The Shadowstalker of Zastava

Anyone staring down the dirt road would have been hard pressed to glimpse the shadowy form approaching past the rows upon rows of wheat in the deepening night. Had their eyes been sharp they would have seen the thin, delicate shadows of the tall stalks bending towards the figure moving through their midst. Passers-by might have tried to reassure themselves that it was the evening breeze up to its usual tricks, but the air remained still and the wheat itself remained straight. Only the shadows moved.

Walking slowly past the neat rows, indifferent to the grasping shadows, Alek gazed up at the wall over the gatehouse that marked the southern limit of the city-state of Saretto. Along the ramparts, sentries plodded from one bright brazier to another. A slight frown creased his face when he realized there were three sentries and two braziers on this section of wall alone. Even the postern gate was well lit. The number of eyes and the amount of light cast by those fires all but assured his shadows ineffectiveness in any attempt to scale the wall.

In a breath that turned into a sigh, Alek released his hold on the surrounding shafts of darkness. The dancing shadows stilled at once. An open approach then. Wonderful. Hopefully the postern gate was manned, otherwise he would have to wait until morning. An unhappy thought that, as he was already days behind the one he was tracking.

Moving along the wall soon brought him to the gate. The tension between his shoulders eased when he saw a man on watch. Luck had yet to abandon him on this trek then. Perhaps it would remain a day longer and see Alek catch his quarry without any incidents with the locals. He bared his fanged teeth in a grimace remembering the pain of several wounds from his last visit. Likely luck had already fled back into the comforting cool of the mountain shade a day’s walk back down the dirt road from which he had come.

Pulling the hood back off his face, he moved towards the sentry. Half slumped against his spear, the man, barely more than a boy, jerked when Alek stepped into the torchlight. Fumbling with his weapon, the sentry looked like he didn’t know whether to ask his business or call out for reinforcements. Alek struggled not to smile.

To be fair to the man, few could be expected to take the appearance of a Kossak on their doorstep at even the best of times. Alek was on the slimmer side for his long-lived, dark-haired people, yet still cut a threatening figure, garbed as he was in darkened leather and carrying two curved kindjal blades sheathed at his hip.

Even his slow approach, hands open and away from the weapons at his side, did little to calm the man. Before the sentry did something they would both regret, Alek halted several strides away and spoke in his most reassuring tone.

“Good evening,” he said slowly in the lowlander’s own tongue. The young Kossak had spent several years in his youth learning the language of the city-state that bordered his people’s mountain home, and though it had been some time since he’d had to use the language, the prospect of a fight he could ill-afford provided more than adequate motivation to recall the words.

Hearing the cordial greeting, in his own language no less, and seeing the Kossak halt his advance finally brought some degree of composure to the man. Though he still gripped his spear tightly, he responded in kind.

“Good evening. What is your business in Saretto, Kossak?”

Tapping the pommels of his short swords, Alek responded, “Simply a mercenary searching for a caravan to guard. Heard those headed north have been having extra trouble of late, perhaps enough so that a humble Kossak might find work.” The lies came easily to his lips. Some things the lowlanders didn’t need to know.

As Alek finished speaking the postern gate swung open. The scraping squeal of the rusty iron hinges cut through the surrounding night like an ill-kept surgeon’s knife through a rotting limb. The heavy oaken doors moved slowly, before finally coming to a rest against the stone gateway with a dull thump. Apparently few tried to enter the city past nightfall from the south. Out strode a grizzled gray-haired veteran, attired in the well-worn uniform of a Sergeant, with a hand wrapped around the hilt of the blade at his side. Seeing the man approach, Alek relaxed slightly.

“What’s this then, Lorenzo?”

Spinning, the young sentry hastily brought his hand to his chest in salute, in the process nearly whacking his head with the spear still grasped in his fist. About to answer, he quickly closed his mouth as the Sergeant made a swift cutting gesture with his hand.

“What are you doing, boy? Trying to get yourself killed,” the Sergeant said angrily.

“Sir?”

Seeing an opening to diffuse some of the tension, Alek spoke up before the Sergeant could respond. “Bartone means you shouldn’t have turned your back on an strange, armed Kossak. Had I wanted to, I could have buried my kindjal in your back before you could bring your spear back into line.”

At those words, Lorenzo, now pale-faced, spun quickly back to face Alek, bringing his spear into a clumsy ready stance as he did so. Coming abreast of the sentry, the Sergeant lightly pushed the boy to one side to come between him and Alek.

“Aye, that is so. Lucky for you, Alek is a man that prefers to fight face-to-face rather than stab someone in the back,” a small smile split the craggy features of the old Sergeant’s face, “Though, if memory serves, you were good at that too once upon a time.” At Bartone’s gesture, the still shaken sentry retreated back through the gate, but not before casting one last worried look in Alek’s direction.

After the sentry departed, Alek grinned as well. He nodded towards Bartone’s limp, “Seems like someone finally got the better of you in a fight.”

“Not likely,” Bartone snorted, “A few weeks ago, I got into an argument with four bastards trying to make off with a caravan’s lockbox before it left the city. The one that could still run at the end of our discussion remembered a pressing engagement elsewhere.” He raised an eyebrow quizzically at Alek. “I gather you have some important business that brought you to Saretto this late?”

Solemnly, Alek nodded. Bartone was a friend; he deserved better than outright lies.

“About a month ago, Victor, the youngest son of Nachal Oleg, had a falling out with his father. He was tired of the demands of being the Nachal’s youngest son and thought Saretto could be the gateway to a new life, one free of the responsibilities of his station,” seeing the worried look on Bartone’s face he quickly reassured him, “Don’t worry, the Nachal remains committed to the treaty between our peoples. I’ve simply been sent to retrieve the boy, not create a diplomatic incident.”

Bartone shook his head at Alek’s words, “You misunderstand, I saw the boy come through a few days ago. Said something about being here to deliver something from his father, though I thought it strange that he came alone.”

Alek felt the beginning of excitement touch his trail-worn body. The trail was fresher than he had hoped. “Do you know what direction he went into the city?”

Bartone scratched his chin then smiled, “I’ll do you one better. When he came through, Victor asked about a cheap place to stay that catered to your kind. I directed him to the Yellow Dog. Might be he is still there, and if not someone might be able to tell you what direction he went.” He bent over, picked up a broken twig with a sharp tip, then quickly traced out the path Alek would need to take to get to the inn once he was in Saretto.

Alek traded grips with the old soldier. “Thank you my friend, you might have just saved me days of effort.” The sooner he could get the blade and the boy back to the Nachal the better.

Nodding, Bartone motioned Alek to follow him back to the postern gate, “So that mercenary bit was a pretense to get into the city to pick up the trail of Victor then?”

Alek shrugged, “It was the best I could come up with. Your people are still nervous around mine after all,” his eyes went quickly to Lorenzo, who remained close to the gate, before coming back to rest on Bartone, “I thought the best way to get into Saretto would be to give a reason that would quickly see me depart it again. Had I known you would be on duty I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“You were born lucky.” Bartone called back towards the gate at the lingering sentry, who had been struggling to affect a studied disinterest. He raised his voice, “Go tell Rocco that my Kossak friend will be coming through the gate soon.”

Though disgruntled at the obvious dismissal, Lorenzo saluted the Sergeant before going to inform Rocco. After the young sentry had disappeared into the darkness of the city, Bartone leaned in closer to Alek. He lowered his voice to a whisper that even his Kossak ears had a hard time hearing, though the Sergeant spoke from inches away.

“Be careful where you go into the city. Keep to the shadows and your head covered. A lot of people are out for Kossak blood lately, and they’ll come at you like flies drawn to honey if they catch sight of you.”

Alek didn’t need Bartone to explain further, he well knew the hatred his kind had earned in the past several centuries, a heritage of blood they were only now beginning to rise above through the efforts of the Nachal and his followers. Drawing his heavy cloak tighter about himself, and making sure his twin kindjal were covered as well, Alek stuck out a hand to clasp that of his old friend. “I’ll do my best to be careful.”

“When you get to the Yellow Dog, if Raphael is bartending tonight mention my name and he’ll give you what assistance he can in tracking down your errant prince.” He reached out to stop Alek from moving to the open gate, “One more thing. Since it’s one of the few places in the city that serve your people, you can bet there will be the usual bigots there as well.” Seeing the gleam in the young Kossak’s eye, Bartone let out a heavy sigh. “Fine, fine, but please, no steel unless they draw steel first.”

Alek didn’t hesitate in nodding agreement, though he would be forced to act if the Nachal’s blade wasn’t found. That blade Victor stole was far more important than both their lives, but even the friendship of Bartone wasn’t enough for Alek to risk his neck in enlightening him. At least, not until he had no other choice.

“Of course. Thank you again for your help, my friend.”

Once beyond the wall, and the intent stares of the inner gate guards, Alek pulled his cloak back, again exposing the worn hilts of his kindjal. While Alek acknowledged there was much sense to Bartone’s warning to keep a low profile, he also didn’t want to deal with any of the more commonplace threats that prowled the streets of Saretto at night. His time in the wilds had taught Alek that predators tended to avoid other predators, so by showing his blades he made it abundantly clear to any watchers that he had claws of his own.

He walked off to the side of the main avenue, close enough to the walls of the nearby buildings and house to be partly hidden by their shadows, but not so close that anyone inside might think him up to no good. Alek’s eyes roved here and there, always watching those few people still out this late, yet he nonetheless spared some attention for the state of the city he now walked through.

Despite several years passing since last Alek had been here, the city itself had changed little to his eyes. The streets were still straighter and smoother than the ones of his homeland. The buildings remained to a one well-made and constructed of strong wood or even stronger stone.

The long shadows that caressed his skin as he moved past them and through them told him many things. His favorites were the long, straight shadows of a bakery closed for the night. Warm they were, and still smelling of the mornings bread. They bespoke a city of plenty, a city that cared for its people’s survival. Yet for all that, this place, this outpost of civilization, still set his teeth on edge.

For there were also shadows that spoke of darker, more terrible things.

One such overlaid his own when he walked past an alley. Cold it was, far colder than the night warranted, and in that moment he knew that a fresh death had been visited there but recently. If he were to follow that feeling, Alek was sure it would lead him to some vagrant or poor muggers victim now become a corpse. In his long walk from the gate he came across several dark shadows like that first. Such appalling things they shared to him, things that never had nor would be allowed in Zastava.

As if to highlight the contrasts between the myriad of shadows, at one point a young thief started tailing him. He was scarcely more than a child, even by human standards. Yet the way his shadow moved bespoke innocence lost all to soon to the struggles of survival on the street. Nonchalant and smooth the shadow’s movement was, its caster clearly focused on Alek’s back and likely searching for where he might have hid his purse. Once close enough to see the sight of Alek’s scarred hands on his weapons, however, he quickly turned down a side street. Probably off in search of easier prey.

With his fingers still resting lightly on the smooth leather grips of his blades, he mentally thanked Bartone again. The simple fact that they yet remained on his person was an indicator of just how much Bartone trusted him. Despite the uneasy peace between Saretto and the Kossaks of Zastava, city law still mandated that any Kossak entering the city must give up weapons into the keeping of the watch. In some special cases a city official vouching for an individual Kossak might cause the law to be temporarily set aside, but generally such was reserved for official representatives of the Nachal come to deliver diplomatic dispatches. Alek was not on such a mission. Had the Nachal sent any other Kossak after Victor, Bartone would not likely have stuck his neck out so far.

Which, in hindsight, was likely part of the reason Alek was chosen in the first place by the wily Nachal.

As a younger man, the Sergeant of the Watch had spent some time as a guard to caravans moving goods from Saretto down to the coastal city-states. On one such journey, the caravan had been attacked by a band of Kossak rebels, ones who refused to adhere to the peace so freshly agreed to by Nachal Oleg.

Lucky for Bartone, the Nachal and his men had decided to take the scenic route back to mountainous Zastava. Falling on the rebels from the rear, the Nachal’s escort took them completely by surprise, and it had been Alek himself who had severed the hand of a rebel in the process of chopping down on a wounded Bartone.

Before joining the watch, Bartone had made it a point of looking Alek up if any caravans had entered Saretto, a result of the formalization of trade relations between the two people. Within several visits they had become fast friends. The Sergeant’s assistance would pay Alek back tenfold this night if it led him Victor and the blade.

While the Nachal was eager for the safe return of his son, his very life depended on the blade being restored to his hands.

A longsword with a hilt carved in the shape of a screaming demon’s head, the blade was the tangible representation of the Nachal’s authority. Without it, any Kossak of sufficient age or ability might challenge for the right to lead their mountainous people. A fractious lot even at the best of times, the eldest of the Kossaks could be expected to challenge within days of learning about the missing blade, which made his mission here in Saretto all the more important, both for the Kossaks and for the Sarettians.

Though the younger Kossak generations were beginning to come to terms with the peaceful ways of the current Nachal, many of the older ones remained staunchly anti-human. Any of a number of them would waste no time in restarting the war with Saretto should they succeed in becoming Nachal of the Kossaks of Zastava. Such a war was in no ones interests, especially now that the past few years had shown peace to actually be achievable, despite generations of death and destruction.

Too much blood had been spilled for relations to change overnight, however. Even a decade since the last major battle wasn’t long enough to begin to thaw the heart of the most anti-Kossak Sarettians. Kossaks were a long-lived race, which meant that many of the older ones might actually have fought against the grandfathers and great-grandfathers of Saretto’s current citizens, a fact that many of the humans were well aware. The most outspoken still said this peace was but a pause before an even greater conflict with Zastava, one that would see one or both of them destroyed in the flames of war.

Likely it would take some generations yet for the feelings to begin to thaw, but until then tight grips upon spears by the guards at the postern gate would remain typical of the treatment towards his kind. At least the night went some way towards hiding their hard, accusing stares.

With his thoughts returning to the comforting darkness, the shadows of a nearby alley mouth stretched out in long, thin tendrils, snaking along the ground, seeming to pool eagerly at his feet before snaking up his legs. With an effort of will he forced the shadows to stop. The cool pleasure of their touch faded from his flesh. It was hard letting go, especially in a city full of people that likely wouldn’t spit on him if he were to catch fire.

Though, Alek admitted to himself, perhaps the harsh treatment of the Kossaks was somewhat justified, given what he was and was capable of. Few Shadowstalkers lived today, but at the height of the conflict with Saretto there had been over a hundred Kossaks who felt the caress of shadows. Most had been stronger than Alek was now. Stories abounded of the horrors of shadowy hands reaching up to strangle the men that cast them, of horned warriors appearing suddenly in fortified keeps and towns to eviscerate with cold kindjal blades before disappearing back into the blackness of the night.

Worse still had been the eldest Shadowstalkers, those who had learned how to buttress their command of shadow by powering it with the freshly harvested souls of those they killed. Though few attained that level, they were the ones to account for the majority killed by the Shadowstalkers in all those years of war. Though each were eventually killed by the Sarettians, none had gone down without taking their attackers with them into the afterlife.

Alek straightened his hood to make sure the nubs of his newly growing horns remained concealed. The true mark of a Shadowstalker, the horns had begun to grow in on the first day he’d felt the shadows call, and they would continue to grow as his power expanded to its greatest extent. Once that point was reached, then they would crystallize into a black onyx. Though he had started training in the ways of the Shadowstalkers by the time Bartone had made his final visit as a caravan guard before enlisting in the city watch of Saretto, Alex had been commanded to keep his new powers a secret from the man who had become his only true friend outside of his clan. Perhaps, once the Nachal knew of the assistance Bartone had given this night, the command might be rescinded. Lying to Bartone had always made him uncomfortable.

Moving down side streets now, Alek was drawing closer to the inn that Bartone had directed him to. Well, hopefully that was the case. For the most part these streets all felt the same in the night.

He was just starting to worry when he finally caught sight of a rickety sign hanging over a tavern in a more worn state than the buildings that lay along the main street. In faded paint was spelled Yellow Dog, and muffled merriment was coming from inside.

After pulling down the cowl of his cloak to cover more of his face, Alek grasped the dark stone necklace that he wore for luck. Hopefully it wouldn’t see use this night. Made from the rock of his mountainous homeland, its purpose was to guide his soul back home, should he lose his life while serving his people far away.

Hopefully the gathering twilight, combined with the inebriation of those inside the tavern, would make it so few would even notice him upon his entrance. Here, of all places, Alek wanted to keep his promise to Bartone of not starting any fights.

He briefly checked to see that no shadows remained on his person that shouldn’t be there. Satisfied, he pushed open the door and went inside the Yellow Dog.

As soon as he stepped inside he paused briefly in startlement at the light and noise that had been muffled from the outside. Given the rundown exterior of the building, Alek had expected much the same on the inside, yet that was not the case. The tables were of fine wood and less stained or scarred than what was usually the case in a tavern, and what few seats that remained unoccupied were straight and sturdy things. In fact, everything that he could make out appeared to be in good repair.

More than that though, Alek had paused on the threshold because, despite nightfall having already long since descended, a large number people yet remained in the tavern making merry.

Abruptly his hunter instincts kicked in as he noticed several sets of eyes turn to examine his arrival. Broadening his examination to the people themselves, Alek steadily returned the stares directed his way.

At the table nearest the door a large group that looked to be mercenaries were gambling in a game he was unfamiliar with. A lot of simple cards and tokens were rapidly be exchanged back and forth amongst the players, and so engrossed were they in their game, that the few stares from that table quickly left him to return to the game in earnest.

Several smaller groups of laughing men and women, mostly locals by the looks of them, occupied the rest of the tables scattered here and there through the rest of the room. Bartone had apparently been well-informed about the frequency with which Kossaks visited this tavern, for most of them, much like the mercenaries, spared his arrival but a glance before returning to their drinks and conversations. Several tightly clad barmaids deftly moved between and around the patrons, taking orders and handing out the beers, ales, and even wines that were requested in swift, practiced movements.

The sounds of the carousing were like a balm on his spirit after the long, dark walk through the streets outside. In fact, despite seeing none of his kind present this night, Alek began to relax a little in the face of so much celebration. Even a catcall by a large drunk nearby who had noted his cloaked form entering the bar caused him to do little more than check that the shadows in the room were willing to heed his call should the need arise.

Ignoring the man’s continuing jibes about living in mountains to be close to the sheep he fucks, Alek went deeper into the tavern in search of the information he sought. Taking care to avoid jostling or stepping on any toes, he slowly made his way to the bar.

Behind the wooden counter stood a tall man filling several mugs with ale. Based on the muscles of his arms he looked more the bouncer than the owner, yet as Alek drew closer he saw that the man also had the gleam of intelligence in his eyes.

“Are you Raphael?”

After he handed off the last of the full mugs to a barmaid, who promptly whisked them away to their respective tables, the bartender picked up a rag and began wiping up a spill he had made during his pouring. With deft movements he cleaned up the small puddle of ale then, setting the rag aside, turned to respond to Alek.

“That I am.”

“Do you know if a Kossak by the name of Victor is still staying here?”

“Might be I know of the one you seek,” Raphael responded before arching an eyebrow, “Who wants to know?”

“A friend of Watchman Bartone,” Alek said, “He told me to seek you out for information about Victor.”

“A Kossak friend of Bartone?” Raphael said in a slight frown. The owner of the Yellow Dog ran his eyes over the Kossak before him, but apparently he saw something that reassured him for his frown quickly changed into an accepting nod. “You must be Alek then.”

Alek nodded.

At his nod, Raphael said, “You’ve just missed him. He went with a well-known weapons merchant about some sort of business,” he rubbed his chin in thought, “Though now that I think about it, your Victor said something about not being able to wait until morning.”

Alek’s blood went cold. It was worse than he feared. He had come to the conclusion early on in his pursuit of Victor that the young Kossak might sell the blade. Should that worse case scenario have occurred, Alek came prepared with enough coin to buy it back if need be. But to sell it to a weapons merchant was far worse than a simple sale.

Such a man, being an expert in weapons by necessity, might well know what the blade was and its importance to the Kossak people. If he were to hide the blade, or worse somehow destroy it, the Kossaks might well disintegrate into a full-scale civil war before the year was out. With one small action, the merchant would do what all the armies of Saretto could not.

Bring Zastava to its knees.

“Where might I find this weapons merchant?”

Before Raphael could answer, Alek found himself pulled off balance by a hand from behind, before being flung bodily into a nearby table. The table was upturned as he collided with it, ale went flying everywhere, and the two men sitting at it stumble up and backwards out of the way of the flying Kossak.

Jokes cut off in midsentence, laughter ended in mid-breath, and even the mercenaries card game by the door ground to a halt.

The tavern goes silent as a graveyard at the abrupt violence.

Before his shock at being attacked could wear off, a large, hairy hand darts in front of his vision to yank his hood back. So hard was the pull that his hair became disheveled as well, though luckily the nubs of his horns were still too short to become clearly visible to anything but the most searching of looks. Looking up brought his eyes to the same man who had been insulting him earlier.

“I was talking to you, Kossak,” the large drunkard said. The man’s hands were clenching and unclenching, as if he would rather have started at choking the life from Alek rather than hear his reply.

Alek’s first instinct was to rip free his kindjal to defend himself, but seeing the man unarmed, and remembering his promise to Bartone, he instead settled for slowly standing up out of the pile of wood that had but recently been a table. Before he could respond, Raphael spoke sharply from behind his bar.

“Gerino, settle your tab and get out, I’ll have no brawling in here,” shouted Raphael at the back of the man who had assaulted Alek.

Gerino ignored the bartender and only clenched his hands harder as he waited for the now upright Alek to respond

All the eyes in the tavern were on Alek, also waiting to see what his response would be to being assaulted so brazenly, and not all of them were sympathetic. In the hush, the two men from Gerino’s table came over to stand by their drinking companion.

Facing Gerino, Alek said as calmly as he could, “Excuse me, but I have pressing business with the bartender.”

Though Gerino grew still, his shadow radiated more rage than ever at Alek’s words, a rage that was clearly mirrored in his companion’s shadows as well. Looks like there would be a fight after all. If Alek got out of the city in one piece, next time he saw Bartone he would give him an earful. Don’t start any fights indeed.

“No,” Gerino said, “the only business you have here is with these.” The large man held up his clenched fists.

Alek tried to reason with the man one more time for Bartone’s sake, “The business I have here is urgent, not only for my people but yours as well. If you leave me in peace and return to your table, I’ll cover the damage you have caused and buy your next round.”

Before Gerino could respond the brawl started in earnest.

While all his attention was fixed on Gerino, one of the drunkard’s friends abruptly swung for his side. Dodging quickly back out of the immediate range of all three, Alek took a moment to feel the shadows of all the patrons around him. To a one they were all shocked and fearful at the sudden violence in their midst, but some also had undercurrents of anger woven through the shadows they cast. Anger Alek knew to be directed at him and his kind. The only bit of good fortune was that the shadows of the mercenaries had bent back down to their card game, clearly uninterested in a simple tavern scuffle.

Yet Alek would have to finish the fight quickly, and put down the men harder than he might wish, if he were to cow the rest into remaining bystanders. After his training as a Shadowstalker, and armed as he was, Alek could proabably take on all but the gambling mercenaries if need be, but he doubted Raphael would be so forthcoming with his information if Alek were to cover his clean tables and counter with the blood of his paying customers.

Making up his mind, Alek refocused his attention on the trio, raising his fists as he did so.

Gerino charged in swiftly, the man who had already swung at Alek close on his heels. Ducking under the slow but powerful haymaker of Gerino, Alek used his right shoulder to throw as strong an uppercut as he could muster into the onrushing mans jaw. So hard did Alek deliver his blow, Gerino was unconscious before his feet left the floor.

Seeing the bigger man miss his swing and suddenly go down to the Kossak’s single blow, the second man tried to halt his momentum before he would get into range of Alek’s fists. He should have just followed through. All the man did by trying to stop was to steal his own speed and allow Alek to shift his stance to address the new threat.

Grabbing one of the man’s wind milling arms, Alek pulled hard, pivoted, and flung him into the edge of a nearby support beam that held up the taverns roof. His head connecting hard, the man joined Gerino in unconsciousness.

That’s when Alek felt a line of fire trace itself across his back.

Using the momentum of his thrown, Alek turned it into a roll to open up distance between him and his third attacker. Coming back to his feet, Alek pulled one of his kindjal blades and raised it to fend off the darting knife of Gerino’s last drinking companion. Seeing his own blood glinting red on the man’s knife in the tavern’s light, Alek briefly lost control of his anger. Before he could regain a hold on himself, a number of nearby shadows, from tables and patrons alike, suddenly darted in long tendrils to steady his legs and steel his arms

Needless to say the whole tavern went wild with fear at what they now beheld.

A Shadowstalker was among them.

In the face of Alek’s look of rage and the shadows dancing across his arms and legs, his last attacker let loose a cry of abject terror and tossed his knife away to raise his hands in surrender. So widely did he throw that knife, that it cut a gash down the leg of a cowering barmaid. Her sobs of terror quickly became mixed with those of pain.

Knowing that he had a minute at most before either the Watch was summoned or the other patrons attacked as well, Alek hurried past the quivering man on the floor and his two unconscious foes to the bar. Raphael had maintained his position behind the bar throughout the fight, but in the face of the onrushing Kossak covered in shadows, he took a unthinking step back.

“Where might I find this weapons merchant?” Alek asked again. Seeing the bartender hesitate, Alek swiftly sheathed his blade. “Where?” he asked again.

“A manor. On the other side of the city, in Merchants Row,” seeing something in Alek’s eyes, Raphael quickly added, “It has two banners of crossed swords that hang from the main balcony in the front. You can’t miss it.”

Nodding his thanks, and tossing him a silver coin for the information, Alek strode through the chaos of the tavern, all those still present giving his path a wide berth. Only once he was back out into the night did he cover his head again, and release his grip on the shadows that had followed him from inside.

With swift strides he headed in the direction of Merchants Row, hoping against all hope that it would be the last place he would have to visit this night and that Victor would be there with the sword. He needed to leave before morning or he would likely be detained by the Vigilare for questioning, and if that happened then he might lose any chance of saving his people from Civil War.

Having made better progress now that his goal was within sight, Alek soon made it to Merchant Row. Much like the bartender said, the crossed blade banners immediately indicated the house that Alek would find Victor and the sword.

Pausing before approaching too close, Alek checked his back. The blood had already dried since his flight from the tavern and, much like he had expected, did not even warrant a stitching. Luckily his cloak and leather had spared him that much, though he would need to repair both upon his return home.

Turning his attention back to the house, Alek saw that it was an opulent affair, even amongst the other houses nearby. The windows on the upper level were of fine, clear glass, and the roof itself looked to be in very good repair. The lawn was well kept, albeit small, and a large number of red flowers were in bloom around the perimeter in the shadows of the walls.

Most impressive of all were the several statues scattered here and there, which Alek took to be representations of the merchant’s family and his ancestors, since each had the crossed swords symbol somewhere on their person. Though many of the Sarettians would call the Kossaks barbarians, that didn’t mean Alek and his brethren couldn’t appreciate beauty where it was found, especially given the steel that hide under the manor’s affluent veneer.

For all the beauty in the manor’s presentation, Alek’s keen eyes could also see that it had been constructed with a weapon merchants concern for defense. The windows on the ground level, though large enough to let in light in the daytime, were far too small for a grown man to fit through in the event of an attempted robbery.

More intimidating still was the single, large door to the front of the manor. Made of a single, heavily reinforced slab of oak, the door out front, though a particularly intimidating obstacle, might nonetheless be Alek’s best option for getting in and out quickly.

Knowing that he didn’t have long until sunrise, Alek called the nearby shadows to him. Moving quickly down the brick walkway up to the oak door, he touched it lightly with his fingers. It felt even heavier and more sturdy to the touch than it had looked across the lawn. It was too heavy to force, at least without waking every human up on both sides of Merchant Row.

Stepping back again, he cast his eyes along the walls to either side of the portal. With luck the manor would be like the city walls, which had jagged areas which might be scaled for one trained as a Shadowstalker. Unfortunately, after several long minutes of looking, Alek abandoned that idea as he could not detect any path that would allow him to climb up to a second floor window.

After several more long moments in thought considering how to get it, he nearly swore out loud for his stupidity.

Walking back up to the door, making sure he was still hidden as much as possible by the shadows, he knocked several times. There was bound to be a guard up yet that would check out who would be knocking this late in the night.

Sure enough, Alek soon heard the sound within of heavy strides approaching to see who had come to visit so late. The door cracked and Alek could just make out a guard holding a small candle to peer outside. After a brief hesitation at not seeing any visitor, the Sarettian pulled the door open still farther.

Alek smiled to himself in the shadows. The hinges were well oiled so the door had glided smoothly open. Likely no one else inside had heard it.

The guard stepped outside, raising his candle as he came to get a better look around the small yard. An older fellow, he was nonetheless practiced in his duties, for he inspected all corners of the yard quickly, eyes searching for anything out of place. His gaze was fast approaching where Alek stood shrouded in shadows. If he was going to make his move it would have to be now.

Taking out his kindjal, he stepped behind the guard and hit him behind the ear with the pommel. The blow was hard enough to immediately put the man to sleep, but not so hard that it killed him outright. Though under orders to kill any threat that might know of the importance of the blade, Alek was not going to kill out of hand, at least not until he saw or heard something to indicate such a threats existence.

Catching the man as he fell, Alek shot a glance quickly through the open doorway. Seeing no one inside, he dragged the recumbent man to a nearby chair, and arranged the guard in it. Satisfied that any other guard doing his rounds might just assume the older fellow had settled in for a nap, Alek bent his attention to finding which direction he should pursue in seeking Victor and the stolen blade.

The entry that Alek found himself in opened to adjacent hallways to the left and right, as well as went directly to a stairway that disappeared up into the second floor. After a moments thought, Alek came to the conclusion that what he sought would likely be on the second floor in one of the bedrooms, as the main floor was most likely set aside for daytime living space.

Coming to the stairway, Alek stepped as lightly as he could up the steps. If his luck held they would be as well taken care of as the rest of the manor.

It did not.

Just shy of being able to peek out over the second floor landing, the step he was setting his right foot on gave a loud, grating creak. He bit back a curse as he heard approaching voices above him.

“Is that you, Dino?” a voice whispered from above.

Alek was quickly considering his options when a second voice joined the first in whispering.

“Speak up, old man,” it said, “Otherwise we are coming down with blades bared.”

Realizing he was out of time, Alek did the first thing he could think of. He groaned, hoping it sounded like a groan Dino would make. Apparently it did, too much so, since the pair of guards above quickly drew nearer, one of whom held a bright candle.

A candle which would cut through the shadows Alek wore like a second cloak.

Light which would leave him exposed halfway up the stairway, in clear sight of the guards.

“His bum leg must have locked up on the stairs again,” the first voice said, and the candle grew still closer.

Quickly coming to the determination that the time for sneaking was past, Alek threw caution to the winds and sprinted up the rest of the stairs.

Mixed luck greeted his arrival at the top step.

Alek ran head on into the guard with the candle, who had just arrived at the top of the stairs. So hard did they collide that both lost their grips on what they were carrying, causing blades and candle to go flying through the air. Thankfully, hitting the guard low as Alek had, caused the man to be flung backwards into his companion, which sent them both to the ground in a tangled heap. Unfortunately the candle’s flame, though fluttering, came down like the blade of a knife through his shadow cloak cutting it to tatters. Just like that he was visible to the guards, who quickly scrambled to grab blades and regain their feet. Snatching up his own blade, he spun to face his opponents.

“Leo, go warn the Master,” the guard who had held the candle said as he squared off with Alek, “Tell him a Shadowstalker has come to retrieve the blade.”

At the man’s words his partner gave a sharp nod, turned, and ran back down the hall, shouting the alarm as he went. At the guards words, Aleks heart grew heavy. No, he had no choice. He would have to kill them all to prevent information about the sword from getting out to those who sought to harm his people.

The man swung hard for Alek’s face, but it was clear from the force of the swing that he was merely stalling until reinforcements could arrive. Though Alek was skilled with his kindjal, in close quarters against half a dozen swordsmen he would be unlikely to put them all down without taking wounds. Wounds that he could ill afford.

Darting in close before the man could recover from his wild swing, Alek’s left curved blade went whipping in to catch him on the side of the leg. Staggering from the cut, the man tried to growl away the pain and reset his stance, but before he could Alek swung upward with his right kindjal to take him along the throat and splitting his chin. The guard immediately grabbed for his neck with his free hand to stem the seeping blood. Alek kicked his injured leg out from under him, dropping the guard to the floor. As the man hit the floor, a shout went up behind him.

Spinning to see this new arrival, Alek’s eyes came to rest on the face of a young Kossak. Though he no longer wore the leathers of his people, instead wearing thin silk underclothes, Alek still recognized the youngest son of the Nachal.

Victor.

The Kossak youth took a step in Alek’s direction, almost as if he wanted to fight the Shadowstalker barehanded, but another man appeared in the hallway behind him and grabbed Victor’s arm before he could go any further. Alek’s hot rage at Victor’s appearance turned into a cold apprehension once he saw the flaming red hair of the youth holding his onetime friend back. As if to justify his apprehension, the other man’s hair began to shimmer like it had indeed caught fire. A fire elemental.

Humans blessed with an ability to manipulate fire, the fire elementals were among the ruling class of Saretto, as well as the other city-states along the nearby coast. They had been the greatest foes of Alek’s Shadowstalker kin during the wars between their peoples, and to see one here and now with Victor who had stolen the most important symbol of Zastava sent waves of cold dread deep into Alek’s chest.

Alek had thought the stealing of the Nachal’s sword by Victor an attempt to gain his fathers attention, or barring that to sell it in order to start a new life far from Zastava. But seeing him with a fire elemental spoke of a far more sinister purpose. The question must have made itself known on his face, for across the hallway Victor spoke.

“You are too late, Alek,” Victor said, voice hard with a rage of his own, “The blade is no longer here. You have failed and Zastava will burn!”

At the fallen prince’s shout, the fire elemental lived up to his name by creating a ball of burning blue flame in his hands. Winding up, the elemental cast it in a tumbling spiral in Alek’s direction. Knowing that not even the blades of his kindjal could withstand the heat of that whirling missile, Alek dove forwards underneath it as it drew close.

Seeing him start to dive, the elemental jerked his fist down. Though he reacted too slowly to hit him dead-on, the flames still set his arm on fire before sinking behind him to land on the floorboards of the hallway beyond, immediately sending both it and the now dead guard behind Alek up in a inferno.

For a brief moment after hitting the floor, all sensation disappeared under that burning wave of fire that eagerly reached through his leathers for the tender skin underneath. Pain worse than any he had ever felt went shrieking down the hallways of his mind, drowning out all thought until his mind’s cries rose up as well to join the chorus of agony. That moment seemed to stretch on and on, until it seemed to encompass the night itself in its grip.

Yet much like flame burning away the carbon to reveal the blade, so too did that fire burn away the Shadowstalker to reveal something deeper. Something darker and more primal. As that thing was revealed the flames dancing across his arm were quenched by the shadows being pulled by Alek from all down the hallway.

The pain quickly fading as his flesh knit itself, Alek slowly stood up to face his opponents. Shadows danced all around his now, some continuing to weave over and around his arms and legs as they moved. Alek couldn’t help but grin at the shocked looks of his foes, especially given how their shadows were pulled tight and thin towards him as well.

Seeing Alek stand up unharmed and surrounded by shadows deeper than any he had ever seen, Victor turned and ran back down the hallway to the room from where he had emerged. The fire elemental, though visibly unnerved at seeing the ineffectiveness of his first flaming sphere, nonetheless determinedly set his stance and began pooling flames to make two more in his hands.

Tired after feeling the shadows knit the flesh of his arm, Alek knew he wouldn’t survive getting hit with two more of the same. Still too far away from the fire elemental to engage him with his kindjal, Alek wracked his brain for a way out of this mess. All of the sudden an idea came to him.

Sheathing his blades, he ran his hands over his thighs, feeling shadows that for the first time were almost solid to the touch. They felt of iron and wood, stone and even of wax, but only one had the feel of flesh. Struggling with the effort, he wrapped his hands around the only shadow that felt alive to his touch. Yelling with the effort, he jerked his hand together as hard as he could.

A loud snap and a thud came from the other end of the hallway.

Finding himself breathing heavily on the floor, Alek raised his head in search of his foe. The fire elemental lay on his back upon the floor, and the flames from his hands had become to eat into the wooden flooring around him. Walking as quickly as his tired stride would allow, Alek approached the man to find him staring at the ceiling. Since his neck was broken he likely didn’t see it.

Satisfied that this threat was removed at least, Alek stepped around the corpse to head to the room that Victor had entered into earlier. The hallway had begun to steadily fill with more smoke from the now merrily burning flames at the other end of the hall, though beyond them he could here several faint cries of fear. Knowing he didn’t have long until the fires were noticed outside, Alek kicked the door near the lock as hard as his remaining strength would allow. If he couldn’t retrieve the blade, at least he could return to the Nachal the boy who had stolen it.

The door slammed open under the force of the blow from his boot. Victor stood deep in the room, quivering hands holding a longsword that he was clearly unfamiliar with. Seeing Alek slowly walk into the room, shadows still dancing across his limbs, sent Victor into an even more violent shaking.

Fixing the prince with as hard a look as he could, Alek swiftly covered the distance between them. Bringing across both of his kindjal, he smashed the longsword from Victor’s weak grip sending it flying to hit the wall over the bed. Victor fell away to the floor in fear.

“Kill me and you will never know where the sword went,” Victor threatened while raising his arms to ward of any of Alek’s potential blows. Sheathing his own blades, Alek smacked both arms down and pulled the younger Kossak’s face to his.

“Don’t worry, prince,” he said, their faces an inch apart, “it is not my place to kill one of the Nachal’s household.” Seeing some of the arrogance beginning to return to the boys face, Alek added, “Though I’m certain the Nachal will grant an exception once he learns what you have done.”

Before Victor could respond, Alek brought his fist smashing down behind the Kossak’s ear. Victor dropped silently to the floor. He nudged Victor’s recumbent form with his boot. When he didn’t react, he kicked him in the side. Hard. Well and truly knocked out then. Alek picked up the boy and flung him over his shoulder, his shadows falling away as one, before turning to make his way back through the burning house. Luckily for him the fire had yet to make its way down the stairs.

Moving swiftly down them, he pulled one of his kindjals free, just in case any guards remained on the first floor. Seeing no one, he made a soft sigh of regret when he remembered the old guard he had left unconscious in a chair near the main door. Gritting his teeth, he almost disobeyed the Nachal’s order to kill all who knew of the blade’s existence.

Cold, hard reason sank in before he could go too far down that path however. He would already have his hands full with one captive, and there was no way he would be able to take an unconscious Sarettian past Bartone without answers to some hard questions, which in themselves might force the Nachal to order Bartone’s death at some point as a result. Equally bad would be to leave the man behind and risk the knowledge of the Nachal’s missing blade becoming commonplace, which would make it that much harder to retrieve. In the end Alek gritted his teeth but steeled his heart.

He need not have tortured himself so.

When he came to the chair it was empty. The old guard was gone, whether to fetch help or simply to flee into the night either reason meant the same thing. Alek had failed the Nachal. Yet for all that he still gave a sigh of relief that he did not have to kill at least one man this night that he held nothing against.

Leaving through the still open main door, smoke began to follow him out as he exited. By now the entire second floor was fully ablaze, and anyone who remained up there would soon be turned to ash and blackened bone. Heading past the garden flowers, gleaming a deep red that reflected the fires light, Alek noticed a number of people starting to gather out front of the building.

“Fire!” he cried at the top of his lungs, “Help, there is a fire!” Alek’s words pushed everyone into action. Several man passed him to see if they could save anyone else from the flames. Others began gathering buckets to form a line to put out the fire. No one realized he was a Kossak.

The second group proved the quicker to organize, and by the time Alek was halfway down the street, his unconscious burden still in tow, they had already begun to throw water on the burning manor as well as the nearby houses. With luck they would keep the blaze contained.

In his flight to the gate, Alek paused only once to throw Victor over an unattended donkey to lessen his burden. Though taking the beast without negotiation, Alek did leave a handful of silver behind for its owner to find. He even told himself that he would return the creature on his next visit if he was able. Regardless of these gestures, Alek took the beast all the same and made even faster speed for Bartone’s gate.

The sun had yet to fully rise, which meant the old sergeant would still be on duty. Likely news had already raced on ahead about a suspicious man carrying an unconscious Kossak from a burning manor in the affluent Merchant Row. Without Bartone he would likely not be allowed to leave the city.

After several more minutes, and a short break to pull the donkey back in the right direction, Alek came to the same postern gate that he had entered several hours before. Wide open it stood, and only Bartone was near it.

“You start the fire?” Bartone asked when he came closer.

“Fire elemental did that.”

“Given that you are here now, Victor in tow,” he pointed at the donkey, “does that mean that the elemental is dead?”

At Alek’s unequivocal nod, Bartone began rubbing his forehead with both his hands.

“Please tell me that killing a whole merchant family was necessary to keep the peace,” Bartone almost begged.

“It was.” Alek lied, though he wished the words were true. Had he know that the sword was already gone, he would have waited for a better opportunity to take Victor into custody. If he had done so he might have been able to avoid all the bloodshed this night.

Bartone, unable to hear Alek’s inner turmoil, nodded in acceptance at his words. Moving aside, he motioned for Alek to lead his donkey and captive through the gate.

Coming alongside the old sergeant, Alek almost blurted out the truth, but at the last moment stilled his tongue. Nodding his thanks at Bartone’s assistance, the young Nightstalker walked out the postern gate and back onto the road that led away into the mountainous wilderness of his home. The blade for now would remain a Kossak problem, and Alek dared not share anything with Bartone for fear that the Nachal would make him return and kill his old friend in order to preserve that secret.

As soon as they were through, Bartone barked a sharp command and the postern gate began to screech closed. Ignoring the grating sound behind him, Alek walked with tired strides back along the path he had entered the city. So tired was Alek that he did not realize how the shadows moved as he traveled along the old dirt path.

The thick, no longer so delicate shadows of the tall stalks bending towards the Nightstalker moving through their midst.