Praxle smiled and drew a blade from beneath his cloak. It shone wetly in the light. “Did I ever mention that my uncle is an herbalist?” he asked as he turned the blade back and forth. “Brews all kinds of interesting substances. Helps counterbalance all the overwrought strength of too-big folks like your hired hands.”
Caeheras glanced at his compatriots. One was clearly nervous, looking skyward and wondering what other hazards might await them beyond the magical light. The second, the most veteran of the group, was calm, accepting. The third, however, looked like a cornered beast and tensed herself to strike.
“Wait, you three,” said Caeheras. “No hasty actions. The clever d’Sivis has the better of me this day.” He smiled ruefully at the gnome and tilted his head. “I thought it was a breach of contract to bring someone else along.”
Praxle shrugged. “If we’d just done our business politely, you never would have known they were here. Just remember who first broke the agreement.”
“We could both make more gold …” started Caeheras.
“I have … enough wealth,” said Praxle in a long-suffering tone. “With what I pay you, you should know that. So give me what you have, and I’ll give you your payment.”
Caeheras winced in defeat, reached into his cloak and pulled forth a small sheaf of parchment, carefully wrapped in waxed paper and tied with twine. “That’s terribly generous of you, Praxle, considering the situation,” he said.
“The situation hasn’t really changed, Caeheras,” said the gnome. “It’s just become clearer to all involved.” He held out both hands and spoke, loudly enough that the gnome on the rooftop could also hear. “Attend, people. Caeheras and I must conclude our business, so no—”
A loud twang interrupted Praxle, and a long arrow from above suddenly pierced Caeheras’s neck and imbedded itself inside his shoulder. He stumbled forward, guttering, one hand rising to his neck as the other, clutching the papers, pointed accusingly.
For the merest instant, Praxle wondered which of his people had loosed the deadly shaft. Then he saw the fletching on the arrow and heard the flat twang of other bows loosing. Interlopers! He knew that at least one arrow was aimed at him, standing as he was perfectly exposed in the center of the square.
Praxle moved, but not fast enough. He felt a burning flash of pain strike his thigh just above the knee. His leg gave, causing him to stumble and fall on top of the torch. Rolling quickly off the oily fire, Praxle snatched up the torch and flung it into the air as hard as he could, incanting words of power. The firebrand twirled ten feet upward, then exploded in a blinding starburst of brilliant sparks as Praxle’s frantic spell caught up with it.
Praxle already had a hand up to shield his eyes from the flash, and he used the distraction to scramble, his leg twitching painfully with every move, toward Caeheras. As the light from the flare died, Praxle saw a shadow sweep down from above and snatch the bundled papers from Caeheras’s trembling hand. The mortally wounded spy fell to his knees, the shock and betrayal fading from his eyes as blood welled through his fingers.
Praxle jerked his head about to follow the shadowy figure. At that moment, another arrow grazed the gnome’s scalp and shattered on the cobbles. He rolled to one side and scrambled for the cover of the empty crates, wedging himself into the gap between two of them as another arrow imbedded itself in the wood.
Breathing heavily—both from fear and from the pain in his leg—Praxle glanced at the quivering arrow. Making a quick judgment of the archer’s location, Praxle wove another incantation, then leaned out from his cover. His sharp gnomish eyes saw someone rise up on the rooftop, bow in hand, and Praxle let fly with his spell.
A wad of acid, conjured into existence and held into a missile by the thinnest sheath of mystic energy, flew from Praxle’s outstretched hand, Praxle paused, poised to duck back behind his cover, saw the archer draw the bow … and heard the distinctive splash and sizzle of the acid hitting the mark. Confident that the archer would be out of the fight for at least a moment, Praxle stuck his head out to find the thief who’d stolen the papers from Caeheras.
There he was, climbing a knotted rope dangling down the wall of the warehouse on the far side of the quadrangle. He was thin, almost wiry, and dressed head to toe in dark gray, a shade that faded almost to nonexistence in the dim rain-washed light.
Praxle glanced about. Caeheras lay dying in the open, and Praxle could see two or three other gnomes likewise slain, as well as one of Caeheras’s thugs. A bristled clot of arrows showed where two other gnomes huddled for cover against the unknown archers. Praxle glanced back at the thief then scrambled over to where the other gnomes were cowering.
“Get your bows ready,” he hissed, clamping one hand on his injured leg. “Tinka’s on top of that wall!”
“Then why doesn’t she blast that damned bandit while he’s climbing?”
Praxle looked up again, wary of new arrows. “Probably waiting for the best time,” he answered. “Wait until he’s close to the top of the rope and—”
A high-pitched scream interrupted him, and a small flailing shape dropped past the thief and landed with a thud on the cold cobbles.
“Tinka! “yelled Praxle as the gray-clad thief disappeared onto the roof. He turned to the gnomes with him. “You, see if she’s alive,” he said. “You, see who else is left.”
“But—”
“Shut up and do it!” said Praxle. He rose and limped over to Caeheras’s body. “They’re smart, whoever they are, so they’re already making a getaway.”
Caeheras was still breathing, a testament to his vitality and willpower. The elf lay in a pool of rainwater, one that grew redder with every passing heartbeat. His eyes tried to focus on Praxle as the gnome kneeled beside him.
“Caeheras, you know that wasn’t me, right?” Praxle asked.
Caeheras nodded slightly.
“You’re not going to make it, friend,” he said. “You’ve lost too much blood. So tell me what you know, and I’ll pay double the fee to your kin.”
The elf closed his eyes in defeat. “Aundair,” he whispered, his breath burbling in his chest. “Prelate … has it.”
“Which prelate?” persisted Praxle in a whisper. “Answer me!”
“Hey, Praxle,” called one of the other gnomes, “Jeffers caught one of the elf’s sidekicks!”
Praxle turned his head. “Shut up!” he snapped. He turned back to Caeheras, imploring. “Who is it?”
“Monastery,” said Caeheras. “Crying Fields. He—”
The rest of the answer got swept away as the elf’s last breath rattled its way to freedom.
2
The Paths We Walk
Keiftal whistled tunelessly to himself, the feel of the breath between his lips somehow giving him comfort. He had aged many years since the destruction of the monastery, since the nascence of the Crying Fields. The wrinkles in his face were only marginally blurred by his stubbly beard, and the whole tired affair was framed by short-cut, unkempt gray hair.
He turned his head back and forth, scanning the crimson-tinged grasslands. Occasionally he broke his slow, shuffling stride to tug on the reins of the mule that followed dolefully along behind him.
He could feel the grass creaking beneath his sandaled feet. It felt maddeningly wrong. A hint of the smell of mortification insinuated itself into the air, both sweet and nauseating like the lingering perfume of a shameful tryst. The scent never failed to bring back memories of the aftermath of the destruction of the monastery, those horrible summer days as the bodies of the dead had bloated in the sun, attracting vultures and maggots until the corpses’ bellies had opened up at last to vent their foul gases.
The few remaining monks—there’d been six—had done what they could to bury the dead respectfully, until, with the passing weeks, the task had proved too great to bear.