The Ten

By Leland Myrick

From New York Times #1 bestselling creator Leland Myrick, comes the first novel in a new fantasy series, The Kingdom of Graves. A thrilling tale of swords and sorcery, The Ten takes its readers on a wild ride filled with adventure, intrigue, heroism and dark magic. This saga of soldiers and spies crosses the vast Kingdom of Graves as small cult uprisings threaten to spill out into a war that threatens the Kingdom’s foundations and existence. Sword and magic clash in bloody battles, spies slip through the darkness to dispatch their targets with a silent knife, all in a struggle over control of the most powerful kingdom in the world.

STARRED REVIEW. "Graphic novelist turned fantasy author Myrick (Feynman, 2011, etc.) releases the first installment of a promising trilogy that trails an elite warrior as he adventures through foreign lands, weaves magic and vanquishes his enemies...Myrick's epic tale features assassins, dark priests, blue demons and an Amazon warrior as it chronicles the lives of more than six core characters. All are uniquely crafted, with intentions to either destroy or save the kingdom. Brief chapters juxtapose longer prose, fueling a high-paced story line that flies from one end of the world to the other. As the author shifts from one point of view to the next, readers slide through a rich mosaic of betrayal, greed, loyalty and honor. Of its manifold strengths, the novel is fluid and full of surprises. Readers will question the characters' loyalties to the king as they ponder the mysterious identity of the final member of the Ten. As the book draws to a close, the final lines are likely to send shivers up readers' spines. The author masterfully crafts vivid battle scenes and heart-pounding chases across oceans, over snow-peaked mountains and into city sewers. Neither diehard nor casual fantasy readers will be able to resist this trilogy's rousing start. An exemplar of storytelling and character-driven adventure." -- KIRKUS REVIEWS

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leland Myrick
• Release date: Aug 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985568801

Leland Myrick

Leland Myrick is the Ignatz Award- and Harvey Award-nominated author and illustrator of The Ten (Kingdom of Graves Book One), The Sweet Collection, School Girls, Bright Elegy, Feynman and Missouri Boy. His writing and illustrations have appeared in publications as diverse as Dark Horse Comics, GQ Japan, Vogue Russia, Flight, and First Second Books. His most recent graphic novel, Feynman, written by Jim Ottaviani, is a New York Times #1 Bestseller and named to Horn Books Best Books of 2011. He lives in Pasadena, California.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The breeze sang to Jorophe through the trees at his back. It sang of anger and death.

He clutched the sword tight in his fist, watching the line of Ostholt crossbowmen with their weapons resting heavily on upright shields, strings cocked, fingers on triggers. The rustle of their mail whispered back to Jorophe where he crouched. Sweat trickled down his sides. The Kingdom riders would be coming over the ridge in front of them soon. He could hear them in the distance, knew they were on the way, as did every man in the line. He looked down that line at his fellows, most wearing the tan and red colors of Ostholt. Most, but not all. As this war with the Kingdom wore on and replacement soldiers joined the ranks, there were not enough uniforms to go around. Jorophe looked down at his own scavenged gray trousers unhappily.

He watched as Captain Frere strode to the front of the line, head cocked, listening like all the others, long black mustache drooping down below his stern chin. Why couldn't the damn Kingdom have stayed out of Ostholt? But no, it was the behemoth that must own everyone and everything, every smaller realm around it as it swelled and swelled and spread itself across the land like a jealous plague. Jorophe had killed many Kingdom men himself, felt his blade cut into their hated flesh, watched their blood flow onto the ground around their bodies.

He coughed and spit into the line of trees behind him. A gray fog hung on the top of the ridge where all the Ostholt eyes were trained, distorting sound, making the distance of the riders difficult to judge by ear. Jorophe saw the nervousness in the crossbowmen.

Remember! shouted Frere in his deep voice, mustache bobbing. Take down the horses first. Fight them on the ground where their lances are no more powerful than your swords. The captain raised his own great weapon. Ostholt swords! Made from Ostholt steel! Bury it in their guts!"

A cheer rose up from the men within hearing of the captain. It was picked up and traveled down the line of soldiers like a wave.

Just as it began to fade, the first of the Kingdom of Graves cavalry burst through the mist at the top of the ridge and charged down the hill. Tendrils of cold, white fog clung to the horses and were pulled down the hill with them, shredding and swirling in the air like ghosts as they passed.

They would have to cross the creek at the bottom and then come up the smaller hill on the other side to reach the Ostholt line. The first of them might not get that far, but some of them surely would. It was a matter of numbers. He'd seen it before. He glanced back one last time at the shadow-filled forest at his back, then turned and waited.

More riders broke through the mist behind the first, the initial wedge of the great spear of wicked deadly lances pointed at the heart of the Ostholt line. Then the small valley shook as the entire ridge filled with the black and brown horses thundering over the pale grass. Jorophe watched the tip of the spear crash through the shallow stream and cross it, and then the stream was quite filled with riders as they began the short ascent toward the Ostholt line.

Now! bellowed Captain Frere. The bowmen knew their orders. As the cavalry crossed over the stream they loosed their arrows in a mass of shots directly into the horses and riders, most shafts striking home in the necks and breasts of the beasts and making them rear back, some throwing their riders and running off, others dropping to the ground and trapping them, and still others rushing onward, pain and panic in their wide dark eyes. The crossbowmen pushed the tips of their weapons to the ground and reloaded with a second shaft. Most were precise and practiced, almost as if unaware of the lances racing toward them, though Jorophe saw a few hands shake and some even gave up the task and retreated through the swordsmen behind them. The second volley brought down more horses and men, the black and gold armor of Graves crashing into the water and turning it pink as it flowed away down the hollow. But it would not be enough to stop them, Jorophe knew that. They came on, trampling the bodies that fell before them.

Despite the cold, he wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped forward between the retreating crossbowmen, his sword raised and a hoarse shout rising from his lungs. His turn now. Directly in front of him a Graves soldier on foot struggled hard and fast up the hill and hurled his lance at Jorophe. But the lance was meant to be used from the height of a horse. Down there it fell short, too heavy and cumbersome. The soldier drew his sword, barely slowing his run, and continued toward Jorophe. Around him this scene was being repeated, but that didn't matter to Jorophe at the moment. There was one man in front of him with a blade, now only a few short yards away. You can only kill one man at a time, Frere would say during training, usually adding something like, Just keep killing them until they run home to their hated mothers in their hated Kingdom!

Jorophe took one halting step forward, letting the soldier take the first swing, commit himself. He did, but Jorophe dodged, continuing his movement down the hill, letting the hill work for him, raking his own sword across the soldier's arm as they passed each other, hearing the other grunt in pain. He turned just before the Graves soldier did, lunged back, and as the man made it halfway around, Jorophe drove the tip of his blade into the man's neck, sending a thin fountain of blood into the air. The soldier dropped, shout turning to gurgle, body crumpling into the grass. Jorophe took no more time with him but turned again to meet more soldiers from the Kingdom coming up the hill. One at a time, he hissed through gritted teeth. Some of his fellow swordsmen had advanced further down the hill to meet the enemy, along with the spearmen. A few were fighting against soldiers still on horseback, the heavy lances jabbing relentlessly at the men surrounding them on the ground, but most were engaged with riders who had already lost their mounts, sword to sword, steel ringing in the morning air, mixing with shouts and curses and the wails of death.

Two soldiers of the Kingdom now advanced on Jorophe across the wet grass, weapons drawn. The hill was not so steep that he had much of an advantage, but Jorophe was determined to use what little he had. Both men were clad identically in the black mail of Graves and steel-domed helms, though one was very large and heavily built with a great yellow beard spilling out over his chest and a heavy-looking axe in his fists instead of the sword most Graves soldiers carried, and the other was smaller but moved much faster. Jorophe charged the smaller one and they met with a crash of steel, parrying each other's downward strokes. Letting his sword slide away, Jorophe dropped his shoulder and drove it brutally into the man's side, knocking him down the hill and away from his comrade. Jorophe was already on him when the man came upright again, but the little one was fast and threw a sweeping cut at Jorophe's legs. With a grunt, he leapt over the swing, feeling the edge of the sword just clip the heel of his boot. Jorophe's own sword came slashing down with him and separated the man's sword hand from his arm. He flopped back screaming onto the ground as his weapon clattered to the earth, holding the stump of his arm in grasping fingers and trying to staunch the flow of blood that was quickly draining him.

Jorophe turned just in time to bring his sword up in an attempt to deflect the great axe that was slicing through the air toward his head. He caught the axe with the blade of his sword just above the hilt, the edge cutting into the wood handle. But the big yellow-bearded soldier had too much weight behind that swing, and though the axe-head turned enough to keep from splitting his skull in two, the flat of the blade bounced hard off the side of Jorophe_s head and sent him reeling, his eyes going dark as pain shot through his skull and down his spine.

Jorophe willed his eyes to open. He still felt the sword in his hands, but he was on his knees trying to stand, trying to bring the world back into focus when he heard the shout of a familiar voice and recognized the uniform of Captain Frere lunging at the yellow-bearded soldier with his sword singing through the air. The Captain's blade caught the big man solidly in the shoulder as he half-turned away from Jorophe, digging deeply into flesh and cracking against bone. The Kingdom soldier roared and jerked away from Frere, now holding his axe in just one hand, but he did not go down. His roar turned to a curse as he flung himself at Frere.

Jorophe staggered up, aware of the other battles going on nearby, fighting to pull himself together before another sword found his back or his skull. He came to his feet, breathing hard, head roaring with pain just as another soldier of the Kingdom dislodged himself from a dead Ostholt swordsman and charged the few yards to his next victim--Jorophe. Jorophe must have looked even worse off than he was--he could feel blood trickling into his left eye, for the soldier was taking his time closing on him, a skinny man with oily black hair plastered to his head, confident of an easy kill in the wounded Ostholtian. Jorophe sank a bit and tried to look worse off still until the final moment when he ducked under the man's blade and drove his own sword up into the his guts, piercing him through, the two of them falling over together in a tangle. Jorophe pulled himself up and turned back to Frere and the yellow-beard. Staggeringly, the big soldier fought on nearly as well one-handed as he had with two, though the blood flowed freely down his side. Frere was having a tough time of it, and the big man backed him slowly up the hill toward the tree line where the bowmen had retreated. Jorophe ran up after them, feeling every step as a lance of fiery pain behind his eyes.

One at a time, he said aloud, closing on the wide back pushing Frere toward the trees.

His hatred of the Kingdom soldiers was thick in his heart now, rising hot into his throat, making him roar with it as he charged up the hill.

Frere had caught the big man a blow on the head, a chunk of yellow-haired scalp hung loose and bloody just above his left ear, though it didn't seem to be slowing him down any. Just before Jorophe could reach them, the big man's axe swung in a wide arc almost parallel with the ground. Jorophe saw his captain start to dance away from it, knew he would make it, knew the older man's deceptive quickness from facing him many times on the practice yard.

But today he wasn't quick enough.

The razor sharp edge of the axe sliced through rib-bone and guts as it caught Frere just below the sternum, cutting him nearly in two, his mouth opening in shock but no words coming out, his eyes glazing even as he hit the ground, his mustache flopping around his open lips.

Jorophe's sword sang angrily as he leapt across the last few feet and plunged his steel deeply into the big man's back, felt it grind against bone, then jerked it back out and rammed it back again before the yellow-beard crashed to the ground, his heavy torso partially covering Captain Frere's awkwardly-angled legs.

It was hard for Jorophe to breathe and the pain in his skull was almost unbearable. His heart sank at the sight of his captain's body. But no time to grieve. Time to kill--he turned--

No. Not even time for that.

Horses and riders filled the valley now, mowing down the few remaining Ostholtian soldiers with their heavy lances, crashing up the hillside. A black wall of cavalry coming straight at him. Jorophe felt his heart and time stop for a split second, then he was flying for the trees.

Too soon. They should have taken down more of them before the retreat into the woods. Many more! Anger nearly overcame his fear and made him turn back to fight. A hopeless, useless fight in which he would end up on the ground, pierced through like so many of his countrymen.

No, that would be a stupid death.

Now others, the last of the Ostholt infantry, were doing the same as Jorophe, retreating into the protective trees grown close together, too close for cavalry, diving for the shadows, allowing the crossbowmen hidden there one final shot before running with them. They were never meant to win this battle. Playing it out to a draw would be enough, more than enough. Anything that kept most of the Ostholt forces alive and killed some Kingdom soldiers was a success for Ostholt.

Jorophe heard the snap and twang of the crossbows, the cries of the horses and men as the shafts shot home. He stopped and leaned against a tree fifty yards into the wood, feeling the sudden urge to puke. His heart beat fast in him and his head still rang with the axe blow, rang terribly loud, threatening his sanity. Only his hatred of the Kingdom held him together, forced him to be still and gather himself, safe in the woods.

Or so he thought.

His ears must not have been working right since the blow on the head. Couldn't have been. He would have heard a horse crashing its way in through the thick underbrush before the lance came at him. But he didn't.

A horse? What the hell was a horse doing in here? They should have drawn up outside the woods and culled the Ostholtian stragglers like they always did. Cavalry moving into these woods was suicide. They couldn't fight in this thick growth, would barely be able to move.

Tell that to him, Jorophe thought, turning in time to see a heavy-faced soldier of the Kingdom of Graves, teeth bared in rage, lunge forward in his saddle with his great wood and steel lance. It nicked Jorophe_s cheek then bit into his shoulder, the force of it pushing the tip all the way through and out his back, sending a spurt of blood to mix with the brighter Ostholt red in his tunic. Jorophe instinctively grabbed the lance with both hands as he fell backward, pulling it from the cavalryman's grip.

He lay on his back and saw the morning light filtering weakly through the thick leaves. At first it hurt like hell, but then the pain started to fade, along with all sound. The forest fell strangely silent as he watched a raven silhouetted against a patch of pale blue sky, high above the trees. Then, inexplicably, he saw Syla looking down at him, not as he had seen her so many times in his nightmares, bloodied and lifeless, the knife wounds still fresh in her stained dress, but smiling at him lovingly, reaching out a hand to touch his face, whispering, Jophe...Jophe. He smiled back at her, and then blackness covered him.

CHAPTER TWO

Two years later...

Torches burned along the lane leading to the city center, throwing flickering shadows across the shop fronts and buildings and providing just enough illumination on a moonless night like this one to keep late travelers from bumping into one another. A breeze fluttered in from the ocean and wafted the familiar scent of marsh and sea across the city. Few people were out and about this late. One of those that was walked casually along the street keeping mostly to the shadows. It was a habit. For he was a shadow himself. His name was Char.

He watched a dog emerge from one of the narrow alleys that emptied onto the street, carrying something in its mouth that it had probably scavenged from the leavings of a shop. It paused and looked up at him for a moment before it turned and trotted off in the opposite direction. Char liked dogs, though they never seemed to like him much. He wore a dark cloak which could not entirely hide his leanness, and his thin, black hair was slicked back over a narrow skull. If he were to walk closely to the torches, which he didn't, one would see that his skin was dark, darker than one born in the city, though his features were somewhat smooth and nondescript.

The shops and buildings grew thick here in this part of the city, built up over many years to almost overhang the streets in the narrower sections. But as he came closer to the city center and its larger buildings, the lanes widened and the cobbles grew bigger and smoother. The lane he walked took a turn to the west and a wider vista suddenly opened to him--the river Curwinn, inky black under the dark sky, flowed from the northwest across the city and toward the sea. And across it, here at the very hub of the metropolis, was the emblem that shared the city's name--Lightbridge. Wide enough for fifteen men walking side-by-side to cross at once and made of massive black stones hewn from the southern quarries and polished to shine like mirrors, the bridge arched across the river Curwinn and reflected itself in her with the mass of torches built into its wide stone railings. Every two feet along both rails was fitted a blazing torch mounted in a polished metal bowl, with the total effect creating a glow over the placid river that dazzled the eye. Char, though he had seen it countless times, was still touched by it. It was said that the bridge had been enchanted many years before by an addled wizard who fell in love with it and slept beneath it. Char did not believe that. But he did believe it was beautiful. He, however, passed it by and took a smaller, plainer bridge to the Heights, as the area north of the river was called. He was, after all, a shadow, and shadows avoid the glare of brighter lights. He did dawdle, if only for a moment, at the center of the flat dull bridge he did cross, to look up at the great dark shape set against the even darker cliffs at the northernmost edge of the city. Castle Graves, the very heart of the Kingdom. Lights burned along the parapets and in a few unshuttered windows, and he could just make out the flashes of gleaming spears carried by the night guards walking there. Char's business would not take him all the way to the castle this night, but instead to one of the many lofty government buildings that had grown up just outside the castle walls at the foot of the cliffs. He lowered his gaze and moved on.

Char's business was with Lord Prosper, the King's Minister of Information, the man he worked for, the Lord he served. Ultimately, he served the King. But Prosper was the King's shadowy left hand, and Char one of the fingers on that hand. The King moved the hand and the hand moved the fingers. Char knew how the world worked and he knew his place in it. He entered the Ministry of Information through a side door, defended inside by two guards in the black livery of the Ministry. They looked at him but said nothing, knowing much better than to speak to a shadow.

Char followed a long, many-portaled corridor to its end. A single door there stood part way open, casting a thin shaft of candlelight into the hall. He knocked at the open door.

Come in, came the voice he knew so well.

Char found Lord Prosper sitting at his large desk, candles burning around him, a large number of documents scattered across the wood surface, a quill in his hand and a bottle of ink at his elbow. He shuffled some of the papers together, put the quill down and motioned Char to sit in the chair opposite him.

Welcome, shadow Char. I have not seen you for a few weeks.

No, I have been cleaning up that business down by the docks, Lord.

Yes, and you have been successful at that? asked Lord Prosper.

Yes. Quite.

"How many...complications?"

Only a handful. No more than was necessary.

Prosper nodded. I am sure of that. You are a not a man given to excess.

Lord Prosper leaned his elbow on the desk and rested his head in one hand, looking thoughtfully at Char all the while. Even sitting down, the Lord was tall, probably half a head taller than Char, and Char himself was of average height. As his head leaned forward, white hair fell to his shoulders and met at the sides with his trim beard, still very black, though shot here and there with specks of gray. Sharp cheekbones surrounding a long aquiline nose gave him the look of a predator. His eyes shone with energy and intelligence. Char always thought his Lord's eyes looked, well--happy. Which was a very strange idea considering what the man did to serve his King.

One-on-one conversations like this with Prosper often involved extended moments of quiet while the Lord stared musingly at his guest. It made Char nervous.

I understand the preparations for the joining ceremony with Ostholt are progressing smoothly, Char ventured to break the silence.

Prosper nodded and the gentlest touch of a smile graced his mouth for a moment. Yes. Yes, they are.

His eyes wandered to a stack of documents near his elbow. That conflict dragged on far longer than it should have. The Ostholts are a stubborn people. And good fighters. We lost too many men there.

Too many, my Lord?

The older man grunted a soft laugh. A poor choice of words on my part, Char. Obviously just the right amount to complete the task. Ostholt is now nestled in the cradle of the Kingdom, safe and soon to be more prosperous than it has ever been. It can now share in the wondrous culture and freedoms enjoyed by all the Kingdom's citizens. An Ostholt is even to be brought in to fill the vacancy in the King's Ten.

Char's eyebrows lifted at that. That he had not heard. That is unusual, to bring one into the Ten from a region so recently joined with the Kingdom.

Yes, quite unusual. But a good idea I think. A chance to heal some wounds. Prosper smiled at Char. But I did not bring you here to discuss Ostholt.

What then, my Lord?

Al Dakan.

Char's eyebrow rose in surprise for the second time during this visit. That often happened when he attended Lord Prosper. The man was full of surprises. Char was almost used to it after years in his service.

Al Dakan, he echoed.

Prosper nodded. More precisely, Krishan.

Char knew Krishan, the largest city in Al Dakan. He knew it well. Unwanted emotions began to stir in his gut.

Prosper turned his back on Char and went to the small fire burning in the grate behind his desk. The Dar Kharji are causing trouble all over the Kingdom, threatening violence, uprisings, even rebellions. We cannot have this kind of unrest.

It is my experience that religious cults rarely bring peace, my Lord.

Char saw Prosper's head nod.

This one, so new to the Kingdom, in particular spells trouble. He turned to face Char again, looking more the predator than ever. You know the Kingdom's policy toward all its religions is one of tolerance. It has been this way for generations. And the King believes strongly that this is for the best. Do you think the King is wise in this, Char? His eyes fixed on Char's.

I don't think it's my place to judge the wisdom of the King.

Prosper stared at him, seeming to gauge his sincerity. Eventually he looked down at the rug beneath his boots and sighed quietly. But we cannot brook rebellion.

Char only nodded.

There is word, continued Prosper, That Dar Kharji followers in Krishan are planning something, something we do not want to happen. He sat down at his desk. I need you to find out what it is they are planning, if anything, and if necessary come up with options to prevent it.

The Lord rubbed absently at the side of his nose and fell into another silence.

Do you have a contact for me in Al Dakan, my Lord?

There is a merchant in Krishan that has been helpful. He handed Char one of the documents from his desk. This will help you find him.

Char took the document without looking at it and slipped it into his cloak.

Prosper stood and so did Char. Do you have any questions about what I am asking you to do?

He had a hundred questions, but he knew he would have to find the answers himself, so he merely shook his head. No. He moved to the door.

And Char, Prosper stopped him, This must be a very quiet investigation, my shadow. Take only one man with you.

Shide?

Prosper waved his hand. That is your affair.

Lord Prosper turned back to his papers, moving a candle closer to study the document before him.

-----------

Char found himself back on the dark streets, moving slowly south toward the river. A light mist left a sheen on the cobblestones and made him tighten his cloak around his shoulders.

Al Dakan. Krishan.

Yes, he knew them well. He hadn't been there since...well, since he was brought to Lightbridge that first time, all those years ago. He'd been a very young man then. He was born in Krishan. He grew up there. He thought his eyes had been open wide back then, thought he knew the ways of the world. Maybe more than many, he did. But then he came to Lightbridge, and the world opened to him in many ways, and closed to him in others.

Thinking about Al Dakan made his stomach hurt. He needed a drink. He needed mersy.

-----------

Char's residence was on the back side of a two-story building in a rather dull part of Lightbridge, a little distance south of the city center. It had a front entrance, gained through a short hallway inside the front door, but Char never used it. He preferred the back door in the narrow alley. A dealer in medicinal herbs owned the house and lived in the front half. Sometimes the odors of her concoctions wafted into Char's rooms and made him wrinkle his nose. Though it was almost as often, though not quite, a pleasing smell. He often wondered if the pleasant odors were from potions meant to cure unpleasant effects like illnesses, and the foul-smelling ones were love potions or the like. It would be more appropriate that way, he thought. He didn't ask the owner though, as every time he ran into her she looked deeply and knowingly into his eyes and tried to give him a packet of some ground root or other that he was supposed to sprinkle on his food to cure constipation. He tried to assure her that he was not so afflicted, but she would just stare at him and pat his cheek like a child and press the packet into his hand. He always ended up throwing it away, though he would sniff it first, and it smelled sweet and a little citrusy. One tick toward proving his theory.

Inside his rooms all was dark except for a shimmer of light beneath one door. He opened it slowly to find a rather squat, ugly face, lit by a single candle, looking right back at him. The man sat on the edge of a small bed leaning over a thin book bound in chestnut leather held in one hand and the candle in the other. His head was shaved bald, the skin of his face was pockmarked, his ears were small and lumpy, and his nose looked like a glob of pinkish clay rudely stuck somewhat in the center of his face below two cold gray eyes. He looked like a stern, pale monk, but with big dangerous-looking hands. Which is very much how Char thought of his assistant.

Shide, said Char. Busy?

The ugly man's face registered nothing, but his thin-lipped mouth said, I'm praying.

Char knew that meant yes, he was busy, and that he wished to be left alone, but Char ignored it and pressed on. We're going to have to wrap up the work at the docks sooner than we thought.

How soon?

Tonight. We leave tomorrow afternoon for Al Dakan.

Shide closed the book and set it aside on the bed. Al Dakan? I've never been there. And you wish me to accompany you?

That's why I said 'we', my friend. Char started to leave the room, but said over his shoulder, Need I tell you to bring your knives?

No. I have them.

He probably sleeps with them, thought Char. Char certainly did. He had two on him now. Just for comfort though, he went into his own bedroom and took a long, thin blade from under the pillow and slid it into a sheath at the back of his belt.

Better, he said aloud. And he headed back into the night, this time with more knives and another body. Hopefully he wouldn't need any of them, but he had learned that hopes are thin things, and that in his business it was best not to hope. Better to wait and watch and react to reality without a predisposition to one outcome or another. But it was human nature to hope. And although he was a shadow, he was still human.

-----------

Really, should an honest merchant be up so very late, Shide?

The two of them crouched in the shadows afforded by a pile of old netting and some empty kegs near the docks.

It does seem suspicious, his companion agreed. Perhaps we should pay him a visit.

Across from their hiding place squatted a series of wind-beaten wooden buildings, all quite dark, except for one, in which a curtained window glowed yellow and movement could be seen within.

Yes, agreed Char. It's time for Richley to discover the perils of cheating the King.

Anhur protect His Highness.

Char looked at the back of his assistant's pale, shaven head. Such zealous devotion. He wondered how one came to be so passionate. Char himself served his King and served him well and faithfully. But Shide--he was another animal altogether.

The stink of dead fish blew across the docks with the chill wind that fluttered Char's cloak. Placing his ear near the door, he heard light scraping sounds from inside, but no voices. He knocked and the sounds instantly died.

Master Richley? Could you let us in for a moment?

Silence. Then a voice squeaked, Who...who is there?

You know who it is, Master. Let us in please. It's a chilly night, and I'm tired, and I'd like to conclude our business please.

Char could see Shide's set jaw even in the dim light. Not yet, my friend. I will loose you when necessary.

Why are you visiting so late? Surely it can wait until morning? Char heard the fear in the man's voice. That was good. Fear would make this go much quicker and more pleasantly for everyone.

Shide smacked the door with the side of his fist and growled, Just open the door now or by Anhur I will smash it down!

A quick shuffling and the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged man with a pointy beard and a heavy paunch hanging over his belt. Shide pushed past him and Char followed. They entered a largish room with a desk, some small crates scattered about, and three chests stacked behind the desk. Some cooking utensils and the foot of a cot could be seen in the dim light poking out from behind a dark curtain on the far side of the room. Various boxes sat opened around the floor. It was in much more disarray than last time Char had visited. Going somewhere? Hmmm.

He smiled at the merchant. Master Richley.

The fat man backed up a step and tried to return the smile, but it came out as a sickly grimace. Master Wilford.

The merchant had only known Char as Wilford. He certainly had known that his name was not Wilford at some point. Well, at least at the point that Char had turned him and had the merchant working for him instead of for the slave smugglers he had been assisting. But Richley would never know his real name.

Master Wilford, I thought we had completed our business together. My...associates have been taken away. What else can I do for you?

The man began to sweat despite the chill in the under-heated room. Char went behind the desk and sat down there, thumbing through a fat ledger. My business, Master Richley, is never finished. He licked his finger and paged through the ledger. Do you know what the punishment is for stealing from the King?

Char paused and looked up when no reply came. Hmmm? Do you know?

The merchant's face seemed to drain of blood and his mouth opened slowly.

Death. He could barely get the word out between his stricken lips.

A smile lit Char's face. Yes. Quite. Death. He rose and went to the front of the desk, leaning on it and folding his arms. But we are not here this evening to discuss death. We are here to give you an opportunity to return the gold.

The man swallowed and his eyes widened as they darted around the room, returning again and again to the three chests behind the desk. Gold?

Shide took a step closer to the merchant but Char waved him off.

The gold we loaned you. The gold you used to fool the Borulian smugglers. The gold you so kindly returned to us. Only...you didn't return it all.

Char reached inside his cloak and produced a coin which he flipped at the merchant. He didn't think the merchant's face could get any paler, but it did then. Look at the back of the coin, Master Richley. See where the thin gold layer has been scraped away to reveal lead?

The merchant didn't bother to look down at the coin in his hand. His wide eyes were glued to Char's smile. It was not a friendly smile. It was a smile that promised pain.

You surely didn't think that would fool us for long? Char looked around the room at the open boxes. But then, you weren't planning to stay around very long, were you?

I...ah...I... Char was sure the merchant would shit himself any minute.

Then the fat man did something that almost surprised the shadow. Almost. He charged him.

But Char had heard the very, very quiet shuffling from the other side of the curtain, knew someone was hidden away back there in the dark. So he had been expecting a surprise.

Char ducked to the side, well away from the slow-moving merchant and toward the curtain. Before he got there, a heavy form burst out of the shadows to meet him, carrying a club in one hand and reaching for Char's throat with the other. Char saw a mass of red hair and beard barreling his way. Before he even reached the man he heard a crack behind him and knew that Shide was handling the merchant.

The shadow pulled the long knife from the back of his belt as he lunged, ducking under the first wild swing of the club. Still, the man was fast, and he felt the rush of air as the club whizzed over his head and crushed the side of a crate. That gave Char just enough time. With his left hand, Char grabbed the wrist of the man's club-wielding hand and drove the knife into his chest, off to one side and deftly between two ribs, stopping only as the hilt rammed into the man's shirt. Char continued on, crashing his shoulder into the big man, sending him to the floor, the club clattering to the boards beside him as the knife slid out of his body. The man struggled to get up for only a second while blood flowed quickly out of the hole in his chest. Then a look of shock replaced the one of anger and he grimaced, more blood burbling from his mouth and nose as his eyes went wide, froze, and he lay still.

A blade in the heart, thought Char. Painful, but only for a very short time.

Turning, he found the merchant still struggling with Shide. His assistant held the man from behind with a sharp blade to the man's fat neck and had one arm pulled up behind his back. Yet still he struggled, trying unsuccesfully to jab Shide with his elbow. Shide patiently raised a questioning eyebrow over the merchant's shoulder at his master. Char nodded. No sooner had he done so than the knife sliced keenly across the merchant's throat. Shide pushed the body away quickly, avoiding any mess on his clothes, and watched the merchant squirm for a moment before joining his quiet friend on the other side of the room.

Char shook his head. The minister dislikes 'complications', Shide. But, you know, sometimes they cannot be helped.

His knob-nosed assistant knelt beside the big red-haired corpse, and with his finger traced a circle with a dot in its center on the man's forehead. Then he did the same with the merchant Richley.

Anhur accept the souls of these men that they may serve you on the other side better than they did in life, he intoned.

Char nodded. Unlikely, he thought.

-----------

The morning found Shide sitting with a breakfast of boiled grain, already dressed and packed for the trip, while Char shuffled through a leather satchel arranging his own belongings.

Do we go by sea for the first part of the trip? asked the assistant. It is the fastest way.

Char grimaced. I do nothing but puke at sea. And if I do that, I'll be no good for days once we do get off the damned boat. No. Better to lose a few days by land and not spend half the trip retching over the rail.

It put him off the idea of a breakfast just thinking about it.

I've got some errands to run this morning in the government district, and I'll need you to do a few things for me also.

Shide chewed his breakfast silently, waiting for further instructions.

First, visit the blacksmith who has been working on those items for us and tell him we'll be away for a bit, but pay him off and tell him to just hold them until we call again.

Char took a bag of jingling coins and tossed them in the satchel. Then visit Luchi and have him cover for us with the Guild while we're away.

The assistant scooped a heap of boiled grain into his mouth, nodded, then rose to start his work.

And Shide, find me a lute somewhere. Nothing expensive.

Shide frowned. Going to play the bard again?

I'm afraid so. I know how you've missed my singing.

Shide's frown deepened, but he took his cloak and went obediently out the door.

-----------

The priest stood at the front of the temple, tall and thin, the red robes of his office glowing in the lamplight, the gold star hanging on his chest marking him as no minor priest, but an Apostle of the faith. He ran a hand thoughtfully over the thin hair plastered to his scalp, carefully sheened with holy oil, and gazed out at those assembled in the temple nave, their pale, simple faces staring back at him. They were the hungry, the impoverished, the indebted of this great city of Lightbridge. It had always been their kind that filled the temples of the Dar Kharji. As it should be, the priest thought. For he had once been among their number. Dirty, like