” called the young guardsman, his purple cloak drawn tight against the cold.
Aidan turned to face the officer standing within the guard post of the Upper City Gate and grunted. In the dancing light of the torches, he could make out the lad’s beard’ess face. No matter how hard he tried, Aidan couldn’t shake the feeling that the Purple Dragons recruited younger every year.
“Luck yerseif,” his gravelly voice carried across the deserted stretch of the Gateguard Road, “sunrise is still a fair bit away.”
With a gruff laugh, he turned and continued somewhat unsteadily up the road into Tilverton proper. In truth, the Dragonet was right-the night air carried a chill bite. Aidan could feel his old bones throb under the wind’s lash. Still, winter’s bluster couldn’t touch the warmth that flooded from his recollection of the past.
Tonight had marked his last official day as a captain in the Purple Dragons. He was mustering out, and the memories of his former companions-many of whom had spent the evening toasting his health in the taproom of the Windlord’s Rest-covered him like a comfortable quilt.
He’d come a long way since leaving Skull Crag and wandering the West Reaches of Cormyr-certainly further than he had ever dreamed after signing with the Dragons in Greatgaunt. For the past twenty seasons, he had made Tilverton his home, working hard to keep peace and uphold law. He loved the city and felt that, in his own small way, he had helped make at least this part of Faerьn a better place. It was tough to put that behind him.
Aidan sighed and turned off the main road, wending his way through back alleys toward his home. In the distance a cur barked, and the captain’s hand strayed reflexively to the dagger at his belt. The weapon was new, given to him this very evening by Commander Haldan Rixnmersbane, and its weight pulled unfamiliarly at his side.
A slight scuffling sound brought him to a stop. He peered into the shadows, the dagger drawn almost without thought, and waited.
Nothing.
Cursing himself for a beardless cadet, Aidan relaxed. It took a few moments for him to realize that he still held his weapon. The dagger felt natural in his hand, almost like an extension of his fingers, and he marveled once again at its gem-inlayed hilt and razor-sharp edge. Truly it was a noble’s blade, a gift he had received this very evening from Commander Haldan. It was a token, Hal-dan had said to him later, of Lady Alaslyn Rowanmantie’s appreciation for his “unswerving dedication to Cormyrean justice.”
He chuckled out loud at this memory Haldan always did have a flair for the melodramatic. Even when they were cadets struggling through training, Aidan had thought his younger friend had missed his true calling.
Still, the dagger was a great gift, and he would carry it with pride as a reminder of his service to Cormyr.
Ahhh… you’re still drunk, he thought.
Aidan sheathed the blade, hawked, and spit before resuming his weaving journey. The taste of Thungor’s bitters lay heavily in his mouth, and he still had a fair distance to go.
The tight alleyway eventually turned, opening into a slightly wider street. Aidan walked in the center of the road, careful to avoid the refuse and offal piled on either side. Rats were common enough in Tilverton, but the captain had seen enough savaged corpses to know that other creatures sometimes lived on the castoffs of civilization.
The shadows in the lane suddenly shifted. Several cloaked shapes melted out of the darkness, quickly forming a wide circle around him. His attackers moved forward slowly, tightening the circle. Aidan once again drew his dagger, grateful for such a practical gift.
“What is it that you want,” he asked, pitching the question like a command.
The menacing figures stopped their advance, and for a brief moment he thought he had a chance to control this situation. A voice spoke from deeper within the alley’s shadows, and he knew that these were not common foot-pads, frightened by the first display of resistance.
“I believe you have something we require,” the voice said.
Aidan shook his head and started to protest, until he remembered the dagger. Even in the pale moonlight, its gems burned incandescently, like a beacon to every greedy eye.
“Ahh,” the voice said again. “I see we understand each other… captain.”
Aidan’s mind whirled. This was no chance robbery; the thieves had come for the knife. He could hand it over to them, in which case they’d probably cut his throat and be done with it, or he could make them think twice about ever tangling with another Purple Dragon. Either way, he didn’t expect a fair fight-only a quick death.
With a silent curse, Aidan made his decision. “The only way you’ll get this dagger,” he shouted at the shadows, “is by pulling it out of your own chest!” Crouching low, he сentered his balance and tossed the dagger from hand to hand.
Silence greeted Aidan’s declaration, punctuated only by the rapid beating of his own heart. After what seemed like an eternity, the voice spoke again.
“You have made an unfortunate choice, captain.”
The twang of a fired crossbow propelled his body into action. Aidan dove to the side, feeling his heart race as it pumped the blessed fire that sustained him through a lifetime of battle. He rolled to his feet and met the first of his cloaked attackers with a thrust to the gut. His dagger cut through the figure’s leathers and bit deeply. He turned the knife and withdrew it quickly, ignoring the thief’s dying gurgle. Several more attackers rushed in, and he soon found himself parrying a flurry of kicks, punches, and sword thrusts. Grizzled muscle and old bones no longer moved as quickly as they used to, but Aidan’s years on the battlefield kept him alive-at least for the moment.
Gods, I can’t keep this up for too much longer, he thought desperately. His breath came laboririgly now, like a desert steed’s on its last length. Another sword swept close to his head. He ducked under the swing and lunged forward, scoring one of his opponents across the leg, but the move left his flank exposed. Aidan turned quickly, trying to shield the vulnerable area-and wasn’t fast enough.
He cried out as a blade pierced his side, shattering the bones of his ribs. Another sword raked across his thigh and he fell to the ground, dropping his dagger. Aidan lay on the floor, struggling to breathe, to move, to grab his weapon, but to no avail. His limbs were cold and sluggish; he was no longer their master. With great effort, he looked up at the cloaked figures approaching him with their swords drawn. They moved slowly, unhurried, almost calm. That’s when he heard it, a roaring in his ears like the raging of an ocean of blood. It grew louder, drowning out the creek of leather, the cries of the wounded, and even his own heartbeat. This is it, he thought, this is death.
Somehow, he had always believed there would be more to it.
Aidan watched as one of the thieves raised a sword above his head. Silently mouthing a prayer to Tyr, Tymora, and any other god who would listen to an old, dying soldier’s last words, he waited for the final blow.
It never came. Instead, the alleyway burst into light. Aidan could see another cloaked figure step from the shadows, green fire arcing from its hand to his executioners. In the sick emerald light he caught a glimpse of the newcomer’s face, small-nosed and boyish, beneath a thick cowl. Again and again, his mysterious ally called down eldritch flames upon the thieves, who fell back, screaming.
He struggled to stand and fight, wanting to help the cowled man, but the pain of his wounds called him back. He collapsed and watched his own pool out into the road, reflecting green tongues of flame, until the darkness claimed him.
Aidan awoke in a simple, run-down room. A small fire burned in an old mantle, casting flickering shadows against the walls. He lay still for a moment, wondering how he had survived. The straw mattress upon which he had slept was lumpy, pressing uncomfortably against his lower back. But, he thought wryly, it’s better than bleeding to death on a cold dirt floor.
Aidan sat up slowly, expecting a great deal of pain. He gasped, partly in wonder and partly in disbelief, as his movements offered him only slight soreness. What’s more, his wounds looked as if they had been healing for weeks. He ran his fingers along the length of two angry looking scars, their puckered redness the only thing distinguishing them from the countless marks upon his warrior’s frame.
“I see you have decided to join the ranks of the living.”
The captain bolted up from the bed and whirled toward the sound of the voice, ignoring the protests from tight muscles. A thinly built man in purple robes stood in the open doorway. The shadows from the fire caressed the stranger’s face as he entered the room. His lips were full, almost pouty, and Aidan recognized his thoughtful, brooding look as one that often captivated young women.
The man handed Aidan some clean clothes and moved toward the fire, idly poking at the burning wood. “Whom do I have to thank for my life?” asked the captain as he changed into the simple pair of leather breeches and wool cambric.
“My name is Morgrim,” he said simply, not turning from the mantle. His voice was smooth and somewhat breathy. It sent a chill down Aidan’s spine.
The captain finished changing. “You have my thanks, Morgrim,” he said, extending his hand.
Morgrim stopped tending the fire, faced Aidan, and bowed. “Do not thank me. I am a simple priest, it’s my duty.”
Aidan smiled and awkwardly returned the bow. He’d been around long enough to know that there was nothing simple about priests-especially in Cormyr. “Which god do you serve, Morgrim?” he asked.
“Cyric,” the priest replied softly.
Aid an fell back as if struck by a crossbow bolt. He stared at the young priest in disbelief. A joke, he thought, though why anyone would make light of such a thing was beyond him.
Morgrim moved toward Aidan slowly, arms held out in front of him. In the flickering light of the fire, the captain could see the glint of silver bracers, the symbol of Morgrim’s enslavement to his dark god, on the priest’s arms.
“Why?” Aidan asked, searching the room for some weapon he could use against the foul priest. “Why did you save my life?” If he could just edge toward the door, he would have a chance to bolt out of the room before Morgrim called down Cyric’s power upon him.
“Relax,” the priest said. “I mean you no harm.”
Aidan stopped, instinct warring with the earnestness he heard in the young man’s voice. “Why should I trust you?” he asked, firing the question like an arrow at the approaching priest. “When have the servants of Cyric ever told the truth?” Aidan was angry and confused. He knew about the priesthood of Cyric, its dark rites and shadowy assassins; it festered like a tumor upon the land. But why did this priest pretend kindness? It didn’t make any sense, and he wasn’t about to let down his guard until he found out.
Morgrim hissed sharply at the question. Aidan watched the priest’s handsome face transform into a mask of bitterness, his sensual lips curling like asps. “Truth!” he shouted. “You want me to tell you the truth?”
Aidan felt the priest’s power gather in the room, a predatory silence that filled every corner of the chamber. It swelled, a hungering beast threatening to blot out even the fragile beating of Aidan’s heart. He closed his eyes against the funereal force, struggling to breathe. It was as if he had fallen into an abyss, a dark womb from which nothing ever emerged. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the silence fled. With a gasp, Aidan opened his eyes.
“The truth is,” Morgrim continued softly, as if regretting his loss of composure, “if the Prince of Lies had called you, your soul would be serving him even as we speak.”
The priest moved even closer to Aidan, brushing his fingers across the captain’s chest as he finished speaking. Aidan stood transfixed, his heart pounding wildly, whether from Morgrim’s words or his featherlight touch he wasn’t sure. He only knew that at this moment, he stood closer to death than ever before.
Nervously, Aidan cleared his throat, looking away from the promise in Morgrim’s steady gaze. “Why,” he repeated his question, “did you save my life? Tell me, priest.”
Morgrim walked toward the old, scratched table and poured himself a glass of wine. “I have need of you.”
Aidan sat down on the bed. “You have need of me,” he repeated, his voice quavering between disbelief and incredulity, “For what? I will not participate in your murderous rites-even if you send me to Cyric as a slave.”
The priest shot Aidan a glance, bright eagerness alight in his eyes. “And what of yourself? Do you not kill? Does your sword not taste the blood of the living?” Morgrim took a quick sip of wine and thunked his goblet down on the table.
“I am a Purple Dragon,” Aidan protested. “I fight against injustice for the honor of Cormyr-”
“You are a soldier! You fight where you’re told to,” interrupted Morgrim. “When the Cormyrean king unleashes his Dragons upon Sembia or the Zhentarim, what do you think the Sembian farmers say to comfort their families? They say, ‘Do not worry, I go to fight for the honor of our people and our land.’ And when tho8e farmers die, pierced by the teeth of your swords and your spears, who is it do you think greets them on the other side of death?”
Aidan tried to reply, to say that he was different. He knew in his heart that he was no murderer, but the words died on his lips. Finally, he said, “I cannot find the words to debate you, priest. But I know what I am.”
“Peace, Aidan,” the young man said. “It is not your words that I require.” Morgrim’s voice was gentle, sliding once again into velvety tones. The sound soothed the old warrior, calming him so much that he barely heard the priest call him by name.
He looked up, surprised. “How did-”
Morgrim held up a thin, graceful hand. He took another sip of wine and said, “The thieves weren’t the only ones waiting for you in that alley. Someone stole an object of great importance from my order, an object that I have spent many months searching for.”
“The dagger,” Aidan cut in.
The young priest nodded. “Yes. The dagger, as you so elegantly call it, is the Linthane-a high priestess’s ceremonial blade and the symbol of her authority.”
Aidan drew his hand across his grizzled gray beard, trying to make sense of the priest’s words. “I don’t understand. The blade was well crafted, something far beyond what an old soldier like myself would carry but-”
“It didn’t resemble an unholy blade consecrated to the Lord of Three Crowns?” Morgrim finished. “Believe me, the Lirithane does not look like any weapon you would want to carry. Whoever ordered the theft wove powerful illusions about the blade, making it difficult to track.”
Aidan sat for a few minutes, weighing what the priest had said. He didn’t believe Morgrim-at least not fully. Oh, the young man sounded earnest, that was certain, and his eyes, dancing with the reflected light of the fire, looked as guileless and trusting as a doe’s. Unbidden, Aidan found himself thinking of Morgrim’s feather-light touch…
The fire hissed and popped as he brought himself back to the present. “All right, let’s assume for a moment that I did carry the blade of the high priestess of Cyric last night. How did I come to possess it, and who were the cutthroats who attacked me?” he asked. Despite the warmth of the fire, Aidan felt a queer chill in the pit of his stomach, as the events of the last day swirled around in his mind. He wasn’t sure he really wanted an answer to his question.
Morgrim hesitated before speaking, as if sensing his thoughts. “I do not know how you received the Lirithane- though the identity of your attackers is easy enough to impart; they were members of the Fire Knives.”
Aidan shook his head. “Impossible. The Purple Dragons and our allies destroyed the Fire Knives.” He had been a young lieutenant then, and the memories of that fierce struggle still pulled him screaming from his sleep.
“In Tilverton, perhaps” Morgrim replied, “but remnants of the cult survived your attack. They were lost without their little god, and it was a simple thing to take them in and bend them to our purpose. They were our dark hounds, and we sent them out to hunt across the face of Faerun.”
Aidan’s blood froze. “Then why did they attack me?”
The priest sighed and said, “The hounds have gone feral. They used their familiarity with our temple to steal the high priest’s blade. They aren’t smart enough to carry this off by themselves; someone put them up to it. I tracked them across Cormyr until they ended up here, where they delivered the blade to their unknown master. Apparently, this person felt the blade was too dangerous to keep in their possession and used you to ‘deliver’ it back to the Knives.”
Morgrim paused and Aidan sat still as the priest finished, “I need your help in finding their leader.”
Nothing made sense! Aidan had spent a lifetime battling the forces of chaos and darkness, struggling to carve out a safe haven in the world, and now, on the eve of his retirement, an agent of darkness called upon him for help. His choice should have been clear.
Then why, by Tymora’s Thrice-Damned Tresses, isn’t it? he thought.
“Look, if you won’t help me out of the goodness of your heart, do it for yourself.” Morgrim whispered as he crept closer to Aidan’s silent form. “Someone set you up-someone who didn’t care whether you lived or died. Don’t you want to find out who that was?”
Aidan held his breath. Gods it was hard to think with the strange young man so close. Still, the priest had a point:
Someone in Tilverton was trafficking with dangerous forces. Retired or not, he had a duty to find out the identity of that person. With a silent prayer, he made his decision.
“What do I have to do?” he asked.
The midmorning sun shone brightly as Aidan walked down the Street of the Sorceress, heading toward the marketplace. Tilverton’s streets were crowded at this time of day, and the city seemed to take on a life of its own. Horse-drawn wagons and carriages pushed valiantly against the steady press of people, carrying loads of flour, wool, and other items for the marketplace. The people, in turn, parted reluctantly for the transport, immersed in their own private conversations. Musicians dotted the street corners, playing wildly for small groups of onlookers, their music a rhythmic counterpoint to the constant hum of conversation.
Aidan felt comforted by the sights and sounds of the city. He had spent most of the last tenday since his attack peering and poking throughout Tilverton for any information regarding the mastermind behind the Lirithane’s disappearance. So far, the results were frustrating. Whereas before his rank in the Purple Dragons opened the tightest lips, he now found himself facing a wall of silence. He was just another citizen. There was little he could do to force information from the unwilling. Even so, he managed to get a few nibbles. Unfortunately, each one had led to a dead end.
To make matters worse, he had finally returned to his own house after spending the last six nights in the mausoleum that Morgrim called a room only to find a letter from Commander Haldan requesting his presence this very afternoon. It was easy to guess what the commander wanted. Even when they were both lieutenants, Haldan had resented any civilian interference in official Dragon business. Not only had Aidan not informed his friend about the fateful attack in the alleyway, but he had also begun an investigation without official sanction. By now, the commander had most likely discovered both those facts. Aidan didn’t look forward to this interview.
A rough bump jolted Aidan from his ruminations. He looked up to find a burly fur-clad man shaking his fists; a stream of guttural language poured out from the man’s mouth. All around the angry giant, a number of animal skins lay dashed in the mud. A small crowd gathered behind the incensed man as Aidan realized with a shock that he had just stumbled into a trader’s stall. He hastily mumbled an apology and gave the irate merchant a gold coin for his troubles. Shaken, he entered the marketplace proper.
If the press of people were the lifeblood of Tilverton, the marketplace was its heart. Every road flowed into it, from the Street of the Sorceress to the Great Moonsea Ride, all paths met here at the city’s center. He ignored the tantalizing smells of the marketplace-the heady aroma of spiced meats and the thick, gooey sweetcakes designed to entice a man’s coin from his pocket. Instead, he made straight for the Council Tower, a white stone bastion rising up from the marketplace like the finger of Torm.
The sounds of merchants hawking their wares seemed to fade away as he approached the tower. It was always like this. Standing in the shadow of the tower, his concentration intensified and his strength seemed to increase. It was the strength of assurance-that whatever befell the city, this tower, and the Purple Dragon garrison within it, would strive to set it right.
He approached the guards at the tower gate, sighing inwardly as they struggled to decide whether or not to salute. It’s all different, now, he thought. No matter how recent his retirement, he was an outsider. The memories of his service in the Purple Dragons were just that-memories-and the camaraderie he shared with his shieldmates, while no less real, would eventually fade. He felt an aching loss inside, like a wound to the gut.
Quickly he jostled past the guards, sparing them any further discomfort, and entered the building. As always, the tower’s first level literally hummed with ordered chaos, as uniformed soldiers and messengers scuttled about making reports and planning the watch. The captain entered the building with measured practice and walked up to a young soldier filing papers behind a desk. He knew the officer, a steady-nerved man named Joran.
“Excuse me, Sergeant,” he said in measured tones, “but may I see the commander?”
Aidan watched as Joran looked up, the officer’s face transforming from steadied boredom to carefully concealed joy.
“Captain Aidan, ‘tis good to see you again, sir.” Joran stood up quickly, scattering papers to the floor.
“At ease, son. It’s simply Aidan, now.” It hurt less if he said it quickly. “I’m supposed to see the commander. Is he in?”
Joran nodded. “Yes, Ca…sir. He asked not to be disturbed, but he’s expecting you.”
Aidan smiled gratefully and followed Joran up the stairs to Commander Haldan’s private office. The chamber was simply appointed, almost spartan, and very much like the commander himself. A sturdy desk took up one corner of the room, and a small fire burned in the mantle. Military accouterments hung on the walls, a testament to a lifetime of soldiering.
Haldan looked up as Aidan and the sergeant entered, breaking off a quiet conversation with a white-robed man. The captain saw his friend’s eyes widen in surprise, only to crease immediately in a familiar, wolfish grin. A quick word sent the white-robed man from the room, but not before Aidan caught a hostile glance from the stranger as he shouldered roughly past.
Aidan waited for Joran to shut the door before speaking. “Sorry to barge in Commander, but you wanted to see me. I hope I didn’t come at a bad time.”
Haldan rose from his seat, rubbing a salt and pepper beard. “Nonsense,” he said with a smile. “I always have time for one of my best captains-and friends.”
Aidan returned the smile, relief flooding through his body as he looked upon Haldan once more. The commander was solid and well built, an imposing officer whose martial training did not waver in the face of age and promotions. The man’s career was dotted with acts of bravery and selflessness, and his soldiers followed him as much out of love as duty. The two had met while recruits, both learning to hold a sword for the first time. Haldan had risen through the ranks quickly, leading with boldness and distinction. Thinking back on his friend’s career, Aidan knew that the commander deserved every accolade and promotion. He is the best of us, Aidan thought.
Standing in Haldan’s office once more, Aidan felt pride at their friendship. No matter the outcome of his present situation, he knew that he could always rely upon Hal-dan.
“So, Aidan,” the commander spoke, his resonant baritone easily filling the office, “I don’t suppose you know why I’ve asked you here?”
The question hung in the air like pipeweed smoke. Aidan began to answer his former commander’s lightly phrased question and then stopped. For just a second, he thought he saw an expectant gleam in Haldan’s eye. Then it was gone, replaced by the officer’s ever-present mask.
Haldan cleared his throat, and Aidan realized that he’d been staring silently at the commander. He breathed deeply and said, “Yes. It’s about the attack in the alleyway.”
Haldan rubbed his beard before speaking. “Go on.”
Slowly, Aidan recounted the events that had occurred on the night of the attack. Strangely enough, he found himself reluctant to speak about Morgrim and the dark priest’s purpose. It all seemed like an empty dream, a substanceless fear that vanished in the light of Haldan’s solid presence.
When Aidan finished the tale, the commander leaned forward. “How did you survive against such odds?” he asked.
Aidan heard the keen interest in his old friend’s voice. He wanted to tell Haldan the truth, to confess his involvement with Cyric’s priest. Instead he laughed and said, “It’ll take a lot more than a few cutpurses to kill this old soldier.”
Haldan’s answering smile hit him like a spear. There it was. He had lied to his friend and former commanding officer. Why? Aidan tried to think, but his shame and guilt snapped at his thoughts like hounds upon the hunt.
Haldan rose and walked toward a bright shield on the wall. “Well, that explains what happened, but why didn’t you report this to me instead of going off on your own?”
Aidan turned toward the commander, inwardly cursing the night he had met Morgrim. “At first, I was too shaken. Then, I decided that I could make more progress using unofficial methods. Believe me Haldan, I was going to report to you as soon as I uncovered anything solid.”
How easy the half-truths came now that he had lied once.
Haldan nodded as Aidan finished and said, “Perhaps you can tell me what you’ve already uncovered.” He turned from the shield and looked at Aidan.
The commander’s dispassionate tone confused Aidan. He wasn’t quite sure how he had expected Haldan to react, but it wasn’t like this. Unsure of his footing, he answered the question as truthfully as he dared. “I don’t believe the attack was an accident. The thieves seemed intent upon stealing the dagger I received as a gift from Lady Rowanmantle.”
"Are you sure of this, Aidan?” Haldan asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Whoever attacked me knew exactly where to find me.” Once again, he hated not telling Haldan everything, but Morgrim had planted a dark seed of doubt and it had sprouted.
“I agree with your assessment,” Haldan said after a moment’s pause. “Rest assured that we will send out our best investigators to get to the bottom of this.”
“With all due permission, sir. I would like to assist in the investigation.”
Haldan sat back behind the desk and steepled his fingers together. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Aidan. You are no longer a member of the Purple Dragons, and I can’t risk putting a Cormyrean citizen in harm’s way.”
“But-” Aidan started to protest, but Haldan interrupted.
“I’m sorry Aidan, I really am. You’ll always have an honored place among the Dragons as long as I’m in command, but I can’t involve you in official inquiries.”
Aidan stood up, trying hard to control his growing anger, his hands clenched into fists. “Haldan,” he said, trying to appeal to his friendship with the commander, “I have the best chance of identifying whoever attacked me and finding out exactly who planned it. I’m the most logical candidate to-”
Haldan’s fist smashed down on his desk, “Aidan, for the last time… you are not to pursue this investigation at all! Do you understand me?” he thundered, not waiting for Aidan’s nod. “If I find that you went against my orders, I’ll jail you for interfering in official business. Is that clear?”
Aidan, stunned at his friend’s outburst, didn’t reply at first. In all the years he had known Haldan, the man had never shouted at him. Anger and hurt gave voice to his reply. “Abundantly clear,” Aidan said in a clipped tone.
Haldan let out a deep breath and leaned forward. “Look, Aidan, I didn’t mean. to yell like that,” he said. “Overseeing the safety and security of this city is a tiring job, and Lady Rowanmantle isn’t making it any easier. What I meant to say is that you should relax and enjoy your retirement. You’ve served Cormyr faithfully for many years and now its time for someone else to do it. Spend your time in peaceful pursuits; gods know you’ve earned it.”
Aidan looked closely at his old friend. The worry lines had increased around his eyes, and his face looked tired, almost haggard. Clearly, something was bothering Hal-dan. Damn you, Morgrim, he thought. He wanted to reassure his friend, but the face of the dark priest kept drawing him forward.
He stood up to leave and said, “Don’t worry, Haldan. You have my word.”
“Thank you, my friend” the commander said.
Aidan left the tower feeling lost and adrift, like a storm-damaged galley on the Trackless Sea. He had promised his obedience, gave his oath to a friend-an oath he never intended to keep.
How, he asked himself, have I changed so much in such a short time?
Such were his thoughts as he numbly exited the tower.
The Sow’s Ear had more connections to the underworld of Tilverton than Grimwald’s Revenge. Aidan looked around nervously as he approached the warped wooden door of the establishment. He had spent most of his career pursuing the very elements that made up the tavern’s clientele, and here he was walking into the dragon’s lair without a single weapon. Morgrim’s choice of meeting places left much to be desired.
He grimaced as he pushed open the door, walking into the establishment. Although it was midday, the inside of the Sow’s Ear was dark and shadowy. Aidan could see several figures lying scattered around the common room in various states of drunkenness. Those who could still sit up squinted against the tavern’s smoke-filled haze, playing traitor’s heads or swords and shields. The walls, floors, and tables of the place were chipped and rotting, and the place smelled of stale beer and urine.
As he approached the bar, a fat, gap-toothed man in a greasy apron flashed him a scowl and asked for his order. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Aidan bought an ale and found an empty table in a deserted corner. He sipped the drink slowly, grimacing at the flat taste.
Where was Morgrim? The damned priest said he would meet him here at midday. He scanned the common room again, a queer feeling rising in his stomach. Despite the confusion he brought on, the captain found himself anxiously awaiting the priest.
The door suddenly crashed open, and he nearly dove to the ground as three men staggered drunkenly into the common area.
Torm’s Teeth, he thought, you’re as skittish as a cadet on review.
Aidan sniffed distastefully as he watched the three men swagger to the bar and bellow for some ale. He knew by the look of them that they were trouble. He sipped his own ale quietly and kept his eyes studiously away from the three braggarts, hoping they would ignore him.
He was wrong.
One of the oafs swayed toward his table and began to laugh. “What have we here,” he slurred. His companions must have heard the grizzly sound, for they turned their attention away from a full-figured barmaid and onto the object of their friend’s interest.
“I don’t see nuthin’, Durm,” replied the blondest, and fattest, of the toughs. “Nuthin’ but a graybeard taking up our fav’rit spot.”
Aidan rolled his eyes. Why did they always use that tired old excuse for a fight? Lack of imagination, he supposed.
As the rest of Durm’s friends approached, he stared intently into his beer. All he had wanted to do was wait quietly for the priest. Now it looked like there would be trouble. The three men surrounded him, blocking off any chance of escape.
“What’s wrong, old man,” taunted Durm. “Don’t ya remember how to talk?” He laughed again, a vulgar sound somewhat between a belch and a snort.
Aidan sighed. He knew how this would most likely end. If only Morgrim would arrive, he could walk away without a fight.
“I guess he can’t remember, Durm,” replied the fat one. “Maybe we should refresh his mem’ry”
They all laughed self-importantly. Suddenly, the last of the men, a giant, red-haired fellow with the build of a field ox, slammed his meaty hand on the table. Durm leaned forward.
“My friend here would like you to move so we could have our table.”
Aidan looked up at the three men. Smiling invitingly, he said, “There’s no need to get upset. Why don’t you and your friends sit down here and join me for a drink?”
As he finished the sentence, he threw the remainder of his drink at Dunn, then slammed the cheap metal goblet on the red-haired giant’s hand. Both of the men recoiled from the surprise attack. He took advantage of that opportunity and got to his feet.
As soon as Aidan stood up, the fat man charged in. Aidan quickly sidestepped the attack and grabbed the man’s arm. Raising it over his head, he pivoted his hips and watched with satisfaction as his attacker flipped in the air and landed with a whumpf on his back.
By this time, Durm and his companion were ready for another go-around. Aidan sized up his two opponents with a practiced eye. He could handle Durm easily enough, the man was all bluster and soft muscle. It was his companion, the ox, whom he worried about.
They moved forward and he braced for the attack. Before he could raise his arms, however, he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head. Someone had thrown a bottle. Aidan’s head spun and before he knew it, the giant had both of his hands locked behind his back. Durm strutted forward, producing a thin dagger from his belt.
“Not so fast now, are you old man,” Durm said. “I think I’ll gut you right here for what you did to me and my friends.”
Aidan shook his head, trying to recover from the thrown bottle. If he could just shift his weight a little, he’d be able to kick the gloating man in the face.
Before he could do this, however, a soft voice floated from the bar. “I think he’s had enough, don’t you.”
Durm spun to face the voice. Aidan looked over to see Morgrim, dressed in a simple brown robe. Even without his vestments, the man had a malignant air. Durm must have sensed this, for he chuckled nervously and said, “Yeah, sure. We was just havin’ a bit of fun, weren’t we boys.” He nodded to the giant. “Let the man go, and let’s be on our way.”
The mighty grip relaxed, and Aidan made his way toward Morgrim, rubbing his wrists to restore the circulation. The three men looked at Morgrim once and then quickly left the bar.
“What took you so long?” Aidan asked.
Morgrim flashed him a grin. “I was busy doing some research,” he replied. “Besides, you looked like you had everything under control. I especially liked the way you blocked the flying bottle with your head.”
“Demons take you, man!” Aidan nearly shouted. “Do you think this is some gods-blasted prank?” He was too angry and confused to deal with the priest’s newfound levity.
Morgrim’s smile vanished. “I see your meeting didn’t go so well. Come, let’s talk business if it’s a dark mood you’re having.” The priest pulled Aidan into a corner and whispered. “I found out a couple of things that might interest you. First, Alaslyn Rowanmantle did commission a blade for you from Khulgar’s weapon shop. You should lay a few inquiries up that tree and see if it yields fruit.”
Aidan nodded. “What’s the second thing?”
Morgrim looked about the room before continuing, “Apparently, there are rumors of some sort of transaction, purportedly over a dagger, that will take place tomorrow in the sewers. If we can witness that transaction it would be most beneficial.