Worse, the whole poisonous business was undoubtedly linked to the deaths of the mystics, and the demons over Usa. It was therefore likely that he would be hunted on two fronts, on one side by swords, on the other by sorcery.
Dagorian had never been more frightened. He had no plan, save to make his way to the oldest quarter of the city. Here he could hide among the multitudes of the poor and the dispossessed, the beggars and thieves, the whores and the urchins. It was the most densely populated quarter, with narrow streets and twisting lanes, dark alleyways and shadowed arches.
It was close to midnight as Dagorian lay down in the doorway of an old warehouse. He was desperately tired and close to despair.
A figure emerged from the moon shadows. Dagorian pushed himself to his feet, his hand on his knife hilt.
In the moonlight he could see the man was not an assassin, but a beggar, dressed in rags. The man approached him cautiously. He was painfully thin, and his skeletal face was pitted with old sores. ‘Spare a copper coin, sir, for an unfortunate victim of the war?’
Dagorian relaxed and was about to reach into his money pouch, when the man sprang forward, a rusty knife in his hand. Dagorian swayed aside, blocking the knife arm and sending a right cross to the beggar’s chin.
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The man fell heavily against the warehouse door, striking his head on the wooden frame. Dagorian wrestled the knife from his grasp, and flung it to one side. The man sank to his haunches.
‘Give me your clothes,’ said the officer, removing his own cloak and shirt.
The man blinked in the moonlight, and stared up at the Drenai with a look of incomprehension. ‘Your clothes, man. I need them. In return you get this fine cloak.’
Slowly the beggar peeled off his wretched coat and the soiled shirt he wore beneath it. ‘And your footwear,’ said Dagorian. ‘You may keep your breeches. I think I’d rather hang than wear them.’ The man’s body was fish white in the moonlight, his chest and back criss-crossed with old scars – the marks of many whips.
The officer donned the clothing and the coat, then sat down and pulled on the man’s boots. They were of cheap hide, the soles as thin as paper.
‘You’re the one they seek,’ said the beggar, suddenly. ‘The killer Drenai.’
‘The first part is right,’ Dagorian told him.
‘You won’t pass for a beggar. You’re too clean. Well scrubbed. You need to lie low for a few days, let your hair get greasy, and get some dirt under your fingernails.’
‘A pleasant thought,’ responded the Drenai. Yet he knew the man was right. He looked at the beggar, who had made no attempt to clothe himself, despite the chill of the night. He is waiting for me to kill him, thought Dagorian, suddenly. And that is what I should do. ‘Get dressed and be on your way,’ he said.
‘Not very bright, are you?’ said the beggar, pulling on the fine blue woollen shirt, and giving a gap-toothed grin.
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‘You’d prefer it if I slit your throat?’
‘It’s not about preference, boy. It’s about survival. Still, I’m grateful.’ The beggar rose, and swung the black cloak around his thin shoulders. ‘You’d better start thinking about a hiding place. If you can stay clear of them for a couple of days they’ll believe you escaped from the city. Then you can make a move.’
‘I do not know the city,’ admitted Dagorian.
‘Then good luck to you,’ said the beggar. Holding the boots in his left hand he moved to where his knife lay and picked it up. Then he was gone.
Dagorian moved away, ducking down a dark alley. The man was right. He needed a place to hide. But where could a man hide from the powers of sorcery?
He felt the rising of panic, and quelled it. The White Wolf had taught him much, but the most valuable lesson was that, when in peril, keep a cool head. ‘Think fast if you have to – but always think!’ Dagorian sucked in a deep, calming breath, and leaned against a wall. Think! Where can the powers of sorcery be held at bay? In a holy temple. He considered travelling to one of the many churches, but that would mean asking for sanctuary. The building may be holy, but he would be putting his life in the hands of the monks. And – even if they did not betray him – he would be risking their lives. No, that was not an option. Where else then? At the home of a friendly sorcerer, who could place ward spells around him. But he knew no sorcerers – save Kalizkan.