Alabaster Emissaries

The money Tony had given Castori was as weak and flimsy as everything else in this fragile world. The bills were already torn and frayed from rubbing against the real money in his coin pouch. But the merchant selling liquor still took them in trade and gave him some coins and more promissory notes in return. This, despite the fact the man was terrified. The troll didn’t quite understand the exchange rate between the different notes but that didn’t matter. The important thing was that he had his bottle of beer.

  The world bothered him.

  Years ago, in the great games, Tony had bested him. For years, Castori had had to live with the shame of a mortal child having out-run him through the Black Pits, evading its dangers and challenges with ease, while he’d gotten hung up on the final challenge. He’d tried to tell himself that the child must have come from a world of mighty warriors; that each of his kind must be inconceivably fast and powerful. When accompanying Tony into the black tower of the Umbral Knight, he’d witnessed the boy’s uncanny resolve and ability.

  To find that the residents of Earth were so weak, their world so delicate, made him furious. He wanted to rip it all down.

  He bit off the neck of the glass bottle with his stone-like teeth and chewed, thoughtfully. He rejoined the mastiff where it waited in the darkness of a nearby alley. He winced at the taste of the watered-down liquid and scowled. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Why should these mortals’ beer be any stronger than anything else in their world? He tossed the remainder down the alley and idly pet the mastiff’s shaggy, black fur.

  The young mortals who had accosted the queen had come this way. The stones had told him. Be it brick or concrete, the earth, here, spoke to him in the same creaking tones of his homeland. True, the rock was slow and muffled, its voice barely rising above a grinding whisper, but it spoke. But it felt barely alive. This was no land for a troll or, indeed, for any native of the Sallast underworld.

  “And when the cops tried t’ make a wall with their cars; we broke through and left ‘em pissing their pants!” A passing mortal was laughing harshly and talking to three others.

  Castori looked at the speaker. The youth was one of a small group of mortals walking by the alley, not paying attention to either of the Kellen natives. The troll’s solid black eyes narrowed. The mastiff growled, its hackles rising. Their look matched that of the ruffians he’d been tracking. Their colored clothes had the same, brutish style and symbols. He watched them walk past and continued to listen at the joking bravado.

  Castori patted the back of the mastiff’s head reassuringly. “Steady,” he growled. “They have not the Queen in accompaniment. Now is not the time for attack. For now, we merely hunt.”

  Silently, he drew his hood and, keeping his distance, followed. An eight-foot-tall shadow, he stayed a block behind the young mortals as they made their way to their lair.