by J. L. Ficks
Shade would have to keep tabs on that one. He took a final look behind him. Lewd’s Hand was gone. A chill ran down the Dark Elf’s spine, but he did not sense any immediate danger. The Hand had likely asserted his right to the territory nothing more. Shade had sent similar messages to countless assassins whenever they encroached upon Jile. The Dark Elf cut across the Mage Markets and headed sharply west. It wouldn’t be long now before he reached his destination.
Shade tread extra carefully through the mage stalls in the Black Markets near the Mage Quadrant. He had noted long ago wizards were much like hornets and one had little to fear so long as you did not go poking into their nests. This area was ruled by the dark robes. Members of the Black, Brown and Gray Orders far outnumbered the light robes. Dark robes dabbled in the deadliest magic arts. Bump into the wrong Black Robe and you could walk away with a curse that would follow you the rest of your life. A Warlock or an Elementalist might even go as far as to incinerate you. And yet for the prudent or the foolhardy willing to assume such risks, few places in the kingdom offered so rich rewards.
Shade’s eyes passed over many bookshelves stacked with spellbooks and noted a few were marked with the glowing silver runes of Shadow Magic. He might’ve paused to purse the inventory if he had the time. Small booths and tables were stocked with magic relics, scrolls, rings, robes, staffs and enchanted weapons. The most crowded tables displayed masterworks of a few Dwarven vendors, masters of Forging Magic, and Enchanters from the various abolished human robed orders. Bladecasters and other warrior types checked carefully over the rune markings on the weapons as their makers demonstrated their advanced magical designs.
Shade passed over a great number of fascinating items. He made a mental note to go back and check the spellbooks in a few days time, but continued on. He saw the provocative feminine sign of his usual haunt, The Dancing Harlot, on the far wall across the divide. He headed for the nearest platform. He always made it a point to stop through the Mage Markets when passing through the Kurn underground.
He passed the dead corpse of a White Robe who lay face down on the cold concrete. He appeared to have been burned by some horrible spell, but the body did not surprise him. Mage quarrels were far too common these days. The assassin overheard a couple of Vespuvian sailors whispering about it. The two men carried several satchels clattering with all kinds of enchanted gear. Mino poachers Shade guessed from the looks of the pair.
“Wish the guards would do something about these mage feuds,” said the young dark haired man, “one of these days some mad wizard is going to bring the whole city down on our heads.”
“Keep your voice down,” replied the older fellow as he twiddled his long black mustache, “or you’ll bring a curse down on our heads.”
“Is that too much to ask for? If Lewd is so powerful,” he replied and looked cautiously about, “a little more civilized law and order among the robes?”
“You’re asking too much. Ain’t no one messes with the Black Robes, not even Lewd. We’re all safe enough if those warlocks keep their black arts to the sewers of Mithralmora where it belongs. Come along, lad, before the ol’ captain leaves us stranded ashore.”
Shade crossed the wood plank lying across the divide and stepped into the Doelm Quadrant. He eyed the sign to The Dancing Harlot over the throngs of Doelm mercenaries, thieves and general thugs for hire. He caught sight of the sign to another tavern that sparked his interests called The Green Barrel. It was renowned for its mysterious ale and he thought he might stop in for a drink. Perhaps it was time for a change of atmosphere. After all, it was rude to spill blood in front of the ladies. The sign depicted a moldy round keg with a worm crawling out of the spout. It certainly didn’t paint the most appetizing picture, but Shade had heard much acclaim regarding The Green Barrel.
The assassin turned sharply north. He noticed several hooded figures in the crowds behind him. Ah yes. He was being followed. Good. Shade smiled mischievously. It was all going according to plan. The assassin spun around slowly, cast back his hood and let the moles have a good long look at him.
Bystanders gasped as they laid eyes upon a Dark Elf, some for the very first time. He drank in their astonishment. He scanned the shrouded faces of the moles tailing him. His lips leaked into a sadistic grin. He took a bow with an Elvish grace. Startled, the hooded figures shrank back into the crowd.
Shade chuckled lightly. He had just sent a message, a crystal clear message that he was not on his usual business in Kurn. Word would certainly reach Lewd’s ears; the crimelord would not dream that he was Shade’s next target. Unless, of course that wounded Braznian had managed to drag his enfeebled limbs into the city. Then again the sting of the assassin’s dagger sliding into Lewd’s soft buttery flesh would be an effective wakeup call.
Shade turned back around, treasuring the crowd’s every last gasp. He left his hood cast back. He entered The Green Barrel, the same flagrant grin still playing at the corners of his lips and a dangerous glow in his eyes.
*****************
Shade strolled through the tavern door, drawing more than one look as he made his way to the bar. The room quieted at his entrance until all that could be heard was the clatter of mugs and the nervous gulping of ale. He sat down on an upturned barrel that the roughshod tavern used for barstools. The Green Barrel became known for a strange green mystery ale rumored to pack quite a kick. No drink, save maybe a bottle of Faun Spirits, promised to get a man drunk faster.
Every eye lingered on the assassin, every mind guessed at his business. A party of drunken Doelms ceased their boisterous drinking song and ogled him with wide bloodshot eyes. Only a comatose Drakor missed Shade’s entrance, the dragon-man’s head laid on a table next to a filthy green barrel which buzzed with flies. He snored loudly in a puddle of stale green alcohol.
A tall, fat Doelm barkeeper lumbered up to him. The Doelm’s huge potbelly and loose rolls of fat contrasted oddly with his muscular arms. His dark face had been molded into an ugly grimace and he wore a dirty yellow-stained apron. Shade recognized the fat Doelm barkeep by reputation alone. Bwedrig was the only mortal purported to be able to down that disgusting green barrel in the back of the room. He drank all comers under the table. Shade guessed that the slavering Drakor had been Bwedrig’s latest victim. The assassin would have to teach this fat barkeeper about the true meaning of victims. The Dark Elf would add plenty more bloodstains to the floor before this day was through.
“What will it be, stranger?” said Bwedrig as he leaned over the bar.
Shade eyed the wet algae dripping from the taps on the kegs behind the bar in disgust. He watched as the other patrons waved away the steam frothing from their wooden barrel-shaped goblets and grimaced as they downed another swig. Nothing looked safe to drink here save what came safely wrapped in a bottle. He was a civilized drinker anyway. Bwedrig stared squarely at him.
The assassin asked, “Do you have any Dark Oliverian Wine?”
“Wine, HA!” Bwedrig slapped the bar and roared, “Here we serve green malt ale!” He whirled around, turned the tap and poured a mug of the steamy green ale. He spun back around and slapped it down in front of Shade, sloshing a splash of ale over the rim. Shade could have sworn he heard the peculiar ale fizzing as it chewed away at the bar like acid. He merely stared coldly back at the fat barkeep. His glowing yellow eyes hardened into a look like daggers.
Bwedrig’s fat jaw dropped in stunted recognition. “I, ya,” he stammered, “keep a few bottles of Red Syssrian Wine in the back for the ladies. Good enough?”
Shade frowned, “It will have to do.”
Bwedrig disappeared into a backroom.
The assassin heard the clatter of glass as the Doelm barkeeper rummaged hurriedly through his wine cellar. Shade even heard one barrel get knocked onto its side. It rolled into what sounded like a shelf of boozes.
Bwedrig cursed as glass shattered all over the floor. He came out a few minutes later, dripping wet and covered in stains, but regained h
is composure. He poured a glass of rich red wine into a surprisingly shiny gold chalice. He set the polished cup down on the bar, took a deep breath and gazed in nervous expectance.
Shade nodded his approval and threw the Doelm three gold for the wine and an extra three bloodstone pieces for his troubles.
Bwedrig nodded in appreciation and snatched up the coins. He took the cup of green ale back, poured it back into the top of the barrel and wiped down the bar. He nodded again, “You need anything else just holler.”
Shade dipped his finger in his wine and swirled the ale around in a circular motion. He tasted the wine off his finger and when it met his approval he threw back a gulp of the Red Syssrian Wine. The wine slid smoothly down his throat. It tasted sweet, almost too sweet, but he was pleasantly surprised Syssrah could ferment so lush a wine. Of course, it was not as good as Oliverian Wine, but it easily matched Farian Wine in taste and texture—the pride of the vine of Doljinaar.
The quiet murmur of conversation returned to the grimy tavern as it became apparent the Dark Elven stranger had just come in for a drink. Shade heard men and Doelms whispering behind his back. They argued softly whether the lone Dark Elf was in fact him.
The assassin grinned in dark amusement, but he kept picking through their conversations. He did not come here to boost his already elevated ego, but he listened specifically for one name. Then he found it upon the lips of two Doelm thieves, both of whom appeared to be slightly less drunk than all the rest.
The tall Doelm’s leather armor creaked as he leaned over his table at his companion. He gripped a wooden cup of steaming ale in between his long black fingernails. He licked a loose tooth that dangled from his already near toothless mouth. He sneered an ugly grimace, “What’s the matter, Sadrik, tired of your share of the meat?”
Sadrik was bald and he had a bone through the septum of his nose. He wore tattered cloth pants and a tunic over scattered pieces of chainmail. He had a mouthful of ugly yellow teeth. Sadrik sipped his ale and set it down. “All I’m saying is there was a lot more plunder to be had before Lewd…”
His companion’s soft glimmering yellow eyes shifted nervously about the room. His eyes met Shade’s and shied away. He leaned in further and whispered, “You’d better watch yourself, Sadrik, you never know who might be listening.”
“Bah! You worry too much, Morgath!”
“Call it want you want, Sadrik,” he said, “all I know is that Burluug called Lewd a trollbreed behind his back and an hour later the Hand cut out his tongue.”
Sadrik went quiet, an ashen expression ghosting across his face as he looked about the room. Morgath smirked and downed another swig in amusement.
‘Good,’ Shade grinned as he finished the rest of his glass, ‘so his name too invokes fear.’ His eyes traced back to the bar. He steepled his fingers. He said simply, “Barkeep.”
Bwedrig hurried over and topped off Shade’s glass.
“Leave the bottle,” he ordered.
Bwedrig nodded and Shade threw him two additional bloodstone pieces for the bottle. He took one last sip before reaching into his belt pocket and drawing forth the small pouch of clay he always carried with him. He loosened the string, but was interrupted as a bald drunken Vespuvian man plopped down next him, reeking of vomit and alcohol. The man had a black mustache and rough whiskers, but appeared to be a sailor, a smuggler perhaps, from his attire. He had obviously drunk himself far beyond the grips of reason.
“Questionz for youz, Dark Elllf!” he slurred his speech.
Shade ignored the man, hoping the drunkard would lose interest and that he wouldn’t have to dirty one of his knives simply to be rid of him.
The man tapped him hard on the shoulder, “I saids I have a questionz for youzzz.”
The assassin turned his head and said coldly, “Make it quick.”
“Every night race has a stake in these here sewers save your kind, why don’t your people take a piece of the pie?” His question was surprisingly lucid.
Shade might have forgotten the man was drunk had it not been for the blast of alcohol that saturated his breath. “Because my people have no need to berate themselves by squabbling over the piss-pools and crap-holes of Doljinaar.”
“Watch it, Dark Elllf!” The sailor hiccupped. “Or I’ll report you to Warl’lord Lllew—” the man slumped over and dropped his head on the bar unconscious.
“A most enticing proposition,” Shade frowned fiercely, “too bad you’re too drunk to make good on the offer.” The assassin placed his boot on the sailor’s chest and shoved hard. The man hit the ground and banged his head. He drew a trickle of blood, but was out cold. “Useless fool!” the Dark Elf spat angrily. He glared at Bwedrig, “Where I come from we lock drunkards in stocks and spit in their faces in the public streets.”
Bwedrig nodded wiping down another bottle of wine in case Shade ordered a second. He asked, “So what’s your story, stranger? What business brings you to the bowels of Kurn?” It would be the last question Bwedrig would dare ask him.
Shade looked at the Doelm barkeeper, a slight grin dancing at the corners of his lips. Then he raised his glass and said loudly, “I am here to murder Warlord Lewd.” A collective gasp went up in the smoky underground tavern. Another bottle shattered as it hit the floor.
Chapter Nine:
The Green Barrel
Shade calmly loosened the strings on the pouch he had been opening before he had been so rudely interrupted. Every man and night mortal watched him slack-jawed with even wider bulging eyes. He broke off a piece of clay and crumpled it in his strong, skillful fingers. He let the flecks of clay fall through his fingers and into his wine glass. A few patrons had already fled, but Shade had little doubt a good number of them were rats who would run straight to Lewd’s contacts. ‘Good,’ he thought with an unabashed grin, ‘let them come.’ It had been too long since he had given one of his enemies a chance to face him head on. He could only hope that this Sewer King would rise to the challenge.
“You’d better run, stranger,” said Morgath finally, “trouble’s coming.”
“Trouble is already here,” Shade mused and took a sip of his muddied wine. He forced down an unbroken clump, but was thankful the Syssrian wine washed away the grit and grime of the clay. He took another sip as the ruffians looked on.
Sadrik got up from his seat and paced the floor. “I say we string him up until Lewd gets here,” he said, “I’d bet we could fetch a big fat reward. So who’s with me?” He turned and faced the other rabble.
A morbid silence filled the room.
Shade smirked.
“Careful Sadrik,” asked Morgath, “do you know who that is?”
“Bah! There’s only one of him,” Sadrik argued. The Doelm drew a long spiked sword from his belt. He made the mistake of resting his left hand on the bar. He pointed his sword at the assassin’s neck. “You hear me, Shade,” he growled, “I said we’re taking you in!”
Shade shook his head. It appeared someone was trying to get back on Lewd’s good side. Too bad the Doelm bet on the wrong team. He saw Sadrik’s hand shaking nervously on the bar. Shade drew a dagger in the blink of an eye. He drove the blade deep into the thief’s hand and even deeper into the bar.
Sadrik screamed and dropped his sword. He tugged and pulled at his bleeding hand, but not even his Doelm strength could wrench it free. He kicked and screamed until he eventually passed out from the pain.
“Anyone else interested in taking me in?”
Every person in The Green Barrel gasped and backed away.
Shade threw Bwedrig a couple additional bloodstone pieces for the mess. He basked in the stunned silence. He calmly finished his wine. He poured himself another glass over two more grounded clumps of clay.
The tavern door opened again.
Shade heard the rattle of fine jewelry, but the notable absence of footsteps. Instead, he heard the sound of scales slithering across stone. This was no Shamite, although the assassin could only imagine on
e audience worse. An unsettling hiss rang in his ear and confirmed his suspicions. Lewd had sent a Syssrah to parley with him and Shade knew exactly who, the warlord’s personal envoy—Yessheeran.
Yessheeran’s entrance was followed by the heavy boots of twelve henchmen. Far be it from a backstabbing Syssrah to come alone.
Shade smiled. Twelve would not be enough.
“Why Yessheeran,” he fed him a line, “it’s about time you crawled out of your hole. You were beginning to offend me.”
Shade was disappointed when he did not even get a rise out of his new foe. His skin crawled in revulsion as the disgusting snake-man slinked near.
Yessheeran stopped at the Dark Elf’s side. He balanced on his long scaled tail. His hips swayed causing his torso to hover snakily in the air, though his tail lay perfectly still. His numerous gold chains and piercings jingled over his rich satin robes. He may have been a snake, but he dressed like a Shamite Mogul. His headdress was accented by regal green and yellow stripes. An unhooded gold snakehead, with eyes set with green emeralds, crowned the headdress. He licked his hand and ran it over his well-oiled shiny forehead.
Shade snickered, as if snakes could hide beneath jewelry.
Yessheeran wasn’t laughing. He merely pulled Shade’s knife out of Sadrik’s hand. He watched in cold amusement as the Doelm’s body hit against the floor with a loud thud.
“Take him away,” the snake-man ordered.
Shade’s hand went to his blade, but only two henchmen lumbered forward and dragged Sadrik’s unconscious body out the door. They did not return. ‘How disappointing,’ the assassin thought, ‘now there are only ten of them.’
Shade did not even acknowledge Yessheeran, or the knife in the Syssrah’s hand. He merely faced forward a cool but determined look dancing across his hard cut features. Yessheeran rolled the sharp edge of the assassin’s dagger over his long slender fingers as if it were a toy. His serpentine eyes bore into Shade’s right cheek. A creepy grin crawled across his green lips, “Sssso, what bussinesss bringsss you to Kurn, Ssshade?”