The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows (10 page)

“It seems to be clear,” he said, turning to face Torin.

Four goblins stood behind them, waiting patiently to be noticed. They were typical of their kind, squat and ugly, their flat faces making Wren think that whatever god created them had pressed them up against a wall and pushed until all their features flattened out.

“Uh, Torin. Could you take three large steps forward and turn around please?”

Torin did as Wren asked. When he saw the goblins, he cursed and drew his sword. “Where did they come from?”

“I have no idea. And why are they just standing there?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Renaia, please keep well back. Unless you have a weapon?”

Renaia shook her head.

“Fine. Just keep out the way, if you please.”

Wren turned from her and muttered some words beneath his breath.

“They don’t usually attack like this,” whispered Torin. “They usually have a leader or something.”

That was worrying Wren. He finished activating the infusion he had cast into his belt and felt a rush of strength surge through his body. And not a moment too soon. The goblins glanced to their left, speaking to each other in their guttural tongue. Wren thought he heard the word
chib
, which he knew to mean “big boss” in their language. He took a wand from his belt and held it ready.

“Torin, you deal with the goblins. I’ll deal with whatever else is coming.”

Wren instantly regretted his words as an eight-foot-tall creature lumbered around the corner, swinging a mace that was the same size as Torin. A bugbear. Thick, bristly red hair covered its body, and it had lost both ears in some past encounter. It raised a salute with the mace.

Wren didn’t hesitate. He pointed his wand and a ball of flame roared into the creature.

The bugbear lifted a shield that looked as if it might have once been someone’s front door. The fireball exploded into the wood, blackening it and sending the bugbear staggering backward.

Well, that hadn’t done much good. And Wren had only a few more charges in the wand. He knew he shouldn’t have left the house without his full arsenal, but he hadn’t expected to need any major defenses. He was supposed to be at a party, for Flame’s sake!

He could hear Torin shouting at the goblins as he tore into them with his sword. The bugbear looked at its shield, then grinned at Wren, huge sharp teeth jutting crookedly in its mouth. How the creature managed to even speak without lacerating its face was a mystery.

Wren sighed. No other way around it. He would have to get his hands dirty.

He released a charge from his wand, this time aiming for the head of the bugbear. The creature brought up its massive arm to block the blow, but Wren had expected it to do that. As soon as the fireball left the wand, Wren sprinted after it, lowered his shoulder, and slammed into the creature. His enhanced strength knocked the bugbear off its feet with a grunt of surprise, sprawling it on its back. Wren leaped to his feet and fired off the last charge. The fireball hit the creature full in the face. The bugbear screamed as the hair shriveled from its head and its skin bubbled and blistered.

Wren put the wand back in his belt and unhooked one of a pair of specially designed crossbows. He’d constructed them himself and was quite proud of them. That wasn’t to say they didn’t have flaws. Reducing their size so they fit easily into a
single hand put the small weapons under an immense amount of pressure. An unforeseen side effect of this was that once the safety was off, the crossbows had a habit of unleashing the bolt at the slightest bump. Not the most dependable of weapons.

But they were good when their wielder was backed up against a wall.

Wren gagged at the stench of cooked flesh and leveled the crossbow at the bugbear as it writhed on the ground.

“Wren! Behind!”

Wren dropped and turned, loosing the bolt straight into the face of the goblin running at him. The creature’s head jerked back and its legs flipped into the air as the force of the blow stopped it in its tracks.

Wren reached into his coat for his second crossbow, but before he could get hold of it, something smacked into his shoulder and sent him spinning through the air. He slammed into a wall and fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, his shoulder numb and useless beneath him.

Struggling to sit up, Wren saw the bugbear on its feet again, flailing with its mace. The beast was blind, the fireball having shriveled its eyes in their sockets. It was striking out blindly. Wren had been clipped by a lucky hit.

Torin was down to the last two goblins, but the bugbear was headed for the sound of their fighting. Wren winced in pain and pushed himself to his feet. He pulled out the other crossbow and staggered over to the creature, pausing to time his attack. The mace flailed through the air in wide arcs, accompanied by screams and sobs of pain from the bugbear. Wren felt a twinge of sympathy for it.

Wren tried to dodge under the swing but the bugbear was moving too fast for him to get close. He stepped back and decided on another route. He waited for the bugbear to turn
its back, then jumped up and grabbed it around its huge neck. The creature screamed in anger, but before it could do anything, Wren reached around and loosed the crossbow straight into its mangled eye socket.

The bugbear froze in place. Then it twitched slightly, dropped the mace and shield, and toppled over backward. Wren threw himself to the side before he was crushed beneath the weight. He landed on his injured shoulder and cried out in pain. He kept rolling and pushed himself to his feet just as the creature hit the ground with a clatter of rusted armor.

The noise distracted the last goblin long enough for Torin to swing his sword into its neck, cleaving the creature down to the chest bone. The goblin looked at the wound and opened its mouth as if to say something, but a bubble of black blood welled out and the creature collapsed at the dwarf’s feet.

Silence followed, broken only by ragged gasps as they tried to regain their breath. Renaia emerged from the shadows and hurried over.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

Wren glanced at Torin. “I’m fine. But the dwarf looks like he’s taken a few cuts.”

“Hah!” said Torin. “Speak for yourself. That arm doesn’t look too healthy hanging there like that.”

“A mere bruise. Two seconds at a Jorasco healer will do me fine.” He winced and rolled his shoulder. It
was
just a bruise, albeit it a very deep and large bruise that would spread down his arm and over his back. He would have to visit a healer, or he’d be stiff for weeks.

“Renaia. Lead the way, if you please. And no more dark streets. I don’t have any wands left. Oh, that reminds me.” Wren walked over to the bugbear and bent over to examine the creature. He wanted to retrieve his bolt, but it had gone too deep
into the skull. He wrinkled his face with distaste. He had no desire to cut it out.

He made do with the bolt from the goblin and reloaded his other crossbow with a spare from his belt. He had only five left. Host, after this he would never leave the house without a full belt of weapons.

They walked away from the scene of the fight. Wren glanced over at Torin. “You’re limping! I win.”

“What do you mean, you win? You can’t move your arm!”

“Yes, but I can run. You can’t. Which means I can leave you behind if we get outnumbered. Therefore, I win. Renaia, lead on!”

The house had once been a mansion for a wealthy family, but all that was left was a dilapidated ruin. The windows were boarded up and scrawled over with the sigils and runes of local gangs. The roof sagged dangerously and had a huge hole in the center, almost as if a massive rock had fallen onto it.

Anemic weeds and bristly grass covered the garden. Wren was surprised anything could grow there, cut off as it was from most of the healthy sunlight. The front door was completely missing. Wren stepped through first, his strong night vision giving him an advantage over Renaia.

“Where?” he said softly over his shoulder.

“Straight down the hall. Last room on the left.”

Wren led the way down the corridor, stepping around gaping holes in the floor where the boards had been stripped for other uses. No doors concealed any of the rooms. The empty frames hung with broken hinges.

He reached the end of the hall and stepped into the room,
his hands held up to show he was unarmed. Rowen was probably skittish enough without wondering if he carried a weapon.

At first he didn’t see her. The room was bare but for a few pieces of dirty sheets. One of the planks had been removed from the window, letting in a small amount of light.

She was seated on the floor, slumped into the corner. At first Wren thought she was looking directly at him, her large eyes wide and staring.

But then he saw the blood, and he realized there was no life left in those eyes. He looked away, bile rising in his throat, but his brain had already registered what he didn’t want to see … the pool of dark blood surrounding her, the gaping hole in her stomach, the severed fingers, and the angry red line across white skin where her throat had been cut.

Renaia entered behind him. She saw Rowen and screamed, her voice rising hysterically. Wren turned to the door.

“Torin,” he said softly. “Take her into the next room.”

Torin glanced at the body, his face darkening with anger. He took Renaia by the hand and led her next door. Wren could hear her screams and Torin’s soft voice as the dwarf tried to calm her.

Wren leaned forward, his forehead against the wall. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the body again. It was one of the few things that got to him—seeing a woman violated like that. He hadn’t encountered it often, and he was thankful for that, but when he did, he found it was something he simply couldn’t face.

Torin returned to the room. “Are you well?” he asked.

Wren shifted his head to look at the dwarf. “No, Torin, I’m not. Could you …?”

Torin nodded and went to examine the body. “Red hair,” he said. “It’s definitely her. Fingers cut off. I reckon she was tortured for information.”

“The location of the dreamlily,” said Wren.

“Possibly.” Torin looked thoughtful for a moment. “A cleric could probably find out if she talked.”

“She’d have to be a very strong woman not to,” said Wren. “But it’s a good point. Anything else?”

“Not that I can see. There’s a lot of blood. She must have held out a long time.”

Wren forced himself to turn around and look at Rowen. People always said that death brought peace to the features, but Rowen didn’t look peaceful. She looked angry. “Cover her with that sheet, Torin. We need to speak to Renaia.”

He went into the next room and found the courtesan staring at the wall, her tear-streaked face blank and empty. She was shivering.

“Renaia,” he said gently. “Renaia, I need you to tell me everything Rowen told you. Everything. No matter how trivial you think it was.”

She ignored him.

“If we’re to find out who did this, you need to help us.”

“Can’t,” she whispered, still staring into space.

“What?” Wren leaned closer to hear what she was saying.

“Can’t. Promised Rowen I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Renaia, that hardly matters now. You may have information that will help—”

“I said I can’t!”
she screamed, turning to face Wren. “I promised! I said I wouldn’t tell.”

Wren’s patience ran out. He grabbed hold of Renaia and dragged her into the next room. He pushed a surprised Torin aside and pulled the sheet away, revealing Rowen’s tortured corpse.

“Do you see that!” Wren shouted, forcing Renaia forward. “Look at her, Renaia!
hook!”
He shook her when she tried to
turn her head away. “That was your friend. Someone did that to her. We want to find out who. Now you
will
talk. Otherwise I’ll lock you in here with her until you change your mind.
Do you understand?”

“I promised—”

“No!” thundered Wren. “Wrong answer. I said
do you understand?”

“Yes! Yes, I understand!” Renaia screamed. “Just take me out of here. Please!” She started sobbing, and Wren helped her to her feet, enfolding her in his arms.

“Shh. I’m sorry, Renaia. I’m so sorry.” He led her from the room.

“Out—outside,” she said, her voice shuddering. “I can’t be in here.”

“That’s fine.”

Wren led her from the house, Torin following close behind. Wren helped her sit on the steps outside the front door and wiped the tears from her face. She took a while to compose herself, Wren and Torin waiting patiently.

“It’s my fault,” she said.

“No. It’s not your fault. Whoever did this—it’s
their
fault. No one else’s. Now, start at the beginning.”

“The beginning. That was … earlier tonight. Is that all the time that’s passed? It seems like days now.”

“The beginning …” prompted Wren.

“What? Yes. I ran into her earlier this evening. She was scared, looking for Cutter. She said she needed to hide for a while, and I knew of this place.”

“Why did she need to hide?”

“She said she stole something from a client—an old man. I think she called him the professor. She said a man called Salkith came to the rooms to pick up a package. Rowen thought it was
dreamlily because Cutter had told her this Salkith was a dream-lily courier for the Boromars. But she said the professor changed his mind and sent Salkith away.”