The ball was far more elegant when the decorations were complete. Nobles from the district and a few from nearby cities had gathered together for what would surely be a night to remember. Treasures from far away lands dotted tables around the central dance floor, gold and silver streamers drifting in the light breeze that kept the room cool. Tables ladened with hors d'oeuvres and fancy wine were dotted around the outskirts of the terrace and the foyer outside the ballroom.
Zandar milled about, Tootsie in hand, chatting lightly with Bartle, who naturally arrived late and sparkling in his vibrant full plate armor, his pirate flag cloak fluttering behind him via some minor enchantment. Morrigan wore a long green silk dress with a slit that ran up to her thigh, accentuated with living vines and colorful leaves. Bartle introduced him to many of the nobles, people whose names he already knew. A few he didn't. The nobility of Sartak City was as varied as its people. Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Satyrs, a rather large family of the rabbit folk Leapi, several halflings, and three rather stuffy Mau families. All but the Mau insisted on giving Tootsie a pat here or a scratch there. The Mau thought her distasteful, but were polite nonetheless.
Zandar recognized Malakia immediately, and maneuvered Bartle and Morrigan to intercept, handing Tootsie to Morrigan as they walked. She was wearing an elegant green dress with silver trim and was wearing two large rings on each hand, each bearing a different color gemstone.
Bartle wasn't one to go unintroduced. "May I say that dress is spectacular! My name is Bartle Shipwright. This is my lovely wife Morrigan and this is my cousin Zandar."
"Gwenivere Maltarid." She lied as she focused her gaze on Zandar.
The music shifted to a more intimate tune. "Will you dance with me, Gwen?"
"Of course."
Zandar took Gwen's pawlike hand and led her onto the dancefloor. He pulled her close and began to move in step with the music. She followed smoothly.
"They say you're from Eleacar?" Gwen said.
"I am."
"I can't say I've ever been."
"It's beautiful like your city, though a bit smaller. How long have you been in Sartak City?"
"We came here when I was a child."
"So no memories of other places?"
"Only of travelling by sea to get here."
The music picked up speed and so did they, changing to a more fluid jig.
"I hope the auction objects are of interest to you then."
Her eyes sparkled, "Very much of interest, yes."
"Anything in particular grabbing your fancy?"
"The cloak made from the hide of dispanthers. It's simply marvelous."
"As are you, Gwen. Perhaps we can remove that from the auction list just for you." He knew she had already replaced said cloak with a fake.
"Well, aren't you sweet?"
"Have you tried the Frostbeard Ale yet?"
"I try not to drink on the job."
"You're working now?" Zandar feigned a frown, "And here I thought we were having a grand time."
She glanced around, checking on the Mau families milling about. "Oh we are! But these people aren't always as they seem."
"We rarely are."
"You fascinate me, Zandar. Why would you not sell your acquisitions in Eleacar? Why come all this way?"
Zandar laughed softly, "My cousin assured me that the nobles here would be much more interested in my items than in my origin city. It made sense. Plus he paid for the teleportation rune circle to bring me here."
She nodded, "I see. Is your wife here?"
"I never married. Bartle is my only surviving relative. The war was brutal to the Shipwrights of Eleacar."
Darkness passed quickly across her face, "You know what? I think I'll have that drink."
Zandar smiled. "I'll be right back."
"No. I'll go get them. You wait here."
Zandar nodded and Gwen stepped away from the dance floor. He picked up dancing with another noble but kept his eyes on Gwen. She reached the drink table, tapped one of her rings against the inside of one of the glasses, and brought them back to Syler. After bowing out of the dance floor they took a seat at one of the nearby ballroom tables.
Sipping the glass handed to him, he noticed it was a little too bitter. Sleeping poison. He had ten minutes before it would normally take effect.
"This is very good ale," Syler said.
"Yes it is."
"You simultaneously seem like you don't belong here but you fit in perfectly."
"I feel the very same way about you.” Gwen gently placed a hand on his forearm. “Will you walk with me?"
Zandar smiled and nodded. "Yes I will."
He spotted movement in the shadows on the outside edges of the party.
Bartle approached with Tootsie in tow.
"Gwen and I are going for a walk," Syler said as he scooped his dog from Bartle's grasp.
"Be careful out there," Bartle warned.
Syler turned to face just outside of Gwen's vision and flickered his eyes at Bartle. "With the guards out we should be fine."
Gwen shifted uncomfortably, "Don't worry, Gwen. This is Tootsie. She's harmless."
He tapped his medallion to Tootsie's nose and she dissipated in a puff of smoke the same color as her golden yellow fur. Gwen relaxed after the puff was gone. Syler yawned as they reached the outskirts of the party.
As they moved further from the lights and sounds of the party, he clocked several figures hiding in alleyways along their path who began to follow at a distance. Eventually there were eight of them.
When Syler thought about 8 minutes had passed, he began to stumble.
Gwen smiled, "You feeling okay?”
“I must've had a bit too much Frostbeard ale," he slurred his words.
She smiled, “I hope you had a good time.”
“Had? Leaving so soon?” he stumbled again.
“I'd best get back to the party.”
"We should."
"Just me, not you." She began to slip away.
"Just you?"
"For the alibi."
"Huh?" Syler allowed his limbs to go limp, collapsing forward, his face slamming hard into the cobblestone road. He didn’t react, keeping his eyes closed and remaining limp. His eye rotated behind the lid, watching as the mercenaries approached.
He felt the flutter of fabric brush his face as Malakia knelt. He felt a soft furred hand brush his cheek. “It’s really too bad. I can’t have you interfering,” she purred softly.
He heard a wagon roll up.
Malakia ran back in the direction of the party. As soon as she was out of sight, the goons drew weapons.
Syler rolled to the side as three crossbow bolts ricocheted off the cobblestone. As he stood, he summoned his bow and fired, the shadow arrow thudding into the chest of the nearest bounty hunter. There were too many of them to face alone.
So he ran, leaping onto the cart and sliding to the other side, a convenient barrier. He willed the armor wraps around his front to shift to the back, thickening the protection as he ran down the nearby alley. Several bolts struck the wagon and two hit his lower back almost simultaneously, nearly bowling him over.
Neither pierced though, so he continued heading east along the road toward the warehouses of the West Sartak Docks. He weaved through passing carts, always trying to keep something between him and the hunters.
He made sure he would be spotted darting between two large warehouses.
When the bounty hunters turned the corner, they saw no evidence of Syler's presence, so they began rummaging through the dumpsters and various other containers.
From the roof, Syler surveyed his foes. He did not see the one he had shot in the chest. Already down to seven.
The Silver Tongues were the lead group, it would seem. Two glamidae, heavily muscled llama faced folk like Sven who wielded heavy scimitars, lead the search. Three dwarves in chainmail who looked as though they may be triplets with their dark grey skin, quartz eyes, and black beards scanned the rooftops with their loaded crossbows. Two humans surveyed the alleyway from the back of the group. The nearest one stood a head taller than the other, metallic plates shifting silently as she gripped her heavy shield and shortspear. A thin human man in grey robes stood at the far back of the group, his hands held out in front, the nature rune in the left and hunting rune in the right. A small glowing line pointed in Syler’s direction.
The Unerring Location ritual.
“He’s on the roof,” the rune mage said.
“Climb!” his bodyguard yelled at the glamidae, who grabbed clawlike contraptions hanging from their belts and began climbing the wall of the warehouse. She turned to face the robed man. “They will flush-”
A black arrow flew from one of the dumpsters and struck the bodyguard’s helmet, the arrowhead sticking several inches out of the other side. The spear and shield clattered to the ground before she collapsed.
Another arrow bounced off of the magical shield the rune mage quickly threw out. The mage backed out of the alley, beginning to etch runes in the air before him.
From the shadow of one of the crossbowmen, a figure rose, black leather wraps covering his entire body, dark red horns jutting from the red skin of his forehead. Syler saw the shadowstep from the rooftop and stood, leaning over and firing two arrows of his own, narrowly missing one of the climbing glamidae and striking the other in the shoulder. They climbed on.
Daggers flashed out as the horned assassin struck the nearest dwarf in the chest, scoring a deep cut and drawing dark brown blood. He rolled sidelong, dodging the dwarven bolts as he reached the wall of the warehouse. A much smaller figure hopped out of the dumpster, similarly wrapped in black, golden blond hair pulled back into a tight bun. She fired two more arrows, striking the injured dwarf twice in the back. With a groan the dwarf fell, shifting back into the stone from whence it came.
The runecaster finished etching the runes. Death, Knowledge, Stone. A green beam flashed out at the horned assassin. He tried to dodge, but the beam struck him in the left shoulder.
His arm and part of his shoulder disintegrated into a fine gray powder. He screamed in pain and collapsed to the ground, clutching at the shoulder as his armor magically wrapped around it, stifling the bleeding.
With strong pulls of their climbing gear the glamidae leapt onto the rooftop where Syler stood, swords drawn and swinging in from the left and right. Syler clicked the rods he had drawn into place and the swords scraped harmlessly against them. He left the rods floating there and threw a shadow dagger at each of the glamidae. One moved his sword to intercept, throwing it out wide. The other tried the same, but it struck true into the warrior’s right leg.
The dwarven crossbowmen took advantage of the distraction, reloaded, and fired on the screaming assassin. He dodged away from one of the bolts into another. It bit deeply into his lower abdomen, knocking his breath from him.
With a cry of rage, the small figure dove into the dumpster’s shadow, shifted through Penumbra behind the runecaster, and drove two daggers into his back, puncturing a lung and severing the spine. With a wheeze the mage fell onto his face.
The severely injured horned assassin managed to return to his feet and growled, his eyes flaring with power. The pain he felt arced out, blasting into the chest of the nearest dwarf, leaving behind scorched lines that spurted with dark brown blood and launched him through the warehouse wall.
The roof shook slightly from the flying dwarf as Syler darted around, avoiding most of the strikes from the pursuing glamidae. These were excellent fighters, and he felt the handful of small cuts they had already landed. He tapped one of the runes etched on his forearm and pointed at the ground between them, and darkness enveloped them. The glamidae began swinging wildly, hastily backing up to try to get out of the darkness.
The comfort of familiarity washed over him as he recovered his footing in the magical darkness, summoned his shadow bow, and fired two arrows into the chest of the glamida nearest the edge of the roof, knocking him off balance to tumble off the rooftop.
The final dwarf leveled his reloaded crossbow at the horned man, but the bolt flew out wide as a glamida corpse landed on him.
The small figure rushed to the aid of the other as he collapsed to the ground. “Destin!” she cried out and caught him, helping him sit against the warehouse wall. His eyes were tight with pain, his breathing labored.
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“That rune was pretty nasty, huh?” he grunted, gripping the bolt sticking out from his abdomen.
“Shut up,” she said, reaching into her pouch and pulling out a small vial filled with slightly glowing blue liquid.
Back on the roof, the surviving glamida stumbled out of the sphere of darkness, still swinging wildly. Having recovered his sight again, and seeing the magical darkness, he realized that they may have overstepped. That Zandar was no mere noble. He began to run across to the opposite side of the roof, but an arrow struck him in the leg and he fell, landing hard.
“Not yet, friend,” Syler stepped out from the darkness, and moved to recover his floating rods. “We need to chat a bit first.” He moved gingerly, checking over the cuts along his arms and chest. The warrior moved to a sitting position and was focused on his breathing, covering his leg wound with one hand as he grabbed a medical wrap from a waist pouch.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
Syler willed his magical eye to flash brightly. “I respectfully disagree. You work for Crowley and the Silver Tongues, and you took on a job that you failed to complete. He’ll kill you if you go back empty handed.”
“Blue Eye? Crowley’s trying to get me killed.”
“Not unless you don’t tell me what I want to know.”
The glamida looked at Syler for several moments before nodding.
“Glad we’re on the same page. What is your name?”
“Llarkin Scimitar.”
“How many more groups were hired to kill me?”
“The scroll was given to every mercenary group in the Darket.”
Syler nodded, “Did the Silver Tongues get first shot?”
“No. We just got here first.”
“Why are you a member?”
“Frequent battles to prove myself and hone my skill."
“Fair enough. Now the big question. How good of a liar are you?”
Llarkin tilted his head in confusion. “Not great, but not terrible. Why?”
Syler willed a bit of his shadow armor to form a torn piece of Zandar’s armor, red with gold trim. "You need proof, right?"
"That is dishonorable. I will not lie about this."
"It's no lie. Zandar was never real, so he is neither alive nor dead. But not everyone needs to know that. You get paid and the heat on Zandar drops to zero."
Llarkin considered his words for several moments. "I've no guarantee that I won't be hunted down by you or the Agency at some later time after I turn this in."
"The only reason I would hunt you down in the future is if you cross me or the Guild. And I know you aren’t stupid. The money you will be paid likely came from me anyway.”
Llarkin nodded, “I accept your terms.” He grabbed the piece of shadow leather and gingerly got to his feet.
Syler pulled the arrow that had pinned Llarkin to the roof. “Should heal normally. I didn’t shatter any bones.. Fight with skill, Llarkin.”
“Die with honor, Blue Eye.” Llarkin didn’t seem surprised that Syler knew the Glamida honorific.
Syler landed softly back in the alley shortly thereafter, rolling to soften the blow. Destin sat with his back against the wall, eyes closed and breathing softly. His wounds were being tended by the other. “Are you okay, Winny?”
The golden-haired halfling assassin didn’t turn or stop dressing the wounds. “Heard you were back in, had to see it for ourselves. Weren’t expecting this.”
“I’m glad you showed up when you did. Sped up the work.”
“I’m not,” Destin whispered, “that damned mage took my arm.”
“Go to the Circle. They can grow that back for you. They’ll need two healing potions and enough draka to complete the Regeneration ritual.”
Winny moved to stand before Syler, “Speaking of, sorry to hear about Cara.” Syler gave an appreciative nod. “As soon as we heard we tried to find out who did it, but it came from above our clearance.”
“Thank you for trying.”
“Will you join us to the Circle?”
“No. I’m working. I have a wagon you can use if you don’t mind dropping me off somewhere first.”
Destin grunted as Winny helped him stand, limping toward the road, “That would be great.”
----------------------------------------
After he was covered in the wagon, Syler shifted just enough to peak out. It would be several minutes before they arrived at the Scattered Blood Bar. He reached into his extradimensional bag and pulled out one of his stationary rods. He set it on his chest and focused. The armor wrapped around and secured the rod, leaving only the button on the end exposed.
Winny slapped the side of the wagon twice as they slowed and Syler rolled out, landing on his feet near the back alley of the pub. He dipped into the shadows and drew out a handful of green draka, slipping them into a small pouch and tucking it away.
The Scattered Blood Bar, true to its name, was constructed of wood from the Lyrah Forest to the north, where the Circle dwelt. The wood was speckled with fresh dark reds and old deep browns. Tables and chairs surrounded a pit used to solve petty disputes and to entertain the people of the Stacks. It promised a meal at the least for anyone willing to fight. The pit was busy every night.
Cheers erupted from the crowd as a heavy blow was struck. Syler slipped in unnoticed and slid into a booth across from a patron holding a mug in one hand and his reed pipe in the other, playing along with the bands’ aggressive accompaniment.
“Ryn.”
The satyr set the mug down and held up a finger, continuing to play his pipe, the tempo increasing as the fight reached its crescendo. With a loud cheer one of the combatants was finally down.
“You’re late.”
“Had to tie up a few loose ends.”
“You look like shit.”
“Some ends don’t like being tied.”
Ryn smirked, “No doubt.”
“Were you successful?”
“Of course. You have it?”
Syler set the small pouch of draka onto the table, wrapping his hand around it to mostly conceal the coin.
“Left from the front doors. Three blocks down, grate in the right hand alleyway. Left from the ladder to the intersection. Press the fourth plate rivet up from the ground. Panel opens into a small tunnel that will lead to the garage.”
Syler slid the bag into Ryn’s hand with a handshake, accepting the small map in the same shake. “Go see Bartle Shipwright in the Noble district. Tell him Blue Eye sent you. He knows the right people."
Ryn looked down and gripped the bag tightly. "Thank you for this." When he looked back up Syler was gone.
Several minutes later Syler silently slid open the secret door into the underground garage. Two guards walked around the area, checking for unwanted guests.
Two arrows flew from behind one of the carts, both striking the orc in the chest. She howled and fell backward, landing hard on the ground. The other person, a similarly heavily muscled human, drew a sword and charged at Syler.
The button made the rod stick in the air as it intercepted the swing. Sparks flashed and the guard balked at what should have been a clean swipe. Syler left the rod behind as he pushed himself away from the cart. The orc was standing by the time the other guard regained his composure. Shadow daggers flew, striking the orc in the chest and leg.
With eyes aglow with rage, she kept coming, faster than Syler thought possible. With a shove he found himself slammed against the wall, arms pinned to his side. The air left his lungs as he struggled against the orc.
“What will you do now, puny one?” the orc growled as she slammed her face into Syler’s.
Blood flowed freely from his nose as he responded, “Hang on tight.” His eye flared bright blue, surprise loosening the orc’s grip slightly. Syler reached up to touch the guard’s arm, and shifted into Penumbra, willing a bit of his innate shadow magic to grant her sight in the realm of shadows.
Shades of grey and black encompassed the realm around them. Distant figures of shadow shifted around, disappearing and reappearing several feet from their origin. The orc guard released Syler, her jaw slack and eyes wide.
“What is this place?”
“Penumbra,” Syler saw no point in lying.
Beads of sweat across her brow, the orc’s rage melted away into fear, “It’s real?!”
The shadow figures seemed to hear her shout and began rushing forward, closing the distance.
“Of course it is.”
“Take me back!” The shadows drew close enough to see more of their form. Humanoid figures wrapped in flowing shadows. Taut skin over angular bone. Dull grey eyes. Sharp, bony fingers.
Syler grabbed her arm and shifted back right as the nearest shadow figure reached out to touch the orc, its hand plunging into her head. She collapsed to the ground, tears running down her cheeks and moisture down the front of her pants, her eyes catatonic and her mouth open in a silent scream. The other guard, having seen them disappear and reappear a few moments later, hesitated.
“My soul,” the orc muttered, drawing her legs up to her chin and beginning to rock back and forth. “Penumbra is real! The shades! My soul!”
Not knowing what had happened to her, the other guard charged and swung at Syler, shifting the direction of the swing as Syler dove to the side.
Click!
The sword arc struck nothing as Syler stopped in mid air. The rod secured in his armor holding him aloft.
Two shadow daggers flashed out. One struck the wrist, the guard dropping his sword as the strength left his hand.
The other thrust into the guard’s left side, angled slightly upward to pierce a lung. The guard collapsed in a wheezing pile. Syler pressed the button on the rod again and crouched next to the dying guard.
After giving them both a quick end and hiding the bodies, Syler crept to the door leading further into Malakia’s base of operations. He hoped Ryn’s information was good. Her base was a long abandoned section of the sewer she had paid to have magically hidden away and sealed from entry by anyone without the wand, but the construction crew secreted in the tunnel for a quick egress.
A hallway ten feet across and a hundred feet long led away from the doorway, with three doors on the left and two on the right, spaced alternately throughout, the end closed off with a brick wall. He noticed that some of the art hanging on the walls had been among the items reported as stolen. He checked the map, then silently walked to the first door, gently turning the handle and pushing it open. Several rows of bunks lined either side of the room. Ten beds. Ten sleeping thieves working for Malakia.
After several minutes of work Syler left the room. Ten problems fewer.
The next door, this time on the right, led into a kitchen. No signs of life.
“You really pulled through, Ryn,” Syler whispered.
The second left door was the treasure room, according to Ryn's map. He looked over the door. A keyhole and a viewport. He activated his eye and saw through the door to the line leading to a crossbow trap. And two human guards flanking the door.
He jiggled the door handle hard. The guard jumped, opened the viewport, and peeked through, seeing an empty hallway.
Syler deepened his voice, a decent approximation of the orc guard from the wagon. “We killed Zandar and have more loot to store.”
“What’s the password? Where are you?”
He could now see into the room. The shadow figures were close now, so he had to work fast. He tapped into the shadow magic and stepped back into Penumbra, running the few steps and narrowly dodging the clawing hands as he stepped back through into the vault.
He thought there may have been multiple tables, but there was so much in there he could barely see them. Piles of black, red, and white draka sat on separate tables, stacks of scrolls, and rows and rows of framed paintings haphazardly leaned against one another. Separated out on other tables are the tagged items provided by Sven. A veritable dragon’s hoard.
He reached into his bag of holding and retrieved his two stationary rods as the two guards moved to either side of him, blades drawn. He felt the sting of the cut on his arm and the sticky blood from his nose. He embraced it, taking on a wild look.
The guards attacked at the same time, swords swinging in symmetrical angles. Syler dropped to the floor, holding one of the rods vertically and pushing the button, swinging out to the right with the other. The blades hit the rod at the same time as the other rod tripped the right guard. As he hit the ground, Syler punched the guard in the face and pushed the rod hard against the guard's chest, locking him down.
Syler kipped up as the guard began to struggle against the rod. He pushed the button to free the vertical rod and swung it at the left guard, but his sword intercepted the rod and parried it out wide. Syler followed the movement, but found himself too near one of the crowded tables. He couldn’t move away from the guard so he moved closer instead. The guard couldn’t get the sword in an advantageous position with Syler so close, so he attempted to shove him away.
Syler shifted slightly, shaped a shadow dagger into his left hand, blade facing down, and allowed the momentum of the shove to knock him on top of the prone and struggling guard. The knife drove to the hilt into the guard’s chest and with a final wheeze he stopped struggling. Syler released the handle and the blade began to melt away as he rolled, freeing the rod again.With both stationary rods in his hands he stood and walked forward, pressing the button quickly to parry an incoming overhead strike with his left and striking out with his right, hitting the guard in the ribs.
With a cry of pain, the guard stepped back, rubbing the quickly forming bruise.
“What are you?” the guard hissed between gritted teeth.
Syler said nothing, but darted back in. Strikes from both sides were parried, no ground gained or lost. They separated again, Syler with a small cut on his right arm, the guard with several new bruises.
The rods clattered to the floor, and the guard thought he had an opening to finish the fight. Airborn shards of shadow struck the charging guard full in the face, his forward momentum causing his body to backflip on top of the other.
Taking a few moments to catch his breath, Syler looked over the items Sven had set up with the mark. He spotted a small box of transparent bottles filled with various colored potions. All but two didn’t interest him. He grabbed one containing bronze liquid, Teknaus attuned to Gaius’s life magic, twisted off the cap and downed it. He felt the warmth wash over him and he watched as the cuts on his arms close up and felt the pain in his nose subside. The other potion that he pocketed contained a liquid that was mostly pearlescent with swirls of bronze.
After he disarmed the crossbow and unlocked the door, Syler grasped his amulet and stepped into the hallway.
“Alright, buddy. Time to play.” Tootsie materialized with a puff of golden yellow smoke and padded over to Syler. He bent to scratch her behind the ears, willing some shadow magic into her. He stood and kept scratching, eventually having to reach up slightly to keep in line with her growth.
“There’s going to be a man tied up or somehow restrained in the next room. Don’t hurt him. Everyone else is fair game.” A large black tongue brushed across his face, cleaning off most of the blood. He tousled the dark, curly fur.
“I’m okay, Toots. Just a few bumps. Stay out here. I’ll whistle for you.”
Tootsie sat obediently and tilted her head curiously, her glowing blue eyes wide with playful joy.
Syler silently picked the lock on the next door, gently swinging it open. Two cells were constructed against the right wall, complete with thick metal bars and dangling chains. The barred door was open on one of them. Against the left wall, a desk with a large chest next to it faced the cells.
They stood in front of the desk. The three claw scars across the orc's face accentuated his rage. Gene stood very still in front of the brute, a knife against his throat, blood trickling from several cuts across his exposed chest.
The dagger pierced the orc's hand holding the knife. Gene ducked under the loosening grasp and ran back into the cell, slamming the door shut to keep out of reach.
Without hesitation the orc growled and drew his sword, a wickedly barbed longsword, and ignoring the wound to his hand charged and swung at Syler. Two crossed knives intercepted the swing, the force pushing Syler back into the door, slamming it shut. He threw them as he straightened, one harmlessly flying over the orc's shoulder, the other nicking his right cheek.
As the knives reformed in his hands he rolled, trying to get some distance away from the raging orc. A heavy kick sent him crashing against Gene's cell, knocking his breath away. He managed to narrowly dodge a downward chop, the blade biting into the floor.
Vines erupted from the floor, grabbing at Syler's ankles and pulling him to the spot. He whistled loudly. The orc's next attack was disrupted by the door splintering inward.
The orc turned and backed up to face both of his opponents. Tootsie rushed him, jaws open wide. The brute struck home with his blade, drawing a deep growling yelp from her as similar vines wrapped around her torso and legs. She fell against the desk, struggling against the binds.
The distraction was just long enough for Syler to get free of the vines. Three daggers struck the orc, one in the chest and two in his right leg. Still he came forward, the rage keeping him from feeling the wounds. Syler stepped back on his left foot and leaned, narrowly avoiding a sidelong swing of the sword. The orc tucked the blade close to his torso and thrust out. The shadow dagger formed in Syler's right hand as he struck out, angling the blade upward.
Pain erupted from Syler's left shoulder as the sword struck true. Simultaneously, the tip of his knife extended an inch from the top of the orc’s skull. Syler pushed through the strike, shifting the momentum so the orc fell backwards. The vines receded from Tootsie as the orc’s connection to the sword began to fade. He pulled the blade free from his shoulder and the shadow armor covered the wound to staunch the bleeding. To his great surprise, instead of falling, the orcish warrior stumbled back a step, somehow still up, blood running freely from beneath his jaw as the shadow dagger dissipated.
Tootsie rolled to her feet and leapt at the orc, slamming him to the ground with thick claws digging into his chest. With a shuddering breath, the orc finally stilled. She stood and stumbled over toward Syler, who looked over her injuries. The cut wasn't extremely deep and the vines weren't thorny. "Sorry, buddy. Didn't know the sword could do that."
The Penumbral magic was already closing up the gash in Tootsie's side as she licked Syler's face, cleaning him as best she could.
The cell door swung open as Gene shuffled out, eyes wide.
"I'm glad you're alive."
"Thank you, sir, for saving me."
"The least I could do. You're here because of me." Syler handed Gene a healing potion, which he gratefully drank.
"I've never met you before, though I know who you are." Gene tapped his face under the eye.
Syler willed his eye to shift back to match and his armor to become red and gold again.
"Zandar?"
"Indeed. You've been instrumental in the success of this. Don't open any of the side doors. Take this wand and take one of the carts. The wand will allow you to leave out the back alley of the Scattered Blood Bar. Head north until you get to a main road. Go to Bartle's house in as roundabout a fashion as you can."
"Pilar?"
"She's okay. And she'll remain so unless you go to the ball."
"That's tonight? Damn. I’ve lost track of time down here." Gene reached a hand out. "Thank you again."
Syler grasped his hand. "Anytime."
Gene picked up the wand and stepped out the door, but peaked back in a moment later. "I just had a thought. What about the gates? They'll be closed off this late."
“True. Just go into the Temple District and head east to the Corner Inn. I’ll meet you there when I can.”