by Jess Lebow
The figure hit the ground and tumbled past the entourage, coming to his feet between the older brother and the open slaughterhouse doors. Shrugging off his cloak, the figure lifted himself to his full height, then crouched, holding his arms wide as if he were preparing to grapple a wrestler. Dressed all in black, the figure wore a thick featureless mask. Simple, smooth, and black, the mask made him disappear into the dark, leaving only his piercing eyes and the heavy metal gauntlets on his hands—each with four sharpened steel blades—as his only distinguishing features.
“What sort of beast is this?” the older brother cried. Then realization struck the man, and he shivered. His voice dropping to a whisper, he sputtered, “The … the Claw!”
The guards pulled their swords. The air rang with the grinding sound of steel on steel, and the men spread out, surrounding the masked man.
The dark figure didn’t give them the chance to trap him. Taking a single step, he somersaulted forward in a tight ball. Jallal tried to sidestep the tumbling mass, but he was too slow, and he left his feet, falling hard onto his back.
The Claw came out of his roll on top of his victim, the blades on his right hand buried deep in Jallal’s gray beard.
“No!” shouted Pello, recoiling at the sight of his older brother pinned to the wood floor.
The guards closed in from all sides.
The Claw did not wait. Yanking his blades free, he stood, stepped, and tumbled, dodging between two of the armed men. Both took quick, short strikes, but both missed their target, and the Claw came to his feet again, outside the circle of guards.
Pello Tasca rushed to his brother’s side. Dropping to his knees, he lifted his head from the floor, smearing blood all over the sleeves of his robes. “Jallal! Brother!”
Jallal Tasca sputtered, trying to speak. But it was no use. He fell back limp.
Pello shook his brother. “No! No! Open your eyes.”
Jallal didn’t respond.
“This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.” Pello looked up and pointed at the Claw. “Kill him!” he shouted. “Make him pay for this.”
The guards charged, a wall of chain mail and sharpened steel. Their blades came down, and the Claw bashed them aside, his gauntlets catching the incoming swords and turning them away.
Flipping forward, the Claw bounded over his assailants. Upside down, hurtling through the air, his bladed hands flashed out, striking one guard on the shoulder and another along the back of the neck. Both collapsed to the floor, one clutching his arm, the other simply in a heap.
That was all the workers needed to see.
“I’m getting out of here!” shouted one, and he ran for the door. The rest followed.
“Where are you going?” shouted Pello. “I gave you an order. Kill the Claw! ”
The workers ignored the pudgy sorcerer, flying past him and out the open doors.
Three of Jallal’s guards remained. They looked at each other, then at their fallen leader. Pello was struggling to get to his feet, the front of his robes covered in sanguine stains, his brother’s dead body folded on the floor.
The Claw took one step, and all three guards turned and bolted. He made no motion to follow. They weren’t the reason he was here.
Casually, the masked man crossed the wooden floor to loom over the sorcerer. Pello slipped in the pool of his brother’s blood and fell flat onto his back.
His voice shook as he scrambled away. “What … what do you want?”
The masked figure lifted his arm, his bladed gauntlets reflecting the moon’s glow.
Pello screamed, “No. Please no,” and covered his face.
The Claw’s right hand came down, grasping Pello Tasca by the arm and flipping him over onto his stomach. Producing a thin rope, he bound the fat man’s hands behind his back. Then he turned his attention to the glass vats.
From a tiny pouch on his back, the Claw recovered two small globes of alchemist’s fire and hurled them at the contraption. The fluid-filled orbs impacted and flashed, then exploded in a huge ball of flame.
He watched for a moment until the concentrated Elixir caught fire. It didn’t take long. The sticky substance bubbled and spat, flames reaching high into the air.
Satisfied with his work, the Claw grabbed Pello Tasca by the back of his robes and dragged him from the slaughterhouse.
chapter two
Inside the palace at Klarsamryn, King Korox placed his hand on his cheek and sank down deeper into his throne. Spring had just arrived in Erlkazar. He’d only been king since his father had passed away the previous winter. Already he missed his duties as the head of the Crusaders, protecting the five baronies.
It had been a long morning and afternoon, as most of them were. The business of running the kingdom took all day, and so Korox had begun holding court after sunset, hoping it would discourage those with petty complaints. It hadn’t quite worked out that way.
“I demand an explanation!” A thin, opulently dressed older woman stood before the king, shaking her long, craggy finger in his direction.
It was going to be another very long night at court.
“What is it this time, Lady Herrin?” asked the king, trying not to let the complete lack of interest he had in this matter seep into his voice.
“Are you mocking me, Korox?”
The King of Erlkazar sat up straight in his throne and then leaned forward to scowl at Whitman, his scribe—a stocky man who looked like someone who had been sincerely over-educated. The royally dressed courtier was busy recording every word of the conversation and didn’t notice that the ruler of his country was staring down at him. Nor, apparently, had he noticed the merchant calling the king by his proper name. With a sigh, the king turned his attention back to the cranky merchant.
“The last time I checked,” he said, a smirk rounding out the corners of his lips, “the proper way to address your king would be as ‘my lord,’ or ‘your majesty,’ or even simply as ‘King.’ Isn’t that right, Scribe?”
Whitman looked up from his vellum and quill. “Uh, yes my lord. Those are all acceptable addresses.”
King Korox scowled again.
This time Whitman realized his lapse in duty. “Oh, uh, yes.” He looked up at the merchant, pushing his wire glasses down his nose and glaring over the rims. “Lady Herrin. I find myself in the awkward position of having to remind you, once again, that this is the seat of power of Erlkazar, and King Korox’s personal audience chamber. Your disregard for protocol will not be tolerated.”
The fusty merchant crossed her arms, lifted her nose in the air, and let out an almost imperceptible offended chuckle. Then, after a long moment of pouting, she uncrossed her arms and turned to face the king.
“My lord—” she started.
“That’s much better,” interrupted Korox.
Lady Herrin took a deep breath, visibly irritated. Then she started again. “My lord, I am here as a representative of the merchant’s guild to lodge our protest of your newly adopted tariffs.”
“And what is it that you don’t like about them?”
“We don’t like anything about them,” said Lady Herrin. “Surely, my lord—” she said these last two words with a fair amount of sarcasm—“even you can understand that we merchants can’t make a living if the crown keeps taking all of our profits.”
The king looked over Lady Herrin and her hired bodyguards. Her robes were made from the finest spun silk, accented with gold filigree. Her hair, gray and thinning as it was, was adorned with tiny gemstones. Her fingers dripped with gold and platinum rings. Even her guards were accessorized—golden, fitted chest plates with ornate inscriptions and magical protective wards.
“I can see by the state of your dress that times are hard.” He sat back. “I’m sure every copper you can save will help you bring food home for your children.”
Lady Herrin narrowed her eyes and lifted her hand to begin another of her finger-shaking tirades, when the doors to the outer chamber burst open,
and a unit of the King’s Magistrates stormed in. They had with them a pudgy man in robes whose hands were tied behind his back.
“What is this interruption?” said Lady Herrin, distracted from her initial thought.
The king stood, grateful for the turn of events. “You want to know why you are charged tariffs on the goods you import and sell in Erlkazar?” He pointed at the Magistrates’ prisoner. “It’s so we can apprehend men like this. Men who prey upon you and your fellow merchants. Men who break the laws of the realm and make this a less-than-safe place to live and do business.” It was the king’s turn to cross his arms. “Without those tariffs, there wouldn’t be a marketplace to sell in, or safe roads to transport goods on, or even regular commerce. You should be happy to pay for such things, and thankful for the comfortable living you have made out of them.”
“Your Magistrates are hurting that man,” she said. “I demand that you release him at once.”
King Korox narrowed his eyes. “This is my audience chamber, and I am the king.” He took a step closer, leaning over the merchant with his superior height. “You do not demand anything from me.”
A soft hand pulled on his arm, urging him away from Lady Herrin.
Furious for the interruption, King Korox’s face burned red, and he spun around intent on giving someone a piece of his mind. But he stopped dead away, and his fury disappeared, replaced with a sense of ease.
“Perhaps, Father, you should continue the conversation about tariffs at another time.” Princess Mariko pulled the king back and urged him toward his throne, then stepped into the space he had just vacated. “I’m sure you understand, Lady Herrin. The king has pressing business with the Magistrates right now.”
The king smiled at his daughter. “Yes, Lady Herrin. You’ll excuse me.” The king walked past his throne, touching Whitman on his shoulder as he passed. “Send for Quinn. I’ll need him when we question Pello Tasca.”
The scribe nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“But what about the tariffs?” shouted Lady Herrin after the retreating king.
“There will be plenty of time for the two of us to go around and around about your latest issue, I’m sure,” replied the king. “Remind me on your next visit.”
The king continued past the row of pillars to the curved outer wall of his circular audience chamber. At the far end, right next to a statue of Ondeth Obarskyr, lay the door to his private reading chambers. Picking up a candle from a table beside the entrance, he opened the door and left the public domain, entering his sanctuary.
The king’s reading room was dark, lit by only a pair of windows high up on the north wall. The moon’s light came in through the glass, reflecting in grotesque, elongated shapes along the opposite side of the chamber. Though he loved his time alone—especially time with his history books that recounted tales of previous wars—his hectic schedule didn’t allow him that luxury very often. Thus his reading room was often left dark.
Halfway across the room, his candle sputtered out. Korox cursed under his breath.
When his daughter came in with him, she would illuminate the room with a magical light. But he was all alone this time, and he’d have to navigate back through the darkness without her help. Feeling his way past an upholstered chair, the king knocked over a small table as he pushed on toward the moonlit doorway.
Righting the table, the king took a survey of the chamber. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, and he could make out the familiar shapes of his belongings. This was the place he went when he needed solitude, but right now, here in the dark, he didn’t feel alone. Something, or someone, was here with him.
“Who’s there?”
The king stood still, watching the corners and trying to make sense of the strange feeling he was having—as if someone was watching him. For a brief moment, the king considered making a break for the door. The palace guards and Magistrates were not far away.
A shadow shifted in the far corner of the room, and a chill ran down the king’s spine.
“By order of King Korox Morkann, lord of this castle and ruler of all Erlkazar”—the king drew his sword—“show yourself.”
The darkness grew, taking shape as it separated from the wall. A form, roughly the size of a man, appeared out of the shadow. But there was something more about him, something … animal. Where on a man would be a pair of hands, on this figure there were blades, four on each, resembling the claws of a predatory cat or a beast from another plane.
Before the king could utter another word, the figure stepped forward into the pale beam of light, revealing a long cloak that covered most of his body and a fitted, featureless black mask over his face.
The king took a step away. “Welcome back. And well done. Capturing Pello Tasca will present a big blow to the underworld.”
The Claw bowed before the king. “Thank you, my lord.”
Korox slipped his sword back inside its sheath. “You gave me quite a start there. You really shouldn’t startle your king.”
The Claw nodded. “You are wise to be afraid.”
Korox chuckled. “Oh, come now. You do not scare me. Even if you do skulk around a little too much for my liking.”
The Claw shook his head. “There is a plot against your life.”
It was the king’s turn to shake his head. He sighed. “Will I ever be safe in my own kingdom?” Then it dawned on him. “Is the Tasca family behind this?”
“Yes. I believe the older brother was the instigator.”
“Well, I guess this means they’re not fond of my Magistrates.”
“Or your plan to eradicate their Elixir operations.”
The king slammed his fist into an upholstered chair. “The greatest threat Erlkazar will face in our lifetime will be posed by the drugs that these cretins are pushing on our people. I firmly believe that, and I intend to stop them from destroying this kingdom with it.”
“You will get no argument from me, my lord.” The Claw moved to the darkened corner. “I will see what else I can discover about this plot on your life. In the meantime, be careful. Our enemies are everywhere.”
Slipping into the shadows, the Claw disappeared.
“Yes,” said the king, pondering this new information. “They certainly are.”
chapter three
Over there, Genevie,” said Princess Mariko. “Bring me that book. The one with the twisted-looking sigil on it.”
“Yes, my lady,” replied the handmaiden.
Genevie was old, even for a half-elf, but she seemed capable enough. Mariko had taken a liking to her immediately. She reminded the young princess of her recently deceased mother. Anything that brought back the soothing memories of her mother was something the princess wanted near.
The handmaiden wrapped her feeble arms around the book and attempted to lift it from the shelf. The massive tome had been handmade and was constructed of leather, vellum, and sturdy hemp thread. It had been built to withstand the rigors of age, and as such was very, very heavy.
The princess looked up from the notes she had been scribbling to see Genevie struggling.
“Oh, Genevie!” The princess raised her hand, and the book rose into the air. “Let me help you with that.”
The handmaiden smiled, relieved to be rid of such a strain. “Thank you, my lady. My arms no longer have the strength in them that they once did.”
“Of course, Genevie. I didn’t realize how heavy it was, or I wouldn’t have asked you to retrieve it.” Mariko waved at the suspended book as if it were a servant. “Come,” she said.
The tome floated through the air and laid itself down on the desk.
The princess patted the bench beside her. “You too,” she said to the handmaiden. “Come take a rest.”
Mariko liked to play the “good princess” game, as she called it, while Genevie was around. After all, Genevie saw her as an innocent, hardly more than a child. Mariko intended to keep it that way.
“Thank you, Princess, but I still have d
uties to—”
“Nonsense,” interrupted Mariko. “Come sit next to me. Besides, I have a secret I’m dying to tell someone.”
“Well in that case …” The elderly half-elf hurried to the bench. “I’m all ears. You know how I love secrets.”
The princess nodded. “Yes, I do.”
Genevie bounced a little on the bench, seeming suddenly much younger in her impatience.
“You must promise to keep this a secret.”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Well”—the princess grinned—“I think I have met someone. Someone I might like a lot.”
“Have you now?” Genevie gave the princess a conspiratorial smile and leaned in, lowering her voice. “And does your father know?”
Mariko frowned. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. And you mustn’t tell him.”
Genevie clasped her hand to her breast. “You have my word. Your secret is safe with me.”
“I’ve been so excited, but I haven’t been able to tell—”
A knock on the heavy wooden door to the princess’s chamber interrupted their conversation.
“Princess,” came a voice from the other side, “I have a message from the king.”
Mariko stood and straightened her robes. She scanned the table in front of her. There were books and scrolls scattered everywhere, all covered in magical scripts.
“One moment please!” she shouted. Clasping her hands together, she spoke a single word. A purplish light burst between her hands, and she spread them wide, producing a large sheet of woven cotton cloth.
“Genevie,” she whispered, “help me cover the table.”
The handmaiden grabbed hold of the cloth, helping the princess obscure the books and scrolls from view.
Satisfied that her recent activities were not immediately visible, the princess opened the door.
On the other side stood one of the king’s messengers.
The man bowed. “Forgive the intrusion, my lady,” he said. “But your father requests your presence in the audience chamber.”
Mariko looked back at her handmaiden.