Flee the foes of flesh and shape

Within mind’s pathways, no escape.

Cimmeran woke to find himself surrounded by cold, grey light. Shadows, dark and insubstantial, loomed around him and above him. In the gloom they could have been anything from people to monsters to harmless, stationary objects, or even just a figment of his imagination. Cimmeran blinked blurry eyes at the unfamiliar surroundings, his memory not yet caught up with his wakefulness. Then an uncomfortable pain in his chest washed away the last confusing dregs of sleep and brought him back to reality.

He looked down. A wooden box was pressed so closely against his chest, it was as if it were trying to become a part of him, his hands and fingers clenched around it like iron claws. He unprised them carefully and stretched the stiffness out of them. Then something in the box rattled and clinked, and his memory of the night before rushed at him like a bad nightmare.

He had stolen the box from his landlady, Chellin. He had stolen her money.

He was a thief.

Cimmeran sat up slowly, staring down at the box in horror. How could he have done such a thing? Then he remembered the wild flight through the town, the encounter in the alley with the old beggar...

Cimmeran tried to gasp, but he had stopped breathing. The money box fell from his hands and clattered noisily to the floor, its lid flipping open and triangular coins spilling out onto the ground, glinting dully in the faint light of dawn. Cimmeran was so shocked at what he had done that he didn’t even notice. He just stared in terror into the gloom.

Did I kill that old man?

“Oh, Gods,” he whispered, the sound so low it was barely audible. “What have I done?”

He closed his eyes and hung his head until it rested on his knees. How could I have done such a thing? Am I a murderer now, as well as a thief?

Suddenly there was a loud shout from outside, frighteningly close, and Cimmeran jumped and scrambled up into a crouch.

The Watch! The town Watch! Could they have found me? Fear gripped his throat and squeezed it so hard he could barely breathe. His golden eyes darted back and forth across the fading shadows of the room, trying to make out the slightest hint of movement: especially in the direction of the slightly lighter rectangle of brightness which was the doorway. His ears strained to hear over the frantic hammering of his heart. His muscles - pitiful as they were - were as stretched and tense as bowstrings.

But despite his best efforts to prove otherwise, nothing moved in the pre-dawn light: there were no other sounds. Gradually he began to relax, his heartbeat slowed, and as the minutes passed and nothing else happened, he began to think himself foolish for being so paranoid. It wasn’t the Watch, he told himself, trying unsuccessfully to calm his jittery nerves. They haven’t found me. They couldn’t have. No. Are they even looking for me?

Cimmeran wondered if Chellin had discovered the missing money box yet. It was possible she hadn’t. If she had come back downstairs last night for some reason, she may have noticed it was missing. But then, if she had, the Watch would be all over the town by now. They’d have caught him last night, for sure.

Cimmeran stared distractedly at the smooth, shiny triangles scattered on the floor, glinting dully as new light swarmed into the building through the dusty windows. In that case, Chellin mustn’t have found out yet. And she was a late sleeper, so it was possible, just possible, that no one even knew what had happened...

His eyes focused back then, and he noticed, for the first time, just how light the room had become. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the grey glow was getting brighter by the second. He looked back down at the spilled money, and then hurriedly began scooping it back into the box. I’ve got to get out of here, he thought, before she discovers I’m gone, and the money is gone, and puts two and two together...

He tossed the last treven in with a chink, and climbed unsteadily to his feet. The light had become bright enough to see his surroundings clearly now. He was in an old, decrepit room. It looked as though it had once been part of a house, a living room perhaps. but all that remained now was a mouldy couch against one wall and a pile of smashed crates. The windows were cracked and so filthy you could no longer see through them. Cimmeran frowned. He could not remember coming in here. His memories from last night seemed to be coming to him from out of a haze.

Shaking his head as if to clear away the fog in his brain, he stepped around the crates, wincing as he used muscles that had stiffened up from running so hard and spending the night on a hard floor. He picked his way over the mess to the open doorway, and peered cautiously around the rotting frame.

The door led directly out into a narrow, dirty alleyway. Cimmeran froze on the threshold as he stared down the shadowed corridor between the high buildings. Is this the same alley where... where I... where the man...? A slice of cold slid down his spine like an icicle. He couldn’t finish the thought. It was too terrible to contemplate.

Nothing moved in the shadows. Everything was silent, except for a few muted sounds and distant voices coming from the street beyond. There was no sign of the person who had shouted earlier. There was no sign of the Watch.

Cimmeran swallowed, more to force the fear away than because his throat was dry. He hugged the money box closer as if for protection. He knew he should go and see if the old beggar was still there. Morbid curiosity burned in his thoughts, nagging him to walk down the alley and see if the beggar was still alive. But Cimmeran finally forced it away. I’d rather live with the uncertainty, he thought determinedly, than live with the knowledge that I’m a murderer.

And with that, he stepped out into the alleyway and turned his back to the possible horrors that lay the other way, and sidled quickly along the wall in the opposite direction, ears and eyes open for any possible threat.

He had only gone a few steps when his legs, seemingly of their own accord, broke into a run.

Cimmeran reached the end of the alleyway and pounded to a stop. He leaned against the wall and took deep breaths of fresh air to calm his nerves. He looked down at his hands, and was horrified to see that they were shaking. He gritted his teeth and gripped the money box angrily. Then he looked up and peered around the corner, into the street.

A bright golden glow over the mountains to the east indicated that the sun was only minutes from showing it’s fiery face to the world. The streets of Tulstan were beginning to fill with people going about their daily business: shoppers and travellers and merchants setting up their stalls. A cart rattled past from the direction of the outlying districts, loaded with vegetables for the market. Some of the shops across the way had already opened for business. The morning was cool, but far from cold, though half the sky was crowded with dark grey clouds. The air hung heavy with the promise of rain.

Cimmeran glanced about cautiously for any signs of the town Watch, keeping a sharp eye out for the familiar swirl of a red cape. When the Watchmen failed to materialise, he stepped out onto the street.

He hurried down the footpath, eyes darting to and fro like dragonflies. No one paid him any attention as he scurried past: strangers were a common sight in Tulstan.

At first he kept his eyes on the people, the alleyways and side-streets and shop fronts, expecting any minute for Watchmen to come rushing out and find him. But he didn’t catch a glimpse of a single red cape among the throng, even when the sun came up fully and sunlight spilled down between the high buildings, casting warm golden shafts on the dusty cobblestones.

Eventually he began to concentrate on what he was going to do next.

A horse, he thought, staring fixedly at the street ahead of him. That was his first priority. He had to get as far away from Tulstan as possible, and quickly.

Mentally, he counted the trevens and javens that he'd seen inside the money box. Enough for a horse, and some new clothes, maybe.

He glanced down at his clothes. They were the old travelling garments he’d worn when he’d fled Arzath’s castle. At the time, they had seemed to be in reasonably good condition: now they were showing their true age and had begun to literally fall apart at the seams. He would need a new cloak too, considering he’d left his old one, along with the rest of his possessions, at Chellin’s tavern. And he couldn’t go back to get them.

Not now. Not ever.

The rhythmic clop of hoofbeats approached from behind him, and a few seconds later a large wagon clattered past, it’s wheels sending up a flurry of dust and dried leaves which hung a moment in its wake before settling slowly back down to the ground. Cimmeran sidestepped the whirlwind absent-mindedly, and continued along the street.

He reached the corner of an intersection, and was about to cross when a voice shouted:

“Hey! You there!”

Cimmeran started and spun around instantly, his eyes searching. Suddenly he froze. He felt as if every bone in his body had been turned to ice. The only thing that moved was his eyes, which went wide with terror.

There, on the opposite side of the street, was an armed, red-caped figure. It was unmistakable.

It was a member of the Red Watch.

And he was coming this way!

Cimmeran could only stare in dumbfounded horror as the Watchman waited for a cart to clatter past, and then trotted over to him through the dust cloud. Cimmeran’s mouth had gone dry. He knows! Oh Gods, he knows! He managed to jerk his head downwards to look at the box in his hands. It suddenly seemed very conspicuous. Desperately he tried to find a place to hide it, but there was nowhere, there was no time...

The Watchman approached him. Cimmeran looked around desperately. He stood right on the corner of the intersection. There was nowhere to run to without being seen.

This was it. He was caught.

The officer nodded slightly as he came up to stand before Cimmeran. “Good morning,” he said.

Cimmeran’s mouth was so parched that when he opened his mouth to reply, no words came out. He swallowed heavily and tried again, trying to sound innocent, but knowing that it was already far too late.

“Good... morning... Officer,” he managed finally. He continued to look around wildly, desperately, for a place to flee. Terrible thoughts had begun whirling around in his mind. What do they do to thieves here? he kept thinking. Will I be thrown in prison? Will I lose a hand?! Stupid, stupid! Stupid idea! Why did I have to steal the damn box? Why?!

The Watchman looked him up and down. “Going somewhere, are you?”

Cimmeran turned to look at him slowly, and searched for a reply, but couldn’t find one.

“Well if you’re not in too much of a hurry,” the Watchman went on, “I was wondering if you could help me with something?” He reached into a pocket behind his leather breastplate and pulled out a well-creased fold of paper. He opened it and held it up in one hand for Cimmeran to see.

“Have you seen this man?”

On the paper was a sketch of an unknown man’s face. Beneath the portrait in large black lettering was the word ‘REWARD’ and a rather substantial sum of money.

Cimmeran just stared at the picture blankly.

“Sir? Have you seen this man?”

Cimmeran blinked. “What? Oh... n-no...”

“You sure about that?”

He nodded slowly. The Watchman nodded, folded the paper back up and returned it to his pocket. “I appreciate your time, sir,” he said, and clapped Cimmeran on the shoulder. “You have a good day, you hear?” Then he smiled and strode off down the street.

Cimmeran just stood and watched him go in bemusement. He couldn’t quite believe what had happened. The Watchman hadn’t recognised him! He didn’t know about the stolen money! Relief flooded through him so overwhelmingly that he almost sagged onto the cobbles.

But you’re not out of the town yet, he reminded himself sternly. It wouldn’t be long before the Watch really would be looking for him.

Cimmeran took a deep breath and hurried across the street, in the opposite direction to the Watchman. This time he scanned the crowds carefully. He could not afford to let himself be taken by surprise like that again.

He kept close to the sides of the buildings as he ran, trying to look inconspicuous. He was on the outskirts of the town, he realised. He must have run farther last night than he thought. He shrugged the thought off. All the better for me now, he thought. There’s sure to be a stableyard around here somewhere...

It didn’t take him long to find one.

The stableyard was a large one, sprawled between a blacksmith’s and a two-storey inn. It was also very busy at this time of day, mostly with travellers and merchants who had stopped in Tulstan for the night and were now resuming their journeys. The wide yard was packed with wagons and stagecoaches, and horses of all breeds and colours. Dusty wheel-marks trailed out the gateway onto the cobbles of the street, and dust hung choking in the morning sunshine.

Cimmeran did not slow when he spotted the stableyard, but quickened his pace until he was inside the fence. With every minute that passed, his anxiety grew. All his thoughts were consumed with whether or not the Red Watch were looking for him. Has Chellin called the Watch yet? They could be combing the town for him right now…

He stopped in the middle of the busy yard. People bustled around him on every side, securing harnesses, checking supplies. Stablehands wandered around amidst it all, feeding and taking care of the horses and other odd jobs. He wondered where the manager was.

A young stable boy noticed him standing in the middle of the yard, amidst the dust, and came over.

“Can I help you, Mister?”

Cimmeran started, and spun around. “Oh... yes, I’d like a horse.” Even as he spoke, Cimmeran’s golden eyes flickered nervously around the stableyard, still wary of men in red capes. The stable boy considered him for a moment, then started walking off in the direction of the stables, gesturing for Cimmeran to follow.

They passed through one last cloud of dust, before emerging abruptly into the cool shade of the stables. The boy left Cimmeran near one of the empty stalls beside the door, saying that he’d go and fetch the manager. Cimmeran watched the young boy disappear through the far door, then turned his attention to the interior of the stable.

The building was long and low, but otherwise unremarkable as stables went. What did surprise him though was that the place was entirely deserted, apart from three horses occupying the stalls, and himself. There were no other people to be seen.

It made a sharp contrast to the crowded, noisy yard outside. A thick bar of hot sunlight stabbed through the open doorway, dust and dirt gliding in from where it had been disturbed outside.

Cimmeran peered out through the wide doorway, careful to keep in the shadows, but there was nothing to be seen. Most of the merchant caravans and travellers had now departed, leaving only a few odd people and the ever-present dust, settling silently in the heavy air.

There was a brief creak as the far door opened again, and Cimmeran turned to see not the stable boy, but a big, square-faced man in a sleeveless shirt and a beige hat with the sides pinned up. He strolled quickly and confidently down the aisle, and Cimmeran knew instantly that he was the manager. He looked like a horse sort of person.

The man smiled warmly as he came up to Cimmeran and extended a surprisingly clean hand. Cimmeran took it and tried to smile back, but he was so nervous he could barely make his lips move.

“Pardo Rynall,” the man introduced himself. “I’m Manager of this here horse-hotel. I understand y’rafter one o’me steeds?”

Cimmeran nodded jerkily, glancing sideways at the stalls.

“Is there any particular horse y’rafter?” Rynall asked as he led Cimmeran over to the stalls that were occupied with the only three horses left in the stable: a sleek black and two smaller sorrels. Cimmeran eyed the horses warily as they approached.

“No,” he replied, still looking at the horses. Then on second thought he added: “One that’s fast.”

Rynall’s eyebrows raised. “Fast, eh?” He walked over to the black, and reached out to stroke her nose. “Well, Ardance here’s the fastest we got, though she’s a bit jittery - ain’t yer girl?” he said as the mare snuffled into his hand, looking for food. “How good’a rider are yer?”

Cimmeran stood well back from the horses in the stalls, his money box clutched protectively to his chest. He didn’t like horses, which was probably just as well because they didn’t like him. He resented the fact that he had to ride at all: he would have much preferred to walk, but in the present circumstances that option was not possible. He had to get away from Tulstan as quickly as possible.

The three horses stared at him and tossed their heads as if uncomfortable in his presence. Pardo Rynall didn’t seem to notice.

“Not... not that good,” Cimmeran admitted.

Rynall’s hand dropped from Ardance's nervous head, and he stood back and put his hands on his hips thoughtfully.

“Well, you’d be better off with one’o them sorrels over there then,” he replied, tipping his hat in the direction of the other two horses. “They’re a bit slower, but gentle as yer like. Ardance here’ll have yer off in no time unless yer really know what yer doin'.”

Cimmeran looked at the sorrels, then eyed the open doorway. The sun was now well above the horizon. Chellin would surely have found out about the missing money by now.

Cimmeran made up his mind quickly. “I’ll take the black,” he replied.

The smile faded from Rynall’s face, and he stared at Cimmeran with a mix of anxiety and confusion. Whether the worry was for the horse or its potential buyer, Cimmeran could not tell.

“Y’sure about that?” Rynall said uncertainly, a frown beginning to crease his rugged face. “Ardance’s not good with amateurs...”

“I’ll take her!” Cimmeran snapped, anger and impatience creeping into his voice. “I need the fastest you’ve got.”

The manager stared at him in surprise for a moment. Then, realising he could lose a potential sale if he continued to argue the matter, Pardo shrugged his indifference and sighed. “Oh-kay,” he replied, as if to say “don’t say I didn't warn you.”

He went to retrieve the saddle and bridle from the tack room.

“The fee’s ten trevens,” he said as he returned and hefted the saddle onto the black mare’s back. Cimmeran looked down at his money box and opened it slowly. The triangular coins were all still there, snuggled in and gleaming in the morning light. He chose ten silvers, removing them carefully and hesitantly, suddenly reluctant to give them up after all he’d gone through to keep them.

He looked up at the black mare, who was still watching him guardedly, and wondered suddenly, darkly, about not bothering to pay at all. He watched Rynall securing the bridle in place, and considered just taking off with the horse before anyone could stop him. But he dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it came. More likely than not, Ardance would just throw him straight off, and then he’d have not only the Watch, but Rynall to deal with.

He waited while the stable manager finished securing the reins and walked Ardance out of her stall into the aisle. The mare huffed and tossed her mane and clopped her feet nervously as she approached Cimmeran. Cimmeran stood his ground and slowly handed the silver trevens over to Rynall without taking his eyes off the horse.

Rynall took the coins and pocketed them quickly, as if afraid Cimmeran might change his mind. Then he handed the younger man the reins.

Cimmeran took them gingerly and held them at the very end, trying to keep as much distance as possible between him and the horse. Ardance tossed her head and rolled her dark eye at him, but did not try to pull away.

Rynall said goodbye and watched as the scruffy young man led the black horse out of the stable like a child leading a lion, disappearing quickly in the dusty yellow heat.

He leaned on a nearby empty stall and shook his head as he watched them go. “Now there’s trouble walkin’ if ever I saw it,” he muttered to himself.

* * *

The shadows drifted across the cerulean sky like two pieces of night gone astray. On the stark mountains below, the shadow of a shadow passed slowly over the grey, sunburned rocks, sending tiny beetles scurrying for cover beneath the pebbles and a mountain rat darting back into the coarse, dry grasses of the high altitude climates.

Far above, the Murons passed across the glaring face of the sun, momentarily blocking out the scorching light with their sleek, coal-black bodies. Some of the bright rays passed through the thin but tough leathery membranes of their wings, making them look, to the distant observer, like frighteningly large bats.

The Muron glided effortlessly through the summer sky on the warm air currents, a slight breeze rippling his smooth, black wings as they stretched wide, from this height seeming to embrace the world. His keen yellow eyes scanned the mountains below, relentlessly searching for the tiniest sign of the fugitive. Ten wingspans to his right, his companion did the same. They did not dwell on the reason for their search or why they had been given strict orders not to kill their quarry when they found him. They knew only that Lord Arzath had ordered them to find the servant Cimmeran and bring him back alive, and they would search without question, to the far horizons of Arvanor, if need be, until they did so.

The Muron passed over a high, rocky peak, and his eyes swept the sunlit valley before him. Down below, a wide canyon split the mountains in two, a silvery river running along its base. A broad stone bridge leapt the canyon: a pathway for lesser, ground-based creatures across the giant, ancient peaks. A dusty road curved gently into the crags in both directions.

The bridge was packed with Humans, horses and their wooden transportation devices. They were making quite a lot of noise. Silvery glints from swords and polished breastplates sparkled from one end of the canyon.

The two dragon-men circled in the air above the canyon lazily for a few minutes, then began to move away from the crowd and descend in slow spirals. The road on this side of the bridge was completely deserted, but echoes from the crowd rose along with the heat haze off the mountain rock.

The Muron alighted on the ground in a thick swirl of dust, followed a few seconds later by his companion. Immediately, he dropped into a low crouch and began scanning the dusty road with sharp, expert eyes. At the same time, he carefully traced the faint indentations in the dirt with taloned hands.

It was some time later before the black, winged creature finally straightened and bared his impressive teeth in a mean sneer.

“I cannot tell if he passsed thisss way,” he hissed in his strange, whispery voice. “Many Humansss have usssed thisss road.”

“Then we will continue sssearching,” the other replied, and lifted into the air without another word.