Free Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael by Martin Parece, Mary Parece, Philip Jarvis Page A

main section is a twenty foot long table of elm, perhaps, and a dozen matching chairs.  Highly detailed tapestries with brilliant colors hang around the room such that the walls can barely be seen, and plush carpets and obscure animal skins cover the floor.  With no windows to the outside air, the room is well lit by torches that glow with an unflickering white light and give off no smoke.
    As they follow the acolyte into Lord Pagus’ grandiose chambers, one last decoration catches Rael’s attention.  Against one of the marble pillars and encased in a rectangular prison of glass stands a gleaming suit of plate armor.  While plain, its workmanship is truly flawless, and it appears to have never been in battle, for not a scratch mars its surface.  A rather plain double edged longsword leans in the corner of the glass box, and a medium sized kite shield with a blue gemstone the size of a man’s fist lay at the armor’s feet.  Rael stares at the armor and sword as if enthralled, perhaps for the odd blueness of the steel, as he and Pret follow the Acolyte to the long table.
    “My Lord, the merchant and his associate have arrived,” the acolyte says.
    Rael snaps out of his trance and focuses on the man sitting in a chair at the end of the table.  The chair itself matches the others in make, excepting for its seven foot high back.  Lord Pagus wears silk robes of the purest white that cling to the powerful, rigid frame underneath.  Rael cannot determine his age, as his head and face are smoothly shaven like his acolyte’s, and the priest’s jaw, chin and forehead are sharply defined and bold.  He has the appearance of a fighting man, though he wears the robes of Garod’s priests.
    “I did not realize Lord Pret intended to bring an associate,” Pagus replies without looking up from the mountain of parchment on which he writes.  “It is of no matter.  You may attend to your other duties now, Hal.”
    As the acolyte bows and exits the room, Pret and Rael wait patiently for the priest to acknowledge their presence.  After a moment, Pagus sighs and pushes his work to one side of the table.  He stands from his chair and smiles warmly as he looks at Lord Pret, but his hard gray eyes do not share the emotion.
    “Welcome to Martherus, Lord Pret,” he says.  “I appreciate you coming the distance to finish these affairs.  It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” 
    The men clasp arms as if old friends, and then Lord Pagus looks over Pret’s shoulder at Rael.  The warm smile vanishes suddenly, and the priest only stares at the Dahken, dumbstruck as if the specter of a relative long since passes hovers before him.  He almost whispers, “What is the name of your associate?”
    “This is Rael, one of my best men,” Pret answers as he searches the priest’s face.  “I intend to release him from my service once we conclude our agreement.”
    “Best men,” Pagus repeats.  “What does he do for you?”
    “Occasionally Lord Pagus, a man in my position has uses for a sword.”
    “Indeed.  I am sure he is able,” Pagus replies, his voice still low.  He seems to shake off the trance and asks with a cold smile, “Shall we sit and discuss the final terms then?”
    As Rael takes a chair to Pret’s right, he notices that the priest’s eyes never leave him.  He instantly realizes that he may have made a serious mistake.  He should have asked with what manner of lord the agreement was to be made.  Had he known Pagus is a priest, he may not have agreed to accompany Pret on this final task.  From what Rael remembers in his reading, Garod’s priests warred upon the Dahken at the end of the Cleansing.  That he sits here now is most unwise, and yet, it feels as if lightning hits every nerve in his body when he notices that the longing to travel east is gone.
    “Rael what?” Pagus asks forcefully, his voice pushing away Rael’s thoughts.
    When he does not answer right away, Pret interjects, “Rael hasn’t