"Candles and Crossroads" by James K Bowers

     Brilliant afternoon sunlight splashed through the lone, barred window set high in the wall of the clammy cell. The light was indirect but painful, just the same, to one whose eyes had become accustomed to the gloom. It did nothing to warm the cold stone or the spirit of the man held captive there.
     True, he was young, but after long hours of torture, little food or water, almost no sleep, and days of incarceration in this inhospitable cell, he felt old and arthritic. He heard the scrabbling of some large insect or small rodent, unseen in a darkened corner. He didn't care. He tasted his own dried blood as he licked his lips. In spite of all the surrounding dampness, his throat was dry.
      The clatter and hammering from the great cobblestone courtyard outside the cell was, according to his cruel guards, "for his benefit." He stood slowly, pain grumbling throughout his body, and peered between the bars with his left eye. His right eye was swollen so badly from the beatings that he could no longer open it. The Triad's small crew of hired carpenters was methodically erecting the necessary scaffolding and framework. By tomorrow morning, their work would be complete and black-hooded men would begin testing the platform's trap door using bags of sand. Then, tomorrow evening? well, he just didn't care to dwell on the future.
     The Triad's court formed the eastern corner of the Grand Merchants' Bazaar, occupying the triangular area defined by the great towers of the ruling Triad. Even though the court accounted for nearly a quarter of the space within the walls of the Bazaar, no sellers dared set up shop in the Triad's court. The Triad demanded its use reserved for the splendid entertainments of the Theatricians Guild--and the less frequent but more grisly spectacles of which he would soon be an unwilling participant. Beyond the Triad's court, the Bazaar bustled and buzzed with hawkers and buyers going about their business.
     In the Bazaar, the youth knew, merchants of the highest caliber paid large sums of gold for the privilege of displaying and selling their distinctive and expensive wares. It was a marketplace for the upper crust of Silva's society, not the dusty, dung-strewn square found in the city's Lower Third. With his mind's eye, the youth gazed beyond the carpenters and their handiwork. Here the elite of Silva's traders sold bright trinkets of gold and silver, jeweled bracelets, finely-crafted swords with gemstones winking from their hilts and pommels, imported tapestries, aged wines and spirits, opulent clothing that sparkled in the sunlight. Here, the wealthy browsed through aisles filled with silks and richly patterned fabrics, furniture and chests fashioned from exotic wood, the furs of peculiar creatures. Works of art were commonplace: paintings and woodcarvings, and figurines sculpted from the teeth and bones of enormous beasts found only in the deepest seas or faraway lands. None of these fabulous things, of course, was within the young man's ground-level field of vision. What he could see of the courtyard beyond the bars of the squat window was the inexorable progress of the carpenters.

---

     Daylight was waning, the light from the retreating sun lending its tawny glow to the weathered clapboards of The Brass Dragon. The meek were leaving as the patronage filling the inn's greatroom began its grim transformation. The inn's clientele was always a mixed lot, but dusk brought with it the thieves and cutthroats, prostitutes, hard-shelled mariners in port for a day or two, smugglers, dealers in contraband, and those who offered services of a darker nature. Until recently, it had always been a safe haven. Always.
     The small, upstairs room was oppressive in the summer heat, but it didn't keep the Scorpion and Falcon from their desperate race against time. The Triad began their cleansing of Silva several months ago, and now a very young Pit Viper waited for tomorrow's sunset in an East Tower cell. The boy had only just begun his career and now, victim of his own inexperience, was set to pay a price he could only pay once.
     "How do ya 'spect to save his life, Scorpion, when ya can't even save yer own soul?" sneered the bandit. A thin crimson line from a garrote circled his neck, the mark of an encounter he did not survive. His assassin, sitting cross-legged on the floor and sweating in the sweltering heat, continued working on the leather armor. It was not the armor of a Triad Guardsman, but it would be. At least, it would be if no one familiar with the equipment and accouterments of the Guard inspected it closely. "Sure. Go on, then. Keep strugglin' with yer leathers. Can't just face reality, can ya? And, now, this one's yer fault, too, isn't he? Might've been yer apprentice, but no... yer too stubborn. Can't have some cocksure son-uv-a-whore prancin' about an' bad-mouthin' yer own mentor, can we?" If he was aware of the bandit and his comments, Scorpion ignored them.
     The auburn-haired woman sitting on the bed looked up from her needlework. "Will this work, Scorpion? This disguise has to be perfect or else--"
     "I'm aware of the or elses."
     "I know. I just meant that--"
     "I know what you meant, Falcon," he replied, glancing up at her. Their eyes met for a moment, an instant of unspoken and unmistakable communication, then she went back to her sewing. The dark indigo cloth was not the cloak of a Triad Guardsman, but it would be.

---

     The sun had set hours ago. The glow from several candles bathed the room in warm, wavering amber. In the flickering light, the pair finished their work on the disguise. They bundled it tightly and carefully secured it in a black canvas cover.
     "Sleep," she said, lifting the bundle from the bed. "I'll wake you in an hour."
     Scorpion nodded his thanks.
     "If you can, Scorpion," laughed the bandit. "If you can..."
     Scorpion sank in a fatigued sprawl onto the bed, closed his eyes, and tried to clear his weary mind. He knew he would need every moment of rest he could before putting their plan into action.
     Falcon fluffed the thin cushions and settled into the simple wooden chair. Other than the bed and nightstand, it was the only piece of furniture in the room. She reached over to the nightstand and turned the hourglass. Grains of falling sand trickled in a tiny stream to mark the passage of time. When, finally, the last of the sand spilled into the lower chamber of the glass they would begin their desperate gambit to foil the Triad's plans for the young Pit Viper.

---

     She was dressed in black. The moon played hide and seek with steel grey clouds as she made her way to the silent Grand Merchants Bazaar. She knew there would be a couple Guardsmen patrolling the courtyard but once she located them, she could avoid them easily. It did not take long to spot them. One was sitting on the top step of the gallows looking out over the tents and stands of the bazaar. The other was working his way through the market stalls--she couldn't see him, but he was making more noise than a kettle merchant and was nowhere near Falcon's vantage point.
     She waited for the guard on the platform to look away, and then, as silently as her namesake, she slipped through the open gateway and sprinted along the low wall until she faded, just another shadow among the shadows. She felt the tightly-wrapped canvas silently pounding on her back as she ran. She quickly darted along the smooth stone of the South Tower. Then, using her fingertips to feel her way along the curtain wall that connected the two towers, she inched ever closer to the East Tower and the small, barred, ground-level windows.
     As she crept toward the first window, she heard "Kettle-guard" clumping and clanking nearer. At the base of the wall and the attached South Tower, no cover existed other than the darkness. Falcon froze in place and hoped the guards would not discover her. For the sake of silence and the benefit of reduced weight, she was carrying only a small dagger. If faced with these two, she doubted any good outcome from a direct confrontation. Even if she could dispatch them both, it was very unlikely a shouted alarm would go unnoticed this close to the Triad's towers. If that happened, she had little hope she'd see another sunrise.
     Falcon remained motionless, scarcely daring to breathe. The two guards were talking--just far enough away that she was unable to make out their words, but close enough that any sound she made would surely draw them to her like hunting hounds to the scent of a fox. Time was running out.
     After the passing of an eternity, Falcon heard the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs of the gallows. Then more footsteps, these quicker, lighter, more agile-sounding. By the sounds, she surmised that Kettle-guard was now taking his turn resting and his noisy ways threatened to make it impossible to tell where the roving guard was.
     "Guardsman!" The sound of the voice took Falcon by surprise. The abrupt rattle and clank from the gallows alleged that the intruder caught Kettle-guard in a moment of inattentiveness.
     "Y-yes, Captain," tongue-stumbled Kettle-guard, a nervous dread seeping into his voice.
     Captain Ballaras, Falcon realized. Things were going from bad to worse. Not only could he foul the rescue attempt, but his presence could easily earn her a turn on the gallows, too. The guardsmen would now be much more alert, if for no other reason than to show their great leader they were worth the silver they were paid. The Captain's voice carried; it was a voice of confident command vastly different from that of either guardsman.
     "Check the area by the North Tower. I've had reports from my informants that some mischief is afoot, but the only thing they seem to agree on is that the North Tower is somehow concerned. Find the other guardsman on your way--both of you check it and report back to me."
     "Yes, Sir," Kettle-guard acknowledged. Falcon heard him turn and set off at a brisk pace. Hoping the rattle and rustle he made would be sufficient to mask any clumsiness on her part, she chose that moment to scurry the remainder of the way to the East Tower. There, in the deep shadow of the tower's base, Falcon felt safer, though she was only a few yards distant from where the guards forced her to pause last. Mere feet ahead lay a series of ground-level apertures. The East Tower walls were thick, so the small tunnels that served as windows were themselves an obstacle. Stout iron bars set in the stone prevented anyone outside the tower from gaining access through these windows and, deeper within, the second set of bars ensured occupants of the cells remained in captivity. She hoped the Pit Viper would hear her and dearly hoped the Captain and his guards could not. She didn't know how sensitive Captain Ballaras' ears were, but she was well aware that this was not the ideal time to find out.
     In silence, Falcon edged her way to the nearest of the barred openings then hissed a whispered name. She shrank into the quietness and waited, listening for any response from the inky depths of the cell or any sign that Ballaras or his men had detected her presence.
     Minutes passed. Again, she whispered, "Viper..."
     Nothing still.
     She moved on to the next set of bars, ever mindful of her precarious situation. "Hssst... Viper?"
     Seconds ticked by, then from the darkness came a whisper accompanied by the indistinct rustle of movement. "Who's there?"
     "Falcon."
     "There are guards..."
     "I know. Quiet--and do as you're told tonight." She unslung the bundle and tried to squeeze it through the bars. It wouldn't fit.
      Falcon thought for a moment, and then, with deft precision, she unwrapped the contents of the bundle and removed each item from it as if handling eggs. Any sound louder than a soft whisper would surely alert Captain Ballaras. For that very same reason, Falcon knew she couldn't pass the armor piecemeal through the bars to the Viper. She thought for a moment, then shoved the canvas between the bars, and spread it out. One item at a time, she slipped the armor and clothing through the bars and placed it carefully, noiselessly, on the canvas. When all was through to the other side of the bars, Falcon reached through, wrapped the canvas, and tied it. With an extra tug on the straps, she cinched the canvas tight.
     By using her leg to push the bundle toward the young man, Falcon was able to slide it within reach of the Triad's captive.
     "Put those on. Now," she whispered. "Then get some rest." Without waiting for an answer, Falcon dissolved into the night.
      Something with too many legs crawled across the Viper's foot as he untied Falcon's gift. He hoped he could identify everything in the bundle correctly in the inky darkness and wondered at what Falcon had in mind. His hands trembled from the dank chill of the cell, from fatigue, and from fear of the next setting sun. He fought against it, but the unsteadiness would not surrender. Instead, it merely carried out a reluctant retreat and waited for a more favorable moment to renew the attack.
     In the blackness of his cell, the gifted craftsmanship of the disguise was lost, yet, bit by bit, the Pit Viper became the very image of a Triad guardsman.

---

     Captain Ballaras strode briskly past the sentries flanking the main entrance of the East tower, the two courtyard guardsmen having difficulty keeping pace as they trailed behind him. Recognizing the commander of the Triad's security force, the sentries did not delay him. Ballaras stopped abruptly and turned. "No one is to enter unless I am first notified. Until further notice, only myself and members of the Guard may leave."
     "Yes, sir," chorused the pair of sentries. "By all that burns in the Netherhells, I will have your heads if there has been an escape. Note their names, sergeant." The senior of the guardsmen who had earlier been patrolling the Triad's court committed their names to memory while "Kettle-guard" rushed ahead to the great oak door, opening it for their leader.
     Once inside the tower, the trio took a short and narrow passageway that brought them to a stout ironclad door guarded by a single armored swordsman.
     "Keys!" demanded the Captain, holding out his hand with obvious impatience.
     The sentinel fumbled momentarily, but produced the requested ring of keys. The Captain looked at the daunting collection of keys and exclaimed, "Ah! Great Elmandrin's beard! We have no time for this! Just open it!"
     Captain Ballaras did not have to ask twice. If the Captain seemed on edge, it was nothing compared to the young sentry's anxiety. Though his nervousness showed, the sentry unlocked, unbolted, and opened the door quickly.
     "Stand aside now and give me the keys," Ballaras ordered. He grabbed a torch from a wall sconce, handed it to one of his accompanying guardsmen, then prodded them down the narrow stairwell. "Listen closely, sentry, on pain of death. We three have entered. You will allow only the three of us to exit." The Captain snatched the keys from the sentry and followed the receding light down the stone steps. He wondered how observant the sentry had been.

---

     "DAMN them!" cursed the Captain. "They've let the prisoner escape! And one of our own guardsman beaten and locked in the very same cell!"
     The two guardsmen that had descended into the East Tower dungeon looked on over the Captain's shoulder. "Sergeant. We will need to correct this unfortunate turn of events before daybreak. Before the Triad learns of this disaster. Go to the barracks and rouse ten men whom you know and trust. Tell no one else--especially not the bumbling sentries standing guard above. You will organize your men into a search party and find the missing prisoner. He cannot have gotten far in his condition. I expect he will flee to the Lower Third, perhaps a tavern or the docks. Go."
     The sergeant wasted no time in obeying his orders.
     "Sir?" said the other guard. "What now, Sir?"
     "Isn't that obvious, soldier? We free this unfortunate guardsman. Then we find out, one way or another, what he knows of this. Here... take these keys... find the one that opens this cell." Trading keys and torch, the Captain stepped back to set the torch in a sconce. Kettle-guard began to try the keys.
     In little time, the lock mechanism clacked in the claustrophobic hollowness of the corridor. As Kettle-guard pushed, the barred iron swung into the cell with a metallic groan. He moved closer to the guardsman on the cell's cold stone floor. As he approached, and the face of the man came into his view, it occurred to Kettle-guard that he had never seen this man before. It was his last thought as something heavy struck the back of his skull.
     The Pit Viper, in his Triad uniform, leapt to his feet, unsure what to make of the menacing commander of the Triad Guards. The young assassin backed against the wall, well aware that the sword at his side was only a wooden facsimile while the Captain's was probably of the finest Vellagari steel.
     Captain Ballaras motioned toward the unconscious Kettle-guard. "Take his sword. You may use it."
     When the Viper made no move to comply, the Captain pointed again and said, "Take his sword. He'll wake up needing more than just a sword to keep him alive--especially if he implies his commander was involved in your escape."
     The young man eyed his captor warily and still made no move. With a sigh, the Captain continued, "I tried to point out the importance of artful disguise to you before. It is a craft that takes years to perfect and it is as much dependent on misdirection as it is on costume and makeup. Remember?"
     A flash of recognition lit the young man's eyes. "Scorpion..." His whispered amazement told the "Captain" his plan had hope of success.
     "We're going to walk out of here, past the sentries. We will split up--you will meet Falcon. Follow Caravan Way past Dreadhaven Cemetery--she waits at the remains of old witch Gethy's cottage at Aldridge crossroad. I will follow. Now, listen carefully if you want to live..."

---

     Falcon watched the city in the distance. A fire was blazing in the Lower Third--bucket brigades would be furiously battling the flames. If the blaze got out of control it would turn the whole of Silva into an inferno, not, she reminded herself, that reducing the city to ash would be such a horrible thing.
     She waited and watched, but still no one approached on the road that wound from Silva past the lonely cemetery.
     A pale light on the Eastern horizon warned of yet another day before Falcon spotted the lone figure on horseback. Her bow in hand, arrow nocked, she remained as motionless as the crumbled cottage stone. Whether the bowstring was drawn and arrow loosed would be determined soon.
     The rider slowed his mount, reining the steed in as he neared the tumbled walls of old witch Gethy's lair. "Falcon!" he called softly. Even in the slowly retreating darkness, she knew his undisguised voice. She removed the arrow from the string and slipped it back into the quiver as the man dismounted.
     She stepped from her concealment and waded through the small, overgrown yard to the stone fence at the roadside. "He's not here yet, Scorpion."
     "If he isn't here now, he won't be coming." He hid it well, but Falcon still detected the regret in Scorpion's voice. "He had a good quarter-hour lead before I took time to let there be only one Captain Ballaras in Silva. The whole city is nothing but a hornet's nest. The Triad is in uproar. Ballaras is burning everything he thinks might be a haven for our escaped Pit Viper. The Captain knows he wasn't down in the dungeons when the Viper went missing. And I'm sure the Triad's had the time to figure out that they were made fools, and if there's anything they hate more than losing gold, it's losing face."
     "So what do we do?"
     Scorpion shrugged. "We wait. There's still a chance..."
     "Well, let's get your horse off the road and into Gethy's little barn out back. Most of it is in ruin, but one useful corner still is left."
     With both horses out of sight in the derelict barn, the two assassins returned to Gethy's long disused home. Some three decades earlier, the Triad hanged the old witch for the death of Lord Mathek's youngest son. According to local folklore, she claimed to be nothing more than a simple herbalist. However, when the boy had died while in her care, the trial was swift and decisive. They determined that she was in the service of the dark powers and so she danced a final dance in the Triad's Courtyard. The Triad proclaimed her land was cursed by latent evils and none had dared prove otherwise in all the years since.
     What threat that evil to two whose souls already lay in shadow? They rested and stood watch in turn. The long vigil stretched into the early morning and their hopes for the young assassin's escape waned with each passing moment.
     "So this'll be how the legend of the dread Scorpion ends," mocked the bandit from his perch on the long-cold hearth. "Just another failed life... empty as this ol' witch's den. Oh, I know. Ya won't say nuthin'. But I know ya hear me, Scorpion."
     Falcon stirred in her slumber at Scorpion's feet and pulled her cloak tighter.
     "Ya know what yer problem is, boy? Ya just refuse to see things what are right in front of yer eyes." The bandit rubbed at his neck. A look of mild bewilderment spread across his face as his fingers examined the garrote's telltale red furrow.

---

     The late morning sun warmed the roofless cottage. Scorpion and Falcon were both immersed in a separate silence, their thoughts on the events of the night before. A slight breeze was blowing, bringing with it the smells of Silva. The faint stench of fish mingled with the sweat and excrement of men and animals drifted through the shattered hovel. They were familiar, if not pleasant, odors. There was a new smell lurking with the expected ones--an unsettling smell of smoke and ash.
     Through the morning, several passed the old witch's lair, some singly and others in small groups. None cared to pause at the ruins except one man in splendid garb. He dismounted slowly and kept his hands well away from his body. He took his time securing his horse to the rusted iron gate in the shade of an anemic marsh oak. Well within view of Scorpion and Falcon, he untied a small water skin from the saddle and made a show of washing the road dust from his mouth.
     "He's not coming, you know," said the well-dressed man. He paused, hoping for a reply, then offered as much of a truce as a rival was likely to give. "We need to talk, Scorpion."
     "Very well... talk," came the answer from the witch's cottage.
     "No need to be so defensive, Scorpion. It appears we are now very much comrades in arms, no matter our past differences." He spread his arms wide. "After all it is such a beautiful day. It would be a shame to waste it, don't you agree?"
     "Watch him closely," Scorpion whispered. "Kill him if he twitches."
     Scorpion stepped over the rubble at the doorway and then into the knee-deep grass and weeds that thrived in the unkempt yard. The sunlight outside the cottage was little different from that within the dilapidated stone shell. "Cirkas, the Black Weasel... What a... what a pleasant surprise."
     "Yes. And what a treat to see you in such a jovial mood!" exclaimed Cirkas, trading sarcasm for sarcasm. "No doubt that will change, though. Whatever the case, I suggest we settle on terms of our truce?"
     "I see no need for terms as long as both of us survive our meeting. Who else knows of our whereabouts?"
     The Black Weasel shook his head. "There aren't many left to worry over--I was only guessing myself. I imagine the latest news from Silva may be of interest?"
     "What do you know, Cirkas? From here it doesn't look so good."
     "Oh, believe me, it isn't. Ballaras and his thugs have burned The Brass Dragon and The Harpy's Nest to the ground, along with half a dozen less prominent havens. Rumor has it that a prisoner escaped last night with a little help from some friends. Well, he's safely locked away again--at least until this evening's festivities. Jank Threefinger slipped away to the docks. Presumably he has friends among the pirates--sorry, sea captains--who will see to his safety. No word at all on the Grey Fox--probably outfoxed this time and burned with the dozen or so who couldn't escape the building. The Harpy's Nest fared much worse, I'm afraid. I'll not be seeing any of my old friends again in this lifetime. And the Falcon? Well, I do wish you would ask her to put her bow away." Cirkas smiled an odd smile. "Come, Scorpion, we don't have to be friends. But, under the circumstances, we should try to be civil, don't you agree?"
     "Let's get your horse out of sight. And you inside."

---

     "One thing is certain--they'll have posted every guardsman they can spare. It won't be so easy getting in and out of Silva this evening, but if we can manage it..." Cirkas toyed with his dagger as he examined the diagram scratched in the cottage's dirt floor. He poked at the rough map of Silva. "I think here, here, and..." he hesitated, then thrust once more, "...here would be our best choices. I'm not so sure of that last one--the barracks is only a short distance away, but might be all but vacant."
     "You're probably right. The chimney of the smithy's forge should provide the best cover to be had anywhere near the North Tower. It's a long shot from there," observed Scorpion, "but I think I can still work with it. How about you, Falcon? The roof of the Grand Merchants' Guildhouse should do fine for you, but will you be able to retreat from there?"
     "With a length of rope, I'll be off and gone down Pauper's Alley and nothing but another cause for rumor. That's the easy part of all this." She looked away toward the city out the gaping hole that was once a small window.
     "Cirkas? You know you don't have a stake in this. You could lay low for a while... or do some traveling, see the world. You don't have to help us."
     "There's where you're wrong, Scorpion. I don't believe I have much choice as long as the Triad maintains this notion that we're all better off as worm food. Any chance to keep those high-bred mongrels from having their way is a chance I have to take."
     "That's settled, then. Yours is the closest vantage point. If things aren't right, just get out of there." Scorpion rubbed out all traces of the map with his boot. "We'd best be on our way. If all goes well, we'll meet here again tonight."
     Saddling the horses took little time and soon the three were on the road leading back into the city. They rode together at first, speaking little. The sun, for all its cheerful warmth, was no match for the group's somber mood and soon found itself ignored.
     "It's better we don't arrive at once," said the Black Weasel. "I'll ride on ahead. Good luck."
     "And to you. You know, Cirkas, we don't have to be friends. But, under the circumstances, we should be, don't you agree?"
     The Black Weasel grinned and spurred his mount. The distance grew between them until he was far enough away Scorpion doubted a shout could reach his ears. Falcon had been very quiet since Cirkas showed up at Gethy's cottage. With the Black Weasel far from earshot, she asked, "How did he know where to find you, Scorpion? Can we trust him?"
     "He says he guessed, and what choice is there?" he replied with a shrug. Scorpion squinted in the early afternoon glare. "Come on. There's time to find another road into the city, but I'm afraid we can't change much else." He reined his mount off the road keeping the outskirts of Silva in the distance to his right. "We owe the Viper that much."

---

     The sun was burning a red-orange path to meet the western horizon. Hundreds, mostly commonfolk, but also the well-to-do, milled about in the Bazaar. Even a small number of the usually disinterested elves had turned out this late afternoon. To say that the crowd boiling in the Triad's Bazaar was unruly would be a laughable understatement. What it amounted to was only a hurled stone shy of an angry mob. The gruesome truth of the matter was that they enjoyed these infrequent entertainments--couldn't wait to watch someone else's life snuffed out. The Pit Viper could hear them chanting, and knew they chanted for him. Tonight, he would be their entertainment. When that was over, they would scatter to the few remaining taverns to drink themselves into a stupor. And, all the while, they'd think about that sorry, soiled thing twitching at the end of the rope and thank whatever gods or demons that it was he and not they.
     Time, from the young assassin's point of view alternated between irregular bursts of clarity and nightmarish surrealism. The barred cell door groaned open and the guards hustled him through the narrow corridor. They were neither more kind nor more unkind to him now as on any other day of his captivity, not unlike keepers in a bestiary preparing to feed the great carnivorous cats a live goat.
     At sunset, in the name of justice, the morbid appetite of the masses would be sated.

---

     Two arrows for each of them.
     There would not be time for more.
     Scorpion crouched uncomfortably close to the chimney. It was still hot from the smithy's labors. The assassin examined one of his two arrows, the shaft and fletching dyed black, and ran a finger over the tiny enameled scorpion so painstakingly painted scarcely an inch forward of the fletching. All six arrows were the same. Let the Triad see them and know fear.
     Lying prone on the Guildhouse roof, Falcon eyed the tiny scorpions adorning her arrows. Tears had rinsed some of the dust from her cheeks.
     The Black Weasel, hidden from view for the moment, lifted a black arrow to sight down its length. He rolled the arrow in his fingers to ensure it was not warped and a tiny enameled scorpion passed in and out of view just a thumbs-breadth from the fletching.
     Six arrows. One word to loose them.

---

     The crier, with his prepared scroll in hand, ascended the gallows to stand only feet from the Pit Viper. "Hear ye! Hear ye!" sprang a voice that seemed too powerful to come from such a small man. "As determined by the Judge Imperator of Silva, this man, unnamed but choosing to be called Pit Viper, has been found guilty of high treason, sedition, murder, communing with denizens of the Netherhells. For these and other crimes against the citizenry of Silva, he has been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead."
     The mob roared its approval as the black-hooded executioner slipped the noose over the young man's head and snugged it around his neck.
     "By proclamation of the Triad, this sentence is to be carried out and witnessed by such citizens of Silva as may desire to do so. Executioner, you may--"
     A black arrow struck the crier in the chest and he fell back, eyes blank and wide, and red foam gurgling from his lips.
     Screams of pandemonium erupted from the crowd as two arrows slammed into the doomed young man and his legs gave way--dead before the hangman's noose tightened. His lifeless body swayed atop the gallows platform, free at last and forever from the Triad's grip.
     Three more arrows, in quick succession, found their targets.
     The hangman, trying to escape the carnage atop the gallows lost his balance as a black shaft embedded itself in his shoulder. He slipped over the side and fell over the edge to the stone below. He landed heavily on his head and shoulder and those closest to him heard the snapping of bones.
     Two Triad guardsmen were trying to calm the crowd as it surged like the tide in the harbor. The fifth arrow left only one for that task and the human wave quickly inundated him.
     The sixth and final arrow, unnoticed by the panicked spectators, flew through the topmost window of the East Tower. The rattle and spark of the ricocheting shaft was as nothing when compared to the terrified shrieks of women and futile shouts of men in the courtyard below, but when it was found in the Triad's audience chamber--perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after--the meaning of the small enameled symbol on the shaft would be clear enough.

---

     Scorpion and Falcon sat mutely in the night; moonlight poured through the place where once there was a roof. Gethy's shambles seemed lonelier than it ever had. The smothering solitude encroached until it was no longer solitude.
     The bandit stood on the rotted planks that might once have been Gethy's table and shook his head. "Just another failed life... empty as this ol' witch's den."
     Mynorra, seawater dripping from her pale skin, stood accusingly in the ragged doorway. "...he should be strutting the streets with nothing on his mind but pert breasts, slim waists, and inviting hips. But no... His bed will be much colder now."
     "Don't listen to 'em--it was a hell of a shot," offered Brannus from across the small room.
     "Scorpion," said Falcon. The man acted as if he were in a trance. "Scorpion!" A little louder and a great deal more insistent this time.
     With a jolt, as if wakening from a dream, Scorpion finally heard her. "Yes?" he said with such a blandness that she was hardly certain it was his voice.
     "It will be fine when the sun rises. It will be a new day and we can forget what we had to do today." She spoke the words, but knew it was far from their reality. "We have to. Neither of us can afford not to."
     Scorpion rose and cautiously made his way through the darkness to her. Falcon had never seen him so grim. "We did what had to be done, Scorpion. You know that. If it were you at the gallows, you would want the same."
     Their eyes met.
     She couldn't stand to see Scorpion this way. "It's going to be fine. And you know I'll always lo--"
     Scorpion pressed his fingers to her lips. "Please... please, don't say... don't say..."
     The bandit smiled. "Just another failed life... empty as this ol' witch's den."

---