The Weeping Blade

by Josh Vogt

Chapter Three: Truth of the Matter

Larem raised his hands to shield his face from the stone and bone fragments that were sure to hit him—yet rather than the satisfying crunch of an undead monster smashed to bits, there came only a muted thud and a hiss of displeasure.

"Damned thing caught it!" Beetle cried.

"Elly nogglaxy!"

A crash shook the yard as the wight tossed the pillar aside.

"Fools."

"Have at you, bastard!" Beetle's palms slapped stone.

Dargley hasn't been the same since that last adventure.

Larem raised a hand. "No!"

A body collided with the wight. Rattling and squelches rose as Beetle laid into the creature. It sounded like the undead just stood there, taking the hits.

"I tire of this," it said at last.

Larem struggled to stand and intervene, but Dargley appeared and bear-hugged him.

Beetle snarled at his foe. "Back to the Abyss with ye!" A snap of bone, and he screeched. "Muh finger!" His cry devolved into incoherent threats.

The wight's hiss cut through the babbles. "For every hour you delay in bringing the Weeping Blade to me, I shall gnaw an inch of flesh from him."

Larem trembled, despising himself for his helplessness. "If... if we somehow find the blade and bring it, will you spare his life?"

"Idjit! Don't bargain with the beast."

Another whack of bone, and Beetle groaned.

"This theft and treachery requires repayment," said the wight. "Blood must be spilled to nullify the spirit within the blade. Yet I will not be unmerciful. You will be given the choice of whose life is surrendered. But make it quickly: you have until tomorrow at midnight to deliver the blade to the Maidens' Midden, unless you wish your companion unable to even crawl into his own grave."

Beetle screamed as the creature dragged him off. Larem tried to stagger after, but Dargley held him fast, moaning and keening. At last, Beetle's cries disappeared, and the two of them stood alone in the graveyard.

Larem spat in disgust. "That didn't go quite as planned, did it?"

"Bloddy tumbuckle."

∗ ∗ ∗

Larem bowed his head into his hands. After hauling him out of the graveyard—over his shoulders, no less—Dargley had deposited him in the crook of an alley doorway and hunkered down nearby to sob.

Larem had no idea what part of Underbridge they'd fled to. No way to orient himself to any of their warren boltholes, and Dargley couldn't find them alone. Not since first losing his sight had Larem felt so useless. So vulnerable.

What would the wight be doing to Beetle at this very moment? What could they do about it? No one would give heed to a blind beggar's pleas for help, thinking it a swindle. Even if they enchanted a substitute blade, Larem didn't doubt the wight would discern a fake.

As he considered their bleak options, a wheedling voice caught his ear.

"Looksee here. Two leetle meece. Wassun they has? Glit? Glum?"

A second sniggered. "Weepsy, ain'tsee? Raggum and baggum."

Larem suppressed a moan. Could this night get any worse? He recognized the guttertalk that had recently become fashionable among some of the younger beggars in Underbridge—little clans of street toughs were always forming and dissolving here, left mostly alone by the larger gangs as long as they didn't get too big for their trousers. Dargley must've neared one of their hideouts, or else they'd been followed, seen as easy prey—not an unfair estimation.

As Larem listened to their approach with dread, he noted an odd rhythm to their gait. After each shuffling step came a whisking noise, like a length of rope being dragged behind. Then their reek assailed him: a stench of sewage, a bestial musk... and damp fur.

Not just gang members. Wererats in shifted form, tails trailing through the alley rubbish.

Dargley jumped to his feet. "Oooosie pillygorp"

"Wassee chatter? Gottsa chucker at we's?" Anger tightened the first gang member's voice. Now Larem could distinguish the clicking of elongated teeth and scrabbling of talons over stone.

"No, I swear he's not making fun of you," Larem said. "Please, we've nothing. Beggars on the street with only rags to warm us. Be merciful."

"Slickspit speaksit. Beggums? Nawsayit. Gots glit, betsa."

"Rippem. Takem."

There came the sound of stomping, and Larem realized his companion had charged the wererats.

"Dargley, stop!"

"Gotta keen edgit! Guttem red!"

Several fleshy smacks resounded. Metal clanged. Dargley's roar turned to a wail. A heavy body hit the ground and the fight ended before Larem barely registered the exchange.

One wererat coughed and gagged, while the other screeched.

"Soons stitched and gutback, unnastand? Gonnas scalp all."

Larem braced for another attack, but claws clicked over stone and drew away. One must be dragging the other out of the alley. Once the sounds of their departure had faded, he got on hands and knees and searched for his companion's body.

Desna, please, show mercy. He couldn't lose both in one night.

"Dargley?"

Larem's hand finally found Dargley's head. Roughened skin all over. Half-melted nose and pitted cheeks scarred by acidic secretions, like Larem's eyes.

He patted down Dargley's body for damage. He still breathed, at least, though with a ragged edge to each intake. What had he used to drive the wererats off? It had sounded like a blade fight. But since Dargley's gone simple, Beetle and Larem hadn't allowed him to carry a weapon, certain he'd hurt himself.

His fingers touched a hilt, and a jolt of energy shot through him.

Larem jerked away. Then, with a shaking hand, he found the weapon again. This time, the tingle of power was undeniable, and he picked out a spiraling teardrop design that coiled up the hilt to a pair of eyes engraved on the crosspiece.

The Weeping Blade.

His heart crumbled as he felt the dagger's keen edge.

"Oh, Dargley. What've you done?"

See and despair.

An invisible claw clutched Larem's mind and yanked. The world twisted about him, and for the first time in years, he could see.

But not the alley. A cavern. No—a tomb. The Tomb of Annuram.

In one corner of the ancient chamber, a fire lit a makeshift camp. Three men argued among themselves until one rose and rushed toward the back of the cavern. The other two restrained him, going so far as to bind his arms and legs and leaving him to struggle while they finished their simple meal.

Larem knew the scene well, though he'd never seen it from this angle.

Beetle continued to struggle even after Larem and Dargley fell asleep, but after another hour of futile escape attempts, he slipped into a snooze himself.

Mere minutes after Beetle started snoring, Dargley's eyes opened, and he rolled to his feet. After ensuring he hadn't woken the others, he slipped off to the area he'd just helped Larem keep Beetle from visiting.

He returned half an hour later and stared at the other two with a wild look. The inhuman expression slowly faded, until he appeared closer to his normal self, though a dangerous glint remained in his eyes. He returned to his sleeping roll, the bulge of a new dagger under his leather armor.

Dargley. No...

Scenes flashed by: Dargley pocketing an employer's pay and claiming they'd been cheated. Dargley altering maps to guide them into dangerous territories. Dargley not warning them of traps... delaying coming to their aid in fights... cutting their horses loose to strand them with devils hot on their scent...

With each betrayal, Dargley bent more to the dagger's sway. Yet he wasn't completely gone. His expression during these episodes looked fraught, strained, as if something at his core fought complete surrender.

That last bit of the original Dargley got its chance during their trek through a kobold-infested swamp. With the natural heat and humidity, neither Larem nor Beetle paid particular attention to the sweat coursing down Dargley's face and neck as he waged his internal war.

The dagger's spirit knew of a giant flytrap that stalked the area, and wanted to see the effects of the creature's acidic secretions on human flesh. But this insidious ploy gave Dargley the impetus he needed for a final, fierce contest of wills.

At the dagger's prompting, Dargley spotted the giant flytrap, its mottled green exterior almost perfectly camouflaged against a nearby mossy mound. Four toothy jaws waited for unsuspecting prey to wander too close.

Dargley let Larem and Beetle wander ahead, claiming the need to drain muck out of his boots. As they forged off into the thick foliage, Dargley raised one hand toward their backs in silent farewell.

Then, as the dagger's spirit vainly tried to wrest control of his body, he sprinted for the flytrap and threw himself and the dagger into the monstrous plant's nearest maw.

His tortured screams, though muffled, had been loud enough to draw the other two running back, blades bared. They'd assaulted the remaining three sets of jaws, chopping barbed vines, dodging tentacle-like roots, growing increasingly reckless as they fought to rescue their companion.

Then jaws clamped around Beetle's legs and dragged him down. Desperate, Larem had produced an explosive magical amulet and flung it into one of the plant's remaining mouths. The pod had exploded, sending the creature slumping to the ground—and sending acid splattering into Larem's eyes.

Larem wanted to look away, to forego sight once again if it meant not having to watch this, but the vision wouldn't let him. Helpless, he watched himself stagger blindly to the pod holding Dargley, still screaming, and lever it open with his sword. Together, they had hauled Beetle out of the monster's sizzling remains.

Their burns had healed over time. The creature's acid bite had cauterized Beetle's severed legs, keeping him from from bleeding out, while Larem's eyes never recovered. In a way, Dargley was the worst: unable to breathe inside the suffocating tomb of the plant's pod, he had gone soft in the head, and never spoken right again. After that, it was all a slow and agonizing path back to Magnimar's filthiest alleys.

Dargley's plan to kill himself and save the men he called brothers had failed dramatically—yet not completely. Due to the damage to Dargley's mind, the dagger's influence over him had been subdued. Still, he clung to the cursed blade out of a buried impulse—and it continued to prompt actions he didn't understand.

More recent scenes flickered through Larem's mind. Dargley catching coins before they landed in Larem's beggar bowl... swapping out Master Ulus' healing elixirs for worthless mixes... supplying Beetle with ale to fuel his fury.

Your despair has been delicious.

Larem's world turned black again. He still clutched the dagger's hilt. Dargley remained insensate before him. His arm quivered as he raised the dagger over the prone man's chest.

Pay him back for destroying your lives. It's the least he deserves.

"Does he?" Larem whispered. "All his actions stemmed from you."

He took the first step, thinking to claim me. That was his downfall. None can own me. But I could abide a partnership.

"With a blind man? You'd cast me aside within the first week."

With my guidance, there will be no end to your rewards. I know where hoards of treasure are buried. Wouldn't you enjoy returning to your former life?

"And what happens to the others?"

The cripple and the halfwit? Damaged goods would just hold you back.

Larem cocked his head. "Perhaps you're right. It is time to move on. However, I also owe money to some quite persistent men. These buried treasures you mentioned..."

The smallest trove I can lead you to is enough to pay them back, purchase a healing spell for your eyes, and outfit your own mercenary band.

"What of the wight? It'll continue to pursue us, and I don't relish the thought of constant running."

With hired swords and spellcasters at your side, the next time it shows itself, you can reduce it to so much offal and ash.

"True enough. Very well." Larem stood and stepped over his fallen companion.

Showing mercy?

He dealt Dargley a swift heel-kick to the ribs. The man moaned but didn't wake.

"He'll suffer more, living with what he's done."

I anticipate great things from you already.

Larem grinned. "Let's settle some debts."

∗ ∗ ∗

Larem's feet kept sinking into the muck as he waited, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders wide—a confident posture he'd not held in years.

He stood on the Maidens' Midden, one of the Dungsweepers' Guilds refuse yards, so named for the bargain-priced brothel that stood near its gate. A few steps away loomed a storm drain large enough to lead a horse through. The unique bouquet of raw sewage hung about like a rancid fog. Breathing through his mouth made the stench bearable, though he clamped down on the occasional stomach spasm. Hopefully he wouldn't have to wait long. But then, if he did, he had much larger problems than a simple stink.

Ah. By the cursing and squelching, his anticipated guest had at last arrived. His pulse accelerated as the newcomer summitted the mound and spotted him.

"I hardly enjoy being called like a servant," Samphy said. "Especially to such a delightful place."

Larem bowed. "I wouldn't have asked to meet here without good reason."

"What's this about, then? You can't possibly have the money already." A sly chuckle. "Unless you lied about not having it in the first place. Or stole it. In either case, I might require a little extra to forgive you."

"I don't have it yet, no," Larem said. "But I've determined the location of an ancient treasure that will more than repay what I owe. I simply need you to allow me to retrieve it."

Samphy wheezed laughter. "You think I'll let you run off after some imaginary treasure? You'll never return."

Larem drew the Weeping Blade from his rags. On contact, the spirit's voice slipped into his head.

Canceling your debts more directly? Bold, but admirable.

Samphy's voice tensed. "Beggarman wants a fight? I can't say this will be fair... but it could be fun."

"No fighting," Larem said. "Instead, I offer a token of sincerity. This blade originates from the very treasure I speak of. Alone, it's worth ten times my debt, but I give it freely as a guarantee."

What? You dare—

"Catch." Larem tossed the Weeping Blade toward Samphy. The thug swore, but by the lack of a thump or splash, Larem knew he'd caught it.

Larem spun toward the storm drain and yelled, "I choose him as the blood price! Take your sacrifice and begone!"

A resounding clang let him know the drain's grate had just swung open, admitting another anticipated guest.

"What the hell...?" cried Samphy.

A roar. A clatter of bones. A scream and a body slapped into the muck.

Larem focused on where the air held an unearthly chill. "You've got your damned blade back. Where's Beetle? If he's not—"

"I's here and I's thirsty," Beetle called from by the grate. "This creature wouldn't s'much as let me have a sip."

"Our bargain is complete," the wight said in its sepulchral tones. "Though I question the soul that sealed it."

"You never said it had to be one of us. Just that I had a choice." Larem pointed at it. "Swear you'll bury that thing deep."

Laughter made his spine clench. "Where I take it, none shall discover until the very foundations of this world are undone."

There was another clatter of bones, and then the storm drain's grate clanged shut. The sound of steps retreated into the distance.

He trudged over to the grate and found Beetle with arms wrapped over a bar to hold himself above the sludge. He tried to check him for wounds, but the other man slapped his hands away.

"Were you tortured?"

Beetle blew a raspberry. "Nicked me a bit, but what's a few more scars? How'd you convince that thing you's gots the blade?

For a moment, Larem almost told him everything—what Dargley had done and how they'd ended up destitute.

Then he shrugged. "Stole an ornate blade from a smithy and convinced a drunk wizard to lay a charm on it. Seemed to suffice."

Beetle laughed. "There's the scoundrel I's know! Always ready wit' a fool's gamble. Where's Dargley got off to?"

"Left him behind so he wouldn't get hurt." He sat, unmindful of the sewage seeping through his threadbare pants. "This whole encounter got me thinking. Perhaps it's time we returned to our old ways in a new fashion."

"Wot... back to adventurin'?"

"Couldn't be worse than squatting around these streets. You can be my eyes, Dargley can be your legs, and I'll provide enough intellect to make up for both of you."

Beetle chortled. "Worth a try, eh? But where we gonna begin?"

Larem grinned as he reviewed the mental map the dagger's spirit had sketched out for him during their chat.

"Oh, I've encountered rumors of certain treasures that are just waiting for the right opportunists to come along..."

Coming Next Week: A glimpse of Count Varian Jeggare's past in the city of Korvosa in Dave Gross's "The Fencing Master"!

Josh Vogt is a freelance author with short stories published in such venues as Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show and Shimmer. For more information, see his website at jrvogt.com

Illustration by Mariana Gomez

The Weeping Blade

by Josh Vogt

Chapter Two: Touch of the Grave

Larem hissed and dropped the silver piece, yet his fingertips burned from the frigid contact.

The person remained before him, and Larem could sense its silent mockery. He reached for his dagger.

"Who are you?"

His tormenter shifted with a creak of leather. Its every movement groaned and crackled with age.

No, not age, Larem realized as he caught another whiff of grave dust. Death. An undead creature leered at him, having concealed its nature until now through some magic. The knowledge wrapped his heart in thorns and stopped him from drawing the blade.

The thing's voice held all the black promise of a bottomless pit. "Wise. Now, where are the other two? Those thieves you call brothers."

Larem fought down shivers. "Dead. They're beyond your grasp, whatever you wished to accomplish here. I'm just a blind beggar. Leave me be."

A long sniff tickled his hair. "Not dead. I smell them on you." Bony fingers wrapped about his throat, carrying the same sapping chill as the coin. Strength fled Larem's limbs, and he gagged at the carrion reek and clammy touch. "I've been searching for you since I woke. You've something of mine."

"Nothing. Nothing."

The dead creature's hand tightened. "At first, when I detected you hiding among the rat rabble of this city, I thought it a ploy. An attempt to throw me off track. With each one I killed, I expected you to rise up in righteous fury and revenge, as you were once famed to do. Yet with each, you disappointed. Have the Bloody Blade Brothers truly fallen so low? What do you hide behind these rags?"

Fingertips hooked the leather strap and yanked. The worn cord securing it snapped, and Larem rocked back.

A laugh like skulls knocking together. "How tragic. Larem the Long-Sighted now unable to spy a fly buzzing about his nose."

Larem swallowed. "Who are you?"

"You know who I am. I've forgotten my living name, but I remember you three sneaking through the tomb, pilfering without regard for the dead. Well, the dead have no regard for you, except for what you've taken from us."

It creaked again, withered flesh shifting around dry joints. "I know you still have it. The Weeping Blade. I feel it within the city bounds. One of you keeps it hidden. I'll have it back or I'll have your souls." Rotting fingers stroked his cheek. "For every day that you refuse further, I will claim another life. And not just scraggly beggars. Women. Children."

"We don't... we can't..."

"When you change your mind, find me in the graveyard behind the shrine of Sarenrae in Underbridge under moonlight. Until then, enjoy knowing you're the reason for this bloodshed. I'll be watching."

After a final chilling caress, the creature shuffled off.

Larem didn't know how long he sat there, sweating and shivering. Samphy's threats paled compared to this. Could it be possible? Were they the unwitting cause of the death plaguing the city's poor and destitute?

He lurched to his feet. By the time he reached Seerspring Garden, he'd collected further aches and bruises by running into building corners, crate stacks, and pedestrians who thrust him back out of the way with well-aimed elbows and knees. He used the gurgling of the fountain to get his bearings and then staggered east until he reached the gates of the Merchants' Guildhall, lurching through the throng of laborers and traders who milled about.

"Dargley," he cried. "Where are you? Dargley!"

He misjudged the distance to the Guildhall's wall and cracked his head against it. He reeled, spun about, and fell.

A hand grabbed his and hauled him upright. Sticky fingers patted his face as he panted.

"Nocky opate?"

Larem clung to the other man's bulk.

"Take me to Beetle."

∗ ∗ ∗

Beetle may be shorter than most men, but he's twice as ornery.

Beetle's voice slurred loudly as they entered the tavern.

"Matsy, darling. Get over 'ere and gimme a sight worth seeing."

"Burn you, Beetle," came a gruff male voice. "Watch the door, not the staff."

"Bah! 'S too early for any troublemakers. I'll toss any out on their arses, dontcha worry."

Larem navigated the maze of tables with Dargley's help. When they reached Beetle, he didn't notice their arrival until Larem nudged him.

"Boys! Pull up a stool. Piss-poor slop, but it's on me tonight. "

He slurped from what Larem guessed to be a tankard—a guess he confirmed by slapping it away.

"'Ey! What'ser problem? I said I's paying, didn't I?"

Larem tried to glare through the reaffixed leather strap. "How can you afford this?"

"Got me a job, didn't I tell yeh? I's..." Beetle hiccupped. "I's a bouncer. I bounce 'em in. I bounce 'em out. Never ain't nobody think they gonna get walloped by a man who don't come up to their balls. But when I bite, they all holler the same."

Larem gritted his teeth. Bouncer? More likely a spectacle the tavern owner figured would draw in extra business.

"Listen to me. I know who's been causing the beggar deaths."

"Ain't you the clever bastard." Beetle burped. "Whosa fiend?"

"We are. We're the reason these people have been dying."

By Beetle's prolonged silence, Larem wagered the news had brought him at least halfway around to sobriety.

"Whatchu mean?"

Larem turned them away from the growing crowd. "You kept the Weeping Blade, didn't you? After we agreed it was too dangerous, you've kept it stashed all these years."

Beetle's words hung heavy with a drunken pout. "Dunno whatcher talking 'bout."

Larem reached out and, by luck, caught the collar of Beetle's shirt, crusted with dribble and drink. "The Weeping Blade! From the Tomb of Annuram, the one we broke into a few years before... before the accident. The tomb's guardian is here. It believes we still have the blade, and it's going to keep killing innocents until we return it."

Beetle tore Larem's hand away. "We stole a hunnerd cursed bits of metal o'er the years. You think I'm gonna remember one shiny chit from all the rest? And if I had that sorta treasure, I'da sold it quick as hot piss."

"You swear on your mother's bones you don't have it?"

"I'll swear on your bones if you don't stop with this. Ain't got it and never did."

Larem slumped on the bench. Beetle wouldn't lie straight out like this, no matter how deep in the slop. Which meant the creature concealed a deeper agenda or had errantly tracked them down.

"Weeping Blade, eh? What made it so special?"

"Cursed dagger," Larem said. "Stories said it helped you win fights by overwhelming your enemy with despair, but any wielder eventually wound up going insane. Which is why we agreed to leave the dagger in the gravedust."

"Did we?"

"We did. I recall that conversation clearly because Dargley and I had to physically restrain you from taking it until you saw sense."

"What sorta fiend was it that spoke to you?"

"Undead of some kind. Intelligent. Able to work some magic, as it disguised its true nature until it confronted me."

"Would 'splain why no one's caught the bastard yet. Notta ghoul though."

"Nor a lich. I doubt anything that powerful would've gone undetected for so long."

"S'more than your average wraith too. Maybe a wight of some sort?"

Larem bit his tongue. A wight. Far beyond just an animated corpse—a creature deliberately raised by foul magic to guard a burial site and any treasure stashed there. Relentless, powerful, and intelligent. This one must've been a spellcaster in its previous existence, or else had some other sort of magic that let it track them and conceal itself in the city.

Still didn't explain why it believed they had the dagger. Had another band of adventurers—or opportunists, as they once called themselves—taken it after them and somehow set the creature on their scent?

He scrubbed his forehead. "What are we going to do?"

Beetle clamped a hand on his shoulder. "Do? What'd we always do with any unholy beastie? We kill the damn thing."

∗ ∗ ∗

The church to Sarenrae stood desolate under the enormous pilings of the Irespan, the ancient, shattered monument that kept the district called Underbridge tucked into eternal shadow. The church had been built during Magnimar's founding years by a Sarenite cleric named Vosten in an attempt to bring a guiding light to the city... until Sczarni thugs beat him and his acolytes to death when he refused to pay into their protection racket. Since then, the church had languished untended. Like most landmarks in Underbridge, it had become an unspoken center of black-market commerce where foul deeds went unnoticed and fouler packages were swapped in the dark.

Larem tried not to breathe in the stink of rot that stained the area. Would the three of them add to those buried there alongside Vosten, their names long forgotten?

He stood twenty paces before Vosten's grave, marked by a tilted gray pillar overgrown with thorny weeds. Beetle had described it and the surrounding layout when they arrived. Rows of salt-stained pillars lined either side of him, foundations cracked, any inscriptions worn away by a century of sea winds and vandalism.

After scouting to ensure the wight hadn't preceded them, Dargley and Beetle had slipped off to their hiding spot.

As he waited, Larem fiddled with the dagger tucked into his waistband. The moon hung low enough to gleam across the ruins—Beetle had scoffed when Larem claimed moonlight possessed a different texture on the skin than sunlight. Like a candle beaming through a sheet of ice.

Or perhaps the feeling came from the cold sweat that slicked his neck and chest.

A salty breeze whispered past, and dead vines and leaves crackled under his feet whenever he shifted his weight. A creature rustled in a far corner of the yard. Larem stiffened, but whatever it was pattered off on four paws. If any vermin of the two-legged variety lurked about, they wisely kept their presence concealed, perhaps put off by a blind man standing sentry in the middle of a graveyard.

He imagined himself a statue set in place to watch over the spirits of the dead and ensure their safe passage into the afterlife. If they survived this night, he considered visiting one of Pharasma's temples and paying a copper to polish an hourglass in gratitude to the Lady of Graves.

"Do you have it?"

One instant he stood alone; the next, the wight filled the space before him, a sucking presence that made his throat tighten. How? Larem hadn't heard a thing until it spoke and its putrid aura enveloped him.

Quelling a shudder, he forced himself to stand tall. There'd been a time when he'd faced far deadlier creatures than this—though then he'd had his sight and held a length of sharp steel. Or better yet, a bow.

"I spoke with the others," he said, proud that his voice held firm. "One revealed that he did indeed keep the Weeping Blade, and I humbly ask forgiveness for the desecration."

The air temperature dropped several degrees. "Then where is it? Why haven't you brought it as required?"

"Unfortunately, my companion buried it outside the city. I can tell you exactly where to find it if you'll give me but a few minutes."

Again that long snuffling. "Liar. I smell the blade's stink on you. You've been near it recently. What trickery are you and the two beating hearts in the shadows planning?"

Larem frowned. On him? How? Before he could give this revelation further thought, a skeletal fist gripped his tunic and held him in place. Once more, vitality seeped out of him, leaving his limbs trembling.

"I despise thieves and I abide a lying tongue even less. Shall I tear yours out?"

Summoning a last scrap of strength, Larem drew his dagger and slashed upward—not at the wight, but at the length of fabric it held. The well-honed edge sliced through the rotten cloth, and he threw himself backward, shouting, "Now!"

A roar echoed through the graveyard as Beetle and Dargley threw themselves against the pillar they'd crouched behind. There was a grinding noise, and then a greater crack as it toppled toward the wight.

Coming Next Week: Desperate plots in the final chapter of Josh Vogt's "The Weeping Blade"!

Josh Vogt is a freelance author with short stories published in such venues as Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show and Shimmer. For more information, see his website at jrvogt.com.

Illustration by Mariana Gomez

The Weeping Blade

by Josh Vogt

Chapter One: Blind Beggar’s Bind

"Alms!" Larem called to the afternoon marketplace crowd. "Have mercy and spare a coin. A blind man's blessing brings good fortune."

"Droble gamman! Obbly tolt!"

Larem winced as Dargley spouted his usual gibberish. He leaned over and nudged his fellow beggar.

"You're to keep your lips sealed, remember?"

"Foddum nibble?"

Larem may be blind, but he's still more perceptive than most people.

Despite the leather strap over his eyes, Larem sensed Dargley beaming a grin in clueless innocence, the attitude that had defined his existence since the head injury. Sighing, Larem took up his beggar bowl and shook the three copper coins it held.

"Alms," he cried. "Desna smiles upon those who pity the downtrodden."

Shouting rose above the din of Magnimarian hawkers, livestock, and cart traffic.

"Outta the way. Move it, you low-browed dungknuckles. You's never seen a man with no legs? Move it or I'll bite your arse and piss on your robe."

Larem sighed again. Had Beetle been drinking? Where'd he get the coin for it?

"Kick me again and you'll be missing some tasty toes."

Larem tuned one ear to listen for any gangs or guard patrols while the other picked up Beetle's shuffling approach. Grunts alternated with slaps of flesh on stone as Beetle swung along on his hands until he plopped onto the mat to Larem's left. The man reeked of sour wine, and the air about him gained an oily texture that made Larem want to scrub his face with sackcloth.

"Thanks for that," Larem said. "We'll be lucky if anyone gets near us for the rest of the day. What've I told you about threats?"

Beetle snorted. "They work well enough for this lot. Looking down on me like I's dirt."

"People look down on you because you don't come above their waistlines," Larem said. "You just decide to take it personally."

"Bilgrew mothy woll!"

"Too true, Dargley. Beetle needs to control his anger before someone runs him over with a coach."

Beetle spat into the dirt. "Let 'em try. First horse that tries to stamp me out will get its hooves ripped off."

Larem couldn't hide a smile at the idea. Once Beetle might've followed through on such a threat. Oversized shoulders and hands had lent him a freakish strength that made him a feared fighter in their band before...well...

Before this. Now those muscled arms only served to drag Beetle's mangled half-a-body around Beacon's Point, hauling him from one alehouse to another.

Beetle gargled mucus and spat again. "Listen, lads. I've got news."

Larem held his bowl out, though he knew no one stood near enough to toss. "I don't care which minor noble is mucking about with which courtesan at the House of Welcome."

"Shut it. Or I'll start spreading rumors that you've got good eyes under there."

Larem adjusted the blindfold covering the acid-scarred pits where his eyes used to be. "What's this news, then?"

Beetle rubbed his hands, calluses scraping like rough stone on leather. "They found another body stuffed in a sewer drain. Just outside the north end of Washers' Row."

Larem stiffened. "Same as the other three?"

"Ayup. Head gone. Chest split wide and all the innards gutted."

"Any clue as to the dead's identity?"

"City watch was stumped, but ol' Beetle knows his rascals. It were Tolly. He went missing from his spot down by the docks last week and I spotted that bird tattoo on his ankle when they hauled him away—the ugly pigeon he always loved showin' off."

"It was an osprey. And if so, that's four deaths. All victims from Rag's End."

Dargley pressed in close and moaned.

Larem patted his knee. "Not to fear. Nobody would snatch you in the middle of a crowded market."

Beetle cleared his throat with the grace of a rusty hinge. "So...what's we gonna do about it?"

"Do?"

"Course. I ain't spouting off 'cause I love me pretty voice." He dropped to a hoarse whisper. "A fiend's loose in Magnimar—right 'ere in this neighborhood, you betcha—and nobody dealt death to fiends like the Bloody Blade Brothers."

Larem slumped. "We aren't those men anymore. Haven't been in a long time. There's nothing we can do but pray whoever—or whatever—is behind the murders is dealt with quickly."

"Serious?" Beetle's fetid breath huffed over Larem. "It's been two months and ain't nobody got a lead on the bastard. Not even those Caydenites what set up the new bar 'cross the street from The Pig—and I made sure to check in with them a few times to be sure."

"I thought you were banned from there after stealing those bottles of holy wine."

"Not my fault they didn't lock the place up nice and tight. 'Sides, who's gonna turn down a petitioner seekin' a bit of courage to brave these dangerous streets? But all them priests are passin' out is worthless talismans and prayers."

"A cleric's protective measures are nothing to be scoffed at."

"Yeah? Look where they got us. I mean... don't, y'know, look... but..."

Larem grimaced. "I know what you mean. It doesn't change anything. We're not in any shape to confront such a foe."

"You's afraid."

"I'm pragmatic."

Beetle gripped his arm hard enough to make him drop his bowl. Coins clinked about.

"Rag's End folks be our people now. Who's gonna protect 'em but us? City watch don't give a spit who gets splattered, 'cept for having to clean up the mess. Nobles figure a few beggar deaths means less on the streets. Jaijarko and his Sczarni thugs only care if it means another gang edgin' in on their territory."

"Your point?"

"M'point is this is a cause. A reason to fight!"

"For you, being looked at askance is reason to fight."

This time the gobbet of spit struck Larem's cheek. "Lost your sight and lost your courage. I's shamed to squat beside you."

Beetle continued grumbling as he propped up on his hands and lugged himself off. Larem patted the stones and dirt until he found the three copper coins and replaced them in the bowl.

Dargley plucked at his tunic. "Plobbem gardley toodle?"

Larem wiped at his grimy cheek with a filthier sleeve. "He'll sleep off his anger and rejoin us tomorrow."

"Smolley chargarlum?"

"Yes. I'm sure." He fished out a coin and placed it in Dargley's hand. "Go get yourself a hot bun. I'll meet you by the main fountain in front of the Merchants' Guildhall in a couple hours. We're sure to encounter a few generous souls there."

"Wobbum!"

Dargley's footsteps pattered away, and Larem settled into his usual begging routine. Odd to feel so alone within the throng of merchants, browsers, and buyers. And why the twinge of guilt at brushing off Beetle's urgings?

Foolish to think any of them possessed a fraction of their former skill. Foolish to believe they could still make a difference.

When the swell of afternoon commerce ebbed, he gathered his meager belongings. The cheap dagger he kept under his mat got rolled up inside it. He then used the rolled mat to tap his way out of the market, bowl outstretched as he shuffled past shops, stables, and warehouses. He headed for Dockway, following the main road along Beacon's Point's docks.

The salty tang of the sea briefly wiped away the stink of the dirty, sweating crowds. Then the smell returned in force as he shuffled through one of the area's many slums. There, the ramshackle buildings crowded closer, casting cold shadows. Social chatter turned to mutters, whimpers, and grumbles, and the air grew pungent with unwashed refuse.

As he passed one alley—noted by the extra echo to his steps—several people moved to stand in his way. His rolled mat bumped a set of shins, and he stopped, jingling the coins in his bowl while internally bracing.

"Pity the destitute and enjoy blessed dreams."

The nearest man, a heavy breather who smelled of burnt oil, snatched the bowl away and dumped the coins out.

"You owe our master a hundred times this," came his smoke-roughened voice.

Larem swallowed. "As I explained last week, Samphy, the salves didn't work. I won't pay for ineffective remedies."

The flung bowl caught Larem in the forehead, and he stumbled back a step. He resisted the urge to rub his skull, knowing weakness only encouraged thugs to greater cruelty.

"You calling Master Ulus a liar?" Samphy had perfected the art of threatening growls. To Larem, who had heard much worse from fanged beasts as they attempted to devour him, the gang enforcer's sounded a pale imitation.

"I make no such claims. However, even if I were to pay, it's only been a week since your last visit. How was I to procure funds in such a short time?"

The gut-punch dropped him to his knees. The second blow cracked his head to the stones, where he lay gasping as red and yellow explosions flashed through the darkness of his skull.

Samphy crouched beside him. "Master Ulus doesn't enjoy having his reputation as a healer slighted. He also doesn't enjoy welchers. Now, I'm to collect the bill or collect a body. I'd prefer the first, but if there's no other choice..." He patted Larem's cheek. "You've got one more week."

One of Samphy's companions trod on an ankle as they stepped over him, drawing a last gasp of pain before they headed off.

Once alone, Larem felt about until he retrieved the bowl. Clutching it and the mat—with the dagger still inside—he crawled into the nearby alley to huddle and recover.

At least Beetle and Dargley hadn't been around. He'd never told them how he'd squirreled away a last pouch of gold from their adventures, then squandered it on false hope and fake healing elixirs peddled by the local Sczarni thugs. He should've seen the con coming a long way off, even without eyes.

Now not even hope remained.

Footsteps approached. A single person this time. Had Samphy or one of his lackeys returned?

He groaned as he gathered himself. "If I didn't find payment in a week, what will a few minutes have accomplished?"

A rattle alerted him to a coin tossed into his bowl. His trained ears figured it for silver.

Surprised, he raised his head and tried to fix on his unknown benefactor. The person stood before him, a deeper zone of silence in the quiet street. Waiting for...? Ah, of course. Larem swallowed blood and smiled crookedly.

"Desna will embrace your soul, kind... sir?"

He plucked up the offering to bless it with a kiss.

And froze.

The pall of death suffused the coin, an unearthly chill that iced his blood. True silver, by the polish of it, and new enough that he easily picked out the skull engraved on either side.

A burial coin. The type folks sometimes placed over a corpse's eyes before it was entombed.

The presence chuckled—a liquid, putrescent sound, accompanied by a wave of graveyard stink.

"Hello, Larem," it whispered. "I've been looking for you."

Coming Next Week: The hauntings of the past in Chapter Two of Josh Vogt's "The Weeping Blade"!

Josh Vogt is a freelance author with short stories published in such venues as Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show and Shimmer. For more information, see his website at jrvogt.com.

Illustration by Mariana Gomez

A Matter of Knives

by Ed Greenwood

Chapter Three: An End to All Skulking Games

"Helms don't have feelings," a sultry female voice announced sharply. "They really don't care if you leave them in those crates. Now go. Bendrar and I need to confer."

Boots went, hastily.

From her hiding place behind a stack of shipping crates, Tantaerra leaned forward, trying to get as close to the conversation as possible without being seen. Bendrar was Loryn Garldrake's son, and the woman giving orders had to be Semdeira Sarpent.

"Ah, good, good, you're both here," said a hearty voice; Loryn Garldrake. "Ben, we were hoping to leave you out of this, but things have changed, and we need you to be able to say and do just the right things if you're questioned by the guard. This is all happening rather fast, but... uh..."

Semdeira is just like the blades she sells—hard and sharp.

"Let me," Sarpent interrupted firmly. "Our plan has always been to find a scapegoat for when the General Lords send for us, someone we can blame for tricking us—supplying us with inferior weapons and armor. A scapegoat who promptly gets killed, the body too damaged for any priest to work with. The dead defend themselves poorly. He takes the blame, we pay whatever fines the Lords want to levy, and if need be we depart Molthune. The problem is, a certain official here in Canorate is suspicious of us already. Too soon."

"We intended to frame Alsaerdus," Bendrar's father put in, "and rid ourselves of a big creditor, but he's out of the country. So we need someone else. Right now."

"Hence Master Hroalund," Sarpent purred. "Knife-hurler and trap-spinner. Who insists on providing his own knives for his traps, and has many suppliers, some Drumish—and high Molthuni officials dislike those who have too much to do with foreigners. What we sent to kill him the fastest, tidiest way failed, but our cleverness at engaging him has brought him right here, and we have his demise in hand right now. When he's dead, we'll claim to have killed him and his assistants in a desperate fight, because they tried to murder us when we confronted Hroalund about shoddy knives he'd provided to us."

"You're going to, ah, kill him here? Now?" Bendrar sounded nervous.

"No." Sarpent's voice was crisp. "At his shop. If the bloodcoats want to search and pry, we want them to be confiscating and rummaging his stock, not ours."

"Never you mind where and when yet, son. For now, get out to the front counter before Indur and Yelhar do anything foolish, and run things until closeup. Make certain no patron gets near Hroalund or sees his work. A trap someone's seen is useless to us."

Tantaerra heard Bendrar hurry away.

"Tonight," Garldrake muttered. "Velar will come at nightfall. Shall I tell him to bring Urling and Taethur?"

"No. Too apt to be clumsily over-enthusiastic. We need far quieter, during and after. I know who to get."

In her hiding place, Tantaerra grit her teeth. That was it, then. Garldrake and Sarpent had to die, or the lives lost would be hers and the Master's. The rest of the staff she could take down with her sleeping darts–without their masters, the underlings would be no problem when they awoke, if indeed they even knew of the plan. For Sarpent and Garldrake, though...

Well, mercy was just one of many things a humble slave couldn't afford.

∗∗∗

Nine darts were gone, all well sped, and the Master long since headed home by the time Bendrar Garldrake met the tenth—and dropped a decanter as he slumped.

The crash brought Loryn Garldrake around the corner at a run. He had a decanter of his own. Upon seeing a dark-swathed assassin—even a half-sized one—standing above his unmoving son, he howled and threw the glass carafe without hesitation.

It shattered just above Tantaerra's head, drenching her with something reeking and sticky.

She ran, but Garldrake snatched a long horse-lance down from a wall-rack and used it more wisely than she expected. Instead of trying to spit her, he swung it like a club, raking her feet out from under her.

Tantaerra landed groaningly hard on her hip against a wardrobe—and then he lowered the lance to run her through.

"Hah! Roast halfling on a spit tonight!"

Tantaerra promptly grabbed the wardrobe doors and toppled the massive thing over on top of herself.

The falling furniture caught the lance-tip and bore it down. It shrieked along, digging a deep gouge out of the polished floor, before breaking—but held up more than long enough for a hurrying halfling to hurl herself out from under the wardrobe.

And turn to race right up the lance-shaft at its wielder.

Garldrake got his belt-dagger out and slashed at her viciously, forcing her to leap aside, but her next leap slammed her headfirst into his crotch.

Garldrake shrieked and went down, and Tantaerra jumped up and down on his nearest ankle, repeatedly, until something broke under her.

He shrieked—and suddenly Semdeira Sarpent and three ruthless-looking men were in the room, drawn daggers gleaming in every hand.

Tantaerra used her next dart to stab Garldrake, and fled.

The rooms were dark, and there were many of them, but after three she saw the curtains and remembered the chart. The Master never seemed to hurry, but his work was swift, and she was shorter than the height his trap-bows would be set to fire at in here, so one of them should be just... here.

It was. Not loaded, but cocked and with its trip-line in position. Ready to demonstrate to Garldrake and Sarpent when—

Well, why not now?

Tantaerra dropped a dart into the little launcher's maw as she passed, then ducked around behind the next shelf. Deliberately jostled armor clattered.

One of the killers chasing her went for the bait, but Tantaerra was already two shelves away, loading trap-bows for all she was worth. She heard his heavy fall, grinned, and went right on scurrying, keeping low.

Before she slipped out of that room, a second of Sarpent's professional slayers had gone down.

Whereupon a tense, straining silence fell. Sarpent and her last slayer were closing in far more warily, and Tantaerra was running low on darts.

If she didn't move fast, they'd—

Too late. A door closed, and she was shut in an end room full of stock shelves.

She could hear her pursuers hastily moving things on the other side of the door. Blocking aisles, no doubt. Those display frames of spears and lances, set on their sides, would make deadly walls of sharp points. And a cargo net from their back room draped over the shelves could entrap a climbing or leaping halfling.

Then came a sound she knew well. Twice. Thrice. Three crossbows cocked, and no doubt loaded and laid ready.

Bright light flared under the closed door. Then the door slid open, and Tantaerra saw the last assassin standing ready with a crossbow.

The light came from an unshuttered storm lantern Sarpent was carrying into the room with a stepstool. All menacing catlike grace, she hung it on a ceiling-hook, lighting the room brightly.

"Let there be an end to all skulking games," she purred smugly, retreated to the doorway, and took up a loaded crossbow of her own.

Then she and her hired killer waited.

Tantaerra, comfortably flat on the floor under a shelf, smiled coldly, and resolved to wait them out.

Time unfolded.

∗∗∗

A lot of tense silence stretched before Sarpent and the assassin grew restless enough to enter the room and explore.

Which was Tantaerra's cue.

She heaved herself up off the floor, shoulders against one side of the shelf above her, and toppled it toward the doorway.

It crashed into the shelf next to it, and both shelves groaned, leaned, and started to fall. The swearing assassin got clear just in time—and the lantern fell, bounced clangingly amid falling stock, and ended up on the floor, half-crushed but alight. Tantaerra tossed her hood into its blazing interior.

Flames flared up, spreading swiftly across the polished floor, and Semdeira Sarpent spat something less than ladylike. Tantaerra scuttled along that aisle, back into darkness, straining to see where her foes were.

As it turned out, they were both in the room with her and staring at the open doorway, waiting for her to try to dart through it. Tantaerra found something suitable on a shelf and threw it through the opening—and two crossbow bolts chased it.

The flames spread merrily, and she repeated the gambit. Just one bolt, this time. Neither of them went for her next throw, but a distant shout told her someone had smelled smoke, and when she flung something much larger—a shield—two bolts rang off it.

Tantaerra knew how long it took to recock a crossbow. Line and trap ready through her belt, she risked a run.

There was Sarpent. Throwing a knife at her.

Tantaerra sneered. She'd demonstrate knife-hurling—and did, her own spinning blade striking aside the one coming at her.

The last hired assassin came charging out of the darkness. He avoided the little trap she was dragging along with contemptuous ease, but Tantaerra slowed, then sprinted again and tugged on the tripline. The little trap-bow sprang through the air and landed under the man's boots. He stumbled, staggered, clawed at her—and Tantaerra stabbed him through that reaching hand with one of her sleep-poisoned darts.

Then she was through the door into the next room, with Sarpent hard on her heels.

Time to play the agile little monkey. Tantaerra swarmed the nearest shelf to get out of reach.

There were the lance-barriers, and there was the netting overhead, just as she'd suspected. Sarpent jumped and grabbed at it, trying to pin Tantaerra atop the shelf—and succeeded.

She was stuck, but not helpless. Tantaerra snatched up pieces of armor from the shelf and flung them at Sarpent's face, one after another, until she saw blood on that enraged but hitherto unmarred visage.

"Who are you, you little rat?"

"A concerned citizen," Tantaerra panted, not slowing her armor-flinging.

The arms-dealer tried to fend off the rain of sharp metal and get closer.

"Citizen? You're a halfling! Slave, more like!"

"You want my Master dead—my master who's done no ill to you!"

"So you're Hroalund's wench, then? I should have known. But well enough—showing the guards how you attacked us in our own shop can only help us when we explain how we were forced to kill you both in self-defense!"

Then Semdeira Sarpent was close enough, with a needle-rapier in hand. She stabbed at Tantaerra.

Who kicked out at it, desperately—and shrieked as her foot got skewered.

Sarpent snarled and pressed the advantage, stabbing again and again.

Tantaerra twisted and arched and flung stock frantically, emptying the shelf and getting free of the netting. Sometime during all of that, the rapier skidded along her side, slicing open smoke suit and skin beneath.

She felt icy, and there was a lot of blood on her and all over the shelf.

She flung herself at Sarpent and managed to scissor her legs around the woman's sword arm, clinging to the blade's ornate knuckle guard and bearing the rapier down. Sarpent slapped at her, and Tantaerra clawed right back, the room a whirl around them as the arms-dealer tried to shake her off the blade. Sarpent tore at her ear and hair—and Tantaerra slapped her fingers across her foe's face, smearing her own sticky spilled blood into those glaring eyes.

The shriek was impressive.

When it sank into words again, they were a strangled, "Get off me, slave!"

"Certainly," Tantaerra snapped—and drove the second to last of her poison-tipped darts through the palm of Sarpent's descending hand.

Sarpent shrieked again, going wild.

"Oh, be quiet," Tantaerra snarled, driving the last of her darts deep into Sarpent's throat—and kicked her way free.

The arms-dealer went down, staring at Tantaerra in horror and disbelief as she choked and gurgled on her own blood. Yet already the poison was closing those terrified eyes.

Tantaerra was more interested in what she could see of the end room. It was now an inferno of raging flame.

"Ah," she panted, turning to burrow through the stock on the nearest shelf behind her and so get clear of the barriers and netting, "that has become useful."

Sarpent dead, Garldrake and the hired slayers all too asleep to escape the flames, their splendid business burning down. Satisfactory work, indeed.

Of course, those weren't the only people in the building. The ordinary staff she'd put to sleep were going to need to be woken up. Fortunately, Tantaerra never used poison without also bringing along the antidote, and there was a wide variety of sharp instruments with which to deliver it.

Already the smoke was hiding the high ceilings from view. Tantaerra sighed and sprinted for the stairs.

She was two rooms away before she wondered which useful tools the Master might have left, that she should fetch before the entire building burned down.

She settled for stuffing a helm full of coins to pay for them, instead. Better to save the people—but nobody said heroes had to work for free.

∗∗∗

When Master Argulk Hroalund cautiously opened the door, three throwing knives at the ready in his free hand, an exhausted and bloody halfling stood on his back doorstep.

Through the blood, she gave him a triumphant grin. "Your traps worked well."

Then she reeled and toppled.

Before his frantic grab could catch her, Tantaerra put a hand down to the cobbles and flung herself into a somersault that brought her unsteadily to her feet again.

Limping and wincing, Tantaerra handed her master the coin-filled helm, and gave him a harder grin.

"Bath," she said. "Something to drink."

They were not requests.

Her Master smiled down at her. "Of course."

She smiled back, and fell into oblivion.

Like Tantaerra the plucky halfling? Read more of her adventures in the new Pathfinder Tales novel The Wizard's Mask, coming soon!

Coming Next Week: An action-packed sample chapter from Ed Greenwood's The Wizard's Mask

As the creator of the Forgotten Realms, Ed Greenwood is one of the most famous RPG designers of all time, with a veritable dragon's hoard of game setting products under his belt. In the Pathfinder universe, he's the author of the new novel The Wizard's Mask (also featuring Tantaerra) and the short web fiction story "Guns of Alkenstar." In addition, he's written more than twenty Forgotten Realms novels (many dealing with his signature character, Elminster) and ten independent novels.

Illustration by Mariana Gomez

A Matter of Knives

by Ed Greenwood

Chapter Two: When Someone Wants You Dead

Tantaerra hastily transferred her hands to just the bottom edge of the crate-lid as she backed away—and the first slashing blows fell on it, numbingly hard.

A few splinters flew, but the swift dark swords were sharp, and the arms that drove them very strong. Steel sliced deep and caught, binding in the wood.

The silent slayer shook its swords to free them. Tantaerra let go of the lid before she was shaken dizzy and darted around behind the huge stack of crates. Time to enact her clever plan.

She ran right up the reaching pole and kicked out hard against the cellar wall, slamming her back against the big stack of shield crates. She hit hard, readying herself to leap clear of the avalanche as the crates overbalanced and came down on top of her attacker.

Yet the big stack of shield-crates wavered not an inch.

Tantaerra cursed foully, then cursed even harder as she felt swords biting into the far sides of the crates she was now clinging to. The manyswords thing was hacking and hewing crates as high as it could reach, cleaving wood that was a lot older and damper than the lid it had just flung aside; its blades were through one crate-side already.

Tantaerra climbed wood that shuddered and groaned at each sword-blow, and was a crate higher when a sudden cacophony of sliding metal announced the riven crate was abruptly spilling all of its shields.

Spilling them right onto the head of the manyswords monster, or automaton, or golem, or whatever it was. The thing came staggering into view around the edge of the stack. By then, Tantaerra was atop the uppermost crate and holding onto one of the cellar ceiling beams, sneezing out dust.

The manyswords thing regained its balance and determination, and charged back at the stack, hewing at the next crate down.

Sparks and shrieks flew as metal struck metal, and all too soon the deluge of rusting shields emptying out of a half-destroyed crate rang out again—but this time, the weight of two full crates stacked atop the two now-empty ones was too much, and Tantaerra's perch groaned, toppled, and came down on the thing of swords with a thunderous roar.

Tantaerra rode the ponderous fall almost to the cellar floor, but sprang free at the last moment to land in a dead run up the stairs.

She halted halfway up, listening as the crash rebounded off the walls, ready to continue running at the slightest stirring in the shield pile. Yet no new sounds interrupted the fading echoes.

She turned and moved cautiously down again, halting two steps from the bottom, peering into the cellar's half-light.

Nothing was moving but eddying dust. Swords lay still here and there on the floor, and a few corners of the cage-like apparition that had been their wielder could be seen protruding from under a great heap of shattered crates and flakes of rust.

Stairs creaked as the Master moved down into the basement. "Is it dead?" he asked.

"Well and truly crushed," she responded.

He shook his head, and they crossed the cellar together to peer at the fallen swords and shields, then examined the coffin-like crate lying open and unscathed. The lid had borne the "Hroalund Only" directive; the solid box was well used and empty, and bore no other markings save the usual chalked street-carters' mark that meant "delivery fee paid."

Tantaerra looked again at the label on the lid. Although its lettering was different than the label on the crate of gorgets they'd received from Galdrake and Sarpent, the labels and glue were the same.

"Someone wants you dead," she told her master grimly, tugging the rag from her face.

He looked angry, but said only, "I believe we both know who."

"So what happens now?"

"I go and do the work they've hired me for," the Master told her, his words flat and hard. "Argulk Hroalund doesn't run from threats."

"Argulk Hroalund can't run, these days," Tantaerra replied. "From anything."

The Master of the House of Blades gave her a scowl that lightened slowly into a chuckle and a nod. "You have the right of it, little one. And I see from your face that you have an idea." He started for the stairs, and added over his shoulder, "Your ideas have never led me astray thus far, so..."

When she reached the head of the stair, he was holding out his belt-flask.

"Drink," he ordered. "You've earned it. Then talk."

∗∗∗

Loryn Garldrake is a snake of a man—making him an excellent merchant.

It was hot and cramped inside the box, even wearing only light gauzy silks. Tantaerra had taken the hood off, and resolved to stay that way until Hroalund was actually opening the catches. She wore a smoke suit: tight-fitting breeches, slippers, a jerkin, and a full-head hood, all mottled gray to make the wearer hard to see in mist, shadow, or dim surroundings. It was identical to the sort favored by Molthuni scouts and sneak-thieves of all lands, and she was surprised they'd been able to find one small enough to fit her—once the arms and legs were doubled back on themselves, that is. Sometimes it proved useful to work in a shop that sold war-gear.

Useful, but not precisely comfortable. She was bumping and rumbling along on the House of Blades' freight cart, in a box that had only two tiny air-holes where nails had gone "missing" (thanks to the Master's prybar), and huddled on a bed of coiled cords inside a frame that held a tray of the Master's smaller tools just above her nose. Her carrybag was across her legs, reassuringly heavy. The traps Master Argulk Hroalund installed were almost always activated by trip-cords or wires, and his working gear also included many pulleys, hooks, ring-catches, hinged treadles, and the like. So the cart held no less than six boxes—because Garldrake and Sarpent could afford the best, and wanted it.

The holes were too small for Tantaerra to see the splendid carved sign that proclaimed "Garldrake and Sarpent/Arms and Armor For All," but as she was carried through its doors—double doors!—she could tell that it was brighter and roomier than the House of Blades.

She did catch a glimpse of the fabled polished copper ceiling. The Master had spoken scornfully of that particular addition to the main showroom of what was increasingly his chief rival in Canorate. Sheets of copper that were polished nightly, there to make everything grander and brighter, reflecting everything on display and showing the counter staff what patrons were up to in every back corner and aisle. Ornamental pillars and moldings had been added everywhere, and doors turned into tall archways, to make the premises appear much grander.

The prices had soared, of course, but unlike the Master, Garldrake and Sarpent were happy to charge extra for their fancy show room. And it had worked—not only had they retained most of their patrons, they had gained some new ones; foolish nobles who judged a smith on the beauty of his store rather than the quality of his steel.

Where the House of Blades was crammed with knives, knives, and more knives, Garldrake and Sarpent had lots of empty space, and lone suits of armor standing on their own in gleaming displays. The shop still carried far more wares than the Master did, but most of them were on shelves filling room after room opening off the showroom.

You could do that, the Master had said a trifle enviously, if you'd taken over the next-door shops on both sides, and had coin enough to swallow more. Over the last eight years, Garldrake and Sarpent had gone from strength to strength, buying out many—no, most, by now—competitors. They were the purveyors of armor and weaponry to Molthuni of wealth and discernment.

And welcome to it, she'd often heard the Master say, but from time to time he'd sounded wistful while saying it. The rest of the time, he sounded merely bitter.

"Well, well, Master Hroalund! I am most pleased to see you!"

To Tantaerra, Loryn Garldrake sounded more astonished than pleased. That confirmed her suspicions: that the manyswords thing in the coffin had been expected to kill him, and this prearranged hiring to outfit their store with traps was an alibi—for who would kill the best trap-fitter before he did his work for you?

"Welcome, welcome!" Garldrake went on, more heartily. "And you've brought all your, ah, fixings and fittings, I see! Can you have it all done today, d'you think?"

Loryn Garldrake was one of those who could melt butter on his tongue, jovially and heartily. Probably until the instant he thought you were crossing him, and then—watch out.

"I fear not," the Master replied gently. "I could if you closed your doors, but your partner was most firm that the shop—"

"Establishment, please!"

"Ah, pray pardon—the establishment should stay open, and that one room at a time would be curtained off as I worked. Here's the chart we agreed upon; please let me know if there are any changes you'd like, or..."

"No, no," Garldrake spoke slowly, his voice sharp and shrewd. No doubt he was studying the chart. "No, this is all in order. You're the best, Master Hroalund, and the best is what we want. You'll start at the back, then?"

"Yes."

"My lads will carry your boxes through. Six, aren't there?"

"Six and my little satchel, here," the Master replied agreeably. "My thanks. The curtains? Ah, good, good..."

A few bumpy moments later, Tantaerra felt her box being set down. With care, thank the gods.

"No, leave them closed, thank you," the Master said firmly. "I'll open them as I need them. Until then, less clutter, and easier to move if a patron needs something I'm in front of. Thank you."

There were murmurs from Garldrake's shop workers, booted feet shuffling away, and then the familiar clinks and clanks of the Master getting out tools and starting to hum softly to himself.

Though Garldrake and Sarpent ran to nothing so common as a shop-bell to announce the front doors opening, Tantaerra didn't have to see to know the shop was busy. The hubbub of many voices never stopped, not a few of the nearest inquiring what was behind the curtains. Hastening feet fetched things from nearby shelves on more occasions than she could count. It made the pace in the House of Blades seem one step from the grave, by comparison.

Abruptly the catches on her hiding place were thrown back. She only just had time to tug on her hood before the Master was dragging her out by an elbow and murmuring, "Now."

After the dimness of the box, the light even in this back room seemed nigh-blinding, but she was out in it for barely long enough to snatch two quick breaths before being plunged into darkness again—dustier and faintly moldy darkness this time, with a cool draft.

The Master had bundled her into the Garldrake and Sarpent dumbwaiter—or rather, atop the box that traveled up and down the shaft on furry-with-dust but well-oiled cables. Easily done by hauling on cables and thrusting a foot down into the box, when all one needed was enough space for a lithe halfling to pop through. Tantaerra checked that her carrybag was leashed securely to her wrist; it was heavy with trap-guns, triplines, and cork-guarded darts coated with poison that brought swift and deep slumber to those they stung.

She was here to spend the night, peering and hearing as she stayed unseen. Riding the top of the dumbwaiter, or climbing its ropes to get higher, the better to spy.

Being discovered would bring almost certain death, because the Master had a pretty fair idea of what Garldrake and Sarpent were up to: cheating the rulers of Molthune by providing inferior armor and weaponry—like those gorgets—and undercutting competitors' prices, driving said rivals into business failure or forcing them to sell out to Garldrake and Sarpent. No doubt they knew that Master Hroalund would never willingly hand over his shop, and had decided it would be easier to acquire his share of the market after his untimely death.

They had to know they'd be found out eventually, but obviously planned to make their fortunes first, and probably buy merchant ships and buildings in the heart of bustling cities in other lands, so they could leave Molthune in haste and still keep some wealth. Or perhaps they'd simply quietly pay off the injured parties whenever their shoddy quality was discovered—and in the meantime, grow to dominate Molthune's arms and armor trade, and heap up coins as high as they could.

A fine plan in theory. Yet if Tantaerra could discover evidence of it, Hroalund could easily use that knowledge to expose them—or perhaps simply hold it over them, using it to secure his own safety.

Safety—and more than a little gold, if Tantaerra had her way. For anything that threatened Master Hroalund also threatened his slave. And no one threatened Tantaerra and got away cheaply...

Like Tantaerra the plucky halfling? Read more of her adventures in the new Pathfinder Tales novel The Wizard's Mask, coming soon!

Coming Next Week: Darts in the dark in the final chapter of Ed Greenwood's "A Matter of Knives"!

As the creator of the Forgotten Realms, Ed Greenwood is one of the most famous RPG designers of all time, with a veritable dragon's hoard of game setting products under his belt. In the Pathfinder universe, he's the author of the new novel The Wizard's Mask (also featuring Tantaerra) and the short web fiction story "Guns of Alkenstar." In addition, he's written more than twenty Forgotten Realms novels (many dealing with his signature character, Elminster) and ten independent novels.

Illustration by Mariana Gomez