The docks and warehouses he passed spoke of better times. Beneath the grime and peeling paint they were large and solidly built, a relic of the pre-war days when goods flowed through Karrlakton from Cyre, the Talenta Plains and all points south and east. Many of the buildings still showed damage from the War—some were reduced to rubble, while others had only a few scorch-marks on their walls.
When the Last War broke out, the strategic location that had served Karrlakton so well through centuries of peaceful trade became its greatest weakness. It had been pummeled by wave after wave of attacks from across the river. Despite this—or perhaps because of it—the city had served as a major military depot. Almost every unit posted to the Cyran front or the Talenta Plains had passed through Karrlakton, which made it a logical place to look for traces of the lost.
Peace had done little to restore the city’s fortunes. Cyre was no more, and the Valenar elves pressed hard on the Talenta Plains. Things—strange, twisted, unnatural things—sometimes came out of the Mournland and tried to cross the river. Not as often as rumor maintained, but often enough to be a danger. River trade collapsed as merchants began to move their goods by safer overland routes. Adventurers, fortune-seekers, and bandits flocked to the waterfront district as an easy stepping-off point for expeditions across the river and into the Mournland; in their wake came everyone who could sell them equipment or services—legal and otherwise—and many others who thought they could turn a profit.
The Black Dragon was one of several waterfront taverns frequented by these freebooters. It had a reputation for being dangerous, but in truth only the obnoxious, the inexperienced, and the foolish came to any harm there. The authorities regarded it as a nest of vipers, but the Royal Swords seldom ventured into the waterfront district.
“Repent!”
The howl of the street-corner prophet was barely recognizable as a human word. He stood glassy-eyed on a crumbling jetty, facing across the river toward the unseen Mournland, bellowing into the fog. Blood and pus oozed from the fragments of colored stone that were hammered into his forehead, and from the mystical patterns carved into the flesh of his arms and torso. The symbols were repeated on his tattered clothing, in paints of various colors and in other, less readily identifiable substances. An open book hung around his neck on a heavy chain, its pages blank. He wore a spiked helmet of vaguely hobgoblin design, with a battered and jawless skull impaled on the top. Cones of incense glowed dimly within its eye-sockets, their smoke mingling with the fog.
“Beware the Dragon Below!”
Perhaps, in his mind, he saw a congregation, hanging fearfully on every word as they cringed at his feet; in reality, here were few people abroad on the waterfront, and they paid him no heed.
“Lo, Great Khyber did loose his breath upon the wicked world, and there opened in the heart of sinful Cyre a vast chasm, glowing with the power of His vengeance! And dissolute Cyre was no more! And so the rest of this immoral world shall fall before His wrath! Repent and believe, for only the faithful shall be spared!”
Despite his ragged clothes, the man raved and gestured with the authority of a high priest—which, perhaps, he thought he was. No one knew why the Mournland had stopped at the borders of Cyre, and no one knew whether it might spread across the river as suddenly and unexpectedly as it had appeared. The morbid, the fanatical, and the unhinged came from far and wide to be close to this looming, unknowable threat.
Mordan turned down an alley between two warehouses, heading away from the dark and turbid river. He stepped over the huddled bodies of sleeping beggars who sheltered between the warehouse walls, and over the occasional body whose blood mixed with the greasy water in the cracks between the stones, indicating a more permanent sleep. Although his gait was still brisk and confident, he kept his hand on the hilt of the bejeweled rapier that hung at his side beneath his cloak. His slitted eyes swept the shadows as small, half-seen shapes skittered out of his way.
His pace slowed as he approached a shabby-looking warehouse that stood a couple of streets back from the waterfront. There was no sign over the weathered door, and nothing could be seen through the grimy window set into it. As he reached for the handle, the door opened suddenly, and a cloaked figure pushed past him, hurrying off down the street. Catching a glimpse of the man’s face in the gloom, Mordan stopped in his tracks, staring at his retreating back. After a moment’s deliberation, he set out after him, treading softly and taking care not to be seen.
“Stop right there, friend.”
Mordan cursed and spun round, drawing his rapier. He found himself facing a figure dressed in the Brelish style and standing just beyond the reach of his sword. In one hand, he held a short, stubby wand of black metal, tipped with an orange crystal. There was a pause as the two took the measure of each other: the stranger’s narrow features and pointed ears hinted at elven blood, although his figure was more human in its proportions. A half-elf.
“Nice wand,” said Mordan. “What does it do?”
“You want to find out?”
“Not especially.”
“Then put your sword away.”
With a shrug, Mordan complied. The half-elf relaxed a little but still kept the wand pointed at him.
“I saw you and your changeling friend,” the Brelander continued. “What’s your interest in the lady?”
“What’s yours?”
The half-elf smiled. “Since I’m the one holding the wand, why don’t you answer first?”
Mordan shrugged again. “It seems she and I have a common interest.”
“And what might that be?”
“A certain cavalry unit, lost in Cyre on the Day of Mourning.”
The half-elf considered this for a moment.
“Karrnathi?” he asked.
Mordan nodded.
“This cavalry unit have a name?”
“The Vedykar Lancers. But she doesn’t know that.”
There was a blur of motion, and the Brelander recoiled with a yelp, clutching his wrist. His wand clattered across the cobbles. Before either of them could react, two bulky figures moved to block the alley in front of them. One was a half-orc, and the other appeared to be human. Mordan glanced over sis shoulder at a soft sound behind them. Another group of thugs had moved into place, cutting off any hope of retreat.
“Hello, Mordan,” slurred the half-orc, hefting a massive club.
The half-elf raised an eyebrow. “Friends of yours?” he asked.
“Not exactly.”
“Ikar wants to see you,” said the half-orc. “He’s very unhappy about that last Metrol run.”
Mordan shrugged. “You win some, you lose some,” he said.
The half-orc snorted. “Ikar doesn’t like to lose,” he said, taking a step closer.
Mordan stayed as still as a statue. His eyes narrowed, hardening like chips of ice. “Then he shouldn’t have sent you, Slarn.” His voice was quiet, but had an edge like steel. “You and your clowns couldn’t—”
He never got to finish the sentence. Twisting to one side as the half-orc’s club narrowly missed his head, Mordan drew his rapier and put his back to the wall of the alley. The half-elf did the same, drawing a shortsword as the thugs fell into a loose semicircle around them. The one that Mordan had taken to be human opened his mouth in a feral snarl, his teeth elongating and his features warping into a bestial mask.
There were two others beside the half-orc and the shifter. One was a wiry halfling with quick eyes and a deadly-looking curved tangat. A Talenta boomerang in his sash explained what had happened to the Brelander’s wand. The other was an elf, armed with a pair of shortswords.
The shifter lunged toward Mordan’s companion, slashing with fingernails that had grown into iron-hard claws. The half-orc swung his club at Mordan’s head again. The others tensed, ready to exploit any openings created by comrades’ attacks.