The Knife's Edge

by Matthew Wolf

  Abruptly, he heard a scream, and he twisted towards it. A bearded man with a greasy smile grabbed a passing waitress. Several men including two nearby guards watched the flailing woman, jostling one another in amusement. Gray moved to help the woman, and stumbled over a chair, causing a string of curses from those nearby—but before he was halfway to her, the brown-haired waitress laughed and batted her aggressor away while fluttering her lashes. The men he had bumped into watched him as if he were mad. Pulling up his cloak, he wove his way to the corner of the hall looking for a seat to calm his frayed nerves. What’s going on? He thought, his heart thumping. What is this feeling?

  In the corner, beneath a flickering torch, he found an empty table where the din of the hall was reduced to a low hum. He took a deep breath. I’m jumping at every little thing. Something tingled beneath his shirt, and as he reached for the pendant a voice spoke.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  “No,” he said retracting his hand and looking up. There stood Mura with a wry smile. Gray leapt from the bench and embraced the hermit, lifting him from the ground. The man grumbled good-naturedly, but Gray paid no heed. Mura felt real and solid.

  “I see you’ve not lost your strength,” Mura said, rubbing his ribs with a laugh.

  “Where’ve you been?” He exclaimed. The man wore a tan shirt and brown pants, and in place of his usually tattered shirt, he wore a snug black tunic. A few scratches marred his cheek and forehead, but he looked nearly unscathed.

  “I’ve been here. When you caused your little raucous over there I spotted you. Is everything all right, lad? You look as if something is nipping at your heels.”

  “I’m all right now,” he said and motioned the man to sit. So caught up in the moment he failed to notice that the hermit had placed a steaming dish upon the table. It was filled with cubes of lamb, buttery rice, and two thick slabs of bread. The smell of spices rose from the plate hitting Gray’s nose, and his stomach twisted in knots. “I’ve never smelled anything so good.”

  Mura chuckled. “Fool boy, I figured you hadn’t eaten since I last saw you.”

  “You’re not too far off.”

  “Well dig in!” He exclaimed pushing the plate towards him. “I’ve had my fill, several times over,” he said with a wink, and when he saw the look on Gray’s face, he added, “I’m not going anywhere. Eat and then we’ll talk,” he insisted, pushing the plate closer.

  Gray was only too happy to oblige, and as he finished the last savory bite, he looked up. “Is there more?”

  Mura laughed, and then smoothly caught the attention of a waitress, signaling for another plate. “Well, I’m glad you haven’t lost your appetite.”

  When Gray had his fill, he pushed the plate away. “What happened, Mura?”

  “Back in the woods, or after?”

  “Both. I want to know all of what happened until now.”

  Mura nodded. “Then I’ll need a drink,” he said, and again smoothly snagged the eye of a barmaid and ordered two pints. She returned carrying two frothing mugs. Preparing his long-stemmed pipe, Mura spoke, “After I watched you fall over that cliff’s edge, I feared you were dead, but I never let myself believe it for a moment.”

  Gray took a long draught, wiping foam from his upper lip. “And I prayed for you. But how did you survive?”

  “By tooth and nail,” Mura answered. “A verg is a difficult thing to kill. A Nameless, however, is another thing entirely.”

  Gray breathed through his teeth. “You killed a Nameless?” Nameless were fabled beings, rarely mentioned in the stories. They were more evil than a hundred vergs.

  Mura tampered down the pipe’s contents, and took a long draw. As he exhaled, smoke billowed. “I killed the verg, but not the Nameless. I was lucky enough to escape its dark blade with my life. A Nameless is no mere creature of the Wasteland. It is far worse. In truth, I had heard only stories, and did not believe they existed until that day in the woods.”

  “What are they?” Gray asked, leaning forward.

  A round of sharp laughter went up at a table of gamblers. Mura continued when they quieted. “They are dark beings from another age. Some say they aren’t even living, and perhaps never were. They shift from shadow to shadow like a dark breeze, and can mist from thin air. Most legends say they can’t be killed. From older elvin stories, they are said to be once-Reavers—those who wield magic beyond the gates. During the great war, dark Reavers twisted their own form and a new enemy was born… the nameless.”

  There was another bout of laughter, and a stream of curses erupted from the nearby table. Gray shook himself, pushing away his drink.

  “Now it is my turn,” the hermit said as he leaned closer. The torch on the wall behind them flickered, casting Mura in a ruddy orange light. “What happened to you my boy? How did you get away?”

  At Mura’s words, Gray flinched, remembering the verg, the wolf’s bite, and what came after. “I fell.”

  “…from the cliff?” Mura whispered, incredulous.

  “Somehow I survived. I still don’t exactly know how.” Gray continued, “When I came to, I remembered what you said and I followed the Silvias River.” He paused as a barmaid passed their table, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear. It reminded Gray of Karil. “By the way, how do you know Karil?”

  The hermit took a drink from his pint. “You mean, how do I know an elf? But I suppose both are good questions. Finish your story, and I shall tell you mine.”

  “There’s not much left to say,” he said with a shrug. “I made my way through the forest, and…”

  “What is it?” Mura questioned.

  “I met a woman on the border of the woods and we were attacked.”

  “Who was she?” Mura asked.

  “I’m wondering that myself,” he said. “Her name was Vera and she came from across the gates. She said she knew me, but I didn’t trust her. Then again, she saved me.”

  “From across the gates? Interesting,” Mura said as he refilled his pipe.

  “There’s one more thing,” he said. “I saw Kail.”

  The hermit choked, coughing smoke. “You what? He’s alive?”

  “I’d say so,” Gray said, fingering the cut the Ronin gave him upon his cheek.

  “So it’s true… What in the seven hells happened?”

  Gray tried to remember Kail’s words. “He warned me… Something about the sword, and at the same time, he was pained by its touch. Then he left in a rush.”

  “Just like that?” Mura whispered, “He didn’t try to kill you?”

  Gray shook his head, still deeply confused by it all.

  Smoke billowed as Mura exhaled in disbelief, “A Ronin come to life… I fear I will not believe it truly until I see it for myself.”

  “I would not wish that upon you,” Gray said. “I fear it would be the last thing you see.”

  “You might be right. Did the man seem mad as the stories say?”

  Again, he shook his head. “He seemed driven, as if by some dark purpose.”

  Mura scrubbed the stubble upon his chin. “This raises many questions. I will tell Karil of this news. That you were attacked so close to Lakewood worries me greatly. Lakewood is short on men as it stands. Half of them are patrolling the streets and watching the wall, and in truth, many have been too scared to take up their duties. Karil has done her best to light the dark corners of the town, but we must still be wary. Which reminds me, do you still have the sword?”

  “I had to leave it with the guards.”

  Mura inhaled deeply on his pipe, and let the smoke puff out the corner of his mouth. “We must get it soon.”

  Gray admitted, not having the blade at his side was odd. Somewhere along the way he had grown strangely attached to it, but Mura looked to be hiding something. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Let’s just say, it’s better for the sword to be in your hands.”

  He leaned forward. “Mura, what aren’t you telling me?”

 
The hermit tapped his pipe, emptying its contents, and placed it back in his pocket. “I suppose it’s time to tell you all I know,” he answered. “Three years ago, I was on the other side of the gates. I lived in Eldas, the great Kingdom and home to the elves. At that time, a prophecy was uttered, one that would change the course of history. It was the prophecy that was destined to be the hope against the Return.” He paused, his eyes distant as if remembering and he took a long draught of ale. Gray knew of the Return. It was what all people feared—it was the Ronin’s return from the dead to finish what they started and leave the world in ruins. “It feels like a lifetime ago, but I can still remember her voice as she spoke the words.”

  “Whose?”

  “My sister,” Mura replied, and then looked up with a smile. “She was the prophet. The one who named you.” Gray’s fingers curled, balling into fists as he listened. “Our meeting was not chance, Gray, but that does not make me any less glad for it. You are an integral part of the prophecy. Three years ago, I came to my sister upon her deathbed. She instructed me to go to the Lost Woods, to wait for the one prophesied. I left everything I knew, crossed the gates with the aid of the elves, and made a home in the forest. There I waited for you.”

  As Gray listened, a memory filled his vision of a dark night. Rain soaked through his tattered tunic, and his wet cloak clung to his cold limbs. He looked down. A sword was gripped loosely in his hand. A flash of lightning lit the forest. He saw dried blood upon the blade. Thunder roiled, shaking the ground when he smelled smoke. Gripping the blade, he followed the scent, weaving through the shadowy trees. Orange light shone through the branches. It was the light of a fire seen through glazed windows. A hut. Safety at last.

  He returned to the moment. It had seemed sheer luck that he had stumbled upon Mura’s hut. But now he knew it was more. It was all intended.

  “Are you all right, lad?” Mura asked. He rested a hand upon his arm, displaying the same warmth he had shone him so long ago.

  “It’s a lot to take in, but it all makes sense. Why are you telling me now though? You knew I sought the answers to my past.” He couldn’t keep the frustration from seeping in. “Why have you held it from me all this time?”

  Mura’s face went distant. “If you only knew how many times I wished that I could. But the prophecy demanded that you not know. It required that you live your life until the day it demanded you. My sister insisted upon that in her dying words.” The hermit took another long draught from his drink. “Though truthfully, I had my own reasons as well. I wanted you to become the person you are today, unhindered by the burden of your prophecy. That is to say, I wanted you to have a moral compass that was true—I couldn’t do that if you thought it was for some alternate purpose, than just simply to be yourself.”

  Frustration and confusion rose inside him and he pounded the table. Others nearby looked over, their conversation slowing. Gray waited until they looked away, and spoke, “I just want to know who I am, or who I was.”

  “You were born within Farhaven, but beyond that, I cannot answer your past. I wish I could.”

  “But I don’t want this—any of it. Why would the prophecy choose me?”

  “I know not, but oftentimes, we do what we must, until our fate reveals itself.”

  Gray felt for the pendant beneath his shirt. “I never asked for this…” The metal bit into his palm, but he held it tighter. A man in red and black livery wove through the tables, making his way towards them.

  “Yes?” Mura inquired as the man approached.

  “Apologies for the intrusion, but the queen seeks you,” the messenger said in a low tone.

  “Is it urgent?” Mura asked.

  “There is trouble. I was told to find you without delay.”

  The hermit gave a deep breath and he turned to Gray. “I must see to this, will you be all right?” He nodded, and they clasped forearms. “I will see you soon, my boy, and we will talk more.” With that, the hermit rose and swiftly followed the messenger out of the Great Hall.

  Alone now, Gray settled back into his chair. Everything Mura said still churned in his head. “Prophecy,” he whispered aloud, but it sounded more like a curse.

  And at a nearby table, the commotion was picking up, as voices grew heated.

  He felt violence in the air.

  A Rogue’s Luck

  DARIUS ROLLED A DIE ACROSS THE ridge of his fingers, holding his breath, his other fist clenched beneath the table. At last, the seven dice on the round wood table stopped their roll.

  Seven ones.

  He let out a strangled gasp of surprise. “Seven,” he said. All the other men grumbled and threw their coin, sitting back into their chairs. All except one.

  Across the table, old Bueler eyed him with one squinted eye. “Had I not known all your tricks, Darius, I’d think ya was cheatin’.”

  “What can I say?” Darius shrugged. “When you’re lucky, you’re lucky.”

  Bueler snorted, “Aye—the Ronin’s own dark luck.”

  Darius was startled by the comparison. He hadn’t heard them mentioned by name since he was a boy. He laughed uncomfortably and looked around the table. The other men looked equally unnerved by the name. At that moment, a group of shapely women passed closely by, flirting with the gamblers. Thank Lokai. Best make use of this. Darius pushed back his chair.

  “Hold on!” Bueler croaked loudly. Darius saw the coin-seeking women hadn’t fazed Bueler. Instead, the man’s dark eyes narrowed, looking like small, angry lumps of coal. “Not going to let a man have another chance at his money?”

  The others turned. Darius froze, half-risen from his seat. He knew where his dagger lay. He could get to it in the blink of an eye, but he didn’t move his hand. He didn’t want to fight nine men, not for a foolish wager. He debated giving the coin back, but something in Bueler’s eyes suggested the man wasn’t wholly interested in the loss of silver anymore.

  “Settle down, Buel,” said Farley in his rumbling voice. He was Lakewood’s blacksmith, and his brawny arms attested to that, as they barely fit inside his tunic. “No use getting worked up. It’s just a game. And if you start a fight at the festival, the council will have your head on a pike.” Bueler didn’t seem to care. He stared at Darius with growing rage. He wasn’t sure about the others, but Bueler’s mind seemed more for blood than coin. The man was different tonight, a darker glimmer in his eyes. And while Bueler surely couldn’t fight, the fool could work the others into a lather. Once in his life, Darius had seen a mob form, and a man had died as a result. It was a terrifying thing what the irrational power of rage and numbers did to a man. It was time to work his charm, before things got any worse.

  “My apologies, gentlemen, while I would love to stay and chat, it is just far too glorious a night to waste simply tossing dice, even with such fine company.” He bowed deeply, gesturing with his one hand, and with his other slid a portion of his earnings into his coin purse, leaving most of the heavy coins on the table—more than enough. Darius gestured to the coin. “A token of my appreciation. Until next time…” He turned, hiding a smirk. That should work, now to—

  “Oh, you’re not going anywhere,” Bueler called. “Not this time.”

  Darius heard the scrape of wood as the other men slid back their chairs. He cursed inwardly.

  “Turn and face us, you scoundrel!”

  Slowly, he turned, and saw the speaker. It was Bueler’s lackey, Ruben. Ruben was big, and while not as big as Farley he was still twice the width and a good hand taller than Darius. Moreover, the man’s face reflected his many fights and foul temper. A scar ran across his missing left eye and down his mouth, leaving it in a perpetual sneer.

  Don’t look the bull in the eye. It’ll only anger it. He turned his gaze down and flashed his most disarming smile. “Look, this is clearly a misunderstanding. If you want another game, all you had to do is ask… I’m ready to lose my coin. That is, if you’re man enough to take it. Now sit, sit,” he ushered, “The next round i
s on me.” He looked around for a barmaid, but as the tension grew, a clear gap was dividing between them and the others in the hall. Dice! Where are they when you need them?

  “No more games,” said another.

  Darius tried to slow his beating heart. “Surely you’re not going to start a fight in the Great Hall itself? A man of your intelligence, Bueler, would see the folly—“

  “Shut up!” Bueler said, sliding his chair back, “Enough talking! Even your silver tongue won’t save you now.”

  “You’re mine first, rogue,” Ruben voiced as he kicked a nearby cask, knocking it out of the way and causing a cascade of stacked barrels.

  “You! Don’t move a muscle!” A voice shouted from behind.

  Ruben paused in his tracks and Darius twisted to see a young man striding towards him. Gray, he remembered. Gray shoved aside a stool, stomping towards him, his face a thunderhead. Darius backpedaled closer to Ruben. He was caught between a hammer and an anvil.

  Gray grabbed him by the scruff and yanked him up. “You! You left me!”

  Darius grabbed Gray’s hands, trying to pry them off, but he had as much chance as prying a nail from hard oak. “You’re angry, I can see that, but you don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I understand perfectly,” Gray replied with a crazed light in his eyes.

  “And just who are you?” said Bueler, squinting one eye at Gray.

  “Back off, old man,” Gray snapped.

  Bueler recoiled, eyes widening.

  “What did you just say?” Ruben sneered, stepping forward.

  “Gray, you don’t understand,” Darius said in a fierce whisper, so only his friend could hear. “This man will hurt you and me. Just do as he says.”

  Gray ignored him and looked to Ruben. “I said back off,” he repeated slowly as if the man were daft. “This is none of your affair. It’s between me and the rogue.”