Waiting Game
By J. L. Ficks & J. E. Dugue
Art by Thom Scott
Logo by James Gilks
Map by J. L. Ficks & J. E. Dugue
Font Dugue by Hannah M. Erhardt
Font Romance Fatal Serif by Juan Casco
The Chronicles of Covent™
Tale One of the Shade Chronicles:
WAITING GAME
Limited Illustrated Edition
Copyright © 2012 Mirror Images Publishing
Copyright © Chronicles of Covent™
All Rights Reserved
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of any material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Mirror Images Publishing.
The Chronicles of Covent™, the Triloriad™ & Homespun Fantasy™ are trademarks of Mirror Images Publishing. All Chronicles of Covent™ characters and their distinctive likenesses are trademarks of Mirror Images Publishing.
Printed in the USA
First Printing: December 2011
Mirror Images Publishing
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Come see us on the web at chroniclesofcovent.com
To my wife, Bethany Lynne Ficks, who has been the most patient and supportive of writer’s widows and to my parents, who never gave up on a stubborn boy who said he didn’t like to read.
~J . L .
To my beautiful wife, Lindsey M. Dugue. You kept the fire from going out under my dreams and to my mother and brother who always believed in me.
~J . E .
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Chapter One:
The Dragon’s Den
The Dragon’s Den was a place few men would be caught dead, a place even fewer would be caught alive. The smell of blood on leather or steel was quite familiar to the tavern. The companies of rogues assembled this particular night were no strangers to death and murder, many of them mercenaries and thieves. It was a season when one struggled to keep his steel clean. Drunken laughter roared through the seedy low-beamed common room. Rough looking men sat huddled around circular wooden tables, nursing clay mugs of cold malted ale. A hearty fire burned in the bricked hearth and hot-liquored breaths steamed the frosted windowpanes in the late winter months.
Brigands stole anxious glances over their shoulders at the farthest corner of the room. There, in the deepest shadow that pulled on the collective unease, sat a figure hooded in thick black cloaks. The hooded figure leaned back in his chair, his feet kicked up on a table, but no shadow betrayed his uncommonly dark and delicate features. Only his solid glowing yellow eyes pierced the darkness like torches burning in the night. The tables immediately around him sat vacant, forming a solemn court where no man dared trespass.
The figure’s hood was pulled low over his brow. His glowing gaze took another broad sweep over the dark, dank tavern. Travelers looked away. The locals didn’t even raise an eyebrow. The rare few who foolishly ventured a glance beheld a living, breathing shadow. It was hard to distinguish where the shadows ended and he began. When the shadows stirred one could hear the unmistakable creak of worn leather. Whispers and murmurs ghosted through the hazy smoke-filled darkness bearing but one name, “Shade.”
Shade’s slender black gloved hand reached out from the shadows and grabbed hold of a faded steel goblet.
A reverent lull cut through the air. The men trembled as they watched him trace his nimble fingers around the rim. The firelight flared and revealed a thin straight nose, a mouth with set solemn lips and a pair of high-pronounced cheekbones. His skin was dark and smooth like onyx stone. A Dark Elf. A foreigner to these lands and yet he held every breath, every pounding heart in mid-beat.
Shade smirked. He sat up and brought the goblet to his lips. His cloak fell open. His soft black leathers had been embroidered with silver crescent moons and leaves. His chest bore the crest of a gleaming eye hovering over a black deciduous tree. The flames dancing in the hearth revealed the glint of daggers, dozens of them, tucked away in the many sheaths sown into his dark armor. The Dark Elf paused just before he took a sip. He locked eyes with a man at a far table.
The man’s eyes went wide. He had looked up at the wrong time. He was thick, burly, and bearded…probably Durnish and a blacksmith judging by his size. He froze over as if he had just locked eyes with a ghost.
Shade glared darkly.
The Durnishman shuddered and turned away. He was a thick-skinned, but honest sort, who trembled at the very sight of those cold callous blades. Certainly, they had tasted the blood of countless victims. Shade’s trade dealt with weapons as well—not the rugged pounding out of blades, but the soft and delicate art of running cold steel through warm flesh. He was an assassin of the Unseen Order. An order of a far off land breathed only in hushed whispers out West.
Shade took another drink from his goblet. His eyes continued searching for more wandering glances. Only one pair of eyes dared meet his own…the innkeeper, Gordwin, at the bar. A silent exchange passed between them.
Gordwin was a broad bald man, a retired soldier, with a coarse whiskered face and a sobering scowl. He owned The Dragon’s Den and he kept it well. He was quite capable of keeping order even among the less than reputable clientele. His scarred war-hardened nature had proven enough, on most occasions, but when that didn’t work, he had Shade.
Gordwin nodded to the far end of the bar.
Shade heard the sound of glass shattering.
A group of ruffians shouted and shook their mugs in a drunken ruckus. Shards of clay mugs and crockery lay scattered across the floorboards. A tall black-bearded Brigorian man with an eye patch led the rabble. Moose furs hung from his broad shoulders. He wore a heavy battleaxe strapped to his back. Gordwin refused to serve them and so the black-bearded man had thrown several mugs over the bar. He had shattered several bottles of Gordwin’s valuable booze.
Shade got up. Silence filled the air. Only the rowdy group roared on in a hot and liquored stupor.
The locals lowered their heads and kept their noses to their drinks.
“Try not to draw so much blood this time.” Gordwin crossed his arms as Shade passed. “I grow tired of scrubbing my floors.”
Shade squinted his eyes into razor thin narrow slits. He reached the rabble of clueless drunken ruffians.
“You’ve broken my reverie,” his voice rang clear and sharp, like the ring of steel.
The Brigorian glanced lazily over his shoulder to see the tall shadow behind him. “Bugger off, Dark Elf,” he growled back, “this is Doljinaar and I’ll do as I please.”
Shade tapped the man hard on the shoulder.
Annoyed, the man threw Shade a scowl. He slid off his barstool and turned to face the Dark Elf fully. The Brigorian was big. He rose a full head above Shade and was broad as he was tall. The man was even hairier than an average Brigorian, if that were possible, and he stank of old sweat and reeked of alcohol.
“Watch it, Bearus,” said a blonde-goateed Terramothian, one of his friends. He, more than his drinking buddy, keenly estimated the Dark Elf.