him to sweat, despite the chill of the evening.
The red-robed man also turned to follow Bryant. The traitor watched with a growing realisation that this figure was the source of his ominous fear. He decided it would be best to watch, rather than to interfere.
Yet he knew also that if he did not act to silence Kara, then her knowledge of Justrain’s investigation would see him hanged for treachery.
He gripped the dagger tightly. If the opportunity presented itself, then the peon would die by his hand. Once he was dead, Kara would follow, and no one would have the knowledge to incriminate him.
The rain gathered strength and Bryant held his hand flat above his eyes to prevent the drops from obscuring his vision. People were beginning to huddle under doorways and to take advantage of whatever shelter they could.
His hair was becoming soaked and his clothing dishevelled. He thought of Sir Finistere’s words about taking pride in his appearance, and he knew he could not return to the castle in such a state. As he lifted his gaze to evaluate the rain, he decided its strength could not last. Surely it would exhaust itself in a few minutes. So he looked about for a place to wait it out.
Seeing that he was now nearly alone on the street, he identified several suitable shelters. He ducked into the nearest one available, beneath an overhanging rooftop that gave him easily enough room to avoid the inclement weather.
As he stood waiting for it to end, his thoughts turned to Lady Kara. He was envied by the other peons for having attracted her attention, and the title he had bestowed upon her had led many to think of him as one of her favourites. Although none would admit it, some were fervently jealous of his achievement. It was the first time in his life that he had actually outdone his fellow peons. Although they often were warned of the dangers of pride, he could not deny himself a congratulatory smile.
So caught up was he in his thoughts that he barely noticed the tall man in red duck under the overhang to share his shelter from the rain. Without a word, he moved along the wall to allow room for him.
Concealed behind a timber frame down the street, the traitor watched the two figures share their shelter. He observed the red-robed stranger step close to Bryant and noted with a feeling of sudden apprehension that the peon was in danger.
The rain suddenly sleeted toward him and he turned away from the street in order to draw his hand across his eyes. Above him the first thunder sounded, echoing off the high white walls and bouncing across the city rooftops. He blinked to clear his eyes and turned to look back toward the two figures.
But no one was there.
Bryant had vanished, and the red-robed man was disappearing swiftly into the darkness, visible only for a second as he turned and hastened down the nearest alleyway.
He cursed in the darkness, running out into the street to where Bryant had stood only seconds before. His legs ached in protest, unused to such exercise and enfeebled by his age, but he ignored the pain with an angry grimace. He rushed into the alleyway to see the red-robed figure stoop, a heavily-laden sack slung over his right shoulder.
The sack didn’t move, but as the man disappeared amongst the buildings, the traitor saw a booted foot slip from the cover.
It was Bryant. The man had kidnapped him.
The traitor hoped that he was dead, but the fact that the man had taken him made it more likely that he was alive. Slavery had long been outlawed in Asgarnia, yet there were always rumours of children being carried off to the savage communities in The Wilderness, or even smuggled to Morytania by the wandering gypsy folk, where their fates were beyond the imaginings of even the darkest human mind.
The red-clothed figure moved quickly, from one shadow to the next, and the traitor had to run to keep up. It quickly became apparent that the kidnapper did not know Falador, for several shortcuts presented themselves which the traitor would have taken, if their roles were reversed.
As he followed the fleeing figure to the poorest quarter of the city, he knew it would not be long before the kidnapper’s base was revealed.
Then he would have to decide what to do.
The rain interfered with his sense of smell and it always put him on edge. He was certain he hadn’t been seen as he had pulled the sack over his unsuspecting victim and knocked the peon’s head against the wall, yet he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being followed.
The unfamiliar city further disconcerted him and he had decided that speed was the best option in making his way back to the old woman’s house.
But as he neared the house he caught a scent that he had not detected since the night he had scaled the castle wall: it was the smell of the dwarf. Doric’s odour lay heavily in the street, indicating he had walked up and down it several times.
“I have no time for that now!” the creature growled, his red eyes glowing in anticipation. He entered the house, bolting the door behind him. Then he tied the unconscious human down and gagged him roughly with a cloth scarf he had found in the woman’s cupboard.
He wiped the dried blood clear from Bryant’s temple. He had pushed his head into the stonework harder than he had intended in his rush to secure him, and he hoped he hadn’t caused too much damage.
For he needed the boy alive.
Doric was lost.
The city looked very different in the darkness and the rain, even to his night-attuned eyes that had spent long years in the perpetual blackness of the subterranean realms.
He had found where the old woman lived, and after a half hour of uneasy watching had decided to find Theodore and inform the squire of his story, whether he was willing to hear it or not.
But since that time he had been going round in circles, unable to find his way out of the warren of old buildings that tottered forward on their foundations as if they were about to fall over. Every street looked the same in the dark, and there were very few people he could ask for directions now that the rain had become a torrent.
Finally, frustration getting the better of him, he banged on the nearest door with his fist tightly clenched. An uneasy voice called out from inside and the door opened a thumb’s width, only enough to allow the occupier to peek out into the dim street.
“What do you want?” the man called out in an accent that Doric could barely decipher, and through a mouth that had long since lost all of its teeth.
“Just some simple directions,” he replied, holding his ill temper. “I’ll pay, of course.” Doric huffed as he reached into his pouch, feeling the cool metal coins in his fingers.
He was beginning to hate Falador.
The traitor watched the house for only a few minutes. He debated whether to try and enter, to make sure that Bryant was no longer a threat, or whether he should return to the castle and deal with Kara.
She was the important one. Bryant was just an unfortunate witness.
He recalled the red-robed figure and knew he was afraid of him. There was something very powerful about the man who had seized Bryant-unnaturally so. That helped him make his decision-he would return to the castle right away. He relaxed his grip on the dagger and withdrew into the shadows of the surrounding dwellings.
Bryant awoke slowly, unable to comprehend where he was.
Gradually he understood that he had been blindfolded. When he tried to cry out, he nearly choked on the gag that had been secured about his mouth.
He jumped when a guttural voice came out of nowhere.
“Understand, young peon” the voice said calmly, “that I mean you no harm. But understand this also: if you
