Voyage of the Shadowmoon by Sean Mcmullen

Author:Sean Mcmullen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-06-06T00:00:00+00:00

The sky was overcast and devoid of Miral’s light as Laron lay sprawled on the cobbles of the alleyway. He knew he did not have much time, but the pain that racked his body was all but blotting out his thoughts. Farther down the lane a figure was counting coins by the light of a distant street lantern. The alley was a dead end, there was no escape. He began to crawl. After about a yard he found his discarded, empty purse. Beside it was a chunk of glass, from the glassy ruins of Larmentel. Scooping up both, he crawled on.

Laron felt smooth, curved wood. Barrels littered the place, in various states of repair. Barrels. Frantically his fingers probed and groped, as he hoped against hope that the gods of the moonworlds would smile on him. He found it! A barrel with one end smashed in. He crawled inside, then heaved it vertical.

Footsteps approached. “Come now, are ye in pain? I can soon end all that.”

The hunter probed and groped now. He thumped Laron’s barrel, went on to another, then rummaged about in the smashed pieces.

“Come out, else it will go worse for ye,” came the voice, but this time there was an edge of doubt to it.

Laron barely breathed. How long before he lost interest? An hour? Two? The entire night? He had the gold, after all, yet—

Suddenly there was a hollow knocking. His attacker had found a low door. Where there were barrels there was sure to be a cellar, and where there was a cellar there was sure to be a cellar door.

“How did ye get in there?” the voice demanded. “Some slackard bugger left it open, I’ll wager.” Laron heard the sound of kicking. “Open up, I say!” his enraged pursuer demanded. “Open up. I’ll not warn ye again!”

A furious barrage of kicks and curses erupted and echoed along the dark alley, but within moments there were other voices calling out, and someone was ringing a gong. There was the sound of running feet, people shouting, the flicker of torchlight, then silence. Laron pushed the barrel over and crawled the length of the alley on his hands and knees, then hauled himself to his feet as he reached the street. He limped along for a few yards, leaning against the walls of the shops and houses. The owners of the cellar came running back, torches held high.

“Alms for the lame, in the name of the gods,” croaked Laron, hoping that he looked even marginally as bad as he felt. “Alms for the lame, in the name of the gods.”

Laron was ignored. By putting all of his concentration into heaving one leg ahead of the other he managed to reach the end of the street. The only public fountain on the entire rim of the Placidian Ocean bubbled and splashed there, and Laron plunged his head into the water for a moment, then drank greedily and wiped some of the blood away. Again he forced his legs to support him, and staggered away into the shadows, hoping that he was no longer being watched.

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