“I’m a rather disappointing fellow.”
“Even you have a weakness, Shade.”
Just then fifty men, Doelms, Drakor and Syssrah rushed from the darkness. Kishrub and Zulbash led the charge. They raised their barbaric weapons and swung powerfully down at Shade’s crown.
The assassin sprung to his feet. He leapt instantly into a brilliant forward flip and landed directly behind Warlord Lewd. He spun around, his daggers already dancing in his fingers. Kishrub’s hammer and Zulbash’s mace smashed Shade’s chair to pieces. They smacked face first into one another. Their enormous craniums cracked loudly together. Crack! The two dumb brutes fell backward out cold.
Lewd groaned. The Dark Elf grabbed hold of the crimelord and brought his knife up to the Troll’s neck. The warlord’s henchmen froze. Time stopped until the room filled only with the flustered and labored wheezing of Lewd and his men.
“So that you know that I could get to you at any time,” Shade whispered coldly in the crimelord’s ear.
Lewd trembled in the assassin’s arms and his eyes raced with fear. “So it seems we are both without honor,” he managed.
“Today I leave you to crawl back to your hole, Warlord Lewd,” Shade spat and shoved the warlord back over to his men, “but look hard upon this face, for this is the last time you will see it!”
The crimelord regained his pose, spun around and met Shade’s pointed gaze. The exchange of glares ignited like a wildfire.
The assassin pointed his dagger and smirked mockingly.
Lewd’s lips shriveled into a wrinkled grimace.
Shade melted slowly into the shadows until only his glowing yellow eyes burned through the gloom. “Do not forget, Lewd,” he said, “tomorrow death comes for you from the shadows, and mark my words you will not see my face again until you feel the cold hard thrust of my dagger!”
Chapter Fourteen:
The Smell of
Bloodstone
Shade peeled the last grape off the stem and popped it leisurely into his mouth. He leaned back on his barrel. He wiped his mouth clean with the brown napkin provided to him by Bwedrig. The Doelm barkeep nodded and gathered up the crockery of the assassin’s meal consisting of broiled lamb, garlic potatoes and Red Farian Grapes. Bwedrig cast a nervous look over Shade’s shoulder through the hole in the wall and out into the Black Markets. Shade could feel the change in the air as well, but he did not let the tension ruin the simple pleasures of his meal.
The Dark Elf felt eyes on his back sizing him up like a prime cut of meat. Men and night mortals in the markets paced back and forth past the hole in the wall stealing glances inside. They were like a pack of uneasy wolves trying to muster the courage to attack a broad buck. They could practically smell the bloodstone. Shade was no fool. He had caught onto the quiet whisperings that had swept through the markets and the bounty that Lewd had placed on his head: 10,000 Bloodstone Pieces. ‘What a flattering tribute you pay me, Lewd,’ Shade thought. The only question was whether anyone had the guts to make their move.
Shade kept his heckles raised, but would let nothing spoil his high spirits. He crumbled another lump of clay into his goblet of Red Syssrian Wine. The bottle was nearly empty. He ran his fingers over his temples and rested the back of his hand against his forehead. He felt no sweat nor heat nor any other sign of fever. He let go of his tea and checked his pulse. He had made it a point to check his vitals at the top of every hour. He waited patiently. He counted the rhythmic beats of his own heart. Ah yes. All signs were normal! It had been almost fourteen hours with still no ill effects from the poison. This called for a toast.
The assassin reclaimed the brass goblet in his hands, raised his muddied beverage and curled his lips, “I propose a toast, good Bwedrig.”
“To wat do we owe da pleasure?” Bwedrig tried to sound civilized. Spittle sprayed from behind his yellow fangs, ransacking any attempt at sophistication.
“Why to pigs, of course,” Shade grinned, “who fare wiser and are far better company than all the scholars and great learners of Doljinaar.”
“To pigs then,” the fat barkeep grimaced. He crinkled his sweaty brow at a total loss for words.
Shade chuckled softly to himself. He watched as the last of the microscopic clay particles sunk to the bottom. Bubbles formed in the tea as large chunks collecting at the bottom loosed small pockets of air. He brought the mug to his lips. He downed a healthy swallow of nasty, grainy grimy tea. The secret lay in the swamp clay. The glow never left his lips.
The Dark Elf had learned much over years of shrewd observation of the various wildlife behaviors in the Ice Marshes. He had often wondered at a Muckhog’s ability to eat the highly venomous Gilolizard with no ill effects. The secretion of its glands was enough to make a man violently ill for months, a bite meant death within hours. At first, Shade had falsely assumed the Muckhog’s poison immunity stemmed from the tough lining of its belly. After all, Muckhogs were notorious for their ability to eat anything, but after years of further observation he later noted that the swamp pigs had a habit of gorging on clay during the warmer months the Gilolizard was not in hibernation. The clay he later realized acted as a natural dilutant to the poison.
Shade had quickly adapted the idea and after months of experimenting with lesser poisons he grew more and more confident in his theory. He began taking daily doses of swamp clay and soon he too earned the ability to down the most deadly poisons. His keen interest in the marshlands singlehandedly eliminated his profession’s primary vulnerability. Slip poison into an assassin’s plate or cup and there was no art in his death. A barmaid or a busboy could do the honors, no training necessary. But no longer with Shade, as Warlord Lewd had learned much to his grating consternation.
Shade could feel a mob now standing at the holes in the wall, a hundred eyes boring into his back. They must be finding courage in greater numbers. He smirked. The pack had finally mustered the guts to trespass into Shade’s den. He began to think in his heart he was foolish to remain in this tavern for so long. Perhaps, he was a fool after all he never took such chances with mobs, but he hadn’t received the trial he had been thirsting for. He simply wondered whether his ballsy gumption might at last lead to his undoing. Only one way to find out…
“Ah, welcome guests,” Shade said, “won’t you come in for a drink? Last I checked this was an open bar and Bwedrig would be happy to serve you.”
“We’re not here for the ale,” a man replied.
“Oh?
“We came for the bounty,” the man said, “ten thousand large and we’re betting we can fetch another thousand for your black bones.”
The fat barkeeper frowned fiercely. He bit his tongue and ducked into the back cellar. He slammed the door, locked it and left Shade alone.
Shade smirked. He said nothing in reply. He let the tension drag out. He waited until the mob shifted uncomfortably. He picked up the bloodstained bottle of Syssrian Wine and poured himself his final glass. He closed his eyes and took a long deep swig. He felt a rush of the cold wine wash down his throat and tingle through his veins. He put the glass down. He took the near empty bottle and tipped it toward the ground. The last drops of the wine dripped on the floor. He felt the crowd’s eyes watch each drop as it splattered against the stone. He said chillingly, “Then we serve blood here, but I’m afraid we’re fresh out.”
The assassin slammed the bottle down on the bar. The mob jumped. He spun slowly around. Over fifty men and night mortals crowded the battered openings in the walls. He saw a few of Lewd’s guards from the markets, a band of Minotaur poachers and a thick cluster of mercenaries and thieves from every local race. They carried arms and flickering torches. He saw many of them clutching wrinkled sheets of parchment. Postings Shade had heard had gone up in the markets. Postings that depicted his name and face—Wanted Signs.