The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows by Paul Crilley Page B

seen. Cutter yanked open the door that led to the corridor.
    Two men stood there. Cutter reached for his knives but someone gripped his arms from behind. He kicked out, feeling his boot connect with a hard stomach. One of his attackers staggered back, struggling to regain his breath.
    Cutter was just about to kick out again when the other man lifted a glass vial filled with white fluid. He splashed it into Cutter’s face.
    The scent of the liquid hit him and seemed to crawl down his throat of its own accord. He felt it course through his body, a trail of warmth and heaviness.
    Couldn’t swallow.
    Couldn’t breathe.
    His veins felt like they were filled with sluggish fluid. His whole body felt heavy. He sagged, his eyelids drooping.
    The last thing he saw was the boot of the man he had just kicked coming at his face.

    Cutter yawned and stoked the fire, sitting close to the low flames in an attempt to feed some warmth into his body. Dawn was approaching, a single line of pink and orange that stretched across the wide horizon. The solitary cry of an eagle echoed over the steppe. He looked up, but the bird was invisible against the night-touched sky.
    A slight wind shivered the short grass of the steppe, but itwas warm, carrying the scent of flowers and rain. Finally, thought Cutter. The first hint of spring.
    The camp began to stir as the morning slowly brightened. Elves crept from their low, stretched-out tents and called greetings to each other. Wood was piled atop banked fires, hands held before the flames. The wind might promise spring, but the early mornings still belonged to winter.
    He heard movement behind him, the scuffing of soft leather soles on the dry scrub. A moment later, Thalian knelt next to him.
    “The Ancestors bless your day,” the Keeper said formally.
    “And yours,” replied Cutter.
    Thalian didn’t say anything else. Cutter glanced sideways at him, studying his angular face. The young elf was a Keeper of the Past, the priesthood of the Valenar elves that maintained the memory of the great elf heroes of Xen’drik. They had known each other for three years now, so Cutter could tell when something was bothering the elf.
    “What is it?” he asked.
    “The messenger who arrived yesterday …” began Thalian.
    “Yes?”
    “King Vadallia has called our clan to serve him in Taer Valaestas.”
    “And?”
    “And, slaves are … frowned upon by the King.”
    Cutter frowned and turned to the fire. The events of three years ago ran through his head. It was as if he were seeing them in the flames, replayed in the fire like they were replayed every night in his dreams.
    He had been sleeping when it happened—or more accurately, passed out. He awoke to the horrendous rending of splintering wood as the ship he traveled on hit a reef off the southeast coastof Valenar. He was flung from his bed into the cabin wall. All around him was pitch darkness. He hadn’t bothered to activate the everbright globe when he started drinking that afternoon. He could hear the screams of the passengers, the shouts of the captain and his crew as they tried to do something to save the foundering vessel. But it was too late. He crawled on hands and knees to where he thought the hatch should be, and yanked it open. Icy cold water lapped at his hands and knees. A few seconds later, it was up to his wrists.
    He staggered up to the deck and saw the captain and his first mate lower the tiny fishing boat strapped to the side of the ship and make their escape. Everyone else was forced to leap into the sea and fight for their lives against the fierce breakers that tried to pound them against lethally sharp rocks.
    Out of thirty, only seventeen survived, dragging themselves to the shore and gasping for air, crying out thanks to the Sovereign Host and the Silver Flame.
    They should have saved their prayers. All they’d done was exchange one danger for another. Malleas and his war clan had skirted the coastline as the ship sailed north.