As Logan approached the tavern with the hope of getting some answers, he was forced to sidestep one of the drunken men on the ground. In doing so, he bumped into a trio of men as they stepped through the doorway. The three glared down at Logan, their eyes red with intoxication.
'Get a load of him,' one of them slurred. 'The little man from Droth thinks he can bump into us.'
Logan took an uneasy step backwards. All three, he noticed, wore swords that glittered as fiercely as their bloodshot eyes.
Cold fingers of fear pressed against Logan's neck as he remembered the rasping whisper: Know you not that dreams have the power to kill?
Logan did not want to find out.
'Maybe he's a Guardsman?' another snarled. 'Is that the new uniform?'
The third man pointed a large finger toward Logan's nose. 'Naw, he's just a scrawny little harpy turd. Let's show him what we can do to him.'
Logan's hand shot for his sword as the trio advanced. Hands seemed to reach out from all about him and tear at his limbs, forbidding him from freeing his weapon and protecting himself. Unexpectedly, one of the men spilled backwards, his chest smeared with crimson. Another crumpled to the ground immediately afterward, blood fountaining from his neck. The third took an uneasy step back, gaping at the small golden hilt protruding from his stomach. As blood welled up around the dagger and splattered the street, Logan's third assailant crashed to the cobblestones.
Logan wheeled about in astonishment and disgust. He expected to see Thromar behind him, grinning his crooked, yellow grin, but the large fighter's enormous frame did not back the young jogger. A lithe man clad all in grey was stanced in the street, daggers strapped across his chest in a menacing display of weaponry. Two more of the slim blades glistened in either hand.
'Morning to you, my friend,' the stranger said with a smirk in greeting. 'I hope you don't mind my rude interruption of your discussion, but it seemed your companions were getting a little out of hand. Tell me, whom have I the honor of saving?'
'Matthew Logan,' Logan answered cautiously. 'Why?'
The black-haired stranger shrugged. 'Moknay the Murderer always lets the engraver know the proper name to place upon the gravestone.'
Moknay stepped forward and a dagger sailed from his hand, glinting silver as it screamed toward Logan's neck.
•2• Murderer
Glistening with metallic splendor, the dagger glinted as it spun toward Logan's throat. Immobile due to shock, Logan shut his eyes tight, flinching as a hollow 'thwunk' reverberated in his ears. When he risked opening one eye, he could see the golden hilt of the dagger gleaming at him wickedly as it protruded from the Murderer's target: the wooden doorframe of the tavern.
Moknay the Murderer smirked, his trim, black mustache twitching along with his lip. 'I didn't have to miss,' he advised.
Logan opened his other eye and gulped. 'I-I believe you,' he stuttered, 'but why did you?'
Moknay twisted free the blade and inspected it with eyes as cold as the dagger's own steel. 'Because,' he answered, 'you are different; and I am curious. You're not from Sparrill, and yet, you're not a conquest-greedy Reakthi either. Where are you from?'
Logan nervously eyed the strap of daggers crossing the Murderer's chest. 'Santa Monica.'
'Santa Monica?' Moknay repeated, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. 'Never heard of it. Where is it-somewhere south of Magdelon?'
Logan heard a faint splatter of liquid as he shifted his weight and looked down at one of the corpses at his feet. The bread Thromar had given him for breakfast tried to come up as Logan pulled his Nike out of the puddle of blood. 'It's south of Los Angeles,' he said, choking.
The grey-clad Murderer looked at Logan carefully, peering at the sweat suit and heavy sword at his side. 'How is it you wear a Reakthi sword?' he questioned, the smirk returning to his face.
Logan threw the weapon a quick glance. 'It was given to me,' he explained, hastily, 'as a gift.'
'By who?' the Murderer queried, fingering a dagger. 'A Reakthi? Once they earn their blade, they rarely ever part with it.'
'Look,' protested Logan, taking a step back and hearing more blood splash, 'you said yourself that I wasn't a Reakthi!'
'I'm having second thoughts,' Moknay answered. 'Now tell me, why do you wear a Reakthi sword?'
Logan swallowed hard as he tried to take another step back. Either a corpse or one of the unconscious drunks blocked his passage, and he was forced to confront the dark-haired Murderer. The sunlight flashed off the many blades hooked across Moknay's chest and his grey cape appeared to conceal many more weapons strapped to his belt.
Know you not that dreams have the power to kill? The hideous whisper snickered from Logan's subconscious.
'Look, this fighter named Thromar gave it to me when I first got here,' Logan finally spat out. 'We ran into some Reakthi and I didn't have a weapon. Thromar gave it to me and wouldn't take it back once I had used it.'
The young jogger glared at the lithe form in front of him. All right, he wanted to shout, do you believe me now? Go ahead! Stick one of your goddamn daggers down my throat! I don't believe it-why should you?
There was a flicker of recognition in Moknay's grey eyes. 'Thromar?' he murmured. 'Here? Back in Eadarus?'
Logan blinked. He believes me?
The Murderer turned on Logan, a wide smile spread across his usually grim mien. 'Where?' he wanted to know. 'Where is Thromar?'
'Why should I tell you?' Logan retorted, suddenly and unexplainably defiant. 'Why do you want him?'
'He and I were war-siblings,' Moknay grinned. 'Back when I was a young and foolish thief, I attempted to steal some supplies from Thromar while he camped east of the Jenovian. I soon found out the reason he was resting was because a troop of Reakthi had been hounding him for weeks. As I was about to make good my escape, the Reakthi ambushed him. As I said before, I was quite foolish, and, like some damned warfiend, I threw down my ill-gotten gains and helped him. Needless to say, we shed enough Reakthi blood to dye the Jenovian red! Ever since then, Thromar and I have been war-siblings.'
Logan was silent a moment. 'I don't believe you,' he declared.
The Murderer barked a laugh and started for Logan. The young man tensed, however, Moknay continued past him, entering the tavern. 'Come with me,' he said. 'I'll buy you something. Any friend of Thromar's is a friend of mine.'
Cautiously, Logan followed the grey figure into the tavern. Moknay strode through the dimly lit bar undauntedly, winding his way through a maze of wooden tables and benches. Torches crackled against the walls, casting shadows upon the floor that leaped and danced like specters.
Moknay leaned up against the bar, smirking as Logan trailed him. 'I'll have an ale,' he said to the barkeep, 'and my friend here…?'
Logan turned away from inspecting the scenery and shrugged helplessly. 'Same thing, I guess.' Be too much if I asked for a hot cup of coffee, he mused.
Two mugs clunked down before them, overspilling with froth. Moknay's gloved hand snatched up the nearest mug and waved it in Logan's direction. 'Drink up,' he proclaimed. 'A stranger in a new land is always happy to have a few friends!'
Logan raised the mug, wincing. There was that blasted word again! he muttered. Stranger. Never before had that word meant so much to the young man. It was that unnerving feeling of disharmony that did it, he surmised. It kept surfacing constantly, reminding him that he did not belong in this place. Which was stupid, because it was-
