Shadows In Carrowhelm-1

The dim flickering light from the tavern danced as Arwin and Dion walked in, the stale aroma of spilled ale and smoke clung to the air like an unwanted guest. A fire crackled in the corner hearth, sending shadows darting from the cloaked patrons hunched over their drinks. 

Arwin quietly sat against the wall while Dion confidently sauntered to the bar. "For two, please," Dion said with a practiced grin. 

As the bartender handed them their mugs, Dion's attention slid towards a table just a few feet away. Four well-dressed men sat hunched over low murmuries, tankards half-full. Their robes had insignias only a trained eye could see- cheap embroidery from the Carrowhelm Merchant Guild. They were talking about trade routes, tariffs, and shipments to the capital involving enchanted weapons and rare ore. 

Skyshard blades. 

Dion nudged Arwin subtly with his elbow and gestured with his eyes. The elf leaned in closer, eavesdropping. 

"The forges have been working day and night," one of the merchants said. "The marquess wants another batch ready before the month ends."

Another merchant snorted. "What about the demands of the capital? They are pressing hard, their agents are more active than ever, I heard Ellen is making off-the-record'deals.'"

That seemed to be Dion's cue to stand, strolling toward the three with an approachable smile on his face. "Evening gentlemen - can I buy you a round? I am with the Eshron branch of Carrowhelm, just landed."

Conversation stopped.

One of the merchants leaned backward, regarding Dion with disgust. "I ain't never heard of no Eshron branch, and we don't drink with strangers espousing names they can't verify."

Dion raised his hands lightly. "No offense meant."

The group resumed their conversation, now lowered and more cautious. Dion walked back to Arwin, his smile evaporated. "No luck."

Arwin emptied his mug and then stood and went over to the bar. He bent toward the bartender. "Do you deal in things other than drink?"

The bartender still didn't look up. "That depends on your thirst. Any information comes with a fee attached."

Arwin slid a pouch of silver across the bar counter.

"I need names. Who's moving enchanted blades - skyshard to be specific - who is not answering directly to the marquess."

The bartender shrugged. "That kind of info takes a little time. Come back tomorrow night, I'll have something by then."

"Same spot?"

"Same spot."

Arwin nodded, and they left out shortly after. Little did they know that the moment the door closed behind them, the bartender tapped the bar twice. 

A man that had been nodding off at the end of the bar lifted his head slowly. 

"They asked about skyshard blades," said the bartender quietly.

The man stood up silently, placed a few coins for his drink, and disappeared out into the street.

—

That night, back at the warehouse they were renting in the outer district, Arwin and Dion laid out everything they had discovered. 

Dion was leaning against a crate, arms crossed. "Carrowhelm has its fingers deep in the capitol's pockets. The merchants trust outsiders too much. Too many eyes."

Arwin added, "The barman is supposed to give me some names tomorrow. But, someone was listening."

Luenor was sitting quietly bandaged and still recovering from the auction house fight, looking down from a scroll map of the nearby mountains. "We won't have much time," Luenor said. "The forges are most likely in the Northern ridge, well isolated, well-guarded, and impossible to find unless you know where to look."

Dion scratched his chin. "If the merchant guild is managing the logistics, the routes will likely intersect somewhere, near those ridges."

"True," Luenor nodded in agreement and rolled up the map. "Then it is time to move from the shadows, to disguise. Hunter--"

Hunter looked up from sharpening his blade.

"I want you to find someone from the black market. Someone good. A forger. We need forged papers. A merchant identity. New names, documentation, contracts. Everything."

Hunter smiled. "Are we planning to sell stuff now?"

"We already have crates of raw mana stones. We would pose as traders from a minor house in the northern territories. We would sell to everyone. Especially anyone dealing with enchanted weapons."

Arwin looked a little uneasy. "We will be right on the edge of exposure. What if the marquess hears about this…"

"He won't," Luenor interrupted, "not until I want him to."

____

The morning air in the capital of Mellon's domain was weighed down by a combination of smog and the oils from merchant blacksmiths burning the early-hour, when Dion wandered into the street outside of the merchant lanes that bordered on the edges of capital's commercial sector because he was comfortable being alone and it allowed him to discover and scout out the area without drawing attention to himself.

But the empty walk had allowed him to return through a winding street and then into a narrow alley, and the noise of the city seemed to fade away. He stopped walking as he felt something cold pressed against his midsection.

"Give me all your gold or your getting cut," said a shaking voice.

Dion looked down to see a boy, not older than ten, clutching a rusted knife tight to his waist. He had torn clothes and sunken cheeks. But it wasn't the boy's threat that had caused Dion to freeze it was the fear in his eyes. Not fear of Dion. But fear of something.

Dion smiled a little, raised his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. No need to gut me, little lord."

The boy flinched, the knife lowering just a little — but his eyes were darting past Dion, over his shoulder.

Then the two brutish men stepped into the alley. Their mouths stretched wide in crooked teeth and ugly smiles.

"Well, well," said the bigger thug. "If it isn't the rat again. We thought we made ourselves clear, boy. This street is not your playground." 

The boy's color drained from his face. "Please . . . Eva needs medicine, she has fever, and then there is the healer —" 

"And the healer don't work for free," the second thug interrupted, and as he stepped in front of the first thug. "It ain't our fault she is rotting in the sewer with your type." 

"Go," Dion whispered to the boy. But it was too late. 

Two more men appeared at the mouth of the alley, blocking any way out. 

The boy dropped the knife and charged one of them --- and a desperate drive to the boy's small fists. 

The thug caught him as he charged, slamming him face-first into the wall. The boy fell down, whimpering, blood flowing from his nose. 

Dion sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "I said," Dion said loud enough to be heard, "leave the boy alone." 

The nearest thug turned to him and scoffed. "What are you going to do? Mellon's Knights don't patrol around here, friend. And you ain't one of the Rykers either, so better shut your mouth, or—"

Dion slapped him.

Not a punch. A slap. Flat-handed and clean. The thug's head snapped to the side with a satisfying crack before his whole body fell away like a sack of meat.

"…shit," one of the others muttered.

The other three closed in.

The first thug came at a fast charge, dagger aimed for Dion's abdomen. Dion grabbed the man's wrist mid-thrust, twisted it behind him and drove an elbow into the man's ribs hard enough to already get him airborne. For a moment it looked like he just floated there before the thug's body hit the ground. He started to cough up bile.

The third assailant was the smarter one. He stayed back and began to circle.

But Dion wasn't in a charity mood.

He retrieved the child's knife from the ground and threw it at the thug's foot. The rusted blade struck - barely piercing leather - but it got his attention. Dion crossed the space between them in two steps then dropped a knee into the thug's gut, followed by a jab to the throat.

The last thug hesitated. "W-We didn't mean—"

Dion didn't wait.

He seized the thug's collar and slammed him into the wall. "I swear to God if I see you in this alley again, I'll carve my initials in your back." 

The man nodded vigorously, and Dion tossed him down the alley. He ran away, hauling the others with him.

It was quiet now. The alley smelled of blood and fear.

The boy was staring - wide-eyed, motionless. He hadn't even attempted to escape.

Dion crouched down beside him. "Hey. You okay?"