Crypt of the shadowking - Mark Anthony [3]
The guard nodded wordlessly, and Caledan touched his heels to Mista's flanks, slipping the sharp dagger back into its sheath in his boot. The horse walked forward, and as she passed the guard she bared her big teeth, nipping his shoulder. The fellow cried out in pain and stumbled backward. The other guard took a hesitant step forward, unsure whether to draw his sword or not.
"I wouldn't recommend it," Caledan advised cheerfully.
"Milord!" the guard said in a quavering voice, apparently deciding he was safer with his blade firmly sheathed. Caledan passed through the arched portal and into the dim, torch-lined streets of the city.
'That was hardly necessary, you know, Mista," he told his mount. "That fellow wasn't much of an opponent."
The horse nickered defiantly.
"I know," Caledan said with a grin. "I enjoyed it, too." He frowned then. What in Milil's name were guards doing bothering travelers at the gates of the city? Iriaebor had always been a free and open place in the days when Caledan had dwelt here. Merchants and wayfarers came at all hours of the day and night. There had never been any need for guards.
"Perhaps there have been more bandits on the road of late," Caledan said aloud, and Mista snorted softly as if to question this.
“True. Those two were hardly the sort I would want to depend on to keep me safe from marauders. If you're going to go to all the bother of putting guards at the gate, why use a pair of buffoons?"
But Caledan was weary, and his throat was in sore need of a mug of ale. He resolved to think about it later.
Horse and rider made their way through the open avenues of the New City. Before them, in the city's center, loomed a high, rocky hill. The Tor, which was perhaps a half-league long, rose a full three hundred feet above the rest of Iriaebor, and Caledan could see the lights of the Old City flickering like golden stars in the darkness above him. Over the years, space on the narrow hilltop had been at a premium. Within a hundred years of the city's founding, the only direction left in which to build upon the Tor was I up. The result, after several centuries, was a profusion of tall, spindly towers stretching toward the sky, bound together with countless bridges that arched precariously between them like so many spiderwebs.
Caledan guided the gray mare to the narrow road that wound back and forth up the steep southern face of the Tor. The presence of guards at the city's gates still nagged at him, but that wasn't the only thing that seemed different about the city. The torches that guttered in the air along the streets were few and far between, casting more shadows than light. The streets themselves were grimy and littered with trash, and foul-smelling water flowed darkly in the gutters, pooling into black, stagnant puddles in the middle of every intersection.
Yet even more disturbing was the city's silence. The streets were empty of all but a few individuals, and these walked quickly past Caledan, their eyes cast down toward the dirty cobbles as if they were in a hurry to be inside, though the sun was no more than an hour set. When Caledan had last visited Iriaebor, the bustling trade city's torch-lined streets had been nearly as full at midnight as they were at midday, crowded with merchants and jongleurs, nobles and thieves. But these dark and sullen streets seemed to have little to do with the cheerful, brightly lit avenues he remembered. Of course, it had been seven years since he left, and he supposed his memories might have become overly fond. Still, he couldn't shake the growing impression that something was amiss.
As Mista steadily ascended the narrow road into the Old City, the tall towers closed over the streets so that riding through them was like riding through a tunnel. They passed an ill-kept tavern, the ruddy light of its fire spilling out of its doorway like blood onto the street. The sound of raucous laughter drifted out with the light, but it was a sinister rather than