Bloodwalk - James P. Davis [12]
Reflexively, Quinsareth hid his pale eyes beneath the brim of his hat, never sure who might be present as he arrived from the phantom roads of the shadowalk. He stopped for a moment, allowing the icy chill to fade from his body, letting the gravity of the dirt road settle into his stiff muscles, and clearing his mind of the discordant voices that echoed in the Shadow Fringe. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the mass of blurred darkness he'd seen was the ocean. Its appearance in the shadowalk had been hauntingly beautiful, a black velvet blanket of absolute nothing.
Quinsareth pulled the plated leather gauntlet from his right forearm and reached beneath his collar to trace the thin, jagged scar from Vesk's knife. It was tender but closed and healing quickly now, a benefit of the shadowalk's swift corridors.
The moisture in the air chilled him, driven by cool gusts of wind. He pulled his cloak tighter across his shoulders and surveyed his surroundings. He spotted the crude stone walls of the small town before him, noting the closed gates though it was barely sunset, or seemed so from the faint light illuminating the heavy clouds overhead. A signpost identified the town ahead as Logfell. A raven perching on the sign eyed him suspiciously, its wings raised.
Quinsareth replaced his gauntlet as he studied the town, something alarming him, triggering the abstract senses of his celestial blood and stirring the restless darkness in the pit of his stomach. He absently patted the scabbard of the slumbering Bedlam at his side. Although not truly asleep, the blade's magic lay inert and silent, allowing him a measure of stealth as he approached the gates.
The raven leaped into flight, flapping quickly against the wind and disappearing over the wall. No smoke curled from the chimneys beyond the low stone wall-a strange detail in a region where autumn was brief and winters brought more rain than snow or ice. In the early chill of the current season, Quinsareth expected warm fireplaces among those unaccustomed to such cold winds.
Standing before the wide gates, their surfaces eroded by years of exposure to the Lake of Steam's briny moisture, he could smell the familiar stench of death. Its aroma barely touched the air, but it confirmed his growing suspicions. As he laid his hand upon the wood, a hundred scenarios played through his mind, none of them worrisome. He had no expectation of a warm reception, or even of a peaceful street scene painted with curious onlookers. Those of his ilk rarely arrived in time to wield blade and will against injustice before harm was done. Like a scavenger to carrion, the ghostwalker came to balance the scales.
Quin banished all thought of what might be, emptying his mind to be filled with what would be. He had no liking for practiced swordplay-patterned strokes and thrusts could be too easily read and countered. Entering the unknown-this seemingly abandoned town, for example-with scripted preconceptions could be just as dangerous. He leaned into the gate, swinging it open slowly. The first stone in this Fate Fall was Chance. The next, he expected, would be Mystery.
His eyes darted left and right, searching for any movement, but nothing awaited him. He found only an empty street and several rats scurrying for cover. Tiny dervishes of dust skipped across the avenue, disappearing between houses.
He walked slowly, watching the open windows and doors of the stone and wood cottages, looking for the tips of arrows or the flash of readied blades. Or perhaps the frightened faces of hidden villagers waiting to learn the intentions of this silent stranger. No one met his shaded gaze. All seemed abandoned and overrun with rats and birds, no doubt feuding over forgotten crusts of bread. He heard the flutter of wings echo down the otherwise quiet street.
Quinsareth contemplated the vacant town. Unlike fellow aasimar he'd met in his travels, he enjoyed his isolation, and did not brood over the loneliness of such an existence. He typically saw only the