Beneath the Forsaken City - C. E. Laureano Page 0,39
stories.
Just as he now questioned the brotherhood’s policy of separation. There had been good reasons for it once, but was tradition an adequate justification now that they saw the darkness their inaction had wrought? The brotherhood was descended from the loyal palace guard who had protected Queen Shanna from the wrath of her sons after they murdered her husband, and their only purpose for five hundred years had been to hold the High City for the return of the king. But what good was holding the throne and the fortress if the people the High King was meant to serve were suffering under the rule of an evil man?
His uneasiness built, but he shook off the feeling as he shouldered his staff and trudged into the open meadow. It had to be the sidhe. The spirits had done enough damage while they were bound. It seemed that they were bound no more.
You should not have come here. Your place is at Ard Dhaimhin, not here in the world. Go back to your comfortable prison.
The pang of foreboding nearly doubled him over. He paused, breathing deeply. “You cannot harm me,” he said quietly. “I walk in the light of Balus.”
The oppression eased somewhat, and he moved forward, taking his heading from the position of what little sun peeked through the clouds. He’d meant to make for Clogheen, a market village that stood at the intersection of the road from the port of Ballaghbán and the shippers’ road that led from Siomar toward Lisdara. Its constant influx of travelers offered both anonymity and the promise of fresh news. But now he wondered if he’d chosen wrong. Walking in that direction was like trudging through molasses. His feet were moving, but it took an extraordinary effort to continue. Was it just an overall malaise brought on by the sidhe, or was he being specifically targeted?
“Be gone in the name of Comdiu and his son, Balus,” Riordan commanded, and the presence fled. He drew in another deep breath. Whatever he would learn in Clogheen, the sidhe did not want him to know.
It was bad enough that they had been released. Even worse that they now seemed to have purpose. Riordan struck out southeast, traveling overland so he wouldn’t meet up with the road until he came to Clogheen. A fine mist wet his skin, growing increasingly thicker and more persistent the closer he came to the town. Of course. The sidhe fed off human passions and delighted in creating mischief. A market town with its cross sections of travelers, some of whom had never heard of Balus, was the perfect place in which to gorge themselves.
No sooner did Riordan reach the boundaries of the town than the oppressive stench of misery and fear fell over him. He shuddered, sending up a silent prayer for protection. The town was small by any standards other than Seareann, a scattering of huts and thatched-roof cottages. Pony- and ox- and handcarts displayed all sorts of wares. He squinted through the mist and brushed moisture from his skin as he walked slowly down the main street, the usual market sounds dampened by the fog.
A shout caught his attention, followed by a clatter as a produce cart tipped over and late-summer vegetables spilled onto the road. Riordan jumped out of the way just as two men crashed into the street, grappling in the dirt and shouting vile names Riordan hadn’t heard in years. The one on the bottom—the customer, Riordan thought—seemed to be getting in his fair share of licks, punching and kneeing the man on top, who groaned as each strike met flesh. Then, without warning, the merchant pulled a knife from his belt and plunged it into the other man’s chest.
The murderer stood and wiped his blade on his own tunic, then met Riordan’s eyes. Riordan shuddered again. There was something empty and hopeless, vacant, about those eyes. The sidhe had found another victim. Beneath his cloak, Riordan curled his hand around the hilt of his own dagger, but the man just turned and walked back to his toppled cart, leaving the body alone in the street.
Not for long, though. A pack of urchins scrambled into the road, rifling through the dead man’s possessions. His shoes went first, followed by his cloak. One girl howled in fury when his coin pouch turned out to be empty—probably the reason for the fight in the first place.
Riordan turned away, sickened. The children always turned feral first. They were too susceptible