Tales of the Emerald Serpent (Ghosts of Taux)

by Scott Taylor

  Savino drummed his fingers on the top of a table, the booth he’d secured hours before was eyed by more than one group of men still standing in the packed house and deep into their cups. He made sure his blade hung free, the amethyst falcon upon the pommel letting everyone know who and what he was.

  In this town reputation was everything, even if it was a lie.

  A large hand touched his shoulder and he gave a start, Deth laughing as he slid into the far side of the table. When the Jai-Ruk took a seat, those eyes brave enough to covet the booth turned away. Savino reached up and grabbed the curtain, drew it, and the single candle on the table left both of them in shadow.

  “Did you get it?” Savino whispered.

  The smell of tilled earth washed across the enclosed space, Deth’s tiny white tusks showing in the light.

  “Would I be here if I didn’t?” Deth asked.

  The Ruk produced a pouch and dropped it into Savino’s hand, the ties unbound and open before he could speak further. The ruby, set in gold and hung from a thin chain with smaller versions about it, danced in the light, and both rogues stared at it.

  “Do you know how much it’s worth?” Deth asked.

  “It’s worthless to anyone in Taux. The Vash family will have a bounty as soon as they discover it wasn’t destroyed,” Savino replied.

  “A stroke of luck for us, but it won’t last long, I’ve heard Whitey has been called from the Tortoise to investigate,” Deth said.

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m in a hurry,” Savino said.

  He slipped the gem back in the bag and then placed it inside a pocket hidden in his doublet.

  “What of Andril?” Savino asked.

  “He has no idea, but he’ll get his share nonetheless, I don’t short my partners,” Deth said.

  Savino smiled, “A good thing that, as well as you making good on debts.”

  “Well after this, we’re even, understood?” Deth said.

  “Agreed, assuming you can second me tomorrow night in my duel on the Baymourn Bridge.”

  Deth frowned, his tusks growing at the action, “I suppose I’ll have to if I’m collecting bets.”

  “Good, and be sure to bring my sword and a bucket of vinegar,” Savino said.

  “What?”

  Savino unbuckled his blade, placed it on the tabletop, and drew the curtain back.

  “Just do it, now I’ve got to find Torrent.”

  Deth tried to say something else, but Savino closed the curtain on him, the sound of laughter exploding on the far side of the bar.

  There, a raven-haired beauty in dueling leathers rose, lifted a tankard, and slid back toward the rear tables behind the bar.

  Torrent… just in time…

  The bell chimed once, the hollow sound drifting into the harbor and down the twisting stair to where Savino sat. He jerked his head away from the wall, grabbed his torch, and clattered down the stair.

  Thirty feet below a wave of cold air blew past him, the stone walls spider-webbed with frost as he entered the vault of a large subterranean cave. He hurled the torch into the air, its light illuminating the chamber as it spun.

  Halfway across, it fell with a clatter onto a smooth surface of ice. A thousand glimmering reflections danced orange around it, and beyond them, a pile of treasure from the dreams of another age lay atop a small island, forming their own, smaller, island of gold.

  In a single leap, he jumped from the steps to the ice, the bone-blades catching as he waved his arms. Wind caught him, buffeted him, and he gained speed and balance as he slid across the frozen surface to the waiting horde.

  He pulled up short, a spray of ice shavings cast in the air as he righted himself and drew a mask about his lower face. A shadow slipped below the surface of the ice, the shape illuminated by the guttering torch as he leaned down and removed a single gold coin from the mountainous pile.

  Flipping it over, he slid two steps back and knelt before placing it against the surface of the ice.

  “Here you go, big fella, get a good look…” he whispered.

  A yellow eye slit with a black pupil pressed against the ice, the orb the size of an Ullamalitzli ball as it spun and blinked beneath the surface.

  Smiling, his picked the coin up, flipped it, caught it, and then placed it inside his cloak. Beneath him the ice strained, cracking noises echoing about the room.

  “Not yet you don’t,” he said.

  Forcing a skate to the right, he picked up speed and fled the vault, a distant roar following him out the tidal caves as he raced into the light of the Blood Moon. Around him the bay of Taux stood frozen, waves caught like amber amid the bloody moon’s glare as he sped over and around the largest.

  He had to round the far island, the ruins of the old Sun Temple playing in the night as the lights of Taux spread out before him.

  A tremor shook the ice. His blades held, but he adjusted his course, zigzagging this way and that as he sped toward the far shore. Somewhere over the ice a howl sounded, its echo drifting to him as the wind sped past in his dead heat toward the shore.

  He kept moving. A bell sounded from the city and he cursed, the docks still a good distance away.

  Pushing his legs hard, he raced on. Behind him a thunderous sound split the night, and he glanced back to see a rolling wave of water moving up in a circle from some distant point in the bay.

  “Torrent!” he called.

  The water moved ever closer as his straining legs burned until he could hear the sucking spray of it at his back. He leaned down and closed his eyes as the remaining ice at his back exploded, the dark shape of a serpent snapping at the opening provided by the melting ice.

  The beast’s attack was too soon, the ice staying its massive jaws and the impact of its upward strike sending Savino tumbling into the air. The world spun, and he summoned all the air he could. He was no full-blood Aspara, so flight was denied him, but his Element did buy him a few extra seconds in his vault.

  Savino tumbled, eyes watching the dark water below as it called his doom, but as quickly as the explosive thaw had come, the ever extending circle of it refroze and at the last moment he struck hard against ice once more.

  Pain ripped though his side, his descent stopped hard as he struck and then spun away across the newly minted surface. Beneath him another tremor sounded, but he shook his head, cursed and scrambled to his feet.

  “I’ll not forget this Torrent, you can be sure of that…”

  His blades caught again, and he pressed on, the pain and adrenaline mixing as the bells continued to call out the midnight hour. Ahead, yellow lanterns were lit, the Baymourn Bridge spanning the distance between the city proper and the Arm of the Sun. Dark shapes milled there, those brave enough to come out at this hour prepared for a fight.

  He drew close as the reverb of the final bell went silent. He came to an abrupt stop beneath the city side of the bridge. Drawing a knife, he slashed the ties on his boots, the blades falling away as he ascended the water stair two by two toward a small throng of souls at the bridge’s entry.

  “He’s craven, and you can all see that!” A voice shouted.

  “No, just a bit delayed,” he yelled.

  People parted and he threw off his cloak and scarf, sweat running into his eyes as he moved toward where Dethocrates stood at the bridge’s bayside rail.

  “You look spent,” Vash proclaimed from beneath the lamps.

  “Nothing a good dash of water won’t cure,” Savino said, driving his hands into the bucket held in one of Deth’s hands.

  The stink of vinegar was powerful, but he splashed his face, and provided a good show of enjoying the liquid as Deth shook his head in disbelief.

  “There, much better!” Savino exclaimed.

  He drew his falcon rapier from Deth’s hip, took two steps forward and heard the onrush of water thundering toward them from somewhere in the bay.

  “You’ve chosen an auspicious night, Master Vash, as it seems magic has been at work in the harbor,
” Savino saluted.

  Vash raised his rapier, the smell of the man’s jasmine perfume mixing with the acidic tang of vinegar from Savino’s dripping hands.

  “Oh,” Savino interrupted before reaching into his doublet, “I thought I should provide your payment for the ferryman.”

  With a quick flip, he tossed a gold coin through the air. Vash caught it with a deft flurry, the shine sparkling between his fingers.

  “A nice gesture, Savino, but you’ll be the one needing…”

  Before the words could be delivered a tower of water burst from beneath the bridge. The onlookers fell back with screams and pale faces as a giant serpent with scales glowing emerald shot from the water and snatched Vash from the bridge in one great gulp. The clatter of the man’s rapier sounded on the flagstone and then serpent was gone, those gathered staring in stunned silence as Savino moved forward.

  “It seems the Saints and even the Old Gods favor me in this duel,” Savino said.

  With a flick of his boot, he lifted Vash’s bejeweled rapier into the air and caught it. Deth was beside him with his cloak, and the two exchanged their burdens, Deth securing Vash’s rapier in his coat.

  “I guess that’s all there is to see, so let money change hands and for those of you who bet on me tonight, there is free drink at the Emerald Serpent,” he said.

  Many an eye looked to the dark waters of the bay at this final word, but eventually they nodded, and the collection of folk broke up after a flurry of whispers and transactions.

  Deth leaned in, whispering, “It’s much too far to the Serpent this night, Savino.”

  “Then I guess I’ll not be buying strangers’ drinks,” Savino smiled.

  The two walked from the bridge together, both drawing dark cloaks over their heads. Savino cast an eye out into the bay, a smile on his lips as he watched the recently-thawed water lap at the quay.

  Such was life in Taux, where those who lived by their wits could attain wealth and glory, all the while skating on thin ice…

  Illustration by Jeff Laubenstein

  FOOTSTEPS OF BLOOD

  Rob Mancebo

  Tohil ran the tip of his tongue across dry lips as he crouched in a shadowed alcove where the sky-blue cloak of his office wouldn’t give him away. The crooked streets of Taux’s Haunted Temple District were peppered with a thousand-and-one such nooks, shrines to both old gods and usurping saints. He loved a hunt and felt his heart beating like the deep thrum of a war drum in his veins. Quietly, he cautioned himself, Quietly. Don’t spook the quarry. He supported his sword sheath in his left hand lest it scrape across moving thigh or bang against a wall. He was haunting the moonlit night to observe, not to fight-- at least, not yet.

  “Are you sure this is all you require, Master?”

  The stone alleyway enhanced a low, wheedling voice as a saffron-clad merchant drew open the corners of a velvet bag to display its contents to his shadowed patron. Tohil glimpsed the frosty shine of polished metal in the rusty moonlight before the seller re-covered the item.

  “Yes, that is all,” a black-cloaked man assured him.

  Tohil saw the dark figure press a weighty purse, bigger than a man’s fist, into the merchant’s grasping fingers. He was rewarded by the merchant dropping the velvet bag into his outstretched hand. The dark man clutched at the item as though it was very precious, before drawing it under his sable cloak and heading away down one of the many alleys. The merchant left in the other direction, and Tohil stepped out of the shadows. He hesitated a mere moment before rushing after his quarry in a crouching jog. He had no interest in the merchant, Kine, who kept a jewelry booth in the raised market. The fellow was always digging in and about the ruined areas of the city for old trinkets and talismans to sell. There was never any knowing what the scavenger might unearth. Tohil was after bigger game in his predawn hunt. He’d arrived too late to interrogate the merchant quietly before the transaction, so he was left to glean information from the stranger.

  That the shadowy man he followed had no skill in the darkened maze of streets was immediately apparent. Tohil heard banging and, an occasional clatter, as his quarry stumbled through the darkness. After some minutes of blundering, the stranger mumbled an inarticulate prayer to summon a spark of fire to a small lamp. Thereafter it was even easier for the burly Sturgeon to follow him.

  Tohil smiled to himself.

  What sort of a fool would light a lamp in such a place?

  Even a Razor Duelist with a death-wish wouldn’t be so brazen. Skulking street gangs and the cutpurses of the Nightmen Guild were always on the look-out for easy targets. A night-blind buffoon skulking among the city’s Haunted Towers would certainly be a tempting morsel in the wee hours of the morning. Tohil hefted his sheathed sword in his left hand and closed in upon his prey.

  The lantern bearer was obvious, but the waiting ambushers were not. Tohil was almost upon his prey when the man lifted his lantern high and called out, “Who’s there?”

  The answering chorus of laughter made the big Sturgeon breathe a quick thanks to St. Siegfried for the warning. Wraith-like, he sidestepped and crouched down behind a refuse pile in a stinking alleyway to observe the coming fight.

  Five men were revealed as they stepped into the glowing halo of the stranger’s lamp. They were dressed in baggy, black clothing slimmed about their torsos by snug, sable surcoats. The only sign of color about any of them was a pale circle each bore upon his left breast. Tohil recognized the emblem as that of the ‘Sons of the Moon,’ a local gang of growing power.

  The man did not show the good sense to flee, but instead flung the lamp down to smash against the cobbles so the licking flames gave illumination to the area. He hunched a shoulder to swing free a blackened buckler slung across his back, and withdrew a macuahuitl – an old style, obsidian-edged warclub – from under his robes.

  “An obstinate fool, aren’t you?” One of the young street thugs said with a laugh. He whipped out a fine steel rapier as he advanced boldly to meet the stranger. While approaching, the young man tried to circle to get the stranger to turn his back to the rest of the gang, but his opponent mirrored the youth’s line of movement until the pair of them were blocked from side-stepping further by a building wall that lined the lane. The Son of the Moon executed a forthright lunge to plant his point through the stranger, but the man deflected the tip of the blade with his buckler and snapped a word. There was a sharp noise. It was strangely like an echo, but with no discernable source, and Tohil saw the swordsman flinch. The alleyway became rife with the smell and tingle of magic as the stranger thrust his weapon under his attacker’s outstretched arm. The line of the weapon’s obsidian blades ripped a ragged wound across the youth’s arm and as the swordsman flinched back at the pain, the stranger recovered his position in such a manner as to rip the macaqhuitl across the young man’s thigh as well. Blood ran black in the firelight and the thug staggered away.

  From his vantage point, Tohil nodded in respect. The stranger had completely incapacitated his foe, arm and leg, with that single attack.

  The youth’s compatriots drew blades and rushed as a pack. As they closed, the stranger gave an early sweep of his weapon while snapping a command. A boom of thunder rocked the alleyway. The attackers hesitated while the lone man used his club to dash aside a sword tip and slash another punk’s face deeply as he recovered his stance.

  “Have at him lads,” one of the gang members shouted. “He’s no Wizard. It’s only tricks!”

  The gang pressed in and the man did a masterful job of shifting position to work at close-quarters and yet keep one thug between him and the other two. Tohil had only been sent to follow and learn about the mysterious artifact that Kine had bragged of finding. Still, three-to-one odds were just too much for a single man to handle. Watching the stranger’s valiant defense made the Sturgeon’s blood course and his spark kindle hot in his chest.

  “City Watch, at your back!” Tohil bellowed as he rushed into the fray. The city Captain may
have ordered him out as an observer, but never had he been a laggard when blades sang and hot blood splattered upon the streets.

  One of the Sons of the Moon flinched back at the Sturgeon’s bellow and received a crippling slash to his leg as a reward for his momentary distraction. Then Tohil was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the stranger and giving the remnants of the street gang no chance to escape. Tohil ran his blade through an opponent’s throat in an expert lunge but the stranger continued to use his cruder weapon to only wound. The man slashed his opponent’s arm then struck with three flashing blows that left the young man to writhe upon the ground as a cringing, bleeding wreck. The wounds inflicted by the macaqhuitl’s jagged edges of volcanic glass were ragged and gaping.

  And the fight was over. Tohil and the stranger scanned the alleyway for other combatants, but it was empty save for themselves and those of the fallen who had been killed or were too injured to flee.

  “We’ll see you again!” A youth threatened from the ground as he held a hand to staunch the blood flowing from his leg. “The Sons of the Moon will hunt you down--“

  Tohil closed the space between them with a bound, ramming his sword full-force through the young man’s open mouth. A crunching twist freed his blade from the body and he looked to the rest of the wounded and demanded, “Anyone else wish to continue this game?”

  “But-- but you’re a Sturgeon, you can’t just murder wounded people in the streets,” one of the fallen whined.

  “Oh, I must follow rules of chivalry while you pack of swine ignore them? Ha! My city – my rules. That your friend dropped his sword before threatening me was just foolishness on his part.” Tohil stepped over and wiped his blade clean on the cringing man’s tunic. “Now I will ask again, does anyone else wish to continue this game?”

  The wounded thugs groaned that they did not, and pleaded for their lives. Tohil turned his back upon them with scorn. The stranger still held his weapon ready until Tohil sheathed his blade. Only then did the dark-swathed figure re-sling his buckler to guard against a knife in the back and hang his macaqhuitl upon a hook under his cloak.