"Adzel Chapter VII" by John H. Blackham

Chapter VII

            The next morning drew itself over the city of Lendala like a dark curtain encompassing the space that the sky normally held. The sun could not be seen through the sleeping giants of clouds, looming passively overhead, ever threatening to let loose their loads if awakened. The cobblestones of the street were slick with the previous night’s rain, and were frozen over from the morning cold. And there, on the corner of a small and rather slummy-looking street stood a large flamboyant building, bedecked with red-painted stone and gold-paned windows, through which cream curtains shielded the occupants from the eyes of passers-by. Marble pillars framed a beautifully-carved double-door with shiny brass knockers. The gold-lettered sign above the pillared archway read “Medredydd’s Folly Inn.” The entire building contrasted sharply with the dull, sodden wood buildings that lay all around, their paint peeling and windows dirty. One had to wonder how such a fine establishment maintained itself in such a poor sector of town, though after a minute or two inside, it became quite apparent that this was achieved through the generosity of the many rich noblemen and merchants who took advantage of its shady location to engage in black market, slave trade, and other illegal business away from the prying eyes of the authorities.

Near the entry to the Medredydd’s Folly lay a particularly solid puddle formed by the frigid night before, and already more than one person had slipped on it that morning. The first was a passer-by with no real business near the inn, and he cried out in surprise as he his feet shot out from beneath him, and he landed roughly on his back, sliding a little further. He swore and attempted to get to his feet, slipping again on the ice, and again landed painfully on his back. Further oaths issued from his mouth, and he managed to find a spot of ground that was not covered in ice in which he stood and righted himself. With a last defiant glare at the icy puddle he had run afoul of, he strode off in a huff (if it is of any consolation to the reader, he had barely gone another fifty paces before slipping on an even greater ice-puddle near the marketplace, thoroughly embarrassing himself in front of the merchants, and his lady-love, who happened to be nearby at the time).

            The second, however, was not so lucky. He was a mercenary under the employ of the Inn’s owner, Kane, and had been hired the night before to patrol around the inn. He had just set outside the inn to take the place of the mercenary who had been posted outside all night, when he noticed that there was nobody standing guard outside to relieve of his post. He began to feel the slightest bit nervous at this, for in his experience, a missing guard mean he had been overcome before he could raise an alarm. Either that or he would be found drunk asleep nearby and would promptly be fired. Bearing this in mind, he drew his dagger from its sheath at his belt and stepped carefully onto the street. He took a few more cautious steps, though they proved not to be cautious enough, and he, too, slipped upon the frozen pool of water and went sprawling onto his back. He slid farther than the previous unfortunate man, and in a different direction: when he rose, he found himself in the alley just outside the Inn.

As he stood, his eyes drank in the alley in which he stood. It was like a filthy hallway without a ceiling, neither wall having never been repainted or cleaned since they were erected. It seemed that when the buildings on either side had been built, it had deliberately neglected the alley-side wall. The rough stones on either side jutted slightly, trash and rotting refuse gathering along the walls, and frost covering each item like a snowy mould. Lying in the very back of the alley, spread-eagle and facedown, was the corpse of a man wearing a mercenary’s surcoat, dried blood staining the ground all around it. This explained why he was met with no-one to take the guard post from: he had been killed before his watch had ended. He ran to the body, and with no small amount of effort, lifted the torso to see the dead man’s face. It was pale, the eyes glazed and staring, and the jaw slack, mouth ajar. A line of blackened blood ran from the coif down the face, and frost had settled in the mangy beard.

With a touch of nausea, the mercenary looked away from the corpse and analyzed the alley in which he stood. It was still too cold or too early for the streets to become densely populated, and the silence of the frozen morning would have betrayed the movement of anyone lurking nearby. Exactly what had happened the previous night, the mercenary did not know, but he was certain that it had involved an abduction or burglary near the inn; else, why would the murder of a sentinel be necessary? It would take a true amateur to kill if there was any way around it. The best criminals and thieves knew that a life was far more valuable than whatever it was they sought to further their profits, from a practical standpoint. A man’s life could deliver them from certain capture, fetch a king’s ransom, provide them access to otherwise unattainable information, or even prove to be a valuable ally. This meant that whoever had committed the murder had done it because he was left with no choice, suggesting that he had been caught. Several alternatives to this did exist: he might have been the very amateur previously described, or else a madman. Very few men planned a murder with the intent to carry it out, and those who did were invariably mad in one way or another. A rogue on the loose who revelled in killing was dangerous indeed, especially if the killer was such a one: he had left no trace of his identification, or any signature mark, or footprint.

The guard reached down, the leather beneath his chain armour so cold that he hissed as it pressed his sweaty shirt against his skin, and attempted to hoist the stiff body over his shoulder. The attempt failed, as the body was frozen and stiff, and he was forced to drop it. It fell heavily with a metallic thud and the clink of mail. The guard swore, and irritably bent over again to grasp the body’s outstretched arms so as to drag it into the inn. This was far more successful, until he reached the puddle again, which promptly fouled up his footing, sending his legs careening out from under him. He landed rather painfully on his back, and swore again as he managed to right himself again.

As he got to his feet, a woman was opening up the shop across the street from the inn, unlocking the door with a black, iron key. She stepped inside and lit a candle in the window, a sign that the shop was open to business. She moved about in a slow, sleepy manner, and shivered slightly as the morning’s cold crept through her thick coats. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she shuffled to a broom cupboard and extracted a straw broom, and made her way back out to the street just outside her shop, which she swept the refuse and dirt from, through with little success due to the wetness of the cobblestones. Undaunted by this, she kept sweeping until a rather small square in the immediate vicinity of her shop appeared spotless, at which point she put up her broom and began to retire to within, leaving the nearby shop-fronts looking as filthy as hers had before she swept (more so, actually, as she was swept most of the dirt directly in front of the other shops).

She stepped inside her shop and set about closing the door, with the intent of starting a fire as soon as she had wrapped herself in one of the blankets she sold. Before she had managed to shut the door, though, she looked up, and in horror caught sight of the mercenary dragging the stiff corpse through the marbled pillars of the Medredydd’s Folly Inn. He dropped the corpse’s hands, opened the double-doors of the inn, he turned back around. He grasped the dead hands again, and he looked straight up at her. She let out a gasp as the mercenary caught her eye.

“’Morning,” he called to her, inclining his head toward her, and then proceeding to drag the body inside.

“Good morning,” she replied in a choked voice as the corpse’s leather boots vanished through the doors, which were promptly shut.

The reactions of the inn patrons were not much better. It wasn’t as though anyone were sheltered from death, especially not in this lower-class district of the city, and murders were common happenstance, but one was not generally confronted with a frozen, bloodied corpse when one was on one’s way to breakfast. The mercenary ignored the gasps and shouts from the shocked patrons all around him, and instead called out for Kane. The wiry innkeeper appeared in an instant.

“What happened to him?” he demanded. The mercenary shrugged, and dropped the corpse’s arms once more.

“Found him dead in the alley by the building,” he replied in an abrupt tone. He was no stranger to this sort of thing, but he wasn’t fond of it. He continued, “Looks like he was done in by someone who didn’t want any witnesses to a worse crime.”

“Well, get him out of the common room, by Dietrem!” Kane commanded. The mercenary sighed, and hoisted the corpse by the hands again, across the tiled floor of the common room and just outside Kane’s quarters, located just under the stairs that led to the patrons’ rooms. Kane pulled an elaborate lustrous gold-and-ivory key, and with it unlocked what appeared to be a very simple lock securing his door. With a single turn, the lock clicked satisfactorily, and he swung the door open. Grabbing a candlestick on a nearby shelf, Kane entered the room, and lit the candle on his desk. He motioned to the mercenary to bring the corpse within, which he did, and with a grunt, dropped it on the floor. Kane shut the door, and set the candlestick on the ground beside the body. He pulled a knife from his belt and cut open the stiff, torn surcoat to reveal the stained chain mail beneath. Where the dried blood was most concentrated, several links of mail had been torn out and a jagged hole was visible. The leather and cloth beneath this had a messy gash torn from it, and the wound was clearly visible.

“He was killed with either a spear or halberd,” the mercenary said knowledgably, “Stuck through with something very thick and sharp.”

            “So it wasn’t a petty thief stabbing him in the back,” Kane agreed. Suddenly, he noticed the blood coming from the dead man’s coif. He reached to the face and pulled back the coif to discover a great wound to the head, just at the hairline directly above the eye. It had clearly been caused by being struck by a heavy, blunt object.

            “Must’ve been hit over the head, stunned, with one end of a poled weapon, and then speared by the other end before he could regain himself,” the mercenary mused. Kane agreed silently that this was the most likely possibility, though there was no proof.

            “Can we assumed, then, that he was openly attacked?” asked Kane. The mercenary nodded.

            “Most certainly,” he said, “and it would stand to reason that it was not unprovoked. A battle occurred last night, Kane, and I might be a lowly mercenary, but I know that nothing like this has happened in my experience. Perhaps this might have happened when I was hired to accompany the Company travelling at night. Attacks by raiders are not so uncommon; but as far as I know, a guard has never before been killed like this standing guard in front of an inn at night.”

            “I must alert the city guard,” Kane said, the thought flying out his mouth before he could stop it. The mercenary shook his head fervently.

            “You mustn’t,” he said, “they will raid this establishment, and knowing as we do what goes on here, you’ll be put out of business and arrested for everything from black market involvement to conspiring to commit treason.” Again, the mercenary was right. He couldn’t lead the city guard to the inn: the bribes from the patrons barely averted their eyes as it was.

            “If I may make a suggestion,” came a voice from behind them, making both men jump, “You should leave the situation be for the meantime, and let me inspect that body.” Kane and the mercenaries both spun around to see Dirhem Eradane standing in the doorway, which was now open. The mercenary stammered for a moment, protests bubbling on his tongue insisting that Kane double the guard, but Dirhem cut him off.

            “If we were to do that,” he explained, “we’re telling whoever it was who did this that we know that this man is dead.” This was met with dead silence from both men, and a puzzled look on both their faces. Dirhem continued, “The body was hidden in an alley, was it not, which means that they didn’t want anyone to see that the guard was dead. If the killer returns tonight and sees the guard doubled, he will know he was discovered.”

            “And I fail to see how this is not a good thing,” Kane replied, “If he knows that we’re aware of his presence, he will be less likely to kill again.”

            “You are mistaken,” Dirhem replied. Suddenly, something clicked inside the mercenary’s head, and he began to understand what Dirhem was telling them.

            “He isn’t worried about the number of guards,” he said, “He has no qualm with killing, openly and violently. This man was killed with a halberd or something like one, by Dietrem, and face-to-face with the killer. It’s not like he wishes to avoid notice because he fears capture.”

            “I see,” Kane said in a low tone, and for the first time since Dirhem had entered the room, he did. Doubling the guard would simply result in two guards dead instead of one that night. This didn’t solve the problem, however, and he knew it.

            “One of the men I met with last night fled from my room, and escaped into the street,” Dirhem said before Kane could bring up his questions, “And the man I sent to find him returned this morning. He tracked my associate down, and witnessed his death, and the death of this guard.”

            “And who was it?” the mercenary asked, intrigued. At this, Dirhem gave a grave smile with absolutely no humour in it at all.

            “It was my associate who killed the guard,” Dirhem replied, “but not until my associate had been also been killed.” Silence met this like a stone cliff-face met a wave crashing against it. Kane began to grow pale, and he uttered a single word.

            “Omrigians,” he choked. Dirhem nodded.

            “Three of them, actually,” he replied, “but don’t worry. They are all three of them after me and my company. We will be leaving your excellent hospitality later tonight, so double your guard if you must, but there is no need for it, so long as you make it public knowledge that we will not be staying here tonight.” Kane nodded, and the mercenary brooded on his words. Three Omrigians meant that many more people than this guard were going to die, and very soon. It also meant that those who had been killed were going to multiply the number of enemies lurking the streets at night. He knew that Lendala was never going to be the same again after tonight.

*          *          *

            Kithrus stood across from Godric in a small, circular stone room. The room was very dark, illuminated by a source that Godric could neither see nor detect in any other way, but filled the room in a dark, eerie, pale blue light. The stones themselves were damp, and glimmered in the light, traces of mould becoming very evident between the cracks. The ceiling was perhaps seven feet tall, and it gave Godric the sensation of being locked within a dungeon cell. Not that his current predicament was much better, he noted.

            “I do not like this,” he told Kithrus, “And I cannot believe that I have agreed to this.” John: note to self: his wife is actually alive, and he will realise this when all is lost! Kithrus smiled, leaning his back against one of the walls. He did indeed seem far older than he had during the attack on the village, and the smile crinkled his face into a most unpleasant picture.

            “To accomplish what we intend to accomplish,” he told Godric, “will require more than a simple agreement. You must prove yourself to the Black Traveller to earn his trust and favour.”

            “You think to make me a pawn for my enemy?” Godric asked in venomous tones. Kithrus laughed.

            “He must think you are a pawn before he lets you come near him!” he said mirthfully, “And you are already more than a mere pawn to him. He ordered you captured, my old friend, not killed. He wanted you alive. It was, after all, you and me who defeated him so long ago.” Godric froze. Kithrus was implying something that ought to not be implied, he thought. The strange beast the Omrigians had unleashed all those years ago, that had broken free of their chains; that same beast that they had battled, and defeated.

            “You cannot mean,” began Godric, only to be cut off by Kithrus.

            “Of course, you old fool. Who did you think was behind all of this?” he spat.

            “I had figured,” replied Godric coldly, “it was an Omrigian captain whom we had spared, come for revenge. But if what you are telling me is true, then the situation is far, far worse than I thought.”

            “Oh,” Kithrus nodded fervently, “it is far, far worse than you think now.” Silence filled the room after this statement, and Godric sank to his knees, silently praying to Dietrem that it might not be true. Kithrus said nothing for a while, until the time seemed right to enter into the true purpose of his bringing Godric to this room.

            “Godric, my old friend,” he said, traversing the small space between him and the kneeling knight and crouching down to look him in the eye, “is it wrong to commit a crime if it means saving the lives of countless innocent men, women, and children? Is it wrong to order one man dead if it will save a hundred more? The Black Traveller is a desperate being, brought into this world by accident. He would never have managed without the aid of a foolish necromancer, taking on a task that no one man, nor a thousand men could complete. He has seen to it that all means of banishing him from this world are either made impossible or nonexistent. The first step in this plan was to brainwash the Knights of the Robe, the only men with the power to slay him, and make them his dark generals, leading his hordes to victory. He will stop at nothing to ensure that you and your friends are indeed completely brainwashed and fully converted to his cause. I am offering you an alternative.” He placed a hand on Godric’s shoulder. Godric looked up and saw Kithrus’ intense, green eyes boring into his.

            “And what is that?” he asked in a terse voice.

            “I’m giving you a means to become his trusted general, but to keep your head. When the opportunity arises, you will have the power to usurp him, and he will make no measures to prevent you. He will believe you his, and will place his safety in your care, with the surety that you and your friends are the only ones who can slay him, and with you on his side, he is invincible.”

            “What must I do?” Godric asked. Kithrus smiled again, and there was none of the former sharpness to it. It was the gentle smile of a grandfather teaching his grandson a valuable lesson.

            “You must hunt down the two Knights who escaped his capture,” said Kithrus, “and kill them both.” Godric nodded, and his eyes were strangely out of focus.

            “Kill them both,” he said in a bemused tone.

            “Yes,” Kithrus confirmed, “kill them both, and those who travel with them. They alone can prevent you from slaying the Black Traveller, and making right all the wrongs that have been done.” At this, Godric stood abruptly, his eyes aflame and face grim set.

            “Then it is this I shall do!” he cried.

            “And we shall defeat the fiend that has destroyed our homeland,” Kithrus swore, and it was an oath he would not break.

*          *          *

            Sanadred awoke for the sixth time that morning, the first five having been the result of the many nightmares that had plagued him over that fretful night. Each time that had occurred, he had woken to a dark, but safe and warm, room, and his fatigue had sent back to sleep, to face the next horror his mind concocted for him. When he awoke this final time, his eyes snapped open, and he felt not wearied. Pale light flowed in from the murky windows, and filled the room with cold illumination which showed him that he was not alone. Swagg sat across from him on a bed, watching him as he sat up began to comprehend his surroundings. A smile cracked Swagg’s face, and a laugh escaped him.

            “We were beginning to wonder about leaving you for dead!” he cried boisterously, “But you were thrashing about so, we figured there was enough life in you to wait for you to come to.” Sanadred managed a weak smile, and lifted himself out of the bed. His limbs seemed made of lead, and yet shaky and uncertain at the same time; he hoisted one heavy foot to the ground, but nearly fell when he attempted to put his weight on it. After a few wary steps, he began to grow accustomed to this strange sensation, enough so, at least, that he could walk about without staggering or limping excessively.

            “You took a rather odd fall last night,” Swagg told him as he made his way to a pile of his clothes on the floor beside the bed, “And you might not want to put those things back on. Dirhem went out and bought new clothes for all of us; they’re over there on the table.” Sanadred nodded, still feeling too awkward to speak just yet, and shifted his course to the table, where he found an emerald green shirt with rather large, bunched sleeves, and a black doublet trimmed with silver. A simple pair of leather leggings lay beside them, not so courteously folded up, but fine and serviceable all the same.

            “He tells me that it is the fashion of Lendala,” Swagg chimed in as Sanadred gave a long, quizzical look at the black lace that framed the edges of the doublet, and the frills around the sleeve-collars, “The people here are well-known for their vanity.”

            “You don’t say,” Sanadred choked, coughing after the phrase escaped his lips. Speech came quite forcedly from his lips, but he managed it well enough to communicate, it seemed. “I can’t imagine what sort of man would choose to wear this sort of rubbish.”

            “The lady-folk must have something to do with it,” Swagg replied, causing Sanadred to laugh, though the laughter broke off into a hacking cough. After he had finished, he simply nodded.

            “Invariably,” he replied. With one last disdainful look, he hoisted the shirt over his head, and pulled it about his body. The material was a very smooth silk, and it occurred to Sanadred that Dirhem had spared no expense in purchasing these clothes. He looked over at Swagg and noted that he was wearing a similar shirt of deep crimson, though he wore a golden vest rather than a doublet. With a sigh, Sanadred pulled the doublet about his shoulders, and set about fastening the many black, painted brass buttons. As he buttoned his doublet, Malagent strode into the room and Dirhem soon behind him. Quick behind them was Aeronwyn, who strode into the room only to notice Sanadred still dressing, and backed out suddenly without a sound. In fact, one would have had to be watching for her to have noticed she had entered the room at all.

            “Hurry with your dressing,” Dirhem advised Sanadred, “We are pressed for time. We must be out of this inn by noontide, and it’s an hour till.”

            “Why must we leave?” Sanadred asked, about to protest, but Dirhem cut him off.

            “We have enemies without the building, love,” he said, “And they’re killing off people in the streets to get to us in here. The opinion of street-goers is that we publicly leave this place and secretly take refuge in another.”

            “And where are we to go?” Swagg intoned. Dirhem placed a finger to his chin and thought for a moment, but then waved away the question.

            “I suppose you’ll find out when we arrive,” he said, “And I promise you you’ll have no cause to complain.”

            “We’re looking to reach the King’s ear,” Malagent said in a dark tone, “So he’ll be ready for the attack on this city when it comes.” This was met with silence from all in the room, save Aeronwyn, who had chosen that moment to walk in as Sanadred was by now fully dressed and decent. All eyes turned to her, which nearly caused her to step back out of the room, but she resisted the urge.

            “That’s the overall idea,” Dirhem begrudgingly admitted, “It’s no secret that those who destroyed your village did it because they were after you, personally, and not just your land. But now is not the time for such talk! When we are all safe and have a royal audience, we will fully discuss our course of action. Last night we all realised what must be done. This next week will be devoted to figuring how we will accomplish it.” And at this, he turned and left. Malagent gave a grim nod, and followed.

            “I gathered that he wants us to ready ourselves for leaving,” Aeronwyn told Swagg and Sanadred, though she still eyed Sanadred with no small amount of caution from the previous night’s strange behaviour. Swagg laughed and replied,

            “We have nothing to pack up, miss,” he said, “All our belongings were long since lost. All we have to our names are the clothes on our back, and the backs themselves.”

            “Well then, sir, you’re a rich man indeed,” she mused, and left the room. It took him several moments to realise she had insulted him, and when he did, he made a grumbled vow under his breath, promising nothing pleasant, and soon.

            With nothing to pack up, Sanadred donned the leather boots that had been left for him at the foot of his bed, and he and Swagg filed out of the room, leaving it cold and empty; lifeless, even. Cold light streamed in from the foggy window, droplets of water on the outside gathering together and falling to the tainted ground below. There on the ground, a figure anonymously wrapped in a black cloak stared up at the nearly opaque window, and it tentatively waited for its prey to emerge from within. It had been waiting for this moment for many days, even years, when it had first discovered the secret combinations that were made in the dark, and joined them, even founded a few of its own. It watched, though it had no eyes; it smelt its prey, though it hadn’t a nose. Its fleshless face observed every movement made within and without the building, and it knew that its prey was coming right to it. A very heavyset man with a red, ruddy face and a broad moustache approached it, a green hood pulled over his head and a long, ornate sword at his side. Its head turned, the empty cowl staring blankly at the man, who froze in his step and came no closer. It did not make any gesture toward him, as both its arms were held in what seemed a mummified embrace of itself, holding the black wrappings closely about it; though the man felt it beckon him closer. All the colour that characterized his face drained away in an instant, and he suddenly seemed diminished and smaller. He forced himself to approach even closer, until he could almost see within the folds of the hood, which was something he had made a point never to do, no matter how curious he may become. He knew that this was one truth best kept hidden beneath the filthy folds of that robe.

            “What are your orders?” He asked simply, knowing that wordiness would invariably result in some punishment or another. A clear, deep young woman’s voice came from the cowl:

            “Lead them here,” it said, “and accompany them. Then shall you witness my power and receive your reward as one.” He could say nothing in reply, only obey this being, and obey he did. He hurried out of the alley without another word, and rounded the corner to come to the front of the Medredydd’s Folly Inn, where he saw Dirhem descending the pillared steps to the street, followed closely by a man with a hawk-like face and long, tied hair wearing a long, black cloak. A black sword was visible poking out from behind his cloak, held in a leather sheath that did not conceal the tip. Dirhem himself wore a two-handed sword strapped to his back, with what appeared to be a lantern chained to the pommel. These were the first of two he must bring to the back of the alley behind him, where his master (or perhaps mistress; though he did not want to find out) waited for them. He was about to call them over to him, to lead them there, when, quite unexpectedly, a woman wearing a dirty, leather jacket emerged from the door in a bit of a hurry, and caught up with the two men at the foot of the steps. He recognized her in an instant, and his breath caught in his throat: it was the woman his master had cornered, and he had seen in the Inn when he had spoken to the innkeeper the previous evening.

            She gave a wary glance about her surroundings, and before the man had a chance to hide himself, she spotted him and let out a cry. Dirhem and the other man turned to her, but she didn’t wait to explain anything to them. She ran to where the man stood, frozen in terror, and knocked him to the ground, into the pool of ice at the foot of the alley, which he slid across in full view of his master. The creature in black wrappings stood, still clutching at itself, and knew instantly that the prey was putting up a fight. It watched as Aeronwyn bore down on her slave, who was backing into the alley as fast as he could, until he ran into a wall and was met with Aeronwyn’s dagger at his throat. She appeared to be alone, but as the black-wrapped figure predicted, Dirhem and Malagent appeared at the mouth of the alley as well, their weapons drawn and ready. The creature’s slave had failed it, of course, as it knew he would, and he would die later if he didn’t die at the hands of his enemies immediately. Then, quite beyond what it had predicted, a very strange man also appeared at the mouth of the alley, wrapped all in white furs and wearing a thick white cloak. This new arrival held in each hand an oddly-shaped sword, curved and with only one edge. His face was hidden beneath his white-fur cowl, though his hair streamed out from it, and it glistened silvery-white, identifying him as an Omrigian.

            Aeronwyn stood poised like a cat about to pounce on her prey, a dagger in her hand, over the man who huddled in the alleyway, cowering. Watching over her shoulder were Dirhem, Malagent, and Caradoc, who had run to that spot from the blanket-shop across the street, where he had been watching their flight from the Inn to ensure that they would not be ambushed, or aid them should something like it happen.

            “Well, what have we here?” Dirhem asked in a playful voice, “A messenger, perhaps? A spy?”

            “A spy, for one,” Aeronwyn answered him, “And an enemy to boot. This is the one who tracked me down last night. This is the man Caradoc had to take care of when he let out that he knew we were here!”

            “I remember him,” confirmed Caradoc coldly, “I though I had intimidated him well enough to cure him of his rather nasty curiosity.”

            “And you did!” the man squealed in terror, “I won’t bother you no more, I swear!”

            “I don’t know,” Dirhem said, musing again, “Caradoc tells me you said as much last night.” The man physically recoiled and backed further into the alley as Caradoc took a step forward, more afraid of him than of Aeronwyn’s dagger.

            “I didn’t do nothing!” he vowed, “I never did nothing to any of you! I just wanted to talk to the tall gent with the strange lantern-sword!”

            “I’m sure,” Aeronwyn replied coldly, “Your whole positively countenance drips with sincerity.” His entire countenance rather did drip, and he was certainly sincere in his pleading; he couldn’t see what she was being sarcastic about.

            “What are we to do with him?” Malagent asked, speaking for the first time throughout the encounter.

            “Well,” Dirhem replied, “I think he wants to talk to me, and I may as well hear him out.” The man nodded fervently at this, and a wicked grin began to break through the mask of terror he was wearing.

            “I do bring a message,” the man said, his grin beginning to widen, “From a very powerful wizard. Very powerful!”

            “Yes, you said it twice,” Dirhem noted, “What of him?”

            “I didn’t say the wizard was a man!” protested the man, “And neither is it a woman! I don’t know; it’s not important. It wants to meet you. Talk, you know, about political business and rot like that.” Suddenly, his voice cut off. The grin was gone as though it had never been, and the mask of terror was back. His eyes left the heavily armed party that was interrogating him, and reverted to the back of the alley. His already pale face went significantly paler, and Dirhem followed his gaze. There, at the back of the alley, he spotted something that had escaped his notice before.

            “By Dietrem,” he groaned, and even his face drained of all colour.

            “What was that?” Aeronwyn said quizzically, facing Dirhem. He didn’t reply, just stared blankly to the back of the alley.

            “Welcome, Dirhem,” came a cold, female voice, “and those foolish enough to follow you. Welcome to my trap.”

            “Who said that?” Called Caradoc, his voice sharp and demanding a reply.

            “No one said that,” said the voice, “For I am not one, neither am I none. I do not remember anymore; it has been so long.” All eyes turned to the back of the alley now, and all beheld the being that huddled at the back of the alley, pathetic-looking, wrapped in a black cloak in what seemed to be a standing fetal position.

            “I have hungered for so long,” came the voice from under the hood. It was strange how steady and calm the voice was, given that it was coming from a huddled mass clutching itself, apparently for warmth, “and the filthy, forgotten vagrants of the street do not satisfy my hunger anymore. I require power to feast upon, powerful flesh to consume: I thank you for providing it to me so readily, Dirhem.”

            “I can’t believe it,” Dirhem said, his voice trembling, “It’s a Nightmare.”