It’s almost over. Talk to Ischade. Talk to Ischade and I can sleep again.
Thus it was that a wobbly Zalbar donned his uniform and ventured out into the
last rays of the setting sun, determined to rid himself of his nighttime
tormenter or die in the attempt … which, at the moment, seemed a reasonably
attractive option.
It was his intention to follow the North Road, which skirted the city’s walls,
to the bridge over the White Foal River, thereby avoiding the streets of the
city proper. It was well known that, following the Hell-Hounds’ removal, the
chaos in town had evolved into vicious street fighting between rival factions,
and he had no desire to be delayed by a brawl. Once he had walked unafraid even
in the Maze, the heart of Sanctuary’s underground. Now, that was someone else’s
concern and there was no need to take unnecessary risks.
The further he went, the more he realized that he had underestimated the extent
of the urban warfare. Even here, outside the city, his trained eye could detect
signs of preparations for violence. There were boxes and barrels stacked in
formations clearly designed for cover and defense rather than for storage, and
there were any number of armed men lounging in corners with no apparent purpose
other than to serve as lookouts. Despite his weakened condition, Zalbar grew
more tense as he walked, feeling scores of concealed eyes watching him …
appraising his strength. Perhaps he should have taken the longer route, skirting
the town to the east, then passing south along the wharfs where violence was