The ones in the Fortress named the place Crimson Hold, but for the ones that lived there, it was simply Fort Town. Its walls began from where the walls of the outer wall ended, and it encircled the whole town. But it was not as tall as the walls of the fortress. A gloom showered in the noon, and the roads were filled with puddles. A scrawny dog drank from one of them.
The night was black, and there was no one outside. It was one of the decisions of The Convergence, that a curfew should go on past dusk. That way, noise would be reduced and there would be less chance of drawing in the Blight. But he could see lamps behind the closed curtains, and he could hear cries of hunger from one house; cries of anger from another; quarrels and beatings. In one house, through a open window, he could see a family sitting around a table and pray, and that made him a bit hopeful.
Under the dim-lit moon, a man walked. His head was bald and shiny. Vimber Bastine was darker than most men around him. He was tall, but he walked with his back hunched, and that made him look shorter. Crimson Hold was filled with wooden buildings, with dirt roads connecting them.
There was only one place that was working in the night, and Vimber was on his way there. Among the ever-increasing number of crooked buildings that housed the refugees, was the Twisted Tavern. As the name, it was a twisted structure, with the top floor tipping over the floor below. A patrolling soldier saw him and when Vimber showed him the Emblem of Convergence, he let him go apologizing.
The tavern was empty most of the nights and tonight was also the same. A dimly lit white lamp burned over the counter, and Vimbern saw the barkeep dozing behind there. Other than the keep, there were two men. The first man was in the corner, crawling on the floor. He was the town drunkard; Biddard. The other man sat at the counter with his face covered by a hood, with a mug in front of him.
Vimber pulled the stool beside the man and sat with him. "I haven't drank anything from this place," he said. "Is it any good?"
"Tastes like piss," he said, his face still hidden in darkness. "It has gotten worse as of late, though it used to taste like piss then too."
"The Soulless has taken the guy who brings the ale. If you don't like the taste of it, tell me what you know, so that we kill these bastards."
The man removed his hood, and Vimber noticed the man's jaw first; it was the first thing that anything would look at in his face. His jaw was way too big, and it was thick. He had tried to hide it with his thick beard, but that only made it worse. "I have given you the location of their hideout," his large eyes frowned. "What more do you want?"
"Yes," Vimber nodded. "Your information matches with that of Eathrone, but we can't attack the place blindly. I need to know more."
The man's jet-black eyes glared at him. "And what if I say that I won't?"
"Well," Vimber's lips turned to a sly smile. "I deal in information, Donthros. And I think Weibourn would very much like to have his Shadow Walker back."
Donthros' fingers curled around the wooden mug, and it started to creak against his fist. "You wouldn't dare," Vimber couldn't see it, but he knew Donthros' eyes were bloodshot. "I am your best source."
"Yes, you are," the barkeep was now awake and he went to take a mug of mead. "But getting the location of the Soulless – a group of mercenaries could do that. What I want to know is what these monsters are doing inside their compounds."
"You ask way too much."
"Nothing that you won't be able to handle – or would you like to be back in the pits?"
Donthros stared deep into the foam of his mead. "I would need some time," he finally said, readying himself – knowing that there wouldn't be another choice. Fighting for a piece of bread was something he wanted to avoid at all costs.
Vimber stood up and leaned over his shoulder. "I think that you know what to do," he smiled.
When Vimber left the tavern, Donthros chugged his mug and slammed it over the counter. It still tasted like piss, but his mood was much worse. He was Shadow Walker, A Guardian of the Chroma, and he didn't like the notion of being pushed around. "It's their fault," he muttered, although about whom he was talking, only he would know.
But he couldn't do anything, because he was a Shadow Walker, and his abilities weren't meant for the offense. Sure, he could go into the night and slit all their throats, but he wanted to look into their eyes when he did it. "I am not afraid," he said to himself. He ordered another mug – it helped in drowning his mood.
He stepped out of the tavern when it was still night. "I am a Shadow Walker," he told himself. "I can do this," he gathered his courage.
He walked through the empty roads, and when he saw a patrolling soldier, he slipped into the darkness of the alleyways. "I don't need to step into the shadows," he thought, but those words had a different meaning. "Not for this."
Behind the closed curtains, he heard rustling humans. He stepped out from the darkness and continued onwards to the gate. It was night, and there was no blight around. Danderion might have been a bastard when he lived and might have built this town to serve as fodder, but without this place, they would all be outside, in the darkness, fending for themselves.
The northern gate was named Death Gate, as death lies beyond those walls. Beside the north gate, there was the west gate, which was called Closed Gate; It meant what it said.
"Four guards," Donthros counted. Now, there was no choice for him other than to step into the shadows.
The moon was crescent-shaped tonight, and its light gave him a dull shadow. He pulled back his hood, and covered his face. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.
His cloak was special – woven from the silks of Mother Spider, the guardian of the Shadow Walkers. His skin became darker, and violet lightning shot through his threads. His shadow grew large, and it almost looked like a pool.
The guards turned around to check the presence, but Donthros wasn't there anymore. The night was black with white sprinkled here and there – but not for Donthros. In the World of Shadows, colors are inverted, and when he sunk into his shadow, he was surrounded by a world of white; which was almost blinding. But it wasn't the light, or the fact that the world was upside down that bothered him. It was that lingering sense of dread that he felt whenever he entered this place.
Donthros moved out the Death Gate, under the soldier's feet, unknown to them.