by J. W. Webb
Then Rael deemed the time right to return to Kranek. He hatched a plot to bring down the current ruler but was betrayed. Rael had many enemies among those that feared him. He was brought in chains to the castle, amid bunting and regalia. A public holiday was awarded in Kranek. A high scaffold was erected to await his occupancy.
First he was punished.
In the dungeons below that monstrous keep, cruel things were done to Rael Hakkenon. One thing in particular, a terrible thing, warped and twisted him and shaped him into what he was today. The pain had been horrific, almost killing him, but his will proved greater.
The jailer was bribed by some of his men. Rael, broken and missing more than his pride, was bundled into a grain sack and smuggled out of the city a day before his hanging, drawing, and quartering were due.
In time he healed—his body anyway, as much as could be expected—but Rael’s mind was badly warped and twisted beyond any repair. He plotted again and orchestrated raids from his lair in Storn. Then on that joyful day nine years ago, Rael Hakkenon returned to the city.
He struck like an adder and this time succeeded. The ravens grew fat. Within three gloriously bloody days Crenna had a new ruler.
It had been a long road, but at forty-six winters Rael Hakkenon had reached the zenith of his power. His name was a stain on the face of Ansu. They would write sagas about him one day.
When Caswallon contacted him with the eerie new skills he’d acquired from his dog friends, Rael was only too willing to assist.
He stole into the royal bedroom, woke the High King, and held his mouth to prevent him from shouting. Rael wanted Kelsalion to see who it was that had come to claim his life.
Smiling, he’d slid the dagger across the old man’s throat; watching as the crimson jet soaked bedclothes and floor, laughing softly at each feeble convulsion. Then, with black deed done, Rael fled into the night.
Rael’s thoughts returned to present matters. He surveyed his hall with cold green eyes. Stone steps led down to a cobbled, uneven floor, and long wooden benches lined the walls at either side.
Central was the huge fire trench, spanning over fifteen feet across and more than four times the length, dividing the hall in two. Its embers glowed from the feasting fires of the night before. Beyond the ruddy fire pit, half hidden in the gloom, were two iron studded wooden doors. The entrance was guarded from without by the single motionless bulk of Graan, his personal bodyguard, he of the double axes and massive mace. Nothing stirred from within or without.
Rael Hakkenon was in a reflective mood today. His patrician face was impassive; his impenetrable, pale green eyes gazed into oblivion, delving deep among a maelstrom of black thoughts. The darkness suited his mood. Rael no longer liked the bright sun, for it brought on terrible headaches, part of the legacy of his torture, albeit a minor part. He rarely raided, being a creature of the night.
But his mind was busy. So much had occurred in the last weeks. It was difficult to contain the deep joy he felt, the rich vengeful satisfaction. Rael had the Prince, too, the bastard born of a whore. Tarin awaited his attentions in the cold dungeon below.
There was no need to hurry. Rael would arrange something specific, something novel and dramatic for the youth’s demise. There would be mandolins to blend with the boy’s screams. Rael liked to listen to soft music when he worked his hot knife into flesh.
Caswallon was in Rael’s debt, and Kelthaine’s new ruler had powerful friends. What these mysterious dog-beings sought to gain by aiding the wizard, Rael Hakkenon knew not. Nor did he care. What mattered was that Kelsalion the fool was dead and the Tekara destroyed beyond repair.
A new order had arisen in the Four Kingdoms that would always have need for killers of high quality. And Rael Hakkenon was of the highest quality. He smiled thinking of Prince Tarin trussed and turning in his cage, shivering, naked, and bathed in its own excrement.
The castle’s dungeons were dark and cold, cut deep into the bedrock that housed the Keep’s foundations. Many prisoners had died down there in various imaginative ways. More had been forgotten and left to starve, cocooned by terror, robed in their own misery.
Tales of what occurred in that oubliette sometimes reached the town. Nobody spoke of them, lest the Assassin’s green gaze turn on them.
Rael had talked often with Tarin, goading the Prince during their westward voyage, horrifying him with hints of his impending fate. He hadn’t frequented the dungeons though. He was already bored with that game, and besides, the stench was bad down there these days. He’d have to bring incense when he worked on the boy.
Rael mused: Should he flay the Prince’s hide inch slowly, or hang him by hooks through the ankles above a vat of boiling fat?
It was a conundrum. The boy deserved certain theatrical attention. Maybe a harp should accompany the mandolins. It was only fitting. Rael would give it some thought over the next weeks. He’d keep the fool’s head, of course. Proof of the Prince’s identity, should Caswallon or his dog allies demand it.
Rael Hakkenon had collected a number of heads over the years. He pickled them and arranged them neatly in order, as was his fetish. The Lord of Crenna despised untidiness.
Sounds outside…
Rael’s cat’s eyes narrowed dangerously, detecting the muffled sound of footsteps approaching fast. Moments later came a knock.
“Enter.” Rael’s voice severed the silence in the hall. He watched the doors open just wide enough to allow someone in. A man approached swiftly, nervously. He recognized the thin moustached features of his Captain of Guard, Pollomoi.
“Oh, it’s you.” The Assassin’s voice was cultured, languid, and mocking. “Well…what?”
“My lord, forgive the intrusion,” Pollomoi twitched like a cornered ferret. “There are strangers in Kranek.”
“What… of… it?” Rael Hakkenon studied Pollomoi’s sweating face. That twitch irritated him. Rael envisioned the captain without a nose. Maybe later. For the moment Pollomoi had his uses. Rael looked down in sudden disgust at his silver-trimmed perfumed cuff, spotting a small stain. He flicked at it. “There are always strangers in Kranek,” he replied.
“These have a dangerous look to them, my lord,” the captain said, coughing, then lowered his voice: “There is a young noblewoman among them, a priestess of the wood by her garb. She tried hiding her face from me.”
Rael Hakkenon had no time for divine beings. Worship of any god was forbidden in Crenna, on pain of death and torture. It was a law he’d only just introduced. Rael would have no rivals, be they mortal or immortal. He studied Pollomoi.
“Stop that fucking twitching, you idiot.” The Assassin’s green eyes pinned Pollomoi like a fish wriggling on a hook.
“Forgive me, my lord! But I sense they mean trouble,” Pollomoi persisted despite his evident discomfort. “Some of the others are also attired as priests, but two of these have the look of experienced warriors. I caught a glint of defiance in their gaze.”
“How diverting.” Rael was almost interested. “What manner of vessel?” he demanded.
“A trader, my lord, a bloody great brig,” replied the captain. “And a deep-sea voyager from the northlands, by the look of her.” Pollomoi failed to control his twitch and runnels of sweat were streaking his cheeks.
Rael raised a reflective brow. Most his men were ugly, but Pollomoi was particularly so. Rat on stilts was the image that came to mind. “Its captain is a huge bearded barbarian with an insolent tongue,” Pollomoi said. “He claims to have visited your island before.”
Rael Hakkenon was interested now.
“And the ships banner?” Rael demanded. His clipped tone cut clean through the drafty hall like a surgeon’s scalpel.
“That of a sea eagle set silver on blue.” Pollomoi straightened. “I have given orders that they remain onboard ship until I return with your wishes, my lord.”
Rael Hakkenon thought for a moment.
“You will do nothing for the nonce,” he ordered. “Watch them;
keep me informed of any developments. And be vigilant, captain,” he added, “lest your pathetic stoat head accompany the others currently feeding the crows above the city gates. You are dismissed for the immediate.”
“Y— yes, my lord!” stuttered Pollomoi, his face white. He turned swiftly, hurrying from the mocking shadows of the murky hall. The doors shut behind him with a heavy thud.
Rael leaned back into the carved chair, resting his gloved hands behind his head. He yawned indolently as he listened to Pollomoi’s fading footsteps.
“Graan!” he called out. The burly, shaggy shape emerged from the doors. “I’m not to be disturbed again. I’ve much to consider this morning.” Graan nodded and withdrew. Rael smiled. Pollomoi’s news was of interest after all.
So Barin of Valkador is here.
Rael smiled, his thoughts on the giant northman. Pity Barin hadn’t arrived earlier. His meeting with Redhand would have proved most diverting. It was common knowledge those two brutes detested each other.
Northmen and their stupid grudges, particularly Valkador and Leeth. That had all started with that ice-witch. Rael had heard the tale in his youth. Turned her husband’s son Bjarni (Barin’s father) into a bear, she had, and then fled to Leeth with her lover—or so the story went.
Silence. Rael Hakkenon closed his eyes. He wondered what Barin was doing here and who it was accompanied him. Rael could guess the answer. Barin had contacts with Caswallon’s enemies, rebels that plotted against the new regime. Silon and Belmarius were two such. Queen Ariane another. But then Hagan was on her case.
A woman, Pollomoi said. Perhaps the Queen had slipped through Delmorier’s net. But Hagan was usually so very thorough.
Interesting.
Rael would send word east via pigeon. Caswallon would doubtless know more. But why would Barin carry passengers dressed as priests and come here, of all places? Why else if not to rescue that fool Tarin. Rael laughed out loud at their audacity. Such brazen folly! It seemed a new game had commenced and one he would truly relish.
***
An ugly scraping at the window broke his train of thought.
What is that?
Rael, irritated, turned in his throne and angrily surveyed the gap between the drapes. Something was outside. Not a bird—much too big. A cat, perhaps? A flying one, then.
Bloody nuisance.
Rael leaped to his feet. Whatever it was it would soon be skewered. He stole across to the curtained window and listened. The scratching continued, accompanied now and then by an odd hissing, gargling sound.
What the fuck is that?
Rael glimpsed a dark evil-looking shape crawling along the ledge outside. He silently slid his silver-hilted rapier free of its jeweled scabbard with his left hand while his right pulled back the drapes.
Shite, that’s ugly!
Rael gaped. It was a creature like no other, somewhere betwixt goblin and gibbon. It stank of putrefied detritus and was hairless with leathery wings. The horrid thing totally spoiled Rael’s erstwhile enjoyable morning. He didn’t doubt that the ugly had something to do with Caswallon’s dog friends—they were always sending him weird shite these days, so his spies in Kella City told him. One day that wizard was going to overdo it and conjure up something really nasty that would gobble him up. Rael leaned out the window, poked the foulness with his rapier. It squeaked and squinted nastily at him.
“Fuck off!” it hissed. “I’ve got important contacts. Show some fucking respect!” The creature’s voice set Rael’s teeth on edge. And just what was that smell? He went to poke it again, but the thing hopped out of range.
“I’ve brought a message,” it spat at him from the ledge, in that gurgling, noxious tone. “Most important. Can’t wait. You’re to listen and act immediately. I—”
Rael had had enough. He reached out, grabbed the obscenity by its wrinkly neck, and yanked it toward him through the window. It squeaked and dribbled and stared at him with vitriolic loathing. Rael’s sword pinned it to the floor
“What manner of stinking atrociousness are you?” Rael crinkled his nose. “Speak quickly, little shiteling, else I cut your throat!”
“Get that fucking steel off me!” it hissed, tiny red eyes filled with hatred. “Don’t you know a Soilfin when you see one? I bring word from Mr. Caswallon, my new boss. He has much to tell you.”
Reluctantly, Rael withdrew the sword, and the creature showed what passed as a grin, revealing jagged greasy molars. It folded its leathery wings together, which made a sound like parchment torn in two. The thing resembled a giant bluebottle with a distorted monkey’s face.
“What’s the message?” Rael Hakkenon noticed with disgust that a gobbet of spittle had dared attach itself to his shirtsleeve. He flicked it off and wiped his fingers on his trousers. He would burn his clothes this afternoon and take a mile-long bath. “Speak, goblin shite! You affront my eyes!”
“I am Gribble,” announced the creature, as though that explained everything. “A Soilfin, as I have already told you—indeed, the last surviving Soilfin, as far as I know. I served the ancient ones who now aid my new master, Mr. Caswallon. I am his special messenger.”
“Well, get on with the fucking message and I might let you live, stinking creep that you are.” A muffled sound revealed the shadowy bulk of Graan at the doors.
“I heard noises, my lord. Is all well?”
“It’s just a flying goblin, Graan—nothing untoward. Leave us!”
“Yes… lord.”
Rael’s full attention was still on the Soilfin creature, currently scratching its left armpit with a long, curving claw. It bared its fangs again, this time showing a scabrous pinkish tongue.
“I’m hungry,” it complained. “I’ll need sustenance for the return flight.” Rael’s eyes narrowed to venomous slits of jade. Gribble noticed, saw just how dangerous this mortal could be, and decided on restraint
“Oh, very well,” it conceded. “I can wait awhile yet, providing you nourish me before departure. I have come from Kella City, where Mr. Caswallon now rules in entirety, thanks partly to your assistance.
I know that, you winged twat.
“Get on with it.” Rael wondered if he would have to torch the hall to banish this stink. The dungeons smelled rosy compared to this thing’s honking hide.
“You’re so friggin’ impatient,” complained Gribble. “You mortals, you’re all the same.
“Mr. Caswallon has reason to believe his worst enemies are on this island—or else soon will be. A rough lot by all accounts.”
Rael Hakkenon raised an eyebrow at that. “I had assumed that much, goblin,” he feinted. “Pray continue.”
“My name is Gribble, not Goblin. I’m not a friggin’ goblin.”
“You’ll be a friggin’ sliced goblin if you don’t stop gibbering shite!”
“They seek Tarin,” Gribble said, sulking. “Their leader is the renegade Queen of Kelwyn. My new master wants her for nighttime nibbles, the rest you can slay. Especially the one called Corin an Fol. Very dangerous and nasty apparently.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Caswallon also wants the shards of the Tekara returned to him at once. The Prince had them on him when you waylaid him, so you must have them.”
Rael shook his head. “I know nothing of the remnants of the crown. I had the boy stripped once aboard my vessel. All he carried was a hunting knife.”
Gribble picked at a flaring nostril. “Mr. Caswallon won’t be pleased. He was most insistent. Oh, he also says a wizard is holed up somewhere nearby, some rival warlock that my former masters used to know. He’ll stir up trouble. They always do. Mr. Caswallon wants you to smoke him out.”
“I know of no fucking wizard. What nonsense is this?”
“It is no fucking nonsense,” dribbled Gribble. “You must look into it, Mr. Assassin, and don’t worry about taking on the wizard. There is one coming over that will assist you with matters of spell craft.”
“Caswallon cannot fly yet.”
Gribble chewed his talons and resumed drooling. The Soilfin was very hungry. Rael watched the creature carefully, for once masking his disgust. He had a good deal to contemplate. He returned to his chair, gazed thoughtfully at the creature Gribble.
“What of Hagan and his men?” Rael asked the stinker. “I sent them to waylay the Queen at Caswallon’s bequest.
“They were overcome at Kashorn some days ago. You need more efficient staff, Mr. Assassin. I would have been here earlier, but I got distracted,” responded Gribble. “It was only a small town, but it took me a few days to digest all the occupants, so for a time I was too heavy for flight.
“Oh, that reminds me,” continued the Soilfin, looking gleeful, if a foul-smelling, horrible, winged goblin could look gleeful. “I kept this for a snack.” Gribble produced a be-ringed human hand from a deep fold of his left wing. He chewed on it avidly, crunching the bones with his yellow fangs.
The Assassin turned away. He decided to postpone lunch for a week. “Those little ships you sent for the Queen were outmaneuvered by the enemy vessel,” crunched the Soilfin.
“Idiots!” snapped the Assassin. He pictured Barin of Valkador contorting in agony whilst hot irons scorched his flesh. If any of his men returned, he’d have them pickled. Their lives they could throw away as they wished, but his sharks were expensive.
Gribble looked up from his snack and grinned. “My sentiments exactly. I take my leave, Mr. Assassin, but I’m still hungry, so before I go...”
“What…?” Rael was relieved the Soilfin was leaving.
“I’ve a long flight ahead. Need fuel. That town I visited earlier, it was several miles inland. There could be one or two left alive, if I’m quick under the cover of darkness.”
“Just piss off.”
“Thank you. It’s been a joy.”
Rael watched with curled upper lip as Gribble goblin crawled back through the window and vanished from sight. “Revolting thing,” Rael muttered, then he turned his attentions toward the doors. Might prove useful, though.