Theron Goldwhisper's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Theron Goldwhisper knelt in the ash where his home had burned three days ago. His parents and sister lay under the black timbers still. The killer who did this had fled into the Red Woods, and Theron meant to follow. But he had one problem. He had never seen the assassin's face. He carried only a torn strip of black cloth, snagged on a nail near the door. To him it was a scent, a thread, a start. To anyone else it was nothing. The Red Woods swallowed the trail by dusk. Strangers moved between the red-leafed trees. Hunters, peddlers, a woman gathering wild roses tangled with pink mushrooms. Any of them could be the killer. None of them wore a face Theron knew. He could not draw a blade on a stranger and hope. He needed proof, or he would murder the innocent and let the guilty pass. He found the information seller in a lean-to of bones and hide. Griswold Rattlebones was old, brown-skinned, and bent, his gray beard matted with grease. He sold names of killers-for-hire to anyone with coin. He looked Theron over with pale, greedy eyes. "A face, boy?" Griswold laughed and spat. "Faces cost. And I don't sell what I can't prove." He tapped the black cloth in Theron's hand. "But a nose might do what my mouth won't." Griswold whistled. A great bloodhound rose from the shadows. Blue lightning crackled along its brown flanks and dripped from its jaws. Its eyes fixed on the cloth like a hooked fish. "Let it drink the scent," Griswold said. "It'll run down whoever wore that. Then you'll have your face. But the beast costs your father's ring." Theron looked at the ring on his hand, the last thing his father owned. He pulled it off and dropped it in the old man's palm. "Take it." He held the cloth to the hound's nose. The dog breathed deep, and thunder rolled under its skin. It bolted into the trees. Theron ran after it, branches tearing his sleeves. The hound stopped at a camp fire. A cloaked figure crouched there, sharpening a curved knife. The dog snarled, lightning arcing. The figure looked up, and Theron saw the face at last. A narrow jaw. A pale scar splitting one brow. He burned it into his memory. Now he knew his prey. But the figure was not alone. Behind the fire sat an elder, black-skinned, gray-haired, robed in purple. Aldric Moonshadow. He set a heavy purse in the assassin's hands and spoke soft words. Theron's breath stopped. This old elf had hired the killer. He knew the true face all along. The assassin's eyes snapped to Theron in the brush. The face he had won was now a face that had seen him. Theron had his proof. And the hunter had just become the hunted.