Blood and Honor

“So why are you working for them? Karrnathi loyalty?”

“You could say.”

A distant bell boomed through the fog, striking the hour.

“It’s late,” said Mordan. “I’m going to get some sleep. I’ll meet you outside Falko’s at noon. With luck, Hintram will have made his delivery by then.”

Inside the warehouse, Falko rummaged through another stack of books, pausing occasionally to glance back at Solly’s sketch of the mysterious badge. There was a soft sound behind him, and he turned round with a start. A pair of eyes bored into his, and a gentle voice told him to be still.

Chapter 5

Military Surplus

Olarune 18, 999 YK

Karrlakton’s waterfront looked little better by day than it did by night. The fog was gone, but everything was still gray. Looking across the river, it was impossible to tell where the grayness of the overcast skies ended and the grayness of the Mournland mist began. The walls and roofs of the warehouses were a darker shade of gray, relieved only by the occasional splash of green where moss or some other plant had found a foothold between the stones.

Tarrel turned up his collar and wondered what Mordan was learning from Falko. They had seen Hintram arrive by wagon, unload several bundles into Falko’s warehouse, and drive away a few minutes later. Mordan had gone inside while Tarrel followed the wagon. He had changed out of his Brelish clothes, which would have made him too conspicuous on the waterfront, and into some rough laborer’s clothing provided by one of Mordan’s contacts. He kept a safe distance from his quarry, but the driver seemed to have no idea he was being followed.

The wagon headed east along the waterfront, following wheel-ruts left in the cobbles by centuries of traders. Tarrel tried to imagine what the place had looked like in its prime, with vessels from across Khorvaire crowding its docks, loading and unloading cargo from all over the world. All he could see were the results of war and neglect. The docks stood mostly empty. Instead of bustling merchants and stevedores, there were beggars huddled against the warehouse walls, taking what shelter they could beneath the overhanging roofs.

The farther east the wagon went, the worse everything looked. The cobbles became patchy and then ran out altogether; the warehouses became more ruinous, and the thoroughfare more choked with trash and debris. Finally, even the beggars disappeared, replaced by fat, greasy rats that skittered from cover to cover.

At last, the wagon reached a warehouse close to the gap-toothed city wall. A wooden jetty reached a little way into the water, with moss and mildew speckling the boards that were still there. Off the end of the jetty, a couple of pilings stuck a foot or so out of the gray, oily water, showing that the jetty had once been longer. Opposite the jetty stood a warehouse whose front had been almost demolished—whether by a wartime attack or by something that had crossed from the Mournland, it was impossible to tell—and patched up with canvas, broken timbers, and whatever else came to hand. A half-orc lounged on the nearest corner, obviously a lookout. The wagon was almost fifty yards ahead of him by now, and he slipped into an alley out of sight.

Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a small mirror. It was mounted at an angle on a slim iron handle, and allowed him to look around the corner without being seen. As he watched, the half-orc pulled a sheet of canvas aside, and the cart went into the crumbling warehouse. The lookout returned to his post on the corner.

Tarrel watched for a few moments, then put the mirror away and pulled out a wand. It was different from the one Mordan had returned to him: a smooth, featureless rod of something that looked like glass. Touching it to his chest, he muttered a few words, and vanished.

“I told you,” said Falko.

Mordan examined the sword. It was masterwork, but not cavalry pattern. With its asymmetric, spiked quillons and jagged blade, it was ugly but brutally effective, designed to be wielded with strength rather than skill. He looked at the crown and skull emblem stamped on the hilt.

“Undead?” he asked.

Falko nodded. “The armor and shields, too,” he said. “Standard issue for zombie units. It makes sense, I suppose. With the undead forces being demobilized. I expect I’ll be seeing a lot more of their surplus equipment. In fact, I’m surprised no one’s brought any in before.”

There were plenty of adventurers in Karrlakton who would be eager to get their hands on masterwork weapons. But Mordan was no closer to the Lancers.

“Did he tell you anything?” he asked.

Falko shook his head. “Cash only, no names, all business,” he replied. “I don’t suppose he came by these honestly.”