Sixteen

The image within the circle began to once again become coherent, colors and lines coming into focus from the swirling, formless morass that had initially occupied the defined space on the ground. As Yen continued chanting in the obscure language of the Isle of Stryth, the blood from his clenched hand slowly dripping down into the swirling image, forms began to reel into focus, revealing once more the darkened, misty streets of Venne.

Michael knelt down slowly in his armor, folding one knee carefully into the hard packed soil to support the rest of his bulk. He sunk his sword into the ground with the weight of his shoulder bearing down upon it, then leaned over on the hilt, peering into the circle as he gripped the smiling image of Kil like a talisman. He said a small prayer to his god as he watched the demonist work; not approving, and barely believing, but nonetheless drawn. The crooked young man before him had become indispensable to his operation. And Yen was completely right about him. His devotion to cause had made him a rebel, a traitor, and an outlaw. But he still clung to his final belief. He was not an apostate. He sincerely believed that his actions would all be understood and condoned by Kil, regardless of priests, and church law, and the government they supported. He had prayed fervently through the year he had walked down this solitary path, searching out every shred of evidence in the states of Haarkedamia for inklings of or preparation for another Kasnarian invasion. Even against explicit orders to stop his pursuit.

He knew that the marching orders for a full invasion of Haarkedamia were prepared and ready for release all across his country. But even gaining that information had been an act of sedition. Yen had revealed to him months ago that there were sealed marching orders in the warded pouches that each Tithari General’s courier kept on his body at all times. That information, a state secret that he should not have been privy to, had been the gift given to him by Yen in exchange for his life. Michael remembered their first day: dispersing the mob of that nameless crossroads village in the foothills of the Haarkedamian state of the Kolnian Duchies, a collection of small rural states in the Bur Wood.

Michael had been in the Bur Wood for two years as a deep operative, tracking the movement of resources in the area that could be utilized in a military capacity: lumber, mithril, iron. Numerous valuable resources could be found in the wild and hilly forest, and were dealt in by rough and independent pioneer traders, working out of small temporary villages along rough hewn highways such as the one he found himself in when he found Yen, dagger in hand, crouching low in a defensive posture, hood still concealing his features. He was fending off five miners in the dirt commons that was situated in the midst of a collection of temporary shelters and sturdy, low-roofed thatch buildings. The miners had him surrounded, but were acting reluctant to close with the stranger, picks and axes held in contemplation of impending violence.

At his side, a curious, hideous companion aided in the defense of the bent young man, it’s glossy black eyes darting back and forth from one threatening miner to the next. The short, pale thing possessed a large, perfectly round head, crowned with a small circle of short, dark horns. As it pivoted back and forth to watch the miners, it scrambled on spindly, bent little legs that ended in short claws, seemingly too tiny to support the bulbous, hideously fat little torso atop them. The fat little beast held out equally wiry, thin arms that ended in curled claws, as it mimicked a sinister counting of the surrounding foes. After a moment, the creature’s unnaturally wide mouth opened, revealing a row of jagged, crooked black teeth. Then the creature sounded a hideous, guttural noise deep from within its loathsome gut. It belched a great sphere of bilious acid from its mouth, aimed directly at the closest miner, and immediately turned to the next miner. Where the acid fell, miners fell, screaming in agony as their skin sizzled, fat popping as they were burned mercilessly by the acid as it bore down into exposed flesh.

As the second miner fell, Yen charged a third, a guttural chant streaming from underneath his hood as he lunged violently with his dagger, throwing away all pretense of defense and caution. The miner was caught completely off guard, and Yen’s dagger sunk deep into his chest, the small robed man’s weight barreling into him, taking both attacker and victim to the dust in a scramble of limbs and grunts.

Michael watched the events unfold from his seat high up on a timber wagon, loaded deep with Bur Wood elms destined for the mills further down the river Koln. He’d taken the job six months earlier, after a year and a half spent literally in the dark, as an iron miner. This job on the wagon was infinitely better to aid his intelligence reports on the industries here in the Bur Wood. He saw the goings on of all the small mining and lumber communities up and down the Koln, working alongside the gruff and brave souls who came to the woods to seek their fortunes in the harshest wilderness of Haarkedamia. He drank with them in their small, smoky taverns at night. He’d even developed a taste for the brutal, un-aged spirit that the timber workers would distill out of boiled tree sap and river water. They would drink the fiery liquor every night after the sun was down, from small, hand-carved cups that many of them wore around their necks on leather cords.

Here was something that Michael had never seen before in his travels. Watching the small creature rout the remaining miners after felling two of them with great gouts of steaming acid, Michael’s memory was stirred. He knew what the thing was, even if no one for miles could identify it with any more specificity than ‘ugly little bastard’. A lesser demon, a creature summoned from the planes of the Abyss. He’d read about them briefly in his military schooling, as the Kasnarian’s intelligence training was nothing if not exhaustive. After a moment further spent watching the brutality with which the small robed figure dispatched his own foe, stabbing methodically while whispering in a language Michael did not recognize, he had settled on the idea that this man, as unlikely as the possibility might be, was a demonist. Far, far from his home, in the most remote area of a backwoods duchy. A Strythkian native, as all demonists had to be if his schooling was correct. A member of a nation whose people had not been seen on the mainland, supposedly, for a few hundred years at least.

Despite himself, and the stories he’d heard, Michael had to know why this demonist was here, and flagrantly displaying his abilities among a population of laborers and miners. He made his way down from the wagon’s high seat slowly, being careful not to reveal the large sword he had slung very low on his back, which was covered with a rough woolen forest cloak of grayish green. He briefly lamented that his armor, wrapped carefully in oiled cloth and bound tightly, rode surreptitiously lashed to the underside of the wagon he piloted. Too late for that now, he thought, heavy boot-shod feet hitting the hard packed dirt to the wagon’s side.

Yen had looked up then, his face a rictus of veins and stress lines, eyes wide and staring, the pupils dilated into black orbs. He reached up with his free hand, wiping flecks of blood from his face, leaving red streaks across both sunken cheeks like some Daarkian shaman. Rising slowly, he turned the cruelly shaped dagger over in his hand to where it was clutched point-down, his knuckles turning white around the hilt. He straightened to his full, meager height, and glanced quickly toward the two other miner’s bodies. The bulbous, hideous little demon squatted on the chest of one of the men, staring intently into the dead man’s fixed, dull eyes. Yen made a low, chittering noise towards the beast, while bringing his intense gaze back to fix on Michael. He didn’t move closer, but the demon turned, still squatting on the body, to fix its own black gaze on Michael.

Michael looked at both as he slowly moved his arms out from his sides. “I have no intention of attacking you, I am unarmed,” he said clearly, using the local accent he had acquired from his years here in the south. He stepped towards Yen cautiously, wanting to see more of the man’s face, and the weapon he clutched, which seemed to dim the light around itself and the demonist’s hand. For the first time since he’d come to this dark forest of bearded laborers and stupefying drunkenness, he felt his innate curiosity and wonder getting the best of him. He wanted to know more, and to know why.

The demon squinted at Michael, making him assume that something bad was about to happen. His leg muscles tensed, ready to at least try and dodge an attack. After a moment though, the demon’s face relaxed, and it turned to Yen, making a chittering, guttural noise similar to what Yen had made. Yen glanced to the demon when the noise began, then turned to Michael, gesturing with his dagger. He then spoke.

“What you said is only half true, Tithari. You are in fact well armed. Reach under your cloak and unbuckle the sword,” Yen said, his voice rasping and light, almost too quiet to hear. Michael blinked for a moment, his given Kasnarian title ringing foreign in his ears; it had been years since he’d heard it spoken. Not quite believing what was happening, he complied, undoing the metal clasp that held his sheathed sword low across his back. His weapon fell heavily to the dirt, trailing its bindings.

“Now, paladin of Kil, would you mind terribly telling me just what it is you are doing here?” Yen continued, gesturing with his dagger at the surrounding hovels. “You are far from home, and if I am not mistaken, forbidden to enter this country under pain of death.”

Michael grinned at the irony: a Strythkian somehow implying that he was lost and far from home here. If anything, Kasnaria was at least on the same continent. He felt confident that the demonist probably found the encounter as improbable and weird as he did. He answered, “I could ask the same of you, demonist. Don’t suppose your unique talents are really what is required for a successful timber concern?” Michael removed the stifling cloak, figuring that if this went poorly, at least he’d be able to move freely. He tossed it back up onto the wagon, seeing that neither Yen nor the demon were advancing on him.

Yen looked at Michael thoughtfully, “So you know what I am as well. That’s convenient. That means you were trained in the Intelligence Branch by Kasnaria. I have need of someone with your knowledge.”

“Funny,” Michael replied, “you seem to be able to gain information quite well.” His eyes flicked obviously towards the demon, who still squatted, watching him intently.

Yen shrugged, looking at the demon. “The price of his return to the Abyss, information and obedience,” he said cryptically. Yen reached to his belt, holding his sheath out from his side and sliding the dagger delicately into it. When he did so, the demon disappeared in a puff of black smoke, a crackle of dark energy emanating out from the space he had occupied. “Now then, you have yet to tell me, why are you here?”

Michael looked around at the surrounding buildings. He could see eyes peering intently from darkened windows here and there. He doubted that they were unarmed. “Why don’t we continue this fascinating talk elsewhere? I hardly think the tavern is going to serve you, and if anyone was listening, my job’s over as well.” Michael bent, retrieving his sword, still carefully watching for a twitch of aggression from his new acquaintance.

Yen moved closer, not bothering to look at the surrounding silent little buildings. “There are fourteen remaining humans if you care to just . . .”

“Why don’t we just leave?” Michael cut him off, startled by the sudden gleam in Yen’s eyes. He walked hastily to the wagon and dropped to one knee, fishing under the bed with one hand. He then straightened quickly, pulling on a length of cord. His armor fell from the wagon’s bottom, clanking softly in its cloth wrapping. Michael gathered it up carefully. He stood again to see Yen standing close to him, looking at him quizzically.

“There’s another war coming.” Yen said to Michael, looking at the large paladin. Michael returned the gaze, startled to realize that despite his crooked body and ruined voice, the demonist couldn’t be more than twenty years old.

“If you are asking about a Kasnarian invasion, I’m not telling you anything,” Michael replied gruffly, slinging his armor across one shoulder.

“I was not asking anything, Michael,” Yen said, still looking him in the eye. “I was making a statement.”

“So you know my name as well,” Michael replied, still unable to grasp the very existence of this strange young man. “What is yours?”

“I won’t tell you,” Yen replied hastily.

“That’s going to make a conversation rather awkward,” laughed Michael, no longer fearing his survival. If he could lay a hand on the brittle demonist, any fight would be quickly and sharply decided.

“Names are power, Michael, and we barely know each other.” Yen replied. He quickly turned from Michael’s confused look and began walking towards the woods.

Michael looked at the load of timber atop his wagon, and his four draft horses. No likely mounts there, he decided quickly. Looking back at the small community briefly, and seeing no one likely to follow or challenge them, he followed Yen into the forest.

Fifteen

After half an hour, the light below Garenol winked out suddenly, and he could just smell the waft of smoke from the extinguished candles as it floated up to him in the rafters. He shifted silently on his perch, stretching each leg individually and rolling his ankles gently. He thought to himself an additional half hour would probably ensure that the man was asleep, so he continued waiting, holding the stained dagger delicately in his left hand, his right extended over, clasping the closest rafter to where he sat.

Thirty more minutes, he thought to himself, shifting slightly as the wooden seat began to irritate him. Then I can get a little sleep, go find Malus, and lay low. Maybe relax a day or two. Then he remembered their final assignment, the archbishop Polk. A frown played across his face as his delicate features drew into a worried countenance. Regardless of the reward at the end, Polk’s demise would not come easy, regardless of his or Malus’ skill.

The deeply entrenched church of Lor had been the dominant human faith here in the south since the dawn of written history. Much of its popularity and power came from the priesthood, a highly organized and charismatic group of unparalleled healers. Their abilities at healing, blessed by their god in this art above all others, made them absurdly popular with those who could afford it. The flow of gold into the coffers of the church from healing the sick, the lame, and for the right price, even the recently deceased, had rendered the church the single most powerful organization in Haarkedamia besides the Confederacy Council itself.

Polk himself had lead the church even since Garenol could remember. A man of immense influence, and immense physical dimensions, Garenol always remembered his eyes. He’d seen the man himself a number of times in the court of his father, King Galen. In Wood’s End, the small country of the Confederacy ruled by his father, the human population was small, but nonetheless was visited yearly by the archbishop, who made it a point to visit all the congregations of the faithful yearly if possible. Garenol remembered being a young elf, seated down from the dais that his father sat on for formal receptions, between his brothers Garel and Gaern, watching as Polk and his retinue appeared before the small elven court, resplendent in thick white robes, the hems and cuffs suffused with golden threads denoting rank. Polk himself would seem awash in gold, very little of the white of the cloth still showing through the glowing adornment of his vestments. The eyes were sparkling, and moved quickly, taking in everyone and everything in their field of vision, as if a master appraiser were taking stock in his auction house.

The dark but twinkling eyes had settled on young Garenol, stiff and uncomfortable in his court attire. Polk, disregarding court etiquette in his personal power, had veered from the approach to the throne, and walked to where Garenol sat with his brothers. The enormous robed man looked at them inquisitively, as if judging each for himself. After looking upon each in turn, his gaze had returned to Garenol, and he had smiled gently, as if sharing a quiet joke. He had then patted Garenol on the head and turned to face the dais and King Galen.

“So is this the young man that added the new solarium to the College of Magic?” Polk asked the king good-naturedly, his orator’s voice echoing in the grand hall.

King Galen had laughed, rising from his throne to come down the dais to greet the archbishop. They shook hands as Garenol sat blushing. Just in his second year at the College, he had decided to perform what he had optimistically called ‘independent research’. The result of his research had caused an explosion that had removed the better part of the roof in the lab Garenol had been in. His ears were just now losing the ringing whine that had plagued him for the past three weeks. He shifted uncomfortably as his tall, lithe father had shook the archbishop’s hand, reaching out and patting him on the shoulder.

“Yes, I am afraid this is our little prodigy, Garenol,” he father had said, laughing as he too reached out to pat Garenol on the head. “Incredibly talented and bright young mage, just not terribly cautious.”

Polk had laughed heartily at Galen’s friendly banter. He then walked arm in arm with the King away from Garenol and his brothers as they began talking animatedly about the happenings and intrigues of Haarkedamia. King Galen had proceeded to introduce Polk to various members of the court and functionaries in his small kingdom. Polk had greeted them all graciously as friends and equals, remembering the name and position of each the next time he encountered them: that night at a state dinner in his honor. He had regaled the table with tales of his church’s more colorful members, great paladins and crazed monks of Lor. Everyone had laughed long and hard along with the loud, portly archbishop. He made great connections with everyone he met, energized his small church congregation, and made friends of every person he touched. He departed after three days with more gold than the six members of his personal retinue could bear away in three chests lashed to longpoles.

Garenol still blushed at the memory of Polk. They had seen each other occasionally over the intervening years. And every time that their eyes met, the archbishop had beamed down at Garenol, and the archbishop would retell the hilarious story of how he’d blown the roof off the College of Magic as a youth. It always got laughter. Everybody remembered it. The great mad mage, Baron Strahkenhof, had giggled at the story, then told a blushing Garenol that he shouldn’t worry about it too much, seeing as how he, Strahkenhof, had been impoverished as a younger baron while paying to rebuild the parts of the College that he himself had personally rendered uninhabitable by leaving behind a trail of wards and etched runes that would summon howler monkeys randomly and without warning. Garenol even laughed to himself about the affair after hearing Strahkenhof’s crazy tale. He laughed harder when he found out that the tale was completely true.

He was not going to go down the childish path of resentment towards the man. After all, the event was pretty remarkable, most definitely memorable, and rather hilarious, given the seriousness and humorless nature of most of the proctors of the College of Magic. No, what had always driven Garenol’s mistrust of Polk had been on the final day of that first visit, as he watched his father’s liveried porters struggle to lift an imperial ransom’s worth of gold into the reinforced wagon that followed Polk’s gold-filigreed carriage. Polk had stood there in the circle of gravel leading to the keep’s main door, still laughing, still patting shoulders and vigorously shaking hands. No one else seemed to notice the departure of wealth.

That evening, in the first quiet family dinner after Polk’s departure, Garenol still wondered at all the money that had left Wood’s End, destined for the coffers of the Lorian Church, based in Venne. Garenol had already finished a number of years of mundane schooling, as his father’s carefully chosen tutors had drilled into him a number of political and economic lessons, since he could be raised to the throne if something were to befall his older brother Garel. He was bothered that his father had seemingly overlooked the departure of all this wealth, and that troubled him, as he considered his father as rather just, astute ruler. He had poked at his food noncommittally, finally clearing his throat to speak. He had to know why his father allowed this to happen.

Before he could voice what troubled him, King Galen leaned back in his chair at the head of the table, looking deeply into a glass of pale yellow fortified wine from Porl. “Children,” he said, looking down the length of the table at his three sons, and his wife, Tirrana, “what did you think of our visiting friend the archbishop? Quite the character, wasn’t he?”

“He was really friendly,” Gaern, the youngest, quickly replied, “He remembered my name when I saw him at dinner, and gave me a little icon.” The young elf gestured at the small token next to his plate that he had been playing with through dinner; a small silver eagle spreading its wings, affixed to a thick disk of polished azure stone. King Galen nodded.

Garel, recently graduated from the College of Magic that Garenol was now notorious at, pursed his lips in thought for a moment before speaking. He then said, “For such a powerful man, he certainly seems to put those around him at ease. He spoke to his underlings as close friends, and even remembered the names of our two footmen who opened the great hall’s doors for him and his retinue. That kind of ability and charisma with people is pretty amazing, but it makes me wonder how he would fare leading people in stressful or violent times. He seems almost too friendly, like he wouldn’t be able to take the reins when true power had to be used.”

King Galen chuckled at the seriousness and studied cadence of his eldest son’s response, “I can see that your tutor in politics and governance has been talking about personality and charisma again. Are you and he in agreement about personality as it applies to leadership?”

“I would suppose that we are, father,” Garel answered, leaning in over the table slightly to better see his father, “It is one thing to be loved and admired by your charges, but ultimately, those aren’t enough to lead people through famine or war. I think that being more a symbol of power and strength to your people helps you take control in times when the common people cannot be trusted to serve their better interests.”

Galen nodded, a more serious look crossing his face as he listened to his eldest son’s opinion. Obviously, the boy’s tutors were grooming him for the throne already. Good, he thought to himself, you never know when this knowledge may become absolutely necessary to the boy. He looked across from his eldest to Garenol, who had remained silent, slowly pushing peas into a line across his plate with a silver table knife. “How about you, Fireball? Seems the archbishop heard of your escapades all the way up in Venne?”

Garenol looked at his father, placing the knife aside. He thought for a moment further. Then he began to speak, haltingly. “Forgive me if I speak out of place, father, but the archbishop seemed to be performing a magic show.” Garenol paused.

His father sat down his drink, intrigued by his quietest son’s stumbling train of thought. “Go ahead son, how so?” he said gently, trying not to derail the young elf’s ideas.

“Well,” Garenol said, gathering a few more seconds to think, “How he treated everyone and how he remembered all the names and greeted everyone as his oldest friend, it all seemed like the flourishes that a street magician would use to hide his sleight of hand. You remember that performer that came through the city in the spring, father? The one you had brought in for us?” he gestured at his brothers. His father nodded in recognition, his expression now serious. “He wasn’t a mage, just a normal gnome. But he was able to do these amazing tricks, small animals appearing and disappearing, all kinds of things with a deck of witching cards. But none of it was real magic. He was just really fast and dexterous, and he kept talking and cracking jokes the whole time. By the time you realized what was going on, he’d already pulled the joke on you. All while you were looking where he wanted you to. While you were laughing at his cap falling off, he’d slip a sparrow into a different pocket, or a coin into your own pocket. It was a week before we figured out what had gone on.” His younger brother Gaern was nodding in agreement, remembering the show.

“So,” King Galen said, leaning forward and putting his forearms on the table, “You think that the archbishop is a rogue, eh? Trying to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, completing a performance?” Galen laughed lightly to himself as Garenol looked down at his plate, expecting a tongue-lashing from his father. He never cared for these lessons in statecraft from his father. “Then what was he trying to conceal, Garenol?” His father continued, looking straight at him, the gaze withering Garenol’s downturned face.

“Father, I was just telling you the impression I felt watching him these few days,” stammered Garenol, “If I speak out of turn, then please, just tell me and I’ll apologize.”

“No, Garenol,” his father said, “I want you to tell me what you saw. Now, tell me.”

Garenol’s brothers looked at him with worried expressions. His younger brother was clearly nervous for him, and Garel, who was supposed to rise above petty things like an uncomforable conversation, was looking on with a worried expression, as if he wanted to contribute but was scared.

“Alright,” Garenol said, finally breaking his silent despair and looking back up at his father, “I think that the whole show was for the money he took with him. Did you see the chests? That wagon they brought with them barely got moving under a team of six draft horses. And the whole time, he’s just talking and laughing and touching people, but his followers? Those men who were with him? They were making sure that those chests of gold were secured before they left. Where did that money come from?” Garenol was rambling now, speaking all the thoughts that had fermented over the course of the dinner. “That was a fortune. More money than I had ever seen. We don’t even have that many humans living here in Wood’s End. Some merchants and those few craftsmen who work along with our carpenters and carvers. Why does he even need that money? Was it the only reason he was here?” Garenol stopped, finally realizing that he was on the verge of ranting, embarrassed but glad he was finally able to voice the concerns that had been trapped behind his clenched teeth all day. He looked back down at the table, avoiding the eyes of his father, now wide at the conclusion of his rant.

King Galen sat silent for a moment. He then took back up his glass, twirling the golden liquid under the light of the chandelier above the table before finishing it off in a slow draught. He smiled at the taste, swallowing as he replaced the glass on the table. No one had dared to speak yet. “Garel,” he said sternly, startling the oldest boy, “That is what I should have heard from you.” Garenol looked up, confused. His brother’s expression was as shocked as he figured his must be.

“The money. All that money. Garenol, that was enough gold to feed every single subject of our nation for an entire winter. Probably with enough left over to buy each family a couple of cows or a horse. That wagon leaves here every year with those chests. Polk comes, we talk, he laughs, he charms. He bolsters the faith of his human constituents here in our nation. Their faith is strengthened. I’d wager my spear,” he continued, gesturing over his shoulder to the hearth, where a heavily runed longspear hung over the mantle, bookended by a paid of enormous dark purple horns. “that each member of the church here feels blessed, and will feel that way each time they visit the temple or see a cleric of Lor for the next few months. But the money, the money always goes with him. A couple of chest’s worth of his loyal followers’ wages and earnings from the year. And one chest from me, absolutely filled to the brim with a portion of the state’s gold.”

Garenol looked confused, “But father, why would you have to give the church of Lor so much money? We aren’t even humans.”

King Galen sighed, as he looked back over his shoulder towards his long retired weapon. “Because son,” he started, then leaned back onto the table, looking each son in the eye in turn, “that man brought me back from the dead a number of years ago. That type of blessing from their god does not come without a price. And for those of us not of his faith, the price is almost unbearable. So I pay him in thanks, and from indebtedness. And also,” each looked back around to ensure his sons were listening, “so that after enough chests, they will owe each of you, should the time come that you have to avail yourselves of their services. They are an insurance policy in a way. They can heal almost any wound. They can heal even a dead man, so long as there’s still a body. Never forget that, my sons, but also never forget the cost. That wagon, every year I have sat the throne.” Galen leaned back into the velvet cushions of his chair, and waved at a porter, who brought the bottle of Porl wine over to deftly refill the king’s glass. His sons sat and pondered at their father’s speech.

Garenol shifted again, his legs were getting stiff. He thought again about what his father said, all those years ago. Heal a dead man, so long as a body still existed. It wasn’t going to be enough to dispatch Polk, they were going to have to dispose of his body entirely. Tomorrow night was going to be tough.

But for now, he had a job at hand. Checking the wrap around his face by feel, he edged towards the tile that was slanted up just a crack. He silently removed it, and stood up, straightening himself atop the narrow rafter. He then stepped into the open air above the dark hole, floating down into the room, slowly and silently, the darkness enveloping his form.

Fourteen

Garenol walked silently across the peaked roof of the Bloody Fist, balancing himself effortlessly at the seam where the two sloping sides met. He leaned against the chimney closest to him, still thinking about how best to approach this last job of the evening. A target that had to be accessed without incident, in a presumably locked room of a public house, that was still crowded with guests. Not impossible, but challenging nonetheless. Garenol crossed his arms, lost in thought, as the noises of the crowd rose to him from the first floor windows.

After a few moments, he walked carefully down the sloping roof to the back of the building. He leaned out and looked down into the alley behind the Bloody Fist. The back area was a jungle of empty ale barrels and loose, empty crates from local butchers and farmers. A small improvised pen held a number of small young pigs, gently snuffling through their straw bedding, blissfully unaware of their role here at the tavern. Garenol looked up and down the length of the alley, confirming a lack of people. He dropped over the roof’s edge, coming to light without a sound, his soft boots muffling contact with the wet cobblestones.

Rising from his crouched position, Garenol walked over to the back door of the tavern, which was propped open with a burlap sack of ruddy red potatoes. A cloud of fragrant steam drifted from the door, and Garenol’s stomach rumbled in recognition. He was officially famished. But, he thought to himself, business first. He stuck his head around the door, looking in on a bustling kitchen staff, cheerful men in puffy hats and well worn aprons moving efficiently around a number of thick wooden tables and carefully controlled cooking fires in metal boxes. One of the cooks walked by slowly, cradling a number of eggs in his gathered up apron. Garenol recognized him as one of the pig bearers from earlier that night.

He gave a low whistle, getting the cook’s attention as he stepped fully into the doorway of the kitchen. The cook looked at him confused, “Sir, the outhouses are down the alleyway to the left,” he said in a tired voice, gesturing vaguely with an elbow as he clutched the eggs.

Garenol laughed, producing a gold piece from his cloak. “Ah no, thanks though. I was hoping to get ahold of Dorick, straighten some things out from earlier?”

The cook narrowed his eyes slightly. They widened again quickly, as the young cook recognized the man he had served earlier, whom all the other cooks had been talking about. The one who put the whole tavern to sleep earlier trying to avoid a brawl. A mage, and an elf to boot. He swallowed nervously, shifting the eggs in his apron carefully over to one hand as he slowly extended his free hand to take the coin. “Give me just a moment, sir,” he replied quietly as he moved to place the eggs in a large, round bowl on top of a nearby table. “I’ll go up front and get him. You just wait here.”

The cook walked off towards the swinging doors that entered the bar proper, wiping his hands briskly on his apron. Garenol watched him go. He then turned back to the room and walked quietly around the busy kitchen, peering into pots and watching the brigade of cooks getting ready for morning, and the appetites that come with the dawn. The smell in here was intoxicating. He slipped a hand onto a table and grabbed a crust of thick brown bread that had been cut from a loaf as long as his forearm. Following his nose over towards the large pots bubbling over the coal fired metal boxes, he quickly dipped the crust into a thick brown stew that smelled of roasted onions and garlic. He quickly ate the bread. Garenol then looked up, hoping to be able to anonymously grab another bite. He saw Dorick, standing near the swinging doors, watching him with a bemused look.

“Perhaps you have missed your true calling in life, Garenol,” Dorick said good-naturedly, walking around a long table towards Garenol. “As long as elves live, you could be quite the master of the kitchen after the right training.”

“Perhaps,” Garenol replied, looking back over at the bubbling stew wistfully, “but something tells me my current occupation is a touch more lucrative.”

“And driving you into the bottle, it would seem,” Dorick replied carefully, ladling some of the thick stew into a carved wooden bowl. He stepped closer to Garenol, handing him the steaming bowl and a pewter spoon. Garenol accepted it with a gracious nod.

“Oh no, that’s not the job, it’s just Malus,” Garenol said, between spoonfuls of stew. He moved back to the large loaf of bread and deftly pulled off a healthy sized piece. Between grateful mouthfuls, he continued, “I swear this is the last time I let myself get cajoled into wet-nursing him through an operation. He has his uses, but he is getting more unpredictable every time we use him. I’m not even sure why he has agreed to continue on with us. Tacit wants him dead, he’s the reason that we lost Joseph and that elf with the wooden frogs. . .”

“Toads,” Dorick interjected, nodding along with Garenol’s rant, “she carved little wooden toads. Hell of a shot with a bow from what I heard when I was still in Allthoria.”

“Toad, right,” Garenol said, “Gods only know where she went after she failed to stop Malus that night in Porl.”

“Still in Allthoria, if the tavern grapevine holds true,” Dorick said, thinking about his extensive correspondence. “Still whittling, still making coin with her bow.”

“Shame, really,” Garenol said around a bite of bread, “she and Joseph both. We could have used both of them here for . . .”

“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.” Dorick cut him off brusquely. “Whatever happens, at least thirty people out there saw you here tonight. I don’t particularly relish an appointment with the Ivory Council if they start looking for witnesses. Just keep it to yourself. Now,” he finished, picking up an olive from a bowl at his side, “why are you back?”

“Need a room for the night,” Garenol said, “And I didn’t figure you’d want me walking back through the bar after tonight’s fun.”

Dorick rolled his eyes and sighed, “No, Garenol. Under no circumstances is Malus coming back in here.”

“Not him, just me,” Garenol said with a conciliatory tone, “We got split up, so who knows what he is up to. I just need a few hours, then I’ll get up, collect him from whatever rough joint he winds up in, and we’ll be gone.”

Dorick’s mouth twitched at the corner as he studied Garenol’s face. “You pay double,” he finally said, breaking eye contact.

“Of course,” Garenol replied, wiping his hand off on his cloak and moving it to his pocket.

“The service stairs are there behind you, next to the larder door,” Dorick said, taking the coins from Garenol as he pointed over his shoulder. “Just take the first room at the top of the stairs, I know it’s unoccupied.”

“Wonderful,” Garenol said, relief spreading over his face. “Send up breakfast in four hours?”

Dorick laughed, “Sure, why not? Any requests?”

“No more wine,” Garenol said, already turning to the stairwell. Doricked laughed again as Garenol disappeared quietly up the wooden stair.

At the top of the stairs, Garenol turned into a dimly lit hallway. Two modest candelabras hung suspended from the ceiling, their small lights calm in the still air of the hall. Six doorways ran down both sides of the hall, leading to the stairwell at the opposite end that was intended for guest use. Garenol could here the din of the downstairs crowd emanating from the far end. He reached to the handle of the door nearest him, on his left. He looked down the hallway once more as he stepped in the door of his room, analyzing the layout and trying to gauge general distances.

He closed the door to his room behind. The room was modest but clean. A feather stuffed mattress, covered in clean linen sheets and down quilt stood against the far wall. The bed was book-ended by two nightstands, one supporting a brass candle holder with three lit tapers. The other held a crockery pitcher and small drinking cup. A polished metal mirror was affixed to the wall over a sturdy dresser of oak wood and brass fittings.

Garenol walked the floor of the room from one wall to another in measured steps. He then began to remove his equipment, casting his cloak over a post of the bed’s headboard. He unbuckled his pack and sword belt, throwing both onto the bed. He then looked up at the ceiling, hoping it was how he had remembered it.

And indeed, there it was, a ceiling tiled with thin copper sheets, patterns stamped into the squares and cheerfully painted. Garenol stepped onto the flat surface of the bed’s footboard and reached up, pushing gently up on one of the tiles. Sure enough, it came loose, and he was able to push it aside, on top of the tile next to it. He peered up into the pitch black of the crawlspace, thanking his luck that the plan he’d conceived would work.

Stepping down off the bed, Garenol hefted his sword belt, drawing his curving dagger from its scabbard. He looked at the blade, holding it up in the light. He set the naked blade on the bed. Reaching for his pack, he began rummaging through its pockets, finally finding what he sought deep in a side pouch. He drew out a thick crystal vial, its contents a solid black. He placed this next to the dagger and put back on his leather gloves before pulling the cork from the vial. A sticky, viscous tar-like substance oozed forth slowly from the vial as he held it over the dagger’s blade. The substance slowly made a dark, staining steak down the blade’s side as he move the vial, being careful not to pour over the side of the blade onto the bed. Halfway down the blade, Garenol stopped pouring, and quickly shoved the cork back into the vial and replaced it in his backpack. He let out a long breath that he’d held for the entire application.

Garenol fished around in his shapeless cloak for a moment and pulled out a long silk scarf. He began to carefully wrap it around his face, his eyes catching the shine of the deep purple silk threads that were woven through the tight black fabric. As he did this, he walked to the mirror and stopped in front of it, ensuring that only his eyes showed through the cloth wound carefully around his features. He crossed back to the bed, gingerly lifting the dagger, now shiny wet and black. He stepped back onto the footboard of the bed, the soft soles of his boots letting his feet grip the thin platform. He began to chant quietly under his breath.

As the murmur coming from his mask died off, Garenol floated slowly up through the gap into the space above his room’s ceiling. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dark here in the rafters of the Bloody Fist, and he alighted silently on a beam running the length of the inn, his balance holding him crouched and alert. From this vantage point he could see the tiles carefully arranged over each of the eleven other rooms.

Quietly, his toes gripping the rafter below him through his thin boots, Garenol began to move from room to room, bending low to listen at the tiles. At a few stops, he would life a tile delicately, creating an imperceptible slit through which he would look into the room below. At the fifth room he tried, he stopped. There, sitting on the bed underneath him, slowly stretching to remove a finely cobbled set of tan dress boots, was the night’s final target, Antonin Karderek. Garenol let the tile down slowly, leaving it open just a crack to let light through. He then leaned back and rested his legs, waiting for the light in the room to be extinguished.

Thus far. . .

So as of today I have almost 30000 words in the narrative. From what I have read about publishing, most want a first book to be in the neighborhood of 100000 words, which put me just under a third of the way there. I still am not sure how I feel about the story so far, or if what I want to do is even publishable. Honestly, the story that I have in mind is a world war, involving multiple nations and races, a couple of gods, etc. It's a multi-volume affair, easy.

Which I assume is kind of fine in the fantasy genre, given that most of the more renowned fantasy works are not stand-alone volumes. In fact, I am hard-pressed to come up with any book in the vein of sword n sorcery fantasy that became well-known as a solitary book, rather than a series. Elric, Lord of the Rings, Narnia, etc. are all series. It gets even more elaborate in modern fantasy. Robert Jordan died writing I think the twelfth book in his Wheel of Time, and damnable ape George RR Martin has stalled out on the fifth volume of A Song of Ice and Fire (which is a great series, that I will only ever recommend to friends again if GRRM finishes the damn fifth book and continues on).

So my question is. Provided I finish a first volume (which I for the first time in a long history of getting frustrated or bored while writing, feel confident that I can do, I'm a good 70 pages further along than any prior efforts), do I shop it around with a treatment for subsequent books? It would seem silly if I were doing a serious, arty type novel. But from what I see, at least in terms of what gets published by fantasy houses, they must shop for series that they know will produce repeat sales after a first volume.

Oh yeah, my other point of writing this. If any of the few folks who read this have a friend who doesn't know me who you think would read this and offer some contructive feedback and impressions, I'd appreciate it. I'm happy with the writing thus far, but the only audience is friends, and folks who I have probably bored stiff about this world before in talking about role playing through the years. I need, for lack of a better term, an ignorant reader.

Thirteen

The liquor dripped in a steady rhythm onto the polished wooden floor as Malus walked to the desk. He leaned out over its finely polished surface, and looked down at the merchant, who was now crouching behind his chair, trying in vain to load another bolt into the large crossbow, and failing miserably at the task. He was breathing heavily, each draw of breath making an audible wheeze in his chest.

“Stand up,” Malus told him flatly, gesturing at him with his sword. The man jumped, but responded quickly, rising queasily to his feet, not making eye contact with Malus. “Now drop the crossbow,” Malus told him. Frederick complied immediately, the crossbow thudding heavily onto the carpet, the unsecured second bolt falling harmlessly out of place. The man’s shoulders heaved slightly and he stifled a sob. Malus looked him over dispassionately, and lowered his sword. “Why don’t you get yourself a drink?” he asked, pointing his weapon at the crystal tumbler on top of the desk. “I’m sure at least one of those bottles survived your savagery.”

The man nodded, gulping air and still stifling sobs. He moved to grab the tumbler from his desk. The glass slid across the desk from his shaking hand, and he had to grab it with both hands to keep it steady. He glanced quickly up at Malus, who gestured towards the side table with his sword. The man walked around the desk warily, proceeding towards the table while keeping his face to Malus. When he got to the table, he steadied himself against it with one hand, leaning heavily as he looked down at the table, now littered with broken and dripping bottles. He leaned forward, looking carefully. A disappointed look crossed his face, and he breathed out heavily.

He turned to face Malus, clearing his throat, “What I was looking for has shattered. Can I open this cabinet here?” he gestured at the small carved door in the front of the table. “I think I have something in here for the occasion.”

Malus narrowed his gaze, moving within striking distance of the merchant. “By all means do,” he said, readying himself for an amateurish attack from the merchant.

The man shook his head at Malus’ mistrust. “I’m not going to attack you,” he said wearily, “but if I’m about to die, I’d like to open this bottle.” He opened the cabinet slowly, careful to make sure that Malus could see inside. He gestured down into the cabinet. “That one there, I’ve seen sitting on for a special occasion,” he continued, reaching slowly into the cabinet for an unlabelled bottle, filled with a deep amber liquid, the neck of the bottle sealed in a deep purple coat of wax. “A bottle from the High House of Coryntor,” he explained, holding it up for Malus to see. Malus shrugged noncommittally.

The merchant chuckled nervously, using his thumbnail to break off large pieces of the sealing wax. “A bottle of dwarven spirits. And not that dreadful lamp oil they keep underneath the bar for grizzled drunks either. This spirit,” he held it up the light, looking at the cork in the bottleneck that had been hidden under the wax, “was aged for a century by the stewards of the High House in their cellars. It’s never even supposed to leave Coryntor.” He turned back to the table, eyes searching the various items for a corkscrew. He finally saw one, soaking in a puddle of clear liquor near the far edge of the table. Retrieving it, he turned back to Malus and continued, “In fact, the only way I was able to get this bottle was in a trade with dwarven . . .”

He had turned back to find Malus with his sword arm drawn back for a stabbing blow. The moment he made eye contact, Malus struck, driving the weapon straight through the merchant’s breast and out his back. The shocked merchant continued to stare into Malus’ eyes, a look of incredulity paralyzed into his expression.

“I tire of your squawking,” Malus said, pushing his hand axe back into his belt. His hand now free, he took the bottle of liquor gently from the hand of the quickly fading merchant. He jerked his sword free from the merchant’s chest, and the man collapsed to the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Malus wiped off his sword blade on the merchant’s green coat and sheathed the weapon. He held the bottle up and looked at the bottom. There, molded into the glass, was the crest of the High House of the dwarven kingdom. Malus raised an eyebrow at this. Although he abstained, he knew this was an impressive trophy. He slid the bottle over his shoulder into his pack carefully.

Malus looked around the office as he made his way back over to the desk. He bent and collected the bag of gold off the floor, and most of the scattered coins as well. Continuing to look around, he thought for a moment, then walked back to the body of Frederick Story. He leaned down, and put his hand onto the man’s body, patting each pocket of his garments in turn. In the man’s right breeches’ pocket, he found a ring of forged keys, which he took. Malus straightened up and walked quickly from the office, back down the hallway towards the front of the building.

Once he reached the shattered front door, he glanced outside to ensure that the street was still clear. After he had confirmed that he was still alone, he walked down the front steps and turned back towards the double doors that lead to the warehouse floor, jingling the ring of keys as he walked. He moved in front of the doors, finding a keyhole in the middle of a steel plate bolted into the doors, housing an enormous bolt lock. He quickly moved through the selection of keys on the ring, finally finding the right fit on the fourth try. The bolt drew back with a satisfying click. Straining against the weight of one of the two doors, Malus shoved it open enough to move inside. He pushed the door shut behind him.

The inside of the warehouse was still and pitch black. Malus felt along the wall, feeling for a torch. His fingers moved across a wall sconce, and he pulled loose a torch. He fumbled for a moment in his cloak, pulling out a packet of tindersticks. Lighting one off the rough surface of his greaves, he lit the pitch-dipped torch, bringing a sphere of sputtering light to life in the cavernous warehouse.

Malus swung the torch around, revealing a rough wooden floor extending out from his position near the wall out into the darkness beyond his torchlight. He began to slowly creep across the floor, moving the torch around to see as much as he could while moving through the empty warehouse. He swung the torch near the floor from time to time, leery of traps. Considering that the merchant kept no armed guards or mercenaries of any type, he felt certain there would be traps.

About thirty paces from the entryway, Malus’ light finally shown upon something in the warehouse; a number of small wooden crates were stacked in a tidy pyramid in the middle of the floor, well away from all the walls. Malus approached the crates slowly, examining the floor at his feet for tripwires or irregularities in the floor itself. He was also wary of magical wards, but hoped that his armor would protect him from most mundane security spells. He stopped about ten feet short of the crates. They were unmarked, but the planks they were constructed of were carefully fitted to one another, denying casual observers any look at the contents inside.

Malus hesitated for a moment, studying the boxes. Whatever they contained, the crates were precious enough for Frederick to have been here alone, sleeping in his warehouse. The intelligence report had indicated that the man had dealt in valuable goods, but for a warehouse this large to only contain these few small boxes indicated their great worth, at least as Malus saw it. He intended to find out what was in them, and if they were portable enough to get out of here with.

Taking another moment to think, Malus continued to look at the cargo. After a moment he seemed to make up his mind about something. He drew one of his daggers from his belt, knelt down near the floor, and slid the dagger along the floor, hilt-first, towards the stacked crates.

About a foot from the boxes, the dagger stopped abruptly, frost crackling over its blade and leather wrapped hilt. Malus cracked a grin as he proceeded over towards the blade, confident that the cold spell that had circled the cargo had been expended on his dagger. He pulled on a leather glove as he walked forward to his dagger. He bent down and retrieved the weapon with a gloved hand, the blade and hilt thoroughly frozen. He looked at it for a moment, and carefully replaced it in a leather sheath to thaw. He then reached out for the closest crate.

An inch from the top of the crate, a white bolt of energy arced out from the box and struck his hand, surging up the length of his arm into his armor. The white electrical surge crackled over his entire armored form, sparking off into small bolts of lightning and releasing a small clap of thunder as it passed through him. Malus staggered back from the box, every muscle in his body seizing uncontrollably as the bolt passed through him. After a number of faltering steps backwards from the box, Malus toppled like a great tree, his ankles failing as he tipped backwards, crashing flat onto his back. After a brief moment of twitching, he lay still on the floor. The torch that had flown from his hand landed a few feet from him, still burning.

Malus awoke with a murderous ache behind his eyes. He blinked a few times, attempting to focus his gaze. Whoever had warded the boxes was powerful enough to ignore the magical protections that had been forged into his armor. As the world came back into focus, he saw fire. Scrambling to his feet, Malus looked around to see that the flame from his torch had spread across the wooden planks of the floor to the wall on his left. The wall was burning, and the flames were beginning to lap at the large beams that ran along the width of the ceiling. He cursed to himself as he felt to make sure his weapons were still on him. He glanced back at the crates. He hesitated for a moment. But curiosity got the best of him. He ran over to the nearest of the crates and grabbed the lid. Nothing happened. Malus grunted to himself in satisfaction at an avoided flaming death.

Straining against the thick nails that held the lid in place, Malus savagely tore off the wooden lid of the crate, revealing packing straw on the inside of the box. He shoved his hand down into the straw, feeling a cloth sack just a bit below the surface. He grabbed it and dragged it out, feeling similar cloth bags underneath the straw to the one he was taking out. The flames were now among the beams of the roof. He didn’t have long now.

Malus tore open the rawhide strap that closed the top of the bag and reached in. He withdrew his hand, opening his fingers wide to show a stack of gold coins, each almost the width of his palm, heavy in their own thickness. Malus shook the stack thoughtfully, holding his hand out of his own shadow to see the insignia stamped into the face of the top coin.

Embossed delicately into the coin’s face was the Imperial Eagle of Tribunus, its claws clutching the Scepter of Pentedexion and the Sword of Constantinius. Malus turned the coin in his fingers, its opposite face revealing the Staff of Tribune, the third of the Tribunus’ elven gods, overlaying an elaborate, delicately scrolled triangle. Malus looked up and counted the boxes, quickly drawing himself a rough figure as the roof above him began to blaze. Twenty crates, and squinting at the open one in front of him, probably twenty tied bags per crate. Seeing as how he was straining to hold this one bag aloft, he guessed from previous experiences that the bag in his hand held probably close to a thousand of the thick coins. Four hundred thousand, or there about, by his quick estimation. He strained and slung the one bag over his shoulder, lamenting that this one bag would be all he could remove before the roof came down.

The fire had illuminated the warehouse fully now, and Malus saw a small door off the back, no doubt leading into an alley between buildings. He moved as quickly as he could under his new burden. He kicked open the locked back door in a rush, moving swiftly into the alley. The building was now visibly smoking, and his time to leave without incident was shrinking rapidly. Looking down the alley, Malus saw a large chestnut brown mare, struggling in vain against her lead rope, which had been tied to a post a few steps from the door. The mare’s saddle was an elaborate work in light tan leathers, inlaid with green velvet detailwork. Malus remembered Story’s spurs, and the green of his outfit and office. Shrugging to himself, Malus approached the animal with a hand out, palm open. He patted the animal’s curved neck carefully as he undid the hitch, throwing the reins back over her head. He quickly secured the large bag of coins to the saddle horn, along with the smaller bag he’d taken from the office. Then he swung himself up into the saddle, talking to the upset animal in low, hushed tones. He popped the reins lightly, and the horse bolted, tearing out of the alley.

Malus let her run, burning out her fear of the fire in physical exertion. When she slowed a few blocks later, he steered her gently back towards Meridian Street, back to the Bloody Fist. He had many things to tell Garenol. The fire brigade bells rang out once more in the distance. Malus snorted to himself, thinking of how terrible they had made lives in that particular profession this evening.

Twelve

Garenol shook his arms loosely away from his body, pushing them as far back as they would go. He yawned deeply, his eyes watering. He watched down the alley as Malus drew closer in the fog, his cloak pushing aside whirls of gray mist as he walked purposefully towards Garenol. He nodded in brief acknowledgement as he neared him. “So,” Malus said without inflection. “This is the building for the third target?”

“The warehouse, yes.” Garenol replied, retrieving a sheaf of papers from within his cloak. “I was just going back over it. Frederick Story. Rather influential merchant, dealing primarily in the shipment of precious cargoes moving into and out of Haarkedamia. Has holding companies in Allthoria and Quintheniar. Has a dwarven partner that gets him access to Coryntor. Is rumored to move goods across the Allthorian frontier into Tribunus, although gods only know how he would manage that.”

“Not a representative in the Confederacy?” Malus asked.

“No, not even high-born from what the report says,” Garenol replied, somewhat surprised. “Just an uncommonly astute commoner merchant who found himself with his fingers in a lot of pies. Still has that wonderful commoner paranoia and lack of confidence. Comes here to his work to sleep with merchandise if it’s particularly valuable. Doesn’t trust the city’s security or hired help.”

“Which ought to make this quite an effortless stop on our trip,” Malus finished quickly, as he began to tie back his cloak. “Then one more tonight? Who’s the last on the list?”

“Let me see,” Garenol said, not remembering the name from his earlier read-through of the intelligence document. The wine and ale were wearing off, and his head was beginning to hum with the dull rhythm of a morning after. He looked up into the swirling mist of the sky above him as he turned pages. “We only have about an hour left to daybreak. We need to do these quickly. Here we are,” he said, holding up a page closer to his face to avoid the still thickening fog. “Antonin Karderek. Council member from the Confederacy State of Harkenia. He’s a member of the pro-Confederacy wing of the council, always a pro-confederacy vote on any manner. Prefers when in Venne to stay at . . .” Garenol flipped to the next page. His eyes widened and he groaned audibly. “The Bloody Fist Tavern.”

Malus grinned and laughed gruffly under his breath. “So Dorick’s place is going to see some hell tonight after all,” he said, grinning in a sinister fashion.

“No dammit,” Garenol said, frustrated, “Look, you do this one,” he gestured towards the warehouse looming behind them. “There are no guards, and probably no witnesses for a half mile. Stay here in the alley and watch for the next guard of the watch. The moment he has passed, slip inside and dispatch Story. You should have a good amount of time. I’ll head back to the Bloody Fist and deal with this last one.” Garenol shook the clutch of parchment as he talked. “I can take care of this quietly,” he said, pointing to the papers, “and probably make it look accidental.”

Malus stopped grinning, a brief moment of a disappointed child’s expression sweeping across his features. He looked down at the cobblestones of the alley. “Fine,” he said. “Get going, I’d like to get a little sleep before we have to spend tomorrow in preparation for Polk.”

“Fair enough. Back at the Fist at first light then for sausages?” Garenol asked, sliding the documents back under his cloak. He was clearly relieved at Malus’ acquiescence, glad to not be worrying about whether or not the Fist would burn to the ground tonight. He knew that operating by himself, he could access the target’s room and dispatch him quietly. Malus, on the other hand, when confronted with the old conundrum of drawing the snake out of the tall grass, always decided to burn it all to the ground.

Malus nodded, already thinking of the man inside the warehouse. He stepped closer to the mouth of the alley to watch for the patrolling guard. Garenol watched him walk away, then turned back to the coal bin behind him and looked up. He figured that back across the rooftops to the Fist would be faster without Malus moving with him. He leapt soundlessly onto the lid of the bin, and from there sprung up quickly, grabbing the ledge of the warehouse roof and hauling himself up, disappearing into the fog.

Malus turned to ensure that Garenol was gone. When he saw Garenol’s boots disappear over the roof ledge, he drew his weapons and walked out of the alley into the street in front of the warehouse, turning towards the main door of the building. He moved quickly up the steps to the office door, perched on a small covered stoop overlooking large wooden double doors set into the side of the building with iron hinges and latches, wide enough for the largest wagons. Malus stood on the stoop for a moment, looking at the windowless door and the brass plaque next the door. The plaque was engraved, “F. Story: Import/Export”

Malus nodded at the plaque, glanced up and down the street once more to ensure that it was clear. As far as he could see it was. ‘Good enough,’ he thought, splintering the door with a vicious kick from his metal sheathed foot. The wood split down the middle of the door lengthwise, pulling hinges out of the frame and sending the interior lock spinning across the wooden interior floor. Malus stepped into the darkened front room.

On the rooftops, Garenol moved swiftly and silently, the soft leather pads on the bottom of his city boots letting his nimble feet feel every surface. The nuances and slant of the tiles, the gravel strewn across flat warehouse roofs, small spots where pitch had bubbled up in joints to stick briefly to his soles as he flew across rooftops at a brisk jog. Garenol breathed easier here above the city’s stifling, close warmth and the smells that accompanied a crowded population. His head was clearing, the dregs of the earlier wine and ale slowly dissipating. He was actually starting to look forward to a large breakfast. He hoped he could dispatch this Karderek quietly enough that Dorick would have breakfast served before the inevitable, grisly discovery upstairs.

He was still ordering an elaborate breakfast in his head when he saw the two large stone chimneys of the Bloody Fist a few roofs ahead of him, comforting, lazy clouds of white smoke drifting from their smooth stone crowns. The smoke mingled with the swirling fog into a morass of white clouds above the roof of the tavern, giving it a gauzy appearance. Garenol leapt the last few gaps between buildings, slowly stalking up to the ledge of the last building before the Fist itself, and peering over the edge down at the tavern.

True to form, the business was still bustling. There were a few patrons still out on the porch, having drinks. This close to dawn, they were simply slung a bit lower in their chairs than they had been earlier in the evening. A cacophony of cheerful noise still emanated from the main hall of the tavern. Garenol could see through the first floor windows that many patrons were still inside, still insisting upon more music, more ale, more meat.

Garenol remembered the posted notices they had seen on their walk into the city, proclaiming, in a few different languages, that the tomorrow that was just on the horizon was proclaimed a national holiday in Haarkedamia, to celebrate the mysterious return of the country’s long entombed hero, Valister Olorin. No wonder the crowd was still dense and boisterous this close to dawn: no one was going to work tomorrow. Garenol smiled ruefully. All the patrons were enjoying the frivolity and merriment of an unexpected holiday, but he knew that when they had heard the news tomorrow of tonight’s deaths, there would be unease and tension in the throngs who had come to view the sleeping body of their hero. He shuddered to think what the city would be like when he and Malus killed the archbishop. There would be riots. That type of upsurge coupled to thousands of visitors inside an already crowded city. . .

He shook his head. After all, that’s why he and Malus were here, he supposed. Although he couldn’t quite pin down the exact motives of their employer, a tall, pale elf named Jean Pariel, he knew enough about the man to guess. He remembered his companion for many years, Tacit, had brought them the first jobs from Jean Pareil, when they were still operating in the human kingdom of Allthoria, north of Haarkedamia. Given the long-standing unspoken tensions between Allthoria and the Tribunus Empire, which occupied the northernmost third of the continent, Garenol thought to himself that obviously Jean Pareil was an agent of the Tribunus throne, seeking to undertake certain operations in other realms that could be denied if necessary. The fact that Garenol knew Tacit had been awarded a rank in the Tribunus’ secret service, the Strasstruppen, just seemed to confirm his suspicions.

He focused his attention back to the windows, quietly scolding himself for drifting back into speculation. ‘I’m being paid an obscene amount of money,’ he thought to himself, ‘that should be enough motivation.’ He began to plan out in his head just how to get into a guest’s bedroom to silently dispatch him, with a roomful of cheerful and boisterous drunks just beneath. He also realized that he didn’t know which room he would find Karderek in, which made things more complicated. He started plotting as he rose, steadying himself to jump the alley between his perch and the sloping roof of the Bloody Fist.

Malus walked quickly through the front office, glancing at a few wooden accounting desks, their tops littered with ledgers and loose paper, quills and inkwells. He moved past them, towards a flickering candlelight at the end of a hallway leading off the back of the main office room. He proceeded to the entrance to the hall, moving to take cover against the wall. He moved fast, glancing around the corner and down the hall, looking for any sign of his target. A number of doors lined the hallway, glass panes in each showing individual offices, desks, chairs, and cabinets. Each was dark. The light at the end of the hall continued to flicker weakly, although Malus couldn’t discern its source from this vantage.

Malus grimaced in thought, bobbling the head of his hand axe in a lazy circle for a moment. Then, he spoke.

“Frederick Story. There is no use in hiding or running. I have men surrounding the building. Come out now unarmed,” he said forcefully, peering down the hallway. He saw a shadow move in the light. He waited for a number of seconds. Nothing else happened.

“Last warning. We will take you by force. Submit now and this can be over with quickly and painlessly.” Malus looked back around the corner and down the hall. The shadow was now moving methodically, and he heard metal scraping against the wood of a desktop.

“Have it your way, then,” Malus said to himself as he turned and began striding down the hallway, making no efforts at stealth. He led with his sword pointed ahead, tip up to deflect attacks. His hand axe swung from his other hand, hanging loosely behind him, partially obscured by his tied back cloak. He slid next to the wall to his right as he neared the open area where the hallway terminated. He saw a large office, and visible to him along the left wall was an elaborately carved side table, covered in crystal decanters holding various spirits, their rich colors reflecting warmly in the dim yellow candlelight.

“Come on out, Story, I can hear you moving around,” Malus said, his back still to the wall. He didn’t yet dare peer around the corner into the part of the office that the noise was emanating from. Here, closer to the source, he recognized the noise right off: someone was bagging a large sum of heavy coins by scraping them off a tabletop into a bag. At this recognition, Malus decided to risk a look. He leaned over and peered around the corner at the rest of the office.

At a large desk opposite the side table near the right side wall, a short, stocky, balding man was sitting with one hip up on the desktop, his other leg bracing him by standing up on top of the deep green woven rug that covered a large area underneath the desk. He was dressed in a velvet suit, deep green jacket and riding pants over a cream linen shirt. He had on glossy black riding boots, already braced with spurs, a riding crop sat near at hand. He held a crossbow leveled towards the open doorway, its butt nestled between his upper arm and his torso. A broad head of a bolt stuck out of the end of the weapon, its multiple cutting surfaces reflecting wickedly in the candlelight. With his free hand, he was scraping tall stacks of gold coins off his desk into a cloth bag that he had opened wide in the seat of his high backed leather chair. A large crystal tumbler sat mostly empty at his side, less than a dram of amber liquid still in its bottom. The man was paying attention to carefully bagging the gold when Malus cleared his throat after studying him for a brief moment.

The man jumped, the crossbow cradled in his arm twanging as he fired in a panicked spasm. The bolt went wide, skipping off the wall near the side table and shattering a number of the crystal spirit bottles. Malus stepped fully into the room as the man dove behind the large chair, spinning its seat and throwing gold coins across the desk and onto the floor.

Eleven

The two guards moved away from one another as they stared back at Garenol. The one who had already drawn his sword pointed it at the ground near Garenol’s feet. He said calmly, “On the floor now, assassin. We’d rather have you alive, but it won’t disappoint me to run you through if you resist in any way.”

Garenol raised an eyebrow at the lack of panic in the man’s voice. Despite himself, he was impressed. He nodded his head in the direction of the dead noble and said, “Looks like you are unemployed. I’ll give you one hundred gold to kill him,” gesturing at the other guard. “And more than you can carry in a wagon if you leave with me now. I have need of professionals.”

The guard narrowed his eyes at Garenol, then charged, his sword raised back from his elbow to strike with the point. At the last split second, Garenol deftly side-stepped the oncoming blade thrust, a hand flashing from under his cloak. He buried a dagger hilt-deep into the guard’s side, between two ribs under his sword arm. The man’s momentum carried him and the weapon forward into the hall, crashing into the wall opposite the door. He was already dead.

Garenol turned back to the second guard, still frozen in place, sword undrawn. He gaped at Garenol, and opened his mouth, but no discernable sound came from it. Garenol looked at him and frowned with a hint of pity. “You are lucky your captain valued your life so highly. Leave here quickly,” Garenol raised his now empty hand and gestured at the open balcony door. “The drop to the courtyard won’t kill you, go now.”

The guard stared for a few seconds longer, then turned quickly, running to the balcony as if chased by wolves. He put one hand on the railing, barely slowing down as he vaulted the rail into the courtyard below. Garenol heard him land. It sounded ugly, but he didn’t break any bones. Garenol smiled to himself as he walked out into the hallway. He looked down at the guard who now lay in an awkward heap against the far wall, the wound from the dagger spreading blood down the side of his torso into the richly embroidered rug that covered the stone floor outside the noble’s bedroom. “Pity,” Garenol said as he pulled his dagger from the man’s side.

Garenol wiped the blade on the man’s tabard and resheathed it underneath his cloak. He looked down the hallway. There were a few more doors, but no noise came from behind them. He nodded to himself, and turned right, heading towards a flight of stairs leading down to the main floor.

Malus slowly walked back around the fountain towards the remaining guards. They seemed to have regrouped somewhat, and began to spread out as Malus approached, giving each other a functional distance, and leveling their weapons towards him once more. ‘How quickly they learn in battle,’ Malus thought to himself as he continued to approach. ‘Too bad this fight will be postponed.’

As Malus drew closer, just as he had anticipated, the guards begin to surround him again, this time in a more uniform circle, with each being careful to afford their comrades sufficient space to maneuver their long poled weapons. Malus looked around at them as the circle began to close, twirling his hand axe nonchalantly in a slow circle as he leveled his sword into a defensive stance. He slowly turned and drew closer to a few of the circle’s guards, making them revolve with him. As he did so, the house that Garenol had entered came back into his line of sight. When he was satisfied at his view of the house, he stopped moving, his hand axe stopping its lazy circle around his wrist. He looked around, sizing up the number of guards left. He glanced outside of the circle towards the house. Just as he suspected, a purple glow began to rise from the windows of the Thelius manor that were visible over the outer wall. “Right on schedule,” Malus said as he crouched down, getting ready for what was about to happen. The guards looked at him with confused expressions.

Garenol hurried down the stairs, arms still hidden under his cloak. The stairs ended in a large entry chamber for the house, which was currently unoccupied. Garenol glanced around quickly, admiring the number of well-executed paintings of House Thelius members that lined the walls of the room. The room was tastefully appointed with delicate wooden furniture, carved to appear almost ethereal, as if nothing larger than a sparrow could sit upon it without breaking it. Garenol ran his hand lightly across the gently curving back of one of the chairs. The furniture was all carved in Wood’s End, the home he’d not seen in a long time. He looked around once more at the beautiful room, as he pulled a hand out from under his cloak. He opened his closed fist, and turned it over, scattering a number of small, purple glass stones onto the floor. The stones made a tinkling noise as they hit the stone floor and bounced erratically, scattering over the smooth surface. Garenol looked around once more wistfully, and turned to go, swinging the double set of wooden doors open wide into the front courtyard. Behind him, the house was starting to rumble and vibrate at a low pitch.

“Fire!” a guard barked as Garenol emerged into the courtyard. Three guards stood near the small guardhouse that stood to the left of the main gate, just inside the wall. Two of them had nocked arrows into short bows and aimed them at the door, waiting for Garenol to emerge. Between the two archers, the guard Garenol had commanded to jump off the balcony stood, listing to one side and favoring his right leg, his sword finally drawn. The two other guards loosed arrows at Garenol across the courtyard.

With unnatural speed, Garenol threw open his cloak, drawing a gently curving sword up in front of his chest. He slashed the weapon with a blinding flash of steel in a swooping arch back and forth in front of him, deflecting both arrows off their deadly paths and harmlessly away from him. The guards stood confused. Garenol pointed at the young injured guard in the middle. “You should have ran when I told you to,” he stated calmly as he extended his free hand towards the trio of guards, chanting quickly. A large ball of purple light, crackling with energy, materialized from his outstretched hand and streaked towards the guards.
Malus looked up one final time at the rising glow behind the Thelius manor’s wall. Then he closed his eyes. A blinding flash of light engulfed the small melee as the house and its walls vaporized, and the large security gates anchored into the entry arch blew out into the cul-de-sac with a deafening clatter. Malus’s eyes, despite being closed, still tinghtened with pain as the light penetrated his eyelids.

As suddenly as it had occurred, the light was gone. Malus quickly opened his eyes onto a circle of stumbling guards, blinded and half deaf. Most had panicked, swinging their spears in circles around themselves, hoping to keep an enemy at bay. A few had abandoned their positions outright, running blindly at where they hoped the cul-de-sac’s narrow street opening was, weapons tossed aside. Malus began walking briskly towards where the house had stood, recognizing the cloaked silhouette of Garenol emerging from the smoke. He barely slowed in his walk as he passed one of the guards who was rubbing his eyes futilely with one hand as he clutched his spear in the other. With a casual backhand swing of his sword arm, Malus decapitated the fumbling guard.

“Are we done here?” Malus asked as Garenol drew close. “I assume this should prove a sufficient distraction.”

“I’d certainly hope so,” Garenol replied as he sheathed his weapon. “Let’s go before the first of the fire brigades get here.”

Garenol began to walk quickly towards the entry to the cul-de-sac. Malus fell in behind him, sheathing his sword, and shoving the haft of his hand axe through a leather loop on his belt. The few guards who had remained in the large circle were slowly regaining their site as the two men departed. They did not attempt to approach Garenol and Malus.

Garenol continued reviewing the operation in his mind as he crouched in the alley, waiting for Malus to arrive. Fog was beginning to roll down the alley from its streetside entrance as the night cooled the humid air of the spring day. ‘Good,’ Garenol thought to himself, ‘more cover. That should make these last two even easier.’ As the fog thickened, he felt comfortable standing up behind the coal bin, stretching the legs that he had now crouched on for some time. The second target had been a mercifully brief detour, a house right on the street, no guards, no walls, and no courtyard. Malus had volunteered to go inside alone, dispatch the target, and meet up with Garenol in an alley near the third target.

Garenol thought briefly about having let Malus do the second target alone, and hoped that he’d made the right decision. That Malus was capable was beyond doubt, the man was unstoppable. He was also almost entirely uncontrollable, and deep inside Garenol knew that he had personally only accepted this mission so that he could keep tabs on Malus, whose horrible and violent talents Jean Pareil seemed unconcerned with unleashing at any given time. Garenol worried himself about the decision to leave Malus alone, knowing that he had only done so to give himself time to recover from the exertions that his magic required. It was with that conflict in mind that he had doubled back a block after separating from Malus, climbing the wall of a building next to the house in which Malus was working. He had clambered silently onto the roof, and laid down flat, watching the house expectantly, hoping not to hear alarms or screams as Malus did his job. He was still fatigued from the few spells cast earlier. Elemental magic, while wonderfully powerful, was physically demanding, and Garenol’s elven body was wracked with pain if he utilized it too often. Even lying on the hard roof tiles was tempting him to sleep as he watched expectantly.

Ten minutes passed before he spotted Malus stepping silently from the house’s back door, looking around carefully at the entrance to the alley running behind the house. He stepped out onto the back stoop, a dagger in his right hand and a piece of bedding sheet in his left. He wiped the blade clean, throwing the soiled sheet scrap aside. He sheathed the weapon and walked down the three steps into the alley, gathering his cloak around his rather conspicuous armored form. Garenol nodded to himself on the roof, relieved that Malus had followed through appropriately with the assignment. Now he just had to use the rooftops to beat Malus to the meeting place to avoid any suspicion on the part of his partner. He did so easily, moving over sloping roofs and narrow ledges just as easily as he would have walked down a paved road. He had dropped down into the alley silently over twenty minutes ago.

He stretched his arms and looked towards the alley’s entrance again, thinking about the next target. The report given to them by Jean Pareil’s contact had stated that the target, a merchant named Frederick Story, typically spent nights in his business when precious shipments were being stowed there on their road south into the heart of Haarkedamia. The report neglected to mention what the goods were, but that he would be in the building for three nights, starting tonight. ‘Pretty thorough intelligence,’ thought Garenol to himself as he peeked around the coal bin. Malus was coming close, the clink of his metal greaves sounding through the rising fog.