Witch of the Brass Quarter

With a sandstorm on the horizon, Wulfric the Wanderer has come to the Brass Quarter of the city of Iztark, seeking a way to find his beloved Tahira. Lured by the promises of a fortune teller, the barbarian from Korovia learns more than he bargained for...

Part One of the Assassin Cycle. Learn more about the Wulfric the Wanderer series by visiting fiction.charlesmoffat.com.

EXCERPT

I

To the south Wulfric wandered, in search of his elusive lover Tahira, taken from him by orc raiders who dealt in slaves in the Al-Kazarian desert. Every slave pit and every auction was an opportunity to find his missing love, but he knew in his heart that no orcs could tame his beloved, and though they might easily shackle her, she would just as easily strangle them with her chains...

A lone cat prowled from a flat rooftop, watching for mice in the alleyways below. The shadows grew longer as the sun fell beyond the western horizon, the sandy dunes that lay beyond the city bathed in the reddish glow. The dusty haze of a sandstorm above the dunes hung like a funeral shroud waiting to descend upon the city, covering everything in a thin layer of sand.

Men and mice would die tonight, for a sandstorm was the perfect time for cats to hunt their prey and for men to murder. Here in the city of Iztark, jewel of the desert, bastion between sand and sea, murder was as numerous as the minarets and domed rooftops that dotted the city's horizon. Tiled rooftops and flat stucco were frequently painted pink, not because the residents particularly enjoyed the colour pink, but because it did a good job of hiding the ancient blood stains that dotted the architecture.

In the bleak and narrow streets below, amidst the sickly sweet incense smoke and the stink from offal pits, merchants were closing up their shops early for the sandstorm would soon be upon them. No more did merchants hawk their wares loudly, but they instead spoke urgently, sometimes in whispers, eager to safeguard their goods lest they be caught out in the storm.

For everyone knew that a sandstorm was the best time for thieves, and assassins, to do their dirty work.

The crowds of people, each heading home, were like sheep all heading in the same directions, but amongst them strode a barbarian from the north. A Korovian warrior, and he stood out harshly like a wolf amongst the flock.

His muscles and thews were chiseled hard as marble, laced with scars from many battles, and his face was covered in a thick black beard, framed by a mane of black hair with a tinge of grey. The greyness in his hair and black looked strangely premature, as if he was older or perhaps younger than he truly was, perhaps a sign that he had encountered some manner of witchcraft or sorcery and somehow survived.

His skin had become darkened by long days in the sun and his clothes were stained with road-grit and dust, but his height, lack of a helmet or hood, and the oddly black metal sword on his back made him stand out in contrast to the locals.

The Korovian's gait was unbothered by the urgency of others, but he was no thief and certainly no assassin. He was a simple warrior, but if faced with a foe that could be best with a sword, he wasn't against the idea.

His name was Wulfric. Wulfric the Wanderer.

Hemmed in by a sudden press of people trying to get home, and the first signs of the sandstorm, Wulfric halted in his stride, one hand on his coin purse. He had learned long ago that crowds like these were the perfect places for pickpockets to ply their trade. And some of the people he could see here were Bani al-Qat, commonly known as catfolk. The Bani al-Qat were excellent acrobats and hunters, as well as dancers and performers, but they were also notorious thieves and pickpockets.