by J. L. Ficks
A small vulgar crowd from the markets had gathered and gaped through the giant hole in the wall in disbelief. They scattered as Shade’s shouts of rage chased the Gorums away and echoed throughout the sewers, “Crawl back to your master and tell him his days of ruling the Kurn underground are over!”
Chapter Ten:
Where the Blood
Runs Gold
Warlord Lewd sat on his throne where he lived like a king. His main audience chamber flourished with an overabundance of color, music and smoke. Beautiful mistresses lounged with his most decorated subjects and smarmiest of flatterers on lavish red and violet cushions. The rich décor could have furnished any palace, but for the constant drip of old leaky pipes and algae growing up the walls and sewer gratings. And yet Lewd’s walls were hung with stark violet tapestries, exotic contraband and stuffed heads—the heads of conquered crimelords. The enormous grayish red head of Tantarus himself hung directly over the throne. The Minolord’s grim stuffed bullhead sneered through his heavily pierced face, casting a grim reminder of Lewd’s incontestable rule.
Lewd’s Hand, Krulle, as he was known before Lewd had handpicked the Drakoran Assassin to be his personal instrument of death, stood at his right hand. Yessheeran waited silently off to his left side, a quill and a ledger in his shrewd fingers. The Syssrah had been trying to go over the daily counts with his master, but the warlord’s mind lay leagues away. Lewd’s eyes passed over the revelous mob which remained too enamored in their winebibbing and carousing to pay him any notice. ‘Sponging parasites!’ he thought, ‘how truly loyal are you? I’ve offered you a bounty! And this is how you repay me?’
Warlord Lewd looked from side to side. He scowled even harder at Kishrub and Zulbash who flanked him. The Gorums had been wrapped from head to toe in ridiculous looking bandages. He was so angry with them for their inexcusable failings he had wanted to kill them. They hung their heads low. He watched as Zulbash lumbered forward toward the servant girls bearing platters of hors d’oeuvres.
Kishrub plodded after him. The girls shrieked and ran away as the two Gorums seized entire platters. They began dumping green cheese squares and suckled dumplings down their fat gullets.
Lewd scowled. ‘How dare they!’ he thought, ‘How dare they gorge themselves on my good graces when they failed me so miserably!’ The warlord’s hand hovered over the big stone button on his throne’s right arm. His hands shook with barely bottled anger. They were standing on the trapdoor, the door that would send the two bumbling imbeciles tumbling into the Sharkgates. The warlord estimated there would be another six casualties with them. ‘An acceptable number,’ he thought. But then he stopped. Could he really afford the loss of muscle now? He needed every able-bodied man he could get.
Kishrub turned around and caught Lewd’s glower. He smiled dumbly and revealed his big yellow teeth speckled with flakes of green cheese. Lewd held the glare and Kishrub dropped the platter. The platter hit the ground with a loud clamor and rung as it spun to a rest. Kishrub grabbed Zulbash, who had just dunked his face into a punchbowl, and pulled his head out. Zulbash gasped and struggled, but then he too laid eyes on Lewd. He froze. The Gorums shuffled back to their posts.
The guards drew back the huge iron pull chains. The throne room’s reinforced double doors groaned open. The blaring torchlight of the antechamber cut through the smoky dim lit room. Lewd’s rabble shrunk back into the shadows, instantly vacating the carpeted aisle. Warlord Lewd knew his new visitors must be guests of high importance, if his guards had permitted their entrance without warning him. A breach of duty, if his guests were any other, than those he expected them to be with a sliver of brooding irritation and stinging premonition.
In marched an entire accompaniment of guards, row by row of such a force of heavily armed knights, one would think Lewd’s palace lay under siege. Their armored silhouettes glistened in the torchlight revealing glimmers of blinding gold. Merchant Knights…the elite infantry on the fat payroll of his rather obtrusive visitors. The feathered crests on their helms dangled all the way down to their ankles. The knights’ armor and swords had been laced with gold, but these were no tin soldiers, but ex-war veterans and mercs with souls as cold as bloodstone.
The Merchant Knights marched to the foot of Lewd’s throne and divided into ten orderly rows, five on either side. They turned, stood at attention and waited. A parade of servants entered next, many of them tossing flowers and unraveling a red runner over the warlord’s own rolled violet carpet. Eight collared slaves marched down the runner bearing a colorful canopied litter on their shoulders. Lewd groaned. ‘Here we go again,’ he thought. The slaves lowered the litter and a pair of slaves tied back the canopy flaps.
A slightly over-weight Shamite lay lounging on the litter under a pile of glossy silk bedding and shimmering jewelry. He looked like your typical Shamite. His face was covered in piercings, some linked together by gold chains. His curly blonde hair had been sprinkled with gold dust. He did not hurry. He licked the reddish brown coating off his fingers and finally set the platter of chocolate coated cherries to the side. He rolled off the litter and stepped daintily onto the two runners.
The Shamite rose and pulled up his skirt, decorated by buttoned trim scallops worn high above his ankles as if he loathed the very idea of touching the grimy sewer floor, even through two layers of protection. He wore a bushy golden brocade doublet over the skirt, buttoned down the chest, embroidered with thin shimmering gold plates and jewels. He straightened his ridiculously large jeweled turban. He glided toward the throne bearing that same flashy grin hereditary to all Shamites. And this one was the worst of Shamites—a mogul from the Merchant Guild.
Warlord Lewd’s blood boiled. He clenched his fists, but remained silent. ‘Why won’t you just leave us be?’ he thought, ‘You gold-sucking leeches!’
“Decorated Warlord,” the mogul said as he removed his turban and bowed, “celebrated Lord of the Underworld, undisputed Conqueror of Karus Forest…the Merchant Guild greets you in the name of our mutually beneficial partnership.” He raised himself and placed his turban back on his head. “I am Mogul Irrathane, a prince of Shamites, and anointed mouthpiece of the illustrious sheik. We have long since enjoyed the stability of our alliance with you. The gold runs thick in your sewers and we had no qualms over your directions in leadership. But as of late, I fear, events may have taken a turn for the worse.”
“Oh?” Lewd said, “These doubts surprise me, Mogul. My money counters tell me there has been no reduction in the daily levies. Speak plainly now and tell me why the good sheik should so concern himself over my recent dealings.”
“The sheik has been most displeased with your handlings as of late. Word has reached our ears that you have been thus far humiliated. You have lost many men. Your opponent waits for you out in the open and you have yet to deal with this threat. Whispers have been rippling through the underworld. They question whether you are still fit to rule. Your once button-lipped rivals grow bolder. It seems the threadbare sanctity of your sewers lies in danger of unraveling at any moment.”
“I know how to manage my own affairs, thank you! Even now plans are in motion to neutralize this threat.”
“Our sources tell us that is not the case,” Irrathane replied, “our sources tell us you spend all your days hiding under your throne with your tail tucked between your legs, soiling your robes.”
“Insolent swine!” Warlord Lewd slammed his fist down. “I said I’ll handle it!”
Mogul Irrathane raised a glittered eyebrow. “You forget to whom you speak, Warlord. Need I remind you of the powers you have aroused by your incompetence, never forget that the very lifeblood of Doljinaar runs gold!”
Warlord Lewd reigned in his tongue. His eyes bulged and he seethed through his teeth. He glared hotly at Irrathane. ‘You Shamites think you own the whole country!’ he thought bitterly. Oh how he longed to slap that smug grin off the mogul’s face!
The mogul held his gaze. His tongue licked the roof
of his mouth, as if to illicit another insult that would lose the wrath of the Merchant Guild.
Lewd frowned fiercely, but he restrained himself fast. He lowered his gaze and sat back on his throne. He had not risen to the top by losing his composure every time a powerful rival rubbed him the wrong way. True, he had little competition down here in the sewers, at least none that posed an immediate threat to his power, but he would be a fool to ignore the power of the reigning sheik.
The Merchant Guild had managed to dip its hand into every market, every free or underground market from Doljinaar to their strongest allies in Gildron and Jui-Rae. It was said that a boy could not even buy a loaf of bread off the streets without somehow slipping a coin into the sheik’s back pocket.
The sheiks had been passing down the financial crown of Doljinaar for generations. The Merchant Guild’s rise to power began thousands of years ago during the Kingswar that united the human race. High King Doljinn had offered the human clans the sword or the quill of diplomacy. Tired of warring with their neighbors and enjoined with a desire for expanded trade, the Shamites chose the quill. On the day Doljinaar marched on Kurn the Shamite King left the city gates wide open and welcomed them with open arms. The legions of Doljinaar marched straight into the city and no blood was spilt. The Shamite King gladly handed High King Doljinn his crown, scepter and offered tribute.
The Shamites spread quickly over the newly formed human empire. All seemed well until the controversies began to stir. Men said the Shamite King had held back on his tribute and from this hoarding he forged the Merchant Guild. The guild spread its influence into every bazaar, trade post and over every other guild in the kingdom. The Shamite King took the title of sheik and dipped his hand into every market. True, he was no longer king, but he birthed a financial empire nearly as old as the Doljinn dynasty itself. The Merchant Guild’s stranglehold on the Doljinaarian economy held until this day. ‘Oh the blood of Doljinaar runs gold alright, Shamite,’ he thought, ‘you plague of honeyed devils!’
Warlord Lewd raised his gaze, but kept his teeth clamped around his hot flickering tongue. He could feel the sparks of a thousand closet insults scattering across his wet palate, but he held them in. He softened his stern gaze and concealed it behind his most diplomatic mask. He swallowed hard, “We are at the sheik’s service.”
“Do not be so hasty to presume the guild still has need of your services!” the mogul shot back, “The sheik is currently weighing the value of your unopposed rule. We have yet to see whether the scales still tip in your favor. Shall we say that several of your competitors have suddenly begun to accrue more weight..?”
Warlord Lewd sprung to his feet. His eyes a raging inferno, he momentarily lost control. “You would dare threaten me? I ought to cut out your tongue, you shrewd tongued harpy!” He held his clenched fist shaking over the button that would activate the Sharkgates. Send this swaggering braggart and his well-heeled guard plunging to their deaths!
The Merchant Knights drew their gold-laced blades which flashed in the torchlight. Lewd’s thugs unsheathed their own weapons and a tense standoff ensued. Krulle stood sword and whip drawn in front of his master. The view of the shrewd Mogul was blocked as Kishrub’s and Zulbash’s monstrous forms took position behind the Hand, their huge blunt weapons twitching in their big green fingers. Even his diplomat Yessheeran had drawn his dagger. The warlord was impressed at their loyalty even in the face of an institution as powerful as the Merchant Guild.
The Merchant Knights eyes flickered nervously across the throne room. Lewd could see the beads of sweat dripping down their foreheads. They were far outnumbered. It appeared that Shamite gold only ran so thick. Yet the order to attack stayed on the tip of the warlord’s tongue. It took all his willpower not to activate the trapdoor and turn the mogul into fish bait. He knew if he indulged in this pleasure now, the wrath of the Merchant Guild would come swiftly. The sheik would unleash a mercenary force the size of the army of mighty Doljinaar. He might as well kiss his throne goodbye.
A young brash Braznian knight raised his sword. He stepped forward.
Krulle cracked his whip and caught the blade.
The Merchant Knight surprisingly managed to keep his grip and the whip pulled taut, but he could not wrest control back from the assassin. The Braznian smiled back, but he made a critical mistake.
Lewd’s Hand yanked the sword away. He whirled around in a split second.
Warlord Lewd ordered, “Stop!”
Krulle’s blade stopped just a hair shy of the Braznian’s neck. He drew just a trickle of blood from the man’s swelling Adam’s Apple.
The other Merchant Knights stepped forward.
Lewd’s thugs replied in kind.
The mogul strode almost too casually around his knights and locked eyes with the Warlord. A snaky grin stretched across his thin lips which crawled deeply under Lewd’s skin. Warlord Lewd was furious with himself for losing control, even more furious he could not lash out against this mogul. It took every ounce of his self-control not to wipe that smug grin of the man’s face. ‘Even the king,’ he reminded himself, ‘even the king of Doljinaar must pander to these scheming, conniving Shamites!’
“Stand down all of you,” Warlord Lewd said, “we are not enemies.” He shot a cold hard glare at the mogul. “At least not yet...”
“I have been commanded to give a report to my sheik regarding your plans to deal with this bold upstart,” the mogul replied, “it might be hard to appease his demands if I am not present to bear the news.”
“No blood shall be spilt here,” Lewd said far sterner, “put your blades away!”
Lewd’s Hand spun back around. He retracted his whip. He shoved his jagged sword back in its scabbard. Yessheeran and Lewd’s other thugs holstered their blades. Kishrub and Zulbash lowered their brute weapons and heaved disappointed sighs.
The Merchant Knights sheathed their golden swords, but the beaming smile never left the mogul’s face. “I’m glad we could keep this civil, Warlord,” he mused, “the sheik does not like it when his petty accounts misbehave.”
“Tell your sheik that I am using all my local resources to silence this upstart,” Lewd replied coolly, “and I have another specialist coming in.”
“Perhaps not all your local resources, the Shaltearan Brotherhood maintain a local presence here in Kurn. The Shaltearan Quarter is crawling with assassins just itching for a chance to prove themselves against a peer of Shade’s caliber.”
‘Stooges! Mere stooges,’ Lewd thought, ‘none of the Shaltearan here in Kurn would stand a chance against an assassin the likes of Shade.’ The Shaltearan Quarter in the Thieves Quadrant was used as a recruiting post for the guild. It was a dive of bumbling hopefuls; Lewd had seen it with his own eyes. The most promising assassins were trained in Capital Doljinaar. Still, the brotherhood had to have trainers of some value here in Kurn. His eyes flared. The very suggestion was still an insult! He cast a glance at Krulle. There was not a Shaltearan in the city who could handle his own hand-groomed assassin.
“Thank you, Mogul, I will take the matter under advisement.”
“But you can no longer afford to sit on your laurels,” the mogul said, “the stability of the underground is sliding fast from your grasp and yet you do nothing!”
“Oh, I’ll act alright,” Warlord Lewd growled, “perhaps it’s about time I unrestrain my Hand. Krulle, go and deal with this swaggering braggart!”
Lewd’s Hand bowed and crossed his fists across his hard cut chest. He growled low, “At once, your headship.”
“He’d better succeed for your sake,” Mogul Irrathane said as Krulle left, “for powers are at work beyond the devices of the reigning sheik.”
And Lewd hadn’t the foggiest clue what the mogul meant.
Mogul Irrathane paced nervously up and down one of the back sewer tunnels, which in his estimation lay far too close to the haunted Mage Quadrant for comfort. He was not in the sewers of Mithralmora, but he was close enough to hear t
he screams of horror. He froze again as another bloodcurdling scream of some unfortunate drifter echoed down the tunnel and then went eerily silent. ‘What witchcrafts are the Black Robes up to now?’ he wondered. He was scared out of his wits. He didn’t know why his contact always insisted on meeting in such horrible places. He could hear rats squeaking in the darkness. Disgusting!
Irrathane held his skirt above his ankles like a pampered schoolgirl. He stamped angrily for being forced to wait. He jumped as he heard another shrill ear-piercing scream. It took all his self control not to empty his bladder in his skirt. He had forced his servants to cover the lewd floor with six layers of thick needlepoint velvet and still he couldn’t shake the filth off. He saw distant torchlight flickering down both ends of the corridor where he had stationed his Merchant Knights. He deeply desired to have them at his side, his troves of servants tending to him, but he could not take chances with prying ears, not with this appointment.
The darkness hedged him in on every side. His clothing clung to his sweat-drenched pimpled gooseflesh. ‘How dare he!’ he thought bitterly, ‘How dare he make me wait like a common slave!’ He was not used to this kind of treatment. He was not a dog that he should lap at the heel! He balled his fists in rage. He thought he heard the sound of stone sliding in the darkness, a secret door of some kind. He spun around, eyes searching wildly. The blackness smothered his vision.
A match struck in the darkness.
Irrathane jumped. He spun back around. He saw the match put to a candle. The wick flared and illumed faintly. His heart leapt out of his chest. He barely discerned the shadowy forms of twelve hooded figures in the darkness. Swords hung at their sides. The centermost figure held the candle. The shadows cast the mob like a portrait of grim silhouettes. He could not make out their race, though he could tell they were not Shamites. ‘Assassins!’ he panicked. He was about to call for his guards when the figures parted. A Shamite emerged from the shadows behind them.