9 Tales From Elsewhere 6 by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

Author:9 Tales From Elsewhere [Elsewhere, 9 Tales From]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bride of Chaos
Published: 2016-05-17T22:00:00+00:00

THE END.

ESSENCES by Jim Lee

Orem spun round at the warning shout. He tossed what he had been holding aside, instinctively freeing his hand and reaching for his sword. It flashed out just in time to deflect the first thrust. His wrist swung in anticipation, blocking a second lunge.

The attacker wore a dark brown burnoose, making him almost invisible in the murky alleyway. But the man’s eyes gleamed with desperate courage and something in them told Orem to be ready for the sweeping arc designed to take his head off with a flourish.

Orem blocked this blow easily and immediately countered with a short, economical slash. It was not artful, but it proved effective and the attacker yelped.

The grey-clad would-be killer jumped sideways, dropped his sword and clawed in vague surprise at his suddenly gaping neck. He fell in the gutter with a sickening gurgle. It took him three full minutes to bleed out.

But Orem did not pause for even three seconds to consider his work. Instead, he completed a spin on the balls of one leather-wrapped foot. His sword was poised in front of and across his chest, ready for the next attacker to dive at him from the darkness.

There was a second warrior, also in a brown burnoose and no more than fifteen seconds behind his partner. His opening lunge was hesitant, reflecting his astonishment at Orem’s quick moves. Oren deflected the blow, suffering a minor cut above the wrist but giving his opponent the same in return.

The grey-clad man backed a step then broke and ran.

Orem did not pursue. Di’Sun was not his city. Its twisted, narrow, unfamiliar avenues would give a fleeing native the advantage—and very possibly encourage ambush.

He shook his head, peered at several figures dimly illuminated at the alley’s lip by light from the nearby tavern’s open door and windows. Some of the place’s patrons had stopped to witness the attack, but only one had called out in warning.

“Who do I owe a mug of ale?” Orem asked, cleaning his sword with a handy rag. When no one spoke up, h frowned and glanced about him in the murk. One of the city’s half-wild dogs had already claimed his hard-cooked egg, but the salt packet was worth retrieving if still intact. It was, and Orem warded off the dogs with the side of the foot then stood upon the packet to be sure they respected his claim.

Yipping as if offended, the ill-kept mongrels slunk around to lick the dead man’s blood from the gutter.

Orem watched the onlookers begin to drift away, most returning to the tavern. Not one claimed the offered reward.

“Yes,” he told himself. “No doubting it. I’m in the right city—on the right trail, at last!”

Now only one figure remained at the alley’s fringe, half-in and half-out of view. Orem frowned, recognizing him without wanting to—and feeling the bond, the innate mental connection. Was it possible that this so-familiar stranger felt it too?

“Minstrel,” Orem called out.

The man took a step backward, but halted when Orem raised his hand.

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