Shade resisted the overwhelming urge to scratch. He only used this tactic as a last resort. The cream would only protect him from cursory glances. It looked, well, odd. He tucked the cream away and pulled his cloak over his head. He peered back around the stone. The fog had thickened once again and he couldn’t even see past the bridge. He’d better go now. He could use the fog for cover and slip into the crowds before anyone noticed.
The assassin turned the corner and headed straight for the bridge. He stepped carefully onto the slippery mossed rubble. He walked hunched over, too low for the barrel-barges to see him. He froze halfway down the bridge. The left stone railing had completely crumbled away. It would leave him exposed for a good thirty feet. He could hear more Valsharen talking and barrels banging noisily against the wooden docks of the Barrel Dam. He knew the Barrel Dam couldn’t be but another thirty paces downriver. He could hear the clumps of barrels banging noisily together.
Shade peaked over the rail. Just before the river delta stood a clunky post and beam structure the Valsharen called the Barrel Dam. Barrels clinked and clanked against wood grates through which the river continued on its course. Over forty Valsharen leaned over log railings and used their lengthy spears to guide the barrels into wide-toothed waterwheels which took them topside. Thirty more riverfolk, including teenage boys, worked tirelessly at taking the endless stream of barrels off the waterlogged assembly line.
The assassin hoped he could slip past the crumbled railing unnoticed. After all, barrelrunning was wet hard, tumultuous work. The riverfolk looked too engrossed in their labor to pay him much notice and they looked behind. The bored Valsharen boatmen waiting in line would provide a far greater danger, but if he moved quickly enough the fog could conceal his movements.
Shade broke cover and walked casually across the break. He did not try and move stealthily this time. Better to appear casual without adequate cover. He had to skip around loose rubble and collapsed holes in the bridge. He kept his eyes on the Barrel Dam. He listened hard to his surroundings. No one seemed to pay him any attention. He was nearly across the river when he picked up on a conversation.
“Would you stop staring across the river, Son?” a gruff middle-aged Valsharen man said, “If your mother knew I let you stare into that godforsaken land all day she’d have my hide.”
Shade nearly froze. His bones iced over, but he forced one leg in front of the other. He could not stop now. He was too far out in the open. He grimaced and pressed forward listening. He glanced hastily over at the Barrel Dam. He looked left and right, but could see no one looking his direction. It irked him that he couldn’t quite place the conversation. The river was so loud and the murmur of the crowds drowned out everything else.
“But I want to see if someone passes through the Ruins of Garrlohan, Father,” a scratchy voiced teenager argued back.
“You’re wasting your breath. No living thing passes through the ruins, Son.”
Shade broke through the fog. He saw the boy and his father at the dock right next to the bridge. Worse the boy saw him.
The dimpled youth’s eyes shot open. He grinned brashly and jabbed a finger in the assassin’s direction. “But what about him?”
The hooded Valsharen father lifted his spear out of the water, looked up and stammered, “What?” He stared momentarily stunned at the approaching stranger. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as if he was hallucinating.
Shade kept walking. It would look too awkward to stop now and he had nowhere to hide. His heart drummed loudly in his ears. His fingers closed over his blades. He might be forced to kill them, but that would not make for quiet work in this mob. He would not get far. Their dock alone had five other adult Valsharen working the waters and the crowds of impatient people laid mere steps beyond. He did not see any Doljinaarian guards yet, but shouts could carry far too quickly.
The boy dropped his spear. He ran down the bridge to meet the assassin.
“Get back here, Darmul!” the boy’s father ordered. He flipped his spear around and raised it to throwing level. He stammered after his son, still skillfully holding onto his spear, but clearly aggravated at his willful boy. The other Valsharen raised their heads and took notice of Shade too. They too raised their own spears.
“I’m going to ask him how he crossed the ruins, Father,” the boy said, still running gleefully up to the coldblooded killer.
“Oh, no you don’t!” the Valsharen father said. He grabbed Darmul by the collar. “Get over here! Something’s not right about that man.”
Darmul struggled under his father’s grip, but then surrendered. He stared curiously at the hooded stranger as the Dark Elf stalked near. His bright youthful eyes attempted to pierce the darkest shadow under the assassin’s gloomy hood. The boy smiled gaily at him.
“I think he’s an Elf, Father. His skin looks funny.”
Darmul’s father held his son behind him with his offhand. “Quiet, Boy!” He tightened his grip around his spear.
Shade squeezed his own dagger hilt, but noticed all the Valsharen stiffening because they could not see his hands. He thought better of the situation. He exhaled deeply and let his daggers slide from his eager touch. He spread out his hands before him. “I mean you no harm, Riverkeepers.”
“Who are you?” Darmul asked.
“Just a shadow lost in the sunlight,” Shade said smoothly, “harmless and just as soon forgotten if you permit me to go on my merry way.”
Darmul’s father asked, “And what if we don’t permit you to pass?”
“Then I am the face of your darkest nightmares,” Shade said icily, his breath as cold as a tomb, “for who else walks the Ruins of Garrlohan but the dead?”
The Valsharen froze, trembling.
Darmul peeked out from behind his father whose face had turned a pale ghost white. The boy smiled as if it were a game.
Shade grinned back and winked back at Darmul. He brushed past the boy and his father. He continued off the bridge past the other Valsharen who let him pass. He melted into the crowd until they could see him no more.
“Who was that Elf, Father?” he heard Darmul ask.
His father stared off into the crowd. “I don’t want to know.”
Shade pulled a scarf across his face. He kept his hood pulled low, but all he saw were eyes, eyes everywhere. Bored lines of travelers waiting on goods, curious children, overly-protective mothers and all around nosy people tried for a peak under his hood. He feared crowds worse than the undead. Not even an assassin of his caliber would stand a chance against a lynch mob. He could be hanging from a rope in a matter of minutes. His eyes searched nervously for Doljinaarian guards. He could see their blue crests moving among the crowds. He passed several pairs, but they were already bogged down settling squabbles among other travelers.
Shade hurried forward. He left the barrel lines behind and joined the droves of travelers heading up road to Kurn. He walked alongside commoners on foot and horseback. Many servants and slaves shouldered the goods of rich merchants and the Shamites were even born on litters. The Dark Elf put the wagons, carts and chariots, creaking slowly through the traffic, at his flank to provide additional cover from nosy onlookers. He carefully stepped around the dung of horses, mules and oxen.
The Dark Elf saw faces of every size, shape and color. He laid eyes on a member of every known human race. The majority were Doljinns, Shamites, Durnishmen and Valsharen. He saw a surprising number of Terramothians, who wore their knowledge of Kurn’s corruption most publically on their faces, scowling at the city and shuffling northward out of basic human necessity. Shade rubbed so many shoulders he lost count. People of all kinds continued to eye him with suspicion. Parents hurried their staring children past him.