by J. L. Ficks
“I don’t need anyone’s protection.”
“I had expected you would say that, understand that it’s by Prognos’ graces you go unmolested in these lands.”
Shade leaned in and growled darkly, “Then perhaps I should pay your master a visit—to express my…thanks…for his graciousness. Or maybe I could send him my thanks through you.” In half a breath he held a dagger to Malgarius’ throat.
The Derves' hands flew to their hilts.
Malgarius waved them off.
Shade whispered, “I’ll let you try again.”
The Shamite swallowed hard, the smug expression all but gone, “It appears I may have misspoken.”
Shade leaned back and removed the blade.
The Shamite closed his eyes and struggled to regain his composure.
Shade smirked at the Derves.
The room was thick with tension. The tall Dervish guard’s hand trembled wildly on his hilt. The other man rattled even louder in his armor.
“Most of my master’s estates are in Kurn,” Malgarius’ voice shook and he slowly reopened his eyes, “it is growing increasingly difficult to protect his interests, as you undoubtedly know. The Kurn sewers have become infested by a plague of night mortals,” the Shamite paused and smoothed over his words, “I pray you understand I do not list your civilized people in this category. Nay, Dark Elves have a great history of culture, lore and learning. I speak only of those bloodthirsty night races, whom by their own brutal savagery, prove themselves to be monsters.”
“Go on.”
“We have known about this Kurn pestilence for some time. The sewers have deteriorated into a vast and intricate criminal underworld so deadly that not even the legions of mighty Doljinaar dare enter. Over the centuries warring clans of night mortals segregated by race have overrun the sewers. Each clan is ruled by crimelords who, up until now, have always squabbled amongst themselves. In the past the authorities have always left this evil to brood in the festering, stinking pits where it belongs, but we can no longer afford to ignore it. The refuse of night mortals now threaten to seep from the sewers and spill out onto the very streets of Kurn. If this happens my master will lose all that he owns.”
“You speak of Warlord Lewd,” said Shade, “the Sewer King as men call him.”
“Forgive me.” Malgarius nodded graciously. “I forget you are as likely familiar with Kurn’s underground passages as I am with her brightly paved streets.”
“You wish me to strike Warlord Lewd?”
“Yes,” the Shamite’s lips snaked into a crooked grin, “strike Lewd and the refuse of the sewers will turn inward and devour themselves once again.”
Shade considered it. The job suited him. He could crumble the power of the underworld with one bold stroke.
“I dare say, this Warlord Lewd is nearly as infamous as you. They say he is not an identifiable member of any known race. He is called Troll due to his hideous appearance, but he is a very charismatic leader. His appeal transcends the boundaries of race since he is not easily fingered to be any one of them.” Malgarius paused and threw back the meager remains of his drink. He wiped his chin, in a momentarily uncouth manner, but the moment suited him. A trickle of wine dribbled down his chin like blood. The Shamite finished, “It is that transcendent gift we wish to deprive him of. If you are willing to take this mark you may name your own price.”
“The weight of his head in bloodstone.”
“Done.”
“You would make me an enemy of the entire Kurn underground,” said Shade in wry amusement, “hunted to the very ends of the kingdom.”
Malgarius grinned back at him. He poured Shade another glass of wine. He leaned back in his seat and raised a toast. “A very, very rich enemy…”
Chapter Two:
Shade’s Town
Shade stalked the streets of Jile, his leather boots splashing down the gray slush road. Ordinarily, Dark Elves were killed on sight in Doljinaar, but Jile was a different kind of town, a town steeped in shadows…a refuge for criminals, runaway slaves, half-breeds, night mortals and others who wished to remain out of the public eye. Doljinaar may have bothered to wipe Jile off the map like a solider might wipe a smudge off his shiny breastplate, had the seedy town not been so remotely located in the sodden, stinking heart of the Ice Marshes.
Shade pulled his black travel cloak more tightly about him, but kept his hood down. The harsh late winter wind blew fiercely against his cheeks. He breathed deeply and enjoyed his last few frigid gusts of free, unoppressed air. The Dark Elf could show his face in scarce few places out west. He pressed briskly down the puddled road anxious to reach Kurn. It had been too long since he had crossed blades with a worthy adversary. Warlord Lewd would be a target of high honor, and the assassin hoped, high challenge.
Rowdy taverns, steamy brothels, and closed shops with barred windows lined the gray trod streets of Jile. Men braved the winter roads, too many fiery passions and too much frosty ale burning in their bellies to feel the full effects of the cold. Jile scraped the bottom of the barrel of human society. Shade saw among their number hard-featured, dark-haired Doljinns, husky long-bearded Haradrik, fiery redheaded Braznians, brawny black-bearded Grulls, the feisty braided topknot Tulestines and the greedy jewel-wearing Shamites. Most were wanted men—thieves, rapists and murderers masquerading under false pretenses.
Shade squinted smugly as the very din on the streets died down to a low murmur. Every eye followed the deadly Dark Elf. Harlots calling down to men from porches and balconies offering warm beds and hot bodies, stilled to quiet purrs at his passing. A group of merrymakers rounded a corner roaring a drunken song. They laid eyes on Shade and turned back. Even the hardest warriors held their breath and thieves shrunk back into the alleys, but it was not just men who feared him.
Shade saw the dim glowing yellow eyes of a Doelm runt staring at him from an alleyway. The Dark Elf’s piercing night vision could see the Doelm down to the finely tuned details. The runt had dark indigo skin and a fierce warlike face. His long black matted hair rested on his butcher’s apron. His massive heaving chest had been scarred with self-inflicted claw marks, evidence of his tribal upbringing. Thick tufts of hair grew down his beefy back and all the way down the length of his arms. His fist was clenched, but the assassin could discern the runt’s long black fingernails capable of goring out the inside of a man’s chest.
Jile was the only town in all Covent where Doelms lived freely among men. Most of them were runaway slaves, not much taller than five-feet, runts by the standards of their race. They were the kind that would not last two seconds in the Kurn underworld, the kind that would be branded nothing but grueling laborers back in their own black country, but Shade knew better than to underestimate even these stunted Doelms. What these runts lacked in height, they more than made up in girth and the brutal savagery common to their race. Shade had seen more than one Doelm runt tear a boastful man limb from limb nearly twice his size in a drunken scuffle.
Shade chuckled as the runt averted his gaze, a sign of submission. The assassin drunk in the Doelm’s respect, a silent toast passing between two of night’s most savage sons. Dark Elves were feared the world over, heralding from the black forests of Jui-Sae, though seldom seen outside its dark borders. Nor were such borders seldom violated. Jui-Sae, Forest of Darkness. The mere utterance of its name roused in other races nightmarish visions of a black forest littered with the bones of a thousand butchered trespassers. The Unseen guarded Jui-Sae. Anyone who crossed into Jui-Sae held their breaths, eyes searching wildly for these infamous invisible assassins. Death came suddenly and without warning.
Shade too had been trained in the ranks of the Unseen, but living in the outside world had helped him come to understand that his people could wield as much power in seen form as unseen. He knew all too well how to twist the deadly legends of his people to his advantage. He had found early in his career that merely casting off his hood and revealing his dark heritage could tip the outco
me of a deadlock into his favor. Shade used to relish the moment when a worthy adversary blinked in stunted recognition and the Dark Elf seized the opening to deliver a killing blow. But he no longer needed such trifling advantages. He couldn’t remember the last time he had the privilege of facing a worthy foe.
The assassin hurried down the street. He heard a loud crunch of snow behind him. Then another footstep and still another...as if someone were trying to shadow his steps, but failing miserably. He was being followed. He pressed on. Whoever tracked him was clumsy and heavy-footed. They were certainly not the stealthy footfalls of a Shaltearan Assassin. That at least might give him due cause for concern.
Wood splintered and cracked. Shade’s head snapped in the direction of the noise. His hands found his blade hilts.
Two bodies tumbled down the stairs of The Pig’s Trough eat house. A pair of fiery red-haired Braznian warriors rolled around in a snowdrift swapping punches in a drunken brawl. The assassin exhaled in relief. It was rumored that Braznian men feared nothing; that they looked death in the face and laughed. Funny. Shade had never found much credence in the rumor, not in Jile, not since he had personally castrated the first few who had dared press their luck. Braznian eunuchs weren’t very popular among the ladies.
Shade stopped, glaring in annoyance.
The men froze. Their scarred features turned white with horror when they recognized the legendary assassin and the unfortunate fact that they now blocked his path through the street. In fact, they inconvenienced him so much that he would be forced to take an entire step or two around them.
“Shade!” said the bearded Braznian, “We ah, didn’t realize it was you.” He rolled off the other man and the two warriors backed awkwardly away.
“Sorry,” the other man mumbled through punch-swollen lips, “won’t happen again.”
Shade merely glared at them.
The warriors continued to stumble backward, tripping over their own feet. They neared the alley, cautiously turned their backs and rounded the corner. He heard their boots banging nosily as they clamored down the alleyway; their frightened curses ringing clearly in the chill night air.
Shade breathed deeply. He reveled in his power here. This was his town. Not even the world renowned assassins of the Shaltearan Brotherhood dared stake a claim in Jile. Assassins rarely encroached on each other’s territory except on business. Business, of course, should never be another assassin, though it happened on a rare moon. Kills were always supposed to be professional, impersonal…the hired killer no more than the instrument of death than say the dagger that did the taking. Personal feuds were left to the victims and paying customers. No kill had been personal to Shade, not since he left Jui-Sae.
Naturally, that didn’t stop a certain number of ugly reprisal jobs from arising and so Shade always kept two eyes open. He didn’t mind. He usually found the retaliation amusing. Besides hot-blooded revenge always paid better gold. It had been some time since Shade’s life was threatened. He almost wished for a bereaved loved one to send someone after him or perhaps another assassin to try and move in on his territory. It had been too long since he had a sincere worry in this town and Shade grew bored.
Shade turned off the main street under an unlit street lantern that creaked in the wind and headed down another road heading west. Sober men and half-breeds hurried out of his way, but drunken and less sensible men staggered through the gray slush streets. This street was also filled with taverns, brothels and old shops, though the buildings ran east-west. An old drunkard lay passed out in the snow. No one stopped to help him, nor did Shade. The old man would be dead by morning.
The Dark Elf shook his head in disgust. Men were slaves to such vices. Only through strength of will, relentless discipline, and self-conditioning could one achieve true greatness. Men who never realized this truth received the due penalty for their inexcusable weakness. Shade left the man to die without a second thought. He had spent many years among humans and he understood them all too well. It never ceased to amaze him how many colossal fools plagued Doljinaar’s proud streets.
Shade’s own people would never have stomached such behavior. Although Dark Elves shared men’s fond love for drinking and Jui-Sae was known for the finest dark wines in the world, drunkenness and gluttony were strictly forbidden. His people embraced the sampling of fine food and drink, but prized temperance in all things. To allow one’s body to be ruled by any physical need was to allow that need to master you. Stealing even a loaf of bread was a crime punishable by death.
Trade with the outside world was also forbidden in Jui-Sae. While Doljinaar’s greatest strengths grew through its allegiances (and Shade would argue many of its greatest weaknesses), Jui-Sae’s strength was found in self-reliance. Dark Elves needed no one but themselves, just as Shade shed even his need for his people decades ago. He only missed the occasional bottle of fine Dark Red Oliverian Wine, fresh off the summer vines of Jui-Sae. He had managed to locate a bottle or two on the black markets of Kurn, but even that was a rare luxury he had learned to do without.
Shade brushed past a small cluster of heavily armed guards chatting around a burning brazier in the winter cold. These were not thugs like most of the other guards on these streets, but soldiers adorned in thick blue plate armor, emblazoned with the insignia of the white lion of Doljinaar. The small company of guards did not so much as raise an eyebrow at the Dark Elf’s passing. Most soldiers posted in Jile had been disgraced or demoted. Their embittered resentment for their military sticking them in this backwater post made them that much easier to buy.
The assassin turned down an alley leaving the main streets of Jile behind him. He slipped onto a quiet street lined with tall gray brick homes and wood shingled roofs. Steam fogged the paned glass windows from the glow of brick hearths, warm baths or the company of women. He continued down the empty streets on his way out of town.
Shade froze. His keen senses picked up on a near inaudible scurry of movement down an alleyway not five paces in front of him. Soft footfalls. A cold rush of adrenaline washed over him. He felt like his spine was being pricked by a thousand icy needles. His hands went back to his daggers. ‘A Shaltearan Assassin!’ he thought. He peaked cautiously around the building. He half-expected a dagger to be thrust into his face, but he was able to glimpse down the alleyway.
A small rat-like-man, no taller than four feet in height, knocked over a garbage can at the far end of the alley. He scowled. A Dragol!
Shade’s blood boiled. Dragols were ugly creatures with beady black eyes, whiskered cheeks and big buckteeth. Dragols had the face of men, except for their rodent-like shaped skulls. They were hairless save the few stray hairs on their scraggily scalps and the long, usually crusted, black goatees under their chins.
His fingers danced along his dagger hilt. For a moment he regretted his reluctance in not slaying the creature. He could watch in satisfaction as it sunk into the Dragol’s back. Instead, he was left glaring in the rat-man’s wake. He watched in disgust as the rat-man stuffed a rotten fish into his mouth and tucked a maggot infested drumstick and three moldy rinds under his arms. The Dragol glanced guardedly about and ran off down the alley. Shade frowned. He despised Dragols. He noticed three more spilled garbage cans in the alley.
Shade ducked back behind the wall as the nauseating stench of garbage hit him too hard in the face. He shook his head. Jile harbored a much larger population of Dragols than he would have liked. Dragols had been hunted down like night mortals for decades, but like rats they had only managed to survive and flourish. These days Doljinaar had a growing number of places that actually found uses for the vile race. In Jile Dragols were paid well to retrieve Stardust from the Ice Marshes. Shade found it ironic that no matter how much a Dragol made, the miserable creature never lost its unquenchable taste for garbage.
Shade whispered and his hand left his dagger hilt, “Wretched trollbreed.”
The assassin thought again of his quarry. He pondered over Warlord Lewd’s rac
e. Lewd was called Troll due to his revolting appearance and unknown racial roots. Trolls had existed only in tall tales and fables up until a few hundred years ago. They had not been discovered like other people groups, but occasionally bred into existence. It was said that when Doelms and men crossbred they produced a race far more hideous than any that walked the face of Covent. This race was so vile and malformed that newborns were put to the sword.
Shade could not say whether Warlord Lewd was in fact a living, breathing Troll. He was curious about the crimelord’s race, but he would wipe Lewd off the face of Covent just as quickly as a man might butcher a trollborn child. His only intrigue was that Warlord Lewd’s indistinguishable race had proven to be an asset which had catapulted him into the highest seat of the Kurn underworld. Lewd must be an exceptional leader to rise so high in such a cold prejudiced world.
The assassin frowned at the irony. In some ways Warlord Lewd was just like him. The Dark Elf looked forward to that fateful meeting, but until then he’d have to settle for duller recreational diversions. He saw several shadows reflect off a building in the moonlight. He knew who followed him. The assassin’s wits were always sharp and sensing, even when lost in the privacy of his own thoughts. He decided he had toyed with them long enough. He just hoped they were man enough to finish the game they started.
Shade stopped calmly. He kept his back turned. “You’re a slow learner.” he said in a cold callous tone that wafted up in puffs of steam.
“We humans are a stubborn breed,” said a gruff, familiar voice from behind him, “I told you, we don’t like being told what to do in our own country.”