by J. L. Ficks
The assassin turned the corner and headed straight for the bridge. He stepped carefully onto the slippery mossed rubble. He walked hunched over, too low for the barrel-barges to see him. He froze halfway down the bridge. The left stone railing had completely crumbled away. It would leave him exposed for a good thirty feet. He could hear more Valsharen talking and barrels banging noisily against the wooden docks of the Barrel Dam. He knew the Barrel Dam couldn’t be but another thirty paces downriver. He could hear the clumps of barrels banging noisily together.
Shade peaked over the rail. Just before the river delta stood a clunky post and beam structure the Valsharen called the Barrel Dam. Barrels clinked and clanked against wood grates through which the river continued on its course. Over forty Valsharen leaned over log railings and used their lengthy spears to guide the barrels into wide-toothed waterwheels which took them topside. Thirty more riverfolk, including teenage boys, worked tirelessly at taking the endless stream of barrels off the waterlogged assembly line.
The assassin hoped he could slip past the crumbled railing unnoticed. After all, barrelrunning was wet hard, tumultuous work. The riverfolk looked too engrossed in their labor to pay him much notice and they looked behind. The bored Valsharen boatmen waiting in line would provide a far greater danger, but if he moved quickly enough the fog could conceal his movements.
Shade broke cover and walked casually across the break. He did not try and move stealthily this time. Better to appear casual without adequate cover. He had to skip around loose rubble and collapsed holes in the bridge. He kept his eyes on the Barrel Dam. He listened hard to his surroundings. No one seemed to pay him any attention. He was nearly across the river when he picked up on a conversation.
“Would you stop staring across the river, Son?” a gruff middle-aged Valsharen man said, “If your mother knew I let you stare into that godforsaken land all day she’d have my hide.”
Shade nearly froze. His bones iced over, but he forced one leg in front of the other. He could not stop now. He was too far out in the open. He grimaced and pressed forward listening. He glanced hastily over at the Barrel Dam. He looked left and right, but could see no one looking his direction. It irked him that he couldn’t quite place the conversation. The river was so loud and the murmur of the crowds drowned out everything else.
“But I want to see if someone passes through the Ruins of Garrlohan, Father,” a scratchy voiced teenager argued back.
“You’re wasting your breath. No living thing passes through the ruins, Son.”
Shade broke through the fog. He saw the boy and his father at the dock right next to the bridge. Worse the boy saw him.
The dimpled youth’s eyes shot open. He grinned brashly and jabbed a finger in the assassin’s direction. “But what about him?”
The hooded Valsharen father lifted his spear out of the water, looked up and stammered, “What?” He stared momentarily stunned at the approaching stranger. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as if he was hallucinating.
Shade kept walking. It would look too awkward to stop now and he had nowhere to hide. His heart drummed loudly in his ears. His fingers closed over his blades. He might be forced to kill them, but that would not make for quiet work in this mob. He would not get far. Their dock alone had five other adult Valsharen working the waters and the crowds of impatient people laid mere steps beyond. He did not see any Doljinaarian guards yet, but shouts could carry far too quickly.
The boy dropped his spear. He ran down the bridge to meet the assassin.
“Get back here, Darmul!” the boy’s father ordered. He flipped his spear around and raised it to throwing level. He stammered after his son, still skillfully holding onto his spear, but clearly aggravated at his willful boy. The other Valsharen raised their heads and took notice of Shade too. They too raised their own spears.
“I’m going to ask him how he crossed the ruins, Father,” the boy said, still running gleefully up to the coldblooded killer.
“Oh, no you don’t!” the Valsharen father said. He grabbed Darmul by the collar. “Get over here! Something’s not right about that man.”
Darmul struggled under his father’s grip, but then surrendered. He stared curiously at the hooded stranger as the Dark Elf stalked near. His bright youthful eyes attempted to pierce the darkest shadow under the assassin’s gloomy hood. The boy smiled gaily at him.
“I think he’s an Elf, Father. His skin looks funny.”
Darmul’s father held his son behind him with his offhand. “Quiet, Boy!” He tightened his grip around his spear.
Shade squeezed his own dagger hilt, but noticed all the Valsharen stiffening because they could not see his hands. He thought better of the situation. He exhaled deeply and let his daggers slide from his eager touch. He spread out his hands before him. “I mean you no harm, Riverkeepers.”
“Who are you?” Darmul asked.
“Just a shadow lost in the sunlight,” Shade said smoothly, “harmless and just as soon forgotten if you permit me to go on my merry way.”
Darmul’s father asked, “And what if we don’t permit you to pass?”
“Then I am the face of your darkest nightmares,” Shade said icily, his breath as cold as a tomb, “for who else walks the Ruins of Garrlohan but the dead?”
The Valsharen froze, trembling.
Darmul peeked out from behind his father whose face had turned a pale ghost white. The boy smiled as if it were a game.
Shade grinned back and winked back at Darmul. He brushed past the boy and his father. He continued off the bridge past the other Valsharen who let him pass. He melted into the crowd until they could see him no more.
“Who was that Elf, Father?” he heard Darmul ask.
His father stared off into the crowd. “I don’t want to know.”
Shade pulled a scarf across his face. He kept his hood pulled low, but all he saw were eyes, eyes everywhere. Bored lines of travelers waiting on goods, curious children, overly-protective mothers and all around nosy people tried for a peak under his hood. He feared crowds worse than the undead. Not even an assassin of his caliber would stand a chance against a lynch mob. He could be hanging from a rope in a matter of minutes. His eyes searched nervously for Doljinaarian guards. He could see their blue crests moving among the crowds. He passed several pairs, but they were already bogged down settling squabbles among other travelers.
Shade hurried forward. He left the barrel lines behind and joined the droves of travelers heading up road to Kurn. He walked alongside commoners on foot and horseback. Many servants and slaves shouldered the goods of rich merchants and the Shamites were even born on litters. The Dark Elf put the wagons, carts and chariots, creaking slowly through the traffic, at his flank to provide additional cover from nosy onlookers. He carefully stepped around the dung of horses, mules and oxen.
The Dark Elf saw faces of every size, shape and color. He laid eyes on a member of every known human race. The majority were Doljinns, Shamites, Durnishmen and Valsharen. He saw a surprising number of Terramothians, who wore their knowledge of Kurn’s corruption most publically on their faces, scowling at the city and shuffling northward out of basic human necessity. Shade rubbed so many shoulders he lost count. People of all kinds continued to eye him with suspicion. Parents hurried their staring children past him.
‘I need to get out of this crowd,’ he thought.
The assassin cut diagonally across the crowd toward the southern eaves of Karus Forest. Karus Forest stretched out as far as the eye could see. It was the largest and most untamed wood of all Doljinaar.
He heard a few women whispering about him. He thought he saw several conversing with a few guards, point his direction. Shade moved as fast as the crowds allowed, but he was drawing even more looks. He was trapped on the open fields of Kurn. His stomach twisted into a sick knot. He saw even more guards at the intersection up ahead where the South Forest Road T-ed off.
Shade could see even more lines of peoples heading into Kurn from
the far north, though they looked like shadows from this distance. He recognized the proud, stout shapes of Centaur, the short, sturdy Dwarves who were followed by the huge lumbering forms of Gorums bearing all manner of goods for their squat masters. He could not make out their faces, but he knew even rarer northerners such as Derves and Mayahoon Indians would be heading into the city. Seemingly endless armadas of merchant ships sailed into the vast harbor. He saw Doljinaarian war galleys, Vespuvian transport ships, golden Elvish Sunships and simple wood fishing boats.
A fat beardless Dwarman about Shade’s height bumped into the Dark Elf, smelling strongly of brandy.
“I beg your par—” he trailed off, unable to finish. Instead, the half-breed’s eyes penetrated the darkness of the Dark Elf’s hood.
Shade grimaced. He turned on his heel and hurried through the crowd, leaving the Dwarman staring slack-jawed. He heard several guards shouting behind him, alerting the guards standing between him and the forest. He glanced behind him and saw six guards fighting their way through the crowds. The women stood off gossiping and pointing at the hooded assassin.
“Hey! You there!” a guard shouted.
The crowds parted around him, recognizing he had caught the attention of the local guards. Shade could feel the perspiration trickling down his face. The facial cream was peeling away. His face burned with agitation. He wanted to rub the cream off his face madly. He kept cutting and cutting through the endless mobs, but Karus Forest might as well have laid ten leagues away. Tents, booths and stalls crowded the fields, so great was the overflow from the inner marketplaces. Gypsies danced with tambourines. Acrobats performed feats of extraordinary nimbleness and daring causing additional traffic jams in the packed fields.
Shade had nearly reached the forest edge when a guard stepped in front of him. “We said stop!” the stern faced Doljinn shouted, “You can’t be here!”
The Dark Elf’s blood ran cold. He saw ten other guards closing in on his position. The Doljinn stood between him and the forest.
Shade’s hand closed around his dagger. He would have to stab the man and slip into the forest’s embrace. He would be pursued, but he had no other choice. He allowed the Dolijnn to march right up to him.
The man held a pike, but did not raise it against the assassin. He stopped right in front of him scowling and cringing.
Shade hesitated.
A clumsy Valsharen lout shouldering a barrel bumped the assassin from behind.
The Dark Elf stumbled forward. He recaptured his footing, but his hood fell back. His bare cheeks broke out into goose bumps. He stood completely exposed in a crowd of humans. People gasped. His hands closed around his daggers. He was about to draw blades when the Doljinn winced in revulsion.
The Doljinn looked away and raised his tower shield. “What’s wrong with your face, Elf? I thought those were leper’s cloaks.”
Shade stared at the man in shock and disbelief. He nearly laughed in the man’s face, but swallowed the insult knowing the misconception might offer him a clean getaway and with the blessing of the guard no less.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the guard said, “lepers aren’t allowed inside the city. Go find a temple at a less crowded city. We can’t afford another outbreak in Kurn.” The Doljinn shooed Shade away with the tip of his spear. “Go on, beat it,” he ordered, “out with you, you leper dog!”
Shade shook his head and brushed past the clueless guard. He slipped under the broad twisted forms of Karus Oaks. He felt a flood of relief. He saw the guards staring after him for another minute, but they turned back to the crowds. The assassin headed deeper into the forest until he paused. He peered out through a clearing in the trees at the great city of Kurn. He never grew tired of looking upon a city so alive with fanfare and commotion.
Kurn’s tall crenulated towers hung with tapestries and banners of all colors. Flags representing every light-skinned nation flapped in the afternoon wind. Her walls had long since grayed from the ancient yellow limestone which caused one to forget it had once been the Shamite capital. Shade could hear the buzz of the crowded streets even from outside the city.
Travelers from nearly every day race descended upon the city from every direction, by land and sea, like hordes of raiders coming to bleed her wealth dry, but the wealth of Kurn never bled dry. A great beacon blazed in the monumental lighthouse of Kurn standing proud watch over the crowded harbor.
Kurn was overcrowded with racial districts and foreign quarters, boasting the oddest assortment of buildings in the world. Every major human tribe and class, not counting the Elves, Dwarves and Centaur had a piece of the city. Only the silent towers of Mithralmora stood vacant, leaving the only single void in the bustling city thanks in no small part to the abolishment of magic. The graying of Kurn’s walls had been largely blamed on pollution from Dwarve Alley, but the effect made the city feel more approachable than the other Shamite cities that resembled gated communities catering exclusively to the very rich.
The Shamites soon realized the golden financial opportunity Kurn presented and quickly transformed her into the greatest trade city of all Covent. In fact, they did not hesitate to overdo it. Criers and trumpeters stood atop Kurn’s many gatehouses. They shouted from the walls, clamoring on the nerves of the local guards, but still they called on and on. Children tossed down streamers and confetti as the endless droves of people filed into the city.
“Welcome one and all! Welcome to Kurn, Kurn the Magnificent!” the criers shouted from the heights, “Jewel of the North! Pearl of the Coasts! Doorstep to all Nations! Mother of Commerce! She who threw her arms wide open to all nations, to all peoples…” They called over and over again. Each verse was heralded by another blast of trumpets. Such artificial ceremony was showered down in such overly grand display, every visitor might as well have been crowned a king or queen.
Shade stood a long way off, under the cover of trees, from the wild and boisterous proclamations. The words crawled deeply under his dark skin. He knew despite all Kurn’s pomp and pageantry, such declarations were veiled under a honeyed mask of discrimination. These gates did not stand open to all peoples. Few night mortals except slaves, barring one odd exception, ever dared enter Kurn uncloaked. Night mortals were shot on sight. Instead, the Dark Elf had to turn to alternative methods to entering the city.
The assassin draped the scarf back across his face. He hurried under the thick of trees. He cut through the far southeastern eaves of Karus Forest. The broad leafless oaks did not provide the same cover as the tall coniferous pines of Fogrim Forest in the late winter months. The Dark Elf reached a trampled dirt trail which wound through the trees adjacent to the main road. The trail was called the Old Thieves’ Road and had been used for centuries by less reputable guests to enter Kurn. Shade turned westward and followed the trail for a good ten minutes. He kept his eyes peeled for brigands, but the road was unusually quiet. Karus Forest was too large to be patrolled even by the forces of Doljinaar.
Shade paused when he came close to a stream. He felt a refreshing mist on the wind and decided he could take the itching no longer. He headed off the path and downhill some twenty paces where a small brook trickled gently by. He glanced around and saw that the coast was clear. He knelt. He splashed the cool water over his face. He exhaled in relief. He washed the cream away and watched as it floated downstream in small golden swirls.
The assassin heard the snap of a tree branch behind him. He jumped up and spun around.
Nothing. He saw no one, but his finely honed survival senses were still tingling. He pulled his hood back on. He started back up for the trail. His hands closed tightly around his dagger hilts. He squeezed hard. His keen Elvish ears picked up the creaking of leather and chainmail. He saw shadows moving in the brush, but he could not see his new foes. He suspected whoever had trained this rabble, had trained them well, for they moved almost as light of foot as Rangers in the golden forests of Jui-Rae, almost.
Shade stopped.
&n
bsp; An arrow whisked past his brow and struck a tree.
He crinkled his eyebrows as he stared at it in confusion. The arrow had been fletched with golden-feathered vanes. ‘It can’t be,’ he thought. His thoughts flashed back to his youth. He had seen thousands of these arrows back home. Its appearance instantly muddied his original suspicions that he was being singled out by a band of highwaymen. He heard more branches cracking under heavy boots. He even heard the sound of slithering behind him. He reached the trail again.
There, in the middle of the road, stood the tallest, broadest shouldered Doelm axeman he had ever seen. The Doelm’s soft glowing eyes stared at Shade. He cricked his huge neck and licked his leech black lips. His hulking arms rested upon the huge shaft of a brutish black axe. And Shade heard a gang of other bloodthirsty brutes closing in around him…
Chapter Seven:
Lewd’s Highway
Shade had completely forgotten how large Doelms came. This brigand was no runt. He was a specimen of the highest possible warrior caste. He neared seven feet in height. Slits had been cut into his leather cuirass to make room for his bulging chest which heaved with a swelling almost bestial ferocity. The patch of fur that grew down his arms and down his broad back was so thick it could have been mistaken for a bear pelt. The Doelm twisted his grip around the shaft of his monstrous battleaxe. His knuckles cracked. He smiled hungrily at the Dark Elf.
The assassin scowled from underneath his dark hood, but this was not Jile. The Doelm would not back down, not here. Shade slid his daggers from their sheaths when a shorter light-skinned figure appeared from behind the huge axeman. The figure was not that short, about Shade’s height in fact. The Doelm simply dwarfed him. He was surprisingly winsome. He flashed a disarmingly charming grin which dripped too thick with honey for a brigand.
He had a thin slender frame, etched with softer features and shadows that clung unnaturally to his delicate parlor. He had long flowing, nearly golden, blonde hair. He too was clad in soft leathers, far too familiar leathers emblazoned with the symbol of a burning sun. Shade gasped. An Elf! A Quaelinari as they were called back home. The mortal enemies of Shade’s people. He wasn’t surprised to find an Elf this far west. Jui-Rae had strong trade relations with humans after all, but traveling in the company of this rabble? Now that was shocking.