Waiting Game (The Chronicles of Covent)

by J. L. Ficks

  Shade brought the glass to his lips. He heard the sudden crunching of glass. He glanced back behind him to see Kishrub and Zulbash trying to sneak in and get the jump on him. They froze when they locked eyes with him. They smiled dumbly at him. Their beady black eyes swept over the sea of bodies that hadn’t softened the assassin up as planned. They backed out of the tavern then turned and fled back to their master. ‘Lewd,’ Shade thought, ‘no one is going to save you now.’

  Chapter Fifteen:

  Game of Assassins

  Bwedrig poured Shade a mug of Elvish Sun Tea from a steaming carafe he had just finished heating. The Dark Elf stirred the sparkling gold liquid and stared into the glass. He had decided to lay off the wine. He still felt no ill effects from the poison, but he would not permit alcohol to cloud his judgment. He should have suspected that Lewd would put a price on his head. He had been lucky the mob had shied away. It was late midday and Lewd would throw all that he had at Shade to ensure the assassin could not make well on his deadly vow.

  The Green Barrel looked like a tidy wreck. Shade had felt sorry for Bwedrig. He had even helped drag the bodies and dump them into the sewer waters. He had hired a dozen workers to scrub Bwedrig’s floors. Not all the blood had come off. The fat barkeeper had gone over every detail with a fine gloss, though the walls were still in need of repair. The tables and barrels that could be salvaged had been crudely hammered back together, but the tavern still needed much work. Worst of all, Shade had left the Elementalist’s body outside as a grim warning. It should ward off any additional unwanted visitors, but it also scared off customers.

  “By golly,” came a small cheery voice, “what happened here?”

  Shade turned around. He saw a small Faun standing in the giant hole in the wall dwarfed by the opening. He stood no more than four feet in height. He wore a ridiculous long-sleeved green doublet with traditional Faunish ruffled cuffs and collar. Fauns had furry goat legs, hooves and tails, which meant they had little use for pants. The Faun had bright blue shimmering eyes and two small horns that poked out of his short brown hair. He carried a ludicrous number of pouches that were tied to his bulging backpack by many leather strings.

  “I was going to challenge Bwedrig to the Green Barrel,” the Faun said, “but this won’t do at all. Where is everyone? And what’s with that dead guy standing outside? Doesn’t he know you don’t need to stand when you’re dead?”

  The Faun shuffled into The Green Barrel. He showed Shade no fear, but the assassin was not surprised. Fauns, though not completely immune to fear, had grown quite out of touch with the feeling. Their people carried no weapons, but their instruments could charm other races. A Faun who fell under attack simply sent his attacker off dancing. In many ways they had forgotten how to be afraid. In fact, they lived deep in Karus Forest in the Enchanted Wood.

  The Faun looked at the blood on the floor still trying to understand the barbaric nature of the taller races. Nothing, however, could dampen a Faun’s spirits for very long. He broke out into a whistle and walked up to the bar. He threw his cluster of packs up on the bar with a large clatter. Shade shook his head. What did he keep in all those packs? The Faun climbed up on a barrel. He lit up a pipe of the foulest stinking weed the assassin had ever smelled.

  Shade coughed. “Bwedrig, would you make him put that out?”

  The Faun turned to Shade before the barkeeper had the chance. “Oh wow!” he said in gleeful excitement. “A Dark Elf! I’ve never met a Dark Elf before.” He slid off the barrel and ran over to Shade. He puffed on his pipe and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dark Elf! Festan La Faun at your service! Minstrel at large and Merrymaker Extraordinaire!”

  Shade scowled. He found Fauns nearly as annoying as Dragols. He didn’t say a word. He simply snatched the Faun’s pipe out of his mouth and put it out in his tea. He pushed his mug aside and Bwedrig poured him a new glass.

  “Well, I never imagined a Dark Elf could be so rude!” Festan said in disgust, “Say, there are not many Dark Elves in Doljinaar and I know all the songs. You must be Shade! I wrote a song about you! Let me sing you my song! It’s called Shade, the Shadowpuff!” He pulled out a long curly widdlepipe. He put the pipe to his lips and said, “Let’s see it goes like—”

  Shade clamped his hand over Festan’s little lips. Shadowpuff? Did the Faun just call him a Shadowpuff?

  The Faun tried to speak, but his words came out muffled.

  Shade said coldly, “You sing a song about me and I’ll carve that tongue out from between those flapping gums of yours!”

  Festan pulled away. “Then what am I supposed to do, Mr. Shadowpuff?” He glanced around. “It looks like you killed all the other customers.”

  “I don’t care! Buy a drink! That would help Bwedrig out. Just stop your ceaseless chattering!”

  “Mmmmm…” He scratched his chin pondering. “Help Bwedrig out? Eh? Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Shade was treated to a whole two seconds of peace.

  “Ale!” Festan shattered that peace, “I need ale to help me think!”

  Bwedrig poured the Faun a mug of steamy ale.

  Festan pushed the mug aside. “Not a mug! Leave me a barrel.”

  The barkeep asked doubtfully, “A barrel?”

  “Yes, a barrel.”

  “That will be five bloodstone pieces then,” he said in disbelief.

  Festan surprised them both when he produced all five blood shillings. He put them down on the bar. Bwedrig lumbered over to a table behind him. He pulled a barrel off a back table and left it on the bar.

  “That’s better,” Festan said. The Faun had already downed his first mug and stood up on his stool. He removed the lid and scooped his cup into the foaming barrel. He drank six more refills before he put the mug back down.

  Bwedrig cocked his eyebrow.

  The perfectly sober Faun climbed off of the barrel he had been standing on and wiped his chin. “Good, now I can hear myself think.”

  ‘I can’t,’ Shade thought. He fought to keep his hands off his blades. Could this Faun be any more annoying?

  Festan gave the damaged tavern a brief appraisal. He erupted suddenly, “Oh, no, no no! This is all wrong! I have to do something to spruce this place up!” He paced the floor, with his hands clasped behind his back, lost in thought. “Let’s see, how could I get customers back? I know a good old-fashioned Faunish redecorating! I’ll bring in garland and streamers and confetti! Lots of confetti!”

  Shade growled, “No confetti!”

  “Why aren’t you a bossy Shadowpuff?” Festan piped back, “A little confetti wouldn’t hurt to brighten up your life.” He darted over to the doorway. “Let’s see what else? I got it—a bell that jingles when you open the door.” Shade heard him lift the battered wreckage of the door. “If there was a door.”

  Shade’s blood boiled. He really, really didn’t like that stupid nickname. He spun around. “If you call me Shadowpuff one more time I’ll kill you.”

  “You know, you can’t find much joy in life killing people, Master Shade,” he tried to say it respectfully, “you can’t see them dance or hear them sing. Why do you have to go around killing everyone?”

  “That’s it! I only tolerated your presence because you bought a lot of ale from Bwedrig, you can play your songs just as long as you cease that infernal racket!”

  “I can!” Festan darted back over to him. “I can play my songs!”

  “Yes, you can play your songs,” Shade frowned. He was going to live to regret this. ‘Hours, Shade,’ he reminded himself, ‘you have only hours until you leave.’

  “I can’t wait, I can’t wait!”

  “And one more thing,” Shade added.

  “Yes, Master Shade?”

  He grabbed Festan by his collar. “No enchantments! I know you Fauns can charm other races with your music. If I hear even one note that makes my finger so much as tingle, I’ll slit your throat, you got that?”

  “Ok, ok, I got it!” Festan p
ulled away. “You don’t have to ruffle my collar.” He retrieved his widdlepipe. He put it to his lips and announced the title of his first performance. “We’re going to start with Shade, the Shadowpuff.”

  Shade jumped off his barrel. He dragged Festan by his collar kicking and screaming out the tavern and to the edge of the canal.

  Shade closed his eyes and lost himself in the fanciful melodies of Festan’s widdlepipe. The Faun wasn’t all that bad, once he let go of his insistence on singing Shade’s poorly named tribute. It seemed dangling Festan a few times over the ledge had helped the Faun to resample a taste of some healthy fear. After that Festan got to playing. Festan played his widdlepipe next to the barrel he had ordered, which Bwedrig had relocated for him to the floor. Shade was shocked to see the barrel was nearly empty. Festan still showed no signs of drunkenness.

  Festan’s music had worked, but perhaps it was also the fact that Shade hadn’t killed the Faun. A faint trickle of patrons had begun their slow and chary re-acquaintance with The Green Barrel. Of course, many still left upon sighting the assassin, but the occasional customer braved a short drink. Only one lanky Dervishman had the nerve to get drunk. The man lay in a puddle of his own vomit at the end of the bar. He had been snoring loudly for over an hour much to Shade’s grating annoyance. He remembered what it was like to deal with the living again.

  Nosy onlookers poked their heads in through the holes in the wall. They shook their heads at the fools who ventured inside. It was a sparse crowd of heavyset Doelms, Drakor and men (mostly Braznians and Black Robes). Shade didn’t mind the return of business. In fact, he preferred it. The money he had given for repairs had put a considerable dent in the bounty promised him. It didn’t bother him too much, but he considered it foolish not to turn some form of a profit in his ventures. The conduct of spending beyond one’s worth was another pathetic human weakness that highlighted man’s irresponsible and overly compulsive nature.

  The Dark Elf’s glowing yellow eyes swept over the dregs of Doljinn society and realized just how out of place such thoughts of self-accountability and discipline were in such a decadent setting such as this. Shade wondered at Warlord Lewd’s latest play. After the bounty and poisons failed, the deranged warlord had turned to his final act of desperation. He had turned to the Shaltearan elite—the Shaltearan Brotherhood. The Shaltearan Brotherhood was the most renowned guild of assassins in the world known for its unorthodox weapons and deadly efficiency. The true power of the brotherhood was found in its ability to melt into the endless masses of Doljinaar much like an Unseen blended into the shadows. An assassin could be anyone, strike from anywhere.

  Shade had not seen much from the guild so far, just three worthless scraps from the Shaltearan Quarter here in Kurn he had dispatched with ease. The attacks had begun as the customers came back in. The first attempt on his life had come from an assassin disguised as a Barrelrunner. The man had lunged at him after pretending to deliver a barrel of ale. The next attack had been a dreamy-eyed teenager. Brash and stupid, the boy had thrown away his life before it began. The third was a beautiful Jintoan woman who had been wrapped in the cloaks of a harlot. She may have stood the best chance had Shade not erected his usual barricade of self-will utilized for resisting the charms, flattery and deceptions of women. In this she had been a master artisan. She would have made an effective killer. She certainly would have killed any man, but Shade was no man.

  Shade shrugged. Festan did not express his appreciation for all the bloody interruptions, but the Dark Elf didn’t feel even a shred of guild. Not even for the woman or the boy. Amateurs. Cloaks as the guild called them. The Shaltearan Brotherhood had been using such initiation rites for centuries, turning green recruits out on the streets for a chance to prove their worth. They had no training. The brotherhood merely flung a cloak over their shoulders, slapped a dagger in their hand and pointed them toward a mark. Bagging a high profile target such as Shade would have certainly cemented their place in the order ‘Fools!’ he thought, ‘you signed your own death warrants the moment you tried to mark me!’

  The Shaltearan Brotherhood used all Cloaks as disposable assets knowing the hazardous nature of the job would weed out the real killers. The guild also placed far too much faith in its own instruction and training. Pride was one of the guild’s chief weaknesses, for little consideration had been given to the illuminating fact that Shade had been trained in the only ranks deadlier than the Shaltearan Brotherhood—the legendary Unseen of Jui-Sae.

  Bwedrig growled at the drunken Derve still fast asleep on his counter. The fat barkeep had a habit of losing patience whenever a customer lost the capacity for drinking. He lumbered over. He seized the Derve by the collar. He yanked the drunkard off his stool and dragged him across the floor.

  The Derve did not stir. Shade would’ve ordinarily ignored a barkeep’s tending to his own bar, intoxication was after all a disgustingly human pastime, but something about the incident did not sit well with him. The Dervish man’s eyes cracked open a hair. Shade’s eyes widened in recognition. The man was sober. The Derve’s pupils betrayed the patient alertness of a predator lying in wait.

  Shade leapt from his stool. “Bwedrig! Watch out!”

  Festan stopped playing his widdlepipe.

  The Derve handsprung to his feet with a quickness that surprised even the legendary Dark Elf. Shade heard the piercing whisk of a light chain weapon as it cut through the air.

  Bwedrig sprawled to the floor, but the blow was not aimed at the fat bartender. Shade had not even seen the Derve display his weapon. His finely honed survival instinct was all that saved him. He brought his arm up to block his neck and protected his jugular. He felt the piercing sting of pain as the dart end of the Shaltearan whip tore through his left forearm.

  “Shade, no!” Festan shouted.

  Blood sprayed from his open wound, but Shade managed to retrieve his daggers. Shade slipped into Unseen form hoping to recover. He ground his teeth seething with contempt for his miserable and near fatal failure. How had he failed to recognize the true Shaltearan assassin?

  “Aaah, where did he go?” Festan stammered.

  The two assassins coldly ignored the Faun.

  The Shaltearan assassin grinned darkly back at Shade. He whirled his deadly chainlike weapon over his head. The Dervish man allowed the Dark Elf to soak in the full humiliation of the near deadly blunder.

  Shade scowled at the man’s smug overconfidence. The Dark Elf watched as the Derve demonstrated his mastery over the dart-tipped whip. He swung it around his body then up and over his arms with a whirling artistry that made Shade’s head spin. The weapon was a Jiu Jie Bian more commonly known as a “chain whip”. It was feared for its speed, unpredictability and ability to be concealed in common garb. Shade had experienced its stinging effectiveness firsthand, but the sting to his pride struck a far deeper blow.

  Shade readied his stance and clenched his teeth through the pain. His blades danced lightly in his fingertips.

  The Shaltearan Assassin charged the Dark Elf. He swung his exotic whip in treacherous circles cutting wide arcs that the Unseen barely escaped.

  Shade flipped and spun and ducked, but still he felt the whip nearly graze his skin time and time again. The Shaltearan’s strikes were far too precise to be fooled by Shade’s unseen form. The man must have concealed a terramite amulet or bracelet in his cloth tunic. Shade was impressed. Unlike the would-be assassins before him, this man was a trained killer…a true representative of the order.

  But Shade had been trained in the ranks of the Unseen. Assassins trained to adapt to attacks as fast as flashes of light. He brought his daggers up to parry so precisely he actually deflected the razor sharp tip of the chain whip, a seemingly impossible feat. The Shaltearan staggered backward in shock. It didn’t take the Dark Elf much longer to master his timing. The swaggering grin fell off the man’s face. Beads of sweat and frustration poured down his brow.

  Shade slipped out of unseen form and pressed
the attack. He pushed the Dervish man back across the tavern floor. The Derve struggled to parry with a weapon ill designed for blocking attacks. The Dark Elf ducked just as a lightning fast riposte cracked overhead. Of course, he still needed to be careful. Shade took several cautious steps back as the Shaltearan’s lashes grew far more erratic. It was times like this when he had to be extra careful. He could smell the man’s desperation.

  “Get him, Shade!” Festan shouted, “Get him!”

  The Dark Elf ignored the Faun and centered all his attention on reading his opponent’s movements. He watched and dodged as the chain swung around for each strike. It took him a moment to reallocate the timing of the swings, but then he saw the opening. He sprung forward and cut through the chain of the whip. The dart end spun through the air and hit the wall. Shade seized the man by the arm. He plunged the dagger deep into the Derve’s heart.

  “The price of a missed opportunity,” the Dark Elf said coldly.

  Shade twisted the dagger into the Shaltearan’s heart and treasured the look of shock that ghosted across the man’s face. A smirk of scornful satisfaction danced across his dark features. He yanked the blade out and allowed the man to drop callously to the floor. He took out a dark cloth and wiped his blades clean. He put a dagger away and bit down lengthwise on the other blade.

  Festan ran over to him. He squatted next to Shade. The assassin could see the pain in the Faun’s eyes. A dead silence filled the tavern.

  “Shade, you’re hurt,” Festan said.

  The Dark Elf shook his head and the Faun quieted. Shade pulled out a roll of bandages. He bit down harder on the knife as he momentarily wrapped his arm. He would treat his wound, but not yet. Not when he had questions that begged answers. Shade knelt next to the Shaltearan’s corpse. He took hold of the folds in the Man’s long-sleeved tunic and ripped them open. Then he took his knife and cut along the sleeves and the pant legs. He heard the collective breath suck out of the room as he exposed the man’s bare chest, arms and legs.