How long had he run? It felt as if he’d run his whole life—and he had, in a way. First, his father and him had wandered Vestoria, living among groups of fellow copper-skinned Sudenians wherever they congregated, to hide away from the scornful looks of their light-haired countrymen. But those were just oases; they had to keep running, all they way to Erden Isle, in the far corner of Vestoria, to live among the white folk who assumed them infidels and savages. He was forced together with people with whom he had in common only the color of his skin, into a slum in his hometown of Zauhn. Even they accepted him only grudgingly, by margins; for having a father as an alchemist came with its own set of biases and fears, for good reason.

But his father caused plenty of good and little harm (that folk saw), and Erik settled in, little by little. And, for the first time since he was seven, they stopped running. It never occurred to him to ask what they might be running from until years later, but his father never gave a straight answer then either.

Little by little, friendships and infatuations tied him down to Zauhn, and he grew complacent, weak, rooted. He did not strive to learn so much alchemy as before, content to do as his father asked him. He grew closer to a local girl, but only as a matter of convenience. And the old wanderlust only roused when he thought of dying in that backwater place, or growing old with that local girl, but it never so much as stirred a toe.

Then, nekros had raided, and slaughtered, and the girl never woke from the red sleep. He sat by her pyre for a long time after, thinking of the future they could have had, had he been there to protect her, had moved her into his home, instead of bedding her out of wedlock like a whore. He thought of how he could have protected their child, growing in her belly, that became ashes with the rest of her body.

He started running again, but he thought he was the hunter this time. He tracked down lurchers with the Count’s lastborn son, Oslef, as killing nekros was how he felt alive, and he thought he’d remember how to live, eventually.

It never happened, not in the three years of the butchery.

He didn’t run fast enough. It came time to deliver a case of alchemical formulae to the nekromist Vodrun’s tower. Oslef sat there, waiting for him. Smiling. “Anything for an old friend,” he’d said, face red with drink, seeming the fool for all Erik could tell. He hadn’t seen the knife until it was in him.

He remembered thinking how strange it all felt before the pain set in.

It should have been the end, the conclusion to an unremarkable life—but someone wasn’t finished with him running. He woke again, and knew it by the terrible, incessant pain across his body. He opened his eyes, and saw yellow ones set in a small, onyx head peering back at him. Vodrun smiled as wide as he’d ever seen, like a boy given his first pup, when Erik awoke, and that doomed him as much as anything in Erik’s eyes.

How he’d escaped his bonds, he couldn’t remember; all he knew was that when he was done with the Kimamali man—eyes tinged more red than yellow—it was time to run again. Maybe for good this time, or as long as his legs would carry him. As long as his lungs kept breathing, heart kept beating, mind kept spinning.

And he wouldn’t just run this time. He had a goal. A purpose. A quest. Just like he’d always wanted.

But he’d never imagined he’d take his journey after he was already dead.

* * *

He was in control. He was steady. He was back to looking at the world, and playing whatever fek-hand it had dealt him.

Starting with this town before him.

It was the next day’s evening, and the sky was turning pig pink, and Erik had arrived in front of Lienze’s gate—or what qualified as one. The top hinge was rusted through; the bottom one barely hung on at an angle contortionists shouldn’t bend, much less hinges. But what least made it a gate was the fence around it. Or next to it—it extended only to the right, a single post apparently sufficient for the protection of the northern side of town. And what little fence they did have was no higher then his waist, and looked to be just a few tree limbs tied together with frayed rope.

They either had very fierce farmers defending the town—or something else kept the nautded away. But he already knew that; it’s why he was there in the first place.

Could be worse, he thought. Could be I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.

Lienze—named after their main crop, the lentil—wasn’t hard to find his way through. Barely a handful of buildings advertised themselves, and only one was applicable to Erik: Brunnen’s Brews & Beds, the sign went, painted in a sickly, brown substance that he could only hope wasn’t human feces. As he looked at the wood shack with the thatched roof, he again wished to lose himself in a pint, and forget his problems inside and out; at least a spinning, beer-logged head would match the mad spin he seemed to be in. Could be worse, he tried reassuring himself, but he couldn’t think much how.

Before he thought better of it, he walked up to the double-braced doors and walked in.

The half-lit room was nearly empty of customers. A mere four men were scattered across it, all at separate tables, but for one pair. There was also a woman behind a counter, rag in hand. She watched Erik he approached.

“Evenin’,” she said, pulling a mug from a counter and resting it on a belly that looked as swollen as if she were with child. She wiped it for a long moment, then asked, “Get you somethin’?”

Before Erik could answer, a voice said from behind him, “Now, there’s a thing you don’t see ‘round these parts.” He spoke too loud for the quiet murmur of this alehouse.

Erik tried to speak evenly through a clenched jaw. “What’s that?”

“A man’s face that doesn’t look like an ass’s ass.” The man burst out laughing, his drink sloshing onto the table.

Erik relaxed and turned to look at the man. He had brown hair the hue of horse leather, its waviness barely contained in a loose ponytail, and that went down well past his shoulders. A strong jaw emerged from under a thick, rust-red beard. His frame, thick as it was, implied a profession of hard work; a blacksmith, or something of the like. But his eyes betrayed a sharp intelligence, or at least a wit that refused to dull, even despite his obvious intoxication. That was good; much as Erik despised the man’s drunkenness, he needed a sharp, talkative man.

From the far corner, one of the pair said, irritated, “Damn you, Wil Tanner, always goin’ on like that…” His companion put an arm on the speaker’s, though, and the man shook his head and said no more.

A tanner—guess he just has the right blood to have that build. That meant Dagathode, the lineage of most peasantry, though with all the red hair, he had to have some northern Seafolk in him as well.

Erik, ignoring the stare of the alemistress—his stomach was still churning a bit too much for beer, much as it sounded good—and sat down at the joker’s table. “So you’re the chatty one around here.”

“Better than being chitty, like old warty Ilnuk back there.” The man named Wil looked back at the men in the corner, and laughed again as his victim formed the vulgar circle in his hand, letting him know exactly how he felt about the comment.

Erik didn’t know what to say. Fortunately—or perhaps not—his companion had plenty of words.

“I tell you, it’s from all the inbreeding ‘round here,” Wil said, keeping hold of his stool while it tipped back dangerously. “The warts and ugliness, you know—not to mention the sheer idiocy.”

“Alrigh’, alrigh’,” the weary alemistress said. But, instead of actually managing her unruly patron, she slipped away through a curtained doorway, demonstrating her profound wisdom.

“So,” Erik started, then stopped. He had trouble concentrating on the words, trying to come up with a way to say what he wanted to—without asking directly. “You don’t seem to have much in the way of defense,” he finished lamely.

“What, you don’t like our wall?” Wil ran a hand through hair matted with sweat, despite the relatively cool weather outside. “Ah, hell, you’re right. Didn’t keep Ilnuk’s goat escaping last week—What could it do against a determined deadwalker?” He looked back again at the man in the corner, but his victim seemed find better entertainment inside his flagon.

“Speaking of attacks,” he continued, turning back to Erik, “you heard anything about that standing mooneyes? Eerie thing, that.”

“Haven’t heard anything at all,” Erik said, and despite himself, he felt a little chill. He was sure it was nothing, like most of the talk spread about Voidic creatures; but to have something new spotted, just as he escaped that tower… He didn’t like to think the rumors might be about him.

“As to that, I don’t know. And just the one, so far—Talstalker’s what they call it. But they say he’s as nasty as any of those damned cats he runs with. Maybe that’s where Ilnuk’s goat went to, eh?”

He looked back hopefully at the corner, but soon gave up.

“Ah well,” he continued, “always new things popping up on this island, every damn one of them trying to kill goodmen like ourselves.”

Erik observed his companion as the man took another deep drink from his mug.

When Wil set down his mug, he said bluntly, “So, you’re a darkie. Haven’t seen many of you.”

There it is; there it always is. Still, could be worse—he could have started with it. “Yes,” Erik said evenly. “That’s how I was born.”

“It doesn’t happen after? They didn’t spread tar on you as a babe? ‘Cause that’s what happened to my cousin Nyla’s—that, or she found herself a darkie to ride.” Wil chortled to himself.

He refused to get angry. The comments on his color used to rile him up when he’d been a child and adolescent, but he’d found that if he spent all his time fighting, his skin would only be darker for the bruises.

“I’ve lived most my life in Zauhn,” Erik said, hating how much it sounded like justification. He was as much part of the Vestorian Kingdom as any of them. But he regretted the words even more the next moment—how easy it would be for someone to find him, when he went and said outright where he was from?

But it didn’t set off bells in Wil—the Eyes hadn’t come to Lienze yet, if they were coming. “Yeah, I’ve got some trade down there,” he said, his hands leaving his mug for the first time to fold atop his head. “Used to be schooled there, too, in my wilder years.”

“Schooled?” Though he couldn’t imagine what such a man was educated in, he was really wondering how to get back on topic.

Wil’s face twisted into a wry smile. “Of course,” he said. “I was to be a scribe, if you can believe it.”

“Ah. That’s…unorthodox.”

Wil laughed. “All the more considering I was such a poor fit for it. Got kicked out my third year, finally, though they should have been done with me the first. The old man wasn’t too pleased; when he got through hiding me, I never thought I’d be able to see leather without breaking down and bawling on the spot.”

He laughed again, but cut off abruptly when he saw Erik hadn’t joined in. “Of course, that’s what my father set me to: leather and tanning. That’s my trade.”

“Right. Though it seems like you’ve got another profession now.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, his annoyance getting the better of him, and he could have kicked himself.

But Wil didn’t take offense, and chuckled. “Aye, you could say that, though a man can’t sustain himself on drink, nor his family, neither.” He grew more sober at the thought. “No, I’m a tanner, no changing that,” he said, as if trying to convince someone of it.

They lapsed into silence, and Erik glanced around the alehouse for a more hopeful prospect. One of the lone drinkers glared at him, and Erik quickly looked aside before there was trouble. The other rose, bent and swaying, and made a meandering path to the door. Erik wished he could leave, too; his palms were sweaty, and his stomach hurt, and he couldn’t keep his leg still. He also felt strangely guilty speaking with the tanner, as if he were committing a crime by acting human. But he needed information; he needed this man.

“Well, what brings you here…er…” Wil seemed to realize he hadn’t asked his name, but didn’t seem to want to backtrack for it.

Erik said the first thing that came to mind. “Looking for a tanner, actually.” Sure, convenient—because that will lead you to a nekromist.

“Really?” Wil said, his eyebrows shooting up. “My reputation outruns me, then!” But he didn’t look as if he believed it as he pointed at Erik’s waist. “But why need me, when you have whoever made that fine craft around your belly?”

Erik looked down, blinking; he’d forgotten about his belt. His fingers went to it, tracing over the familiar etchings as he struggled for a response. It had been made by a tanner in Zauhn who’d died three years back; but it wasn’t him Erik thought of.

You’re still all about me, aren’t you, Ilyse? he thought. As if she could hear him.

He was pulled from the thoughts when the man named Ilnuk and his companion rose from their table and silently leered at the back of Wil’s head as they left. Wil, hearing the chairs scrape, couldn’t resist a final shout after them. “Keep your niece’s bed warm for me tonight, eh, Ilnuk?” He looked at Erik. “Man married his niece, if you can believe it.”

Erik scraped for something to say, but Wil was already somewhere else. “Speaking of my leather, I had the damnedest order come in the other day.” Even with the near-belligerent state he was in, the tanner hesitated. “I shouldn’t say this, but who in the blighted Void’s going to stop me? Order comes in—dunno who the man was, all cloaked and such—and you know what he orders? Do you?”

Wil kept waiting, eyes wide, so Erik shook his head.

The tanner leaned in. “Leather made of lurcher skin. Can you believe it! Now what the hell would a man need that for, eh?”

Erik perked up. Lurcher skin; this was a more hopeful strand.

Wil continued before he could speak. “Live human’s skin would be hard enough to tan, but lurcher? It’d fall apart in your hands, and make for a ragged dress. Imagine that! A man, walking about in that tattered thing, balls swinging for the world to see…No, if you want leather that wears, horsehide’s the thing for you. Sheepskin’s one thing, cowhide’s another, and calfskin sure feels nice—but if you’re needing leather and want it to last, en’t nothing better than horse.” He finished his ale off, froth streaming down his beard, then slammed it empty to the table.

He gazed intently at Erik for a moment, then glanced down at the empty table before him. His expression was one of exaggerated shock. “But here I am talking, and you never got a drink!” He turned and yelled into the backroom, “Clot, one for my friend here, and another for me!”

“No, that’s all right…” He’d thought he wanted a drink, but his stomach hurt enough to convince him otherwise. And he remembered something Vodrun had told him when he’d woken that disinclined him to try.

But Wil was not easily dissuaded, and he shouted until the hapless ‘Clot’ came out with two filled mugs, mumbling about her sleeping daughters. But she left quickly again when Wil taunted, “I’ll wake one of them if you really want…”

His throat throbbed painfully as he looked at the drink in front of him. His tongue seemed to scrape against the sides of his mouth. Perhaps a sip wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, and took a swig of lukewarm ale. He breathed in the refreshing malt and hops, and tasted as he swished it in his mouth. Swallowing, the wetness felt good on his throat, and a slight smile came to him. But the stabbing pains in his stomach immediately told him the truth of the matter.

“Not bad, eh?” Wil said. “Clot’s beds are shite, but her brews en’t bad. Nope, not at all bad, and that’s the Mother-sent truth.”

“Mhn.” He massaged his belly with one hand, debating whether it was worth another sip, and thinking how to get back to the subject of lurcher leather.

“I nearly forgot!” the tanner suddenly exclaimed. “Any news us family-town folk might not have heard yet?”

“News?” Any news he might tell would be weeks old—two weeks, at least, if he was right in his estimation—but in a backwater place like Lienze, that might be the freshest they had anyway; few people had reason to go east on the Nord Road when the cities in the west held more profit. And maybe if Erik gave him some information, Wil might give it back. But thinking back before his…transformation…was difficult, and the details hazy; almost as if he were remembering dreams rather than memories.“Let’s see… There were rumors that King Arnuf is sending a legion to the isle.”

“A legion? That young beaver?” Wil dismissed with with a wave. “I’d sooner bet on a legless goat in a footrace! Our king hasn’t the loins to take down his logs and sail over here. Come, now, I didn’t ask for fairie stories! What else do they say?”

Erik thought harder, taking an absent sip, and regretting it as his gut throbbed. “Someone said a duke was murdered. Down in Brav’Stradt, I think.”

“In the foothills of the Este’Tors, on the Ennish border, I know it. The Spire of Stars is there, en’t it? Where the first Arnuf held back the Thousand?”

“Right,” Erik said, confident at least in that. “But it’s said it won’t hold back any armies now—it went up in flames.”

“In flames? The Spire? That damn watchtower stood the whole of the last Ennish war, and it falls when all we’re doing is exchanging arrows across the Moat? Smells of fairie stories again, goodman.”

His stomach put Erik a bit on edge. “But if it’s true, that’s a sight more than arrows, isn’t it, assassinating a duke and destroying a national monument? And this when nautded attack more and more cities, and not just here on Erden. I can’t say I blame the Beaver King for damming where he can.”

He tried ignoring the irony of his making such a claim; wasn’t he partly the reason it would be dammed?

Still, he continued. “Besides, that’s not all. Strange things happened there, it’s said. A giant lizard appeared from nowhere in the castle’s courtyard, and brought down half the entrance with it. And where did the flames come from? Some say—” He hesitated, anticipating Wil’s response, “some say Recarnate have returned.”

“Those freaks?” Wil seemed disgusted with the caliber of his news. “Listen, goodman. I can tell you mean well. But I’ve had an education. There may be small workings of magick these days, but nothing like what the tales tell. No man can rend the earth apart, or break the moon, or make towers burst into flames. Leave that to the Sons Incarnate, not those supposed demigods.” He returned to his drink, looking morose for the first time.

But Erik saw his opportunity. His mouth felt immensely dry as he leaned in close. “Small workings of magick, you say?” He couldn’t help licking his lips. “Is there, possibly, a… an herbalist here?”

Wil looked at him, eyes suddenly sharp and considering. He didn’t seem surprised or abhorred, just a good deal suspicious. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Er—Kirik,” Erik fumbled.

“Kirik? Strange name, that,” Wil said. Then he leaned forward as well, so that Erik inhaled in his sour breath. “Let me tell you something, Kirik: You don’t want to be asking that question here. Not as dangerous as some places, true, but still not what a smart man should do.”

“I have to find him. I need him for something.”

But Wil drained in his mug in silence and rose. “Good meeting you, Kirky,” he said. “But I’ve told all I will.”

Then Wil left the alehouse—without paying.

After a moment, Erik rose as well, and slipped out before Clot could stop either of them for not paying. Then he moved into the moon-touched darkness, and followed the faint shadow of the tanner down the road.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3: Eyes in the Dark