by Dan Ehl
"Hah. Kimchee, a girly-lad way to fight. Let me show you what cold iron will do to your thumbs. Consider yourself lucky you will not be alive to face the return of Dorga," the assassin mocked me then swung his sword as if to lop off my right hand.
Suddenly I was deaf. There was no sound and my eyes saw the Reverian Assassin as if he were at the bottom of a dark well. There were no bookcases, gas lamps, or walls. The blade slowed as if the air had become thick molasses. My thumbs took on an animation of their own and my body followed.
My right hand was no longer there to greet the blade, but flashed away then as equally swift, grasped the assassin's sword wrist--with my thumb pinching a pressure point that caused the Reverian Assassin to yelp in surprise. His now numbed hand dropped the sword.
"Girly-lad, huh? We will see about that," I returned his earlier mocking.
I feinted with my left hand and he predictably tried blocking with his own. But instead, it was my right hand that struck. I leaned forward, my thumb clouting him right below his shoulder socket to numb his entire arm. Before he could blink, my left thumb duplicated the Dorvian nerve block and now both arms dangled uselessly at his sides.
The assassin was by no means finished. He began crouching for a spring that would bring a foot crashing into my face, possibly snapping my neck. My thumbs were quicker, slamming into both sides of his head to ram through his eardrums and pierce his brain. The assassin's eyes rolled upward, he dropped to his knees, and fell forward onto his face.
I stared dumb struck at the body, too much into the Kimchee consciousness to do more than pull in deep breaths of air.
"Please, not cleaning your sword after a fight with a piss dragon is one thing, but not wiping assassin brain off your thumbs is something entirely different. I am not going out with you looking like that."
I exhaled and turned to face Lorenzo. His expression softened and he gripped an arm to lead me to the nearest stool.
"Take it easy. This isn't the first time you've been forced to kill someone," he spoke softly.
"Yes, but it is the first time I did it by plunging my thumbs into their brain," I finally was able to speak. I held my hands up and grimaced at the gore.
Lorenzo led me to Klis' water closet and filled a washbasin with tepid water from a nearby pitcher. "Here, you'll feel much better after you've cleaned off that ichor. While you're at it, you might want to get that piss dragon blood out of your hair."
Washing up gave me something to do while not having to think. I meticulously scrubbed my hands in the basin then turned to my mustache and beard. I had quit shaking by the time I came out from the water closet.
I took in another deep breath. "I take it you had no trouble with the other assassin?"
"Nah. These Reverian Assassins are pathetic excuses for hired killers. It's as if all you have to do is put some tattoos on your face and immediately you're evil incarnate. They just must have some good PR people."
As usual I didn't understand half of what Lorenzo said. "What took you so long getting back down here if your assassin was so easy?"
Lorenzo smiled in that understanding way that always makes me want to smack him. "I was only up there a minute."
I rubbed my hand across my eyes and realized no matter how long my fight with the assassin might have seemed, it was actually over in just a few heartbeats.
"It didn't matter how long I took; it appears you had everything under control," Lorenzo said as he clapped me on the back. "And to think I thought of Kimchee as a girly-lad way to fight."
"That's just what the Reverian Assassin said," I laughed then winced because of my aching ribs.
"He must have been feeling cocky to have said something. They're never to speak to their victims."
"He was exceptionally irate after falling down the stairs, and he was planning to chop me to pieces."
"Extraordinary. Having a conversation with a Reverian Assassin and living to tell about it," Lorenzo responded. "You are becoming quite the private inquisitor."
"He kept bad company; that is certain."
My friend lifted a questioning eyebrow.
"He said I was lucky I would not be around to face the return of Dorga."
Only a few times have I seen Lorenzo taken aback. This was one of them. Even though his face registered surprise but for a fleeting moment, it was a telling look.
"He said what?" Lorenzo asked in a half interested voice as he pulled his belt around so his sword hung correctly over his left hip.
I laughed in spite of my sore ribs. Lorenzo's attempt at indifference was obvious. My amusement was abruptly terminated at the realization that whatever could startle Lorenzo was not likely to be of trivial import.
The assassin's words came back to me weirdly as if they were lines from a playhouse performance. "He said, 'Kimchee, a girly-lad way to fight. Let me show you what cold iron will do to your thumbs. Consider yourself lucky you will not be alive to face the return of Dorga.'"
A slight frown wrinkled my friend's forehead.
"Well, we at least now know who is sending the Reverian Assassins; a bunch of Dorga priests still upset about my part in the fall of their temple in the capital city," I observed.
"I am afraid it is not that simple. Why would they be involved with a young maiden living with a bunch of dwarves? But we will get to that later. For now we must find that parchment."
I again followed Lorenzo up the spiral staircase. We emerged into Klis' vandalized study. The two assassins had given no respect to the importance and rarity of Klis' collection.
I gingerly stepped over the torn tomes and trampled parchments--none of which were the half spell I was seeking. I could not even imagine where to begin the search. Lorenzo had stopped behind Klis' desk and was staring at the floor. I picked my way across the room to stand at his side. My worst fears proved true.
The owner of the bookshop was sprawled across his beloved manuscripts; the arid parchment thirstily soaking up Klis' blood as he had once drawn upon their writings. I turned away, no longer able to regard any longer the assassins' mean work.
"I'm sorry," Lorenzo said softly as he put a hand on my shoulder. I was appreciative that he did not speak further.
I forced myself to consider our current state of affairs. "I wonder if they found the document?"
"I'll check our unlucky friends," Lorenzo said and left to examine the two bodies.
Klis must have had held out for a great period of time. Reverian Assassins are professionals and do not torment their victims for sport. I glanced across his messy desk. An assortment of bills, receipts, orders and miscellaneous correspondence littered the surface. One scrap of paper bore a few lines of his handwriting, scrawled as if hastily written, "Gay Nymphs In Bondage."
"They're clean," Lorenzo had returned. He peered over my shoulder at the note. "The sequel is better."
"I think this was written for me. Klis was trying to tell me something," I stated. "He referred to a case when I was here last. He had helped me work on it with my brother Olmsted several years ago and it had to do with some vengeful naiads and a licentious barge hand."
I snapped my fingers. The sailor from the flat-bottomed coastal freighter had been short of funds, a state many of my clients are sadly in. He managed to assemble a few marks and paid the rest in assorted merchandise he had no doubt nicked from his place of employment. I had passed on one of the pieces to Klis--a sculpture of a Malltease hawk. It perched atop the highest bookcase in Klis' study.
I slid a ladder down the row of shelves and stopped beneath the clay figure. I noted that unlike several other curios lined along the top of the bookcase, the hawk was not dusty. I flipped it over to reveal a small cap of cork which easily pulled free at the first twist. A few shakes produced the torn manuscript.
How could a man's life be worth a piece of parchment with ink scribblings? And why had Klis so stubbornly refused to oblige the assassins? Even though he would have realized the pair would never let him live, surrendering
the parchment would have meant a much quicker and painless death. It must have been his collector's pride, I guessed.
An open carriage waited for us around the corner. Lorenzo flipped a coin to a young ruffian who had been guarding the cart and horse. I tried in vain to relax as we began leisurely winding through the perplexing maze that newcomers find the streets of Duburoake to be. My restlessness could be blamed on the hard seat, my aching ribs, Klis' death, or the numerous unsolved mysteries. The list went on and on.
The horse stopped in front of a seedy looking hostel. We were not in one of the more respectable parts of the city. All of its shutters were pulled closed liked the clenched eyes of a nauseous plague victim. Lorenzo hopped quickly from the carriage and approached a large wooden gate with faded, peeling red paint. He fiddled with a latch and the gates swung out. Lorenzo made a motion to enter. I took the reins and flicked them only once before the horse pulled forward and we entered a small courtyard. The cobblestones were heaved aside in many places by saplings and weeds.
"Why are we stopping here?" I asked as he swung the gate closed.
"I need to show you something."
"What is 'here'?" I amended my question.
"One of my places of residence."
The courtyard had an air of abandonment due to the invading vegetation, closed shutters, and the absence of a normal hostel's din of coming and going guests and servants.
Pausing at the back door, Lorenzo stretched to pull free a hidden bit of rope from above the doorframe. He gave it several quick jerks until he appeared satisfied with the results.
"Just disabling a few surprises for the unwary," Lorenzo explained over his shoulder as he finally opened the door. We entered a surprisingly clean foyer that led into a long, narrow hallway. He pushed aside two finely polished doors of a rich dark hue to reveal an impressive library. Books of all sizes and colors lined the walls. A stuffed owl next to a vaguely human-shaped skull peered down at us from atop one of the bookcases. This room also was amazingly free of dust. He motioned me to one of two stuffed chairs placed near a massive, unadorned stone fireplace. The rock was embedded with fine specks of crystal that must sparkle eerily with a fire.
We both sat for several minutes in silence. Lorenzo shifted uneasily in his chair. I waited patiently for my friend to speak.
"I've been mistaken in some of my assumptions. Your case with Frost Ivory sidetracked me. I was wrong to presume the assassins and mages were simply hired to seek vengeance after your last escapade. It's a much more dark and twisted venture."
"The priests are not behind this?" I asked confused.
"Yes, but they are just the middlemen."
"The middlemen? But who--"
"Not who, but what," he interrupted.
"What?" The day had taken its toll upon me and I felt baffled by what Lorenzo was saying. "You cannot mean…"
"Yes, Dorga, Fish-Headed God of Death."
I found my mouth hanging open like that of some village dunce. "But there is no Dorga. We found a speaking apparatus in the belly of the idol used by the priests to impersonate their god."
"Placed there after Dorga disappeared some centuries ago," Lorenzo spoke as he tiredly rubbed his eyes. "He was the last surviving god, dispatched by a troop of brave men weary of his depraved reign."
"If he was 'dispatched,' how can he be behind the assassins and mages?" I asked, becoming more confused as Lorenzo spoke.
"Dorga is not an easy god to destroy, if not almost impossible. He can't be burned. The first attempt at dismembering Dorga resulted in the pieces of his body drawing back together. Those in that party met an agonizing end. The second attempt was successful."
"But how if he only reassembles?"
Lorenzo stood and walked over to one of the bookcases. With his back still turned to me, he continued, "The men were quick. Each leg was placed in an iron sarcophagus. Two more were used to hold his arms, another his torso. His hands and feet were likewise interred. The final iron casket was used to imprison his head. All the caskets were then scattered far and wide--some thrown into the heart of a volcano to become entombed in the cooling magma. Some thrown into the deepest depths of the ocean."
"And?" I urged Lorenzo on when he fell into another silence.
"The priests have never given up a quest to find all the body parts. Somehow one of Dorga's hands was found and returned to one of his temples. Gathered bits of information say that hand is now enthroned on the altar of that secret temple, writing out orders that will lead to retrieval of the rest of his body."
The image of a hand scampering across parchment with a quill pen sent shivers up my spine.
"Its sole drive now is the gathering of its cadaver parts, not some petty reprisal. For some reason Dorga must believe you play a part in this."
Now I was confused. "How? I know nothing about any of this. There must be another reason."
"Think. What could you have seen or done that concerns Dorga's plans?"
I was startled by a sound of claws upon the wood floor and spun to see a crooked figure clad in only its coarse, wrinkled skin. Red eyes glared at me from its misshapen head. I moved to draw my sword.
"Rush, go back to your rounds. You are not needed here," Lorenzo snapped without turning around.
I opened my mouth to inquire about his strange servant then decided to ignore the unexpected creature.
"Nothing I can think of, honestly," I returned to his question.
Lorenzo lifted an object of the shelf and turned to display a large iron box. An equally massive brass lock adorned its front. He walked over and sat it on a small table between our chairs. It looked heavy.
I gazed at it, not wanting to even speculate on its contents, though some chilling thoughts were fighting their way free.
"Ah, do not tell me that, ah…"
"It's Dorga's head," he answered bluntly.
I jumped from my chair and took several steps away.
"How and why in Hades would you have the head of Dorga, Fish-Headed God of Death? You are joking me, right? It is really just some large carp head."
"I was given this recently when its previous owners believed the priests of Dorga had discovered its hiding place. I've been attempting to think of ways to safely dispose of it."
I know I was still gaping at the chest with a slack expression most probably resembling that of a carp.
"Ah, Lorenzo you are not going to… No, I do not think that is wise. Lorenzo!"
My friend had withdrawn a large skeleton key from inside his coat and placed it the lock. With a quick turn, he snapped open the lock and it dropped to the table. I backed up several more steps as he lifted the lid.
The room took on an unnatural stillness and I swear the air cooled to that of a deep cavern. A slight tang of fish permeated the room. I closed my eyes, refusing to look.
"Jak, steel yourself. It is important you look at this fish head. It might give you a clue to this business," Lorenzo sternly spoke.
I reluctantly forced myself back to the table and gazed into the dark depths of the sarcophagus. Looking out was a fish head that actually did resemble that of a carp, one with a body that would have weighed at least three hundred pounds. It looked dead and I was just beginning to relax when its mouth began to violently snap. I again retreated several steps back.
"That is disgusting," I shivered. "I never want to see something like that again."
"You are a ferret who has just single-handedly slain a piss dragon and a Reverian Assassin. Tell me what you observed."
"That be private inquisitor." I swallowed once before returning to the box. "I, ah, see a disgusting fish head that is trying to talk. Probably some curse that if it had lungs, would sear me to a cinder."
"What else?"
I peaked again into the box. "It does not have any eyes."
"And what else?"
"Where are its eyes? In another box?"
"No one knows. They were lost ages ago. What else?"
"Wha
t color were they?"
"I don't know. It's been forgotten. Let's not get sidetracked."
"Ah, Lorenzo. Remember when we were going through the dead assassins' effects in my room--and what I found-of which I had also a duplicate?"
Lorenzo stared in puzzlement for several seconds before his eyes widened. "The glass eye!"
We looked at each other in amazement.
"The assassin must have tracked down the owner of that glass eye and was out to retrieve its match from you."