EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (268 page)

Thunder boomed a split second later and it gave Grend the courage he needed to call to his companion. “Oben. Oben,” came the forced whisper as he waved a hand frantically in his companion’s direction.
 

“What is it?” came the annoyed reply as the struggling man’s eyes remained fixed on his torch. Protecting the precious flame was clearly the only thing on his mind.
 

“Come here,” said Grend, whispering as loud as a whisper could be and still be called a whisper.

Now he had Oben’s attention. The guard trotted over to him, still protecting his precious torch from nature’s onslaught as best as he could. Following Grend’s gaze, he glanced down at the road down below, squinting hard in the dark to try to see what his friend was looking at.
 

As if right on cue, several flashes of lightning lit up the sky one after another, revealing the cloaked figure waiting patiently in front of the gate. There was no horse to be seen, which was rather unusual, considering that the nearest smaller towns were still miles away, and even more unusual given the weather. No face could be seen, as the black, drooping hood covered the figure’s head completely, and the long, flowing black robe covered his whole body down to the ground, making it so that not even his feet could be seen. The only obvious clothing other than the black robe was a belt that housed daggers in plain sight on each hip. The cloaked man stood with his arms crossed in a nonthreatening manner.
 

Oben was speechless. He just stared at the dark figure as his hand wandered instinctively towards his sword opposite the hand holding the torch.

Grend had seen many things in his years of service, and decided not to be so fast to pass judgment. This man’s business had to be urgent, to come out in this storm. “Who goes there? State your business,” he called in a shaky voice.

A few seconds passed before the dark figure slowly reached a hand deep into his robe.

Now Grend found himself unconsciously fingering his sword handle at the unnerving movement.

Just as slowly as the figure reached into his robe, he withdrew a small bag that appeared to be a coin purse. He slowly held it up towards the two soldiers. Another few seconds went by before the dark figure began to shake the bag back and forth, seemingly to verify its contents and dispel the guards’ doubts with the familiar jingling sound of coin.
 

Lightning crackled across the sky again, followed almost immediately by booming thunder. The rain began to drive sideways again, which made both soldiers squint as tiny, stinging drops hit them in the face.

Grend was the first to compose himself. He shook off the onslaught, only to look down and see the figure was no longer holding the coin purse, just standing patiently, his arms folded once again in that same nonthreatening manner. “Bah...let the freak in,” grumbled Grend as he regained his nerve and walked over to one of the wooden wheels on the north side of the passage. He quickly gestured to Oben to man the one on the other side.
 

Oben, who was still a bit shaken, walked as fast as possible without actually running to the other wheel. The metal gate was not heavy, but did require two men to turn two separate wheels at once to open it.

The flimsy metal gate was more fit for keeping livestock out than for actual protection of the city. It was only closed at night anyway, which always made Grend wonder why, since their instructions were to let folk come and go as they please
. I
suppose having to turn these bloody wheels a couple times a night justifies our
compensation
. With the gate now open, the dark figure drifted through as the two soldiers looked down at him from the other side of the narrow walkway.

Oben shivered, looking at the unnatural grace with which the cloaked stranger moved. The head, which was perfectly level and did no bobbing at all while he moved, combined with the long robe that did not display any legs or feet, gave the appearance of a specter floating along the street. The dark figure did not appear to be particularly tall, but it was hard to tell from this height. The guard shivered again and grumbled something about the cold as both guards took positions at their wheels and closed the gate.
 

The stranger walked down the main street where most of the trade shops were. Made of a combination of clay and sand, it was packed down tight from decades of use by wagon wheels, horses, and literally thousands of merchants throughout the years. This was partly the reason why there were deep puddles everywhere. The rainwater did not easily seep into the rock-hard dirt road. The cloaked figure continued right down the middle of the street, not even avoiding the larger puddles, just walking in a line straight as an arrow with his head down and arms crossed. He passed a local armory, the bakery, and the weaponsmith’s shop, all which were closed for the night. However, none of these establishments drew the interest of the stranger. He continued to walk through the driving rain, seeming oblivious to the lightning that flashed again and again and was followed by earsplitting thunder. He only encountered one person, who ran off without paying the cloaked figure much attention.

The only places still open this time of night were the few taverns and whorehouses in Denark. One was hardly distinguishable from the other. It was more a preference of name rather than services rendered, as any place that served liquor had its share of whores as well, and vice versa.

One such establishment was known as “The Bleeding Duck.” It
was unusually slow tonight due to the weather. Topless waitresses walked around serving drinks to the usual rough lot that graced that establishment almost every night. The patrons would show up in the middle of an earthquake if necessary; a little rain meant nothing. It would take a lot more than that to stop this group from getting their poison.

The room was brightly lit with the many lanterns hung around the room. Yellow and white stripes running down the wallpaper gave the place an innocent feel. Five small, round, wooden tables complete with four plain wooden chairs apiece were the extent of the furniture. A worn-out staircase led up to the second level, where rooms could be rented for the night or by the hour if so wished. The heads of different game animals were spread around the room high on the walls, with wooden plaques holding up the trophies. A bear’s head was the most obvious, with a few strange creatures mixed in. One looked like a deer head but had three small horns and unusually large eyes.

Vega, a large, bald, heavyset man, stood behind the bar, pretending to clean off glass mugs with his apron as he stood under the bear’s head. Considering how filthy his apron was, it was a good thing he was only half-heartedly going through the motions while his attention remained where it always was: Looking out for his girls as they paraded around in next to nothing, and in other cases nothing.
 

Most of the girls carried a dagger somewhere on them, whether tied to the sides of their thongs or in leather sheaths tied to their lower legs. There were not many places to conceal such a thing, but that wasn’t really the point. Having a weapon in plain view made each of them seem like less of a target for some of the vile men they were forced to deal with. And maybe, more importantly, it made Vega feel better.
 

As he continued pretending to be busy, he watched his girls getting pinched and groped by the group of leathers in the far corner, who were the only customers remaining this time of night. He had learned long ago when to act or just let things be. For one, his girls could take care of themselves, and knew how to defuse any situation that got out of hand. One thing that was a little harder for him to accept was the simple fact that many of his girls liked the attention, and really had no limits at all when it came to making coin. He wasn’t jealous exactly, it was just that he had a daughter of his own and simply could not imagine her working in a place like this or being treated like a sexual toy. Most of his girls came from broken homes and had nowhere else to go. Some were severely abused, and he took them under his wing and cared for them like his own daughters, but at the end of the day they had to make their own choices, and all he could do was offer employment and protection.

When he opened The Bleeding Duck
oh so many years ago, he had been young and brash. Sure, he had sampled many of the girls he’d hired, but as Vega got older, he regretted a lot of the choices he had made.
No sense living in the past
.
 

The group of four leathers had one of the girls bent over the table. She was being cheered on by the others to the sound of clapping and whistling. Her trained moans made the leather who was using her services feel like a king, but all the while her smile was quite genuine, thinking of the coin her performance would earn her.
 

In between cheers for their friend, the three who were not as occupied were telling their same stories again: of the time they raided the town of Brinton and slaughtered every family that held residence. Of course, their version of the tale had them meeting stiff resistance, with them prevailing from insurmountable odds as wave after wave of trained solders were sent to the afterlife by their blades.
 

The girls stood around the table and listened intently, as though they had not heard the story a hundred times already. Ignoring the hands rubbing all over them as they oohed and aahed at just the right moments, they raised their hands to their faces in feigned excitement so as to seem completely spellbound by the thrilling tale.
 

Then one of the girls let out a short-breathed gasp, one that had nothing to do with her being penetrated harshly by the storyteller’s finger as she sat on his lap. There was another figure in the room, which nobody had seen or even heard come in. The dark-robed man was sitting at a table opposite the group, with his arms crossed and his black hood worn low over his face. The whole group eyed the stranger anxiously while remaining silent as mice. The cloaked figure did not move a muscle or even seem to breathe.

The leather who had been doing most of the talking was a large man with a thick, red beard. He leaned forward on the table, being the first to break the silence. “Hey there, stranger, can’t you see we’re closed?” he said a little more timidly than he had intended, which took some of the bite out of his attempt to appear tough.

The dark figure didn’t say a word or even move a muscle as the tension became so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Clearing his throat after his awkward attempt for humor, the leather looked to his friends for some sort of support. “Whatever happened to Will? He was supposed to meet us here over an hour ago,” he said when the silence became unbearable. Not that he cared why his friend didn’t show up. He might have gone home with one of the whores for all anyone knew. He was just trying to get some conversation going to help distract from the hooded figure he was suddenly sorry to have ever spoken to.
 

“Don’t know,” replied the dark-haired, clean-shaven leather on his left, “must be busy polishing that green ring he’s always bragging about.”

The three leathers laughed out loud and the girls timidly joined in. It was true, Will always did brag about the ring he’d stolen from some guy he supposedly killed right after raping his wife and forcing the man to watch. Nobody knew for sure if the story was true. It seemed to be a little different every time he told it.
 

The leathers had now put the dark figure out of their minds, so much so that they never even noticed when he walked over behind their table and hovered there a few moments. What they
did
notice was the severed hand thrown onto the table, still wearing the same green ring they had been speaking of.

There was instant chaos. All three men leapt from their chairs with weapons drawn.

The girls screamed and ran towards Vega, who had already pulled his steel crossbow out from a hidden trapdoor concealed behind the bar.
 

The hooded figure jumped back a few steps but did not draw the daggers that were attached to his leather belt. He just stood there with his arms crossed in a defiant stance.
 

All three leathers knew very well how to attack as a group. One of the leathers attacked high while the other two attacked low. Then they would suddenly reverse their angles as they continued the assault.
 

At the last possible second, the dark figure snapped both wrists upward in a whip-like motion. With a
click
, shiny daggers snapped into each hand. Purely on the defensive, he parried every single blow while lifting a leg when necessary to dodge a low attack, but never backed up one inch. Arms pumped in circles as the whirling blades deflected every thrust and slash with a solid
clanging
sound, sending occasional sparks flying off in different directions. Then, like a lightning bolt, he broke the deadlock by throwing a high kick that caught one of the lowlifes square on the face. He bolted towards the fourth, who was frantically hopping on one leg, trying to get his pants on. The stranger zipped right past him, seeming to have made no aggressive movements towards him at all.

It was not until the leather spun a complete circle that his eyes bulged. His throat sprayed warm blood like a fountain. No one even saw the strike happen.
 

The dark figure never broke stride as he ran halfway up the wall, then flipped over his pursuers in a tight somersault. Nimble as a cat, he landed on the table behind them. The leather with the thick beard watched the dark figure snap both hands in a whip-like motion towards them, then suddenly noticed he was the only one still standing. Looking down at his comrades, he saw a dagger buried deep into each of their foreheads, their expressions little changed due to the efficiency of the assassination.

The dark figure snapped his hands towards the ceiling once more. With a
click
, two more silver missiles appeared in his hands.