• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

My glance found the stairs and followed them to the second floor. A balcony and railing circled that floor but I saw no one there. I nodded to the bartender, who poured a pewter mug full of ale and passed it to me. I took a sip as I turned toward the larger part of the room.

“I’m looking for my brother,” I said. “He was supposed to meet me here at the tenth dhaur.” At noon, my mind translated.

“You are Ruenn Maclang?” a voice asked.

I glanced toward the speaker, not letting myself forget the corners of my eyes and the others who watched. The being who rose and faced me was too large for the chair that had seated him—nearly seven feet in height. He was of that race called the Nokarra, who are superb warriors, who are cat-like in appearance and grace. His eyes had a strange crimson sheen, though primarily they were blue, unlike most of his race who have gold or green eyes—or both. His fur was short and bristly and almost black. That color, too, was unusual. He smelled like cloves.

The haft of an axe protruded over the Nokarran’s shoulder, and he wore twin short swords scabbarded behind a thick black belt that held up russet leathers. The Nokarra are humanoid—two arms, two legs, two eyes. The fur of this one’s chest was partially shaved and bore an inked symbol consisting of a solid sphere inside another circle, with lighting bolts connecting the two at six separate points. Something about the symbol struck me as familiar, but now was not the time to worry over it.

“Aye,” I said, in answer to the Nokarran’s question. “I am Ruenn Maclang. Who are you?”

“Your master,” he replied, drawing the axe over his shoulder and seating it firmly in both massive fists.

“Perhaps,” I said, shrugging. I made no move to reach for my own blade. My left hand was filled with a mug of ale; my right still held the lance. Its tip pointed at the floor.

The Nokarran did not even glance at the other five occupants of the tables. By that I knew them all for his allies. I took a swig of ale, half felt and half saw a shifting of bodies to either side of the Nokarran. My muscles tensed and from the corner of an eye I glimpsed something that flashed toward me. I batted the wheel-dagger aside with my mug, sending the weapon spinning and clanging away in a spray of bitter ale. From the balcony above, there leaped a blurred streak of light that materialized as an arrow through the chest of the knife thrower. He went back and down, dragging a chair with him.

The Nokarran glanced up, wildly, looking for the archer. The other four assassins were on their feet as well, but held for an instant by the threat of feathered death. I silently thanked Valyan for his aim as I tossed the warped mug aside and drew my sword left handed. Two of the remaining assassins were human, one was an outlaw Klar, the fourth a burn scarred Ss’Korra.

The Ss’Korra leaped toward me, shouting: “Kill you, human!”

I put my lance through him with a savage cast and he vomited blood as he fell backward. Then I switched hands with the saber and attacked, charging the Nokarran, who I judged the most dangerous of the bunch.

The axe-wielder swung his weapon desperately to keep me off, his timing thrown by Valyan’s unexpected presence. I dodged, not blocking with my sword. His axe was of the type sometimes called blade-breaker, with twin, crescent-moon heads of polished steel that curved and hooked viciously toward the haft. I slashed at him above his guard and cut one cheek to the bone, but missed the eye as he hurled himself backward, agile as a lynx.

Outside the tavern there was commotion. I heard running feet. And six men burst through the door into the room, weapons drawn, eyes on fire with the threat of violence. They were looking for me, and that meant at least twelve killers had been used to set this trap. Probably more. I didn’t know how many heads Valyan had taken when he’d secured the second floor.

Another arrow flashed from the balcony and one newcomer went down kicking. I heard someone