He was tall, just a bit taller than Tristan, yet also quite thin—almost emaciated. His face was long, narrow, and angular, his leanness showing up in the gray hollowness of his cheeks and the sallow, almost sunken eyes. His aquiline nose ended just above a fairly small mouth, and his eyes were dark and piercing, their gaze missing nothing. Long, dark hair reached almost to his sharp jawline. His broad shoulders and narrow hips moved quickly and gracefully, almost like a dancer.
Looking closer, Geldon could see that the man was holding something under his left arm. A roll of papers, perhaps. His clothes were mostly of dark brown leather, and his high, black boots had silver riding spurs attached to the heels. A long dagger in a black sheath was fastened low on his belt at the man’s left hip, a tie-down strap holding it to his thigh. But what caught Geldon’s nervous attention was the man’s right arm.
The right sleeve of the man’s leather shirt was rolled up to the biceps. Strapped to the top of his right forearm was a miniature crossbow, the likes of which Geldon had never seen. Its general shape and construction at first seemed fairly basic. But on closer examination it could be seen that instead of carrying a single arrow, this one carried five. They were arranged on a circular wheel, attached between the bow and the string. The bow was cocked, with an arrow notched in it and ready to fly. The width of the cocked bow was not more than that of the man’s forearm. Beneath and behind the bow ran a series of several tiny, interlocking gears. Geldon was at first stymied to understand why, until he deduced that after one arrow was shot, the gears could apparently automatically cock the bow, notching another one. It seemed quite possible that the man could literally loose one arrow after another until all five were gone. The entire affair took up so little space that if the man had been wearing his sleeves down, one would hardly notice the difference. And then the dwarf noticed something else strange.
The tips of each of the five miniature arrows were stained with yellow. Geldon turned back to Rock with a questioning expression.
“Scrounge,” Rock answered quietly. “The most accomplished assassin in all of Eutracia. It is said that he works for only one benefactor, but no one seems to know who that is. Nonetheless you should not cross him, for he also kills for pleasure. The death of a hunchbacked dwarf would mean nothing to him.”
The one called Scrounge walked up to the bar and arrogantly stood up on one of the chairs, then walked back and forth on the top of the bar itself, his spurs jangling lightly. He kicked off many of the liquor bottles and glasses in his way, including Geldon’s ale tankard. Smiling, he watched them explode on the tavern floor in broken splatters of liquor and glass. He looked down at the dwarf for a moment, and Geldon’s heart missed a beat.
But Scrounge simply smirked at him, then lifted his face to the waiting crowd. The room was as silent as death.
“Good,” he began in a loud voice. “I can see that I have your attention. Therefore I shall be brief. My benefactor has been gracious enough to ask me to come to you today with a proposition that I believe shall interest you all. It seems he has proof that a very dangerous criminal has returned to the land. My employer has offered a substantial reward for this man’s capture. Dead or alive. Actually, my benefactor would prefer him taken alive. But to my mind, dead is just as good.” He smiled, revealing several yellow, decaying teeth.
“The reward for this man is to be immediately paid in kisa. Let there be no mistake. The reward is high—the highest ever seen in the history of our nation.” He paused to allow the tension in the room to build. “The price for the head of this criminal is one hundred thousand gold kisa.”
The silence in the room was shattered by high-pitched, almost hysterical cries of delight and some loud applause. In a moment, feet were stamping the floor, and fists pounding the tabletops. Ale tankards and wineglasses jumped with the commotion, spilling their contents. Scrounge politely waited for the din to subside before continuing.
One hundred thousand kisa, Geldon thought, stunned. He had not been in Eutracia long, but he certainly knew enough to understand that such a sum amounted to more than most of these people could earn in fifty lifetimes. He turned back to watch Scrounge.
The assassin took the roll of paper from beneath his left arm and began to unfurl it, smiling. “And now for the identity of this man,” he said. He unrolled the first of the posters and held it before the crowd. Geldon’s blood froze. The crowd fell silent.
The likeness on the poster was that of Tristan of the House of Galland, prince of Eutracia, and there were words in large, dark print beneath it.
Wanted Dead or Alive
for the Murder of the King, Nicholas the First!
One Hundred Thousand Kisa reward, Paid in Gold!
Geldon simply sat there, staring at the awful thing. The prince, the one so instrumental in not only saving his nation but also the entire world as they knew it, was now a common criminal.
No, he suddenly thought. Not common at all. This is a king’s ransom. And no one in the nation knows he is innocent except for the few of us living in the Redoubt.
Scrounge walked back and forth along the wet bar top, making sure that everyone could get a good look at the poster.
“Harbor no illusions as to the guilt of this man, this onetime member of the royal house,” he shouted. “His crime, that of taking the head of his very own father, was witnessed by hundreds of our good citizens on the very day of his coronation. It cannot be disputed. For this my patron has decided he must be brought to justice, and swiftly.” He looked out over the crowd as he continued to hold up the awful warrant. “These are about to be posted in every corner of the kingdom. As citizens, it is your duty to bring the prince in. The fee will be paid promptly upon proof that the man brought to us is indeed Tristan, prince of Eutracia.”
He unfurled the remaining posters in his arms, throwing them among the crowd. The frantic spectators began to push and shove, reaching for them. Some brief scuffles broke out, and upon seeing them Scrounge smiled widely.
“Good!” he shouted. “It is heartening to see your level of enthusiasm! Bring him to us, and you shall be rich beyond your wildest dreams!”
Geldon lowered his head, imagining the effect of these awful posters. At last he looked up and, pretending to be a part of the enthusiastic crowd, took a poster off the bar. Carefully folding it, he placed it inside his shirt.
This changes everything, he realized.
All around him, people were hungrily reading the posters and taking in the likeness of the prince. Then, from the back of the room, a man came slowly forward to stand along the wall to Scrounge’s right. His beard and hair were shot through with gray, and he had a tall, mature bearing. Ex-military, Geldon thought. The newcomer stood there glaring at the assassin as if he didn’t care what Scrounge thought of him. A Eutracian broadsword identical to those once used by the Royal Guard hung low on his left hip. He folded his arms across his chest in a clear posture of challenge, and Geldon could see that the look in his eyes was one of hate.
This cannot end well, Geldon thought.
In the relative quiet of the great room, the man suddenly drew his sword from its scabbard, the blade making a defiant, unmistakable ring through the air. Scrounge immediately turned toward the source of the sound, for the first time illustrating just how quickly his reflexes could take hold. His eyes locked upon the man brandishing the sword as its blade reflected off the oil lamps.
“You’re a liar, and a filthy one at that,” the man said almost quietly, the words dripping like venom from his mouth.