The Brelander brought his sword up to a guard position, blocking the shifter’s attack, and followed through with a slash that cut deep into the creature’s shoulder. Mordan sidestepped the half-orc’s club, touching his opponent’s shoulder with the bound stump of his left wrist. There was a flare of black light, a smell of scorching, and the half-orc howled in pain, dropping his club and clutching his shoulder. Although the blow had not been hard, it had left a grayish mark on the half-orc’s hide.
As the half-orc dropped back, the elf leaped forward, his two shortswords weaving a complex pattern in the air. Such a display might have intimidated an untrained opponent, but Mordan flicked one blade aside with his rapier, stepped inside the slashing arc of the other, and slammed his pommel back-handed into the elf’s chin, dropping him to the ground like a sack of coal.
The Brelander, meanwhile, was in a stalemate with the wild halfling, blocking one attack after another but unable to land a blow against his agile foe. The half-orc, recovered from the shock of negative energy from Mordan’s spell, charged with his club, only to stop short. He looked down in surprise at the small puncture in his chest, and then at the lark blood on the end of Mordan’s rapier. He wavered and then fell down dead.
Mordan turned to face the shifter, but he was already limping down the alley as fast as he could go. Finding himself alone against two opponents, the halfling backed slowly after his fleeing comrade, his dark eyes flicking from Mordan to the Brelander and back again. Mordan spoke a phrase in the Talenta dialect and the halfling’s eyes widened in shock; stowing his tangat, he turned and ran. They let him go. When he turned out of sight down a side-alley, the two slumped against the wall, catching their breath. It was a few moments before either one spoke.
“So what was that about?” asked the Brelander, stooping to pick up his wand. He stopped abruptly as the tip of Mordan’s rapier came to rest lightly on his wrist, and took a step backward, straightening slowly.
Mordan stepped forward, planting his feet on each side of the wand. “Oh, you know,” he said, “business. Well, they told you my name—how about yours?”
The half-elf spread his empty palms in a gesture of acquiescence. “Tarrel d’Medani, at your service,” he said, with a half-bow.
“Medani, hmm? Inquisitive?” asked Mordan.
Tarrel nodded. “Yes, but I don’t have the mark. Speaking of which, what did you do to that big one? Are you a ’Mark?”
Mordan shook his head. “I’m an aberrant. And I think it’s my turn to ask questions. You can start with why you were pointing that wand at me.”
“Do we have to do this here? Your … business associates may be back with reinforcements.” As if to emphasize his point, the fallen elf started to stir, groaning softly. Mordan silenced him with a savage kick.
“Honor to the fallen foe,” said Tarrel, quoting a Karrnathi saying.
Mordan spat. “Honor is as honor does. Besides, I don’t like elves. I spent too long fighting the Valenar.”
Tarrel nodded. “That explains the rapier,” he said. “I thought it looked like elven work.”
“It was a fair trade,” said Mordan. “He got my hand; I got his sword and his head.” Picking up the wand, he tucked it into his belt. He glanced in the direction where he had last seen the cloaked man, and shook his head ruefully. “Let’s go,” he said.
Chapter 4
The Badge
The two walked in silence, wary of another attack. They came to the entertainment district, where the streets were well-lit and lined with restaurants, small theaters, and taverns. Mordan stopped at a restaurant whose colorful façade mimicked the styles of the Talenta Plains. Its door pillars were carved and painted to resemble the legbones of a huge plains lizard, and the frontage was covered with brightly dyed fabrics, arranged to look like the side of a tent. A sign hung over the door, reading Lathon’s Welcome in the common tongue, its letters styled in imitation of halfling script.
Inside, the lights were low, and the smell of spices and roasting meat filled the air. Somewhere out of sight, a weaving pattern of rhythms was being pounded out on a drum. The walls were hung with brightly painted skins in an attempt to recreate the atmosphere of a lath’s tent—or at least, to satisfy the expectations of city-dwellers who had never seen one.
Instead of the traditional cushions, patrons sat on chairs arranged around tables, built to accommodate human-sized customers. The wooden pillars supporting the ceiling were carved into forms suggestive of animal bones, and the walls were painted with deliberately crude images of huge lizards.
Dressed in a colorful parody of Plains costume, a halfling waitress bustled up to them. Mordan spoke a few words in the Talenta dialect. Her eyes flicked to the charm-bag that hung around his neck, and she smiled broadly.
The waitress led the two past the tables, showed them to a cushioned booth furnished with a low table. It was scarcely four feet from floor to ceiling. Mordan slid into the booth with practiced ease, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Tarrel hit his head on an animal-fat lamp that hung over the table, but eventually made himself comfortable. Tarrel looked around, but the waitress had disappeared.
“So is there a menu?” he asked at last.
Mordan smiled. “Menus are for the cogarak,” he said.
Tarrel looked at him blankly.
“It’s a halfling word,” Mordan explained. “It means someone who doesn’t know their way around.”
“Of course,” said Tarrel. “You fought the Valenar, so you were on the Talenta Plains. So you got a taste for halfling cooking?”
“This place isn’t authentic,” Mordan replied, “but it’s about the best you’ll find in Karrlakton. And don’t worry about a menu—she’ll know what to bring us.”
“Oh, so you’re a regular here? What’s your usual order?”
“It’s not like that. When a guest arrives, the cook brings out the best he has. It’s the custom.”
The food, when it arrived, was surprisingly good. The meat might have been real threehorn, rather than the heavily seasoned beef enjoyed by the other patrons; the spices were well-blended, and the vegetables were a valiant effort to recreate the flavors of the Plains with local ingredients. The meal was accompanied by two steaming mugs of tal—Mordan couldn’t quite place the variety, but he thought it was redbush.
“So,” said Mordan as they ate, “who’s the redhead, and why is she asking about the Vedykar Lancers?”
Tarrel shrugged. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Why are you interested in her?”
“I’m working for her family. She and her unit were presumed dead in the Mournland, but a spell placed her here in Karrlakton a few days ago.”
Mordan raised an eyebrow as he put down his mug. “A spell like that costs a lot of money.”
“They can afford it,” Tarrel said. “They’re an old military family, and they wanted the body back for burial. Now, they ant their daughter back—whatever it takes.”
“But she seems to have other ideas.” Mordan said. “And it looks like her ideas include tracking down the Vedykar Lancers. There’s another badge, as well.” Mordan pulled Solly’s sketch out of his jerkin and put it on the table. “This one,” he said. “I’ve never seen it before. I don’t even know if it’s Karrnathi.”
“Well, it’s not Brelish,” said Tarrel, “nor Thrane, Cyran, or any other nationality I’ve looked into.” He paused for a moment, then turned his hands palms up. “And that’s all I know.”
The two regarded each other in silence. Mordan reached into his belt, put Tarrel’s wand on the table, and pushed it across to him. He took it with a silent nod of thanks.