The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows
Cutter looked over his shoulder. A skycoach was approaching.
Keep him talking, Cutter thought. Maybe there was still a way out of this.
“Who are you?”
“Who am I?”
The warforged was silent for a moment, and when it spoke again it was in a soft whisper that caused the hair on the back of Cutter’s neck to rise.
“I am the unnamed. I am the fear of darkness. I am the night stalker. I am the will of the Shadow, and I do his bidding.”
Cutter swallowed.
The Shadow?
“Enough of this,” said the warforged. “It is time for you to embrace the darkness.”
“Embrace your own darkness.”
Cutter swung …
To my parents, for always making sure I had plenty of books to read when I was growing up.
To Caroline, for always being there. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be where I am today, writing the dedication in my very first book. Thank you.
And to Isabella. If your life is filled with a fraction of the wonder I feel every time I look at you, you’ll have a happy life indeed.
ABLE OF
C
ONTENTS
Prologue:
The first night of Long Shadows
Chapter One:
The first night of Long Shadows
Chapter Two:
The first night of Long Shadows
Chapter Three:
The first night of Long Shadows
Chapter Four:
The second day of Long Shadows
Chapter Five:
The second day of Long Shadows
Chapter Six:
The second day of Long Shadows
Chapter Seven:
The second day of Long Shadows
Chapter Eight:
The second day of Long Shadows
Chapter Nine:
The second day of Long Shadows
Chapter Ten:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Eleven:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Twelve:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Thirteen:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Fourteen:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Fifteen:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Sixteen:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Seventeen:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Eighteen:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Nineteen:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Twenty:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Twenty-One:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Twenty-Two:
The third day of Long Shadows
Chapter Twenty-Three:
The third day of Long Shadows
Epilogue:
Dawn
The first night of Long ShadowsZor, the 26th day of Vult, 998
T
orin heard the noise again, a loud banging as if someone was pounding on the walls.
He frowned and looked up. The shelves of Morgrave University library receded from the tiny pool of light his everbright lantern created, melting into the shadows of deep night. He listened, but all he could hear was the rain pouring down outside the huge window behind him. He looked over his shoulder. The panes of lead-lined glass revealed only the darkness of Sharn. The panels glimmered slightly as runnels of rainwater caught the light of a distant skycoach.
He was alone. Or at least, he thought he was. Who else would be here at this time of night?
He
shouldn’t even be here, but Wren had told him to do a bit of research for a case he was thinking of taking on. A bit of research. That was a joke. He’d been here half the night already and he still hadn’t found the information Wren wanted.
But that was typical of the way things worked. Torin did all
the leg work while Wren threw one of his lavish parties.
There. There it was again. A muffled thud. But louder this time. And it hadn’t come from inside the library, but from outside, in the university commons.
Torin swiveled around and carefully slid off the high stool, landing on the wooden floor with a slight thud. He gave a small sigh. Why didn’t they supply chairs for people his size, anyway? It wasn’t as if dwarves were a rarity in academia.
He padded silently to the stairs, leaning over the banister and looking down. The stairwell descended into blackness. He couldn’t see any lights or anything else that would reveal that someone was inside. So where had the noise come from?
Then he heard a loud crash, like something smashing through a wall, from the floor below him. Torin hurried down the stairs and paused on the landing. It led into a corridor where some of the professors had their living quarters.
Maybe it wasn’t any of his business …
He heard a cry of pain. No, something was going on. Torin ran down the passage to the door through which the noises were coming. He tried the handle and the door swung open into a brightly lit room.
Torin took a small step inside.
And froze, his eyes widening in shock at the scene before him.
A huge man, over six feet tall, with two strangely curved blades held in each hand, stood over a horribly mutilated body. The man was covered in blood and breathing heavily, staring down at the victim.
A gasp escaped Torin’s lips and the intruder swung around to face him. The man’s hair was so short that he looked almost bald. Strange tattoos worked their way up his arms and around his neck, partially concealed beneath the blood and gore.
Torin fumbled in his jacket for his knife. The hilt snagged in the lining. He tugged at it, desperate to free it before—
He looked up. Too late. The man was running straight for him. Torin stumbled backward, managing to free the knife. The man lashed out, smacking the dwarf in the face and sending him crashing into the door frame. Torin quickly climbed to his feet, his blade held defensively before him, but the man was running up the stairs.
Torin sprinted after him, grabbing the banister and hauling himself up the steps in pursuit. When he reached the library, he stopped, sucking in great gulps of air, and peered up the stairwell. The man was already at the top floor. There was no way the dwarf could catch him.
Torin winced, feeling a stitch coming on. Host, but he was unfit. It was all that expensive food Wren insisted on eating. How was he supposed to resist it?
He turned and walked slowly back down the stairs. He’d have to find someone and tell them what had happened.
At least the murderer shouldn’t be too hard to find. A six-and-a-half foot tall maniac with a dragon tattoo on his arms?
Even the Sharn Watch should be able to handle that.
The first night of Long ShadowsZor, the 26th day of Vult, 998
E
arlier that night
.
Cutter’s brother used to say there were two ways you could live.
One, you fought against everything, spent every moment of your life wanting to be somewhere else, regretting you hadn’t done better, made more money, married that girl you knew when you were younger. You fought yourself with every breath and blamed everyone else for the mess you were in.
Or two, you accepted your lot no matter what the deal, and you lived your life in each and every moment, not waiting for the future or looking back over the past.
You lived
now
.
His brother had lived according to number two. He died in the War, but he left behind a legacy of good deeds and good advice.
Cutter hated him for it. He could almost feel his brother’s
ghost hovering over his shoulder, shaking his head at the choices Cutter made, at where those choices had led him.
Here. Staring out a grubby window in the back room of a seedy Lower Menthis tavern.
Rain thundered from the night sky. It streamed down the cracked glass of the window and trickled inside, soaking into the damp wood beneath his fingers. Everbright lanterns were spaced widely along the street, covered in an oily grime even the rain couldn’t wash away. The light they cast was sickly and jaundiced, and so faint that all they did was create thick pools of lurking shadow for the cutpurses to hide in.
It always rained here. Even if the sky was clear up above, the runoff from the upper wards—sluice water, condensation, sweat, and slops—all blended into a muggy mixture that trickled down the mile high buildings and fell over the lower wards in a fine, misty drizzle that made the skin feel oily. You couldn’t shake that feeling—as if you were coated in a constant sheen of grease and dirt.
Or maybe that was just the company he kept.
Cutter heard his name spoken behind him. He frowned and turned from the window.
Nothing had changed. Elian was still tied to the chair, his arms bound tightly behind him. He was breathing raggedly, his thin face covered with blood. Cutter could tell he was trying not to look at the pointed ear lying in a small puddle of blood by his feet.
Tiel had done that. He always got carried away with the violence.
Cutter shifted his gaze and looked at the halfling. Tiel crouched on the warped floorboards, his hands dangling between his legs as he stared unblinkingly at his captive. He’d been holding that position for half a bell, his wiry muscles supporting
him without even a tremble of complaint.