The Four Horsemen
By M.E. Brines
Copyright 2011 by M.E. Brines
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“Call me Ishmael.”
I couldn’t recall ever using that name before, but no sense tempting fate, even this far south.
The clerk in his little pulpit-like desk at the landward end of the quay nodded and recorded the name in his logbook with a flourish of his quill, then proceeded to question me about my nationality, occupation and reason for traveling to Safehaven. The answers I gave were as false as my name, all except the question about my occupation.
He glanced distastefully at my military style tunic and trousers and at the worn handle of the short sword hung at my waist before answering with downcurled lip.
“We don’t have much call for… that sort of… work here.”
“I’m just passing through.”