Free Darkvision by Bruce R. Cordell Page A

upscale West Gardens district. Those who lived in West Gardens paid into a fund that employed spellcasting and sword-bearing sentries to make certain that things stayed quiet and safe. Thus, Warian was doubly surprised when he arrived to find Eined’s door open, and her abode in the process of being robbed.
    The awful crash of breaking glass and the gruff sound of men’s voices echoed from within, confounding Warian for only a moment. He dashed through the entry passage yelling, “Eined!”
    The entry parlor contained a single intruder, who whirled as Warian came upon him. The intruder, dressed all in gray and sporting greasy hair, held a metal prying bar clutched in one hand. All around the man, evidence of ransacking littered the room. Mirrors that once graced the walls were shattered on the floor. Carpets were pulled up, drapes were torn down, and chairs lay broken.
    “Where is Eined?”
    “She ain’t here, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shove off, too,” said the man with the metal rod.
    Warian didn’t know what was good for him. He willed his prosthesis, “Go!” but it remained as dull as ever. So he punched the intruder with his flesh-and-blood hand. The man’s head rocked back.
    “Who are you? Where’s my sister?” demanded Warian.
    The man shook his head, rubbing the back of his hand across the cut on his lip. He said, “That was a mistake. Now I got to feed you this!”
    The intruder smacked the iron bar into his open palm, leering at Warian. But he didn’t attack. Instead, he glanced down the hallway to the sitting room and yelled, “Hey! Get your butts up front! We got a visitor.”
    A voice called from farther in the house—a man’s voice, not Eined’s. “What you talkin’ about, Revi?”
    The man facing Warian, apparently named Revi, yelled back. “Just get your ugly mugs out here, will ya? We got trouble—a plangent.”
    “I’m not…” Warian trailed off. If they thought he was a plangent, maybe he could frighten them away.
    In a more assertive tone, Warian told the man, “Put that bar down if you don’t want to be the one who chokes on it.” Warian raised his prosthesis and pointed it directly at his foe.
    Revi’s eyes widened slightly and he backed up a step, but then the man’s friends rushed into the room. One yelled, “Plangents are tough, but not tough enough for one to stand against five!”
    “I’m warning you …” proclaimed Warian, feeling foolish.
    Greasy-haired Revi swung the pry bar like a sword at Warian’s head. Warian’s arm was still extended from his failed threat, and he needed only to raise and angle it just slightly to deflect the blow, which he felt only dully through his shoulder.
    One of Revi’s friends simultaneously kicked Warian in the stomach, something Warian wasn’t prepared for. He stumbled back, and two more rushed up and easily grabbed his arms, one on each.
    “Hold him!” directed Revi. “Watch his implant!”
    Warian struggled, but as always, his prosthesis was about half as strong as a real arm. Another two goons grabbed him, three on his crystal arm.
    “We got ‘im,” one grunted. “He don’t seem so tough.”
    Warian desperately tried to recall—what had he done to trigger the arm the first time? He’d been in that tavern, and what’s-his-name had gotten him around the throat … he had started to black out. Darkness had threaded his vision, and he was reminded of the dark tendrils he’d noticed within his prosthesis.
    “Look at me!” yelled Revi. The man’s lip was swelling and blood trickled a red streak down his chin.
    Instead, Warian concentrated on his memory. If he didn’t figure it out, the lights might go out for good …
    Wait—light! What was it about light? As he’d been choked, darkness had pushed in on all sides—he’d mentally tried to push the darkness back, to illuminate it. He’d been pretty muddled as his brain starved for air, and had gotten a little confused on which darkness to