And now, before them stood one such creature.
"Look at its skin, man!” one hollered, pointing and laughing.
"Looks like somethin’ I spat in a snot rag this mornin'!” another bellowed, slapping his knee.
The large man of the group narrowed his eyes at the figure, swallowing the lump in his throat. The pale and nearly naked creature said nothing in reply to them, but gave them a sidelong glance and smiled, begging them to make a move.
The alcohol was taking control, the big man knew. The world began to twist and turn; the figure before him became two, then went back to one again. They were running out of time.
"Git ready, boys,” the big man ordered.
The other three didn't have to question the order. Each knelt down, keeping their eyes fixed on the ghostly humanoid, and picked up the nearest broken bottle, club, or splintered board.
The creature crouched a bit lower then, bending its knees like a loaded spring. The attackers noticed that its hands weren't hands at all, but were knife-shaped. Their eyes widened.
The large man blustered, “What the hell're you supposed ta’ be, huh? Ya’ don't mind tellin’ us before we take ya’ inta custody, do ya'?” He slapped the end of the club he bore in the palm of his left hand.
Servant stared at the big man for a moment, still smiling and silently taunting with his deep pools of gray. “I'm looking for information which concerns you,” he said finally.
"What kind o’ information?” the big man asked, playing right into Servant's game.
"A creature came here,” Servant offered. “Came here from another world, if you catch my drift. The aura surrounding the four of you indicates you have touched this creature."
Servant trusted his bluff to work sooner rather than later. Nothing bolstered his confidence on these inebriated men better than offering what they knew. Servant already knew it was a Lyymhorn that came through the miscalculated dimensional portal, but he wasn't lying by revealing his sense of their contact with the creature. Every creature left a signature—a magical mark—on everything they touched in a Plane not their own.
"So what if we have?” the big man growled. “What's it to ya'?"
"I just want to know where this creature is. I have a vested interest in knowing who came through to your town; you all may be in grave danger.” Again, he tested the waters with his lies, but Servant, above all others, knew the frailty of the human spirit and how quickly the fear of death and doom shook their core.
The big man didn't budge, though his three companions cast concerned glances at each other, visibly shaken at the other's statement.
"Don't move, ya’ dogs!” the big man barked at them. “This fella thinks he can waltz in ‘ere and stake a claim ta’ our mayor's prize. I think not."
"The mayor?” Servant asked, purposely sounding oblivious.
"Yeah, the mayor,” the big man mocked. “Ya’ know, the guy who lives by the courtyard yonder?"
That was all Servant needed to hear, and before he sprang, he offered the big man another cocky sidelong smile.
Servant launched himself in a dazzling dance of whirling maneuvers. The big man stepped back and allowed his three companions first blood. Servant lashed out at those two, swinging his two hand blades in a criss-cross pattern, which severed their heads from their necks instantly. Their lifeless bodies fell to either side, but the big man shoved the third into Servant's path. A few quick slashes to the man's throat silenced his screams and released his soul.
The big man smiled and lunged; Servant vaulted straight up. The club bore down on him, but went wide of its mark and crashed into the cobblestone street. The vibration from striking the hard surface made the big man drop the club and clutch his wrists in pain. The ale had dulled his otherwise keen sense of street fighting.
Servant landed with perfect balance behind the big man. Without even turning his head, the shapeshifter thrust his right arm backward, plunging the hand blade into the big man's back, which severed his spine and punctured his lungs.
The big man couldn't scream. He exhaled sharply, his breath leaving him; shock froze his face in a glazed skyward stare. Servant grabbed the man by the collar of his coat and whispered “thank you” into his ear.
* * * *
With the four informants dead and their bodies hidden in the rank alley, Servant made off toward the mayor's mansion. He doubted anyone would mourn the loss of such foul humans. The assassin paused in another alley to wash his hands, which had returned to normal, in a pool of rainwater filling a dented garbage can lid.
I must wait until nightfall to search the mayor's domicile, he thought to himself, washing the last bit of blood from his fingers. For what seemed like hours he sat alone in a damp, dark place behind the piles of refuse. He made friends with a gangly cat, a creature all too familiar in human towns. He even thought of searching for the prize the mayor had claimed in broad daylight, but patience was something the Elderon had taught him well.
Servant waited.
After some time passed, he heard a commotion common to the ears of the sordid townsfolk.
He crept to the line dividing the street's light and the alley's darkness and looked south toward the end of the city limits.
"What a huge giant,” he whispered. He registered each of the beings in turn: five elves, one wizard, and the giant. What are they doing here?
He caught the wizard glancing at him with questioning eyes, so he quickly bolted to the rear of the dead-end alley, his hands morphing into suction cups along the way. He leapt to the wall, scaled it, then raced across the rooftops toward the mayor's house, using the inclines and chimneys as cover.
Servant secured his vantage point at the corner of a small alcove formed by two buildings built close together, but not too close. From there he could see what he believed was the mayor's mansion, and the entire broken courtyard. It didn't take long for him to spot the party of foreigners entering the courtyard from the south side.
All of a sudden, alarms rang out and the humans gathered enough gumption to mount an assault on the unwelcome travelers. Rocks came flying in from every side, and Servant slid a bit further back into the shadow of the buildings to watch the reaction, sizing up what might eventually become his competition. He couldn't imagine why a band of the most war savvy creatures would be in Drameda, but he didn't honestly care; he didn't fear anyone. After all he'd seen and done, fear wasn't an option for Servant.
Being outnumbered, though, was a bit of an annoyance.
The mansion, while a bit modest for a mayor, was still outlandish. Built entirely of stone, the mansion was wide at its base, with many windows made of thick glass, a turret at one front corner, and many other jutting designs built into the front face. If there was an architectural marvel to be found in the house itself, it only served to take the focus off the land surrounding it. There were no gardens and no trees, no landscaping to speak of, save for a large boulder that resided between the house and the edge of the lawn.
The mayor stood on the threshold of the stone steps leading from his front door to the long sidewalk, which led to the street's edge. It took him several minutes to raise his hand to the angry throng assaulting the newcomers.
The crowd obediently stopped throwing rocks, turned, and went back to their duties like nothing had happened. They seemed to be under the mayor's spell. Aerinas and the others exchanged queer looks and reluctantly lowered their cloaks and other shields.
The mayor lifted his narrow chin and dusted off the front of his coat. Casually, he descended the small set of steps, walked the length of the sidewalk with equal disregard, and finally came to a halt. He never set foot on the cobblestone street or otherwise offered a warm greeting to the travelers.
Aeligon glanced at Tristandor, who gave an equally puzzled look in return. The wizard shrugged and stepped forward with his staff at the ready.
"Greetings,” he offered, bowing his head slightly since he wasn't close enough to offer his handshake, the t
raditional sign of welcome to the race of men.
The mayor simply nodded and wrinkled his nose in response. Aeligon, unsure of what to do next, stepped back and waited, growing more and more impatient at the arrogant leader of Drameda.
Farrin couldn't hold it any longer. “Do ya’ want ta’ tell us what took ya’ so long ta’ call off the rock throwin'?"
The mayor snapped his head upward and narrowed his beady eyes at the giant. “I was unsure of your intentions,” he answered quietly. “Anger can push a person over the edge, making them do things they normally wouldn't do. I wanted to see how far they could push you."
Aeligon quickly noted how differently the man spoke compared to the rest of the townsfolk, how eloquent and intelligent his use of language was. It seemed he was from an aristocratic family, sent to run the money-grubbing operations of the seaport.
Unfortunately, there were many towns in Vaaluna with characters like this who ran things, who kept the people's hopes high and pockets empty. This mayor was scum, no better than the wretches prowling his streets at night.
His biting comments having effectively silenced Farrin, the mayor took turns casting his damning gaze at each of the others in the group. Aeligon and Tristandor were so taken aback by the mayor's rudeness and striking evil that they were rendered speechless.
The silence was finally broken by the only voice able to shatter it without feeling bad.
"And just who do you think you are, you donkey's ass!” Pux screamed, his face forming in the end of the staff.
A broad smile swept across Aeligon's face after the mayor's eyes virtually popped out of his head. The snob even took a few steps back; a look of disgust spread across his face. The elves began to snicker and chuckle among themselves.
"Yeah, I'm talking to you, Yer Honor,” Pux continued when the mayor was set back on his heels. “You ever heard of a thing called manners or welcoming guests? Maybe if you take that stick out of your rear you'd be able to find your nose!"
Farrin's face was beaming red. He tried to contain his laughter, but it was no use. He roared with laughter, clutching his ribs and wiping the tears from his face.
The mayor's horror-stricken face was etched permanently into each of their minds. He turned and stormed hurriedly back up the sidewalk, up the steps, and into his mansion. The door's slam sent them into more hilarity.
"Way ta’ go, Pux,” Farrin shouted.
People appeared in their windows and opened doors to watch the travelers’ antics. None dared throw another rock after Farrin quickly whisked his fur tunic aside to reveal his huge battleaxe. He offered a wink to accompany the
sneak preview of his weapon. The faces disappeared.
"Well, now what do we do?” Tristandor asked. The Elf-Lord watched
the draperies inch open by the main front window; the mayor peeked out at them.
"He is curious,” Aeligon ventured. “Pux's mirth has broken the snobbish facade that man has held his whole life."
Pux looked at Aeligon, who was already smiling at him. “Good work, Pux,” the wizard offered. “Looks like your troublesome wit has finally paid back its debt in spades."
Pux smiled—an unspoken reply very uncharacteristic of the adolescent apprentice.
Aeligon cast a fleeting look over his shoulder. We are being watched by more than just a snobby mayor.
Servant spied the interaction between the stuck-up mayor and the group of outsiders. He was amazed at how each member of the group reacted to one another, catching the small bonds of fellowship between them: a slap on the shoulder, a wink—a look in his direction?
Alarmed, Servant pulled deeper into the shadows. The wizard did it again, he thought, a panicky thrill running up his spine. But how could he know? Am I too close? Am I staring too hard? Never before had another been so keen on sensing his presence. He had to figure another way to gain the upper hand in finding the Lyymhorn who came through the Planar portal, and he didn't have much time.
The others kept their distance while Tristandor walked the length of the cobblestone sidewalk to the mayor's front door. If anyone possessed a sense of diplomacy in the group, it was the experienced Elf-Lord. It had taken an hour of convincing, but, after several annoyed sighs, he had accepted the assignment. The short winter day was dying.
Tristandor reached the door and lightly tapped the gold knocker. He could hear it echo throughout the entire house, followed by the sound of shoes striking the floor. The door eased open.
An equally snobbish butler stood there, uninviting and expectedly rude, with a white towel thrown over his left forearm and a silver tray in his left palm. A nearly empty bottle of red wine and a stained glass were set there.
Tristandor stood, smiling, with his hands clasped firmly in front of him. He had put on his best robe for the occasion, which smelled of mildew from Farrin's soggy pack. He didn't want to honor the butler with the anticipated question, so he asked, “Thirsty?"
The butler sighed heavily through his thick nostrils and pursed his lips. “It is not mine. You are not welcome here. Kindly leave.” When he tried to slam the door, he could not budge it. Frustrated, he set the tray down and tried forcing it closed with both hands.
Tristandor never moved and continued smiling, tilting his head at the struggling butler.
Finally, the butler threw his hands up.
"Having problems?” the Elf-Lord quipped.
"Leave it, Feldon,” roared a voice from behind the butler.
Feldon snapped his head around quickly, then bowed low. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sweat from his partially balding head, picked up his tray, and shuffled down the hallway.
"You elves just don't know how to take ‘no’ for an answer,” said the voice again, but this time Tristandor could see the source.
The foyer opened up to three hallways: one in front and one to each side. Twin staircases began on each side of the room, and wound their way up to a single landing overlooking the entranceway. A lavish chandelier hung high overhead, offering ample lighting to the vast space.
The mayor was leaning on the cherry-wood railing running the length of the upstairs landing. His hair was disheveled, his elaborate coat was off, and his fluffy white shirt was untucked and partially unbuttoned. Tristandor could smell the alcohol from where he stood, his keen senses aware of everything around him.
"Please, come in,” the mayor offered with a wave of his hand. “Seems you were fixing to come in anyway."
Tristandor simply nodded, and stepped inside. With a wave of his hand, the door closed.
Inside, Tristandor was even more impressed with the interior beauty of the home. Luxurious tapestries and thick-napped area rugs were displayed prominently throughout the room to the left of the foyer. To the right, though, two large doors barred the way. The landing where the mayor stood formed a tunnel where the hallway straight ahead led out into a well-lit room. From there, all Tristandor could see was the gleaming marble floor and many windows.
The mayor grew silent, and the awkwardness outside was matched inside as well. But, now on an even playing field—elf to man, face to face, and one on one—Tristandor was supremely confident on finding answers to his questions.
It was Tristandor who spoke first.
"Thank you for admitting me to your home, good sir,” he said, straining with all his might to keep from laughing again at Pux's humiliating insults. “I know it must be difficult running a town where you must constantly watch your back."
The mayor nodded, but didn't respond otherwise. Tristandor could tell the man was reeling from the drink, among other things, and was probably holding onto the balustrade to keep from falling over more than for show.
Tristandor continued, “I will put it simply and honestly, considering your importance and precious time. We came here to find a volume vanished, or possibly purloined from the city of Lunathar. We want it back, you see, and will pay handsomely for it or information leading to its recovery."
&n
bsp; Tristandor, always privy to the weaknesses plaguing human minds, felt confident money would perk up the mayor.
It worked.
"My name is Grummen Lordmont,” he offered. “You have my attention, but I'm sure I can do nothing for you. This is a seaport, Elf-King. The only books you will find here belong to the navigators and merchants who come and go as they please."
Tristandor figured he'd be met with this type of feeble resistance. “So you are saying there are no libraries here? No school books for children of Drameda?” he asked sarcastically. He kept his speech eloquent and very proper, not wanting to offend. This man respected class, not honesty.
"There are those, yes, but not in abundance,” Grummen retorted with a bit of sarcasm of his own. “Children here are born for the sea..."
"Or for the allure of a criminal life,” Tristandor cut in. His eyes narrowed at Grummen Lordmont, taunting him subtly.
"Well, to each their own,” Grummen said, snickering. He brushed his hair back off his forehead, a bit of sweat apparent on his brow. It was either the drink, or the pressure from the Elf-Lord, but otherwise, he was a stone.
Tristandor had done what he had come there to do: plant the seeds that, given ample time, would grow into reason. Grummen couldn't deny Tristandor's class and worthy demeanor, so perhaps, with luck, the mayor would at least permit them to look around.
The Elf-Lord regarded the high double doors barring entrance to the south wing, and wondered what, if anything, was hidden behind them.
Darkness was starting to fall by then—perfect timing. More screams could be heard in the distance; the predators of the night crept out from their holes to prey on the weak. Fear had snaked its way back into the heart of the town.
Servant waited until the timing was right and wasted little of it crossing the lawns between his hiding place and the mayor's mansion. He had changed positions since he'd felt the eyes of the wizard upon him earlier and had seen the exchange between the elf and the mayor inside the house. The elf had left empty-handed, but perhaps what they were searching for was spoken information. He doubted that, however, because the group had found themselves an inn suitable to their purpose: it had a room fit for the behemoth giant—the stable.
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