Shade staggered over to the door and paused. He did not feel like himself. He felt awkward, clumsy. A sliver of doubt pricked away at his carriage. He felt its sting nibbling away at his ordinarily callous composure. He feared another horde of wretched undead awaited him outside. Above all, he feared his consciousness being left intact when that mindless hunger sunk tooth and nail into his flesh. He froze. Could he really do this? Could he really cut the head off Lewd’s syndicate? He had already nearly died and he hadn’t even reached Kurn. He felt like a whipped dog.
The assassin stared hard at the old hide door flap. He watched as it blew in the wind. The doubt in his blood boiled away replaced by a burning disgust for his own inexcusable weakness. He reached under his armor. He traced his finger along the scar Sadora had given him all those years ago.
“No one stands up to Sadora,” he recited to himself, “I did.”
Shade brushed the flap aside. He peered out onto the sunny Ruins of Garrlohan. The wind whipped the yellow Bullgrasses, but the dead city of Jahaeddra laid still and silent. He saw the carcasses—the bones and the rotting corpses of the undead who had pursued him, but they did not rise. Xzoron’s ragged moaning still hung on the air, but he ignored it. He stepped back out into the ruins. Nothing rose. He grinned brazenly. “No one kills Warlord Lewd,” he said aloud, his words dripping with a familiar confidence, “but I will.”
Chapter Six:
Kurn, the Magnificent
Shade saw the brown fields of Kurn momentarily through the fog. The Bermuda Grasses still lay dormant and would show no signs of green for yet another month. The northern Ruins of Garrlohan pandered to few snows, but the sky hung with a dreary overcast which bore the recognizable face of winter in these warm northern lands. The cold southern gusts nipped at his back, dueling with the warmer ocean winds. The fog lifted to the far west. Shade could hear the sounds of the ocean. He walked until he could make out the bleak gray expanse of the Vespuviar Depths. The hypnotic dance of the waves soothed his weary spirit as they rolled and crashed against the western shores of Sylvane.
The assassin slowed down from a light jog. He took out a cloth and wiped the sweat off his face. The ruins remained eerily silent. He could still hear Xzoron’s ceaseless lowing, though it sounded far more distant. It was just enough to prick at the edges of one’s sanity. Shade had found himself repeatedly eying the bone-littered fields with a gnawing unease. He feared another grisly resurrection, but the bones did not rouse again.
Shade had made it to the border of Garrlohan by early afternoon. The north fork of the Shardenile cut across the landscape where it splintered into a delta before empting into the ocean. The Northfork boasted a stronger current than its southern cousin, but was still navigable. Together the two forks drained the Shardenile of her might. The assassin could no longer see the fields of Kurn as he approached. A fog hung over the river. He breathed out a long sigh of relief. He could finally leave this accursed land behind him.
A barrel-barge appeared suddenly through the fog.
Shade watched four Valsharen men, or riverfolk, manning the craft. Barrelrunners Shade guessed. Dozens of barrels floated downriver alongside the barge. They used their spears to guide the barrels along and keep them from getting caught along the banks or in thick reeds. The Valsharen wore long oilskin surcoats that dropped all the way to their knees, over hard rubberized leathers. Their heads were covered in long strange blue hair stringed with many beads, a color the Dark Elf thought looked unnatural on humans. The Barrelrunners guided the craft by using the butt end of twelve-foot long fishing spears.
The light blue eyes of a Barrelrunner widened as he glimpsed the Dark Elf.
Shade sprawled out on the ground. Had he been sighted? He peeked over an old log. All four Valsharen were now looking across the river, searching for him. Shade frowned. The riverfolk were relatively peaceful, so long as they were left alone, but the assassin didn’t want to take chances. It was rumored a Valsharen could throw a spear clear off the river some forty feet. Many would-be thieves had been skewered right off the bank by attempting to rob a Valsharen barrel crew.
“Hey, someone’s out there,” the first Valsharen man said.
Shade froze.
“Another thief?” another said, “I could use the target practice.”
“No, it looked like a Dark Elf.”
“A Dark Elf! Nah, it couldn’t be.”
“I did. I swear! He was standing right over there!”
The Barrelrunner pointed directly at Shade’s position.
The Dark Elf hid his face behind the log.
Shade could feel the weight of every glare as it swept over him. He cursed under his breath. They’ll alert the guards and there will be a lynching!
“Your imagination must be acting up again,” said the second, “but we can report it to the guards just in case. I doubt they’ll believe you, of course. They haven’t forgiven you for that whole Sky Whale incident.”
“Am I ever going to be permitted to live that one down?” the first man shot back, “Clouds don’t glow like that, ok!”
“Here we go again.”
And then the fog swallowed them.
Shade cursed. He crawled over to a monolith. He peaked out around the broad stone face. He saw the old crumbled stones of an ancient bridge, overgrown with moss and lilies, some hundred yards off. It was the only way across the river. Long lines of barrel-barges headed further downstream. An endless stream of barrels bobbed and banged together on the rough river currents, all manned by more Valsharen on their sturdy watercrafts.
Shade ducked cautiously from marker to marker. The traffic began to back up. He saw a few riverfolk throw in anchors. ‘At least that will keep that crew from getting ashore,’ Shade thought, ‘but I’d better be careful of all those eyes.’ The barges would tie off at the docks at the end of the line. He saw rows of oxen drawn wagons waiting to meet the barrel-runners busy mooring at the overcrowded docks. The Valsharen skillfully fished as many barrels as they could manage ashore, but hundreds more continued downstream. The rest of the barrels would be caught at the dam.
Barrelrunning was the riverfolk’s most lucrative business, especially just south of a great trade city like Kurn. For a small fee even a peddler could ferry goods downriver from Feltmore or Rivannah or countless other great cities. Long lines of impatient patrons waited on their goods, which meant this area had to be policed by guards. And then just as soon as he felt he had a clear handle on his surroundings, the fog closed over once again.
Shade frowned fiercely. Not even his sharp Elvish vision could penetrate the fog. He did not think the Valsharen who saw him had yet made it ashore. It took awhile for each dock to unload. He should go now before they had a chance to dock. He just wished he could see the guards through the crowds. Terramite helmets might come standard here. Terramite was a metal alloy known for its ability to repel magic and could give away his dark heritage. ‘So much for passing the bridge in Unseen form,’ he thought, ‘I’ll have to turn to other methods.’
The Dark Elf reached into a pouch and retrieved a round tin tub. He pulled off a glove and unscrewed the lid. He dipped his hands into a tan facial cream. He spread it all over his dark face. He cringed fiercely as he applied the balm. His cheeks itched madly. He hated this stuff and much preferred the illusionary spells of his magic, but he could not afford to take chances here. His complexion gradually lightened from its normal charcoal black to a tan Elvish gold.