Proper Villains

by Erik Scott De Bie

  half-heartedly.

  Gislai appeared. “Your need for attention is your least likeable characteristic.”

  “I make up for it in other ways,” Tarrant sang, and resumed his song with a chorus to keep the

  beguiled guard interested.

  The priestess rolled her eyes and chanted a second spell. Her half-orc visage wavered and changed

  into that of Captain Nemerath, an authoritative human Blackscale captain of Tarrant’s acquaintance

  and occasional liaison. The guard captain’s armor—unfastened slightly for appearances—made a

  perfect disguise for Gislai. “You seem troubled, soldier. What’s your name?”

  The guard looked relieved to see her. “I’m Rholf, captain.”

  “A good strong Ulfen name,” she said. “Named for your father, were you?”

  He nodded, then turned his attention back to Tarrant. “This one… is he yours?”

  Tarrant recognized Gislai’s little mischievous smile all too well—she was considering betraying him. He

  kept singing, and Drohn sat down so that he could listen better.

  Finally, Gislai nodded. “He is a friend. We’ve come to check the locks on the gate.”

  “Locks.” Rholf looked at the strong iron lock on the door. “Drohn has the key, but—” His expression grew suspicious. “But I can’t just give—”

  “Oh, we don’t need the key,” Gislai said. “That wouldn’t be much of a test, would it? My associate is suitably skilled. He’ll test the lock.”

  Eram Many-Fingers appeared from the shadows, his eyes darting back and forth nervously. He

  stepped up to the gate and slipped his lockpicks out of his belt. Meanwhile, Gislai took Rholf aside.

  Every one of her words, smiles, and seemingly unintentionally touches strengthened the spell. It really

  was a wonder to watch such a natural con artist at work.

  With Rholf suitably distracted, Tarrant nodded—the signal for Eram to make his move. He didn’t even

  touch his picks to the door, which would have triggered the warding magic anyway. Instead, he crept

  up on the distracted Drohn and took his chain of office—along with the key—right off his neck.

  Tarrant wove a new thread of the song, suggesting Drohn shuffle off to the nearest alehouse. When

  Drohn had wandered out of sight, Tarrant let the song trail away. “Gislai.”

  The half-orc cast him an annoyed look, then shared a few more words with Rholf. The guard nodded

  and left. “He’ll go back to guarding the gate—once he finds Drohn, wherever the man got off to.”

  Tarrant nodded. “Your spell is very effective.”

  Gislai is more than just a pretty face.

  “Aye, for one guard. And now it’s expended. What happens when we face a group?”

  “No worries,” Tarrant said, patting the satchel at his hip. “I’ve a plan for that, too.”

  At his signal, Arlif and Ephere emerged from the alley, both clad in thick cloaks. They crossed to the

  door and entered. The elf gave Tarrant a brief nod that made him smile.

  “That, right there?” Gislai pointed to the elf. “That’s dangerous.”

  “Whence this dislike for our companion, ‘captain’?” Tarrant shed his filthy cloak to reveal a

  Blackscale’s trademark mail beneath. He sang a brief song of disguise and took the shape of Rholf. “Is not your Calistria an elven goddess?”

  “That just means I know how treacherous elves are,” Gislai countered.

  “And beautiful.”

  “As I said.”

  They stepped through the door into the inner guardroom and found the others in a tense standoff with

  three more Blackscales—two humans and a dwarf. Axe in hand, Arlif stood between them and Ephere.

  Eram was nowhere to be seen, the coward. Blades slid from sheathes.

  The Liespinner hadn’t earned his name by hesitating. “Down arms! A thousand apologies, my lady

  ambassador!”

  The Blackscales looked confused. “Ambassador?” the dwarf rumbled.

  On cue, Ephere threw back her cloak, revealing a gorgeous gown of green silk, lined with silver

  stitching. Tarrant had acquired this dress in one of Absalom’s most fashionable boutiques.

  “Ambassador Saleae Epheldera of Kyonin,” Tarrant said. “Here to inspect the ancient elven treasures recovered during the recent expedition.”

  The dwarf, presumably the commanding officer, shook his head. “We were not informed.”

  “Yes, well, the honorable Viridian Crown has heard of our recent exploits, and…”

  “I am an expert on the artifacts of Kyonin.” Ephere held up her ensorcelled gauntlets, which crackled with magical power. “My kinswoman, Queen Telandia, knows of this dragon you slew—an old beast

  with an even older hoard. She will pay handsomely for relics that predate our people’s return from

  Sovyrian. But this—” Ephere drew up to her full height. “This is not how I am accustomed to being treated. First drunken guards, and now insolence? This is an insult to me and to the queen.”

  Confronted with an offended noble promising a reward, the Blackscales quickly put their blades away

  and offered apologies. Ephere’s natural affinity for deception touched Tarrant’s villainous heart.

  “Someone under my command mucked this up,” Gislai said. “I’ll bet it’s that damned Drohn—always drinking on the job. Where’s your good-for-nothing partner, Rholf?”

  “Apologies, Captain,” Tarrant said to her. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.” Gislai looked to the Blackscales. “Stand easy, gentlemen. You’re not at fault here.”

  At first, it seemed the guards might press for more answers, but ultimately they relaxed. At a nod

  from Gislai, they sat back down to a half-finished hand of Towers.

  Tarrant and his party pressed through the cloakroom and closed the doors behind them. It

  disappointed him that the guards hadn’t asked why such a noble visitor would enter through the

  servants’ door. He’d had a lie all prepared for that—“a matter of diplomatic delicacy.” Shame, but an unused lie was an unspent arrow.

  Perhaps, he thought, they didn’t care. Perhaps they recognize a robbery in progress and had just

  given Tarrant their tacit approval to take Lord Doreset for all he was worth. He liked to think they had.

  Eram appeared from around the corner, rubbing his hands together and glancing back at the site of

  the near-disaster. “Finally, you return,” Tarrant said. “No troubles?”

  “None,” the halfling murmured.

  “Are you well?” Gislai asked, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “You seem even more twitchy than usual.”

  “No, not at all!” the halfling protested. “I’m fine! Just fine!”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were planning something.”

  “Only the plan!” Eram said. “Promise!”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.” Tarrant turned to the others. “That was exciting, wasn’t it?” He touched Ephere’s arm. “You did well.”

  The elf nodded. Behind her, Gislai groaned.

  “You noted them well, I hope?” Tarrant slipped vials of blue potion to Arlif and Eram. “In case anything else goes wrong.”

  “What is this?” Eram asked. “Escape in a bottle?”

  “Something of the sort,” Tarrant said. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

  They stepped past the entry chamber into a larger hall where the walls pulsed with warding magic.

  Torches burst into life at their approach, revealing a solid vault door at the end of the hall. Tarrant felt the oppressive warding magic all around him, like an invisible wall of water. “Beyond here, anything we bring from the vault will no doubt trigger—”

  Eram took a step deeper into the hall, a
nd the wards whined to angry life. Two hulking iron statues

  shivered, pulled away from the walls, and pointed massive swords at them.

  “—Guardians.” Tarrant took Drohn’s chain of office from Eram and presented it to the guardians.

  “Hold!”

  The golems stepped closer, oblivious to his command.

  “Stop?” Tarrant tried. “Desist?”

  The golems raised their swords, and the would-be thieves reached for their weapons. Ephere’s arms lit

  with fire and lightning. Eram slipped two daggers into his hands and Arlif unbuckled his greataxe.

  Tarrant wondered if his music would touch such creatures. He doubted it.

  Then Gislai—still in disguise as Captain Nemerath—stepped forward, seized the chain from Tarrant,

  and raised it to the golems. “Zarahtas!” she declaimed.

  Instantly, the guardians lowered their swords and returned to their places.

  “Good thing I bothered to get the passphrase from Rholf,” she said as they crossed through the hall.

  “For security, one guard had the chain, one had the code. Apparently, Doreset had the golems

  changed after he had you thrown in prison.”

  “Outstanding.” Tarrant strode past the resting golems and sized up the doors. “You know, these doors were specially built in Nex with the finest magic coin can purchase. They have no ward that needs to

  be renewed daily, but rather several persistent enchantments imbedded in the doors themselves. It

  would take several wizards multiple castings to suppress them, and by that point, the alarm spells

  would sound. Damned impressive, not to mention expensive.” Tarrant beckoned to Eram. “Rod

  please.”

  “What?” the halfling said.

  “Why do you think I asked you about the job in Cassomir? I know you’re carrying the rod, so just give it here.”

  The halfling grumbled, but sure enough, reached into his haversack. His arm extended all the way into

  one of the small pockets, and he pulled out a foot-long silvery rod. “Be welcome to the cursed thing anyway.”

  “I sense a story there, no?” Gislai said.

  Eram shook his head frantically.

  Tarrant took the rod, which hummed slightly in his hand, and held it in front of the door. “Arlif, Eram, this is as far as you go—Gislai, you too.”

  “That wasn’t the plan!” the half-orc protested. “I’m certainly not leaving you with her.”

  Ephere seemed unconcerned.

  “As long as she’s at your side,” Gislai said, “I’m at the other.”

  “I never object to working between two lovely ladies.” Tarrant smiled. “I’ll have that potion back, then. It’s important you not have it.”

  Gislai looked perplexed, but ultimately she rolled her eyes and handed the vial back.

  “Outstanding.” He tucked it into his tunic. “Arlif, Eram—time to part ways.”

  The big Ulfen warrior turned and made his way back across the golem-guarded hall, and Eram—after a

  longing look at the vault door—joined him. Gislai stood her ground stubbornly.

  “I didn’t realize you cared,” Tarrant said. “I’m touched.”

  “Touched in the head, if you think I’m letting you in there alone,” she said. “What’s to keep you from taking your fill of gold and leaving nothing for us?”

  “Prudent.” Tarrant tapped the rod against the door, setting off a series of pops and crackles as its antimagic cancelled out the door’s many enchantments. The magic left its mechanical locks in place,

  however.

  He began a song the elves of Kyonin used to welcome ships from distant lands, which his mother had

  first heard from traveling musicians. It had always been one of his favorite ballads as a boy, and now

  as a man, it provided focus to his magic. Soft green light swirled around him. At the climax of the

  spell, he reached out and knocked once on the massive vault door.

  Nothing happened.

  “Huh.”

  He cast the spell and knocked again, but still, the doors remained sealed.

  “How terribly embarrassing.”

  Tarrant began the song a third time, but Ephere laid her hand on his arm. From beneath the folds of

  her gown, she drew a hollow mithral tube about twice the length of her slender hand.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Gislai asked. “Well isn’t that convenient. And suspicious.”

  “Nonsense! Thank you, Ephere.” Tarrant handed her his rapier. “Have a care with this.”

  Ephere tapped the rapier’s pommel against the tube, which resonated with a deep, clear tone. The

  locks on the now mundane door clicked, and the vault opened to them, shedding golden light that

  bathed their skin.

  Gislai sucked in a sharp breath.

  Ephere nodded.

  “Outstanding,” Tarrant said.

  The sheer size of the hoard stunned them to silence. A kingdom’s ransom in coins and jewels

  overflowed from open chests. Cut gems the size of a clenched fist lay carefully arranged atop bolts of

  fine silk and damask. Ancient swords and shields adorned marble statues inlaid with silver and jewels.

  The most impressive piece was, by far, a statue of a dragon, wrought of pure gold and studded with

  rubies the length of its tail.

  “To work.” Tarrant pulled a red silk bag from his tunic, into which he began shoveling treasure.

  However much they put in, the bag never seemed to swell.

  “Avoid the relics—tricky to fence,” Gislai said. “Hard coin and jewels spend better.”

  “Good thing Eram stayed away,” Tarrant said. “He’d likely die of a burst head.”

  “I might do so myself.” Gislai held up a platinum tiara. “Look at this! A lass could get used to—”

  Then a keening wail filled the room, roaring out into the tower: an alarm spell. Tarrant turned to see

  Ephere pointing her war gauntlets at them. He reached for his sword, only to remember that the elf

  had taken it at the door. He winced.

  “Don’t move,” she said. “Lady Altara will be here soon.”

  “I told you not to trust her,” Gislai murmured.

  “That’s really comforting,” Tarrant said. “Why, dear lady? Have I offended you? Why would you side with those poorly appointed Hellknights over us?”

  Ephere reached down and pulled her bodice open just enough to reveal a long-faded scar, like a

  brand. There, she traced the forefinger of her right hand across her flesh, lighting a burning star to

  mark herself. That was why she’d been keen to hide her skin earlier, and why that spot on her chest

  had felt hot under his touch. It was a symbol Tarrant recognized all too well.

  “Hail Asmodeus.” She pressed her lightning gauntlet to Tarrant’s head and shocked him into darkness.

  Chapter Four: The Reward

  He awoke in a cold spray of brackish water. The Hellknight who’d roused him drew back the half-

  empty bucket, then brought it forward again for another go. This time, Tarrant inhaled half the putrid

  stuff and gagged. “Is that really necessary?” he coughed.

  The Hellknight leaned close, his breath turning Tarrant’s stomach. “You stink of fear, Liespinner.”

  “And you stink of mediocrity,” Tarrant said. “I prefer my smell, thanks.”

  The knight kicked him in the stomach, and Tarrant collapsed to the floor. The pain was bad, but at

  least he had earned the freedom to inspect his surroundings. He was still in Hawkthorne Tower—up in

  the council chambers where Doreset sometimes held formal events. The second Hellknight stood a

  little ways off, clutching both Tarrant’s sheathed rapier and the bottomless red silk bag. Evidence, no

  dou
bt. Beyond the Hellknights stood a circle of Blackscale Blades, their expressions grim.

  Tarrant saw Gislai first, manacled and bruised. Her illusion had fallen, revealing her natural half-orc

  features. She glared at Tarrant with a mixture of concern and contempt. She had, after all, told him

  so.

  Ephere was there as well. She’d shed her fine emerald gown for black working leathers that left her

  brand uncovered, and she fit in well amongst the Chelaxians. She averted her gaze from Tarrant, like

  the aloof and serene elf maiden she had first seemed to be. He’d always been a fool for a pretty face.

  The Hellknight kicked Tarrant again, and Gislai cried out. “Stop it!”

  Her captor slapped her hard enough to make her stagger into Ephere, who shoved her back with one

  arm.

  It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Only Tarrant was supposed to suffer for his mistakes, not his

  friends.

  The Hellknight drew back his fist for another punch.

  “Enough.” A severe woman with long blonde hair and her own set of fiendish Hellknight armor stepped through the circle of judgment. She clicked the talons of her right-hand gauntlet together and looked

  down at Tarrant with the sort of expression wolves reserve for wounded deer. “Leave him to me.”

  “Altara,” Tarrant said. “Charmed, as always.”

  She kicked at his face with her steel-shod boot, but instinct let him dodge aside enough to save his

  neck from snapping. The boot crushed his nose and sent him rolling over and over until he slammed

  into the legs of his Hellknight captor. There he lay coughing as the world spun.

  Of the many women he’d loved and left in his wake, Altara Hathran had been his first—and

  consistently worst—oversight. He’d made her promises when they were young together, never

  dreaming that he would disappoint her, or that his betrayal would lead her to the life of a militant

  ascetic. He regretted it all bitterly, almost as much as his broken nose.

  He heard familiar laughter, and turned his woozy focus to a massive man reclining on a divan a few

  paces away. “Ah, my trusted friend.” Lord Doreset’s prodigious bulk quivered under his words. “It pleases my heart to see you again, so… helpless.”

  His presence answered all Tarrant’s questions. How long had he been in league with the Hellknights?