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

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 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