Logan Shadowhand: a retrospective (part three)
Filed under Fiction, Writing Journal on September 9, 2008
Tagged: fantasy fiction, Logan Shadowhand, Shattered Amulet
I graduated with my Bachelor’s in the summer of 2003 and won the Maiden of Pain open call in the fall. I spent the next year writing that novel. After a short break, I returned to Logan Shadowhand and the story I was now calling Shattered Amulet.
Maiden taught me a lot and I wanted to apply those lessons to what I had previously written. I also needed to change how the readers were reacting to Logan and the situation he found himself in. Once again, I rewrote the first two chapters. This time, I would portray Logan as a down-on-his-luck thief from a small town just arrived in the big city. He was tenacious, knew what he wanted and had the skills to achieve it. Unfortunately, powers greater than himself had other plans . . . .
Logan Shadowhand pulled himself up the short ladder that led from the barge to the pier. The Dragon’s Breath still ran low, and would continue to do so until late fall. He leapt over the last rung and dodged some dockhands hauling crates. Wood creaked under their heavy footsteps, reminding Logan of the stiffness in his back from sleeping on the bare planks of the barge’s deck these last couple nights. It would be nice to sleep in a real bed.
But first he needed some money.
He had left Cortheena in a hurry with only what he wore—black leather pants with a matching vest over a faded blue tunic, and well-worn boots that rose to his knees, a dagger tucked in the right one. The ride up the river had cost his last drak. Now he found himself in Jordia, a place he’d never been to before, where he knew no one.
Logan climbed a stack of crates at the edge of the pier to get a better view. The son of a durkar, Logan stood just over five feet in height. Fortunately, his mother had been aylar, giving him a bit of a boost above the typical durkar stature, but it made little difference when surrounded by folk a head or more taller.
He received a few odd looks from passersby as he surveyed the street that ran along the waterfront on his perch, but most people went about their own business. The stares didn’t really bother Logan, but he made a couple of rude faces just for the reactions they got.
Several buildings lined the street within clear sight of the pier. Dockhands moved cargo to and from a warehouse directly across from Logan. To the south, Logan identified a two-story building with a tower on its west face and armed men lounging about the grounds as some sort of barracks. The top of the city wall ran even with the top of the tower, and Logan could see the silhouettes of guards patrolling its battlements.
A single story, weather-beaten structure sat a block north, with more warehouses beyond that. Logan raised a hand to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun as they were drawn up the face of a rocky plateau that rose above the city rooftops. He could just make out the twisting path carved into its side that lead up to the gates of a great keep sitting at the top.
Logan mulled over his options. He considered following the bustle of people as they flowed west into town along the main avenue. There might be an open market where he could snatch some fruit or a stick of roasted meat from a distracted vendor. He might even be able to lift a purse or two as he slipped through the crowd. Neither choice appealed to him, though. The chances of getting caught, spotted by someone who just happened to be looking in his direction, were too high. At least with the way his luck was running, they were.
Logan snorted. You make your own luck, he reminded himself. Time and chance played a part, sure, but they could be minimized by sizing up a situation and knowing the limits of your abilities. Trusting in luck got you as far as trusting in Jord.
The idea of trying to snatch-and-run still didn’t appeal to Logan. Such tactics only provided short-term solutions. His eyes swept back to the weather-beaten building just north of where he sat. The door banged open and a man staggered out. Logan watched him wend his way to the fence that surrounded the property, lean over and empty the contents of his stomach onto the grass. The man slid to the ground inches away from his vomit and passed out.
Logan smirked and hopped off the crates. Drunken men meant a tavern, and taverns presented all sorts of opportunities for people who knew what to look for.
A faded sign hung from the rotted wooden post supporting one side of the dilapidated fence. Behind the fence sat the ramshackle building. Several holes in the roof marked missing shingles, the two windows Logan could see were black with smoke and grease, and the battered door between them leaned precariously away from its hinges. Logan paused at the sign, taking a moment to puzzle out what it said. The faded outline of a waterlogged rodent was still visible below letters that likely spelled the name of the place, but several of them were missing. The clinking of mugs and the scrape of chairs on wood planks drifted across the yard as his mind worked. Logan finally filled in the blanks on the sign, crossed the small yard with a crooked smile of satisfaction and entered the River Rat.
Shadows dappled the floors and walls, interrupted here and there by shafts of dull sunlight that pierced the roof. The odor of fermented alcohol rushed up Logan’s nostrils while he made mental notes of the River Rat’s interior. Tables and chairs of rough wood dotted the edges of the room. Sullen men occupied a few of them, glowering at Logan before turning back to their drinks. One table supported a snoring man slumped forward in a slowly growing pool of his own spit.
A four-foot tall bar counter dominated the wall to Logan’s left, with rows of mugs stacked on shelves that ran up to the ceiling. A tapped keg rested on the far end of the bar. Behind the counter stood a thick man with a bald pate and tattoos entwined about his arms from wrist to shoulder. A forest of dark curls sprouted from the neck of his sleeveless vest. He paused in his wiping of the counter to watch Logan saunter up to the bar.
“Money up front,” the bartender grunted. “No tabs here.”
“Love the service.” Logan grinned up at the man. “Reminds me of–”
“Pay or leave. I’m busy.”
“I can . . . see that.” Logan looked around the room again, stalling. A surly bartender limited his options, and the current crowd was thin on prospects. Perhaps a different tact would work. “It’s actually a little early for a drink. I was hoping to find a game.”
The man snorted. “Do you see anyone playing?”
Logan sighed. He turned to leave, and caught movement in a shadowed corner beyond the bar.
“What kind of game you lookin’ for?” a voice rasped from the darkness. The owner of the voice leaned forward and Logan saw thin lips and a chin covered in stubble sticking out of a hood.
“Cards, or dice. I’m not too picky.” Logan started toward the table where the man sat.
“I prefer daggers.”
Logan stopped and raised a questioning eyebrow. His body tensed. He could feel the hard steel of his dagger pressed against his ankle. Logan scolded himself yet again for not having a belt sheath. Boots made good places to conceal a weapon, but drawing from one took precious time that might mean the difference between surviving a knife fight and losing one.
Gloved fingers pointed to something behind Logan. He hesitated, not wanting to take his eyes off the man. The thin lips twisted in a smirk, and Logan felt his face flush. He looked over his shoulder and saw a target board hanging on the wall about thirty feet away.
Logan relaxed and let slip his own confident smirk. He had always been good at throwing games. Some people thought he was too good, that he cheated. Logan usually heard such protests after he emptied someone’s purse on a target board wager. He could already smell the steaming roast and feel the soft, down mattress.
The hooded man stood, his chair protesting loudly as its feet skid across the floor planks. He walked around the table and came up alongside Logan, giving him his first good look at the stranger. The man wore a form-fitting, hooded, black tunic with three-quarters-length sleeves that revealed tattooed forearms and emphasized his lanky frame. Leather gloves covered his hands from fingertip to wrist, and shiny black boots rose up to his knees to blend seamlessly with matching breeches. Three daggers hung pommel-down from a bandolier that ran diagonally across his chest, each held in their sheath by a thin leather hilt-strap. Logan watched one of the straps release with a flick of a finger as the man drew a blade and began to casually flip it in his palm.
“Three daggers, one at four feet, one at eight and one at twelve. Closest to the center wins. Miss the board and it’s an automatic loss.”
“I’m familiar with the game.” Logan drew his own dagger, feeling its weight and balance. The weapon hadn’t been forged with throwing in mind. Its hilt was too heavy and the blade wide. Unlike the long, thin daggers the hooded man carried.
“What’s the wager?” the hooded man asked.
Logan handed over his dagger. “Durkar-forged. You can see the smith’s rune etched in the blade just above the pommel guard.” He handed it to the man to inspect. The weapon had been a gift from his mentor in Cortheena, and was worth several draks. The blade had a keen edge that rarely needed sharpening. The decoration was minimal, but the lines where smooth and the metal free of imperfections. The man nodded his approval.
“I’ll vouch two draks against your dagger.”
Logan frowned. The dagger was easily worth ten times that. “Fifteen.”
“Ha. Then why don’t you go hock it. Five.”
“Not when I can keep both the dagger and the money. Ten.”
“If you want to haggle, go to the market. Eight is my final offer. Let’s play.”
Logan nodded. Eight draks would buy him a week’s worth of meals and lodging. And a belt sheath.
The man counted out the gold coins with the face of their namesake imprinted on one side from a purse on his belt, and handed the money and the dagger to the bartender. Then he moved to a line gouged in the floor a couple steps from the board.
“I’ll go first.” The man put his left foot at the line. His other foot rested a step back for balance. He gripped one of his daggers by the hilt in his right hand and took aim at the board. Logan had seen a few variations of target boards, but this one consisted of the standard five concentric circles of increasingly larger size. Each circle alternated color, forming thin bands no more than two inches wide. Sometimes, a target board was broken into grids of different point values and the player with the highest score won.
The hooded man drew back his arm then threw it forward, snapping his wrist as he released the blade. The dagger spun one full rotation and landed with a thunk in the center of the middle circle. Logan nodded noncommittally. Anyone who spent some time practicing could hit center from four feet away. The man handed a dagger to Logan then stepped aside to let him take his turn.
Logan spent a few moments getting a feel for the weapon. The blade was long and narrow with dull edges–a weapon made for throwing, or stabbing. A minimal guard between the hilt and the shoulder reduced resistance. He held the blade loosely in his right hand, his index finger resting along the edge. Logan visualized the dagger hitting center as he focused on the board. He brought his arm back then whipped it forward and snapped his wrist downward as he released. The dagger flipped blade first and struck the center of the board close enough to touch the first dagger.
“Interesting form,” the man said as he retrieved the daggers. He strode to another line in the floor two paces back from the first one. In one fluid motion, the man stepped to the mark and hurled the dagger. Logan watched it sink into the board just up and to the right of center, near the border between the first and second circles. He didn’t hide his smirk as he took his turn. Once again, Logan’s throw struck center. The man’s face darkened with a scowl as he stalked to the board and back. The third line was two paces back from the last, crowding them next to the table where the man had sat. From here, the center was just a dot of color.
The man threw then moved aside for Logan, drawing a chair away from the table and taking a seat. Logan focused on the target. The man’s dagger hit the center circle, but he didn’t think it was in the very middle. If Logan got anywhere close to center, he won. Logan drew his arm back and swiveled his shoulders, but as he released, he felt something skitter across his feet. He took his eyes off the board for just a moment to look down and saw a brown rat scurry across the floor and drop into a gap between the wood planks. He glanced back up in time to see the hilt of the dagger bounce off the center of the target and fall to the floor with a clatter.
“You lose.” The hooded man grinned.
“Jord’s fist,” Logan swore. “That rat made me miss.”
“Not my fault.” The man stood and walked to the bar.
“Fine. How about double or nothing?”
“You have anything else to wager?”
Logan shook his head. The man took his coins and Logan’s dagger from the bartender and headed for the door. Logan followed close on his heels.
“Look, I really need the coin. I’ll do anything.”
“I don’t do charity. Now beat it.”
Logan sensed the threat of violence in the man’s voice and stopped. He knew when to cut his losses, and watched the back of the hood as the man turned onto the main avenue leading into town. When the hood began to melt into the crowd, Logan started after him. He was going to get his dagger back.
