Chapter Seven

The watchman sighed, his warm breath rising slowly in the cold night air. He leaned back against the wall, the sharpened and buried tree trunks forming a tightly built, twenty foot tall palisade. A yawn escaped his mouth as he rolled his shoulder, the heavy hauberk of mail digging into his back. He stepped from foot to foot, shaking the excess mud from his greaves; it had rained heavily the past few days, and the dirt surrounding the small outpost had turned soggy. Using the butt end of his spear, he scraped off what he could, before returning his attention to the forest. The tree line was only a hundred feet from the north wall, dense and full of old growth. He leaned forward, standing up straight and twisting his back. Night watch was a droll duty, and sighed again, dreading the hours that remained in his shift. The outpost was a far stretch from Thurn, and the other men stationed with him agreed that it was one of the worst places to be stationed. Built a few decades ago, it served as mainly an observation and communications barracks between larger, more important keeps, but due to its tucked away location, none of the men had ever seen any action. The most interesting it got was once every two months, when the supply wagons would make their delivery trip. A smile found its way onto the soldier’s face as he remembered a dancer that had travelled with the caravan last summer.

The memory of fair skin and shoulder length red hair, her body moving in a mesmerizing fashion as he had watched, enthralled. His mind wandered only for a moment, before a faint noise drew him back to reality. Eyes straining, he focused into the distant brush, scanning the forest for movement. An animal? Silence settled his concern as he relaxed, leaning against the wall. Her body moved once again, her long hair flowing as she seemed to glide through his thoughts. He recalled her clothing to the smallest of detail: a full length dress, light tan with golden fringe; but what was her name? A second sound jarred him and instinctually he gripped the spear with both hands, leveling it defensively. It was movement, shuffling from western edge of the trees. A twisted branch caught his eye momentarily before his vision moved past it, passing over the gaps between trees carefully. A patch of indistinguishable darkness shifted to reveal a pair of dull illuminated eyes, reflected by the moon light, staring back at him before turning back to the woods. Just a wolf, he chuckled inaudibly, I should know by now that nothing interesting ever happens in this shit hole.

He was still smirking when a howl erupted from the north, the sound bleating out for a second before dying off. The watchman steadied his stance and dropped to a knee, looking toward the trees intently. He returned his gaze into the woods to the wolf that was now lying on its side, facing away. A dark void seemed to expand slowly from beneath the beast until it caught the moonlight, reflecting a grim crimson into the night. Dead? His eyes moved rapidly from shadow to shadow before freezing upon a large figure, partially visible by a small beam of light. He noticed it crouched in tree beside the wolf’s body, sitting as a man might, several feet up. Silhouetted by the moon, the figure had several large spikes covering its shoulders and arms, as if it were wearing a demonic set of armor, like a visage of terror perched in the branches. His eyes widened further as the creature descended from the tree in a flash, landing like a feather before melding away out of sight.

The guard’s heart accelerated tempo as he gathered his thoughts, What chooses a predator as its prey? A soft crunch of metal, barely audible, registered in his ears. His head turned toward the main gate, on the western wall of the outpost, Hobbs! His greaves moved swiftly, striding across the mud as he dashed along the wall, slowing as he approached the northwest corner. Slowing his steps, he took pause to exhale quietly before peaking quickly around the edge. The gate was only fifty feet or so away, a simple pair of reinforced wooden doors protected from above by a small palisade overhang. Hobbs’ spear rested contently against the wall, and his lantern was hanging from the hook, still lit to welcome in any late night travelers. What is going on? Where is he? A wide bell hung by the doors, the pull cord hanging down and dangling at about chest level. The alarm bell! He dipped back from around the corner, wiping the rapidly forming sweat from his forehead. He squeezed his hands, flexing them open and closed. I have to get to the bell and alert the guard. Setting the spear down, he reached along his belt, finding his helmet taking it out. He placed the rounded piece of metal onto his head, pulling it down tightly and securing it to his head with the leather straps on either side. The cap had always irritated his skin, but it seemed prudent to place his safety over comfort in this scenario. Recovering the spear, he took several more breaths before turning the corner and accelerating into a full sprint.

The greaves, arm and leg guards, and various other metal pieces of his uniform clattered loudly off one another as he raced to the gate. Thirty feet …Twenty…Ten… At about ten feet from the gate his pace slowed, coming to a full stop in front of the gate. The ground was a muddy mess, horse and wagon tracks carving into the soil and destroying the road. In one of the puddles was a hand, from the wrist up, covered in dirt and nearly impossible to notice from its surroundings. What had caught the watchman’s attention was a shining band of silver on the ring finger, a wedding ring – Hobbs’ wedding ring. The hand had been severed mid arm, white shards of bone extending out from the stump, as if gnawed on by a dog. A now easily visible blanket of red covered the ground beneath the guardsman’s feet, previously concealed by the glare of the candlelight. The blood trail grew thicker as he followed it up the wall, his stomach beginning to wrench as he found its origin. Hanging from one of the beams of the small overhang was the body of a man, missing part of his right arm and the lower half of his body. His head dangled lifelessly over the edge, mouth open and tongue distended. His face was twisted in a deathless expression of pain as both eyes seemed to meet the guardsman’s disgusted stare. Oh God, Hobbs. His repulsion was muted by horror as he looked further up.

Balanced on the wall beside the beam was the large creature from before, holding a pair of legs by the ankles as it ripped off a chunk of flesh with its teeth. Its jaw began to process the food, oversized fangs tearing through the raw meat with ease. The entire creature’s frame was covered in dark thick plates, between which was matted black fur. Dotting the surface of the plates were spikes and twin claws extended from each of the creatures hands, bladed protrusions that pierced through the mutilated remains. Turning its head sideways, the creature lunged forward a second time; filling its maw with another mouthful of leg and ripping it clean off the bone. Gawking, he watched as the process was repeated, the beast chewing with an open mouth as giblets fell to the ground. The watchman’s initial shock passed as he watched the beast continue its meal, his mind returned to the task at hand: I have to ring the bell. He shot a quick glance to his right; the bell was there - the cord just a few feet away. Keep eating, please keep eating… He took a cautious step closer while looking up at the monster, which had begun toying with the now flesh-bare legs; pulling them apart in twisted amusement. It was only inches away now and as his outstretched hand moved towards it, he looked back up at the beast. No!

His arm lunged for the rope, fingers passing through the air as he was thrown to the ground; head ringing within his helmet. Double vision aligned as he looked up, straining to lift himself out of the mud with both hands. Nine feet tall, the monster towered over him, blood stained across its chest and face. It crouched back on its hind legs, before springing forward and lifting the guard from the ground. He flew through the air, the cool night breeze a momentary comfort before he crashed into the ledge. Time seemed to stretch on forever as he fell, body broken, splinters of wood drifting with him into forever. Blood and tears rolled upwards and he closed his eyes one last time - picturing her in his mind. The dress was a vibrant red this time, to match her hair, and the dirt road had been replaced with the tiled floor of a grand hall. Her dance was graceful and beyond compare; a portrait of beauty in every way. Upon finishing, she turned on a single foot, pirouetting before giving a bow to him - only to him. She looked up and smiled, her gray eyes seeming to say what he never could as she blinked out a single tear, smile fading as she turned away; lamenting in his thoughts. Emily. Her name, was Emily…

Chapter Six

... Built on fertile soil, the city of Thurn was once a small trade post thrown carelessly into the center of an empire, but centuries of growth as a trade hub and a steady stream of wealth had allowed for a nearly unchallenged expansion in all directions. The only barrier lay to the south in the form of the Whitmarr, a mighty river that had cut a wide channel inside which the city had flourished. As the decades passed, Thurn grew further into a metropolis, complete with aqueducts to carry water into the imperial sanctum, the first working sewer system, and what were thought to be impenetrable fortified walls. Unfortunately, despite being at the heart of the Old Kingdom, a year of exceptionally heavy rains pushed the Whitmarr’s waters above ground level, crashing over the gates and flooding the city. The torrential waters took the lives of many, and those that survived moved out and moved on, as many thought the city would just crumble into history. It would not be until Neemah’s rule, with the Old Capital still smoldering from his coup, that Thurn would be rebuilt into the gleaming jewel it is today…

-- A Brief Record of Slightly Less Than Nearly Everything, Ch. 2: Major Principalities

Another swamp fly buzzed in front of his face before landing on his exposed forearm, its tiny legs holding fast while its mouthparts moved in sequence, flexing before latching on to his skin. The fly tread so lightly that Thorson wouldn’t have noticed it had he not been watching from the start. His arms were flecked with dirt from their short trek through the muddy goat path into the swamp, and the insect was well hidden. He slowly set his bow to a side, careful not to startle the parasite, moving his free hand into striking distance. His open palm swatted down hard, leaving a small trail of his own blood along with a mess of mutilated parts in its wake.

“Damn bugs, eh?” Nelson nudged him, showing off what little teeth he had left in a big grin. Thorson elbowed him back, adding, “I know, haven’t seen this many blood suckers in one place since we were stationed at that mercantile convent in Gren’tha.” The two archers chuckled under their breath, having to retain some composure as they were on assignment. The swamp waters were stagnant, clumps of sticks and muck surrounding the base of their tree – a huge cypress. They had shimmied up the trees an hour earlier, and had been hanging onto the branches higher up with a leather support strap, boot spikes dug deep into the trunk. Nelson reached under his leather armor, retrieving a familiar friend. “Ahh, nothing like Devil’s Fire to wake a man up,” Nelson took another swig from the flask, gritting his teeth and handing it over. Thorson kicked it back, the harsh spirits burning his throat and almost bringing tears to his eyes, “And to put some hair on your chest.” He screwed the lid on tight, passing it back to Nelson, who promptly slipped the flask back under his armor.

Another fly passed unnoticed as Thorson checked his arcs, other teams positioned in similar trees. A pair to either side, Nolan and Sean to his left and the young brothers, Nick and Lewi, to his right. They were all facing the southern wall of Thurn, at the main runoff tunnel, waiting for their target. Young male, black hair, just over 6 ft, last spotted with a sword and crossbow and likely headed into the sewers. Thorson sighed; they get younger every day, as he unfolded the warrant and looked at the sketch of his target, sorry lad, but you’ve got to die.

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Lloyd had finished drying his hair, the spray of uncared black shooting up from his head. He tossed the now filthy cloth aside, stepping back into his boots and reequipping his armor. The blade on his falchion was still razor sharp, as he flicked the water from it, wiping it clean with the damp cloth; which was now stained red in addition to being dirty. Sheathing the large sword over his shoulder he walked over to the shattered door frame, shaking his limbs loose, making sure everything was well affixed. The man that had made such a loud entrance before was now entirely silent, sitting cross-legged with his back to Lloyd and facing down the corridor. “Shall we then, Marked One?” Lloyd nodded, attempting to walk past the stoic figure; who sat still, eyes closed and silent. As he passed, the man’s arm shot out as he rose to height, stopping Lloyd mid step; “Please, allow me to go first, Marked One.”

“Ok, if you’re going to be following me around, stop calling me that; ‘Marked One’ is a little too spooky and contrived for my tastes. You can call me Lloyd.” The man nodded, “And your name?” He furrowed his brow, “My…name?” The word sounded different in his accent, as if he were straining to pronounce it.

“Yes, your name? You do have a name…don’t you?”

“Ah yes,” his smile reappeared, “you may call me Asim, and I am here to protect you, so please,” he stepped in front of Lloyd, standing in the way, “allow me to go first.” Lloyd nodded, “have it your way,” as both proceeded down the stairs. He continued talking as they entered a long hallway, the smooth walls spoiled by the occasional narrow passage, out of which usually flowed a thin stream of sewer water. The small flows were corralled by mason laid channels, that all combined to form a ten foot wide flowing channel in the center. To both sides were several feet of walking room, and they moved along at about half speed, Asim taking care to pass across the entrance of every alley before Lloyd, motioning with a hand when it was safe. “So this whole, ‘protect the Marked One,’ thing, what’s that all about? How did you know where to find me?”

“The one you call Lysander spoke with me, and told me about your location. He sent me to first get this,” he pulled a sheet of wrapped cloth from his robes, handing it back to Lloyd, “and then to find you.” Lloyd unfolded the cloth, trying to make sense of the jumble of crossing inked lines drawn over what looked like a faint outline of Thurn. “A map of the sewers,” Lloyd turned it around, trying to find their position. Asim stepped over one of the thin streams that crossed their path, “Yes, to find you.” He pointed with his right hand, the metal reflecting off the water, “That way, I believe.” The large hallway split in twain, and they chose the right path, heading for the southern exit. Water once again rushed along Lloyd’s ankles, “Goddamn it,” he grumbled under his breath, reluctantly stepping down for what he hoped would be a final time as the tunnel shrank further, causing both to bend their heads down. Ahead he could see light, daylight. As they approached the exit, he could see a forest of wide trees with enveloping branches, shading what looked like a standing body of water, Great, a swamp. When they were just seconds from daylight, Asim paused, raising a hand, “Hold.” Lloyd looked around him into the tall grass and tree line, “What? There’s nothing out there, Asim.” He appeared intently focused, and Lloyd leaned forward, looking at his face – trying to find what he was seeing in the scenery. Asim’s eyes were closed tightly, and he appeared to be looking down, at his feet, if anything. “Oh man,” Lloyd muttered, rolling his eyes and taking a step into the light. “Wait -”

His chest was slammed with pain as the breath was knocked from his system and he hit the ground, pulled down by the scruff of his armor. The clattering of metal on metal a handful of times in rapid succession was followed by what sounded like wood splintering inches away. Vision fuzzy, he was able to make out a man, hurriedly dragging him away from the sunlight. “Asim, what the hell,” he glanced down, broken arrows littering the end of the corridor, a small trail of blood dripping from the side of his leg. “Are you alright?” His normally calm voice seemed to be in a panic, as Asim tore an insignificant wrapping off his person, rapidly bandaging Lloyd’s leg. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine.” He shifted into a crouch, “Well then, I guess someone knew we were coming.”

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Thorson knocked a second arrow, the first one should have done the trick but the fugitive was with someone that must have seen them drawing back their shots. The water flow coming from the tunnel had nearly stopped, they were still there. He checked the others, Sean affirming with a quick nod that his team was good to go while Nick helped Lewi light the tip of an arrow, shooting it wide into the city. The small flare began to shriek as it reached its peak, before blinking out of sight. Good, Raven should be here soon, and then we can bag this son of a bitch.

Chapter Five

The room had a lofty ceiling, fifteen to twenty feet up, and there were a pair of large grates through which light had illuminated the room. The room was above sewage level, so the floor was dry, a welcoming change from where he had spent the last several hours. It was a box like room, with a closed wooden door to his right. In the center was a lower section, perhaps two or three feet down and two to three feet across, where what looked like a clear stream of water was flowing gently. It entered from a small opening in the wall to the left, and ran underneath the closed door to the right. He hobbled inside, letting loose a sigh of relief and shouldering the blade. He set the sword down, slipping off his leather armor and unbuckling his leg guards. “No human waste,” he peeled off his soiled and torn undershirt, throwing it into the water. “No giant rats,” he bent down painfully to remove both his boots, tossing them into the flow. He sat down in the water facing the door, his sore body aching as he lowered himself down, “about damn time.” Lloyd leaned back slowly until he was fully submerged, before snapping back to a sitting position; shaking the water from his head furiously then cupping some in his hands to drink. The water was cool and refreshing, and as he was going back for a second drink his ears picked up noise from the tunnel to the right - light movement, echoing down the pipe and into the room; followed by a familiar piercing screech. Maybe I spoke to soon.

He scrambled hastily out of the wide indenture, sliding back on the stone and retrieving the sword. Using a free hand, he wiped his brow; flicking the matted hair out of his eyes as he peered into the corridor. The sunlight from above counteracted the dim glow of the sewers, and only the first few feet were revealed. The noise intensified, cacophonous as the two of claws moved towards him at an alarming rate. It barreled out the end of the pipe, jagged teeth and claw flying across the room as Lloyd’s eyes widened and he tumbled to a side. The rat smashed into the far wall, bits of broken rock and masonry breaking off as it fell to the ground on its side before flailing around and righting itself. Hopping across the stream, Lloyd ran at the door; holding the sword with one hand as he frantically tried the handle, locked! He turned in time to drop to the side and slide away, as the rat leaped towards him, breaking through the wood door and blocking the open frame with its girth. This one was clearly an older rat, or at least a larger one. The fur on its head was a base of dark brown, with lines of gray snaking around his ears and down his back. At its base was a foot long stub of a tail, the end of which was horribly scarred and blackened. It raised its hindquarters, backing up and bringing its front low the ground; readying to pounce. Lloyd steadied himself, inching closer to the center of the room; weapon out.

As the beast leapt he turned the wide blade sideways while sidestepping into the stream. He dropped to his knees, bending backwards, holding the falchion as a shield as the rat landed on top of him, pinning the blade between them. A paw wrapped around the now wedged sword, claws swishing through the water above his head, searching for flesh. Contorting himself, Lloyd pushed himself downstream, towards where the door had once been. The rat hissed and began to madly bat at the water; scraping the empty space where he had been. Moments later he surfaced past the door as quietly as possible before he climbed out of the water, leaning against the wall that lay between him and the rat which was thrashing at the water crazily. Taking soft, controlled breaths, Lloyd peaked around the corner; it still thinks I’m there, good.

He glanced at his new surroundings, the room was as wide as the one before it; but far longer, extending out thirty feet and then down a large set of stairs out of sight, the clearance tapering off with it. The stream continued its flow through the center of the room and appeared to continue through the middle of the stairs. The ceiling was once again out of his reach, and a pair of grates shed light down into the otherwise unlit room. As he looked around, the hysterical splashing behind him stopped, and Lloyd now heard the sound of metal clanging as his sword was knocked into the water. Again from his vantage point, he could see the rat, head now submerged in the looking for him. It pulled out of the stream, letting loose a guttural hiss, before turning about. Lloyd leaned away, removing his head from view. Don’t come over here, don’t come over here.

The rat pawed through his pile of armor, dragging its tongue along the ground before snorting at the air. It sniffed loudly a few times, moving in a stagger step towards the splintered door, moving closer to Lloyd. His breathing grew more rapid, as he tried to keep calm, reaching for his boot dagger; forgetting that he lost it in the torrential river earlier. Shit. The pointed head of the beast cast a shadow that began to reach out next to Lloyd, growing larger by the second. He could see the tip of its snout, followed by a row of teeth as it began to step into the room. Lloyd flexed his arm back, his fingers folding into a quivering fist, I just need one good hit and then I can make a run for it, down those stairs. He reared up, getting ready to strike, as the sound of metal being dislodged from place caused the rat to retreat from view and turn around as Lloyd dropped back to the ground, what the hell? The metal noise continued for another second before being followed by a large crash; something fell? The grate? The creature shrieked, lunging forward as he heard the sounds of combat and a low crack. The rat roared in pain, the shrill cry lasting until a second muffled whack ushered silence into the room. After a moment spent preparing himself, Lloyd inched around the corner, his clenched fist dropping as he saw the creature’s carcass, hunched in the middle of the room. A limp leg hung in the water, a steady flow of blood moving downstream with the water.

Behind the body, to the side of the stream, stood a muscled man, slightly taller than Lloyd, panting heavily. A dark tan, he was shaved bald and had several facial features that identified him as a foreigner. His cheekbones were high and nose wide, eyes spaced evenly but set back from his face, giving the impression that they were always looking intensely. He had a wide build, and his clothing was unlike anything Lloyd had ever seen. What looked like a single white sheet of linen had been wrapped over him several times, and was held down with some tight wrappings of cloth. Both feet were dressed as such from the shin to toe, and it did not appear as if he wore any shoes. His left hand was wrapped similarly, but on his right he wore an impressive gauntlet made of a dark metal. In addition to being well plated and skillfully crafted, it was covered in a tight spray of short, cruel looking spikes; like minute mountains across his knuckles. His garb was we immaculate aside from a thin spray of red on his chest and arm, leading down to a thick mass of red on the steeled fist. Lloyd followed the man with his eyes as he stepped into the stream, rinsing the blood off himself and muttering something under his breath. As Lloyd leaned out further to get a better glimpse, his grip began to fail as he stumbled uncontrollably into the water.

Shit! Before he could right himself in the water, a strong hand had already reached in and grasped him by the arm, pulling him out of the water and dragging him onto the dry bank. Lloyd turned around to see the strange man bearing down upon him, smiling warmly. He scrambled backwards, “Who the hell are you?” The man bend over, extending his wrapped hand, “No need for worry, I’m here to help,” his voice was deep and reassuring, and Lloyd slowing accepted the hand before being helped to his feet, the man’s strong arm nearly lifting him off the ground in the process. “So who are you, exactly?” The man chuckled and repeated in a low baritone. “I’m here to help you, Marked One, I am your protector.”

Chapter Four

“A journey of great importance, young one,” Lysander beamed, exposing a toothy grin, “Yes, great importance.” He began to move about the squat room, moving pots systematically away from the far corner with his foot. “First we must get you out of the city and then you must travel north. Two weeks ride, to the city of Greatspire, deep in the mountains.” Before he could continue, Lloyd interjected, “Greatspire?” His voice grew more anxious, “You mean the bandit city, the one where passerby are kidnapped and sold into slavery? The one that barbarians, murders and rapists call sanctuary - that city?” Lysander nodded before replying. “Aye, but it has not always been that way.” He paused from moving the pots, leaning against the wall, “In the time of Neemah’s reign, it was a great center of knowledge for the kingdom and housed one of the greatest libraries in the world. In that library lie the writings of Neemah himself, about his work regarding the nature of magic. If there is any place to learn more about your scar and the prophcey it is in the Library of Greatspire.”

Outside, the din of the street grew louder as the faint noise of armor marching approaching drew closer; soldiers moving from house to house as they searched from Lloyd. “We have less time than I’d hoped. You must go now, out here.” Lysander pointed at the corner he had been shuffling clay pots away from. He gestured toward a particularly large and cracked jug, “Under that, hurry now!” Lloyd heaved the jug off the ground and set it to the side, revealing a wooden trapdoor beneath. The rotted wood had swelled with water and required both his hands and a great deal of effort to open, but after a few seconds of straining, Lloyd dropped down into ankle deep water. “Go south, to the drain off,” Lysander called down from above, pointing a direction, “that way! I’ll contact you in a few days time, when things have quieted here.” The trap door slammed shut, followed by a grating noise as the heavy jug was slid back into place. The passageway was nearly a pitch black, the only light radiating off of the slimy walls. It was a dark green glow, translucent and providing Lloyd with enough light to discern direction. He had heard tales that in the age of magic, wizards’ runoff had drained into the sewers with disturbing side effects. He attributed the dimly glowing walls to the centuries of magical refuse. He began down the tunnel, keeping balance in the deeper sections of the water by running a hand along the wall.

The city was built long ago on the ruins of a far older one, and these sewers were far past the point of disrepair. Most tunnels Lloyd passed were collapsed, and the remaining ones were in dire need of masonry. After about a half hour of slow travel he had followed his smaller stream to where it fed into a larger tributary, This should empty into the river, south of town. The water rose abruptly; reaching waist level. As he ventured into the larger tunnel, a strong undercurrent pulled him off the wall; carrying him down stream at an alarming rate. His eyes began to burn, the foul water blinding him and causing all the minor scrapes on his body to erupt in pain. As the current accelerated and the tunnel widened further, Lloyd fumbled under the water, his hands reaching for his dagger. Fingers wrapped around the handle as he pulled it from his boot, clenching it tightly with both hands and rolling over so that he was facedown. After a moment of mental preparation, he jabbed the blade out, hoping to catch on anything to slow himself. As the metal hit stone, it jarred against his hands, bouncing off the floor and failing to slow him at all. Goddamn it! The tunnel twisted and turned, Lloyd cracking against a wall before once again being swept up in the rushing waters. As it met up with another stream, the underground river of sewage dropped abruptly, before arcing outward and emptying into churning pool of filth, a murky pit where several similar tunnels deposited their cargo. Lloyd flew through the air momentarily, Oh, son of a bit- before dropping into the deep liquid waste below. He shot from the water almost immediately afterward, gasping for air and swimming to where the floor met his feet again, and the water level dropped back to knee level. “Screw,” he paused, lungs screaming for air, “this…place…so…goddamn…hard.”

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Sprawling passages and rusted grates now surrounded Lloyd. The water was thick and smelled even worse than it had previously, as pieces of detritus and refuse floated on the surface, the heavier ones occasionally brushing past his submerged legs. The flow of water was slow and dams of debris collected around turns and by the grates. The once faint green glow was now all around him, clumping along the cracks and illuminating the murky surf. He looked up, moving so that he was across from the chute that he had plummeted out of. When he was sufficiently aligned, he splashed his way over to toward the nearest gate, easily kicking through the rusted metal. This should be south. He cautiously entered the low clearance pipe, only five or so feet tall and across, with a foot or so of submerged in sewage. The magical residue intensified as he worked his way through the tunnel; travelling in a crouched position. After minutes in tight quarters, the pipe expanded to a more comfortable size and around a final bend, he could see what looked like daylight breaking in around some sort of blockage up ahead. As he approached the waste, it seemed to shimmer, as if alive. It moved, the light’s glare causing Lloyd to look away as he was slammed to the ground by a massive force, ears ringing as blood began to drip from his nose and mouth. His eyes blinked, adjusting to the darker light; to see the beast which was now pinning him to the ground and snarling through a maw of disgusting, razor sharp teeth. Its face was missing many chunks of skin and fur, the yellow teeth and eyes gleaming from waters reflection. It had a pair of ears, each ripped and small, and its body extended a good five feet past its long, rodent like head.

He had once heard stories of the dangers of the sewers; abnormal dangers like the one that was now atop him. Men, they said, would go in, searching for a lost trinket or hiding from the guard, and a week or so later their dismembered parts would come out, floating down the river. They spoke of giant rats, as long as a man, teeth as sharp as daggers and claws like drakes; their enormous size possibly explained by generations of eating the magical runoff. Lloyd had always thought such stories a fool’s errand. Giant rats, such things were but tales to frighten children and keep them from wandering below the city and risk being drowned in a strong undercurrent. His mind was jerked back to the moment as the beast lowered its head close to his, shrieking and spraying him with a mouthful of mucus and decaying flesh. He tried in vain to wiggle an arm free, but the rat’s weight was easily enough to keep his arms in check. Dropping its snout closer, it uncurled its unwelcoming tongue and proceeded to lick Lloyd, the rough surface scraping like a sheet of nails against his face. He cried out in pain, squirming uncontrollably, his feet splashing in the sewage and his stomach wrenching from the stench. My feet. He glanced down the sewer, between himself and the rat. The beast’s tail swished through the murk, just above his legs. Arching his back he reached out with his right foot, hooking it around the dangling appendage. The rat straightened, cocking its head backwards to see what had grabbed it. Wrenching his right leg down into the water, Lloyd delivered a series of swift kicks with the left; effectively pummeling the meaty section of tail, close to the animal’s base. The beast gave a shrill cry, pushing backwards with its hind legs and scurrying away from Lloyd. He gave a hearty yell, standing up and away from the creature and drawing the falchion from his back. It responded with another shriek, louder than before, bending low on all fours, before sprinting towards him. He met the rat mid run, catching it in the chest with the weapon. Its two front claws flexed involuntarily, the arms moving to swipe at Lloyd but being unable to. Pushing the sword up further into the rat he roared once more, shoving the carcass to the side and letting it slide slowly to the ground from the now bloodied blade. He took a moment to catch his breath, using the falchion as a crutch as the daylight beckoned him out of the tunnel, and out of the sewers.

Chapter Three

The solders marched in a simple two-line formation -- four in the front, four in the back as they made their way through the crowded square and down a set of stairs, before arriving at the castle courtyard. Before them lay a towering structure, with spires of well worked stone that reached high above the nearby buildings. The walls were ancient but still indomitable, each twice as thick as a man thick and fifty feet tall. Narrow slits of windows circled around the keep, a common defensive maneuver, so that archers could rain down arrows while remaining protected. The main building was overbearing, but seemed to pale before the main tower, which reached skyward at a greedy pace. Above the rest of the stone buildings, it was several hundred feet tall, like a massive tree sprouting from the center of a flat meadow. At the top of the tower used to dwell a powerful wizard, in centuries long past, but now it only served to gather dust and catch the eye of soldiers new to guard duty at the keep. In the front of the great castle was a small cloistered courtyard, lined with detailed rows of neatly kept shrubberies and exotic low growth trees. The centerpiece of the cobbled yard was an elaborately carved fountain with a beautiful woman posing seductively in the middle, an ever spewing steam of water coming from her mouth.

Their Lieutenant stood by the ornate fountain, an elite team of archers behind him. He was wearing a full set of heavy plate, which had been painted a dark blue, the color of his liege. Over it was draped a bright white tabard with a pair of crossed swords on the front, a sign of the city’s militia force. The once vibrant colors had weathered away, and several cuts and tears had peppered the cloth. At his side rested a mighty axe, the handle well worn and sturdy, having felled many an enemy. A stoic temperance hung about him, his stance molded by years of service to the emperor and countless fights. His face was rugged and battle hardened; scarred from his left temple to his chin, leaving a socket where the eye used to be. The hole was covered by an eye patch, the only part of his outfit which seemed new and unused. As the troops approached, the Lieutenant straightened himself to a commanding height.

“Attention!” his voice boomed, and the troops froze to formation, faced forward, and saluted. “Report!” In response the first man in line stepped forward. He was clad in darkened leather, with a hand-and-a-half sword hanging from his side. Whereas the other solders had but wooden shields, he wore an iron shield, a pair of swords painted across it. His face was covered almost entirely by a steel helm, forcing him to peer through a small slit at eye level. “Sir, we have found no trace of the target. The sweeping teams have come back with negative contact and h-”. He was abruptly cut off by the Lieutenant. “So, what you mean to say is… you have failed!?” The sergeant lowered his head, “Yes sir.”

“Do I have to remind you what the cost of failure is?”

He began to perspire inside the helm, beads of sweat rolling down his face, “No sir.”

“I will give you one more chance; we can get him before he leaves the city. The guard has barricaded the gates, and I’ve had town patrols doubled and all the reserve forces have been moved in: so he can’t leave by any above ground means.” He tapped the ground with his foot, looking down, “His only other way out will be through the sewers. You move your squad in from the north entrance. I will take archers and set up outside the exit to the south, at the main tributary – we’ll flank him if he runs. Do you have any questions?”

“No sir.”

“Good. Go, get into position.” The sergeant saluted, about-faced, and moved out with his men toward the sewer entrance, behind the keep. The Lieutenant relaxed momentarily, taking a long cleansing breath. He closed his eye and gave his mind a moment to think, before reaching for a small wooden box that he kept in his pocket. Opening it with a hand, he removed the eye patch, folding it neatly and storing it safely in the box. He rubbed the vacant slot vigorously with a free hand, the patch always made it itch. He turned the gnarled socket towards his men, “Archers! With me!”

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There was a shift in the magical rifts of the world, he felt it. His power was momentarily drained, but why? He crumpled to the ground in a wave of fatigue, his body collapsing to the cold stone floor. With a heave of strength he lifted himself to his knees. What was that? Maybe the rune scribing had taken a greater toll than he had expected. He glanced down at his work, It is quite impressive, after all. It had taken decades to finish-- to find the book, translate the dead language, locate the appropriate tools, and carve the rune. Yet still it lay before him, taking up most of the floor, butting up against the pillars in the grand chamber. How humbling that such a simple diagram can be a harbinger for such unimaginable power. He chuckled to himself, the bellows of laughter filling the poorly lit room. Nothing would stop what was set in motion now, the gears were set in place and the machine had begun to turn.

The magic shifted a second time and again siphoned his precious energy. He collapsed again. It was different this time, stronger than before. Again? But how, how is this possible? His eyes darted from side to side as he laid on the ground, his mind racing, as his expression of levity turned to one of slow understanding and fear. Only one thing could explain a shift this dramatic. He rolled to a side, standing up with a stagger and rocking unsteadily on his feet. His breathing became rapid and a bead of sweat fell off his furrowed brow and dripped onto the gouged stone, following the carved contours. No, he’s made contact. He stumbled back from the rune, up the few stairs before dropping back into the throne. I need time, more time. His rapid breathing settled, as he composed himself. After a few moments brooding in silence, the smile reappeared on his face as he bolted up and raced towards the door, grabbing hold of a sleeve along the way. The body was relatively heavy, but he dragged it to the door with little effort.

Moments later they flung open and the guards outside snapped to attention. Looking to the first, he dropped the depleted carcass in hallway, “Bring me another, I am done with this one.” The soldier’s throat tightened and he managed to reply in the affirmative, ordering his men to bring his lord another slave. The pair of guards returned minutes later, carrying with them a bloodied man in shackles and chained about the neck. They opened to doors, as frightened as their captive. “Leave him,” a voice echoed out from the darkness, and the guards hurriedly left the man in the center of the throne room room. As the doors closed, the chamber grew darker, the man’s eyes straining to adjust. He began to cry through pained pleas of mercy, dropping to his knees. Down the stairs a figure moved to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Quiet now, no need for tears.” The slave looked up, his face hopeful, and met the gaze of the man, who smiled back, before plunging the curved blade his throat.

Chapter Two

He had just folded the wanted poster and hurriedly stuffed it into his pocket, when a voice startled him from below. “Quick, come in here,” it beckoned; “quickly now!” It seemed to be coming from a doorway below ground level, a few feet down the alley way. Lloyd paused, considering his options, before darting down the stairs, pushing aside a stained cloth that covered the open door, and entering the basement of a house. It was dank and poorly lighted and smelled as if something had died and was now rotting in the corner. The voice came from the darkest part of the room, and was that of a man’s, an old man’s. Lloyd tried to make out the contours of the figure, squinting as his eyes adjusted. He was able to make out the shadow of a hunched man squatting comfortably on a mat. “A bit of trouble you appear to be in, eh?” The figure rose slowly and lit a lantern on the clay wall behind him. Lloyd could see the man clearly now. He was short and frail, with his ribs visible on a clearly malnourished frame. His head was devoid of hair, except for a long, spindle white beard, that descended from his chin to the floor. The skin on his face was withered, wrinkled, spotted and frail, his eyes resting deeply in their sockets. In his left hand he clutched a crooked staff, using it to support his surely ailing muscles. Over his shoulders was draped a shawl made of rough linen, a dark brown. He did not have a right arm, the shoulder blade twisted and in-grown, likely due to lack of treatment at the time of injury. The light also allowed Lloyd to see the room in its entirety. The walls were made of tightly packed clay, and water off the street had run down them and puddled in a murky spot by the old man. The floor was barren except for the puddle, the stained mat the man had been resting on, and a series of broken and cracked jugs spread chaotically about the ground.

His milky eyes looked Lloyd up and down, nodding to himself. “So tell me boy, did your really kill someone?” Lloyd took a step back, placing a hand on his sword hilt. “How do you know about that?” The man grinned, revealing yellow crooked teeth, “That posting in your pocket is all over town.” Lloyd’s heart began to beat quicker, as his eyes darted nervously between the silhouette of a man and the exit. “Don’t worry, I’d be hard pressed to stop you from leaving.” Lloyd’s sword arm was still tight, his face beginning to sweat. The man looked him over again, “Ah, but still, something bothers you?” Lloyd barked, “How did you know I had that in my pocket?” The man laughed, “The answer is far simpler than you’ve led yourself to believe. I simply watched you in the alleyway before calling you in here.” Relief fell across Lloyd’s face, and he took his hand from the sword. “Good, for a moment there I thought you were some sort of diviner.” The old man grinned again and laughed. “Me? No, no, no; I’m no diviner. Wizard is the correct term.”

“What?” Hobbling to the corner, he looked up at Lloyd, who stood shocked as before. “Yes, I am a wizard. But please, call me Lysander. ‘Wizard’ is my, well was my occupation.” With some difficulty, he positioned himself squarely above the mat, laid his cane next to it, and fell onto it, using his one arm to balance the fall so that he ended up sitting cross legged. “Please come, boy, sit,” the old arm motioned to a second mat, which was partially covered up by some refuse. Lloyd still hadn’t moved. Lysander sighed, clearly irritated by his lack of movement, “Now listen, I mean you no harm and simply wish to talk. Please,” gesturing to the mat once more, “sit.” Lloyd walked over to the mat, kicking some of the dirt and bits of clay off before sitting down.

“So by Wizard, you mean…what, exactly?”

Lysander reached for a broken jug by next to him, “Well I mean wizard, someone that sees the energy that ties our world and everything on it together, and because of that can draw power from it.” He took a sip of the dark fluid in the jug, “By borrowing this power from other beings, sentient or not, I can do things that expand far beyond the normal realm of reality.” He waved his arm over the empty socket where another arm once resided, and from it grew a fleshy tendril. It reached out, almost instantly, flapping around momentarily before filling out, and fraying at the end. From the fraying at the end sprung a hand of fingers that each bend and curled, before resting flat. Lysander continued, “I can make illusions,” moving the new arm about, “that will pass any visual test, but are unable to interact on a material level,” he reached for the cup on his leg, but his hand passed through it, as if gas. Lloyd leaned forward, looking intently at the arm, “So that, isn’t real?” Lysander extended it for a friendly shake, “See for yourself.” Slowly, Lloyd went to grasp it, but each time he touched it, his hand passed through as though it weren’t there. The Wizard flicked his real wrist, and the other arm dissipated; the socket once again empty. “Illusions are quite easy to maintain and they require little energy. Material spells, things that influence the realm of reality, are far more difficult to grasp and control.”

Lysander pointed at a broken pot with his outstretched arm, straining as if to reach for it. Lloyd leaned over to grab it for him, “No,” Lysander interrupted him, “allow me.” The broken pot moved slightly from side to side in the mud, before lifting off the ground a few inches. Pieces of nearby pots also rose from the ground around the first, circling them slowly; flying through the air like a flock of birds. They moved in, enclosing the pot from view. After a moment, the pieces fell to the floor, lifeless, leaving behind the first pot, now whole. Moving his fingers, Lysander brought the clay jug to his lap, setting it down. He poured the water from the half broken vessel into the restored one.

“That’s amazing!”

“Indeed,” Lysander took a drink from the fixed pot, “but not without its toll.” He turned his arm to the side, showing black lines running like veins up to his chest. “Each act of prestidigitation, of magic, big or small, has its price.” Resting his arm on his lap and speaking quieter, “If you borrow from the energy of life from anything, you must return it – one way or another.” Lysander handed the pot over to Lloyd, “As you can see,” he said, pointing to the clay cup, “There are no traces of it ever being damaged. The magic has actually broken it apart into thousands of fragments, and then reformed it from the chaos.” Lloyd turned the jug over, feeling the sides with his hands. There were no flaws or rough patches; the entire outside was smooth, as if it had just been taken from the kiln of a master craftsman. Lysander yawned sleepily, and began to stroke his beard, as his eyes wandered to Lloyd’s arm. “Boy, what is that on your arm there?”

He was referring to the scar Lloyd had carried since birth. It was only two or three fingers wide, but was quite noticeable on the otherwise blank skin. A fairly distinct mark, a circular line of triangular notches behind what Lloyd had come to think of as crooked ‘L,’ tilted an eighth of a turn to the left. “This?” he responded, “It’s been here since before I can remember.” Lysander’s eyes widened as he spoke, his voice nervous at first, “Child, that mark,” he calmed himself. “That mark was not caused accidentally but was carved into you by magic.” Lloyd set the clay pot down, “Excuse me?” Lysander’s good arm strained as he held it to the wall to stand up, “That pattern is unmistakable, and I’ve seen it only once place before.” He lowered the arm and pointed it to Lloyd’s shoulder, his fingers quivering as he spoke stutter struck. “That mark isn’t a mere scar, it- it’s an ancient rune. A very powerful rune, scribed by the most powerful wizard this land has seen in ten thousand years. By the gods, so it has come to pass?” An expression of dread passed over the wizards face, as he lowered his arm. “No, no, this cannot be.”

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“What has come to pass?” Lloyd stood up hastily, “what has happened?” The old man grabbed his arm, placing his hand below the patch of scars. “This,” he tapped Lloyd’s arm, “is the first sign.” Lloyd jerked his arm free and took a step back, “What are you talking about?” Lysander sighed, leaning against the wall and sliding back into his folded squat. “Please, do sit down again. There is much to hear.” As Lloyd sat, he spoke. “Long ago, magic was not an uncommon sight as it is now. It was normal for a town’s water supply to be entirely conjured, or for lamps to be lit by the wave of a hand, and chores done with the flick of your wrist. Every person was born with a degree of magical prowess, some more so than others. Magic was in everything, everyone; it was life. It also worked different then than now. The nature of casting was simpler, spells were invoked with no cost of life force; no exchange for the casting of spells. A majority of people only ever learned the most basic of tricks, like fixing that cup or the illusion of my arm, as the magic manifested in a person’s later years. However, those that showed magical proficiency at a young age were thought of as prodigies. They were trained by the most magically skilled men in all of the kingdoms so they could control it and focus it into powerful spells; these men were the first wizards.”

“The wisest of these wizards founded the Circle of Sages, a group dedicated magic and knowledge. Among those that sat in the seats of the sages was a seer, whose visions were written down as prophecy. He foretold that a child would be born of incalculable magical power, and that this boy would bring the end of a great evil throughout the kingdom. The wizards prepared, and when the child was born, he was taken in by the circle immediately. They named him Neemah, ‘he who would bring change,’ and devoted their teachings to him. By the age of six he was ages ahead of his peers and had surpassed his teachers. Magic to him was like breathing is to us, and it flowed with ease from his hands; each spells merely an idea brought to life through his will. Alas, the prophecy would prove to be wrong as Neemah grew corrupt and arrogant. He realized he alone had the power to shape the world, mold it to his will; in his mind, he was a god. All manners of royalty attended his eighteenth birthday. As the festivities began, he announced his future rule over the land, asking who among them would submit now. All refused, and before any could make it to the door all had been slain. While the blood was still fresh on his robes, Neemah raced to see the king. He arrived before word of the betrayal travelled back, and the guards let him into the throne room. King and queen dead, he cast a spell of travel, returning to the sage’s sanctuary where he had spent his childhood. By nightfall he had burnt it to cinders, killing anyone he could find. Former friends, teachers, and children all died by his hands. I was there that night, that terrible night.”

Lloyd interjected, “How is that possible? You’d have to be over a thousand years old?!” Lysander laughed, “Indeed child, indeed. I was but a child when the temple was attacked, and cheated death by chance. After the blaze started and Neemah had gone, I raced inside; collecting what tomes I could carry in my small arms. I found myself alone, none others had survived; and so fled into hiding with the books. My life has been long, a tale in its own, but the length of it is considerable, you are correct.” He lifted part of his robe, revealing his chest. Across it, Lloyd could see his veins were black, his skin pale and sickly. “I have been extending my time on this earth through magic. There is a spell which allows wizards to have centuries of life beyond a normal man’s.” He lowered his tattered robes and continued, “With wizards gone and the empire in chaos, Neemah was free of obstacles, and none opposed his new claim to power. His rule became iron clad; at the height of his reign, he had taken over half of the known world. Conquests alone were not enough to quench his thirst for power, and this would be his undoing. He became delusional and isolated, ever fearful of being overthrown. He began to work in secret, carving a great rune into the floor of his throne room. Unfortunately for Neemah, he was a prodigy, and the rune worked flawlessly. You see, he had come to fear the great power he wielded, the force of magic, so he had crafted a rune that would sap the magic of every person in the land –draining his magic too; leaving him a frail old man, with no claim to the throne he had built.”

“He had channeled so much of himself into the rune, that he found himself unable to conjure even the simplest of spells. Empty of magic, he was overthrown by the military force he created and fled through the sewers into exile. In order to sustain the great rune, Neemah had magically linked himself to it, and when he left the city, the link between him and it was broken, and the magic was redistributed sporadically throughout the world. Every living thing on the planet was imbued with a faint trace of the great power that a select few had once possessed, and the casting of magic faded away into history. He had changed the very nature of the world; people no longer contained enough essence to cast a spell. In order to cast even the simplest of spells, there was now an exchange required.” He gestured to his missing arm and scarred chest, “These are the prices for my extended life.”

“For the rest of the world, the lines had changed once again, the empire was re-divided, the generals of the army established military rule in their lands, and generations were born anew into a world devoid of magic. The lands under the generals became kingdoms, and centuries later, are the ones that are recognized today.”

“But the story does not end there. In exile, Neemah found that he had to do tasks without magic. Mundane chores became difficult and over the years, he became aware of all his previous acts of evil. He saw how flawed he had been, how his magic had consumed lives, how his lust for power had killed thousands, and how he had slaughtered even his closest of friends. His sorrow would not bring those slain back from the underworld, so deep in the deserts to the east, Neemah sat in meditation, hoping for guidance of what could be done. It was there that he had a vision, a prophecy; a man would inherit a kingdom centuries after he had passed. The man would know of magic and learn a powerful secret; one that Neemah had scribed away in his writings before fleeing the city. You see, Neemah had discovered that the exchange required for magic could be easily borrowed, or,” Lysander leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper, “it could be taken, and never returned. In other words, you could kill someone and harness what sliver of essence they contained.” He leaned back, speaking normally again, “Neemah knew that once this man learned of the final truth of magic, he would embroil the world in war again, just as Neemah had done centuries earlier. He could not wait a thousand years, by then he would be as I am now – and too weak to combat this evil. The only way he could see to stop this, was to use all the magic that remained within him and scribe one final rune. As it was finished, he gave up his life to power it. A simple design, of a sword held by a fist, silhouetted by a star; one that he foretold would find itself upon the arm of a child when the time was right.”

With that Lysander hobbled to some of the pots and began to pull out scrolls from them, dropping them on the ground, adding to the disorder. After a few seconds he found what he was looking for and opened it. “Here it is.” The parchment was old and tattered. There were some letters upon it, but they were in a text Lloyd was unfamiliar with; and he only could make sense of the drawing of a gauntlet tightly clenching a sword, overlaying a sun pattern. The sword overlapped the starburst and extended over its edges – his scar. “It reads, ‘That which is nothing must first find one, then one and another together make two. Two together as one can overcome a third, which will together make three. Three must give up three to be nothing again; only that which is nothing can defeat one.'" The page was heavily damaged, and Lysander passed it to Lloyd, “Here,” placing it into his hands, “this belongs to you, and you’ll need it on your journey.”

Lloyd began to fold the page and tuck it away, “Wait, what journey?”

Chapter One

Lloyd dashed into an alleyway, out of breath and panting heavily. Why are they following me like the plague? He had been running for at least ten minutes, through markets, buildings and over rooftops across the vast city. He was used to being on the run and could handle himself in a fight, but nothing ever as severe as this. These men were coordinated, ruthless, and must have had some military training. During his short stay in the city, he had definitely pinched the nerves of a few of the town’s nobles. Swiping a caravan of imported liquor, robbing another’s mansion of some expensive paintings, blackmailing a third who had ties to some less than reputable locations; but still, who would hire such men?

He recalled the events leading up to his current predicament. It had been about noon in the bazaar, the sun beating down upon the hundreds of vendors and patrons. Lloyd had meandered between the booths, lifting coin purses of some wealthier shoppers and grabbing lunch from vendor’s that were distracted; just a normal day in the city for him. As he was getting out some money to hustle a basket salesman he had dropped his coin pouch. When he bent down to retrieve it a woman screamed beside him, arm out and pointing at the man inside the booth.Lloyd looked up to see the man stumble for a moment, blood pouring from his chest where a crossbow bolt had struck it, before collapsing. The bazaar had gone crazy, the woman’s scream spreading to other patrons as pandemonium exploded throughout the crowd. Lloyd stayed low, peering through the chaos for the sniper. Across from him, atop a building, a leather garbed figure was loading another bolt, and looking right at him. So, that was meant for me. The archer then shouted something, signaling towards the center of the square. City militia flooded into the square from the road beside the archer, against the surge of fleeing civilians, working their way toward Lloyd like salmon heading upstream. Shit. Ducking under the tent for momentary cover, he rolled the merchant over, a bulging coin pouch at his side. Ignoring it, Lloyd checked his gear: a wide bladed falchion on his back, a hand crossbow hanging from a belt loop, and a boot dagger.Yup, I’m screwed. Lloyd glanced out from under the table; the guard was nearing him fast. Shit, shit. Think damn it! He looked at the merchant again, and at the multitude of baskets and boxes of goods around him. His mind entered survival mode, scanning each item around him. Baskets, fruit, buckets, rope, torches, trinkets, clothes, gunpowder, and wire thin smile ran across his face.

Guardsmen surrounded the tent, drawing steel. “Drop your weapons and come out slowly!”They waited for a second, before one repeated the command - still no response. Looking to one another, they approached cautiously; this target was highly dangerous. Moments later the fire from the torch hit the gunpowder trail, which burned fast, running into the stacked pile of powder barrels and crates of fruit. An explosion of watermelon, baskets, and other debris rained down upon the guards. The closer ones were knocked back into nearby stands; the ones further away were pelted with fruit, raising their shields in response. Lloyd had skid through the dirt, pushed back by the force of the blast; having successfully covered himself with the merchant’s now charred body. He pushed the smoking fellow to a side, standing up and dusting himself off.The guards had gotten their bearings, and had spotted him. “After him!” Lloyd tumbled over the merchant, relieving him of the money pouch, Hope you don’t mind, friend. He slid under a table and darted between booths as he headed out of the bazaar. He ran up stone stairs which took him out of the square and caught his breath. The guardsmen were right on his tail, almost free from the maze of shops. Shit, he thought again, slipping the merchant’s money pouch into his boot. From the top of the stairs he had a good view of the adjoining buildings and alleyways. He sprinted towards a nearby low roof, crossbow bolts whizzing past him. His legs strained as he jumped, misjudging the distance. Lloyd extended his fingers mid flight, stretching for something to grab. They slipped along the roof’s tiling, dropping down to the gutter and finding purchase.His pursuers had made it to the top of the stairs, a few of them running towards him, the others loading their crossbows. Pull! Forcing his muscles beyond the brink, he wrenched himself over the gutter, onto the roof. Crossbow bolts clattered as they broke the clay tiles around Lloyd. He ran up and down the roof, building speed and jumping to the next building. The guards were in the alleys now; following on foot, taking pot shots occasionally. He was approaching a story taller building, with waist high shuttered windows. Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea, bad-

Lloyd crashed through the wooden shutters, landing on a table that splintered upon impact. The family in the room had been having lunch it seemed, and were not pleased with this uninvited guest. The women were shouting in a language he didn’t understand, and the man had gone into a side room, probably to retrieve a weapon. Shaking his head, Lloyd stood up as quick as he could, stumbling a step before moving coherently again. The man returned with a walking cane, whacking Lloyd several times while shooing him out. Lloyd fled into the hallway, which had a stairway at one end and a window at the other. He started towards the stairs as the guards entered the first floor, their clanking armor alerting him of their presence. Shit. The doors to the other rooms were locked, and the guards were only a floor or two down. Lloyd ran over to the window, opened it, and looked down – a five story drop. There was a pencil thin ledge just outside that ran along the side of the building. Making haste, he slipped through the window, stepping cautiously along the ledge. Swinging quickly to the alley side of the building, Lloyd looked down. Across the narrow passage was another building, and a few feet down: a balcony.Placing his feet against the wall, he pushed off. He fell square onto the wooden balcony, which, unable to support his falling weight, gave way; breaking through the subsequent balconies below.At the end of his plummet, crates of trash cushioned his fall, as he smashed to the alley floor, rolling off the pile of waste and wincing in pain. He scrambled to get to his feet and leaned against the opposing wall, bloodied and breathing heavily.

The alley floor was wet with runoff and human waste, thrown down from the windows of the neighboring buildings and as he looked around, in the muck at his feet was a crumpled piece of paper that seemed more recent than the others. Taking a break from the chase, Lloyd unfolded it and read it.

WANTED FOR MURDER

Description: Male, Age 17-25, Height: 6 ft. to 6 ½ ft. Slender build, black hair.

Distinguishing Marks: Scarred pattern on upper left arm

CAUTION: This criminal is considered to be armed and highly dangerous, approach with care

Underneath the writing was a crude sketch of a man that matched the description, carrying a sword and looked suspiciously like Lloyd. Shit. He had been framed. That was why they had been after him.