Dark Thorn - Grim Oak Press

S HAWN S PEAKMAN
Just when the knight was about to give up his vigil and head
to his alley bed, the door to the darkened bookstore opened. Bran
emerged into the night.
Richard stood still, watching.
The boy locked the door behind him. He wore a dark sweater
and jeans, his hair as wild as in the morning. At first Bran did not
move. Then with furtive eyes scanning his surroundings, he hiked
a brown knapsack upon his shoulder and moved southward along
First Avenue.
Richard separated from the gloom and followed.
The knight kept at a safe distance, thinking. Myrddin Emrys
was a sneaky old bastard. He never made a choice that did not
suit his ends. The boy had some role to play in Merle’s plans, and
Richard could not—would not—let another innocent become a
pawn. Richard no longer cared if the old man had a well-intentioned
purpose or not; the knight had witnessed firsthand what
that meant and wished it on no other.
He would learn all he could about the new worker for Old
World Tales.
And decide how best to progress with Merle.
Never deviating from the shadows, Richard watched Bran cut
deeper into the heart of Pioneer Square. The knight hung back far
enough to not be observed but close enough to keep up. He had
no trouble; he knew every street, alley, and niche. The tall spire
of Smith Tower lorded overhead, its white stucco gleaming, the
light at its apex blazing amethyst over blocks of squat brick buildings.
The night was mostly silent. As the boy avoided those leaving
bars and traveled deeper into the Bricks, Richard passed bundles
of sleeping bags, blankets, and flattened cardboard jammed into
almost-hidden spaces. Homeless addicts, the mentally handicapped,
criminals—or worse—they were the underbelly of a city
that largely disdained them.
No matter the new clothing he now wore, Richard had a great
deal in common with the denizens of the Bricks.
The self-contempt he carried in his heart made it so.
Within the bowels of the building he walked passed, the portal
19