The assassin asked, “Do you have any Dark Oliverian Wine?”
“Wine, HA!” Bwedrig slapped the bar and roared, “Here we serve green malt ale!” He whirled around, turned the tap and poured a mug of the steamy green ale. He spun back around and slapped it down in front of Shade, sloshing a splash of ale over the rim. Shade could have sworn he heard the peculiar ale fizzing as it chewed away at the bar like acid. He merely stared coldly back at the fat barkeep. His glowing yellow eyes hardened into a look like daggers.
Bwedrig’s fat jaw dropped in stunted recognition. “I, ya,” he stammered, “keep a few bottles of Red Syssrian Wine in the back for the ladies. Good enough?”
Shade frowned, “It will have to do.”
Bwedrig disappeared into a backroom.
The assassin heard the clatter of glass as the Doelm barkeeper rummaged hurriedly through his wine cellar. Shade even heard one barrel get knocked onto its side. It rolled into what sounded like a shelf of boozes.
Bwedrig cursed as glass shattered all over the floor. He came out a few minutes later, dripping wet and covered in stains, but regained his composure. He poured a glass of rich red wine into a surprisingly shiny gold chalice. He set the polished cup down on the bar, took a deep breath and gazed in nervous expectance.
Shade nodded his approval and threw the Doelm three gold for the wine and an extra three bloodstone pieces for his troubles.
Bwedrig nodded in appreciation and snatched up the coins. He took the cup of green ale back, poured it back into the top of the barrel and wiped down the bar. He nodded again, “You need anything else just holler.”
Shade dipped his finger in his wine and swirled the ale around in a circular motion. He tasted the wine off his finger and when it met his approval he threw back a gulp of the Red Syssrian Wine. The wine slid smoothly down his throat. It tasted sweet, almost too sweet, but he was pleasantly surprised Syssrah could ferment so lush a wine. Of course, it was not as good as Oliverian Wine, but it easily matched Farian Wine in taste and texture—the pride of the vine of Doljinaar.
The quiet murmur of conversation returned to the grimy tavern as it became apparent the Dark Elven stranger had just come in for a drink. Shade heard men and Doelms whispering behind his back. They argued softly whether the lone Dark Elf was in fact him.
The assassin grinned in dark amusement, but he kept picking through their conversations. He did not come here to boost his already elevated ego, but he listened specifically for one name. Then he found it upon the lips of two Doelm thieves, both of whom appeared to be slightly less drunk than all the rest.
The tall Doelm’s leather armor creaked as he leaned over his table at his companion. He gripped a wooden cup of steaming ale in between his long black fingernails. He licked a loose tooth that dangled from his already near toothless mouth. He sneered an ugly grimace, “What’s the matter, Sadrik, tired of your share of the meat?”
Sadrik was bald and he had a bone through the septum of his nose. He wore tattered cloth pants and a tunic over scattered pieces of chainmail. He had a mouthful of ugly yellow teeth. Sadrik sipped his ale and set it down. “All I’m saying is there was a lot more plunder to be had before Lewd…”
His companion’s soft glimmering yellow eyes shifted nervously about the room. His eyes met Shade’s and shied away. He leaned in further and whispered, “You’d better watch yourself, Sadrik, you never know who might be listening.”
“Bah! You worry too much, Morgath!”
“Call it want you want, Sadrik,” he said, “all I know is that Burluug called Lewd a trollbreed behind his back and an hour later the Hand cut out his tongue.”
Sadrik went quiet, an ashen expression ghosting across his face as he looked about the room. Morgath smirked and downed another swig in amusement.
‘Good,’ Shade grinned as he finished the rest of his glass, ‘so his name too invokes fear.’ His eyes traced back to the bar. He steepled his fingers. He said simply, “Barkeep.”
Bwedrig hurried over and topped off Shade’s glass.
“Leave the bottle,” he ordered.
Bwedrig nodded and Shade threw him two additional bloodstone pieces for the bottle. He took one last sip before reaching into his belt pocket and drawing forth the small pouch of clay he always carried with him. He loosened the string, but was interrupted as a bald drunken Vespuvian man plopped down next him, reeking of vomit and alcohol. The man had a black mustache and rough whiskers, but appeared to be a sailor, a smuggler perhaps, from his attire. He had obviously drunk himself far beyond the grips of reason.
“Questionz for youz, Dark Elllf!” he slurred his speech.
Shade ignored the man, hoping the drunkard would lose interest and that he wouldn’t have to dirty one of his knives simply to be rid of him.
The man tapped him hard on the shoulder, “I saids I have a questionz for youzzz.”
The assassin turned his head and said coldly, “Make it quick.”
“Every night race has a stake in these here sewers save your kind, why don’t your people take a piece of the pie?” His question was surprisingly lucid.
Shade might have forgotten the man was drunk had it not been for the blast of alcohol that saturated his breath. “Because my people have no need to berate themselves by squabbling over the piss-pools and crap-holes of Doljinaar.”
“Watch it, Dark Elllf!” The sailor hiccupped. “Or I’ll report you to Warl’lord Lllew—” the man slumped over and dropped his head on the bar unconscious.
“A most enticing proposition,” Shade frowned fiercely, “too bad you’re too drunk to make good on the offer.” The assassin placed his boot on the sailor’s chest and shoved hard. The man hit the ground and banged his head. He drew a trickle of blood, but was out cold. “Useless fool!” the Dark Elf spat angrily. He glared at Bwedrig, “Where I come from we lock drunkards in stocks and spit in their faces in the public streets.”
Bwedrig nodded wiping down another bottle of wine in case Shade ordered a second. He asked, “So what’s your story, stranger? What business brings you to the bowels of Kurn?” It would be the last question Bwedrig would dare ask him.
Shade looked at the Doelm barkeeper, a slight grin dancing at the corners of his lips. Then he raised his glass and said loudly, “I am here to murder Warlord Lewd.” A collective gasp went up in the smoky underground tavern. Another bottle shattered as it hit the floor.
Chapter Nine:
The Green Barrel
Shade calmly loosened the strings on the pouch he had been opening before he had been so rudely interrupted. Every man and night mortal watched him slack-jawed with even wider bulging eyes. He broke off a piece of clay and crumpled it in his strong, skillful fingers. He let the flecks of clay fall through his fingers and into his wine glass. A few patrons had already fled, but Shade had little doubt a good number of them were rats who would run straight to Lewd’s contacts. ‘Good,’ he thought with an unabashed grin, ‘let them come.’ It had been too long since he had given one of his enemies a chance to face him head on. He could only hope that this Sewer King would rise to the challenge.
“You’d better run, stranger,” said Morgath finally, “trouble’s coming.”
“Trouble is already here,” Shade mused and took a sip of his muddied wine. He forced down an unbroken clump, but was thankful the Syssrian wine washed away the grit and grime of the clay. He took another sip as the ruffians looked on.
Sadrik got up from his seat and paced the floor. “I say we string him up until Lewd gets here,” he said, “I’d bet we could fetch a big fat reward. So who’s with me?” He turned and faced the other rabble.