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FINISHING MY NOVEL!
A day not written is a day not lived.
And the displacement tactics are nothing more than the scenic route towards my goal....
From: MAP OF SOULS.
One man killed, another mutilated and a whore beaten senseless. Sluk works its magic very quickly. Raeker cursed. Too many mistakes and the hunter soon became the prey. Standing there, pressed against the brickwork, eyes raised again in doomed hope of illumination from the lost moon, he felt Sluk’s pull and his spirits slumped.
The scourging drought of the last few months had been washed away by the onslaught of the rain and with it all traces of the Fibian-Krak’s flight. But after tracking the Krak buck all the way from the Mrkev Quarter and even following a trail that was two days old, it didn’t take a genius to know where the buck was headed. And for all its overwhelming power, the rain could not wash away memory. As his hearing filtered out the pained whimpers of a woman beyond the wall inside and the brute, breathy laughter of the man with her, Raeker remembered the young buck’s crime. And how Lord Mrkev, on giving him the commission, had made a point of showing him the body of the Mrkev House handmaiden, lying in state. What remained of it. The servants for all the horror still had time for some lively gossip. The Krak had fed on her flesh, violated her. A thorough job but for being disturbed before finishing it. The housemaiden had one gasp of breath left she had saved for death when they found her. Calling for her Lord. Like many a Silt-Mark mercenary Raeker had looked upon the handiwork of Fibian-Kraks before and had witnessed it in action; that they preferred live flesh to feast upon didn’t make for easy viewing. He had seen worse during his twenty-five years upon Takrann, but not, he would admit, by much.
Nor did it take a scholar from one of the Libraries of Lightening to figure out who had been hiring Kraks to cause disruption in the Mrkev Quarter; Raeker wouldn’t concern himself about it. He cared not for the rights and wrongs of such internecine niceties. Nor was he going to waste much time wondering why Lord Mrkev had been so clearly upset about that particular housemaiden, while his wife’s face was as stone looking down upon the mutilated body of the girl. He had been hired to do a job and he would make sure it would get done. Reputation was hard won and lost within a second. Only money could slip through a man’s fingers sooner. A trophy ear from the dead Krak would seal the bargain. Mrkev did indeed pay well. Even he, feared as he was, would expect to do so to persuade someone to follow a Krak into Sluk. Not for the first time, but once was more than enough, Raeker reminded himself. The shambolic facades and the names upon them shifted like a mutating beast, but the nature of the beast was always the same. He would make sure that when he got out again this night, this visit would be his last.
He had only one friend here. Before stalking the Krak further, Raeker hesitated, awaiting its arrival. Through the lashing sheets of rain and rumour of moving shadow it came. Along streets with a history of secrets darker than the shadows that masked them. It came to him, past the scurrying rats which recognized it too; unmistakeable, familiar for as long as he could remember having drawn breath, and as vital for life as breath itself. The vermin with the slashed ear knew it as friend also. The Silt-Marker admitted to himself they at least had that in common. Its presence running colder than the icy rain through vein and marrow. Pointing ahead. Into the darkness. Inviting him to follow. Fear. Raeker smiled his grim acknowledgement. Yes, he was afraid. Invitation accepted. Becoming one with the moving shadow Raeker glided through the pelting rain with an expert balance of intuition and skill, sure in intent, towards his target.
Some three hundred paces behind, in a gutter of garbage between the ends of two gambling dens with barely enough space for elbow room, Darl began to come to and sooner than the dagger hilt administered to him should have allowed. His rickety, street-worn bones were topped by a thick skull. He staggered up on one knee, eyes blurred by rainfall and a coming back to consciousness as his hands scraped against the wall. The rain stung his skin all over but for some reason his left ear stung even more and then he remembered the dagger cut and his brain registered the pain. His guts ached too. He retched and brought up what little food he had in his belly. “Teng dagger, teng dagger,†his tongue fumbled over the words. He tried to think. Fancy teng dagger it was. Fancy airs and graces? Money I say. Hodz was dead. Darl knew it. And they’d done this patch together for three years without a slip up. But Darl wasn’t about to go looking for him. Dead is as dead says. Dead. Dead and gone. Got in your way did he? You got in my way, Silt-Marker. Two Fingers? Think you'll get a chance to find the buck there, do you? I’ll have your two fingers in a bit of bread, blue-eyes. Darl dragged himself to his feet, wrapped his tattered scarf about his mouth and ears and with throbbing head and dazed vision, stumbled towards The Two Fingers alehouse...
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