The Unseen

by Gregory Blackman

  “Can I interest you in some water of the magi?” a merchant asked as he grabbed onto the arm of Korine Dorset. “Plucked right from the Sea of Moab, it is. You won’t find any better magi water in all of the South Halls.”

  “Not interested.”

  “You look like a man in need of a woman,” said the next vendor, jumping in where the other failed. “Have you ever thought about—?”

  “Not interested.”

  When another merchant was about to enter the picture a stranger from the other side of the street rushed over to intercept. He was dressed apart from his Rahgul counterparts in a purplish suit with matching cummerbund, tails, and the fanciest ten gallon hat that Finley had ever laid eyes on.

  “Now, now, Jules,” said the man with the polite tip of his hat, “our friends here won’t be in need of any pixie fire or ork snout.”

  He urged Korine and Finley towards the nearest corner, where a more private discussion could be had between the three of them. “You must forgive the citizens of this town. The only strangers we get are the ones that aren’t wanted in the first place, and when folks like you come into town the merchants don’t rightly know how to act.”

  “You have my thanks, sir,” said Korine with a stiff shake of the hand. “I thought the Wild Lands were rough, but back there was downright unruly.”

  “Yes, well,” said the man, licking his lips full circle, “there are few places in all the kingdoms as worldly as the Rahgul Zoo.”

  Just what they needed Korine thought, another salesman with a spiel. This one believed his wares to be above the common sort, dressed in a suit one would believe a noble wore if they had never met a noble before, but the dark truth was that his stock was the shadiest of all.

  He pointed towards the end of the street where a large, striped tent had been erected to hide what was no doubt dozens of helpless victims. Korine had seen more than a few zoos over the course of her travels, some grand palaces of the sick and depraved, others mere shacks where the weaker races were beaten and starved into servitude, and this one fell somewhere in between.

  “It’s the pride and joy of Rahgul,” said the well dressed merchant, “well, besides the thriving black market and slave trade.”

  “I can believe that,” said Korine, flatly.

  She knew the diminutive kaern would have strong feelings at the sight of what could be his home one day. The repeated tug of her trousers signaled that the situation was direr than she predicted and she coyly inched her hand down her side to give the young beastkind some amount of comfort.

  “I can assure your friend that none of my animals can touch the patrons,” the zookeeper said, noticing the apprehension of the young man’s slave. “The kaerns give us some trouble, nasty buggers, but I can assure you they’ve been recently beaten into submission and won’t bother a soul.”

  “That’s mighty fine of you,” Korine said with thinly veiled sarcastic undertones. “You know any taverns that’ll serve my beaten and submissive company?”

  The strange salesman lowered his gaze from the fair faced young man to the sickly looking dwarf cowered behind him. “That’ll be the Sunken Drunk at the opposite end of the street. They don’t care what you are as long as you’ve got coin in hand.”

  He pointed in the direction of one of the plainer looking longhouses where a few drunks lay stranded outside. It wasn’t much to look at, so it was right at home with the rest of the town around it. As good as place as any never held truer words.

  “Well, can I interest you in a ticket?” the merchant asked. “Slaves get in free—.”

  “Thanks,” said Korine with as passive a wave as she could manage for the ill-bred, narrow-minded zookeeper, “but I don’t need to fill my slave’s head with any of your worldly sights, now do I?”

  If the oddly dressed merchant had any self respect he would have sensed the loss of a sale, but he didn’t. He watched them leave his corner, but he couldn’t stop himself from the hunt, and shouted, “Stop by anytime!” as his only sale in days walked out the proverbial door.

  Korine could see that their portly dwarf was already headed into the Sunken Drunk with Dashe not as far behind as she would’ve thought. Axel was right when he boasted that no one stands in the way of a dwarf and a bar, but that’s only because few can keep pace with one on its way to a drink. Stubby legs, or not, Axel Thorogard would see that theory proven true. Leave it to the dwarf to find the local watering hole before anyone else.

  “Hey, Korine,” said Finley with one more tug on her trousers.

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for getting me out of there,” he said, timidly. “I couldn’t take another minute with that beast tamer.”

  A sullen Korine Dorset stopped on the streets and looked down upon the face of her companion. She wanted to tell him that everything would all right in the end, that they would find a way to free him from that overcoat prison, but there was nothing less assured in the lands of Amor than a long life. They survived today. What would tomorrow bring for the group of four?

  “My pleasure,” she said, softly. “That sort rubs me the wrong way, too.”

  “One day we’ll have stolen enough goods to buy our own piece of land,” Finley said, “right?”

  “That’s the goal,” Korine answered, but now it was a goal that seemed farther away than ever before, “somewhere where all races are equal.”

  The two of them hurried towards the tavern with newfound purpose, eager to take part in some rest and relaxation, preferably both with a drink in hand. The Sunken Drunk might not have been their first choice, probably closer to their last, but for tonight it would be their only choice if they didn’t want to sleep amongst the drunks and vagabonds.

  Amor wasn’t the perfect world; it could hardly be considered a good one, but it was the only world afforded to them. Gods be damned, and royals guillotined. This was there world, as well, and in it they would reach for every shiny star that shot their wayward way.

  Korine and Finley pushed through the Sunken Drunk’s doors and into a world not so dissimilar to the one they left outside. It was crowded with the sort of people that worked hard jobs for long hours, and by the smell of them. Those jobs must have consisted of slop collecting or pig farming and what could only be surmised as grave robbing by the pockets of sulfur that hung in the air.

  “You here with the cute one and the short one?” the server asked as she approached with trays of mead in both her arms. She motioned as best she could to the bar where Axel Thorogard sat, a drink already in his hand and Dashe Kol not far behind with his head nearly submerged in the bosom of another beer wench. “The dwarf seemed to be in an awful hurry. He paid for your rooms and told me to tell the two of you to come on back.”

  “That’d be us!” Finley Mudbottom hollered as he bound past Korine and towards his like sized companion.

  Korine was less impressed by the sight of her friends than the young at heart Finley and could only shake her head in embarrassment. She followed the quick footed kaern towards the back of the bar where Dashe awaited them with warm hands and a glowing smile.

  “Busy night,” Finley said.

  “Yeah,” replied a love struck Dashe Kol, eyes trailing from one wench to the next. “Isn’t it grand?”

  “We’ll call you when your table is ready, love,” said the hostess as she excused herself from the young man’s side and moved to the kitchen. “Just write down your name on the book over there and one of the servers will call you over.”

  Korine wanted nothing more than a quick drink and a long sleep to carry her throughout the next few days. With a crooked smile on her face she signed Dashe’s name into the guest list, fully aware of the implications and eager to watch it all play out.

  “That’s the love of my life right there,” said Dashe, watching the hostess saunter to the back of the tavern.

  “We’ll see,” Korine said.

  Dashe Kol was forever the flirt of the group, traipsing from town to town with the gro
up of four with only thoughts of gold and booty to guide him. Despite his debauchery and lack of sincerity, Dashe was loyal, boyishly handsome, when not covered in a wiry beard from his lengthy travels, and in every town the group traveled he left love starved wives and their enraged husbands in his wake.

  “Dash’ay?” the hostess asked from behind the bar counter. “Is there a Dash’ay here?”

  The patrons of the tavern snickered at the anomalous forename. Even the bar wenches got into the spirit and burst into bellyful mirth, a fact that bothered the young adventurer to no end. Dashe, pronounced no different than the tactic he used most often in conflict, turned beat red and cowered from both friend and limelight.

  “I think the love of your life is calling you, Dash’ay,” said Korine, indulgent grin still pressed upon her face.

  “What?” a red-faced Dashe asked, his eyes still searching the tavern for lingering stares and smiles. “Oh, you’ll have to forgive the lass. We’ve only just met. Give her an hour.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Axel, chuckling from down the bar counter with a fresh mug in hand, “an hour with you and she’ll be good and proper to be heading for the hills.”

  Dashe shirked the attention given to him, his name, and headed to the free table with haste, but when he got to the table he made certain to send, “To the Siren Seas with the both of you!” their way before he sat down.

  Korine was quick to join Dashe at the table, and once his mug was emptied Axel slid precariously off his barstool and did the same. One drink, that’s what she wanted, but so rarely in her life was she afforded what she wanted. Not truly. As Korine watched the bar wench head their way with a tray of mead she wondered how much of that drink would pass through her lips before one of her compatriots found a way to ruin her evening. Not long she would soon find out.

  “Where’s Finley?” the dwarf asked as he plopped down in his chair with an empty mug in hand. Axel consumed many in a shortened span, but even he, a dwarf who pretended to care little for the furriest of his companions, noticed what his human allies had not. “Where’s that blasted,” he paused to take stock of his surroundings, “Lowgardian hill dwarf gotten us into this time?”

  Chapter Five

  Shadow Brokers

  Gregory Blackman

  No People of Mine

  There wasn’t a street on the isle Simeon Lyon’s name wasn’t muttered. Always in the dark and among the closest of friends, but they were words whispered all the same. There was a time when his name would bring about laughter and cheer. Those days had come and gone. There was little laughter left on this isle and no cheer to be had.

  These were a weary people, a fact that became more apparent with every twist and turn of the ashen road he walked. He headed to the merchant bazaar, a bustling place that never seemed to change as he grew into the man he stood now, in search of the familiar faces and not so familiar ones; anyone that could bring a sense of the old into his life when he so desperately needed it.

  He didn’t speak the whole truth when he spoke to his father and the serpent, and while the northern clans do not seek to usurp the high throne, there was darkness to the lands that lingered in the rivers and valleys, waterfalls and mountains, darkness that wouldn’t be so easily revealed. The high king was a weak, tired king that was blind to the darkness that stirred. Simeon knew this. How long would it take the rest of them?

  Simeon found at a young age there were few things in this world a man of wealth couldn’t procure inside the castle walls. For everything else there was the merchant bazaar.

  “I’ll be damned,” Simeon said. “This place is a dump.”

  The entirety of the merchant bazaar was in disarray, which was a larger problem in itself, as never before had he been able to see it from one end to the other. There were empty stalls, rodents scurrying from one side to the other, and more than one delinquent taking a piss where they thought themselves hidden. The proper amount of coin hadn’t been spent on this district in cycles. So where had it all gone?

  This ashen city had stood for thousands of cycles, since it was first gifted to the elves, seen fires rain from a sky blackened by the wings of mighty beasts, but even this storied isle wouldn’t outlast mankind. Not at this rate.

  “You there,” said Simeon as he called out to the nearest city dweller. “Would you come here, please?”

  The man, dirty and covered in stains be they booze or some other sort, took one look at Simeon and came running over. He could tell by the princes clothes, past the wear and tear three cycles aboard took, that this was a man of means, and for a man of means a few gold coins would mean little. To this man it would mean the world. Sadly, for the man covered in grime, his caller wanted neither.

  “You wanted me, sir?” the man asked.

  Simeon threw his arms about the air and motioned to everything their eyes laid upon. When finished, he turned back towards the man, and said, “What in the four pillars happened, my good man? Shouldn’t this place be a little bit livelier, if you know what I mean?”

  “That would be the port, sir,” said the man, speaking delicately so he wouldn’t slur his drunken words together, “or lack thereof one. The high king closed off the merchant wharf a couple of cycles ago to all but the royal fleet. Not even the other kingdoms are allowed access unless granted special allowance.”

  “Is the high king mad?” Simeon balked. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  Treasonous speak if there ever were on the isle. The dirty man backed up immediately in response, and said, “I… I don’t want any trouble, sir. You have a drink on me, all right?”

  And just like that, the young prince was alone once more in a city tens of thousands strong. He continued down the bazaar, his eyes shifted back and forth between the stalls in search of anyone he might recognize. Vyers was the commander of the Lyon children, forever on the battlefield with the empire’s might by his side. Aric suited the diplomat role more than any other, more often found in the courts than the barracks that lined the walls outside the isle. Celeste was the youngest, yet to find her voice or her passion. Under the tight yoke that was Otto Lyon she might never come to realize that she was the strongest of them all. That left Simeon the odd child out. He was named after a great warrior but not all that handy with a blade, born with both silver tongue and spoon in this mouth but not a diplomatic bone in his body. All Simeon had was the people of the isle. At least, he used to have them.

  There wasn’t a face Simeon could place in the bazaar, which he found out sooner than he anticipated as there was hardly a soul here. It was a no man’s land, right in the middle of the isle, where he was more likely to be stabbed in the street than find a friend he may know.

  “You know who that is, right?” one of the civilians whispered under the darkness of a canopy. He was a grimy sort of man, covered in what Simeon hoped was mud and mead and chompers that were more gum than teeth. He was huddled with similarly dressed men, and all of them with eyes locked on the prince.

  “Should I?”

  “Simeon Lyon,” the first man to speak answered.

  “Well I’ll be a dwarf’s uncle.”

  “There’s no way that’s him. C’mon, Dyad, if he’s a prince then where’s his royal envoy?”

  “The last time I saw a royal I damn near got run over by the plated boots of a half dozen guards.”

  “It is,” the man known as Dyad hissed. He returned his gaze to his friends when caught in mid stare. “A chap of mine saw his ship come into port. Who else you know gets into port these days but a royal?”

  “I heard he bested the siren in combat.”

  “I heard it was black magic.”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Dyad with one more glance in the prince’s direction. “What are you lot, northern? Where’s your sense? He’s looking over here, for Highgard’s sake. If the guards come to arrest us I’ll make sure it’s your heads that go to the block first.”

  Simeon Lyon wasn’t interested in having these men arrested. Nor
was he inclined to have their heads upon pikes. Still, he had known little joy these last few cycles and saw a chance to lift his spirits ever so slightly. With a long, drawn out smile stretched upon his face, Simeon took a few determined paces in their direction only to see them all scatter into the back alleys like vermin.

  The truth wasn’t nearly as glamorous. He didn’t come to blows with the siren of the seas and there were no necromancers onboard to perform their black magic. His passage came upon secrets learned from the pirates of Pire. He used a slave vessel to lure the siren out while he slipped through unnoticed. Not exactly the sort of tale a bard would sing if he wanted to make any coin. When it came time to return, another vessel filled to the sails with slaves with sacrificed. Two vessels filled with innocent lives, all sent to the bottom of the sea so that a high king could learn what his court already knew.

  The familiar sound of steeled boots put to purpose brought Simeon from a dreary memory and back into the world that surrounded. He looked to the end of the bazaar where a regiment of the high king’s troops marched in unison. Simeon never believed he would be glad to see the armed guards. Often they were at odds with him and his partying ways. Yet, as it was with the bazaar he stood in, things change and they change fast. He stepped out from the darkened canopies of the bazaar to where the sun shone upon him and the men sure to come this way.

  The soldiers passed without a one of them giving Simeon a second glance. In this regiment he saw only adolescence and ill training. They didn’t recognize him because they didn’t know him. They didn’t know his face, and they didn’t know of his ill repute. These were the young, eager faces of boys not yet experienced in war. A few cycles in the Wild Lands would change all that for them. His father would be sure to see to that.