Trail of Darkness

by Darlene D. Bolesny

© 1996 Darlene Bolesny

ISBN: 0-7869-0517-4, Publisher: TSR, Inc. (US), TSR, Ltd. (UK)

[The following text is a passage from the novel Trail of Darkness. This text is copyright 1996 by Darlene D. Bolesny. All rights reserved. No part of this book or passage may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.]

Note: It's rather frustrating, but some browsers do not support "spacers" (i.e., tabs). Thus, I have had to insert a blank line between each paragraph. Please accept my apologies for this deviation from normal text.

Chapter One

'At least I found something.' Morticai tucked the papers into his pack and took one last glance around the moonlit study. Traditionalist paintings adorned the richly paneled walls. The expensive furniture was cluttered with books and maps. A hawking hood, leash and jesse lay scattered across the desk. Everything was where it had been before he entered.

He moved to the narrow window where, as always, the night view of Watchaven gave him pause. He allowed himself a moment to savor it before glancing to the ground, twenty- five feet below. The still courtyard was cloaked in deep shadows from the interplay of the two moons.

Muffled sounds from the servants' party could still be heard coming from the manor house, but they had changed from bawdy tavern songs to quiet murmurings. It was a good sign that the servants had discovered their drinking limits.

'Ah, Lord Aldwin. If you only knew how your faithful servants celebrated your travels.'

Lowering his rope, Morticai began his descent. Within moments, he lightly touched down.

"Hey!" The shout erupted from the dark recesses of the coach house.

Morticai spun, his right arm still entwined in the ropes, a throwing knife in his left hand. He saw the blow coming, too late -- the wracking blow landed solidly on his right shoulder -- but his knife flew sure, making certain the swift opponent would land no more. He drew his fighting dagger and held it, ready, in his left hand.

The night air was ripped with shrieks; Morticai ignored the naked women who fled from the coach house, clutching their maid's uniforms in front of them.

The well muscled human who held his attention crouched low, ignoring his fallen friend with the dagger in his throat. Morticai remembered having seen the huge arms before.

'Wonderful, of all the people to interrupt, I have to pick Aldwin's blacksmith.'

They couldn't have been more mismatched. Morticai was full corryn, but was short for his race, standing only as tall as the average human. Nonetheless, his slight build, gently upswept ears and boyish face were undeniably corryn. The blacksmith easily outweighed him by a hundred pounds.

The blacksmith held a dagger in his right hand; grinning wickedly, he beckoned Morticai to come closer with his left. Remaining on guard, Morticai gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and smiled back.

The man's grin faded. He charged, lunging with his blade toward Morticai's midsection. Morticai jumped to the left, grabbing the man's knife arm and pulling him head first into the wall. The hit was solid; Morticai allowed himself to keep spinning -- the courtyard wall wouldn't be far. His timing couldn't have been worse.

He was hit full speed, the tackle driving him back and down, his head and upper back slamming against the tower's wall.

'No!' Morticai's senses reeled as he fought to remain conscious. The dagger slipped from his fingers to land silently among the crushed flowers. He could smell wine, heavy on his new assailant's breath.

The buzzing began to subside. This human was drunker than the others had been; he wasn't beating him, wasn't throttling him. The drunk seemed content to hold him, pinned with his crushing weight. Perhaps he wanted him alive....

The fear of capture filled Morticai's mind. He had grown up an orphan in the streets of this human city -- the instinct to run was one of survival. His senses wrenched back to reality, his knee came up, driven by the terror that enveloped him.

The man howled in agony and rolled away. Morticai dashed for the gate, abandoning his rope and daggers. As he swung over it, he lost his balance and fell to the cobbled street, his low slung pack taking most of the impact. Waves of dizziness washed over him, and again, he fought unconsciousness. But others were running into the courtyard now, their cries of alarm spurring Morticai onward.

Morticai gained his feet and ran as he hadn't run in years -- as though the Watch were after him, or the slavers, or the Droken. When he stopped, he was far from Aldwin's tower, deep within the tangle of narrow alleys which lay behind the Bazaar. He looked behind him, but there appeared to be no pursuit. Walking slowly, he tried to slow his heartbeat. Unsuccessful, he at last leaned against a wall, panting and shaky.

A ragged peddler smoothly crossed the alley and passed him with a cautious glance. A little further on, a drunk moaned in his sleep. Rats skittered a few feet away, hunting for their evening meal. Nauseated and dizzy, Morticai sank down into a sitting position. He wasn't certain how badly he was hurt, but he knew it was worse than he'd first thought.

'Gods, you've done it now.' Perhaps if he closed his eyes, for just a moment, until his head stopped spinning. . . .

*****

He awoke with a start, his left hand flying to the token of Glawres which hung around his neck. The alley was deserted, the shadows from the moons showing that much of the night had passed. His head pounded and his shoulder throbbed, but it was not his physical condition, or even the earlier events of the night, which caused him to shake.

There were demons, called jevano, which preyed in the darkness. It was whispered that they were made by the Droken to prey upon the enemies of their evil god, Droka. Jevano could take corryn or human form, male or female, in order to hunt their prey. They sapped the souls of those upon whom they fed, claiming the soul; then it was said that they could assume the form of the victim.

As a child, Morticai had sat frozen with fear as the older children told such tales. Later, he would chide himself for allowing them to frighten him. Then came a night when he had huddled in a barrel, listening to the cries of a friend who had been sleeping in a doorway a few feet away. Morticai had peeked over the edge of the barrel to see his first jevano and the death of his friend. The jevano had never even known he was there.

Whether or not a jevano had passed him on this night Morticai did not know, but he thanked his patron Levani, Glawres, that the patron's token had fallen outside his shirt. Perhaps it had protected him.

Inhaling sharply, he forced himself to start moving. He knew there would be trouble when he reached his barracks at Northgate. Already, Morticai suspected that he'd be unable to make his patrol. He gained his feet and leaned heavily against the alley's wall, waiting for his head to stop spinning.

He began moving, with one hand on the wall to steady himself. His better clothes were stashed a few miles away.

If you have enjoyed this excerpt, I hope that you will look for Trail of Darkness online or in your local bookstore.

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