part0008

The merchant knew he was being followed, but he had no choice except to push on through the narrow streets of Guile. It was almost midnight and the air was thick with the sickly sweet smell of hops from the brewery at the end of Cooper’s Row. Veils of mist hung over the road forming yellow haloes around the few oil lamps that burned in this, the poorest quarter of the city. The ramshackle buildings rose three storeys high, looming over the road and punctuated by narrow alleyways that ran between them.

Leading his mule, the merchant hurried along. It was a damp night and cold, but the merchant was sweating. Every dark alleyway seemed to be filled with menace and his heart was beating so fast it left him breathless. Madam Carletta of the Fool’s Hope Inn had advised him to hire protection but he had baulked at the cost.

‘No one would dare attack a member of the merchant guild within the city walls,’ he had told her, but the landlady of the Fool’s Hope had not been so sure, and now he bitterly regretted not taking her advice. He kept glancing backwards but he never saw the black man in the dark clothes who came after him.

Turning in the direction of his home, the merchant pressed on. The crossroads ahead of him were lit by one meagre lamp where normally there would be four. The open space was dark and forbidding but still more appealing than the menacing presence he sensed in the streets behind.

Grabbing his mule’s bridle he started forward then stopped as a young man stepped out in front of him. The man appeared to be in his early twenties with a narrow face, dark hair and a pointed nose that had clearly been broken at some point in the past.

The light from the solitary oil lamp glinted off a thin-bladed dagger and a glowing sigil on the back of his hand marked the young man as an apprentice mage.

Trying not to panic, the merchant pulled his mule to the right then stopped again as another figure emerged from the shadows. He turned, only to find two more young men blocking his way while a further two now stepped up behind him. Unlike the apparent leader of the group, these young men had the broad shoulders of those accustomed to physical work. They were dressed in moleskin breeches with the waxed cotton jerkins worn by the ferrymen who plied the rivers of Guile. All of them were armed with knives or the long machetes used for hacking through the thick reeds that grew along sections of the river. It was clear that they had been waiting for him.

The merchant started as one of the young men stepped up behind him. Using his knife he cut the straps on a saddle bag and drew out a metal chest about two hands wide. There was no visible lock or keyhole, only an engraved plate lying across the join where a normal lock would be.

The young man took the chest to the leader of the group who cradled it in the crook of his arm. He placed his right hand on the engraved plate which began to glow causing him to wince and remove his hand as if it had been burned.

‘I’m told,’ he said, now tapping the engraved plate with the tip of his knife, ‘that only your hand can open this chest.’

The leader gave a wicked smile. ‘Oh, you’ll want it to,’ he said. ‘By the time we’ve finished with you, you’ll be begging it to open.’

The merchant’s eyes darted around the crossroads. The streets were empty. There was no one to witness the attack. Turning back to the leader he drew a breath to plead for his life then stopped as a second street lamp suddenly flared into life. Everyone turned, and there, standing beneath the newly lit lamp, was a dark and imposing figure.

The man was tall with the ebony skin of people who hail from the Southern Isles. He was dressed in black leather breeches and a black leather doublet with articulated plates of hardened leather on his right arm and shoulder. A bandolier of throwing stars angled across his chest and a slender shortsword hung at his waist. He stood with a relaxed stance that spoke of confidence. He was not heavily built and yet he possessed the kind of physical presence that would give any man pause. The man’s stern features were gathered in a frown and even in this meagre light they could see that his eyes were blue.

‘Oh, but you boys have made a terrible mistake.’ The man shook his head as if he were truly sorry for the fate that awaited them.

‘You still have time to walk away,’ he told the leader. His voice was deep and warm but with a hard edge that was distinctly intimidating. ‘If you return the chest and leave, Master Veleno might not learn of what you did tonight.’

Knowing they would be severely punished if Master Veleno heard of their attack, four of the young ferrymen rushed forward. Two were armed with knives and two with machetes, but the black man in the dark clothes did not back away. Instead he stepped forward to meet his attackers. One of them raised his machete to strike, but the stranger closed in quickly. He grabbed the young man’s arm and spun him around, forcing him into the path of the other three assailants. With a savage twist the stranger flipped the young man onto his side and he screamed as one of the bones in his arm broke with an audible ‘crack’.

Two knives now flashed towards the stranger as a third man hefted a machete. With impressive speed the stranger disarmed his first opponent before delivering a backhanded blow that broke the young man’s nose. Arching away from a knife-thrust, the stranger caught his second attacker’s wrist, removed the knife from his hand and flipped him onto his back. Then, with agility that belied his size, he spun about, landing a roundhouse kick squarely on the jaw of the last attacker who had just raised his machete to strike. The man’s knees gave out and he dropped his weapon as he stumbled to the floor.

Still holding his downed opponent’s knife, the stranger turned to face the leader of the group. The fight had taken all of ten seconds and the stranger had not even drawn his sword.

Two of the original gang remained standing. The ferryman to the left had not attacked and he stood with his knife trembling in his hand. The leader was clearly shocked by the speed with which the stranger had defeated his companions, but he also looked surprisingly confident. Still holding the merchant’s chest he reached into his tunic and pulled out a small crystal sphere that was filled with a swirling green light.

‘So you know how to fight,’ he said in a mocking tone. ‘Let’s see how tough you are when you’re breathless and paralysed.’

For a moment the young man hesitated then he smiled as he threw the crystal sphere at the stranger’s feet. The sphere shattered and a glowing green gas flowed towards the stranger and the ferrymen lying close by. The magical fumes seemed to seek them out, engulfing their torsos and swirling about their heads.

The youths on the ground began to writhe and choke as if their limbs were frozen and they could not breathe, and the leader smiled. He had stolen the sphere from his master’s workshop and he was glad to see that it had been worth the risk.

The stranger seemed to stagger and the leader smiled, but then a magical light sprang up beneath the stranger’s doublet as if the skin of his chest was glowing. The light was fierce, like fire, and the green smoke began to dissipate.

The leader stared in disbelief as the stranger stepped clear of the smoke and walked towards him. The magical fumes in the sphere were strong enough to fell a draught horse, but the black man in the dark clothes seemed unaffected and now he stood there as calm and intimidating as ever.

The leader looked down at the stranger’s chest where the neck of his black doublet had been pulled open to reveal the edge of a tattoo that glowed faintly in the man’s dark flesh. The leader’s eyes widened as he recognised the tattoo of a demon hunter. Originally formed to combat demons that broke through into the human world, this elite unit of warriors had become a weapon to be used against those who opposed the emperor. For a moment the apprentice mage paused in fear then, with a snarl of frustration, he turned to run still cradling the merchant’s chest in his arms.

Still holding the knife he had taken from one of his attackers, the stranger drew back his arm and threw it. The leader was barely twenty paces away when the knife took him in the back of the leg. With a cry he fell forward and the chest went skidding from his grasp. With the knife still sticking out of his leg he tried to get to his feet as the stranger advanced towards him.

The magical green smoke had now lifted from the other youths and with much groaning and choking they picked themselves up from the ground. The stranger walked past the injured leader to retrieve the chest from the street before looking down at the young man.

‘You were foolish to ignore Veleno’s decree on the merchant guild,’ he said. ‘But I will keep my silence if you promise to leave the city.’

‘Silence!’ spat the leader of the gang. ‘It should be you asking me to keep silent.’ With a grunt he pulled the knife from his leg and staggered to his feet. ‘I know what you are,’ he said, pointing a finger at the stranger’s chest. ‘I know why the magic didn’t harm you.’

‘You’re a deserter, and I think Master Veleno will be very interested to know that one of your sort is holed up in the city.’ Even though he was pale and sweating, the young apprentice mage smiled. ‘In fact I’m sure he would pay handsomely for such information.’

‘Silence be damned,’ said the leader. ‘Maybe this night will prove worthwhile after all.’ With that he jerked his chin at the members of the gang and together they limped away into the night.

The stranger watched them go then he gave a heavy sigh and turned back to the merchant who was still standing beside his mule. The merchant drew a shuddering breath and watched as the stranger returned the chest to his saddlebag.

‘I’ll see you home,’ said the stranger. ‘But next time don’t ignore the advice of one of the wisest people in the city.’

The merchant was still in shock, but he gave a nervous nod. He now remembered seeing the stranger in the Fool’s Hope Inn, but the merchant did not move in magical circles and so he had not heard the story of the dark-skinned man with blue eyes and a tattoo on his chest that protected him from magical harm. Had he heard such stories he would know that the young apprentice mage was right…

The stranger had once been a demon hunter in the service of the emperor. That was before he rebelled against his oath and paid a terrible price for his disobedience. Now he lived the quiet life of a hired sword, taking on whatever protection work he could find.