Night of Long Shadows

CHAPTER 1

The first night of Long Shadows

Zor, the 26th day of Vult, 998

Earlier that night.

Cutter’s brother used to say there were two ways you could live.

One, you fought against everything, spent every moment of your life wanting to be somewhere else, regretting you hadn’t done better, made more money, married that girl you knew when you were younger. You fought yourself with every breath and blamed everyone else for the mess you were in.

Or two, you accepted your lot no matter what the deal, and you lived your life in each and every moment, not waiting for the future or looking back over the past.

You lived now.

His brother had lived according to number two. He died in the War, but he left behind a legacy of good deeds and good advice.

Cutter hated him for it. He could almost feel his brother’s ghost hovering over his shoulder, shaking his head at the choices Cutter made, at where those choices had led him.

Here. Staring out a grubby window in the back room of a seedy Lower Menthis tavern.

Rain thundered from the night sky. It streamed down the cracked glass of the window and trickled inside, soaking into the damp wood beneath his fingers. Everbright lanterns were spaced widely along the street, covered in an oily grime even the rain couldn’t wash away. The light they cast was sickly and jaundiced, and so faint that all they did was create thick pools of lurking shadow for the cutpurses to hide in.

It always rained here. Even if the sky was clear up above, the runoff from the upper wards-sluice water, condensation, sweat, and slops-all blended into a muggy mixture that trickled down the mile high buildings and fell over the lower wards in a fine, misty drizzle that made the skin feel oily. You couldn’t shake that feeling-as if you were coated in a constant sheen of grease and dirt.

Or maybe that was just the company he kept.

Cutter heard his name spoken behind him. He frowned and turned from the window.

Nothing had changed. Elian was still tied to the chair, his arms bound tightly behind him. He was breathing raggedly, his thin face covered with blood. Cutter could tell he was trying not to look at the pointed ear lying in a small puddle of blood by his feet.

Tiel had done that. He always got carried away with the violence.

Cutter shifted his gaze and looked at the halfling. Tiel crouched on the warped floorboards, his hands dangling between his legs as he stared unblinkingly at his captive. He’d been holding that position for half a bell, his wiry muscles supporting him without even a tremble of complaint.

He put Cutter in mind of a desert snake, watching its prey as it waited for the best moment to strike.

“The thing is,” said Tiel in his reasonable voice, “it’s not just me you’re letting down. When you don’t pay me what you owe, I can’t pay my people what I owe, and they tend to get upset. Isn’t that right, Cutter?”

“That’s right.”

Elian looked at Cutter. Cutter stared back, unblinking. Cutter was a big guy-over six-three, with a thick neck and dark hair so short it was barely stubble. A dragon tattoo crawled up his arms and around his neck, seeming to writhe whenever he tensed his muscles. He knew he looked scary. That was why he did what he did. He was good at it.

Cutter could see the fear in the elf’s eyes, the fear that he was going to die. That was how Tiel liked to work. Take everything away from them, then give something back. Gratitude alone usually made them cough up what they owed. But Cutter still had to work them over a bit. Just so they didn’t try it again.

“And Cutter here”-Tiel paused and slapped the elf’s foot-”look at me when I’m talking to you.”

The elf jerked his head back to look at the halfling.

“That’s better. As I was saying, Cutter needs his money.” Tiel leaned forward conspiratorially. “See, his woman’s a courtesan, and Cutter likes to give her money so she doesn’t have to work so much.” He rocked back on his haunches again. “Me, I could never be with someone who gets paid for sex, but that’s just me. I have my pride.”

This time Cutter didn’t meet the elf’s gaze. He looked away, uninterested in the conversation. He’d heard it all before. It used to annoy him, the way Tiel put him down, talking about him like he wasn’t there. But not anymore.

Bren, Tiel’s bodyguard, had approached him one of the first times Tiel talked like that, when Cutter was leaning against the bar trying to stop himself from shoving a knife into Tiel’s stomach.

“You respect him?” Bren had asked.

Cutter hadn’t moved. “What?”

“I said, do you respect him?”

Cutter turned his head to look at him. “Who? Tiel?”

Bren grinned and nodded. “Yeah, Tiel. Is he someone who’s opinion matters to you?”

Cutter thought for a moment. “Not in the slightest.”

“Then why do you act like what he says makes a difference? You don’t respect him. He knows that. So he takes shots at you. He wants to see how far he can push you. See, he knows he’s got me to watch over him.”

“And you’re good at what you do?”

“The best. So stop letting him get to you. You’re ugly enough without me having to rearrange your face.”

Just then, Bren was leaning in the shadows against the far wall, clenching and unclenching his new adamantine arm. He was about the same height as Cutter, with long, black hair, but his build was slimmer. That didn’t mean he was weak. Cutter had once seen him drop a half-orc with one well-placed punch. No. He definitely wasn’t weak. His strength was simply … more focused.

Cutter knew he was listening, even though it looked like he wasn’t. Cutter still didn’t know Bren’s story. Just that he’d been kicked out of his Dragonmarked House and ended up here. With all the rest of the rejects and outcasts.

“So what should I do?” asked Tiel. “What would you do?”

Elian licked his lips, trying to work up some moisture. “Uh … I’d-I’d let you go.”

“Would you now? You hear that, boys? He’d let me go. How nice of you.”

“B-but with a warning.”

“With a warning. Well, why didn’t you say so? That seem fair to you, Bren?”

Bren glanced up. “Not really.”

“Well, it sounds fair to me. My friend, today is your lucky day.”

Elian’s face brightened with tentative hope. “You’re letting me go?”

Tiel smiled. “No. I’m not. Cutter? Do your job.”

Tiel got up and stretched, then backed away. He didn’t like getting blood on his clothes. Cutter sauntered forward, letting the fear build. There was an art to being a bruiser. It wasn’t just about beating a guy until he passed out. At least, not to Cutter. The aim was to scare him, to make sure he was healthy enough and willing enough to pay up next time.

The way Cutter did this, he caused head wounds. They bled a lot, scared the mark. A couple of punches to the face to add some real pain, and the guy was usually begging to pay Tiel.

Cutter didn’t bother untying the elf. He picked up the chair by the arms and threw it against the wall. The elf cried out as his head slammed against the uneven plaster. He fell to the floor, the chair breaking apart beneath him. Cutter hung back a second, letting the elf feel his head for the wound, his hand coming away covered in blood. Then Cutter picked him up by his shirt. Two sharp jabs. One to the nose. Another to the jaw. Blood flowing now from the scalp wound, dripping from his eyebrows, blood from the nose sliding warmly down the back of his throat. He knew exactly what the elf was feeling.

“That was by way of introduction,” said Cutter. “Now, here’s how it goes. You tell me where Boromar can get his money, and you get to keep your teeth. You don’t talk, we keep doing this until you do.” Cutter pulled the elf closer. He could smell the sweat and fear on him. “And believe me, they always talk. It’s just a matter of how long they can hold out.”

Elian looked at Cutter in confusion. “Boromar?” he mumbled. “He’s not a Boromar.”

Cutter stared at the elf, not really believing what he had just heard. Could someone actually be that stupid?

“What did he say?” demanded Tiel.

“I’d keep your mouth shut if I were you,” said Cutter in a low voice.

“But he’s not. I know Saidan Boromar. You hear that?” He pushed himself away from Cutter and looked at Tiel. “I know Saidan. He doesn’t have any sons.” Elian staggered, then steadied himself against the wall.

Cutter wondered if maybe he’d hit the elf too hard, because he certainly wasn’t thinking straight. Nobody said that to Tiel. What the truth of the matter was, Cutter didn’t know. All Bren had told him was that Tiel claimed to be the son of Saidan Boromar, head of one of the biggest crime families in Sharn. But Boromar had never acknowledged Tiel as blood, a fact that Tiel couldn’t accept. Bren said the halfling was trying to work his way up the chain in the hope that his father would name him heir.

Cutter didn’t think that would ever happen. He didn’t think Tiel really thought so either, which was probably why he went shifter on anyone who was stupid enough to say anything about it.

He glanced at Tiel. The halfling just stood there, staring at Elian. He didn’t look angry. Maybe he wasn’t going to-

Then he lunged forward and punched Elian hard in the stomach. Tiel was strong for a halfling. Cutter had seen him beat a man almost as big as Cutter until he was unconscious. Elian was no match.

The elf flew back against the wall and Tiel charged after him, throwing punches to his chest and stomach. When the elf sagged to his knees, Tiel focused on his head, raining blow after blow on him until his face looked like it had been dipped in a bucket of red paint. Cutter glanced at Bren, eyebrows raised. Tiel’s bodyguard nodded slightly and walked forward.

“Tiel,” he said.

The halfling ignored him. Elian collapsed to the floor. Tiel traded his punches for kicks. Elian groaned every time a boot connected.

“Tiel, we need him alive,” said Bren. “He needs to tell us where the money is.”

Tiel stopped his attack, breathing heavily. He looked at Bren, then down at the elf. He wiped his brow with his forearm and squatted in front of the moaning figure. He grabbed Elian’s face, pulling him up so he had no choice but to look Tiel in the eyes. “Who is my father?” he asked.

Elian mumbled something unintelligible.

Tiel shook the elf. “Who is my father?” he shouted.

“Sa … Saidan Boromar,” mumbled Elian.

“And don’t you forget it.”

Tiel pushed the elf back to the floor and stood. He looked at the blood that spattered his shirt and trousers.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he said. “My clothes are ruined.”

Some time later, Cutter walked through the streets of Dragoneyes, the hood of his oiled cloak pulled low over his forehead. The rain drummed a steady tattoo on the leather, almost drowning out the sounds of the night life around him.

And there was plenty of that, thought Cutter, holding the edge of his hood and looking around. The three days of Long Shadows were upon the city. It was only the first night of the festival and already things were getting more dangerous than usual.

It was said that when the Sovereign Lord Aureon brought magic into the world, he created a creature of darkness that stole his shadow to use as its vessel. The Shadow fed on death and despair, granting power to those who pursued dark magic. The monsters of Droaam, even those that had relocated to Sharn, bowed down before this dark god. As did anyone who followed the black paths of magic.

And the festival of Long Shadows was the one time during the year when the Shadow’s influence waxed strong enough that his worshipers dared to leave their hidden sanctuaries to take advantage of their god’s expanded influence.

And take advantage they did.

Cutter slowed as two orcs emerged from an alley ahead of him and lumbered across the street. Humans and dwarves scattered out of their path, staring after them in fear. Orcs were common enough in the city, but during Long Shadows they seemed to lose their thin veneer of civilization and regress to the primitive creatures they were before leaving Droaam. It was a dangerous time for the people of Sharn. No one knew what the orcs were going to do next.

A group of goblins emerged from a building, laughing and shouting at the top of their lungs. They passed some kind of vessel between them, something that pumped out thick, greasy smoke whenever they put it to their lips.

Cutter turned off the street. He didn’t have time to get caught up in anything tonight. Tiel wanted his money back at the tavern as soon as Cutter could get his hands on it. He was surprised Elian had been able to remember where it was after all their persuasion.

He stepped aboard a lift at the northern edge of Dragoneyes, the once silvery disc turned black and tarnished, its waist-high railing green with mold. Nobody bothered cleaning the lifts in the lower wards. It was a battle that couldn’t be won.

The lift rose quickly through the rain. Cutter watched as Lower Menthis expanded below him, the bright, chaotic lights of Firelight clashing with the ordered lines of everbright lanterns that marked the residential districts of Center Bridge and Forgelight Towers.

He looked to the west of Center Bridge, where the district of Downstairs lay. Rowen would be there, probably getting ready for her appointment. Cutter gripped the railing and squinted through the rain, almost as if he could see her if he willed it hard enough. They’d had another fight before he left earlier that night. About the same thing they always fought over-money. Or rather, getting enough money for them to get away from Sharn, to start somewhere fresh.

The lift rose through a circular hole and came to a jerky halt level with the street of Middle Menthis. Cutter disembarked and walked until he found Fountain Boulevard. Then he searched for the house with the petrified worgs standing guard. Cutter stood and examined them. They looked fake to him, crudely carved creatures that resembled massive wolves. He wondered how much the elf had paid for them.

Cutter took a quartz crystal from his pocket and held it over the lock on the gate. The elf had given it to him, saying Cutter needed it to disarm the magical traps he’d placed throughout the grounds. The lock clicked quietly and the gates swung inward. Cutter waited a moment, surveying the garden and the gravel path that led to the three-story house. What if the elf had lied about the stone disarming the traps? Nothing moved, but that didn’t mean anything.

Only one way to find out. Cutter stepped into the garden and walked up the path to the front door. The house lay in darkness, which made sense since the owner had been tied up in a back room of a tavern since the early afternoon.

Cutter opened the door and stepped into the hall. Cold fire lamps flared to life, revealing a corridor carpeted with imported Sarlonan rugs, some of the most expensive hand-woven carpets in the marketplace. Someone had told Cutter that each rug was woven by three generations of women, the youngest generation learning the craft from her elders as they worked side by side. Each rug took as long as five years to produce.

Paintings of famous battles adorned the walls. Cutter glanced at them. Elian was obviously an enthusiast for the War. Cutter bet he wasn’t involved in any of the fighting.

The elf said the gold was hidden beneath a floorboard in his study on the second floor. Cutter checked the rooms on the ground level just to make sure no surprises were lurking unseen, then climbed the wide staircase. The study was at the far end of the corridor, through a set of ornately carved double doors. Cutter pushed them open.

A huge darkwood desk dominated the room beyond. It sat in the middle of a deep red and green carpet, the colors forming a picture of a grassland plain on fire. Cutter shook his head in bemusement. How rich was this guy? Or rather, how rich had he been? His luck must have turned sour if he was borrowing money from Tiel. A single everbright lantern stood on the desk, its stand designed to look like a dragon clutching the sun. A hemisphere of metal surrounded the globe, so that the light could be turned in different directions.

The elf had explained that the loose floorboard was underneath the desk chair. Cutter rounded the desk and crouched.

Then he paused at what his new line of sight revealed.

A hobgoblin sat on a chair in the opposite corner of the room. The huge creature watched him calmly, its features cast in shadow by the position of the lamp’s shutter. Cutter slowly stood and turned the metal cup so it directed the light away from his eyes and up at the ceiling, until he could see the hobgoblin clearly. Its skin was a dull green, its eyes and protruding teeth a sickly yellow.

“Evening,” said Cutter.

The hobgoblin leaned forward, the wooden chair creaking beneath his weight. “I’m glad you didn’t say ‘good evening,’ because I’m afraid it isn’t going to be so good for you.”

“Is that right?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Cutter dropped his arms to his sides and shrugged. His cloak dropped to the floor. He rested his hands on the carved pommels of his curved Khutai knives.

“Am I going to need these?”

“More than likely.”

“What if I said I’m here because your boss told me how to get in? That he owes money to certain people and I’m here to collect?”

“I’d say I never said he was my boss.”

This made Cutter pause. “Ah. He owes you money as well?”

“A substantial amount.”

“Then we have a problem.” Cutter drew his knives and reversed them so they lay flush against the underside of his forearms, the points just reaching his elbows.

“Are those Khutai knives?” asked the hobgoblin curiously.

“They are.”

“May I ask how you came by them?”

“I traveled with a clan of Valenar elves for some years.”

The hobgoblin’s eye ridges rose in surprise. “They accepted you?”

“After a while.”

“And they presented you with the knives?”

“They did.”

“I’m impressed.”

Cutter inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Yes, you seem like quite an interesting human. I would have liked to talk some more. Unfortunately-”

Cutter saw the hobgoblin’s eyes flicker, no more than that.

Cutter dropped to the floor and spun, flicking the blades out and slashing through the air as he did so. He saw a pair of massive legs before him, covered in thick leather armor, and the blades bit through and sliced gouges into the flesh. His attacker roared in pain.

Cutter went with his momentum and rolled to the side. He bumped against the wall and rose into a crouch, the knives held defensively before him.

It was another hobgoblin. He clutched at his thighs, blood seeping between his huge fingers. He looked at Cutter and snarled. Then his hand went to the mace hanging from his belt.

Cutter didn’t wait. He pushed himself away from the wall and ran straight at the hobgoblin. He knew he had to end this quickly. He’d never be able to slay two of them on his own. He held one arm low and raised the other high.

The creature saw him coming and used both hands to grab the arm aiming for his throat. Cutter thrust hard with the low knife and felt it hit the leather cuirass. He felt an instant of resistance, then the point pushed through and penetrated skin. Cutter angled the blade upward and pushed with all his strength. The hobgoblin screamed. It released one hand and scrabbled for Cutter’s throat. Cutter tried to duck out of reach, but the hobgoblin managed to get a grip. Cutter pushed the knife up as hard as he could. Another bellow of rage and pain, but the hobgoblin kept hold of his throat.

Cutter braced his feet and screamed, pushing forward with all of his strength. The knife went deeper and higher, as far as it could go. Cutter prayed it was long enough to reach the heart.

The hobgoblin’s grip tightened painfully. Then it coughed and a bubble of blood burst from its mouth, spraying Cutter’s face. The hobgoblin paused, looking at the blood in confusion. Then the creature sagged to the floor. Cutter pulled out his knife and turned-

Just in time to see a club arcing through the air toward him. He hunched down and spun away, taking the brunt of the blow on his shoulder. The force punched him to the floor. Cutter flopped onto his back and saw the club coming down for another strike. He rolled and pushed himself to his feet, darting behind the desk. He angled the light to shine in the hobgoblin’s eyes. The creature raised a hand to shield the glare. Cutter took the opportunity. He leaped over the desk and ran past his assailant. He lashed out with his knife as he went, felt it connect with flesh. But he didn’t stop. He bounded down the stairs and out the front door, then ran until he reached a street with passing people. Only then did he slow down enough to regain his breath.

He looked around at the people going about their business. A skycoach drifted past with a well-dressed woman seated inside. She stared at Cutter as she went, turning in her seat to watch him until the coach turned a corner.

Cutter shook his head ruefully. That could have gone better.

The Tufted Feather was one of the more upscale brothels in Menthis, despite its location in the lower district of Downstairs. It competed favorably with the more infamous Savia’s, the well-known “companion house” in the Firelight District, that was run by Savia Potellas. A low-key rivalry simmered between the two brothels, in no small way the result of a deep-seated jealousy the Madame of the Feather, an aging halfling called Mela, harbored for Savia and her position as the Lower Menthis representative on the Sharn city council.

Tiel and the Boromar clan owned the Tufted Feather. Cutter had a room there, and it was his job to make sure none of the clients got out of hand. He didn’t have to step in often. Mela was a formidable presence, despite her size. She referred to herself as the lath of the Feather, a halfling term Cutter understood to mean leader. She looked after her girls, and they in turn accorded her the respect she demanded.

Even Cutter was wary of angering her.

The main floor of the Feather was a vast open space filled with couches and tables. Dim lanterns lent a relaxed mood. A bar took up the back wall of the room, and to the right, a wooden staircase led to the upper floors.

Cutter cast a quick glance around the common room, but everything was calm. A slow night, by the looks of it. Only four customers waited, sitting at tables while they impatiently sipped their drinks. Cutter approached the bar. Dyce was doing Cutter’s duty tonight, seeing as he’d been otherwise occupied with Tiel. The dwarf nodded at him. The floor behind the bar was elevated so Dyce could move around without having to look up at anyone.

“All quiet?” asked Cutter.

Dyce nodded.

Cutter glanced around. “Is Rowen here?”

“Nah. She left about two hours ago. Said she was heading to the university.”

“Thanks, Dyce.” Cutter knocked sharply on the bar and climbed the stairs. So she’d gone after all. He’d asked her not to, but they were already fighting, so he didn’t think she’d listen. Still, he’d hoped.

He reached the top floor and headed for his room. It didn’t have much-a bed, a chair, some books, a trunk for his clothes. He lay down on the bed. It was still messed up from his slumber with Rowen. He could smell her perfume on the pillows, the faint scent of jasmine on a summer day. He sighed and put his arms behind his head. Why did they always seem to fight lately? And always about the same thing …

She’d come to him after her last appointment with the Professor. That was what she called him, like it was a mark of respect or something. So Cutter was already on the defensive, not really willing to listen to what she had to say, to give her a fair hearing.

“He stuck me in this hidden room, like a closet in his wall,” she’d said, sitting at her rolltop desk while she wiped the rouge from her face. “I think he thought the door was shut, because he talked as if I wasn’t there.”

Or he just didn’t consider you a threat, thought Cutter, then felt bad about it. He was letting his temper get the better of him again. It wasn’t the first time Cutter had let it get in the way, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“So what happened?” he asked, sitting on the edge of her bed and trying to ignore the smell of expensive wine on her breath.

“A man came in-I think the Professor called him Salkith.”

Cutter sat upright. “Salkith? Are you sure?”

Rowen looked at him in the mirror. “Very sure. Why?”

“I know him. He works for the Boromars. He’s a dreamlily courier.”

“I knew it!” Rowen spun around in her chair. “The way they were speaking, I knew it was something valuable.”

“Wait. Back up here. You knew what was valuable?”

“They were talking about handing over some package. Just the way they talked about it, I could tell it was worth a lot. Cutter, this is perfect!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The delivery is next week. I made my next appointment for the same night, said I was busy the rest of the week. Don’t you see? I steal the dreamlily and we sell it. We’ll make enough money to get out of this place!”

Cutter surged to his feet. “Rowen, get that out of your head. Right now. Do you realize what you’re saying? You cross the Boromars, they’ll hunt you down. We’ll spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders.”

“We’ll run. We’ll hide.”

“There’s nowhere we can go that they wouldn’t find us. They won’t give up until we’re dead. They’ll have no choice. If word got out, other people would get ideas. They won’t let that happen. It’s too risky, Rowen. No, we stick to the plan.”

“And what plan is that? You keep working for Tiel beating people up and I keep selling my body? How long do you think we’ll last like this, Cutter? You can barely handle it now!”

Cutter couldn’t look at her. He stared at the floorboards. “I can handle it.”

“No. You can’t. Send ten bugbears into a locked room with you and yes, I’ll believe you can handle it. But not this. This is eating you away.”

Cutter looked up, straight into her green eyes. “Then give it up.”

She turned away. “I’m not getting into this again.” She picked up the brush her mother had left her, the one with the pearl handle, and started brushing out her long, copper hair.

“Rowen.”

She didn’t turn.

“Rowen, promise me you’ll forget about this. I’ll find another way. I promise. One that isn’t so dangerous. Agreed?”

She shrugged.

And Cutter had thought that was the last of it.

Cutter’s eyes flicked open. He stared at the ceiling, wondering what time it was. It felt late. He pushed himself up, wincing at the ache in his shoulder blade. The hobgoblin had gotten in a good hit.

He headed to the landing and took the stairs down to the next floor, knocking on Rowen’s door. No answer. He searched his pockets until he found his key and turned it in the lock.

He stepped inside. The small yellow everbright lamp on her rolltop was lit. She always left it burning when she was out on a job. Said she liked the familiar glow when she came home.

There was no sign of her. Cutter frowned. Maybe he’d got the time wrong. She was usually back from her appointment with the professor well before midnight. He hurried down to the ground floor. Dyce was packing away his clean glasses for the night. Cutter looked around. No one was in the common room.

“Dyce, has Rowen come back?”

Dyce stopped and scowled. “Now that you mention it, no.”

“Host,” Cutter swore. “Listen, I’m off to the university to see if I can find her.”

“Maybe she just fell asleep or something.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Cutter turned and hurried out the door. Gusts of rain slapped him in the face, driving the last vestiges of sleep from his mind.

Both he and Dyce knew Rowen would never fall asleep at a client’s place. None of the girls did. It was too dangerous, one of the first things they learned.

So where was she?