Daggers of Ladis

by RG Long

  Miss Rivius despised the cold, having spent a considerable amount of her youth out in it, and purposed to keep herself as warm as possible. Unfortunately, she had given her coat to the servant girl from earlier and was horrified at how little cold the jacket she had traded managed to keep out.

  Surely her wares didn’t become this ineffective this quickly. She would have to investigate later.

  “Master Ferrin,” she called from behind the door as it was being shut to keep the goods from blowing away and the fires from being snuffed out. “How was your journey?”

  Master Ferrin jumped down off the head cart with a bounding leap. He was a large man, big chested with strong, muscular arms and red hair, so uncommon in their land. He was also a kind hearted soul and had a bearded smile that would light up any darkness.

  She liked him.

  He made a bow towards her, sweeping off his hat and revealing a small bald patch on his head.

  “All is well,” he said. “The troubles of the south haven’t yet made their way up here. Though, it won’t take long. Those Isolians are apparently ravaging towards Prommus. If it the war gets there, we’ll begin to see trouble soon.”

  “May death usher them swiftly on,” Miss Rivius said, wishing upon the Isolians a curse she meant. Wars were not usually good for business, though armies would often require uniforms. But what good would a uniform do for someone too soon ushered to death’s door? She shook her head. There would be time later to consider what the war would do for or against her business. At the moment, there was a bigger question in her mind.

  “Let’s walk through the goods together, shall we, Master Ferrin?”

  “With pleasure, ma’am,” he said. “I suppose you’ll want to take a look at these goods from Meris first? They’re a little extra delicate.”

  Rivius took a deep breath. Nodding, she walked over to the cart as Master Ferrin lifted up several layers of furs and cloth. She saw exactly what she had been expecting.

  Several men and a woman were under that cloth. They looked at her expectantly. She nodded at them. Then, surprised, she saw no less than three children in the cart as well. Two girls and a young boy. Keeping her composure so as not to draw attention to them, she spoke clearly.

  “All looks fine here. Put this cart away and I’ll come back again. There are some items I wish to look at more thoroughly after I’ve eaten. This cart should be been attended to then.”

  Master Ferrin nodded and let the layers of cloth fall back down. He motioned to some stable boys and directed them to move the cart to a designated spot. Rivius went on, checking the other carts on her own while Ferrin busied himself with the other.

  She took another deep breath.

  Secret plans and underhanded dealings were not something she was used to, nor something she liked very much. But, she knew, there was something to be said for this venture.

  It stood to make her a lot of coins.

  29: Oasis Interrupted

  It was a wonderfully peaceful day. The breeze from the ocean blew in through the open sides of the restaurant where several patrons were enjoying the main course of the day. Most were the tan skinned natives of the Oasis, a warm and temperate land that was separated from the trying north by mountains and oceans. For hundreds of years the peaceful waves had lapped at these shores and its people had grown accustomed to warm days and easy nights.

  The inhabitants of the Oasis never cared much for war or adventure. They were the men and women who went out daily on fishing boats to gather a net full of fish, or spent their time weaving baskets on the shore to hold whatever catch came in, or practiced throwing their fishing spears to see who could snag the biggest supper.

  For years the oasis had seen peace while the rest of Ladis was constantly at war with one another. The land was too far south for most of the continent to give it a second thought. Even the desolate land to the north was cut off from them by a wide and dangerous mountain range. Turbulent oceans kept most of the boats of the other countries away. The natives referred to this as the Blessing of the Storm.

  Why would they ever want to leave such a place? Surely their gods intended for them to stay? That’s why they worshiped Oceni, goddess of the sea, and her brothers, Sor and Cor, the twin suns. Oceni was a peaceful goddess when calm, but angry whenever her children tried to leave the land she had blessed for them. Sor and Cor watched over them whenever Oceni was busy with the fish and the waves and they always saw who was trying to leave Oasis.

  So why anger the gods? The natives stayed and loved their land.

  While their neighbors to the north squabbled over things like magic and land, the Oasis remained a relatively peaceful collection of cities that relied on fishing, boat making, and the blessing of the gods for their day-to-day activities.

  That was a good deal of the reason he had come this far south. It hadn’t been his intention to escape everything the northern lands offered. He had simply served his prince the best he could. After his usefulness was used up, Szabo knew that his life had a little meaning to his former employer.

  He lifted the wooden cup again and drained it of its contents. It was a sweet drink that was popular to the natives. They enjoyed it in much smaller servings then he did, however. Most of them limited themselves to two, at most three cups of the beverage a day.

  Swansboro was on his sixth and the suns had not yet fallen.

  “Helen!” he called out, holding up his empty wooden cup for her to see. “Another please.”

  Oh, what his prince would think of him now. Using manners and ordering what he wanted, instead of demanding it out right. Szabo shrugged his shoulders at the thought and chuckled to himself.

  Everyone deserves a new start. Plus, the bartender’s daughter was pretty.

  But she, like most of the other residents in the Oasis, considered him an oddity. Someone to be mocked or, at best, put up with.

  He was a halfling after all.

  Szabo would curse his mother and father‘s names, if he knew them. But he had been thrown in with other slaves onto a ship that was bound for Ladis. He was the only halfling aboard the vessel.

  So he had been told.

  Szabo was only five or six when he had been given to his master and trained in the special line of work he was used for his whole life. He hated his father and mother for giving him up, which is what he assumed they did. He learned later that many others had been sold to soldiers in exchange for goods his country did not have for their own war.

  A black market of humans. One country needed coins, the other needed bodies. Whatever one country could sell, another would happily buy.

  He never could track down the owner of the ship. The man had apparently died not long after delivering his cargo. It was dangerous work and a dangerous journey. Had he not died, Szabo would have gladly ended the man’s life for him.

  He couldn’t complain too much, however.

  His plate and cup would soon be full and he had lived a life of relative peace and for the last ten years in the Oasis. If all he had to worry about were his inner demons and a twenty thousand coin bounty on his head should he ever show his face in the Theocracy again, he guessed there wasn’t too much to worry about.

  Helen, the restaurant owner’s daughter, sauntered over to him and winked as she replaced his empty cup for a full one. Szabo smiled at her and took a drink from his cup.

  If he had learned anything from his travels, it was that a man should speak only when necessary. Especially around women.

  He was in the middle of the second sip and thinking of his best reason to call Helen over again when he heard it. An ear splitting, inhuman scream that carried over the waves lapping on the shore outside.

  Before anyone else sitting at the high tables around him blinked, he acted.

  He never went anywhere, even his favorite pub, without his store of weapons. Pulling out a short sword concealed in the back of his shirt, he leapt down off the seat and rushed outside.

  He knew that cry.<
br />
  Hundreds of thoughts filled his mind as he broke out from under the shade and into the light of the afternoon sun. What in the world was it doing here? How had it finally found him? What in the name of all the gods of Ladis was it planning to do?

  It didn’t take long to find it. The thing always left a trail of purple flame wherever it flew. Its giant bat-like wings beat against the sky. Szabo felt that it was profane to see it here. How dare it come and ruin such a peaceful place?

  “Down here, you winged devil!” he called out, shoving his sword into the sky.

  He knew full well that raising his sword up would not make the tip of it come past the head of a normal man. But he also knew this creature hated, absolutely hated him.

  If he could distract it long enough, perhaps most of the residents of the city could flee? Or least hide?

  Because if they didn’t, there was a real possibility that they were all going to die.

  The screams of the residents fleeing in panic were immediately overpowered by the screech the demon let loose as it plummeted towards Szabo. It landed with a crash on the sandy beach, sending a cloud of sand flying. Szabo protected his eyes but made sure he could see underneath his arm he had raised up to deflect the sand.

  This demon was not one to trifle with. This he knew full well.

  “I have found you at last you puny runt,” the demon said in her terrible unearthly voice. “Like a roach under a rock, I find you in a pub drinking your fill. Weak and pathetic. Have you been here this whole time, drinking your pathetic life away?”

  “You chase me for twenty years and don’t have a single new insult, Graxxin?” Szabo said, shaking his head. “I’m disappointed. I, on the other hand, have quite a few new good one for you, Scarface.”

  The demon let a clawed hand pass over her feminine like face that burned with purple flame. A single scar ran from her forehead over her right eye and to her chin.

  Giving her that scar had been the proudest moment of his life. He smirked as he saw the look of rage form on her face.

  “You haven’t aged well, you old bat,” he said as he readied his blade for her strike. “I may have gotten fatter, but you’ve grown twice as ugly.”

  Graxxin was a predictable demon.

  He held his sword tightly, preparing for the eventual strike as she bore her claws at him. Her body was covered in clothes made out of flame. Her hands had five long claws extending from each finger. Four cloven feet were underneath her, like a giant bull.

  She smirked as she spoke to him.

  “You’ve grown old and fat, little runt,” she said looking obviously satisfied. “You scarred me once. Now that I’ve found you, I plan to leave your body in tatters.”

  “I don’t know,” Szabo said. “I think the scar improves your face. It’s hard to work with something that looks like a pig.”

  Graxxin lunged at him, her wings back and claws out. He had been expecting this. Rolling to the side, he pulled out one of his special throwing daggers and launched it at her. The move caught her off guard and she blocked it only in time to interrupt her own attack.

  Szabo leapt out of the way and swiped up at her with his short sword. It glowed blue as he swung it and he heard her satisfying yell as it connected with her demonic flesh. Graxxin screamed as she barreled past. She spun around, landing in the nearest building and clutched at the spot with one claw as her eyes burned red at him.

  Breathing heavily, Szabo allowed himself a small smile as she stood and he readied himself for another blow.

  “Who is the one getting old and slow, Graxxin?” he said triumphantly. He knew winding her up again would cost him, so he held back more taunting for the moment.

  It took him a moment to see where she had landed, however. In her anger and charge, Graxxin had dove right into his favorite pub. The building immediately caught fire and was an inferno within moments.

  Szabo let out a yell of rage.

  He liked that pub.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve come all this way just to burn down the town I call home!”

  Graxxin let out a demonic laugh and bared her claws at him as she emerged from the wreckage.

  “Not a town,” she said menacingly. “We’ll burn the whole continent once the puny humans have their war. They draw us here. Give us power. You know that full well. You know better than any. Too bad you’ll be dead long before anyone cares to ask your opinion.”

  She flew at him again, her purple flames bursting into a life of their own. Szabo had been ready for that, too. Or, at least as ready as any halfling could be.

  He took a vial of green from his pouch and smashed it on a rock under his foot. Just as the purple flames enveloped him, a wall of magical energy pushed it away. He leapt and again swung his blade at Graxxin. This time, he missed. Szabo breathed in hard, knowing that he only could do that trick once and wishing he had been as blessed as others were with the gifts of magic.

  Graxxin roared over his head and screeched along the water, trailing it with her tail. Steam rose off of any part it touched. Szabo breathed heavily.

  This fight was already taking too long. He had to end this quickly before he ran out of tricks.

  The feminine demon rolled into the sand and came down on her claws. Her teeth gleamed in the afternoon suns, far too white to match her dark purple skin.

  “Ready to die, no name adventurer?”

  Szabo scoffed.

  “When was the last time you left someone alive to remember yours?”

  Graxxin’s answer was to leap out at him with claws out at her sides, eyes narrowed and murderous. Szabo held out his blade and ran at her as well. If he was going to go down, he was at least planning on taking this demon with him.

  He lunged with his sword as she brought down a claw at his chest. They hit midair and Szabo was thrown backwards from the momentum she had on him. She was four times his size, after all.

  Landing in the soggy sand of the beach, Szabo did his best to recover quickly, but Graxxin was already charging at him again. Taking another knife from his boot, he threw it at her. This time, she was ready and batted it away with one claw while the other reached for his throat.

  Szabo fell back into the sand and struck with his blade. His sword met the demon’s claws once, twice, and a third time before she managed to get one around his frame. This same claw pinned his sword arm to the ground, leaving him only his weak arm at his side. The radiant heat from her body was beginning to make him sweat and sear his skin through his clothing,

  “I’ve been hoping you didn’t die of old age before I could run a claw through your gut,” Graxxin said as her eyes grew wide. Szabo saw his own reflection in those demonic portals. “You call me a pig. I wonder. Do you squeal?”

  He had spent his life killing men at the request of a prince. Szabo was a halfling given the impossible task of royal assassin. So few expected someone so small to be able to execute men twice his height and twice as strong. But he had been trained by the Temple’s guards and the soldiers of the prince.

  He was not unfamiliar with putting his life on the line.

  “Time to die, Szabo Farwanderer,” Graxxin said with a look of grim satisfaction on her face.

  “Ladies first,” he answered, shoving his weak hand at her chin and pulling his wrist back. A hidden blade struck out from his sleeve and lodged itself in Graxxin’s eye.

  Roiling in pain, the demon leapt back and clawed at her face, screaming such agonies that Szabo wanted to cover his ears and run. But he knew he couldn’t. He had to act.

  Taking the moment for what it offered him, he ran forward with his blade and shoved it as hard as he could into her abdomen. For a moment, only white light poured from the demon’s body. Then the magical power her body had contained burst out of her and Szabo felt himself flying through the air.

  The impact knocked his breath out of him and his vision went black.

  He must have landed in the sand some distance away. The air felt much cooler than it had a
moment ago. Szabo blinked and realized that several hours must have passed. He lifted up his head and saw the stars out above. He shivered a moment, then tried to get to his hands and knees.

  “Oh the gods are with us; you’re alive!” a voice said from a few steps away.

  “Wha?” Szabo heard himself mutter. It wasn’t long before a pair of hands grabbed him and helped flip him over. “Who?”

  “It’s Helen,” said a sweet voice. “From the pub. What a terrible thing to happen. Thank goodness you were here, Szabo. I saw most of the fight. What was that terrible beast?”

  “Demon,” he answered calmly as he let himself melt into her hands.

  Two thoughts ran through his mind at the same time.

  If Graxxin was back, then the wars of the north had certainly become terrible indeed. There were people he would have to tell. Kings and princes he would need to confront about what he had just witnessed and try to warn them before everything went to chaos.

  The second, much more satisfying thought he had, was that Graxxin had been wrong. Someone had seen him defeat her.

  And that someone was gorgeous.

  A seagull cried out overhead, just as Szabo let out a deep sigh, and laid still.

  30: Better Plans

  “Holve Bravestead, I may kill you for this,” Silverwolf muttered as she lay huddled in a blanket underneath a very sad tree that did little to shelter the trio from the pouring rain.

  All attempts to build a fire had been abandoned hours ago, but still the remnants of their gathered wood sat mocking them in the muddy grass. Silverwolf kicked it to take out a little of her frustration. This journey had not gone at all as she had intended it to.

  First they had been waylaid by the humanoid lizards that still crawled through the forests they had hoped to hide in. Then they had found a very able group of Isol scouts that had pursued them for at least three days before they were able to kill one of them and send the rest back to the main camp.

  With any luck, Silverwolf thought bitterly, the whole place will have tightened their security two-fold, knowing that there was a rogue group who was killing Isolian scouts. Especially since those same scouts had recognized Barton.