Realms of Valor - James Lowder [64]
under my elbow to help me up. I stand a little unsteadily, still disoriented by my sudden appearance in front of the temple. “Yes and no, Foxe. I think-” I roll a few gems in my hand, trying to guess how many books they might purchase. “I think there is business to attend to here before I do anything. And after that.... Have I ever told you how much I should like to visit Waterdeep?” We slowly climb the temple steps. “I could use a good secretary, if I make such a trek. You don't know where I might find one, do you?” A Virtue By Reflection Scott Ciencin Penn Othmann couldn't explain why he felt so nervous as he closed up his small, exclusive shop. The day had been uneventful, and, following his usual routine, he had worked well into the evening cataloguing antiques. Yet as Othmann was about to pull the door shut behind him, lock it, and speak the word that would have engaged the shop's magical wards, a terrible fit of anxiety overtook him. He wanted to go back inside and hide. That would be childish, he told himself. There's nothing to fear from the night in a civilized city like Arabel. Nothing at all. Then the figure leaped out of the shadows. Othmann felt an explosion of pain in his upper arm, and he cried out. He had been stabbed. Futilely he wished he had trusted his instincts, but it was too late to chide himself. Survival was all that mattered now. Before Penn Othmann could make another sound, his mouth was covered by his assailant's hand. Othmann was forced back with incredible ferocity, his head slamming into the wall. A burst of pure white light filled his vision. His attacker gripped his arm and spoke into Othmann's ear in a low voice. “Run. If you scream, I'll gut you.” The merchant desperately wanted to tell the dark, misshapen figure that he was a wealthy man, that he could pay any price for his life, but the tone of that threat told him such pleading would gain him nothing. Instead, Penn Othmann ran, just as he had been told. He raced through the darkened streets of the city, darted into alleyways, leaped over gates, and plunged down deserted avenues. The flaxen-haired merchant prayed his heart wouldn't give out. He wanted to stop, to catch his breath and rest, but his pursuer was never less than a few paces behind. The physical regimen he had endured as training for the city's weekly footraces had kept his body hard and lean, but the cold night air bit deeply into the bloody wound in his arm. Othmann's proud, handsome features were screwed up in pain and exertion. His sky-blue eyes were fixed on the continuous maze before him. He wasn't aware that he was being driven along a chosen path, toward a particular destination, until he turned a corner and saw a dark green wall of foliage ahead. A nightmare-black gap was carved into the shrub wall, a dark archway that served as entrance to the beautiful gardens of the Citadel. Two guards