by 5kops
When Areck reached the outer circle of attendees, he made his way to the overhang, still sure that there was a divine presence in the room. He was tempted to move direcdy to the bar, as logic demanded, but he needed to answer his question before he left the inn. He knew that if the cleric found him before he finished, he was sure his orders would be very clear and he would have to leave immediately.
Who is to say that the cleric is not in this direction anyway'? Areck concluded. Nowhere in the Code does it say that I cannot look for the messenger throughout the whole of the bar. If I happen to stumble upon the woman first, well, so much the better.
He sighed in chagrin, having already partaken in several breaches of his own ethos. He told himself that his thoughts were sound and that the cleric might actually be in the other direction. If anything, he figured that he might as well hope for the best and just seek the answer; otherwise it would nag him well into the ride of the next day.
Seeing his destination, Areck ducked into the narrow lane that separated the crowd from the wall.
Areck's sense of direction and general knowledge of the inn helped him move down the approximate path of the woman he was seeking. Due to the crowd's density, he guessed that she would not wish to fight for line of sight, rather making her way to the stage where she might find a better vantage point.
Fortunately, Areck was a tall man, standing half a head over most of the crowd, and it was easy to see the small pockets of empty space that formed when large gatherings of people coalesced into one spot. But he still did not see her.
Once again, Areck lowered his shoulder into the crowd, excusing himself as he bumped an elderly woman aside and made his way towards the stage. The press of bodies made it difficult to slide farther up since most did not wish to let him pass. The irritable grumbles of the crowd did not dissuade him, though, and he pushed through, finally making it to the third row. He could now easily view the stage, the crowd opposite his location, and Arawnn staring thoughtfully at the words hanging in the air.
Areck craned his neck, but did not see her. With a grunt of disapproval he decided to move again, this time working his way towards the northern side of the dining hall.
As he began to slide past the large fellow next to him, a hand reached out and a middle-aged woman spoke, "I am not one for anger, young man, but there are more people here than just you. Either move into the crowd or out of it. You are disrupting Master Rahk's tale."
Areck spun around to see the woman scowling up at him. He could tell that she was heated, and although Areck stared in her surprise, the woman poked him in chest!
He wanted to tell her of his indignation—that he was a Bre'Dmorian Squire, and that he could pass as he wished. However, the thoughts brought a deep color to Areck's cheeks.
I am being disrespectful, he thought. I owe this woman an apology.
"I apologize, madam," Areck began. "A friend of mine has passed this way, and I was searching for her. I will wait, however, to make my way . . ." He caught the sight of a familiar form in the front row making her way out of the crowd, which seemed to be almost parting for her.
Giving a short bow, Areck took an angle of pursuit toward the woman. He decided that winding his way through the crowd would be the only way to cut her off. If she made it through the crowd and to the door, he would have to let her go.
What am I going to say? He silently screamed, angry that such a question had not crossed his thoughts until now. / have never solicited an unwanted conversation with a female before, especially not a noble. If I reach for and take her unaware, surely I will look the fool. What if she reacts poorly?
Areck hesitated, considering not speaking to her at all. There was no reason he should be seeking her in the first place, so why make more of a fool of himself? If he could just glimpse her eyes, he could mark her in his mind and satisfy the urge that had welled up inside him.
With some resolve he made a decision and reached for the woman's arm. She abruptly stopped and turned back to the stage, her lowered hood keeping most of her face in shadow. Areck had to spin away or run the poor woman over. Though his reflexes were good, his quick reaction was not enough to prevent impact. With a soft grunt the woman reached out and sought support from Areck lest she fall to the floor.
Areck regained enough composure to notice that he was leaning against the wall and the pressure of the crowd was forcing the woman against his torso. He also noticed that the woman was funneling an immense amount of divine aura through her body—causing an almost excruciating pain.
"How dare you follow me so close? You drunken oaf!" she said, not looking at her assailant. She tried to remove an arm that had been pinned against the wall by the Areck's body.
Areck turned crimson in embarrassment. He could hear the tremor of anger in her melodic voice, one that sounded vaguely familiar. He stared at the ground and did not see that the woman's cowl had been pulled back enough to reveal her familiar face.
"I shall not ask again," she said, brushing herself off as if she had been soiled by the contact. "I do not look the part of a harlot, do I? And I certainly never asked for your company! Why the blazes are you so following so close?"
Areck's heart raced as he tried to stammer out a reply. "I meant only to make my way out of the crowd, my lady. You stopped so suddenly and— please forgive me—I was not paying attention. I am very sorry!" His voice cracked with nervous tension.
Silence finally brought Areck's gaze up to see the incredulous face of El-yana staring back at him. He was shocked to see that she was no longer dressed in armor but wore a flowing emerald dress covered by a long gray cloak. Furthermore, her hair was drawn up in a bun and she looked the part of any noble: face lightly painted, nails lacquered, and she now bore a very regal demeanor.
It wasn't until she pulled her hood up and began to back away that Areck figured out she was waiting for him to make a move. He noted the concern in her eyes, and her movement was slow and deliberate, as if going slowly might not break the shock of the moment.
The woman's rattled look gave her away. She was no noble of this realm, let alone a cleric. Yet there was something in her eyes . . . something exquisitely and mysteriously curious. Areck had to admit he was curious as well and even though justice had to be served, he wanted to talk to her.
"I think we should talk," he finally sputtered.
"There is nothing to talk about. I do not know how you came to be within arm's reach of me, maybe fate, but I do know that my time is limited," she said, her face shrouded by the shadows of the hood. She backed away from him, nearing the open door and her escape. He considered his options. He had not anticipated a fight.
Swiftly, Areck stepped through Elyana's outstretched arms and before she could react, maneuvered her towards the wall. His move made her either backpedal and be cut off or turn and flee, causing unwanted attention.
Areck felt her body stiffen, but she never moved away. Satisfied that she was not going to bolt, he bent down and whispered in her ear. "It is a crime that some of my order would consider deserving of death, my lady."
Her mouth dropped open and she allowed herself to be directed to the wall. She sighed and pulled her hood back down to regard him.
"It is Areck?" Elyana asked, continuing when he nodded. "I do not know what you are talking about, sir. I would be grateful if you would move out of the way, since I have more pressing issues to attend to."
"You know of what I am speaking, my lady," Areck explained, taking several steps back. "It is obvious that you are some kind of magic user, one who has a connection to the One God. Although I do not understand this, I know you are not a Cleric of Gabriel."
"You are a Bre'Dmorian, why do you lie?" She changed the subject. "Isn't being deceitful a quick way to the dungeon? We both know there is no death penalty for impersonating a cleric, and what I am is no consequence to you; only know that I am your superior!"
Areck's mouth tightened into a dark scowl. She knows some of our
customs it seems, he thought. It was stupid of me to try and force my hand by using our laws; she has spent time learning about the knighthood.
"Indeed it is. However, if I am not mistaken, the Book of Anduin says that sometimes one must take extreme measurers to ensure that law and justice are served. Still . . . you are right; we should take this to the local authorities. I think the duke could deal with a common thief more appropriately than a Bre'Dmorian Knight." Areck turned to go fetch a local warden.
As he was about to pull away, the woman's fierce voice stopped him. Oddly, it was tinged with real emotion. "How dare you call me a thief. . .?"
"Am I wrong? Why don't you tell me why you are impersonating people, and I will not get the authorities." He would allow her to take this conversation in the direction he wanted.
"If you were not so rude, I was about to recommend that we sit somewhere, drink some wine, and discuss this," she said. "Do you remember my name, at least?"
"I doubt it is real, but if I am not mistaken, it is Lady Elyana."
"Well, at least the young men of the Academy have enough respect for a noble lady to remember her name, even if they lack manners," she pursed her lips. "I suppose you are going to lead us to a table?"
"My friend is holding our table," Areck pointed to where Arawnn was seated, still waiting for the round that had been promised. "I recommend dropping the pretense that you are any kind of true noblewoman; it doesn't stand up to close scrutiny."
She grimaced before pushing past him in the direction he had pointed. Areck had to admit that she was good; her composure gave credence to the assertion that she was nobly born. However, as he watched her walk away, he could tell by her lithe movements that she was an imposter. There was no mistaking a woman born of nobility when one watched them glide.
It did not matter that she was lying, as he had never meant to take her to the authorities in the first place. Instead he found himself more intrigued by the woman, especially with the powerful divine radiation she was giving off. With a slight smile he thought, what an interesting night, and plowed ahead after her.
8
IN THE walled city of Aresleigh, many alternatives were used, some seedier than others, to come into the city. Of those who used these routes— most of whom were practitioners of illegal trade: slavers, opiate dealers, assassins, and other illegal contraband merchants—most used the dwarven mines of Kurin's Deep which ran beneath the poorer districts of the city and up into the warehouse district.
Long ago, the ancient dwarves of the region had used their reinforced tunnels to build a mighty merchant empire, trading with the humans above them for weapons, armor, and highly prized Neferium, a mysterious ore that came from the death of angels, and once hardened was harder and lighter than any known substance on the Mortal Plane. This of course begged the question that, if such a statement were true, since there were several deep veins of the ore, hundreds of thousands of angels must have perished at some point in the distant past.
Because of these tunnels, organized crime flourished in every part of the duchy, run by a wealthy conglomerate of merchants who used their legal trading services to cover for the specialized products that the nobility often desired. For whatever reason, both the duke and his Bre'Dmorian counterparts chose to ignore the problem.
On this night, a man in black leather armor worked his way through the underground caverns of Kurin's Deep, a portion that had been inactive for the better part of one thousand years. The man did not wonder what happened to the dwarves, though. Nor did he care about illegal trade or angels; to this man there was no God, and it wouldn't matter if there was. He was not a highly educated man, as history mattered little in his profession. He relied more on his acute sense of practicality and deftness of mind. He had heard it said more than once that intelligence was not what one knew, but what information one could apply. The man considered the thought for a moment. Maybe that was why he had such a hard time accepting God as any kind of savior: God had certainly never looked down upon the razor thin road this man had traveled. Then again, even if God was looking, such thoughts were for scholars, which the man was not.
The man's practical nature was the reason he had stayed alive so long; an exception in his profession, since few assassins escaped Bre'Dmorian justice for more than a few years. That's what made him special—he was an atheist and an assassin—and more important, he was still alive. That is not to say that he hadn't killed his share of holy men, because he had, or had never enjoyed it, because he did. Bre'Dmorians were not the kind of people that ended up being his mark, and killing people that were not his marks never sat well in his stomach.
It was necessary, though, to sometimes kill innocents when they got in the way. This reputation, to kill whoever got in his way, was the reason why the services of Var Surestrike did not come cheaply. In the Kingdom of Arsgoth he was known as a killer without remorse, one with no concern for those who tried to stop him, and who always killed even-one whom he was paid to.
His latest assignment had been his greatest achievement so far: assassinating the King of Arsgoth in a discreet manner. He had been paid handsomely in advance, by an unknown benefactor, making the deal even sweeter. It was good that his employer had not shown his face; it was none of Var's concern who the figure was, as long as gold continued to flow. Now, he was back to turn in proof of his deed and possibly collect a bonus.
Since the king had been such an easy mark, he had given his contractor the additional benefit of framing the Duke of Thames, Lord Valimont, for the murder. Var hoped his employer would appreciate the extra time and effort it took to set such things in motion.
Var recalled how easy it had been to steal Duke Valimont's crossbow and setup his plan of attack, relying on the man's prideful nature to not reveal the theft until after the fact. The next morning Var laid his trap. He had waited for both men to ride far enough out of earshot before he knocked the duke unconscious with a blunted bolt to the temple and shot the king in the heart. Neither man had seen the blow, as Var's dark armor had allowed him to walk in the shadows, unseen by all but the most astute observers.
Var reached into one of his many pouches and pulled out a small device that he had purchased from a powerful wizard, a square box with a quicksilver hand floating in the middle of a viscous liquid. In theory he could think of any destination he needed to reach and the quicksilver finger would twirl in the direction he needed to travel. It was one of the many secrets he held which secured his prized reputation of always knowing where to find his mark. This time, however, he needed it to find his way through these damn tunnels. He knew the entrance to the chamber was near, but in the dark his eyes were easily fooled.
As Var held the compass out, the quicksilver hand swung to the southeast, to a solid wall. He raised his eyes in surprise and mumbled a curse. Although he did not make mistakes often, he guessed there was always a chance that he had missed the correct junction.
"Wasting time is wasting money," he grumbled at the grimy surface of the wall.
Why do I have to travel underground? Var thought, reminding himself that he hated such confined places. I know that secrecy is important, but I hate this place!
The thought made him grimace. His employer had demanded that he use this particular entrance into the city and it was not likely the man would change his mind. Then again, Var had been paid enough to keep his complaints to himself.
With a frown, Var begin to backtrack down the dark length of the tunnel. However, as he spun away from the wall, the quicksilver arrow reversed itself and pointed the way he had come. Puzzled, he swung back around and walked a different direction, again the pendulum swung towards the stone wall.
"He must be using illusions," Var said to the darkness, placing the compass back in his pouch.
Var moved within a hand's length of the wall, studying details. He recognized that his statement was correct. Although it was very realistic to the untrained eye, cast by a powerful
wizard who knew his craft well, subtle imperfections stood out. With a determined move, Var placed his hands on a section of chipped stone, the only portion clinging with subterranean moss, and walked through. In a fraction of a second, he stood in a dimly lit tunnel leading upward. The overwhelming stench of human bodies assailed his senses, meaning that the tunnel's draft had also been concealed by the illusion. It also meant that he was nearing the meeting place of the lord who had sought his services.
Var wound his way upwards, through narrow passageways lit by burning sconces, until he finally reached a dead end. Remembering instructions, he felt for a small crack within the mossy wall, trying to find the lever that would open another secret passage. With a faint click the door rotated, allowing Var to pass into a small chamber lined with several suits of plated armor.
Var hesitated at the sight of the shining warriors on each side of the room. He knew they were magical guardians and would kill any uninvited intruder. With silent resolve he stepped into the middle of the room.
Nothing happened. Var let out a deep sigh of relief and strode across the room and into another small tunnel which ended at an ornately carved door.
Var felt a shiver run down his spine, knowing this was the place he was seeking. Although he had never seen its like, the evil aura and demonic carvings on the door made it clear that the chamber was the holy place of some dark god. It made him think of darkness, something so dark it that drank in the light and suppressed all memories of things that cherished life. Something reached out from beyond the door and caressed his inner flame, stoking his murderous tendencies.
Var shook his head and tried to clear his mind. He pushed through the heavy- doors, which squealed sharply in protest.