Obsidian Ridge

by Jess Lebow

  From here he could see the slowly winding road and the fields to the east of the palace. In the far distance he could see the waves in the harbor, gently pressing against the docks.

  The moon’s light illuminated everything in stark contrast, and he watched the princess drift in and out of the small, concentrated shadows. She was a smart one, Mariko. She navigated her way toward the docks with the caution and confidence of a well-trained rogue. It was a wonder that the figure was able to track her at all from the street. It wouldn’t surprise him if there was some magic aiding the figure’s success.

  The princess disappeared at the end of the road, and the figure appeared, as if on cue, from the shadows near the palace.

  Reaching into his vest pocket, the man in the hat pulled out a small wooden charm, a feather tied to one end by a slim piece of leather. Squeezing it in his hand, he stepped over the edge and began to fall, quickly at first, then much slower as he approached the ground. His cape lifted over his head, and the wide brim of his hat undulated softly in the breeze.

  His feet touched the cobblestones of the courtyard with no more force than if he had just walked off a single step. Opening his hands, the charm was gone, consumed by the fall. Brushing off his palms, the man in the hat started after the figure.

  Clearly the figure was not concerned with being followed or not wise enough to guard against such eventualities. Tracing its steps was quite easy, and the man followed it all the way into the heart of the underworld—the docks, storehouses, and seedy businesses that cluttered Llorbauth’s waterfront.

  The man caught sight of the princess once again—atop a small stable used to house the workhorses that pulled heavy freight off of incoming trade ships. From where she was perched, she could see people approaching from any direction.

  The man in the hat smiled. People were predictable. They spent most of their time looking at the road, watching where they were going. Very rarely did they look up, to see what was directly above them. Mariko was hiding in plain sight.

  “Nice trick,” he said quietly.

  Her gamble paid off. The figure reached the intersection and stopped, consulting some object in its palm. After a moment, the figure darted down the road to the north. Getting to the next intersection, it turned around and darted back the other direction.

  The man in the hat settled up against the side of a storehouse to watch as the figure’s frantic searching continued. Finally, unable to locate the princess, the figure headed east, toward the Shalane waterfront and the docks.

  Glancing up at the rooftop as he followed, the man confirmed what he had suspected. The princess was nowhere to be found. But that was none of his concern.

  The buildings were tightly packed here, giving the moon’s light less of a chance to penetrate the confines of the city’s most corrupt district. The tight corners and long, dark shadows made tracking the figure much harder, but the man managed despite the difficulty.

  The figure turned down an alleyway, one block up from the water. Coming around a final corner, the man in the hat stopped cold in his tracks. The alley dead-ended in a single, wooden door. It was a door like any other door in Llorbauth, except that this one was adorned with a small crest—the golden profile of a beautiful woman, a simple tiara on her head, her long hair flowing around her face.

  That crest could only mean one thing. That it was time for the man to take his hat and get far away from this place.

  chapter five

  As the sun rose over Llorbauth, Princess Mariko dangled from the edge of the palace wall, counting footfalls. The guards had been doubled since Tasca’s death threat on her father. The patrols on the roof had also doubled, making it harder for her to return home unseen.

  Two guards walked past her, silent except for their footsteps.

  “Ten, eleven, twelve …” The princess pulled herself onto the roof and tumbled across the stone, coming to rest behind a gargoyle perched beside a chimney stack. Hiding behind the stone creature, she waited.

  A second patrol appeared in her view, marching just slightly behind the first. The moment they disappeared from her sight, she moved again, slipping around to the opposite side of the chimney. Lifting a small, stained glass skylight, Mariko silently lowered herself down into her private chamber.

  The room was dark, except for the slight trickle of light through the skylight. Crossing to her dressing cabinet, Mariko stripped off the tight garments she had been wearing and tucked them neatly into a wooden box. Placing her hand on the lid, she closed her eyes and whispered the words that activated the rune permanently placed on its surface. In a blink the box vanished, and the princess closed the doors of the cabinet.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  “My lady,” came Genevie’s voice from the other side of her chamber door. “Are you awake? May I enter?”

  Turning to her bed, Mariko unmade the blankets as best she could, crumpling and tossing them to the side. Then grabbing a simple gown from a hook in the cabinet, the princess hurriedly pulled it over her head.

  “Yes, Genevie,” she replied, trying to settle the rumpled fabric against her skin. “You may enter.”

  The door opened slightly, and the aging half-elf pressed herself through the narrow space. She closed it behind her as quickly as she could, as if she were trying to avoid letting anything in or out of the room.

  In her right hand she carried a candelabrum, and the lit candles filled the chamber with an orange glow. Once inside, Genevie set about lighting the other candles in the room, slowly chasing away the nighttime shadows. When she finished, she set the candelabrum down on the heavy wooden table and turned to the princess.

  She smiled. “Good morning, my lady. Sleep well?”

  Princess Mariko rubbed her hands over her face and brushed her hair back, opening her mouth in a fake yawn. “Not so well,” she replied. “I was a little restless last night.” She sat down on the edge of her bed. “I didn’t get much sleep.”

  The half-elf frowned. “Yes, not much at all.” Stepping around the princess, Genevie shooed her off the bed, pulling up the wrinkled blankets and smoothing them down in an orderly fashion. “I’ve not seen you so restless in a long time.”

  The princess let out a long sigh. Time to play Good Princess, she thought.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s because I haven’t felt this way in a long time.”

  Genevie stopped her tucking and folding. “Why, Princess.” She put her hands on her hips and gave the younger woman a stern smile. “Am I to understand that you are lusting after this gentleman suitor of yours?”

  Mariko giggled, continuing the “good princess” act. “You make it sound so …” She couldn’t find the right word. “So wonderfully unladylike.”

  Genevie sat down on the bed, all but forgetting about her task of making it again. “So you saw him last night?”

  The princess nodded.

  “And what did he say?”

  Mariko cocked her head. She rather enjoyed teasing the older half-elf. “Say?”

  “You know,” replied the half-elf without missing a beat, “did he tempt you with promises of his undying devotion?”

  Mariko shook her head. “Don’t be silly, Genevie. You and your romantic fantasies.”

  “No, really, what did he say? He must have said something … something to make you so restless.”

  The princess wandered over to her dressing cabinet and began examining the robes and gowns, looking for something appropriate to wear. “Well, he didn’t recite me poetry or compare my beauty to that of the moon, if that’s what you are asking.”

  “Oh come now,” scolded Genevie. “Indulge an old woman with your stories of young love.”

  Mariko lifted a simple, elegant emerald- and sapphire-colored robe and held it against her body, contemplating it. “You make me sound like some preening blueblood who can’t wait to be seen at the next royal ball.”

  “Oh goodness,” said Genevie, “I doubt anyone would mistake you for that.”
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br />   “Thank you.” Lifting her dressing gown over her head, she slipped it off her shoulders and hung it on its hook. Then she began pushing her arms through the new robe. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  There was another knock at the door.

  “This is a busy place this morning,” said the princess, rolling her eyes. “I’m not decent!” she shouted at the door.

  “There is nothing you can show me that I have not seen before,” said her father from the other side. “But if you wish to keep the king waiting, I understand.”

  Genevie leaped to her feet, dragging the blankets along with her, quickly making the bed.

  Mariko flopped the heavy fabric of her robe over her shoulders and popped her head through the opening at the top, letting the blue and green roll down her body like a flowing ocean wave. Crossing to the door, she pulled it open to see her father and his personal bodyguard, Quinn, waiting outside.

  “Good morning, Father.” She gave a shallow bow as he entered her bedchamber.

  “That’s no way to greet your father,” replied Korox, his arms open.

  Mariko smiled and gave her father a warm embrace.

  Crossing to the heavy table, the king scanned the room, letting his eyes come to rest on the handmaiden.

  He grit his teeth. “Genevie, if you would, please.” He indicated the chamber door with his thick, open palm.

  The half-elf looked nervously from the king to the princess. Then she bowed deeply and scurried out of the room. Quinn pulled the door shut behind her, staying outside in the hall and leaving the king and the princess alone in her chamber.

  “What news?” asked the king.

  “Not much.” Mariko shrugged. “I was followed.”

  “By whom?”

  The princess shook her head. “I don’t know. Whoever it was, I lost them by the docks.”

  “Where did they spot you?”

  “Somewhere off the road, just west of the waterfront.”

  “Could have been an underworld sentry.”

  The princess nodded. “Quite possibly.”

  The king sighed. “Well, be careful tonight.”

  The princess smiled at her father. “You too.”

  The king exited the princess’s bedchamber and headed down the hall. Quinn stepped into line behind him, brushing his blond hair out of his face as he followed just off the king’s right side. As they approached the audience chamber, a man appeared before them. He had a long, curled moustache and the hair on his chin was neatly groomed into a sharp, pointed beard. His eyes were rather sunken above freckled cheeks, and he grinned as the two men approached.

  The king lifted his hand in greeting, but before he could utter a word, Quinn was in front of him, his sword drawn.

  “Step back and state your business,” commanded the bodyguard.

  The man didn’t flinch, holding his ground, still smirking.

  “Stand down, Quinn,” said the king in a low voice. “Vasser is expected.”

  Quinn lowered his sword, but he did not sheathe it. He watched the newcomer with the steely gaze of a mother bear.

  The king put his hand on his bodyguard’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I need a moment.”

  Pushing past Quinn, the king pulled Vasser into an alcove off of the main hall. The man whispered into the king’s ear, and Korox listened intently.

  “Yes, I knew this,” said the king loud enough for Quinn to hear.

  Vasser continued, and the king nodded a few times.

  “I see,” he said. “That I did not know.” Then, after listening to the last of what the man had to say, he dismissed him. “Thank you. Please keep me informed.”

  Returning to the hall, Vasser turned to Quinn and gave him a long, overly animated bow. Standing up, he straightened his beard, sharpened the tips of his moustache, and marched off down the corridor.

  The slain body of Jallal Tasca lay lifeless on a flat stone slab. He had died several days before—of stab wounds through the neck.

  “What do you think?” asked a woman dressed in a thick purple velvet robe. “Is he reaping the rewards of the Marketplace Eternal? Or is he straggling through the scalding streets of Dis with a devil on his back?”

  “I do not know,” replied the wrinkled old man on the other side of the room. “Nor do I care.” He was skimming over the words scribbled on a scroll, squinting in the dim light. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  “Well, I hope it’s the Marketplace,” she said, unfolding a piece of waxed vellum and lifting a thin, sticky, foul-smelling slice of black flesh from its surface. Leaning over Jallal’s body, she pried open his jaw and placed it inside. Then she dropped a small leather pouch on his chest. “I would hate to think bringing him back to this world made his existence any easier.”

  The woman pulled back the sleeves of her robe then opened the pouch. Turning it over, she sprinkled the contents on the dead man’s chest. A hundred tiny diamonds scattered across his pale skin.

  Tossing the leather pouch aside, the woman spread the twinkling stones on Jallal’s ice-cold flesh. Closing her eyes, she began a prayer to the goddess Waukeen.

  “Take this wealth, goddess of trade, protector of bounty. And return to us the life that was taken from this good merchant.”

  Not one for long prayers, the woman bowed her head. “In coin we trust.”

  Her hands flaring with golden light, magic seeped from her fingertips, first surrounding the tiny diamonds then spreading over the dead man. The warm glow enveloped the entire stone slab, throbbing once, twice, then coalescing into something more solid.

  A short burst of light consumed the tiny diamonds, replacing them with large golden coins covering Jallal’s body. Each had on its surface the profile of a beautiful woman, her face angular, uplifted, and strong. Her hair flowed around her, wisps of energy, power, and wealth. And on her brow rested a simple tiara of gold and precious stones.

  Then Jallal’s body began to transform. The limbs, already strong in life, grew thicker and more powerful, the feet turning to hooves. The fingers, thin and smooth, became rough and covered with hair. The face, round and flat, protruded ever so slightly, the cheekbones spreading, the mouth expanding with sharpened teeth, and the beard disappearing, leaving only the smooth skin beneath. And on the forehead, two tiny horns jutted forward—the mark of a minor demon.

  Jallal Tasca coughed, sending a pile of coins jingling off the stone slab and onto the floor. Taking in another breath, the revived man coughed a second time, struggling with lungs that had not been used for nearly a tenday.

  “Take your time,” said the old wrinkled man, still not looking up from his scroll. “You’ve been away from this plane awhile.”

  Opening his eyes, Jallal sat up, sending the remaining coins tumbling to the floor. He poked at his new, stronger body, testing his skin and bones for solidity. His fingers traveled up his neck until they found the place where the four blades had punched through. There were no holes there now, only thick, purplish scar tissue piled up in smooth lumps.

  His fingers continued on to his face, probing its new shape and the sharpened teeth. Finally, Jallal felt the horns, and he pulled his hands away, recoiling in fear.

  “What have you done to me?” His voice was rough and scratchy.

  “I have brought you back from the dead,” the woman said, not at all pleased with the man’s tone. “And given you a gift.”

  Jallal looked at his hair-covered hands. “I’m—” He cleared his throat. “I’m … I’m in your debt,” he said, resignation in his voice.

  The woman nodded. “Yes. Yes you are.”

  Still perplexed by his new form, Jallal continued to examine himself. “What is this … this … gift you have bestowed upon me?”

  “You have consumed the flesh of a ghour,” explained the old man, “a demon who was in the service of an abyssal lord.”

  “I see,” replied Jallal.

  “The effects are different for everyone,” continued the old man
. “You seem to have received a physical manifestation.”

  Jallal spun himself so his legs dangled off the side of the slab. Then he rubbed his temples.

  “I—” He shook his head. “I don’t remember much. The storehouse. The Claw coming out of nowhere …”

  “That’s very common,” said the old man, finally rolling up his scroll and crossing over to the slab. “Your memory will slowly return, now that you draw breath again.”

  As if on cue, Jallal seemed struck by a sudden thought. He grabbed the woman by the arm. “My brother! Where is Pello?”

  The woman pulled her robe from his grasp, irritated by his groping. “Your brother is alive.”

  Seeing the woman’s anger rising, Jallal recoiled, realizing his error. “Matron, forgive me.” He bowed as best he could while seated.

  The Matron nodded, smoothing out the velvet on her sleeve where it had been ruffled. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Yes, Matron.” Jallal pulled his naked frame off the stone slab and dropped to his knees in supplication. “Thank you, Matron.”

  “Yes, yes,” she replied. “We don’t have time for all of this. Your brother has been sent to the Cellar.”

  “The Cellar! But how?”

  “He was sentenced by the king for trafficking in Elixir,” said the old man.

  “A rather overzealous punishment if you ask me,” added the Matron. “But perhaps we can use it to our favor.”

  “Forgive me, Matron, but how will my brother’s imprisonment work in our favor? He is all but dead to us in the Cellar. There is no way in or out. We’ll never get him back.”

  The Matron smiled. “You are wrong.” She placed her hand on top of his head, stroking his horns affectionately, as if he were her favorite pet. “The king, the senators, and the head of the Magistrates all have access to the Cellar.”

  Jallal let out a sigh of relief. “I see.” He stood up, seemingly regaining his composure. “So it is only a matter of time.”

  The old man let out a damp, raspy chuckle. “He catches on quickly.”