The Black Sword, Chapter 2: The Deserter

The abomination never seemed to tire. The bars on its cage were thick iron, dinged and scratched by its constant attempts to break free. As the cart rattled down the packed dirt road, pulled by a nervous-looking mule, the creature would periodically lift two of its bone-tipped legs and strike at the bars over and over. When it tired of that tactic, it would spring up against the roof of the cage, causing it to bounce slightly, and spin with its blades extended, producing a cacophony of clangs and scrapes. The adventurers got little sleep on the two-day journey back to the rendezvous.

It was twilight when the three began their unsubtle approach to the designated point between the hills. The orange of the setting sun seemed to emerge in fractured shards from the Lene as it flowed south. It had been only six days, but Malcolm's skin had paled from its usual ruddy brown to a peaked gray and his eyes were sunken in his skull.

"I thought your kind could handle this kind of thing," Ghaleon jeered as they approached the first hill. "I'd hate to see you with a couple of ales in you."

Malcolm murmured an incoherent response, staggering alongside the cart as the cloaked man came into view. When the adventurers were close enough, he stirred from his statue-trance.

"I knew I was right to tap you," he said in his low, resonant voice. "I see you delivered the creature as we agreed."

"And the antidote?" Soirse demanded. Tacitly, the man tossed three more vials of viscous fluid to the travelers. Soirse held hers up to her face, examining its contents. Malcolm's vial hit him in the forehead, sending him stumbling weakly backward. When he regained his composure, the dwarf shuffled over to his vial and drank its contents greedily. The color immediately began to return to his face.

"This is the same thing you gave us last time," Soirse said accusingly, "We did what you asked, so give us the antidote."

"I'm afraid my associates and I require a bit more from you," the cloaked man intoned. "You see, we --"

"The deal was creature for antidote," Ghaleon interrupted. Gesturing back to the cage, whose inhabitant had become oddly placid, he said, "Creature." Stepping forward and holding out his left hand while clutching his sword hilt with his right, "Antidote."

The cloaked man seemed to smile, not that it was evident on his hidden face. "Mister Ebonheart, I thought we established that your current course of action was unwise. Kill me, and you'll die in days." Ghaleon retracted his hand and loosed his grip on the hilt. "Now," the man continued, "as I was saying. My associates and I have located one of our own who abandoned us. He was but an initiate, but he knew too much of our ways. We need you to silence him."

"I am no assassin," Soirse stated in protest.

"You will be," replied the man. A breeze off the river caused his cloak to flutter. "Now, the deserter's name is Siobhan, an old man who lives in the city. He has a house on the border between the Gro-Bannor and Kaldorn districts. You'll want to be careful. He was only an initiate, but he has still gleaned some of the skills of my order. You'll need to surprse him."

Soirse fumed silently. Fenrir growled. Ghaleon's eyes showed a slight glimmer of excitement, while Malcolm listened intently, willing to go to any lengths to prevent a return to his afflicted condition. The cloaked man approached the travelers, staying in the shadows to conceal his face. He extended a hand holding a small pouch and a golden pendant. Ghaleon approached cautiously and accepted the items.

"This should help," the man said, "It is a magical amulet that will guide one single blow unerringly to its target. Use it wisely."

"And the money?" Ghaleon asked, jangling the pouch of coins.

"You are not slaves. We will pay you for your work." As the cloaked man said that, three slender men emerged from the bushes surrounding the hill behind the adventurers. They wore black studded leather armor and inscrutable black face-masks. As they approached the cart, the creature remained docile. Each man wrapped his hands around two bars, and together they carried the cage past the cloaked man and into the thicket behind him. "The antidote lasts for seven days. You should begin your task immediately." He disappeared into the thicket.

***

Soirse and Malcolm stood off the side of the road, watching Ghaleon talk to the passersby. He transitioned seamlessly from one to the next, putting each at ease. Old human women, brash young dwarves, everyone Ghaleon talked to seemed genuinely pleased to have had the experience. After about fifteen minutes of talking, he strode proudly over to his companions.

"Alright, I found the house."

"That fast?" asked Malcolm, incredulous.

"Of course that fast. I'm a nobleman after all. People respect me."

Almost imperceptibly, Soirse rolled her eyes. "Well?"

"Apparently he almost never goes out, so we can be fairly certain he'll be home. We should go at night though. Get him while he's asleep."

"Tonight then?" Malcolm inquired.

"Tonight."

***

The new moon meant the night was exceptionally dark. Siobhan's house was at the end of an alley in the Kaldorn district. It was strikingly ordinary. Two floors, built of wood and plaster, the house was almost a perfect square. A larger front door was visible as the three approached, but as they spread out to examine the building, Malcolm discovered a back entrance as well.

"We need to do this fast," said Ghaleon, golden pendant dangling from his neck. "I've got the amulet, so I'll make the killing blow."

"Fine with me," Soirse answered, Fenrir seated at her side.

"We need to find out where he is. I don't want to spend any more time searching than we must," Ghaleon began, "Malcolm, what's that weird-ass climbing thing you do?" The dwarf smiled at the acknowledgment. He traced a few simple arcane gestures and uttered a few simple arcane words. A purple glow flickered around him for a moment.

"Right," Ghaleon said dully, "Anyway climb up and look in the windows." Malcolm obeyed. Limbs bending unnaturally, he scurried up the plastered wall and peeked in each window around the perimeter of the house. Scuttling back around a corner, he motioned for the others to join him. The window was shuttered; Malcolm jabbed a stubby finger at the wide openings between the slats, mouthing "in there."

"We can't risk the noise of getting the shutters open," Ghaleon said as Malcolm dropped to the ground. "Let's take the back door."

Malcolm tried the handle, but the door stood fast. "Locked," he said, frustrated.

Soirse stood, looking on contemplatively, but Ghaleon stepped forward, rummaging through his bag. "I dabble a little in this stuff," he said, extracting a small leather wallet filled with oddly twisted metal tools. Bending over, he fiddled with tool after tool until the lock slid open with a click. He pushed past the door and stepped inside.

The interior of the home seemed more spacious than its exterior indicated. The furnishings were utilitarian but plentiful. Wooden bins housed various foodstuffs, while a simple wood-stove occupied the far corner of the room. An open doorway led into a second room, outfitted with a squat table and four chairs. A wooden stairway along the right wall led upstairs, while the left wall was shrouded in darkness.

"There's something over there," Malcolm whispered. Fenrir was alert, staring intently at the dark corner. As Soirse and Ghaleon turned to look, it leaped from its hiding-place. A canine form constructed of scores of iron tubes landed in front of the three, producing a thousand grinding sounds as it moved. Fenrir growled, and the artificial dog prepared to strike.

As it lunged forward, Malcolm said something. The word was nigh-unpronounceable, and it seemed somehow wrong when Soirse heard it. Her attention was diverted from the dog for only a moment as she turned to see Malcolm standing with his feet wide apart, hands pointed toward their assailant.

A chorus of twangs and pops emanated from the creation's whirring metal heart. It followed through with its lunge, falling apart as it struck out toward Fenrir. Its muzzle thudded on the floor inches in front of the startled wolf as the entire automaton collapsed into a collection of gears and wires.

"What did you do?" Soirse asked, surprised.

"Just another of my tricks," Malcolm smirked.

"Good work, but we're wasting time here," Ghaleon commanded in a harsh whisper, "We have an old man to kill."

They tried to ascend the stairs as quietly as they could, but the old wooden steps creaked under the adventurers' collective weight. The home's upstairs consisted of a narrow corridor with three doors, one on each wall and one at the end. Skulking down the hallway, Ghaleon quietly nudged the left door open, revealing a darkened laboratory. Strangely shaped bottles and flasks were strewn across a long wooden table, some filled with pungent and colorful liquids. A desk in the corner held several dog-eared codices open on top of one another.

"Not here," Ghaleon whispered, motioning for the door at the far end of the hall.

Soirse drew her scimitar and Ghaleon unsheathed his sword. Focusing for a moment on the pendant, he felt it vibrating against his chest. Ghaleon flipped the blade, held it aloft, and kicked the door. It swung open freely.

A staff, crackling with arcane energy, was pointed directly at Ghaleon's face.