Free Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm by Shadow's Realm (v1.0)

empty space. Others remained. But where women once tended their wares alone, now they shared stalls, hoping to find safety in being part of a group, or else they hired men to guard them. Despite laws against it, swords and daggers were boldly displayed. Many of the blades were crusted with dried blood, as if to warn predators that their owners had killed and would do so again if pressed.
    Astryd gawked at the bustling crowds and towering buildings. The Dragonrank school required its students to remain on its grounds eleven months of every year, and Astryd had never found time to visit the more civilized lands south of the Kattegat. “So this is Cullinsberg.”
    Larson watched Astryd’s rural antics with wry amusement. “This is the great city you keep bragging about?”
    “Sort of,” Taziar admitted uncomfortably as he led his companions along the main thoroughfare. Concern leaked into his tone, and his friends went quiet as they followed. Though most of the passersby remained unarmed, they gave one another a wide berth, and Taziar was unable to make eye contact with any of Cullinsberg’s citizens. The buildings, at least, seemed unchanged. Rows of stone dwellings and shops lined the streets behind the merchants. Still, something as yet unrecognized bothered Taziar; a piece of city life seemed awry. And, since it was missing rather than out of place, Taziar wandered three blocks before he realized what disturbed him. Where are the beggars?
    Taziar turned a half-circle in the roadway, gazing across the sewage troughs in search of the ancient crones and lunatics who took sustenance from the discarded peels and cores that usually littered the roadside ditches. The maneuver uncovered neither vagrants nor scraps, but he did notice a scrawny boy dressed only in tattered britches who was huddled on the opposite street corner. The child sat with his head drooped into his lap, his hand outstretched as if from long habit.
    Taziar’s companions watched him with curiosity. “Shad—” Silme spoke softly, shortening his alias beyond recognition. “What’s the problem? Maybe we can help.”
    “Is it the child?” Astryd asked, touching Taziar’s hand. “We have more than enough money to feed him.”
    “No!” Taziar answered forcefully. “Something’s not quite right. It’s subtle, and I don’t understand it yet.” He spoke low and in Scandinavian, though his companions understood the barony’s tongue. Astryd and Silme had learned several languages at the Dragonrank school, and Larson spoke it with the same unnatural ease and accent as he did Old Norse. “I was born and raised here. I’ve learned the laws of the barony and its streets. This is my river, and I know how to stay afloat.” Taziar paused, trying to phrase his request without sounding demanding or insulting. “Please. Until I figure out what’s bothering me, let me do the swimming. Just follow my lead.” Taziar studied the boy. “Wait here.” He crossed to the corner, relieved when his friends did not argue or follow.
    The boy raised hollow, sunken eyes as Taziar approached. He climbed to skeletal legs and hesitated, as if uncertain whether to run or beg. At length, he stretched scarred ringers toward Taziar. “Please, sir?”
    The sight cut pity through Taziar. Impressed by the child’s fear, he fixed an unthreatening expression on his face and leaned forward. Unobtrusively, he reached into his pocket, emerging with a fistful of mixed northern coins. “I’m sorry.” Taziar edged between the child and the next alleyway, surreptitiously pressing money into the beggar’s tiny hand as he shielded the exchange from onlookers. “I have nothing for you today,” he lied, gesturing toward Astryd in a matter-of-fact manner. “But my woman insisted I come over and tell you we feel for you, and we’ll try to save something for you tomorrow.”
    The child accepted Taziar’s offering into a sweating palm. A sparkle momentarily graced his dull, yellow