Warlock

were withered, helpless recluses who frowned upon physical bravery. Not so Gregor. And Mace. Aye, there was a blessing too. It was seldom one found a giant like Mace who combined those powerful muscles and quick reflexes with a cunning and intelligence the equal of any. Mace might sometimes pretend the buffoon, but beneath that clownish skin lay a calculating, clever man.
        
        “Go now,” the Shaker said. “Every moment you delay may endanger the lives of Commander Richter and his men. The assassin, if he realizes he failed here, may try to wreak havoc on the troops in order to force the rest of them back home for reinforcements.”
        
        Mace got up and started out of the kitchen, stopping only long enough to strap a knife sheath to his belt and drop a wickedly sharp dagger into it. Then he was gone…
        
        
        As Commander Richter had jested earlier in the day, the streets of the mountain village of Perdune were steep. There were two alleyways even barred to horse-drawn vehicles, for there was not an animal in all the world that would make the crest without turning and kittering down before it had ascended the halfway mark. The angle was truly rather terrifying. It was one of these more torturous alleys which led to the rear of Stanton's Inn, and from the top where Mace stood in the shadows of a copse of pine trees, it seemed the perfect place for a murderer to wait.
        
        Descending the alley, one had to avoid any pace faster than a walk, for a swift descent would help the body build momentum on that sharp decline. The end would be a head-long crash into the hotel wall or a nasty tumble in which arms or legs or both would break. To make matters worse, the morning dew had begun to gather heavily on the cobbles, making the way quite slippery. The stones themselves were worn and smooth, almost like bubbled glass or ice, and they offered no purchase to those who fell and began to roll down the incline. On top of all this, there was but a single lantern to illuminate the entire block. It was placed midway down, on a horizontal stanchion which was bolted to the wall of a house. In the countless shadows on either side of that lamp, half an army might be concealed. Or a lone assassin.
        
        Mace cursed his own frail heart, stepped away from the trees, and began the descent. Even if the assassin did realize that anyone lived at the Shaker's house, and even if he did think someone might come to warn Commander Richter, it was unlikely that he would choose this approach to the hotel to watch.
        
        Indeed, he gained the heavy wooden portal of the inn's rear entrance without encountering anyone with murderous intentions. He was breathing heavily from the tension of the slippery descent, but otherwise unbothered. He pulled open the weighted door and stepped into the back corridor of the place, off the kitchen and the storeroom. It was completely dark here, but lamps glowed far down beyond the half-door in the lobby. He walked down there, swung the door open, and found the inn desk untended. After only a moment's hesitation, he pulled the guest register to him, flipped through the pages until he found Commander Richter's name and room number. He put the book back as it had been and left the public room.
        
        The stairs were lighted by candles in glass bells whose tops were holed to allow a draft for burning. By this flickering illumination, he found the third floor and eventually Commander Richter's room, where he knocked gently but insistently upon the door.
        
        It opened a crack, and the smooth, healthy face of Captain Belmondo looked out, surprised at such a visitor at this hour. “Is Richter here?” Mace asked. He was afraid to stand long in the hall lest he be seen by the wrong party.
        
        “Yes,” Belmondo said. “He's asleep. What do you want?”
        
        “To see him, immediately.”
        
        “I don't know-” Belmondo began.
        
        Mace pushed him backward, forcing his way through the door. He ripped the panel from the youth's hands and closed it quietly, gently. “No light,” he told the captain, “but wake him now.”
        
        “This is most irregular,” Belmondo said.
        
        “So are Oragonian spies, and you have at least one in your complement” Mace was growing impatient with the young officer's sense of military discipline and routine. His