Bearus looked Shade up and down. “I said bugger off, or I’ll break more’n’ your bloody reverie, Welf!”
The blonde cringed at the word. Onlookers looked nervously over their shoulders. There was no greater insult to an Elf.
Shade glared ice daggers at Bearus and his friends.
“I’m not sitting around here to get knifed on your account!” The Terramothian trembled under Shade’s cold dead glare. He got up and left.
“There is wisdom amongst brigands after all,” Shade mused.
“I’m not afraid of you, Welf!” Bearus poked the assassin’s shoulder. “Your kind is just a bunch of tricksters and thieves. I should do us all a favor and wring your black neck!” He cracked his knuckles. The other two ruffians got up behind him and loosened their swords from their hilts.
“Very well.”
Bearus growled like an animal and reared for an attack. He swung at Shade who ducked in an astonishing display of speed.
The assassin threw a powerful and calculated punch to his nose in retaliation. The crunch of cartilage was sickening. He could have knocked the bone back into the man’s brain and killed him, but he didn’t. He caught one of the other ruffians in a roundhouse kick and in the same fluid motion swept the legs of the last man.
Blood streamed from Bearus’ nose.
Shade seized the Brigorian by the collar and threw him out into the cold winter night before he had the time to bleed on Gordwin’s floors.
Bearus collapsed in the gray slush mud road and stained the snowmelt red with his blood. His moans beckoned the limping, wincing friends who remained. They hung their heads like whipped dogs and headed out into the cold. The frigid winds of the Ice Marshes howled fiercely through the door.
Shade slammed the door shut. He dusted the few stray snowflakes off his leather tunic and turned around. The onlookers looked down at their drinks. Though the terror of his presence was almost overpowering, many of the locals came here to drink because of the renowned assassin. He drew in as much business as he beat away. In a way, he provided a measure of entertainment and protection for the locals. Bloody barroom brawls were far too common in Jile’s many other disreputable taverns and at least here the Dark Elf provided a sliver of law and order.
Gordwin nodded his thanks.
They had an arrangement. Gordwin gave Shade a permanent room at the inn and in exchange the assassin kept the local rabble inline. It was more than just a convenient living arrangement. After all, Shade could really disappear anywhere, but Gordwin had connections, connections that kept Shade aptly informed of interested parties who sought out his asylum in the Ice Marshes. The bald innkeeper gave Shade a chance to lower his guard and provided a home to the shadowy outlander—if ever a smoky, ale-stained, whore-frequented tavern could be called one.
The assassin returned to his seat and men breathed more freely again.
Gordwin arrived bearing a pitcher of aged Farian Wine. Farian Wine came from the warmer northern lands and was one of the finest wines in the entire kingdom. Of course, it was not as good as the Dark Oliverian Wines back home in his own black country, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless. Gordwin topped Shade’s goblet off. He left the pitcher free of charge. The innkeeper turned, threw a few more logs into the brick hearth and stoked the flames.
The Dark Elf returned to his thoughts, enveloped in shadows once again. He grew tired of keeping the local ruffians in line and wondered when his next job would walk through the door. It had been two long months since his last real mark and he was itching for a challenge.
Shade pulled a small cloth pouch out of his belt pocket. He loosened the string. He unwrapped a large chunk of dried gray swamp clay. He broke off a chunk and crumpled it, letting the particles slip through his fingers and drop into his goblet. The clay sunk to the bottom of the blood red liquid. He raised the glass and swigged the entire muddy goblet down. He grimaced as the last of the grimy, squishy liquid worked its way down his throat.
A man watched him from an assumedly safe distance half in shock and half in disgust. Shade’s eyes flashed the man’s direction. The man averted his gaze.
The inn door flew open and a Shamite man wrapped in fine golden linens stepped inside followed by two bodyguards, Derves from the looks of them. The Shamite removed his cloak and tossed it to the shorter bodyguard who dusted it off and folded it neatly over his arm. The Shamite’s neck, wrists and fingers were adorned with gold bracelets and rings crusted with precious stones. His gold earrings had been linked to his nose piercings by an over-abundance of gold chains. Even his blonde hair was sprinkled with gold dust. His face was frozen in a smug, self-approving grin which also glowed like solid gold.
The two Dervish bodyguards wore royal purple turbans and colorful belted tunics sewn with bronze plates. The Shamite must have paid them well. Even their hooded scarlet capes could have been worn by princes. They had fierce black mustaches and keener black eyes. He regarded the two Derves coolly. They surveyed the inn with an astute watchfulness until they settled on Shade. He noticed as their shoulders stiffened and their moustaches lowered; they knew who he was. Derves were rumored to be extremely fast with the blade. Shade smiled to himself. He knew they could never be fast enough.
The Shamite turned and walked directly towards Shade, much to his surprise.
The tavern died down to a low murmur.
The Shamite stopped just in front of the table. He was flanked by his guards. He grinned brazenly and nodded, “You must be Shade.”
Shade said nothing.
The Shamite cleared his throat and tried again, “I’ve traveled far and wide in search of the world renowned Dark Elven Assassin.”
“And so you’ve found me.” Shade kept his eyes steady. He shifted in his seat and deftly loosened a blade at his side. He crossed his arms, a finger still on his hilt.
The two Derves jerked slightly.
“May I sit?”
Silence.
The Shamite snapped his fingers.
One of the Derves quickly pulled the chair out for him.
“When I heard I could find you in Jile, I was surprised. A man of your caliber should not reside in such…a place as this.” The Shamite looked around disgusted. After a brief and dismayed regard of the inn his face once again settled into a smug blindingly obnoxious grin.
“But I’m not a man, and your opinions are irrelevant. What do you want?”
“I have a job for you,” the Shamite grinned.
Shade looked away. “Get out.”
“A pound and a quarter of bloodstone pieces just to hear me out.”
“Two and a half pounds.”
The man tossed two pouches onto the table. The assassin didn’t touch them; he simply turned his yellow gaze back to the Shamite.
“Your reputation is impressive to say the least. The respect you command…”
“You’re paying a lot to stroke my ego. Let’s get to the point, yes? Who are you?”
He took a more serious tone, “If you don’t mind I’d like to keep my identity secret.”
“Either you tell me your name or you leave.”
“Surely, you don’t need to know all the details.”
Shade raised his eyebrow.
“Very well,” he conceded, “I am Malgarius, headmaster of High Councilor Prognos. I manage all of his domestic and occupational affairs while he is away at the Grand Forum, and how do I put this delicately?” He steepled his fingers. “I solve any local or national crises that might infringe upon my master’s estates.”
“By High Councilor Prognos, you mean Vizier Prognos, adviser to the king in all matters of intelligence. The King’s Eye.”
“You know something of our spies,” Malgarius mused, “yes that is his official title. I assure you my master’s eyes are always fixed on issues of national sovereignty, threats homegrown and threats abroad, and for a while now he has had his eyes fixed on you.”