by J. L. Ficks
The Shamite’s jewelry and lengthy gold chains jingled in the darkness. He wore fine gold linens and a great many piercings. The Shamite’s eyes twinkled like hard cut jewels in the candlelight, calculating and dangerous leaving no small detail unturned. He recalled the Shamite’s name with a shudder, “Goldtongue,” he felt the name stick on his lips. He stared and stared, but could not place the face. Goldtongue’s features remained lost in the darkness like always.
‘How does he do that?’ Irrathane wondered.
Goldtongue’s abilities scared him and his wealth was on the rise. He was a growing rival and leading candidate to pluck the financial crown right off the sheik’s head. The word on the street was that Goldtongue had a tongue of solid gold, but Irrathane could not confirm the rumor in the darkness. He studied Goldtongue as best he could. The man looked like any other Shamite. He could be anyone. Mogul Irrathane might have taken the figure for a poor Shamite, given he had only twelve bodyguards on his person, but this was no ordinary Shamite. He shuddered under that hard icy stare with eyes colder than bloodstone.
“Is it you?” the mogul asked. He stepped forward to confirm.
“That’s close enough,” Goldtongue said.
Mogul Irrathane froze. He frowned fiercely in unmasked displeasure, “Why did you leave me to linger in this dump for so long?”
“I needed to weigh your level of commitment.”
“Well, of course I am,” Irrathane snapped, “in three years time you will have acquired the wealth to do all you desire. I would be a fool to ignore you.” He reminded himself just who he was dealing with. He took a knee. It pained him to feel the grime through the six layers of runners, but he did it out of necessity. He reached out and touched the Shamite’s sandals. The mogul’s face crinkled in disgust, but he kissed Goldtongue’s salty calloused feet, a Shamite gesture reserved only for the high sheik, but this was no sheik.
Goldtongue’s lips broke out into a delighted grin. He allowed the humiliation to drag out a few more long nauseating minutes. “Rise,” he ordered at last.
Irrathane whipped the taste of smut off his lips and rose.
“Did you deliver the good sheik’s message?” he asked.
“I did.”
“And how did the Troll take it?”
“He nearly drew blades on my men, but I lived.”
“That was to be expected. How astute of you to remain alive. Everything is proceeding according to plan,” Goldtongue’s grin seemed to shimmer eerily in the darkness, “my blade that moves in secret will fulfill his purpose soon.”
“Does he suspect anything?”
“No, he thinks this is another job. I have many more uses for him. Now tell me about our mutual friend the sheik, has he caught wind our plans?”
“No, he has not, as far as he is concerned I was just here to deliver his message to Warlord Lewd.”
“Good, report back to your sheik. Be a loyal errand-runner and run along.”
Mogul Irrathane turned to go.
“Oh, and Irrathane?”
He froze.
“Yes, my lord?” Goldtongue’s cold voice crawled deeply down his back collar, “Your sheik has been a busy boy since you’ve been gone. There is another plot afoot.”
Mogul Irrathane turned slowly back around. “Oh?”
Goldtongue’s eyes glittered like a preying snake hovering in the shadows. A grin crawled up onto his lips, “He moves in secret against the High Throne.”
“The High Throne?” Irrathane stammered, “Are you sure?”
“He means to hire the Ghost,” Goldtongue replied, “he has only dabbed his quill in the inkwell. The contract will be stroked soon.”
“The Ghost! Then the contract shall soon be wet with blood!”
“Yes,” he said stroking the long gold chains just below his heavily pierced chin, “I have pondered much on this unexpected turn of events. We cannot allow a transfer of power to take place before we have had a chance to hatch our plans.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“I shall lay another plot,” Goldtongue mused, “a plot behind a plot.”
Mogul Irrathane stared at him in baffled wonder.
“All the pieces are marching across the board,” Goldtongue grinned as if his lips dripped with venom, “they will yet play into my hands.” He let out an unnerving maniacal laugh that chilled the mogul’s blood far colder than all the tortured screams of Mithralmora…
Chapter Eleven:
The Sharkgates
Shade walked guardedly down the abandoned seaside corridors of the Kurn sewers. He squeezed his dagger in his ready fingers. He eyed the water surging in the sewer canal he was following with a careful eye. Two sandy and seaweed-covered brick walkways flanked the canal. He walked along the right aisle bearing a torch to light his way, as not even night mortals used these sewers. He did not ordinarily need the light, even in such a dark place, but he wanted to be extra careful. The bayside sewers, or the Sharkgates as they were better known, had been fashioned not to keep out sharks, but something far worse.
The assassin did not assume such risks without good reason. He had come here to scope out the back sewers and find out whether they might aid him in his hunt. Warlord Lewd had disappointed Shade by not coming to meet him face to face and so the assassin needed to find other methods of ensnaring his quarry.
Shade smiled in faint amusement. Besides he owed poor old Bwedrig a break. He needed to find another way into Lewd’s complex, a back way. The warlord had doubled his guard on all the main entrances. Of course, the assassin could easily break through those defenses, but not without alerting the entire hideout. Warlord Lewd would no doubt hear such a scuffle and wall himself up in a small impenetrable chamber behind ten-foot thick walls where he’d starve himself to death before facing the assassin’s blades.
Shade could see the ocean tide pushing back against the canals, carrying with it a vulgar mixture of sea foam, seaweed and raw sewage. He frowned warily. The tide was unusually high for this late in the morning. He thought he had timed this perfectly. He turned down a long cross-corridor. The tide rose even higher here. He’d didn’t have much time. The tunnels could flood any minute.
He held his torch up to the outer wall of the Old Mino Quadrant and counted his paces. He heard a sound, a slight stirring on the waters behind him. He was certain his keen Elvish ears had picked up on a noise quite apart from the ebb and flow of tide. The assassin spun around. He threw a dagger into the filthy green saltwater. It disappeared with a splash and a ripple that quickly dissolved in the thrashing waves.
Blast! Now he couldn’t tell whether his blade had caused the ripple or some unseen foe. He stared hard into the turbulent seawaters, frustrated with his own imprudence, but saw nothing. He nodded his respect if some silent hunter did in fact lurk beneath the waters. He turned back and continued counting his paces, keeping his wits about him.
The Dark Elf knew if these sea-dwellers were half the predator he was, they would know when to remain hidden. He stopped at sixty-seven paces. Sixty-seven paces to Lewd’s personal fortress just as he had counted in the Old Mino Quadrant. He traced his hand along the wall searching for some sort of secret or back entrance, but found none. He saw water trickling through several large iron gratings in the walls. The water funneled down into small catch-basins in the walkway which drained into the main canals.
Shade squatted next to the nearest grate in the moldy sewer wall. He pulled at the old rusty bars encouraged at how loose and corroded they were when he suddenly stopped. The tunnel behind the grate held no light because it had been bricked up. Only a small gap not much larger than two square feet remained beneath the bricks to permit water flow. He hurried over to the next grating and noticed the same thing. He checked three or four more, but no luck. Lewd must have walled off these channels long ago. Shade sat back puzzled. What was he going to do now?
Shade’s head snapped down to the far end of the tunnel. He thought he heard another noise
, although this time it didn’t sound like the breaking of water, but the batting of large leathery wings. He stared long and hard down the windswept back passage, but saw nothing. How odd. A deep guttural scream bounded off the walls from the opposite direction, trailing off in the darkness.
He spun back around, but saw nothing save the violent lapping of water against the slimy green-bricked canal. The echo had come from a long way down the corridor. The constant surging of water made it difficult to measure the exact distance, but the assassin judged he had a little more time to carry out his search.
Shade felt along the walls. He examined every square inch. He watched his flank out of the corner of his eye.
He heard again the flap of leathery wings, much too loud to be a bat of any kind. He was being hunted. This time he did not turn around, but persisted in his work. With any luck his pursuer would wrongly assume Shade could not hear him over the swelling tide. Another distant scream, a shrill throat-tearing scream cut through the darkness. This time far closer.
Shade didn’t like the situation one bit. He was a Faelin used to being in command of his environment and here he was surrounded. A dark and mysterious foe trailed him and the Sharlak cut off any hope of escape in the opposite direction. Sharlak were the terror of the northern seas. They lived most of their lives in the ocean, but were amphibious and known from coming ashore for their fill of flesh. Much argument persisted along the coasts whether Sharlak might actually be a tribe of mortal cannibals, but they fed in far too many frenzies. Sailors boasted that Sharlak could rend the flesh off a man’s bones before he drowned.
The assassin had never actually seen a Sharlak and he grew increasingly uneasy with his present set of circumstances. He knew the importance of knowing one’s enemy and the Sharlak was an enemy whose ways remained shrouded beneath the big blue veil of the ocean. ‘Death smiles over the shoulder of the ignorant,’ as his old master, Sadora, used to say.
Shade smiled too and reminisced over his former master’s dark words. Perhaps this was the trial he awaited. Perhaps he needed to be tried in the deepest recesses of his being, tested by creatures cloaked in as much darkness and mystery as him. Perhaps death would at last find the courage to sneak up suddenly upon him and show its cold dark face.
Shade passed a small alcove filled with rusty old pipes and a drippy valve. He stopped and held up his torch. Empty. He was about to take a step in when he heard another heart-rending scream echo down the main passageway. He turned back to the tunnel and took several steps down the walkway. A dark figure broke through the darkness, from the direction of the scream, less than a hundred yards off. The figure ran at a mad pace, clopping clumsily across the stones, wheezing hard.
Wings flapped behind the assassin again. He spun around sensing danger. He saw nothing behind him. He reexamined the alcove. He held his torch high and crouched deceptively low behind the side wall. He spun back around the corner prepared to drive his blade deep into his stalker’s heart. He froze.
A towering seven-foot horned figure loomed in the darkness of the alcove. He held his torch up. His heart jumped. The torchlight revealed the snarling scaled gray face and horned head of a Drakor. Its serpentine eyes stared back at him. An ugly grimace froze on its face. The dragon-man’s great wings draped gloriously about its tall frame, but it remained perfectly still. Shade furrowed his brow. A statue? Strange he had not noticed it before. He felt the statue’s chiseled face with his dagger and then confirmed it with his thumb. Stone. ‘Where had this statue come from?’ he wondered, ‘How had he missed it before?’
“HEEELP MEEEEE!” the other figure screamed. The heavy clopping of boots echoed down the long dark corridor. He was nearly upon the puzzled assassin.
Shade dropped his torch on the walkway and readied another blade. He could almost discern the runner’s face when he felt a sudden rush of wind behind him. The assassin whirled instinctually around expecting his unseen foe to fall upon him, but found only that same empty and eerie alcove. He feared that he had made a fatal mistake and that his foe hid behind the statue, but then he saw the most horrifying sight yet …the statue was gone.
Yessheeran led his master down the long abandoned tunnel between the Old Mino and Doelm Quadrants. Warlord Lewd’s nervous gaze flickered about. He wondered whether he might ever feel safe again. He was escorted by his two bodyguards and another fifty of his most loyal subjects, but his safety and security gave him a cold shoulder like a wayward lover.
The situation infuriated him. He was the most powerful criminal in the Kurn underworld and he had been reduced to cowering like a frightened dog. He had considered executing some of his men to make an example to the rest of the organization, but he realized now was not the best time for thinning ranks. But now the tables had turned. He would show this cocky Dark Elven braggart he was the true master of his domain. And the legendary Shade would soon learn just how deadly his underground playground could be.
Warlord Lewd pulled the woman’s cloak he used to disguise himself further down over his face. His gross yellow eyes burned in stoked humiliation. Women only traveled the Kurn sewers cloaked. Only harlots regularly chanced the sewers and they always traveled with a host of bodyguards on the payroll of a local brothel.
Lewd flashed a razor sharp glare at Kishrub and Zulbash who were bandaged from head to toe. Why had he even bothered to take these two lumbering idiots along? Their presence ruined everything. Of course, he would not have this problem if they had done their job! He seethed in frustration, breathed out deeply and refocused. At least he could place his faith in his handpicked servant.
Lewd’s best had tracked Shade a half hour ago into the Sharlak Quadrant or the Shark Tunnels as they were better renowned. The Sharlak Quadrant wasn’t counted among the other quadrants since its tunnels were abandoned and could never be claimed by any civilized race. Instead, it was gated off to keep out the bloodthirsty amphibious monsters known as Sharlak that swam in from the ocean.
Warlord Lewd had a number of trapdoors in his palace he used for dumping unwanted guests into the Shark Tunnels. One of his favorite pastimes was watching his chief offenders be ripped limb from limb by these savage monsters. Not many victims made it past the viewing window. The Sharlak devoured their prey that quick. Lewd reminisced over his disappointment over the Doelm thief he had recently dumped in the Shark Tunnels. The Doelm had actually made it out of view.
Lewd was even more surprised at just how fast a Doelm could run when properly motivated. At least the warlord had been able to cherish the Doelm’s scream for a short time. Every once in a great while the Doelm surprised him by loosing another horrified bellowing scream that echoed from the Shark Tunnels. It was a miracle he was still alive.
Lewd’s entourage halted at a large iron reinforced gate, one of the many Sharkgates that closed off these tunnels from the rest of the sewers. The warlord pushed his way through the mob.
Yessheeran stood at the gate, a snaky grin crawling across his lips. He held a small folded cloth that Shade had wedged into the locking mechanism. He pulled the door back and forth allowing it to creak slightly.
Warlord Lewd grabbed Yessheeran’s torch and took a quick glance into the Shark Tunnels. He eyed the piles of bones of the many helpless victims who had been eaten alive trapped on the wrong side of the gate. He looked down into the sewer canal on his side of the gate and saw a few corpses bobbing in the tide and beating against the Sharkgate. These poor wretches had been murdered in Lewd’s own underworld, but their legs and arms had been chewed off by Sharlak that could not pull their torsos through the bars.
The warlord allowed no grin to grace his lips. He glared long and hard at his envoy, “And you’re certain Shade went in?”
“Yesss, of courssse,” he frowned.
“You’re certain?”
“Why have you come to doubt my word, massster?”
“Because last time I sent you to take care of something, you came back with ten body bags!”
“T
here’sss no need to worry,” Yessheeran assured him, “Krulle tracked him in there himssself.”
“You’d better be right,” Warlord Lewd said coldly.
“Don’t worry, master,” Kishrub said, “you safe with us.”
“Yeah, you safe, master,” said Zulbash.
“Need I remind you two imbeciles of the mockery that assassin made of you already? If you two were capable of doing your job I wouldn’t need to sneak around in my own sewers wrapped in an old woman’s cloak!”
Kishrub and Zulbash stood dumbfounded holding the large iron chains they were going to use to double lock the gate.
Yessheeran stood ready to close the door.
Warlord Lewd grinned at last and ordered coldly, “Lock him in.”
Shade barely had the time to ponder the bizarre mystery of the statue’s disappearance before the second figure reached him. The figure was a tall, bald dark humanoid with a bone pierced through his nose’s septum. His heavy boots clopped along the brick passageway as loudly as a clumsy horse. His wild bulging yellow eyes bursted with panic. It was Sadrik, the smart-mouthed Doelm, from The Green Barrel. His mouth, it appeared, had finally caught up to him.
The Doelm ran, as if possessed, pursued by some unknown foe. He saw Shade and collapsed into his arms. The assassin dug his heels into the ground and held the larger mortal awkwardly, more to keep his footing than out of any desire to help the terrified Doelm.
“Help me!” Sadrik squealed, “Help me, please!”
“Get off me!” Shade shoved the Doelm to the ground. He dragged one of his blades across Sadrik’s muscled shoulder, sending a message never to touch him again, cold and clear, sealed by the burn of blood.
Sadrik blinked and scrambled back to his feet. The wound didn’t even faze him. Shade frowned. What manner of foe could drive someone to such riotous fear?
“They’re coming!” Sadrik implored, his arms flailing in wild gestures, “I saw them in the water! You must face them! You must slay them as you did the—”
