Cloaks and Daggers

by Jay Aury

  His great paw slammed into Socretha, sending her skidding across the floor. The crowd roared, then even louder as she staggered back to her feet.

  Tiberius thoughtfully tapped his fingers against the twisting steel of his staff, watching, frowning as Socretha swayed a little. She shook her head, the moment of inattention nearly spelling her doom as Durgith nearly crushed her with another earth shaking swipe of his mace.

  And as every eye watched the battle on the floor of the arena, they failed to notice several orcs sidle up the steps which circled Tiberius’s vantage point.

  Betrayal

  With his thumb Borgrin felt the blade of his dagger, glancing back at Tiberius. The sorcerer was watching the battle attentively. Too attentively to pay any mind to a few orcs who were creeping up along the steps. And even if he noticed, he would only think they were trying to get a better spot.

  Borgrin looked back at the battlefield. Socretha was doing well. Though he hated her, Borgrin could admit that she was a powerful warrior. She danced around Durgith, avoiding the other’s massive club, forcing him to retreat, awkwardly trying to defend himself with his unwieldy weapon. His armour jangled across his form as he fought the snarling orcess, attacking him with all the clever savagery of a wolf. Her blade slashing, licking, always pressing him back. It would be a pity for her to die. Her young would have been powerful indeed.

  Borgrin returned his attention to Tiberius. The orc was at the top of the steps now. The earth gave another shudder as the ogrespawn slammed his mace to where Socretha had just been. Then, with tigerish quickness, the orcess stepped onto the club, jumped, and slammed her sword into the ogrespawn’s side.

  The crowd roared, the sound dwarfed by Durgith’s howl of pain. Tiberius leaned forward, red eyes blazing with intensity.

  Now!

  Borgrin jumped up the final few steps. Behind him, the rest of the orcs with him surged up. He grabbed the black clad sorcerer by the shoulder, raised his dagger, and plunged it into the Tiberius’s back.

  The sorcerer gasped, staggering forward a step. Borgrin grinned savagely as warm blood soaked his hand. He pressed nearer, pushing Tiberius against the rail, twisted the dagger.

  “You die,” the orc hissed.

  The sorcerer’s hand slammed onto the rail. Tiberius slowly turned his head, red eyes blazing. Borgrin’s smile vanished.

  A pale hand grabbed the orc’s face. Marks flared crimson down Tiberius’s arm. Borgrin screamed as his essence flowed into the sorcerer in a ribbon of green, withering the powerful warrior like a mummy. Tiberius cast aside the withered corpse, swinging to face the rest of the orcish assassins as they charged up the steps.

  Turn About

  The scream of anguish broke the spell of the match. Socretha turned from Durgith to the platform where Tiberius stood, just in time to see orcs with swords and axes drawn charge him.

  In an instant she saw the scheme against her master. Realized what had happened. How she had been used. She gasped, and then Durgith’s hand slammed into her.

  Flung aside, tumbling across the broken flagstones, she crashed into the crowd. Eager hands shoved her back into the ring. She glanced at her sword, broken nearly to the hilt. She cursed as Durgith turned to her, the rest of her blade jutting from his side, the ogrespawn’s pugnacious eyes flashing with anger. Red lightning blazed from the podium as Tiberius battled his assassins, the sight blocked by Durgith’s massive form. Socretha glared at her foe. She hadn’t time for this!

  She gripped her broken blade and charged. Durgith swung up his mace and brought it down. At the last moment Socretha threw herself forward, diving into a roll. The impact thundered beside her. She bounded to her feet, kicked off the mace. Durgith’s beady eyes widened. The towering ogrespawn reeled back as Socretha rammed her broken blade into his throat.

  Hot blood pumped onto her hand. Durgith gurgled, choking. The ogrespawn teetered. Orcs screamed and scattered as mount Durgith fell backwards, towards the courtyard’s vantage point. One of the erstwhile assassins, hanging back to wait his chance, turned. The orc’s jaw dropped as Durgith’s shadow fell over him.

  Rail and orc were crushed with a thunderous boom as Durgith landed. Socretha leaped off the dead ogrespawn. Another assassin turned, screamed at the sight of Socretha, bloody to the elbows, flying at him. She bore the orc to the ground, somersaulted off him and back to her feet.

  Tiberius stood alone. The sorcerer flared power, jagged crimson lightning stabbing the assassins as they came, sending them bouncing back. Magic burned in his free hand. He swung his staff, the twisted steel at the top suddenly moving like barbed tentacles, grabbing the stunned head of an assassin. Tiberius swung, ripping the orc’s head off and clubbing one of his horrified compatriots with it.

  “Come and get me you whoresons!” Tiberius roared, power crackling across his body like fingers of lightning, his eyes blazing in the shadows of the skull he wore. “You want a piece of me? Me! I’m Tiberius! I’ve conquered empires! I’ve had worlds in the palm of my hand! Try me you bastards! Try me!”

  His attackers balked, staggering back against the sheer power and raw fury of the man. Then, howling, Socretha was among them. One of the assassins turned to her and she rammed her broken hilt into his eye. The orc screamed, then screamed louder as she grabbed his axe, breaking his fingers for good measure before turning and hurling herself at the nearest assassin.

  Her axe came down, chopping deep into the orc’s skull. The orc fell, his head in halves. She turned as two more came at her. She swung, severing one’s arms at the wrists. The orc screamed, his stumps pumping blood. His companion hurled himself bodily at her and Socretha bent, caught him on her shoulders, and heaved. The startled male flew, crashing into his companions. A third moved to attack her to but a sudden blaze of magic from Tiberius sent the orc flying into the walls with a sickening crack of bone.

  As the assassins struggled to their feet, the reprieve cost them. Howling, the tattooed orcs surged up the twisting stairs and hurled themselves atop their traitorous brethren. Pleas of mercy were ignored as axe and blade did their butcher’s work.

  Socretha staggered back, her head spinning, heart pounding with adrenaline. She looked for someone else to fight, and instead saw Tiberius.

  The sorcerer’s runed chest was heaving. His skull hat knocked askew. His robes hung in tatters and he leaned on his cruel staff, watching, red eyes fiery with terrible defiance of his own mortality.

  Socretha immediately fell to her knee before him. “Master!” the orcess cried. “Forgive me. I didn’t-“

  “Quiet!” Tiberius snapped. He raised a hand and groped for his back. “Help me here! I can’t reach the damn knife!”

  Socretha scrambled to her feet and turned the sorcerer around. She sucked in a breath at the sight of the blade jutting from between his shoulder blades.

  “Don’t just stare at it. Pull it out!” Tiberous snarled.

  Socretha jumped. She grabbed the dagger and yanked.

  Tiberius strangled a scream with clenched teeth, his knuckles so pale they were nearly blue where they clutched his staff. He drew in a ragged breath and hissed, “…Did you kill the big one?”

  Socretha glanced back at the courtyard where Durgith lay, twitching feebly in an ever spreading pool of his own blood.

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Tiberius growled. His eyes locked on the would be assassin’s, held by tattooed loyalists. Tiberius twisted his lips with hate, red magic crackling from his fingers. “Hold them still,” he breathed, limping towards the now terrified prisoners. Red magic crawled across his hand like liquid flame. “I’m going to show them what happens to traitors…”

  Interrogation

  The splash of water jerked Felix into wakefulness. He tried to wipe the water from his face but a tension and clank of shackles told him how well that would go. Blinking the last droplets from his vision, he took in the room and all its confines. Cold stone surrounded him on all sides and his arms were shackled, chai
ns leading into the wall. A dungeon. Lovely.

  “Awake I see.”

  Felix lifted his head and peered at the man before him. Allithan smiled down at the human, two of the cloaked assassins at his shoulders along with the noble’s dull looking servant. Felix’s eyes fixed on one of the Night Blades, who smirked at him, the blade the elf carried Felix’s runed sword.

  “Yes,” Felix said as his attention drifted back to Allithan. “You threw water in my face.”

  “That I did,” the elf said, tittering with delight. “Oh yes I did. You are a most… robust one, aren’t you? Hmmm! My sister did always have a type. And you’ll be most excellent. Oh yes. Quite so.”

  Felix frowned. “Excellent for what?”

  “Why, for luring my sister in of course!” Allithan laughed.

  Felix frowned. “What?”

  “Oh yes,” Allithan chortled. “She’ll no doubt come to save you in order to retrieve her bodyguard. And in doing so, plunge right into my most cunning trap yet! Ha ha! It will be simply delicious! A trend setter! I mean really. Dancers with hidden blades? Poison coating the curtains? Ha! After this, no one will be caught dead being killed by those!”

  Felix blinked slowly. “What?”

  “Oh don’t concern your menial brain about it. You humans. So barbaric. And you killed a good number of my Night Blades while you were at it. Drogr! Slap him disparagingly.”

  The dour elf slapped Felix across the face. Felix rolled his jaw slowly. “Ow.”

  “Shall I hit him again, sir?” Drogr said dully.

  “No,” Allithan said. “Not yet. Spit on him though, Drogr. Show him my contempt.”

  Drogr hawked and spat. Felix didn’t blink. He looked up coldly at the elf, then Allithan. “Is there a reason I’m still alive, other than your amusement?”

  Allithan’s grin grew hard. He leaned in and grasped Felix’s amulet. The dark elf lifted it so Felix could better see.

  “I won’t kill you. Yet, human. You’re task is far simpler. Bait! That amulet my dear sister gave you has a tracking spell embedded in it. Linked to her very will. You die, it goes inert. And I can’t have that. Not until my dear sister attempts an ill-fated rescue attempt. Hah! Foolish whore that she is, she always had a soft spot for her slaves. I always knew that would get her killed one day. That’s why I hate my servants! Don’t I, Drogr?”

  “Oh yes, sir,” Drogr said morosely.

  Allithan tittered again as he turned to Felix. “She’ll rush to your rescue, and I will be waiting for her!”

  Felix grit his teeth. “So I suppose you’ll torture me now?”

  “Me? Ha! You’re not worth my expertise, human. You’re not even worth expressing my contempt to. Which is why I keep Drogr around. I mean look at you. All muscle and gristle. Hardly any fun at all.”

  “So I won’t be tortured?”

  “Now whoever said that?” Allithan looked back over his shoulder. “Trivar!”

  The doors opened slowly and a hooded figure stepped into the room. Hunched, as the light of the glowing spheres fell on his face it revealed a twisted mass of scar tissue and burns. His foot dragged, leather gloves on his hands. He smiled revealing only four scattered teeth in his mouth.

  “Master?” the crippled thing said.

  Allithan looked back down at Felix, smirking. “Meet Trivar. He is my chief torturer. A most excellent tool of pain and miseries. Oh yes. He’s made orcs scream like girls and girls howl like beasts. No matter how strong willed, by the time my dear torturer is done with them, they will gladly throw their lives on the arena floor than meet his tools once more.”

  Felix glanced at the hunched figure. “Lovely to meet you.”

  The torturer smiled dryly.

  “Bravado will do you little good,” Allithan said, sniffing and sweeping his cloak about him. “We’ll see how much bravery you have left once your balls have been cut off.”

  Felix shrugged, his chains rattling with the motion. “I’ve been tortured by the best in my world,” he said. “I suppose I may as well try yours.”

  Allithan frowned deeply as he tried to puzzle that out. “Bah!” he finally snapped with a contemptuous gesture. “Make him scream, Trivar! Use any means you like. Even the spoon! I must go prepare for my dear sister’s arrival. But first! Drogr? Kick him with violent contempt and… hmm… a hint of mild arousal.”

  Drogr did. Felix grunted, doubling over the elf’s boot.

  Allithan nodded, rubbing his nipple through his shirt. “Oh yes. That will do.” He sniffed and departed, cloak swirling in his wake. The Night Blade lingered a moment, sliding his finger along his sword. Felix narrowed his eyes, catching the rune on the steel. “A fine blade,” the elf said. “Too fine for a dead man.”

  “I agree,” Felix said.

  Again the elf smirked, and sidled out the door. Felix watched him go, the elegant silver door slamming behind them, sealing him in the dungeon with the torturer.

  Felix eased back, fingers questing on the floor as he watched the torturer shuffle over to a brazier. “So,” he said, his hand closing on a sliver of broken stone. “The spoon?”

  The hunchbacked figure gave a rasping laugh as he sprinkled some dust into a brazier, the flames jumping and flashing a searing blue. “Yes. But we’re not nearly at that point. Oh no. I like to start slow.”

  “I suppose,” Felix said as he began scratching the piece of rock against the cuffs, “that you’re going to use thumbscrews?”

  “Thumbscrews!” the torturer barked with mirth. “Those? Ha! Apprentice work. I am a craftsman, human. Any man can cut off someone’s balls. But I. I am a master!”

  “Really?” Felix said. “Because I have been tortured by the best.”

  “You mentioned that,” Trivar said as he stuck a brand into the flames.

  “Oh yes,” Felix continued, his voice masking the subtle scrape of stone on steel. “Very good. Have you ever heard of the Tavis Winder.”

  Trivar’s bloodshot eyes glanced his way. “Oh? I don’t think so.”

  “Very interesting technique,” Felix said. “It’s where a man’s arms are stretched over his head on a pair of two gears, and when they turn, twist the arms right out of the sockets.”

  Trivar arched a remaining brow. “Interesting.”

  “It is. Or the saltbox.”

  “Is that the one where you trap them in a giant house made of salt and left to dissolve?”

  “Oh, you’ve heard of it.”

  “Not the most effective one.”

  “What about the Bell?”

  “Ah,” the torturer breathed, looking up wistfully. “I recall that one. Where a man is put inside a massive bell which is rung until his very bones are pulped to jelly by the sound?”

  “Exactly! You do know your stuff.”

  Trivar smiled his broken smile. “I am an expert,” the hunchback said. He grasped the brand and pulled it from the flames, the marking on its surface glowing cherry red. The torturer hobbled towards the chained human. “Which you will soon experience. A pity we cannot discuss the means of torture more… thoroughly.”

  “Yes,” Felix said as he finished the opening rune on his cuffs. “A pity.”

  The mark flared And Felix surged upright. Trivar jerked back in surprise and Felix’s foot kicked the brand out of the twisted figure’s hand. The burning metal spun end over end into the air, hung for a moment and then descended again. Felix caught it by the handle, and as Trivar’s mouth opened to scream the alarm the Rune Knight rammed the burning steel down his throat.

  Trivar grabbed his neck, the flesh glowing a golden hue. He gurgled, eyes rolling back. Then, he collapsed with a thud onto the floor.

  Rubbing his chafing wrists, Felix stepped over the twitching corpse and to the racks. He examined the tools of torture with distaste, then grabbed a pair of fleshing knives. The thin blades gleamed in the dark of the dungeon as Felix turned and made his way towards the stairs. He opened the next door and stopped.

  The dozen gladia
tors in the next room slowly turned. Among them, the Night Blade with Felix’s runed sword, frozen in the midst of stroking the blade. Globes of magic glowed along the walls, their light shining off blades and daggers in the gladiator’s hands.

  Felix sighed. “Must we?”

  The Night Blade pointed at him. “Kill him!”

  “Suppose so,” Felix said and brought up his knives.

  Attack

  Auria checked her amulet again, feeding some more magic into the metal. An arrow formed in its hollow surface, aimed unerringly forward. The dark elf raised her head, taking in the building before her.

  The pleasure palace rose in jagged towers towards the violet sky, the glow of the distant Fount flickering against the stones like shadow figures chasing each other in an endless hunt. Silk awnings shadowed balconies and windows where the faint gasp and titter of voices could faintly be heard. Not far, the waterfront lay, ships docked, herding their stock of slaves and supplies into the city. Vassara had declined in its influence tremendously since the golden age of the Elven Empire, but their skill and fortunes remained. A decadent crown on the head of a corpse. Auria frowned at the thought, pushing it away. She slammed her fist against the door and stepped back, crossing her arms and tapped her foot in impatience until the entrance opened a crack.

  “Yes?”

  She cast forward a hand, a blast of force flinging open the door and crushing the man against the wall. She strode through, a mantle of power flickering from her shoulders like a cape of blue flame as she walked into the lobby.

  The man at the counter jolted to his feet. Auria flicked a finger, a spectral hand wrapping around the elf and lifting him off the floor to dangle in midair. “Where is he?”

  “He?” the elf gasped.

  Auria tightened her hand into a fist. The man kicked more frantically as the spectral hand copied her motion. “Felix. My human. Where is he? I know he’s here you rat! I can feel him.”

  “I… I don’t…”