Around him the earth was fertile, with trees and bushes plentifully populating the thick blue grasses. At the bottom of the foothills was the Fenvarrow capital, Mankow, stretching out in ramshackle glory on an old flood plain through which no river ran any more.
Tyrellan entered the city by the south gate. On either side buildings sprawled messily, most constructed from stone and wood, some with dried mud and thatch. There appeared to be no order, the wealthy living alongside the poor. Taverns, brothels and drug dens were all doing a steady trade as night approached, and glowing ice lanterns began to appear. Food vendors trundled carts along the road, and from a distant tavern piped the discordant music of a Graka band playing their knobbly wind instruments. Everywhere he went, people turned to stare and point at the colourful butterfly on his shoulder. He buried his rage just under the surface, letting it build, all the while taking a deliberately long route to the centre of the city. He turned into a side alley, heading towards the Mireform’s Maw, the tavern where, according to his spies, Heron had been staying. It paid to keep a watch on people and, with luck, she would still be there. At worst it was a starting point for the search.
The tavern was three storeys high and tucked up tight against the buildings beside it. Verandahs off the rooms above overlooked the street at slanted angles. On the third storey an old Mire Pixie leaned against the railing, smoking a pipe and considering Tyrellan curiously. From inside he heard all the regular tavern sounds – laughing and shouting, the clinking of glasses, the clatter of dice. He dismounted and tied his horse to a railing, then walked up to the front door and into the building.
The doors swung shut behind him. To his left was the bar, attended by a fat Arabodedas woman of middle age. Filling the narrow room were a number of round wooden tables, most of them occupied. To the side was a staircase disappearing up to the higher levels. A large iceplace on the opposite wall was glowing with a generous slab, and above it hung a painted carving of a Mireform’s head baring its teeth in a savage tableau. The denizens of the tavern – mostly men and goblins – glanced over to see who had entered. Tyrellan stared back, quite a sight with the fearsome collection of weaponry hanging from his belt and the butterfly on his shoulder. Silence fell. Evidently some recognised the First Slave, while others were merely taken aback by his appearance. All were quick to turn away from his steely black gaze.
The butterfly launched itself to do a loop of the room, coming to rest on the bar before the bemused Arabodedas woman. Tyrellan followed it to the counter where he sat on a stool. ‘A mug of whatever you drink here,’ he said. As the bartender nodded and moved away, conversation began to filter back into the room. Tyrellan could hear that most of it now concerned him and his strange familiar.
The woman plunked a mug of something brown in front of him and he flicked some coins onto the bar. As he raised the mug to his lips, the butterfly returned to his shoulder. Someone in the corner snickered.
Not long now.
‘Don’t, Deeter,’ someone whispered. ‘It’s the First Slave.’
Deeter, apparently too full of alcoholic bravado to heed his friend’s warning, sidled up to the bar next to Tyrellan. ‘Ho there!’ he announced, spit flecking his rubbery old lips and black Arabodedas beard. He waved a hand towards one of the tables. ‘My friends tell me you’re the great Tyrellan, the First Slave.’
Tyrellan tapped the mug with a claw and inclined his head. ‘That’s right. And you, if I’m not mistaken, are Deeter the sot.’
‘Ooooooh!’ said Deeter, rocking back on his heels in amusement. ‘I should be offended, but you have me pegged. Listen there, Mr Slave – we was wondering something, if you aren’t too busy.’
The bar had gone silent again, and Deeter was talking loudly enough for everyone’s benefit. Tyrellan forced a smile, trying his best to appear friendly. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, ya see …the terrible Tyrellan we heard of, he don’t quite fit yer description. See, we never heard of him going around with a sweet little butterfly sittin’ on his shoulder.’
Tyrellan waited a moment, taking note of the stifled laughs and nervous tension in the air. Then he swivelled on his stool, butterfly and all, to face Deeter directly.
‘It’s true, Deeter,’ he said, also loud enough for all to hear, ‘I’ve only just recently acquired this creature. A mage of the Halls gave it to me while she lay dying by my hand. It is a curse I will never be rid of, but it changes nothing.’
‘Is that right?’ chortled Deeter. ‘Well, p’rhaps you’ll allow me to buy yer new friend a drink? Barkeep – a thimble of your finest sugar water!’
He thumped the counter with a laugh that set the whole bar laughing too, people banging their mugs on tables in appreciation of the joke.
Tyrellan did a quick head count, then turned back to the fat barmaid, who was also grinning in amusement. Her grin froze as Tyrellan punched a dagger into the folds of her neck. As she toppled backwards from the counter, he turned to the startled Deeter and caught his jaw in an uppercut that blanked his eyes and sent him crashing to the floor. Twisting from his stool while drawing the fanged sword, Tyrellan ran it through a seated goblin at the nearest table. Another dagger left his hand and hit the goblin’s companion, who was scrambling to his feet. Angry shouts went up.
Tyrellan smashed the sword through a chair that was being raised against him, then kicked a table savagely so it slid into those who rose behind it, knocking them to the floor. He flipped the table over onto their struggling bodies and leaped on top of it, up and down and up and down until all struggling ceased. As he did this, an Arabodedas rushed towards him with sword drawn, and a Mire Pixie flew through the air with claws extended. The pixie fell immediately with a dagger in his eye, and the sword of the other was deflected with a clang. Tyrellan smacked the man in the side with the fanged edge of his blade, raking flesh as he withdrew it.
As he leaped off the bloody mass of limbs and wood, a mug glanced his skull and he reeled around, hurling his sword and pinning the thrower against the wall through his stomach. Only three remained standing, keeping well away from Tyrellan with weapons drawn, eyes full of hate and fear. Two, a goblin and a man, stood close together. Tyrellan flipped the triple crossbow into his hand at an angle that compensated for the height difference of his targets. The bolts whistled and his targets fell, steel protruding from their skulls. Tyrellan drew the last dagger from his belt and twirled it in his fingers, staring hard at the remaining man. The butterfly flapped back onto his shoulder.
The man was backed against the wall, his sword held wavering before him. He was only young, his features soft, and he stared in horror at the carnage around him – the blood-spattered walls, the smashed furniture, the man pinned upright through the belly with limbs twitching. A puddle of urine collected at his feet.
Tyrellan raised the dagger for him to see clearly and the young man whimpered in terror. Then Tyrellan slipped the blade smoothly back into his belt.
‘I am First Slave to the Shadowdreamer,’ he said. ‘It is certainly unfortunate that I’ve been cursed to carry this insect, given to me as I performed my duty to the dark. It is unfortunate, but it changes nothing. From now on, any who think to joke about it, to comment on it, even to look at it, will receive as swift a death as I can manage – and you have seen what I can manage. Stop looking at it! ’
The dagger left his hand as suddenly as it had reappeared there and the man cried out as it thunked into the wood by his head.
‘Now go!’ roared Tyrellan. ‘And warn all of my words!’