Barnabas led me out of the camp and into the small town of Bermindon.

“Bermindon is not large, though it has been growing quickly of late. As you can see, there are no walls or gates. The town guards would have been able to repulse a small raid, but the force that we fought was much larger than they could have handled alone.”

I nodded. We walked through a wide street that led through the center of town. I saw what could only be an inn with a tavern. The sign called it The Traveller’s Rest, and a cloaked man wearing a pack had been painted onto the sign. The sounds of celebration were just barely audible from where we stood. I turned to make my way to the inn when a hand grabbed me by the forearm.

“Ah, Bermindon has two taverns. This is not the one I’m taking you to.”

A strange note colored his speech. I shrugged and nodded at him to continue.

Barnabas led me deeper into the town and then to the northernmost edge of Bermindon. Buildings were sparse, and the people appeared scruffy and hard-eyed. Barnabas looked nervously around as we walked, his hand on his hilt.

“Where is this tavern? I take it the clients are less...squeamish...than those at The Traveller’s Rest?”

Barnabas nodded tightly.

“Keep your eyes open and your pouch well-guarded. And don’t look afraid. The wolves here respect only one thing--strength.”

I saw heavy-lidded eyes following us as we made our way to a new tavern. My Danger Sense prickled but gave no indication of imminent attack.

The building we approached was worn and had not been well-cared for. A sign above the door announced that this tavern and inn was called The Cock’s Roost. Someone had attempted to carve what I assumed was a chicken into the wooden sign. I glanced at Barnabas questioningly, and he gestured with his hand, indicating that I should enter.

As I walked into the tavern, the smell of vomit and urine assaulted me. Nose wrinkled, I could see that the room was only sparsely populated. An enormously overweight man sat behind the bar. His small beady eyes took measure of me and my companion. Several tables lay scattered across the floor. Only two were occupied. At one, three men were playing some kind of card game.

A man was draped across the other, his arms crossed under his resting head, shoulder-length black hair splayed across the table. I looked inquiringly at Barnabas, and he pointed to the lone, apparently unconscious figure.

Putting one hand on my sword hilt, I made my way over and tentatively tapped the man on the shoulder. There was no reaction. I tapped him harder, but still he didn’t stir. Finally, I grabbed his shoulder and shook him roughly.

“Eh? What is it you want? You have no reason to kick me out yet, Frable. I paid for the drinks and the room beforehand as you demanded, you tight-fisted suspicious bastard!”

The words were spat in a harsh baritone, and the man lifted his head to glare at whoever had disturbed him. When his eyes came to rest upon me, he frowned and sat up a little straighter.

The fellow was dressed in a stained tunic, the color of which I couldn’t make out in the dim light of the tavern, but it was clearly in need of a thorough wash. Greasy black hair fell listlessly to his shoulders. His skin was deeply tanned, and a small, crooked nose sat atop the unhappy line his mouth was making.

He looked like a beggar, and I almost turned away, doubting that this could be the man that I was meant to seek. Then I met his eyes. A faded gray, they seemed to darken as his attention focused upon me. He looked me up and down with an odd look on his face, and I realized that he must be Analyzing me.

I returned the favor to see ???.

“Veritas, do you know this man?” I asked silently.

Something looks...familiar about him, but it might be my imagination.

“I think he just Analyzed me.”

If that’s true, he’s definitely worth investigating.

“Why is that so important?”

“Who are you and what do you want?” the man demanded roughly. My mental exchange with Veritas had only taken a moment.

“I’m looking for someone that I was told might be able to help me. A man named Rafe.”

The look on his face as his eyes roamed up and down was calculating, almost insulting.

“My name is Rafe," he admitted, "but I’m not inclined to help strangers do anything. What is it this person said I would do for you?”

I said uncertainly, “I’m not really sure, actually. He just said you would help me.”

“And who is this man who expects me to ‘help’ you when you don’t even know what you need?” he asked skeptically.

“I don’t know his name. He--”

Rafe barked in laughter.

“Some stranger told you to find me and ask for my help? You don’t know who he is, and you don’t know what you need from me? Well, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you should come up with a better story the next time you try this. Bah, stop wasting my time!”

He began to slouch forward to rest his head on his arms again. I reached out to get his attention, and suddenly a knifepoint rested on my Adam’s apple. I froze.

Rafe ground out threateningly, “Like I said, stop wasting my time, fella. Just turn around and walk away, and we won’t have any problems.”

I hadn’t even seen him move. He had been so fast that my Danger Sense hadn’t activated, though now it was blaring loud and clear in my head. Or maybe it was just fear. My stomach clenched as I looked cross-eyed down at the hand holding the dagger. I should have realized when my Analyze completely failed that he would be dangerous. How could I convince him to help me? Why did I even need him to help me? I almost turned away before I remembered one last thing.

“The Stricture of Mercy. You must be true to the Stricture of Mercy,” I breathed.

The soiled figure before me froze. Behind me I could sense Barnabas shifting uncertainly. He was probably wondering if he should intervene or simply back away.

Suddenly, a wall slammed against my back with enormous impact.

You have been hit by a wall for 5 damage.

In the blink of an eye, the drunk had grabbed me by the collar, whirled me around, and driven me ten feet backwards to slam into the wall. He had lifted me up so that my feet no longer touched the floor, and my hands had swung back and slapped the wall behind me.

“Where did you hear that! Who told you to say that!” he hissed at me. His eyes blazed with a fierce, dangerous light, and I realized that he was holding me up with one hand and still touching the knifepoint to my throat with the other.

I gasped, ‘It was the man! The man who told me to ask for your help. He said you would help me if I said that to you!”

Behind my captor came the sound of metal sliding out of a sheath as Barnabas drew his sword. With a sneer, Rafe whipped his hand back without even looking. The knife flew through the air to sink deeply into the tabletop beside Barnabas’s thigh, slicing his pant leg and drawing the faintest line of red.

I didn’t even see his hand move, but suddenly he was pressing the edge of a darkened short sword against my neck. Even in the midst of these terrifying events, I wondered in the back of my mind--was this Quick Draw?

The entire tavern was still. The card players stared at us in shock. The bartender had stopped rubbing the dirty towel against the glass he had been pretending to clean. I barely dared to breathe.

His teeth clenched and face hard, Rafe slowly lowered me to the floor. I didn’t move. Clearly, this man could kill me with the barest of efforts if he wanted to.

“All right,” he said in a deceptively calm voice. “Tell me about this man. What did he look like? Why did he tell you to come looking for me?”

“I was imprisoned in Spiral Castle in the east. He broke me out of the dungeon and helped me escape.”

“And what did he look like?”

“He was dressed all in brown. No beard. Dark brown eyes and hair. He had a strong chin and laugh lines around his mouth. He was medium height, maybe an inch shorter than me. Lean but strong. I’m sorry, but I don’t know who he was or why he helped me. I’m not sure how else to describe him. He was a skillful warrior and maybe a sorcerer as well. I knew him for less than a day.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed.

“Less than a day? Where is this man now?”

I swallowed.

“He died during the escape. The leader of the forces that were occupying the castle caught us as we were trying to leave. My savior and the leader spoke and then fought. I...he told me to run, so I ran.”

This last part I mumbled faintly, ashamed of sounding like a coward.

Rafe demanded, “You said they spoke. What did they say?”

“It was very confusing to me. They seemed to know each other. The man who saved me called the master of the castle Julius. Julius was shocked to see him. Then he said something about singing and being a slave to Cyril. That angered Julius and they fought. I don't know what any of it meant.”

Rafe staggered back from me, bumping into the table at which he had been seated. Even in the dim light, I could see that all of the blood had drained from the other man’s face. Shock and pain and disbelief flitted across his countenance, one emotion after the other, and the short sword between us shook.

“It’s not possible,” he whispered. “It can’t be. He’s dead.”

I cleared my throat.

“That’s what Julius said.”

Rafe seemed to be staring at me. Something told me that he was seeing memories, not me. After several seconds, he closed his eyes and slowly lowered his sword.

“The Stricture of Mercy. That’s what he said?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. What does it mean?”

The man before me took a pained breath and then sheathed his sword on his back. Odd, why hadn’t I noticed the sword and scabbard before?

“It’s something...very old,” he answered tiredly. “Something that I haven’t heard in a very, very long time.”

His gray eyes opened looking weary and spent.

“All right, I’ll help you.”