by Jason Jones
He dropped the scabbard, caught by yet another follower, who slowed his pace, as did the rest, knowing full well that the prince intended to use the weapon upon entrance to the underground domicile of the White Spider, of which he was the secret patriarch.
The old red minotaur called Heathen stood at attention as best he could in his old age, full of scars. His hands on the curved executioner style scimitar, the red beast bowed with his one horn. Johnas had been saved by this one many times over the years, and remembered the one fight this minotaur lost to Faldrune of Willborne, the only fight resulting in his dishonor,which had resulted in the loss of his horn to the giant minotaur bodyguard of Lady Katrina. Despite his loyalty, Johnas had never seen Heathen the same since, having grown quiet in his old age and shame. The dispute was over some illegal trade to Altestan that went missing through the free cities between Chazzrynn and Harlaheim, and Johnas had accused Lady Katrina Willborne of the deed, in which he was correct. The challenge that ensued cost him the pride of his greatest killer, one with no conscience, and the shipment that surely Katrina profited from.
“You’re back to me, my Prince.” Heathen, straining to stand straight, managed to reach his full eight feet in height and pulled out a metal rod boasting a golden spider with glass legs fixed atop.
“I am. What words are whispered?”
“One moment,” Heathen hushed in a low tone.
Johnas turned his back, as routine dictated even for himself, and waited for the old red minotaur to check him for the brand. If he had said no, or tried to pass, he would have been cut down by the guardian of the sanctum for sure. The rod of the White Spider checked for two things, as crafted by house mages and ordered by Johnas himself. The prince had to ensure that the brand was in place, that those coming inside were indeed members, so the glass legs could see through a foot or more of almost any material. Second, for the Prince’s protection, the golden spider glowed if any illusory magic or tricks of changelings were in place. After more than one account of being impersonated by doppelgangers and expert wizards, then having to kill them, Johnas had put the proper protective standards in place.
“Altestani ship whispered to pass in the night,” Heathen murmured, seeing what he needed to see.
“And the crown?”
“Not here to check on taxes, my prince.”
“The captain?”
“Down below, drunk, Vanessa has him distracted for you.”
“Well done.”
“Welcome, Prince Johnas Valhera. Never more than a whisper for the Prince, as he did not wish for those on the other side of the door to know he was coming. For everyone else, they were announced loudly upon passage through the open doors.
“My gratitude, Heathen.”
“Smells like someone is about to die, my prince.”
“Correct, as usual.”
“I will be there in a few moments.”
“No need, you know me well enough. Simple justice this time.” Johnas smiled.
“I do know you, and justice is messy.” Heathen grinned and bowed.
“Clean justice is for boring rulers, my one horned friend.” Johnas waited by the door, waited for the right moment to enter and take care of matters at hand. He looked to the blade in his hand and winked.
The patriarch of the White Spider recalled the day when his red minotaur slave was named. He had been having difficulty in his younger days with a militant wing of the Aldane, not truly associated with the church, but devoted to Alden by the blade nonetheless. Their zeal for religion and moral behavior was inconveniencing Johnas, and Valhirst had needed less, worship. In an attempt to drive off the soldiers of Alden from the city, he had organized a little scare, making an example at night of one of their outspoken priests.
His new pet minotaur walked in past the intimidating beatings Johnas gave the zealots at the front of the temple. To prove himself, the minotaur killed every single human in the building, from acolyte to bishop. Only Johnas trusted him from that night on, and he was named by the shocked entourage of terrorists with him that whispered the word, Heathen. He became the one killer that the prince leaned on the most. Until that lost battle in Willborne, the red minotaur had been Johnas’ most trusted member. Now he thought the spirit of his old horned slave was but a shade of what he once was.
Clearing his mind of the past, Johnas Valhera flung the left door open, as the right door had quite a nasty surprise of a twenty foot drop ending in spikes behind it. He walked up toward Ellaird, Captain of the guard of Valhirst, through the smoke of opium and other noxious fumes of pleasure. He passed the great table, adorned with fifty or more velvet backed chairs, all adorned with web-like carpentry and design. His steps took him past his various visiting ambassadors from other kingdoms, and past his loyal crew, all pausing to see who the blade was meant for. All cavorting and inhaling, all touching and pleasing, and all counting and trading, they all stood frozen still in silence.
Ellaird turned from the woman he was wooing, drunk on dwarven whiskey as usual, eyes red from the opium pipes. His glance moved from the lovely face of Vanessa Blackflame to that of his prince and patriarch, which caused a shudder on his pale unshaven face. The sword sparked and metal screamed for a second, then again as the bloody blade returned from his chest.
Like he had seen a ghost, the blood left his face, his eyes froze. Dropping to his knees, Ellaird was clutching his chest, despite a quarter inch of steel breastplate being in between his hand and the bleeding wounds he had hoped to cover. Blood ran down his fingers and armor, dripping to the floor as he drew his broadsword.
“Johnas, you focking…” a step forward from the prince, and a whistling third cut from the wavy kris blade, this one across his throat, ended the insult, his life draining across the steps and splattering to the emerald and onyx adorned throne that sat empty.
“Focking what?” Johnas questioned the almost corpse writhing on the steps at his feet.
“How about, focking unable to kill your brother as ordered? Or a focking drunken captain who let his brother get away to the king and warn him of our men in Willborne? Or the focking captain who did not tell me he could not kill his brother as ordered and came here to spend time with opium rewarding his focking self for failure?” Johnas kicked Ellaird, hard. The man was still gasping through the gash across his neck, spasming as death spread through the body. Johnas wiped the blade clean with a white towel handed to him by another servant boy who had just arrived through Heathen’s door. All was still, and no one breathed.
“Better, I feel ultimately better with blood flowing on the floor.” His smile brought a few chuckles from the gathered criminals that worshipped him.
“Balric D’Vrelle!” Heathen’s voice boomed into the silent bloody throne room underground, announcing another entry.
The Harlian man was dressed in black, much like Johnas. His long dark curly hair and beard set him apart. Balric stepped forward, hand on the hilts of both saber and shortsword at his side. From Harlaheim, where he was brought into the White Spider for his dueling talents, Balric D’Vrelle was simply visiting and eyeing his mistress Vanessa, who had been keeping this captain at bay for nights now. The Harlian swordsman, undefeated in his almost thirty years, felt any moment could be his last.
He bowed, staring at the corpse and blood before the throne underground. “Yes, Prince Johnas, you sent for me earlier?”
“You are the new captain of the city guard of Valhirst. See Gerald at the barracks, meet the men, make introductions, and do not ever fail me.” Johnas received his scabbard from the outreached hand of a servant, placed his kris shortsword inside, and sat on the onyx throne.
“Yes, my prince, thank you. I will make my stay here indefinite and inform the guild in Harlaheim.” Balric bowed again, not knowing what else to say.
He knew this was a set up, for no Chazzrynn guard would listen well to a Harlian captain. Johnas may have caught on that he was here gathering information for Harlaheim. Balric had dueled other
s, killed many in fair challenges, and had his younger days of banditry and skullduggery. Those nights were well behind him and the last thing he wanted was to be steered away from Vanessa, given duty here, and made to engage in the dealings of Valhirst. Now he was stuck. He would have a hard time pinning down and trailing this Prince’s connections to Altestan and Shalokahn.
“And I do not fail, my prince.”
“Excellent, than we have nothing to be concerned about, you and I. Report to me this evening and I will fill you in once you have informed the guard that their captain was found dead in whore’s alley. Which is where he needs to be placed. Get Heathen to carry him and I will see that your papers are in order. Be off.”
Johnas knew that he now had the Harlian man worried, busy, and curious. He was well aware that he was a mole among a den of rats, but his skills with the sword and ties to Harlaheim would be valuable. While he was here, and craving his mistress, that was also a supposed secret, Johnas would not have worry about what his intentions were. Now, the prince thought, how do I get his true loyalty? Perhaps putting the pressure on the emotional bond, maybe a little accident with his beautiful Vanessa Blackflame. She deserves it, every woman should have a scar. That should, in theory he thought more, get Balric angry enough to do about anything, should I give him the lead to direct his blades. A vengeful assassin, just what Johnas needed to take care of a few loose ends around the kingdoms. He watched as Balric D’Vrelle, captain of the guard, left the chamber as quietly as he had entered.
“Now that the first order of business is finished, tell me what else is on our table this cold winters’ night.” Johnas was content with his planned outcome, just in the works, and certainly set in motion to ripen and improve with the days and weeks to come.
“My prince, we have several messages from Vallakazz and Salah-Cam in the south, and one from Southwind.” Dark haired, a beautiful orphan of former members that Johnas had to eliminate many years ago, this Vanessa had trained at Eisel Inne Arcane for four years. It was paid in full by her master the Prince. Johnas had taken her young, adopted her, and raised her since the age of eight. Always prompt and insightful, and most of all loyal, power and fear kept Vanessa and Johnas close. She had pleased the patriarch of the White Spider many times over, despite her secret romance with Balric of Harlaheim, a false romance to lure him closer and dig into his past. She was an expert at lies and deception, much like Johnas, and that is what he admired most in her. Had her duties or loyalty ever wavered, he would have killed her years ago. Although now, he was concerned.
Has she secretly fallen for her own target? Perhaps keeping it from me?
“What from Vallakazz, Miss Blackflame?” Johnas peered around the room, wine being delivered by a servant, tasted by the one to his left before he was to drink it. The young boy did not drop dead, and the prince drank deeply of the aged Caberran red.
“Two ninety seven? Great year, delicious finish, and no poison.” He received nods from the young teenage blond boys, chuckles from the dozens of agents and gathered who knew nothing of wine, but served their purposes in crime.
Johnas looked around, the tables gathering more members in the dark room with cathedral ceilings and a half dozen chandeliers ablaze with green and orange magical fire. More than forty men and women, thieves, dealers, merchants, assassins, enforcers, madames, spies, corrupt foreign ambassadors, and arcane outcasts, all gathered at the table before him while Heathen dragged the corpse of Ellaird out the side entrance. Wines, powders, bags of leaf, coins of platinum and gold, contracts, items of arcane enchantment, and stolen goods cluttered the table filled with the worst and deadliest on the continent and surrounding lands. Every gathering had great potential for bloodshed here.
Johnas let his eyes wander the tables. His smile grew as he saw them in action with one another.
Young Mikko the Red and his port bastards, all five of them here with stolen cargo. Josain Carisian of Caberra brought three chests of silver this week alone, has a new scar on his arm, must have seen some swordplay for it. Mugs, big and strong and reeking of ale no doubt, his big belly and red beard jiggled at the tables as he pointed across at the whores that had been taking tricks in his territory. Madame Flowers, mother of Velvet in Harlaheim, mother of four other mistress whores and informants, had she not grown that loose skin on the neck, she would still be a prize for a night. Farrigus, his arms crossed in the corner, alone as usual. The telltale heavy breathing and motion under the cloth means he is taking pleasures again as he watches the crowd. His deadliest blade, already one missing eye covered with a plain black patch, how he loves his women and murder.
Johnas nodded to the patient and perfectly chiseled beauty from Caberra, then he winked to her. “Proceed.”
Vanessa slid the forefront of the table to the side, revealing the polished black marble slab under the wood. The other end of the giant oak table revealed a three foot by three foot section of polished white marble, framed in gold. They matched identically the fifteen foot by five foot wall piece to the left of the throne, covered by red drapery that Vanessa removed as the members gathered at the table. The larger of the two warlock mirrors, as they were called, had writings in arcane script that only a trained student of magick could read. Johnas always pretended to be unable to decipher it, yet his years of secret study had blessed him with the ability. He would test his arcane members often, by having them pass him the information he knew already and could read. Johnas would kill them for any deception or self serving misinformation they would give, always having another reason for their removal so that his secret remained safe. Such was the way and the need of a lord of criminals and Prince of a city.
Vanessa followed the patterns of arcane scripture in gold color, glowing from the giant marble slab on the wall, then checked them with the ever-changing arcane code on the smaller one on the table. The large enchanted stone received magical writing in code from the smaller enchanted warlock mirrors that were written upon from other wizard contacts throughout Johnas’ spanning webs.
“Dasius of Caberra writes from Lazlette that the High Wizards moved on the invaluable tomes stolen from Eliah Shendrynn. He says that they are not truly in Vallakazz. They are heading closer to the coast, and northeast, toward us perhaps, carried by a wood elf accompanied by a satyr. He writes further that Salah-Cam’s assassin, Kendari, has entered the city, following the same illusory trail and has taken out several of our agents there. He is held up and surrounded at the Temple of Golden Mercy. He awaits further instruction, my prince.”
Johnas motioned to Vanessa to come to the smaller black marble mirror, which she did, muttering an arcane phrase quickly that would allow her finger to pass the arcane message to Dasius’ mirror in Vallakazz.
“Tell him to let the men take out Kendari if he interferes, and that we will follow the stolen tomes from here on. Also, Vanessa, tell him to be watchful of the bodyguard of Middir, as she is unable to be magically observed from here in Valhirst.”
Young Blackflame wrote in the strange arcane glyphs and decorative tongue that only a wizard would hope to understand, articulating every word from her prince perfectly. Johnas watched, from the corner of his eye, making sure his words were what he had spoken. Her beauty seemed the distraction to anyone that looked upon his eyes, yet Johnas kept his focus on every arcane gesture she made, fingers tapping the emerald pommel.
Prince Johnas, after motioning his boys for some more wine, and some of the opium and pipe from the table, casually, with a feigned look of confusion, inspected the next messages.
“The next message, my dear.” The boys lit the heavy ivory hookah in the shape of a praying tiger, and handed the hose to their prince, who in turn handed it back, having the little boy try it first.
“Salah-Cam, my prince. He writes that he wishes to employ our services again, since the last man we sent was murdered at the troll camp several days ago. He wants a scroll, one that has great importance to him, and great value. It is heading toward Vallaka
zz, in the care of a gray minotaur who found it in the western waste. He says his hunter is busy with another task in the swamps, and will offer one thousand pounds for the scroll to be delivered.” Vanessa looked confused for a moment, trying to piece things together from the other message.
“So Cam wants us to get concentrate on the scroll, while he sends Kendari for the three tomes that are said to be of much greater value? Then his assassin ends up in Vallakazz anyway, on a false lead, and kills our men and takes the scroll? I would imagine we would never see the gold, either.” Laughter rolled through the heartless members of the White Spider, along with the prince’s own, at the old fool of a wizard trying to trick Johnas.
“Tell him we will look into the scroll, but our men are busy with an attack from his assassin, Kendari. Tell him if he continues to insult our intelligence, he will have to join and be branded or we will end his pathetic life early. Tell him also, it is time to cut ties with Kendari, we do not care to deal with cursed elves or independants. The price may be double that of his offer, but the tomes of High Elven Magic will look nice on our shelves should he refuse.” More chuckles and “oohs” from the assembled criminals, noting the taunt to the wizard.
“That should give the old bastard a seizure and have him begging for assistance in both matters. That swamp wizard and troll breeder, Salah-Cam, has lost us many men, but it seems his purses and chests have great depth, so let us dig a bit more.”
“Should I write that last part, my prince?” Vanessa looked up.