Kaerion thought it might be different this time.
But it never was.
The walls were white, the pure white of marble cut from mines in the Cairn Hills. Elaborate stonework decorated the walls and recesses of the temple, relieving the simple, austere lines of its basic design. Statues of strong-jawed men and women, shields held forward, swords raised, gazed proudly back at him. Everything here bespoke strength and courage, forthright commitment in the face of adversity.
From a distance, the soaring lilt of a warm soprano cut across the silent temple, caressing each note, spinning a gossamer web of sound. He recognized the hymn, one of his favorites. He had chosen it for his own Dedication.
In came the procession, a line of gray-robed figures, hoods drawn, heads bowed, their stately gait carrying them forward as if they were floating. The boy walked at their head. Clad in a simple white tunic, his serene face broken by the hint of a smile, he marched toward the simple stone altar in the center of the chamber with wide-eyed innocence.
Kaerion wanted to step forward, armed with the knowledge of what was to come, and carry the boy away, but some force held him back. He tried to shout a warning, but the sound of a rich-voiced alto singing a harmonic line swallowed his voice as soon as he had opened his mouth. He looked around desperately for someone to help him, but could not find a single ally.
That’s when the screaming began.
In a single, dizzying moment, the beautifully rendered hymn shattered into painful dissonance. Kaerion clapped dirt-crusted hands over his ears, desperate to escape the cacophony. Slowly, the screams faded, yet he could hear another voice, distant and faint but growing louder. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the scent of blood that had begun to pollute the air, and strained to make out what this new voice was saying. It came to him slowly-
“Kaerion, get your gods-blasted ass out of that bed!”
The nightmare shattered as a boot connected hard with his side. Kaerion groaned, his already full bladder protesting the abuse, and swatted feebly at his attacker. His stomach twisted fiercely, nearly disgorging last nights gristly mutton. Only sheer force of will and a tongue swollen to twice its normal size spared him that indignity.
Another groan escaped his lips, this time in response to the throbbing in his head, which had quickly outstripped the pain in his side. Rubbing scarred hands across eyes nearly crusted shut, he forced himself to gaze upon the visage of the demon that had ripped him from sleep.
A harsh, angular elven face stared back at him, arched brows raised even higher-in anger or amusement, it was always difficult to tell. Theelf raised a gloved fist, obviously prepared to strike again, but Kaerion held up one arm in entreaty, wondering when the gnomes would finish their incessant hammering inside his skull.
“Peace, Gerwyth,” he mumbled, “or so help me I’ll throw yourbony elven carcass right out the window.”
A ghost of a smile cracked the elf’s imposing facade, drawingthe alien features in starker relief. Delicate cheekbones rose even higher, accenting the angular lines of his face. Long blond hair, pulled back from a high forehead by a silver circlet, flowed around the curved expanse of ears, only to fall into a jumbled cataract around shoulders covered by a dark green cloak. Beneath the folds of the cloak, metal studs glinted softly in the candlelight.
“Damn it, Kaerion, this is serious.” All trace of levity fledfrom the elf’s face. “We’re in trouble again, and I’ll be hung and quartered ifI’m going to die because you can’t get your ale-sotted wits about you.”
“What now?” Kaerion asked, rising unsteadily to his feet. Theroom spun viciously, but he managed to catch himself before he fell by grabbing on to the stone wall to his left. His hair stank of tabac, and the sour reek of his sweat filled the small room. It nearly made him vomit, but he mastered his rebellious stomach once again, instead releasing only a single noisy belch.
“Gods’ blood, Kaer!” the elf shouted. “How long are you goingto go on doing this to yourself?”
Kaerion ignored the question-as he always did. He was far toosober to think about the circumstances that had brought him to this place. All he really wanted to do was find a dark corner and drink his throbbing headache into quiescence.
“You said we’re in trouble,” he replied, with considerablymore aplomb than he felt. “What kind of trouble?” He thought perhaps reasoningwith his old friend might reduce the likelihood that he would continue to shout.
“Do you remember the merchant who needed caravan guards tohelp transfer his assets from Hammensend to Woodwych?”
Kaerion nodded. The greedy bastard had hired thugs to steal valuables from certain families and then tried to sell them back to these families for twice their value. It was a good thing they hadn’t made it back toHammensend, he thought wistfully, or that pile of filth would have had to deal with him.
“You mean Master Hemon, the thief who-”
“I mean the merchant who hired us to protect his interests,” the elfinterrupted. “The one connected to half of the crime lords in this city.” Hepaused, obviously looking for some sign that his companion understood where he was heading.
Kaerion opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off with a sharp gesture.
“Gods! Did you have to take it upon yourself to‘redistribute’ those gold nobles?” Gerwyth asked.
Kaerion felt his own temper rise, and the pounding in his skull intensified. “It wasn’t really his money, anyway,” he said through grittedteeth.
Five years they’d traveled together across the roads andbyways of the southern Flanaess and Gerwyth still didn’t understand. Even aftereverything that had happened to him, after he’d proven his own guilt andcowardice a dozen times, there were still a few things that mattered.
Like getting stinking drunk, another part of his mind thought, instead of standing here arguing like an old married couple.
“Yes, well,” the elf responded, with all the grace of aspurned fishwife. “Now he’s taken the money that is his and placed a bounty onour heads. I was down by the docks when I found out. It seems that there are quite a few people who won’t mind sharing the reward, and they are apparentlygoing to try and collect soon. We’ve got to leave Woodwych for a bit. If wehurry, we can start our journey as soon as the gates open. I have a purse set up for us in Rel Mord. It’s a big enough city that we can lay low until we meet ourcontact.”
“Contact?” Kaerion questioned sarcastically. “Who are weworking for now, the Circle of Eight?” Truth be told, he didn’t feel much likeworking for anyone and had told his friend that on occasions too numerous to count. “I’m not taking on any more work, Gerwyth,” he stated flatly.
The elf’s eyes flashed emerald green. Nearly a decade offamiliarity allowed Kaerion to read his friends moods. When his almond-shaped eyes took on that color, it meant the ranger was at his most dangerous.
Gerwyth, however, did not challenge his companion. “We canargue about this later,” he replied. “Right now, we need to get out of herebefore it’s too-”
The sharp crack of splintering wood echoed loudly from a distance.
“Late,” the elf finished.
Kaerion heard the deep-throated grumble of voices followed by several muffled screams and knew that trouble had indeed found them. He only hoped that the bastards left the innkeeper and his family unharmed. The Griffon’s Wing wasn’t the best inn within the walls of Woodwych by any means,but its owners were decent people, even if their patrons left something to be desired. If any of their family were hurt tonight, Kaerion thought angrily, he just might make a personal trip back to Hammensend and gut that fat merchant himself.
The door to his room shuddered beneath a fearsome blow.
Instinctively, Kaerion reached for his sword and cursed when he discovered his scabbard was not buckled on. He scanned the room, trying to remember where he had dropped it. Battle tension ran through his system, chasing away a good portion of the aftereffects of the previous evening, as it always did. His head, however, still remained a bit fuzzy, and it took a few moments to locate the well-worn scabbard beneath a filth-encrusted cloak.
Kaerion drew the sword just as the door rocked beneath another blow. He could clearly see the door’s thick wood beginning to split, andhe looked to Gerwyth. The elf had just finished stringing his bow and held the weapon in one hand. Silver runes ran down the curved ash-wood body, bathing the room in cold fire.
Kaerion gripped the worn hilt of his own weapon tightly. Years of habit brought his thumb forward to rub the pure white diamond set deeply into the leather-wrapped pommel. The action always calmed him before a battle. He stifled a curse as his finger touched only simple steel, and he cast a bitter glance toward the corner of the small room, where a finely wrought jeweled scabbard lay against the wall.
Galadorn, he spoke the sword’s name silently, longingly,as if calling out to a long-lost lover. Where once he would have heard its response, deep-voiced and regal, sonorous tones ringing with unearthly purity, he sensed only the slightest of responses, like the tremulous whispers of that lover’s farewell, and he nearly staggered under the familiar weight of loss thatdescended upon him.
Forged with powerful magic and blessed, legends said, by the hand of Heironeous himself, the mystic sword would protect its wielder from all but the most powerful spells, and its holy might would cut through the thickest of armor. But the power of the sword lay beyond him now, lost the moment his faith in his god shattered under the vaulted domes of a hellish temple. Try as he might to separate himself from this poignant reminder of his past, the sword always remained. He’d tried everything from weighting it down and tossing itinto a river to hiring hedge wizards to cast spells of holding. The result was always the same. He’d wake up from a drunken stupor with the sword only afinger’s breadth from his hand-and permanently sheathed in its jeweled scabbard.Thus, he was forced to wield a simple piece of cold, dead steel.
“We should climb out the window and make for the roof.” Theelf’s voice broke through Kaerion’s mournful thoughts. “It’s too far to jumpdown to the lane below.”
“Gerwyth, you know I will not run from this.”
The ranger smiled, tossing his cloak behind one slender shoulder. “Who said anything about running? The roof will make it far easier forher,” he said, indicating the glowing bow, “to pick off whoever is afterus.”
Kaerion shrugged and followed his friend to the window. There was no time to put on any armor, and the close quarters of the room made it more likely that he could be cornered and overmastered by a rush of bodies. The roof was just as good a place as any to send these ruffians back to the dark mother who bore them.
The door finally gave way under the combined attack of several figures, and they let out a shout of victory as the last plank shattered. Before he climbed out the window, Kaerion made out the glint of chainmail beneath some of the attackers’ cloaks. At least that will slow themdown somewhat, he thought, as he pulled himself up over the jutting lip of the window.
Above him, he could make out the scuttling form of Gerwyth. The nimble elf was already rolling quietly on to the rooftop. He caught the howls of outrage from the thugs in his room as they realized that their quarry was escaping. A few quick pulls brought Kaerion to the roof, where he took a moment to catch his breath.
The gray light of false dawn hung over the rooftop, giving everything a dim, muted feel. Patches of fog rolled past, touching his face with its cool fingers. He spotted Gerwyth standing to one side, head cocked slightly, eyes scanning the urban horizon. Kaerion knew his friend had sensed something amiss and now relied on his hunting instincts-instincts which had made him oneof the best trackers and guides in the southeastern Flanaess-to unearth thesource of his unease.
“We’ve got company,” the elf said after another moment.
The twang of a bowstring and the sharp hiss of an arrow cut though the pre-dawn silence. Kaerion leapt to one side and noticed with satisfaction that the ranger had done the same. The arrow shattered as it struck stone.
He wasn’t prepared, however, for the sudden emergence of sixfigures from the gloom. He had a moment to watch Gerwyth deflect two sword strokes with the hardened curve of his magic bow before his attackers were upon him. He ducked quickly as the blade of a sword came whistling for his neck, and he brought his own weapon across in a quick cutting stroke, satisfied when he felt the blade slash deeply into the stomach of his opponent.
His other attacker wasted no time, however, taking advantage of the opening presented by his defensive move, and Kaerion grunted hard as a mailed boot connected with his side. He used the momentum brought on by the kick to place some distance between him and his opponents.
There were four of them, hard-eyed and steel-jawed all, each with the look of practiced killers. The heavy-booted one wore chainmail and carried a wicked-looking curved sword. Of the three, his eyes were the coldest, like blue ice, and Kaerion knew he’d have to take that one out fast. Two otherswore no armor, but each wielded long daggers in either hand. The fourth lay on the ground, holding in the bulge of guts that threatened to spill out.
Kaerion opened his stance and shifted his weight toward his center, taking deep, easy breaths. The last remnants of the previous evening’sdebauchery fled beneath the familiar thrill of battle. Let them come to me, he thought. They’ll have to fight me on my terms.
The sounds of battle rang out over the rooftop, and he risked a glance at his friend, noting with satisfaction that the elf had dropped his bow and now wielded two gleaming short swords with expert precision. One of the figures, a grizzled human, lay at Gerwyth’s feet, clutching the juncture of hisneck and shoulder. Blood spurted out between the man’s fingers, raining downupon the cold stone of the rooftop.
A furious snarl brought his full attention back to his own problems. He raised his sword to parry as the mailed figure ran toward him, swinging his weapon in a wide arc. Kaerion gave a curse as the two blades clanged together with great force, nearly shattering his wrist. Gods this man was strong!
Both dagger-wielding men moved in swiftly as Kaerion grunted with the effort of freeing his sword from the curve of his opponent’s blade. Hesidestepped the first viper-fast dagger by stepping inside his main opponent’sguard with his left foot and bringing his right foot behind him while twisting his hips. The momentum freed his sword, but made his right side vulnerable to the second man’s daggers. He cried out as the twin blades punctured shoulder andforearm.
Sensing victory, the mailed warrior redoubled his efforts, and Kaerion found himself hard pressed to block the vicious cuts of the man’spowerful attacks-especially while minimizing his exposure to the two other menwho circled him like wolves waiting to pounce on a wounded elk. Sweat poured down his face now and his breathing grew labored. Grimly, Kaerion tried to summon his reserves. While years of heavy drinking had not quite erased the effects of a lifetime of training and battle, he was like a weapon dulled by abuse and neglect.
He saw his opening when one of the unarmored figures darted in for a quick attack. Kaerion brought his sword up, feinting a strike against the leader. Sidestepping the dagger, he reached out with his right hand and grabbed the collar of the man, throwing him into his mailed opponent. While the two stumbled against each other, Kaerion aimed a blow at the man’s weapon,grimacing only slightly as his sword neatly sliced off his opponent’s arm at theelbow. The mailed figure screamed and fell to the ground. His severed hand landed with a metallic clang several feet away, still holding the scimitar.
Kaerion took advantage of the distraction and quickly ran one of the dagger wielding figures through with his blade. The remaining attacker turned to flee. Kaerion cursed and started to take off after him, but stopped short as the figure stumbled once and then pitched forward, an arrow protruding from his throat.
Kaerion turned to see Gerwyth lowering his bow, an exultant smile on his face. The elf’s cloak and studded leather armor were spattered withgore, and his blond hair was streaked red with blood. In the lanes below, the two companions could make out the stirrings of the city watch come to investigate the early morning disturbance. The remaining assassins would no doubt have high-tailed it out of the inn, not wishing to be exposed to the authorities.
“So, Kaer, what do you think now?” the elf asked as the twocaught their breath.
“I think,” Kaerion replied, wiping blood from his blade,“that you are an insufferable fool who is right more times than is good forhim.”
“Does this mean you’ll come with me to Rel Mord?”
Kaerion nodded in the first rosy light of day. The shouts of the watch grew louder and more frantic as they neared the Griffon’s Wing.
“What choice do I have?” he replied.