Cadius sighed, “Never a dull moment from here on out. It was peaceful for a few years, but now with Valhirst involved and calling hits and shots, well, I may very well retire soon old friend.”
“And leave me with this beast? The killer that tore off two of my fingers and squashed them with his boot? I think not, there would be a price on you like no other, old friend.” Rinicus laughed, as did Cadius, then both watched as the brown minotaur walked over to them.
“Something amusing, my little humans?”
“Nothing to worry you about, great Chalas. Idle threats of old friends and killers amused at the turns of their dark lives is all.” Rinicus looked to his impaired hand, then to Cadius, and then to the brown savage of a minotaur standing over him in the balcony penthouse over the hidden arena.
“I would expect you would be busy looking for Kaya instead of senseless chatter.” Chalas had been waiting for days, even searched the endless and countless passages himself. Kaya was nowhere to be found, yet she was here, they all knew it.
“I am the domenarch of the city, responsible for hundreds of spies, assassins, and every other sort, minotaur. I have eyes and ears most everywhere. The problem is, well, Jade of the West happens to be one of the Emerald Eight.” Rinicus drank some of the Caberran wine in a golden goblet with his good hand.
“Is that your excuse? I would have come up with something better to explain failure.” Chalas snorted and leered over the two men of the White Spider.
“She has trained for decades, trained by Johnas Valhera himself. Placing a price on her head, even by nobility of Caberra, Chazzrynn, and our own guild, does not make her less deadly or difficult to find, Kalaza.” Cadius stood as he spoke, wine in hand, black robes snagging on the table and chairs.
“And what do your men do here for decades? Drink? Find her and kill her, now.”
Rinicus stood up, inbetween his wizard friend and the brute from the south. “Johnas has not sent word for you to replace me or mine, minotaur. Until then, learn where you stand.”
“I stand here, three fingered one, what could you possibly do against it?” Chalas huffed into his face, an intentional bit of spittle flew from his mouth and nostrils.
Rinicus winked, Cadius stepped back and began uttering arcane words under his breath, and the shadows moved with dozens of footsteps and blades being unsheathed from every direction. “That. And if your blade raises even an inch, I will have you pelted with knives, daggers, poisoned arrows, and incinerated right here and now.”
“Ha, he, heh, huh, brave words, nothing more.” Chalas Kalaza slid his great chipped sword into its sheath made of unknown skins and hides. He walked over to one of the shadows, one of the men there clad in black with a crossbow aimed at the minotaur. His hand was trembling, the bolt nearly skittering out of place, and his eyes glared at Rinicus hoping for an order, or perhaps hoping not for one.
“Your men tremble in my presence. They know what I will do to them, they have seen it.”
“Do not make me do this, Johnas will be disappointed.” Rinicus smiled, hoping the beast would touch one of his men, waiting for the moment to order his death. His hand went toward the hilt of his shortblade and his mangled hand for a dagger on his belt.
“I go to kill a worthy enemy, either Saberrak the gray or Kaya T’Vellon if I find her before my match in the arena. If you wish me dead, train your assassins to not wet themselves when I approach.” Chalas stalked out of the penthouse, laughing from a dark pit somewhere inside of himself.
Cadius let his breath finally escape his chest and let the orange balls of flame recede from his palms. He nearly fell into the chair, looking at his trembling hands and feeling the weakness in his legs. He looked to Rinicus who seemed poised and ready to fight without regard to any sort of fear.
“Why is it, of all the horrors and beasts we have seen and all the wickedness we have performed, that this minotaur is so absolutely dreadful?”
Rinicus placed his blades back into their positions and nodded for his bodyguards to resume their duties. I do not know, old friend, but it needs to be stopped. Inform Johnas Valhera that Chalas had gone insane and was killed.”
“And what if he finds out otherwise?”
“We will have to make sure our reports are accurate then, won’t we?”
“How?”
“Go to the arena, arrange for some special coating to Mafahann’s blades. Pay his owner five thousand in gold, a few boons for a later date, and make sure Chalas Kalaza does not leave that battle alive.”
“I do not have much time, the match is in but a few hours.”
“Then you best hurry.”
“And you will be doing what?”
“Finding Kaya T’Vellon. Too many loose strings here in Devonmir, it is time I cut them myself.” Rinicus motioned for his men to fall in behind him and strode out of the penthouse. He smelled the air for a moment, sensing the urine from one of his men, shook his head, and continued.
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The blood dripped onto her thigh, soaking in quickly as she stared at it. Cold already, the lukewarm life staining her black clothing meant little and felt as less. Kaya looked up to the four men in their bunks. Four slit throats stood in the torchlight, gaping up to the ceiling as if asking for help from above. A fifth Devonmir guard lay dead on the floor, the one that had awoken. Her bladed smallshield and crimson covered shortblade shimmered with the dancing flames as more blood dropped from the mattresses and pooled on the stone floor.
Kaya moved, having stood still for untold moments in wonderment at her own deeds. No smile creased her masked beauty as in her younger years. Life and death, business and survival, were all one in the same now. Her steps were as the shadows her form blended with. Through two more corridors, up two sets of stairs with torches gone cold, the darkness was thick as she slowed her pace. Her hand grazed the rough stone, feeling for direction as she traversed up and out toward the sewers. Following her nose, her gut, and her hopes that only passages in and out would be guarded and far more easy to the side with the missing sergeant, the deadly assassin of the Emerald Eight of the White Spider was, step by step, closer to freedom. Minute by minute though, she knew, her betrayal would never be forgotten.
More torchlight, and pink light behind that, daylight. Be it dawn or sunset, Kaya could not tell, but her smile under the black mask nearly shone through in anticipation. One shadowy figure paced near the bars, blade in hand, bottle of wine in the other. Easy mark, and I am out. Kaya thought, knowing full well that word was on the streets of Devonmir days ago, word of the price on her head. Outside or inside, above or below, she would be hunted until she was far from any city that had agents of the White Spider. And she knew of none in which that was the case.
Kaya drew her shortblade, ten feet away, in the shadows, five feet away, poised and honed on the upper ribs, two feet and—“
The cold steel on Kaya’s neck from behind should have been her end, she knew it, a setup. The blade from the man in front was tipped in her sternum in a flash. A third blade curved around the front of her throat from behind.
“Do it then, be quick.” Kaya closed her eyes, letting her arms relax at the thought of not having to kill anymore. Her eyes dripped tears from the corners, despite her squinting to hold them in.
“Do what, kill you? I am no assassin, sorry to disappoint you.” The voice was feminine from behind, vaguely familiar.
“Then, why are you—“
“Did you drink that wine, even a drop?!” The woman from behind questioned the man in front.
“Not one sip, only a prop m’lady, you have my word.” He sounded familiar as well. The light from behind cast his features in darkness, and with her tears at the thought of death, Kaya could not make him out. He took her blade and her shield, then her two daggers, even the fake one.
“Now, young killer in the night, behave and you will live long enough to hopefully rethink your life.” The woman behind sheathed a blade and turned K
aya around. “We have a few questions, but first, let us remove this mask and see who it is we are talking to.”
“The more you know of the passages in and out of the arena, the better, woman.” The man held her arms while the woman in front pulled her mask down.
“Are you from the Sassari family?” Kaya muttered, confused as to who would not want her dead, maybe they had not heard of her killing Vossir just yet. No answer.
Kaya stood, one blade now at her back and another still at her neck, held by this woman she could barely make out in the dark. Her mask removed, auburn hair falling out of the ties, Kaya took a breath. The two that had her held up gasped in the darkness.
“Yes, I am Lady Kaya T’Vellon, formerly of Southwind Keep. Jade of the West.”
“We can see that. The question is not who you are, but why you are here?” The man spoke quietly, as if he had seen a ghost.
“Who are you?” Kaya looked more closely, straining her eyes in the dark of the undercity at dawn, so close to freedom.
Exodus III:I
City of Devonmir
He smelled in dire need of a bath, yellow teeth with brown decay flashing as he moved close and smiled, his mottled brown eyes red from talking all night and too much wine, Tirpali of Cordolla was enthralled. Just as Gwenneth had hoped, her subtle magicks had been working well, too well indeed. Two stories above the inner city streets of deadly Devonmir, the arena city on the border of three kingdoms, the prodigal wizard let her black hair flow free from behind her robes with a roll of her shoulder. Her eyes kept on her target, on his drunken friends behind him, and her hand caressed the staff of Imoch that lay across her lap.
“I have a staff for ye ta’ stroke, my lovely Gwenne.”
“Such sweet words my Caberran prince, yet not so fast, I only arrived this week. We have forever, you realize.” Gwenne forced the bile down from its attempt at surfacing here and now.
Shinayne should have been back by now with word on where Saberrak had been taken. James as well, finding the ins and outs of Tre’Hahdim Arena should not have taken all night. Gwenneth glanced around casually. Azenairk was at the other end of the room, black cloak over him and his armor like all of them had donned. He had been watching the men who were watching their sergeant fall in love, and they had been growing suspicious in their stupor of early morning. The dwarven priest had inched closer by the hour, pouring his beers down the cracks of the floor every minute or so as to not draw any curiosity from those gathered or working the place.
The Huntsman Inn was about the worst inn and house of ill repute in the city. Smashed in between the homeless region, the ruined spires of the old temple district, and the sewers end where grates on filthy streets ran with brown water ever slowly; young Lazlette had never seen poverty like this. Her skin crawled for a bath, yet she and Zen kept their posts here with the night sergeant of Tre’Hahdim well under Gwenne’s charms. She had gotten out of him that there was something under the arena, a city beneath the undercity, yet details had not come forth from her inebriated victim.
“But I want to see them robes on my floor, they would look good there I think. Do you agree?” Tirpali had fallen in love, she was everything. Rich, famous, beautiful, young and firm, and she even had a hint of innocence about her that had his loins stirring when the wine would allow.
“Such words you speak? Perhaps, perhaps tonight?”
“Anytime, anyplace my love, you tell me, tell your lord and master, your devoted servant Tirpali, and I will serve you pleasures a thousand times over.” His eyes were closing, yet something made them open to each word she spoke, making him want to continue with the sweet talk and wine. It must be love, he resolved.
“Tell me again, my bold warrior, the western entrance that you so bravely guard from all intruders, how many men do you lead?” Fishing for more information, Gwenneth looked to Zen and nodded, receiving the same nod in return that he understood all was in her control yet still.
“Let us talk of sweeter things, perhaps like what is hidden under those robes you wear?”
Gwenneth ignored him in his insistence on her clothing and watched as a lady named Velvet came down the stairs, a man she had finished in tow. Her black hair a mess, bags of weariness hung from her eyes, and her colorful garb had stains galore. In the dark of drunk, no one would see how poor and shabby she truly looked, but Gwenne noticed. She also noticed how she was watching her and Zen very carefully each time she returned from tricking a turn.
“My robes?” She snapped back to the task at hand. “You will have to wait for that my prince. Now, could you show me the way to the arena that is under the arena you spoke of? It sounds so very secretive and hidden. Perhaps describe it to me, as a lady such as myself could likely never venture to such a place.” The magicks still emanating from her words and eyes, unseen by any around, yet enthralled her man still was.
The wine dripped off of his chin, marking the table once more. “Thirty men, I command thirty myself. Have no doubts about Ajastaphan Arena, and you will find it. That is the way to go.”
“I do not follow.” Gwenne imagined the wine was talking now. She looked to Zen with rolling eyes that said it was of little more use here. She saw the bearded face of her dwarven friend nod from under his hood.
“When in doubt, you turn right. Everyone knows that when you are lost underground. But here, always to the left once you are below the city. No doubts. But you must know the passwords at every post, or…” Tirpali of Cordolla placed his hand on the thigh of his beloved and moved closer, his chair dragging noisily across the worn wooden floor.
“Truly? That is interesting, and what would those special words be? Fascinating I am sure.” Gwenneth played along, noticing from the corner of her eye that Zen had gotten up to pay his bar tab with the scrawny dark-skinned man behind the counter.
“I love you Gwenneth.”
“I am sure those are not the words, my handsome Caberran lord.”
“But I do. Enough words, let us go upstairs.”
“I truly must know, I am intrigued---“
Tirpali stood, stumbled a bit, and grabbed Gwennes forearm with force. He was drunk, too drunk. “Tonight, I make a woman out of you!” His laughter was accompanied by some fierce determination and bolstered by the cheers of his men across the dingy room, each with a groping whore his own across their lap.
Gwenne stood, yet released her concentration on the magick enthrallment as she did, and grabbed the staff of Imoch tightly. She saw Zen making haste toward her, warhammer out from under the long cloak.
“Who are you? What is this? Men!” Tirpali stood confused, staring at a woman he knew he had been with for many hours, yet could not understand why. Beautiful, yes, for a southern woman, yet his tastes were in younger Caberran girls. His men, at least ten from all around the tavern area and rooms upstairs, heard his call to arms.
Black lightning shot out from the staff in Gwennes hand just as blades were being drawn from all around. The hissing noise and bone popping contortions lasted but a second or three, then Tirpali, white faced and bent into a reversed fetal curl, fell to the ground, mouth agape at the ceiling. Dead.
Gwenne looked at the staff, then to Zen beside her, amazed as she had done nothing, not uttered one word nor touched any of the runes now glowing green across the white wooden artifact she held. The room stood still, men gazed, Velvet looked down then ran out the back hallway, and the barkeep ducked behind the mahogany.
“What did you do, Gwenneth?” Azenairk whispered up to Gwenne, nervously standing in the center of the room surrounded by certain enemies at this point. “Why would you kill him?”
“I did nothing, believe me, it was the staff, not I.”
“That matters not now I’d be guessin’, thirty on two, Vundren help us.”
“The whore, she has been watching us, go get her. I will handle the rest of them.”
“This is insane, where be Shinayne and James? Gods help us and bless this man here.”
; “Go!”
Zen turned and marched after Velvet, against his better judgment. As he took his first steps, the mob of early morning went into action. Hatred, fear, and trampling sent them down stairs and over tables amidst screams and yells and blades. Zen heard chanting in the arcane from Gwenneth, hails for guards from all inside, yet after the whore he went.
The mob dove, scrambled, and surrounded Gwenneth Lazlette. The dwarven priest looked back one last time then charged out the back of the Huntsman Inn. Zen’s warhammer slammed into a closed door and his charging weight broke it the rest of the way off the hinges. Another door, then stairs down into an alley, he looked both ways. Nothing. She was gone.
“Salcaral vendrimmi Vuul!” Crash!, whoosh!, the sound of shattered wood, exploding glass, bodies breaking and beams moaning in a maelstrom of arcane wind deafened all around and slammed Zen against the rails.
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“Just keep walking Lady T’Vellon, and all will be fine.” Shinayne had never taken a prisoner before, let alone marched a noble assassin through a dangerous city so that she could interrogate them. “If the price on your head is half of what you say, all I need do is scream your name and all of Devonmir will be upon you.”
“Brave words Lady T’Sarrin of Kilikala, I am sure you and yours would die faster than I.” Kaya kept her pace, kept to the side streets into the old temple district. She knew the city well enough to find her way around. She also knew that with her mask down, it was only a matter of time that someone spotted her with these two. “I assume you are here to rescue Saberrak, foolish as that is, I can tell you what you need to know.”
“It won’t be that easy, I assure you. Keep moving and keep quiet, assassin.” Shinayne did not trust Kaya one bit, less than in Chazzrynn now, yet having her close was better than having her loose.
“And when she tells us what we want to know, what then? Do we turn her in or simply let her go?” James turned full circle every twenty steps or so, watching the taller buildings and abandoned churches for any movement beyond the normal morning in poverty stricken Devonmir.
The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains Page 5
