Prologue Excerpt - From Widower's Web

Jerenau felt a pang of regret for having to entail so much to his friend. The man is almost sixty and should be pampered, retired, and prosperous instead of handling so many errands. But there was no one else Jerenau trusted to carry out these duties. All their long-term companions had died. When they had abandoned their post in the living waste they had accepted the risks of this cursed place. Inferne burn them all, this was a better hell than that of the waste.

As if sensing his thoughts, Darid addressed the subject. Jerenau liked this about him. “Murder and the threat of assassinations were the life we chose when we came here. When our turn comes, and we join our friends, we’ll at least have bragging rights for having survived the longest. I didn’t mention my duties to distress you, so loosen up that face of yours. You’re ugly enough without losing your good humor.”

Jerenau smirked and rubbed the scar along his left cheek. Since suffering the injury decades ago, his friends had all teased him about his loss of good looks. Darid’s the last man living who knows the full extent of my life’s tragedies. This thought sobered him once more. Gossip in Bronos circulated a distilled version of his widowing, but few knew the complete tale. Only Darid knew the depth of what Jerenau had endured.

They finished their meal with further lighthearted banter. Having filled their bellies, the two friends moved to stand by the fireplace. Jerenau carried the lantern and placed it on the mantle while Darid stoked the fire. As Darid stepped back, the fire blazed triumphantly. Jerenau watched the flames.

“It always reminds you of her, doesn’t it?” Darid asked solemnly.

“Yes, yes it does,” Jerenau whispered. Darid retrieved a glass of wine from the table and handed it to Jerenau. “To this day I wonder why. As I have every night we speak by the fire. Why would Memidia interfere with Iliana’s and my love? Why does a goddess, professed to be benevolent and loving, order her follower to kill the man she had given her heart to? Why Iliana? Why did she choose duty over me?”

A loud thunk revived Jerenau from his reverie. Right hand unsheathing his sword, he spun. The headless body of his closest friend thumped to the floor beside him. Eyes wide in surprise, Darid’s head rolled out of sight into the dark interior of the room. Jerenau frantically looked around. An elf stepped forward from the entryway, his hands held up in a gesture of feigned innocence. They were empty. A movement beside the elf caught Jerenau’s eyes. It was the intruder’s shadow. The shadow’s hands wound up a little cord.

“Is it to be a shadow assassin that comes for me? Then you will find me harder to kill than most.” Raging, Jerenau kicked the logs from the fire and smashed the lantern against the floor. Can’t let the place catch fire. He murmured a quick water spell under his breath to spare his rugs. In complete darkness, Jerenau stalked to where the elvish figure had been. He swung at the space but found only air. “Have you run off now that you have no shadows to kill by?” Jerenau queried the dark.

“Quite the contrary,” taunted a voice by the large table followed by the light of one of Jerenau’s matches. “I thought that we could have a little chat. After all, I did just do you a favor. I don’t find a dagger to the back a suitable end to the Great Lord Jerenau, Master of the Army of the Queen, and Defender of the Goddess Nocturna. Such an unworthy death for one such as you.” Lighting a candle and relinquishing the match, the intruder sauntered to the fireplace. Jerenau watched him tensely, gripping his sword. The light of the candle was nothing like that of the lantern, but its light revealed clearly that Darid’s hand held a dagger. And judging by the angle of the body, he had been in mid-strike when he fell.

The intruder bent further and removed the weapon from the lifeless hand. Holding it out along with the candle he asked, “Look familiar?” Jerenau recognized the blade. The small scar on his back burned with the remembrance. A hesitant woman hadn’t been able to finish him with that knife, but a competent soldier almost had.

“That,” his voice clenched before he could compose himself. He swallowed hard. “That was Iliana’s dagger.”

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