Tarlak chuckled. “I’m no paladin, and I’m no priest. Not everyone has to be one or the other. Sometimes Ashhur needs regular people to show other regular people that this life isn’t as impossible as it seems.”
“Guess so,” Harruq said. “So Ashhur doesn’t forbid drinking and womanizing?”
“Nah, he does,” Tarlak said, smacking the half-orc on the back. “I’m just hoping he lets me slide on those.”
11
H aern leaped across the rooftops, his gray cloaks a blur in the night. He kept his sabers sheathed, not risking a bit of starlight glinting off their blades to reveal his presence. Hurrying along the ground nearby was a cloaked man. He held no torch, and showed no weapon.
“Why so nervous?” Haern whispered to himself. “What is it you hide?”
He jumped down into an alley, sprinted around a few houses, and then leaped into the air, landing on the roof of a small home. The roof creaked under his weight. His prey heard the noise and spun, and as her hood fell low he realized he chased a woman. She had long red hair, and her right eye was scarred shut. With her one good eye she winked at him before continuing.
“I should have known,” Haern whispered as he ran. “What are you up to, Veliana?”
He traveled roof to roof in pursuit. Without a noise he descended upon Veliana, his sabers drawn. Veliana was ready. She curled into a ball and rolled, Haern’s sabers’ slamming the dirt behind her. She spun about, dragging one knee across the ground to halt her momentum. Out came her daggers.
“Why does the Ash Guild want the priests dead?” Haern asked.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Veliana said. She lunged. Haern batted aside her first two stabs, jumped over her sweeping kick, and then kneed her in the face. As she fell back her daggers twisted and jabbed, scoring a hit across his arm. She landed on her hands, arched her back and pushed, landing on her feet out of reach.
“The priests of Karak,” Haern said, sprinting after her. “I’ve seen your handiwork.”
“Are you so sure it mine?” she asked. She suddenly dropped and spun. Haern grunted as her kick connected with his ribs. He prayed that none were broken. He tried slashing at her face but she was already gone. He chased, slashing again and again but her nimble body weaved side to side, her daggers parrying away any cut she could not avoid.
“We do what we must to survive,” Veliana said. “Just like you.”
Haern pressed further, but she seemed bored with him. As his sabers veered at either side of her neck she clapped her hands and vanished. He staggered forward, cutting air. From atop a nearby house she laughed at him.
“Take a good look around this city,” Veliana said, brushing her hair away from her face. “Tell me where we could fit in, and then wonder why. You’ll find your answer.”
“You put everyone at risk,” Haern argued.
“The city will survive or it won’t,” the lady said, saluting him with a dagger. “What we do won’t change that in the slightest.”
And then she was gone. Haern grumbled and swore. He had gone easy, trying to bait information out of her. Instead he got puzzles.
“Where would you fit in?” he asked the night. He pulled the tie from his hair, letting it fall free around his face and shoulders. Come the morning, he was determined to answer that very question.
H aern trudged toward the castle. The road was a vastly different sight than when they first arrived. Vendors lined each side, selling food, weapons, and various types of alcohol. Hundreds of people milled about, heading to or from home, buying, and selling. Many were from Neldar, attempting to buy comforts with the meager coin they carried. Haern weaved through them, watching for the telltale signs of a thief. But every time he saw two people bump into one another, he saw no hands slipping into pockets. What he did see, though, were priests of Karak roaming the streets, offering greetings to those that passed by.
“No thieves,” Haern wondered after an hour. “How the Abyss is that possible?”
He found a vendor selling daggers, his booth tidy and small. Haern approached and smiled.
“How goes the day?” he asked as he picked up one of the blades.
“Well, as well goes,” the vendor said. He was a large man, his gut matched only by the size of the muscles on his arms. “Name’s Greg. I run a smith not too far from here.”
“These are well-made,” Haern said, and he meant it. He put one down and picked up another, pondering an addition to his arsenal.
“Just toys, really,” Greg said. “I’m out here just to promote my name, let a few see what I can do. My best work is at my shop, not this crowded market.”
“Veldaren was the same way,” Haern said, eyeing a beautifully carved dagger, its hilt and blade slightly curved for throwing. “The shops made the money, the booths just sold the junk. And then the rogues took half of it, of course.”
He chuckled, all the while trying to gauge the reaction of the merchant.
“Same as here,” Greg said, smiling. “But that depends on what you mean by rogues.”
“The thieves’ guilds,” Haern said. “Though I suppose tax collectors could be called the same.”
Greg laughed. “Too true, my friend. But there are no thief guilds here in Mordeina. Them priests you see running about, they’ve made them extinct. If you’re looking for fun in the wrong way, you won’t find it in this city. Stealing, whoring, they’re both punishable by death. Plenty are too scared to even get drunk, lest they do one of those two and end up hanging.”
“You know,” Hearn said. “I’ll take this dagger here. Looks like it’ll fly true.”
The assassin dumped a handful of coins into Greg’s hand, triple the value of the dagger.
“Hope you got what you wanted,” the merchant said, chuckling.
“Aye,” Haern said as he bowed. “I did.”
H e sat atop the roof of the temple to Ashhur, content to be near without them knowing. The day was warm, its bright cheer in stark contrast with Haern’s somber reflection. Before him were two options. They were simple and clear. He could return to Tarlak, apologize, and accept his decisions as he always had. Or he could murder the priests of Karak and trust the Eschaton to protect the priests of Ashhur.
He knew what he should do. He should explain to Tarlak he had only found Karak’s priest while searching for members of the Ash Guild. The priest had been brutally beaten. He would have lived, but Haern had not given him the chance. He had buried his sabers into his throat and taken his life. It wasn’t murder. It was mercy.
“Why, Tar,” Haern wondered aloud. “Why is it you keep letting them live?”
Tessanna, Qurrah, the priests of Karak in Veldaren… all should have died long before they caused the trouble they did. How many lives had they lost in return? Brug, Jerico, Aullienna, Delysia…
The assassin buried his face in his hands. He should have saved her, but instead made a terrible mistake. He’d killed lesser priests instead of slaying their high priest from the start.
“No,” he said. “No. Not me. Not my fault.”
Haern stood, his sabers shaking in his hands. Priests of Karak had killed his beloved Delysia. So he would kill the priests of Karak. He would not complicate it, not water down the simple truth. If the Ash Guild wanted to kill the priests to make room for a legitimate thief guild, then so be it. As far as he was concerned, they were his allies.
Leaping off the building, he did his best to banish the last brutal image in his head, that of the word ‘Tun’ carved across Delysia’s forehead.
He slept the rest of the afternoon. As nightfall arrived, he slipped out, trying to decide his best strategy. He could find Deathmask and offer to join him, or work alone, killing the priests as he found them. In the end, he decided to remain alone. If he encountered Veliana, the twins, or even Deathmask, he’d decide about joining them then.
He stalked about the temple to Ashhur, curious if dark priests would try to harm the building while it was unoccupied. The priests of Ashhur all slept in the Neldar camps, and he hoped they would be safe there. For the first two hours, he saw nothing. Occasionally a guard wandered by, bored and tired. Haern fought down his impatience. The night was long, and he had plenty of time.