One

Hunt

A woman screamed in outrage.

Three young men overturned carts and pushed aside shoppers as they crashed through the evening market. Their leader – a tall, rawboned youth with red hair – pointed to the retreating back of their prey and shouted, 'There he goes!'

Night approached the port city of Durbin as desperate men raced through the streets. Merchants pulled prized wares from tables as three young warriors shoved anyone and anything blocking their pursuit.

In their wake they left consternation, curses, and threats they ignored.

The summer heat of the Jal-Pur desert still clung to the walls and cobbles of the city, despite the slight breeze off the sea.

Even the harbor gulls were content to stand idyll by and watch for any morsel that might fall from a passing vendor's cart. The more ambitious among them would launch themselves into the air and soar for a moment or two, hanging languidly on the heat rising from the dock stones, then quickly return to stand quietly near their brethren.

The evening markets were crowded, for most of the inhabitants of Durbin had spent the blistering afternoon resting in the shade. The city's pace was leisurely, for these were the hottest days of summer, and men who lived on the desert's edge knew better than to struggle needlessly against the elements. Things were as the gods' willed.

So the sight of three armed and apparently dangerous young men pursuing another, while hardly a remarkable experience in Durbin, was unexpected given the season and the time of day. It was just too hot to be running.

The man attempting to flee was, from his look, a desertman, swarthy and dressed in a baggy shirt and loose fitting pantaloons, a midnight blue headdress and open robe, his feet clad in low topped boots. Those behind were led by a northerner, probably from the Free Cities or the Kingdom of the Isles. His ginger hair was uncommon in the Empire of Great Kesh.

His companions were also young men, one broad-shouldered and dark of hair, the other blond and of slighter built, but with hard expressions that added years to their appearance.

Sunburned and dirty, their attentions were fixed on their quarry and their weapons were easily at hand. They were dressed in garb that marked them as men from the Vale of Dreams – breeches, linen shirts, riding boots, leather vests instead of robes and sandals – most likely mercenaries, a point driven home by the grim determination revealed in their youthful faces.

They reached a boulevard that led to the docks, and the man fleeing dodged between merchants, shoppers, and dockmen heading home for the night. The leader of those in pursuit paused but an instant and said, 'He's heading for the grain shippers dock.' With a hand gesture he sent his blond haired companion up a side street, them motioned for the darker haired youth to come with him.

'I hope you're right,' said the shorter man. 'I'm getting tired of all this running.'

With a quick glance that showed a grin, the leader said, 'Too much time sitting in ale houses, Zane. We need to get you back to the Island and Tillingbrook's tender mercies.'

Too out of breath to comment, the shorter youth just made a sound that clearly indicated he found that remark utterly lacking in humor, as he quickly wiped perspiration from his brow. He just hurried to keep up with his taller companion.
The inhabitants of Durbin were practiced when it came to dealing with duels, brawling, gang wars, riots, and all other manner of civil disorder.

By the time Jommy and Zane reached the corner around which they had seen their quarry vanish, the alarm had outstripped them, and the street leading to the docks was almost deserted. Passers by, merchants, and seaman bound for nearby inns and taverns had sensed coming trouble and vanished into whatever scant cover they could manage. Doors closed, shutters slammed, and those that couldn't get inside did their best to find shelter.

As Jommy Killaroo kept his eyes on the tiny figure of their fleeing target, Zane conDoin glanced into every passed doorway, alley entrance, or other cover for potential ambush. All he saw were citizens of Durbin literally hunkering down, waiting for the trouble to pass.

Jommy saw the man they chased duck around a corner at the end of the boulevard, and said, 'Right towards Tad if he's as fast as he usually is!'

Zane said, 'He is. Suri won't escape.'

For a month Jommy, Tad, and Zane had been on the trail of this man, a erstwhile trader named Aziz Suri, a desertman from the Jal-Pur who was reputedly an importer of spices and oils from the Free Cities. He was also reputed to be a freelance spy, broker in information, trader in secrets, and a close contact of the Nighthawks, the Guild of Death.

One month earlier, at the Emperor of Kesh's Midsummer's Festival, a plot to destabilize the Empire and plunge it into civil war had been prevented by agents of the Conclave of Shadows, and now they were seeking out the remaining pockets of assassins, to finally put an end to their centuries' long reign of terror.

Zane struggled to keep up with Jommy; while able to run as far as the taller youth, he was not able to do so at his longer legged friend's furious pace, and maybe Jommy was been right; too many nights in the ale house and not enough exercise. His trousers had been getting tighter of late.
As they reached the end of the street, they came upon the grain shippers docks, a long series of stone works, punctuated by three large derricks, fronting on two massive warehouses.

From the far end of the dock Tad ran towards them, shouting, 'In there!' and motioning that their quarry had ducked into the narrow passage between the two warehouses.