by Mary Fonvielle

Created on: November 26, 2009

Chapter One

If nothing else, Ankenar thought, the city of Asantir was never dull. Beige, maybe, but not dull. He chuckled at his internal joke. The sandstone walls and buildings of the city barely stood out against the endless ocean of desert that stretched in all directions around it and if not for the gold and silver spires of the temple to their gods, few would ever find it. It was a good defense, Ankenar supposed, and it wasn't like the economy suffered for it. Asantir was the center for all trade routes leading to the North or South via the vast desert that separated them. The central market square was a maze of goods and resources from all parts of the world. Colorful stall canopies and tents formed a mosaic in the midst of the tall sandy buildings that formed an outer labyrinth more difficult than its center.

Ankenar sat atop one such building on the edge of the square, his keen eyes scanning the scene below. The sun was high but the day had just started for him. Far to the south a dark storm cloud loomed but he didn't give it much thought. He hoped to make a sale today. The strict city watch had a ban on blades, particularly foreign ones, though that didn't stop the more prominent members of the city from purchasing extra protection for their wealth. Ankenar stood up and without hesitation he stepped off the platform roof of the building and landed in a crouch in the dusty road below. A few people paused to stare at the man who had dropped from such a height but Ankenar took no notice of them. He straightened and began weaving through the crowd, lifting an apple from a fruit stand as he passed by and began to search for his mark.

A charming grin flashed across Ankenar's face as he bit into his breakfast. The sweet juice of the apple trickled down his chin and he wiped it away unceremoniously on his sleeve. He knew the nobleman was disgusted with him: a short redheaded foreigner with a terrible accent and no regard for common decencies such as manners or personal cleanliness. The fact that Ankenar looked so at home in the suffocating atmosphere of the marketplace only put the man less at ease. Ankenar knew he had an odd appearance- a man who had not quite managed to grow out of boyhood with a disarming grin and clear eyes- trustworthy eyes that defied his unsavory business. The local authorities would gladly have had his head as a trophy to mark the unlikely achievement of finding him red-handed, or finding him at all for that matter. The thought

• 1
• 2
• 3
• ...
• 9
• Next Page >>