View Full Version : Blackwood Lumber Co. (Solo)
The loose cobblestone streets of Underwood trembled underneath the heavy hooves of a horse, laboring a large wagon ladened with various goods for the markets. It was just before sunrise and a slight fog roiled around the jostling wagon. The driver was a bushy bearded fellow who squinted even in the light that the street torches lent, his girth made the thing lean to one side, and Rhelin tried hard not to slide right into him as the wagon dipped and bucked to the whims of the road underneath. Rhelin counted it as luck when he ran upon the merchant about a week’s walk from Underwood, but his backside sure didn’t. The worn wooden plank of a seat wore his muscles into what felt like what remained of a good beating.
There was not much to see of the town just yet, just rows of houses, some lit with candles as those residing in them began to rise in the early morning hours. Miners, timber cutters, and well to do shop owners began to head out to get a start on their daily routines. Rhelin also noticed a few eyes watching him warily as the two travelers passed by, he didn’t return their glances, but he certainly took note. He would have to be careful.
“Mr. Gumbred, are we almost there?” Rhelin asked the merchant loudly in order to push his voice over the loud clomping underfoot.
“Almost, be patient!” Gumbred spat, “you been ridin’ with me for almost five days now and this is the time you choose to git antsy, aye?!”
Rhelin regarded the man for a good moment, his round face carried two bulbous cheeks, and even with the sun barely casting enough light to begin burning off the morning fog, one could still see the rose red of them, kissed by the sun no doubt.
“I’m just ready to get on with it; I’ve been on the road for quite some time. Don’t you ever tire of travelling, Mr. Gumbred?” He asked.
“Aye!” Gumbred tussled the reigns as his horse began to slow her pace. “I do, then I go home and stay with me wife for a moment, that’s enough for any man to yearn for the road again!”
His hearty laughter echoed off the storefronts that seemed to crowd closer as the streets narrowed before opening into a large plaza. Rows of stands were being opened up. Women readied rugs to be sold, young children helped set up wares ranging from simple trinkets to more exotic imports from further lands.
The wagon drew to a sudden halt as the man pulled at the reigns, rushing Rhelin from his inner wonderings. “Allright, this is as far as she goes, what you need to do is head down that street right thar!” He threw out a gesture towards the east, to a wide street at the far end of the plaza.
Rhelin nodded and snatched up his rucksack, throwing it over his shoulder before jumping down off the cart, squinting in pain as his stiff muscles protested. He stretched out his sore back as he offered his thanks to the old man, as unpleasant as the trip may have been, it saved him quite a few days of walking.
As they parted ways Rhelin trekked across the plaza, even now merchants were looking at him with suspicion, new comers were frequent in this quarter of town, but his ebony skin sometimes marked him as different. Some of the more ignorant even believed him to be some sort of mix of demon. However, their greed overcame them as they called out, peddling their wares, trying to heckle him and a few other early customers into buying.
Rhelin shouldered past a man selling a miracle potion, swearing it would allow the one who drank it the ability to breathe underwater. He suspected that even if it didn’t work, unsatisfied customers would hardly be left in a state to complain. He made it to the far street, Eldenweld he read on the worn wooden street sign as he made his way down the street. Horse and man drawn carts full of freshly cut lumber pressed down the way, it seemed more crowded than the market plaza itself. The place was a buzz of workers wielding wood cutting axes, foremen measuring, inspecting, and often enough scolding their subordinates.
As he found his way further down the road, the shops dwindled as the area opened into compounds housing the various lumber traders that competed in Underwood. The smaller ones seemed to be worked by locals, but the larger compounds were smattered with all sorts of races from across the land. No doubt carted in from city slums for cheap. Rhelin dropped his ruck at his feet and rifled through it, pulling out a rolled up piece of parchment, he unrolled it, thumbing the broken seal of red wax.
“Master Rhelin,
I am Coran Brenheld of the Blackwood Lumber Company of Knife’s Edge. I believe that we share the same “acquaintance,” Master Spriten. It is with his recommendation that I seek you out for employ with the Blackwood Lumber Company. My counterpart Illyth Damintri has founded a venture for our company in Underwood, and her successful exploitation of the area has been noteworthy.
I need it to be not so noteworthy. While she is being successful in the Underwood area, my own plans for new ventures in other areas are in danger. This is why I have summoned for you, Master Rhelin. With your skills I believe you can get into places you should not, in order to find something, anything, which will discredit comrade. Go to Underwood, I have already made arrangements to have you hired onto one of her work crews. Once you find something substantial enough to cause her to be more or less fired, report back to me.
Respectfully,
Coren Brenheld
Blackwood Lumber Company”
From the very first time Rhelin had read the letter, which came to him via courier, every fiber of his body screamed for him not to take the job. It had been years since he was a ward and retainer of the Lich Artrerie, he had paid his debt, and had no real interest in being manipulated further by the undead wizard. However, he could not argue with the offer of gold, as his had been terribly light the past few months. Most of the lucrative tombs in the area of Knife’s Edge were either looted already, or had become hideouts for some of the more clandestine cults. Even if playing spy was not exactly what Rhelin had in mind for a “real job” the idea of a steady coin was appealing, and quieted his feelings.
Not to mention, as bad as Rhelin despised the notion, he felt as if he DID owe his former master at least one small favor, if only as a final adieu. Tucking the parchment back Into his rucksack, he hefted it up squared it on his shoulders, setting off further down the road.
The sun had risen fully over the horizon, the cool pre-dawn hours made way for what was sure to be a blistering day. Rhelin felt the cool trickle of sweat rolling off his brow, the subtle taste of salt on his lips. He was beginning to remember why he worked at night, as he squinted to keep the harsh sunray at bay. He never understood how lighter skinned folk survived, turning red like ripe tomatoes like many often did. The sun was nearing its highest peak when he finally arrived at the Blackwood Company’s compound. A sprawling lumber mill settled a short ways outside of town, a bit further than the rest.
The whole place was surrounded by wooden ramparts at least two men high, a temporary, if over exaggerated solution to thieves, perhaps? Or from other companies, Rhelin had heard stories about how tough competition could be amongst powerful organizations, sometimes ruining whole towns unfortunate enough to be caught between two companies intrigues. Which led to open warfare more than a time or two.
Two guards over watched the road that led to the entrance, and quite predictably they halted Rhelin, not recognizing him as one of their own. They were both clad in chain maille hauberks and matching white tunics with imbued with Blackwood’s emblem, a large black tree. They trained their spears upon Rhelin while one barked for the Sergeant of the Guard. A very tall north man came out, clad in the same armor as the two guards, except he wore a steel sword on his belt. Wiping the sweat off his brow, obviously as unaccustomed to the weather as Rhelin himself was. The Sergeant probably arrived not too long ago, by Rhelin’s guess.
The Sergeant regarded Rhelin with an uncompassionate expression, his stone grey eyes looking him over, focusing on the hilt of his Short Sword. “Who are you, and why shouldn’t I have you jailed for trespassing?”
Rhelin raised his hands in acquiescence, “I am only seeking employment, sire. I was told that I could find one here, I was also told to speak with your boss, Damintri about it. Is she available?”
The Sergeant snorted with utmost contempt. “No one just sees Lady Damintri! Especially fresh off the manure wagon, you fool!”
Trouble already. Rhelin quickly made for a defensive stance as the Sergeant clenched the hilt of his blade, about to draw. However, before a shrill note of steel broke the moment of uneasy silence, a small man burst between them. Quickly the guards snapped to attention, and the Sergeant of the Guard reeled back, stiffening into the same position, rather uncomfortably.
The man was tiny compared to an adult, more readily identified as a child if he did not command such respect from the trio of guards. He was dressed finely as well, with a colorful brown, red, and gold robe that hung over slender, female like shoulders. His boots were polished black leather and did not appear as though they saw dirt that often. The white gloves the man wore was perhaps the most telling, he was obviously someone high in the Blackwood food chain.
“Skingrad! What the bloody hell are you doing!” The short man griped in a small, high pitched voice. The Sergeant, Skingrad stood a good three heads above the fellow in front of him, but he spoke quickly, spitting out a description of what transpired, as if it were being drilled out of him.
After hearing his words he spat in condemnation, “This is obviously Master Rhelin, fool! He was sent from Knife’s Edge! He’s not just some local idiot to be kicked around!” He pulled his left glove off and it found Skingrad’s cheek with surprising speed, and with that poignant statement he tramped off.
“Come with me, Master Rhelin, it’s so hard to find good help these days!” He said, pulling his offending glove back on his small framed hand.
Rhelin quickly followed him through the entrance way, looking back over his shoulder to see the hulking Sergeant of the Guard rubbing his reddened cheek. He stared back with hate that was palpable. That would not be the last time he heard from Skingrad, he was sure of it.
Rhelin quickened his pace until he was shoulder to shoulder, or at least head to shoulder with the man whom had no doubt saved him from unnecessary violence. “Who are you?”
“Oh! My apologies, Master Rhelin,” the man looked up to him with a polite smile, as if he snuffed out his disdain displayed just moments earlier, like a flame on a candle stick. “I am Nelond Rhinehart. Coordinator of Acquisitions for this little slice of heaven we have here! I’m the one that brokers deals between the woman that runs this place, and the man that runs the town, so to speak. Here lately though, Lady Damintri has been taking it upon herself to do my job. So instead, I keep the guards in line, as you can see.”
He spoke a little too loudly for Rhelin’s taste, as if trying to make everyone around them hear what he was saying. They quickly crossed a small courtyard while Nelond explained the goings on of the compound. He pointed out the smithy, a squat stone building that rang loud with metal pounding metal. The steel ingots the smithy worked looked more fitting for swords rather than the horseshoes Rhelin would suspect a metal worker in these parts to be fashioning. He also showed him the Healer’s infirmary, which was a part of a large warehouse shared with the company’s supply stores. All of the buildings looked new, but hastily built. The stone that made up their walls were rough with gouges from the pickaxes that were used to wrench them from the quarry.
As they weaved between carts and throngs of workers, Rhelin could not help but notice that security was fairly heavy for such a seemingly mundane operation. Patrols of two to four men armed with swords and spears, sentries posted at the more seemingly more important buildings. It was more like a small town than anything else, with their own standing security force.
As the two men reached the steps of a large, two story building, which Nelond introduced as the headquarters of the compound, his peppy demeanor quickly changed. Rhelin was caught off guard as Nelond’s small hand grabbed at the sleeve of his tunic and pulled him down to his level. Nelond’s eyes were shot with worry Rhelin hadn’t noticed before, and he spoke in a faint whisper.
“Listen, Rhelin. I pulled a lot of strings to get you hired on here, at the behest of Master Brenheld. I don’t know what you’re doing for him, or for what price, but leave me the hell out of it. You don’t know and you won’t understand half of what’s really going on here. So don’t even try. Stage your play, dance the dance, and leave.” Nelond’s expression turned from nervous fear to anger, “Tell Master Brenheld whatever you must, but if Lady Damintri suspects anything you will not make it back to say a word. Is that clear?”
Rhelin was speechless; he searched for the answers in Nelond’s eyes and found nothing. He suddenly doubted that this would not be just a simple dirt finding job…
Illyth Damintri’s office chamber was particularly quiet on this particular morning. She was sitting lazily upon a large plush chair she had moved near the single large wrought iron framed window in the room. The curtains were drawn to keep the heat of the noonday sun out, but she had pulled aside a small portion of the drapery so that she could gaze out onto the courtyard her office overlooked. Such a desperate looking place. A far cry from the civility of Knife’s Edge, and even further from the creature comforts of the palatial family home she came from.
Just watching all the sweaty, smelly, uncivilized laborers toil with their work made her sick to her stomach. Looking out further, she could not help but smile at the green of the forest that limned the horizon. She saw gold. When she read her orders from headquarters to come to Underwood in order to facilitate the creation of a foothold there, she seethed with anger. The high born Lady was far too good and educated to be sent to such a backwater, but there was a bright side to everything. A few short weeks after arriving and carving a foothold for Blackwood, she realized what she could truly build there. Her own path to success, as well as a hefty share of profits. There was a fortune to be made out here, for those bold enough to seize it, all one needed was the know how to pull strings, to play politics, and to play dirty.
Underwood had among the best trees in Althanas, ancient trees that were said to hold within them certain magical properties that alchemists, healers, and wizards alike craved. The trees there were more precious than the rarest gemstones. The only thing stopping her from tapping into that prize were those damnedable Elves. Wood Elves, Tree Elves, Forest Elves, whatever you wanted to call those brown haired squatters, it did not matter to Illyth if they happened to have been there centuries before. Ever since her workers had begun harvesting the trees within the Elven territory, they started countering with raids on her Lumber camps, attacking the supply caravans, and even killing the patrols she had sent to enforce the area.
The head of the Council of Underwood, Jethri Morendis, had far too much clout to go against, and he refused to assist the Blackwood Company in policing the roads that went through the Elven land, not to mention removing them from their precious territory all together. Soon though, Councilmen Morendis, and the Elves would be dealt with, provided her hand played out.
In her contemplations, she barely stirred as the heavy oak door of her office creaked open, and heard the familiar voice of Nelond, her so-called Coordinator of Acquisitions. A worthless title, really, but a necessary one. If her plans failed to pan out for her, she would need a scapegoat, and she rather enjoyed the idea of Nelond meeting some gruesome end for the sake of justice, even if he was not guilty of the wrong doing.
Drawing herself from her musings, she did not even borther to acknowledge him cordially, “What is it that you want now, Nolend? Are the guards teasing you, again?”
“No, M’lady, the guardsmen are being quite disciplined these days. We have a guest, he may be able to help us out with our Elf situation,” he said, straightening the hems of his sleeves nervously as he stepped further into the room.
It was dark except for the shaft of light let in by the crack in the drapery, and a few candles that barely managed to stay alight. Incense burned in a marble holder, its exotic, musky fragrance and lazy, spiraling smoke trailed upwards towards the high vaulted ceiling.
“Really?” Illyth smirked to herself, “I doubt that, very much. Bring him in, then, let us have a look,” she turned in her chair, pulling the delicate fabrics of her fine dress over her long sleek legs.
She was tall for a human female, almost six feet, but she carried herself delicately, and managed to maintain her beauty despite what to her was an impossible place to be pretty.
“Master Rhelin, come in if you will, Lady Damintri wishes to see you!” Nolend called out into the doorway, and soon came a dark skinned male.
Illyth had not seen very many of those, human ones at least. He was not particularly tall, or built, nor was he especially handsome with his every day, but strong facial features. His clothes looked as worn out as any other laborer, and he smelled funny, too. Musky sweat from days of travel, she guessed.
“Not much…is he?” Her eyes lingered on him a bit longer, “Do you have a name? It is rather rude not to introduce yourself, or to be introduced for that matter,” she shot a glare at Nelond.
Nelond responded by clearing his throat, nervously as usual, “Pardon my thoughtlessness M’lady. This is Rhelin.”
Illyth rolled her eyes in irritation, “I gathered that when you called him Rhelin, you dimwit!” she sighed and looked to Rhelin, “Do you have a surname, a title, anything that comes after Rhelin?”
“No M’lady, I am known only as Rhelin, always have been,” the man said quietly. He was not much for words, it seemed.
“Well, just Rhelin, no other name at all. There is a small problem with a tribe of Elves in a wood that we are trying to harvest. They are impeding our progress…can you speak Elvish?” Illyth looked open him with doubt.
“No, M’lady.”
“Do you know of Elvish tradition, any way to possibly convince them to leave?” She arched her slender, dark eyebrow, her doubt growing, as well as her impatience.
“No, M’lady.”
Illyth breathed slowly, trying to calm herself down before she simply blew up at the man. Her time was being wasted, what could this fool possibly do that would be beneficial? What made him special?
“Are you good with magic?” She finally asked.
“Not enough to be of use to you, M’lady.”
“So, nothing at all then…” She tapped her fingers against the scrolled end of the wooden arm on her chair, considering her next words while sizing up the man’s worth. "So, Rhelin with no other name, you do not speak Elvish, you know nothing of their traditions, you could not possibly convince them to leave, so no diplomacy. You do not even have enough use of magic to be of any help in that way,” Sunlight gleamed off the end of a hilt of a rather unremarkable sword, but shiny sword. It donned on her suddenly, there was indeed a use for this man. More than anyone else would possibly imagine.
“Are you any good with that sword?” The cinder in her blue eyes was surely noticeable; her mind reeled with a plan that would put an end to Jethri Morendis, and allow her to do as she pleased with the Elves. And perhaps, put one of her political comrades in his seat on the council. She would have to act fast.
“I’m well enough, M’lady, I can handle my own.”
A smile once again crept across the gentle curve of her face. “Good, you’re hired. My guardsmen are awfully busy these days patrolling the roads to and from the Elven land. I’ll need you to accompany wagons with high value cargo. You can help by lending your sword. You will be paid well, and we shall feed and room you. Welcome to Blackwood, Rhelin. Allow Nelond to show you to your quarters.”
As the Rhelin left the room, she spoke loud enough for only Nelond to hear, “Oh, and Nelond…do not put him on the payroll, his pay will be off the books. Also, forbid him from going into town, make up a story if you must, but he cannot be allowed to be seen, I may have a very special need of him. One that may require discretion. Understood?”
Nelond gave her a puzzled look but nodded rather than questioned her orders, “Yes, Lady Damintri.”
She waited a few moments after the door was shut and she was sure the two men were long gone, before she rose out of her chair and took up her small hand bag. She summoned her assistant and told him to make ready her carriage. She had to discuss her new plans with her only ally in Underwood…
The midday sun had just begun to cool, with the help of a gentle westward breeze that made the knee high grass bend and bow like the ebb and flow of a golden stream. It was here, just north of Underwood, which Limbus Kantrel called home. The Kantrel family was fortunate enough to be among the first humans to settle Underwood, before the Wood Elves got smart enough to know what the value of civilized trade was. The Kantrels obtained their land cheap, real cheap, and they continued with that trend. They amassed a wealth generation after generation; they had a hand in just about every commercial venture in Underwood, and were never afraid to reap the rewards of a little underhanded dealings.
It was with such intentions that Limbus Kantrel, the last of the Kantrel line, asserted himself into the Second Seat of the council of Underwood. It was his duty to moderate the foreign Companies and tradesmen that did business in the town, as well as dole out land usage rights. It was a little tedious for Limbus, but the extra coin he received from foreign merchants in order to “grease the wheels” of bureaucracy made it that much easier to deal with.
Limbus was a fairly hefty man, one that enjoyed food almost as much as he enjoyed power. It was the first, rather than the later that he was enjoying now, lying across an overstuffed couch in the foyer of his villa. The room was open to the air on three sides; the white washed ceiling held up by great marble pillars, it offered a view of the well kept gardens that decorated the courtyard. The only real wall of the Foyer was decorated by a massive fresco, a mosaic that told of his family’s perceived greatness. He sipped a goblet of wine while he fingered for square of cheese on a silver platter, sat upon a small table before him, watching as his staff tended to the grounds, awfully glad he was not them.
Being second in command of a town was not enough for Limbus, which was why he smiled when he saw a fine black carriage roll past the gates and into the courtyard. He dropped his cheese half eaten back onto the plate and quickly made way to a large mirror and tried to smooth his curly black hair, and lifted his chin to inspect for any new blemishes. One had to look their best for the Lady Damintri, especially for what she offered.
He posed himself as statuesquely as he might dare upon his couch, tucking his white robe over the bulge of his belly. He shooed away a couple of house workers that were lingering in the Foyer when Illyth Damintri pushed past the large draperies that shielded the heat. She held a perfect, silky smile as she approached him.
Limbus pushed himself up out of the couch and bowed to her, “M’lady Damintri, to what do I owe the honor of this visit? You have never come uninvited before.” He asked while showing her to a plush armchair directly across from his couch, and sat down once again himself.
Illyth was intoxicatingly beautiful to him; from the very day she petitioned for a large acreage of land on which to harvest trees, she caught his eye. Her tall stature, long, slender features, the trusses of her flowing dark hair. The fact that she brought with her the wealth of the Blackwood Company hardly played a factor, but the kick backs she gave him under the table did not hurt.
“Well, dear Kastrel,” she put on her sweetest voice, regarding him with those blue eyes. “It seems that we can finally have what we both want.”
He cupped his hand over his chins, his face turned stone serious; a thin line drew across his lips. Whatever she had to say was very important indeed, and he presumed that he knew exactly what she was talking about. Ever since she began doing business in Underwood only a few short months ago, she was petitioning for more and more tracts of land.
The Blackwood Company was always the first to be able to bid on new land being opened for exploitation, and often had a signed contract before the competition even heard there was an open bid on said land. With a little smudging of the ledgers by Limbus, it all seemed legit. Illyth also offered more than just gold, and he offered her more than he rightfully could.
He gave Blackwood the rights to the land that the Wood Elves of Underwood resided on, something about those trees simply drove Illyth wild, in more ways than one. All he had to do was make up a paper trail showing that the town of Underwood had a rightful claim on the Elven territory. That feat was hard, but worth it. In return, Illyth offered the top seat on the council, by intrigue or by force. She seemed to be preparing for the later, as her private army of mercenaries and guardsmen grew in numbers by the week. Limbus did not much care about how he obtained the seat, whether Jethri was murdered or the whole town taken over. Either way, he would be on top. In control. With all the power and luxury he could command.
Limbus realized the silence was held a bit too long, and shook himself out of his thoughts. “And what dastardly plan do you propose, my temptress?” He cooed at temptress.
“You want Jethri gone, I want the justification to march my guardsmen on those pesky Elves,” she steepled her fingertips together. “I have a new fellow working for me.”
Limbus smiled and retorted sarcastically, “You have new workers every day, dear Damintri.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” she spoke sternly, as though getting onto a child. He shivered. “He isn’t on the books like all the others, and he isn’t affiliated with Blackwood. Best of all, he isn’t from around her, and he looked as though he would do almost anything for money.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Shut up, Limbus, and listen.” She continued, “I pay him to murder Jethri, you take his seat and proclaim that it was the Elves that perpetrated the deed, and together, we march on them. You get what you want, as do I.”
He considered her words carefully; he had figured his ascension to the first seat would not be bloodless. Limbus was naïve, not stupid. “But why hire someone off the street? Why not a professional, whom would have a higher guarantee of success.”
“Because,” she rolled her eyes. “Professional assassins expect treachery, believe me, after my first husband’s unfortunate demise, it was very hard to get back the gold I paid for his end. But, if you get someone ‘off the street’ as you say, well, they don’t expect it, so it’s much easier to kill them and hide the evidence. No one can listen if there is no one left to talk. Just ask the murderer of my second husband, he was my third. Oh wait, he’s dead too…and he only cost me my virtue.”
Limbus swallowed dryly, contemplating his own place in her web, and not at all comforted by the kind smile she offered him as she further laid out her plans…
The heat of the sun was waning by the time Rhelin had received the linens for the bed he signed for in the Bunkhouse, near the lumber yard. It was of a few squat, wooden buildings that appeared to have been built in a hurry, in order to facilitate the constant flow of new laborers that poured in from Cities and Villages from across the region.
Nelond showed Rhelin his bunk at the far end, the only one that was not taken. The room was organized into two rows of ten bunks. They were made of wooden planks that were so roughly hewn that they could have been put together from wood left over from construction of the building itself.
Nelond went on to explain the rules of the barracks, while Rhelin dressed the bare planks of his bunk with the old sheet and blanket supplied him. The linens smelled moldy, and probably had never been washed.
“Your bunk must always be made when you’re not in it. Your belongings must also be stored in your footlocker.” Nelond informed him, spitting each rule out matter of factly, wanting to hurry the process along so he could get out of the bunkhouse, and away from the acrid stench of musk and sweat, it shrouded the cramped interior like a blanket of its own.
Rhelin began organizing the small footlocker at the end of his bunk. It was so small that the only “organizing” he could manage was shoving everything in as best he could, until he was sitting atop the lid just to close the latch.
“And who will enforce these rules?” Rhelin asked as he caught his breath and unbuckled his sword belt, placing it atop the chest.
Nelond replied tersely, “That lovely fellow I saved you from this morning of course, and he won’t like that either.” He nodded to the silver sword, “All weapons personal weapons are to be stored in the armory.”
“No,” Rhelin looked him in the eyes, “my sword stays with me. Always.”
“Very well, Rhelin.” He did his best to look menacing, at least as much as his kind demeanor allowed. “I saved you this morning, but I can’t watch over you all the time.”
“I can handle myself,” was his only reply.
Nelond looked back over his shoulder, but did not stop. “We shall see, and you better hope so. Lady Illyth has something special in mind for you.”
Rhelin was relieved when the door shut with a slow, mourning creak. He felt as though he had been babysat ever since he arrived at the Blackwood compound. It was good just to get a moment alone. The barracks was empty, he presumed his fellow bunkmates were out in the wilds, loading their daily bounty on wagons, preparing to head back. It was getting dark, and Rhelin doubted one could fell trees safely during the night. Rhelin also wondered what lay in waiting around Underwood after dark. Creatures mundane and magical, able to rend and grind meat from bone with ease, he imagined.
Maybe Wood Elves, too. He had heard stories of Wood Elves from the Clerics of the Home for Boys in Knife Edge, where he was raised for much of his life. They told small children stories of how a group of faithful attempted to establish a missionary to convert a small tribe of wild elves. After months of no reports on their success, another group was dispatched to investigate. They found only one survivor in the midst of a ransacked campsite, where only one survivor remained. Half crazed, he told of how the Elves turned on them and murdered his companions.
Of course, he hardly believed anything he was taught there, chalking the story up as a way of warding children from wondering off into the wilderness. He had met several Elves in his life, but not one of them was wild.
He settled on his bunk after readying himself for sleep, and pulled the slightly moldy blanket over himself, hiding from the low light the two evenly spaced oil lamps that hung from the rafters provided. As he hoped sleep would come soon, he thought about the day that lay ahead. He was sure they would send him off to work in the wood on one labor detail or another. That would make it difficult to have a good reason to be around the offices. That is where he would find the dirt he needed. Merchants always kept their contracts and correspondence secreted away in a chest or cabinet. Then again, it might not be any underhanded business to report on, and then his whole reason for being in Underwood would have been for naught.
Rhelin forced his eyes closed tighter after a moment, shaking his unce
rtainty as sleep finally took him.
Rhelin’s dreams were always cut from the same bolt of cloth. Memories poured into his mind as fluid as rainwater in a drain. Visions of his beautiful Mother, her lovely face erupting in pockmarks. Hair falling out in clumps. That was just the beginning of the plague that claimed her, but he was not around long enough to see the grisly end of her.
The last thing he dreams, always the last, is of her getting smaller and smaller, as the Clerics drive him away in a carriage. He kept watching her, until she was barely a dot on the horizon.
This dream however, was different. Instead of being carried away, he felt as though he was falling. Falling down into a deep, dark pit, Rhelin thought it would never end. When that feeling finally ended, he awoke from his dream, the wind knocked out of him as he hit the wooden floor.
He shook off the stars in his eyes and clamored to his feet, leaving behind a pool of spittle and blood from a split lip. His whole bunk had toppled to the side along with him.
Reeling about on his heels, he went for his sword, only to find a blade point waiting for him. At the other end Skingrad stared him down. Knowing he was at the disadvantage, Rhelin stepped back, searching for ways out of the predicament, but with his back against the wall, and the only door in or out at the other end of the long building, there was none.
“All personal weapons are to be stored at the Armory, fool.” Skingrad hissed. The vain in his forehead throbbing. “We would not want any trouble.”
Rhelin held his hands out. “No, we wouldn’t want that, but if you don’t get that sword out of my face, you’ll know trouble.” Rhelin bluffed, but Skingrad called it.
“Boy, I could run you through right here, and you know what?” He motioned to the men that had gathered around, watching with apprehension and surprise. “All these men would gladly say you attacked me first, and I would go home and sleep just fine tonight.”
Looking around at the other men, doubting the truth of his assailants claim, but not wanting to test it. He hoped there was still silver on his tongue.
“Now, if you did that, Lady Illyth would not be happy with you.” Of course, Rhelin also hoped he wouldn’t test the truth of his claim, either.
Skingrad pulled his blade and sheathed it, the anger on his face evident. “I suppose you’re right, but watch your back, fool. When she is done with you, I’ll be there, and we’ll finish this then. Until then, you will answer to me. There is a special load of supplies that needs an escort. Be ready within the hour, scumrat. The wagon will be waiting at the gates.”
--
The Underwood Town Hall was abuzz with the echoes of protest, outrage, and near dissent. It was yet another bi-monthly meeting for the Council to discuss the issues at hand, such as trade business, new laws, new taxes, but what was being discussed today was hardly average.
“These bloody Elves are murdering innocent laborers in the woods surrounding the town, yet you sit idly by on your Council, unwilling to offer any protection to them! Your own citizens are dying because of your inability to act!” Nelond was the key speaker on behalf of the Blackwood Company; Illyth hardly ever attended such meetings. Below her, he imagined.
Nevertheless, Nelond did as he always had, put on his best tunic and robe, shined his black leather boots, and put on his game face. Despite his small stature and uptight approach to life, bulldogging was what he did best. Bait and switch, pull the right strings and music will follow, he thought to himself. He just hoped the Council would sing the right tune.
The seven member Council of so called Elders, representatives from the oldest families in Underwood, held steadfast to the old. Eldritch Sinclaire, whose family made their fortune early in Underwood’s history, opening up the first Mercantile. Hremben the Green, whose family came from the Northlands and began running caravans, eventually becoming the largest trade firm based in Underwood. The others, Esmeralda Skolden, Thenius Kirkwood, and Jascel Perci had each came from wealthy families that simply relocated here to expand familial empires. The only two that truly mattered to Nelond was Jethri Morendis and Limbus Kantrel. Jethri was the most influential on the Council, whatever he said went, and with Limbus being second seat on the Council, when Jethri died, whatever Limbus said would be worth its weight in gold.
“Not our Citizens,” Esmeralda chimed, her sweet, wise voice carried through the room. “They are the Citizens of Knife’s Edge, or whatever City your import them from. The Elves are only attacking your men, and that is only because you insist on invading their territory.”
Limbus stood in outrage, “it is not their territory to defend, old woman!” he seethed. “our own records show that we our the rightful owners of that land, and I have justly bestowed usage rights to Blackwood. I firmly believe that it is indeed our responsibility to protect them. They are legally on our land, after all, and thus deserve our sword and shield.”
The old Councilwoman’s eyes clouded with anger, the wrinkles on her forehead forming long divots. “Young man, you have not been on this council for very long, so I will forgive you insolence. I have been sitting at this table longer than your parents have been alive, and I have never seen those records until you took over second chair. While I am not accusing you of wrong doing, I am saying that we should investigate these records before going to what is tantamount to an invasion.”
“I second that. Our blood should not be spilled for foreign investments.” Hremben the Green drummed his sausage fingers along the table top. “I have seen a lot of blood spilled in my days as a warrior, this town should not see the horrors I have witnessed.”
Nelond swallowed the ache in his throat, he was losing this debate, he had to think quick. His eyes darted to each Councilman, searching for at least a gleam of hope in their eyes, he found none. He finally looked to Jethri, who was sitting at the center of the long table. He suddenly lost a bit of his nerve as Jethri looked right back and stood imperiously.
“Listen, all of you. I agree that our men will not defend the endeavors of a foreign Company, we should also investigate the records on who truly owns the Elven land. It does seem strange that they should be found at the convience of Blackwood’s charter here in Underwood. However, if the Elven aggressions should spill over into our undisputed territories, we shall be forced to act, let us be prepared for such ideas, at the least. All in favor, say I.”
Hremben and Esmeralda both resounded with an I, as well as the others, all except Limbus.
“No! No!” he cried out in sheer anger. “You have all disappointed your forefathers. We are all foreigners to this land, don’t you see!” He pushed himself up from the table and raised his hand to them all. “These Elves will be the ruin of this Town! They are squatters and therefore have no rights! Companies like Blackwood are our future, and you are all guilty of murdering the freedom of trade in Underwood, yet you accuse me of wrongdoing, right in front of me! You will all regret this day!”
By this time, Nelond already knew he lost complete control of the situation, and had began making his way out of the Chambers. He could hear the dimwit Limbus storming off as well. The mere fact that Blackwood had to rely on him as their only ally in Underwood made him sick. He would have to return to the compound quickly, and inform Illyth of the astounding failure of their appeal. She would not be happy. Nelond swallowed. Not happy at all. Diplomacy had failed, now was the time for more drastic measures.
What is the expression people use when they cannot think of a way out of a situation that they should never have been in to begin with? Whatever that expression was, Rhelin would most certainly use it right at this moment. Poking at the right canine of his lower jaw, observing it wiggle just a little bit through the reflection in a small mirror, he wondered if his luck was running out. It was a minor altercation by anyone else’s standards, and the damage was not permanent, except maybe the tooth, but something much deeper was disheveled. His pride.
Packing away his belongings within his rucksack, he tightened the straps and closed the bag, placing it in his footlocker, he figured it would be a short route, and bringing everything would just be inconvenient. As he made his way to the bunkhouse door, none of the other residents said anything to him, as a matter of fact, they avoided him all together. No one sat with him at the dining hall when he got breakfast, no one even acknowledged him as he was packing. The regular stench of the bunkhouse was replaced by another: fear. No one wanted to draw the ire of the Sergeant of the Guard, and to that end, being associated with Rhelin seemed to do the trick.
Get out of the damned sun, Rhelin spoke his thought as he stepped out of the bunkhouse door, shielding his eyes for a moment from the bright sun. The headache from smacking the floor as hard as he had was still pounding away. With a deep sigh, and an even deeper force of will, he pressed on to the Gates of the compound. Making his way across the yard, past the mill, across the small courtyard, nothing seemed to change. The quick pace of workers milling about never seemed to change much.
A black carriage sped into the courtyard, coming within a hair’s distance of plastering Rhelin across the fieldstone. “Hey! Watch where you’re goin’!”
The driver yelled out as Rhelin spun to dodge what could have been the end of an already bad day. He gripped his sword as he watched the carriage pull to a stop at the stair case of the administration building, weighing the consequences of giving the driver a piece of his mind.
He thought better of it though, as he saw Nelond departing the carriage, storming up the staircase. He did not look pleased at all. Something was going on here; there was absolutely no doubt about that, but what? He could not figure it out while guarding caravans, now could he? A plan began taking shape in his mind.
The name of his wagon driver was Kellis, he was not sure if that was a first or last name, not that it really mattered. After a short exchange of words and making sure that the two large wooden crates were secured in the back of the wagon, they were off. Rhelin looked back over his shoulder as he watched the wooden palisades disappear over the crest of the first hill they rounded. This part of Underwood was actually rather pretty. A massive shallow valley with gentle, rolling hills. The golden grass bent to the will of the winds, and farmhouses dotted the landscape.
Rhelin looked over to Khellis, “So, where are we going?”
“Perillis Camp, about two days east of here.” He replied. He was an old man, the thick stubble on his face hid more than one scar.
“Is it a tough route?”
“Tough! Hah! The road is clear from here to there; the most dangerous thing we will meet in route is boredom. The Elves are to the north, and brigands are rare, but I know most of them!” He laughed, showing the gaps in his mouth where teeth used to be.
“What about the Elves? They are why I’m with you, to protect you from them I thought.”
“Pfaw!” Kellis snorted. “Unlike the rest of you idiots, no offense, I’m from here. I know how to avoid making a stir with them. Underwood has gone centuries with no trouble at all from the local Elves, then you Blackwood folk come and ruin all of that. Besides, if Elves are what you’re here for, you gotta go to the Southern logging camps.”
The old man steered his horses along the road, riding deep ruts cut in the road from heavy lumber bearing wagons. A long moment passed where the two men said not a word to each other. Rhelin bided his time, waiting a couple of miles out of the Compound before he set his plan into motion.
“How would you like to make some extra coin?” Rhelin asked.
Kellis looked at him suspiciously. “And what would I have to do for it, boy?”
Boy. Rhelin hated being called boy, but he ignored the chide. “Ten gold if you head on to the camp without me, and don’t tell anyone back here that I was not with you.”
“Sounds reasonable, I’m the honest sort though,” Kellis grinned toothlessly. “Not much for lyin’. Nop sir! My Father always told me, 'son, lyin'll only get ya killed,' and he should know. He was ran through after cheatin' on a game of dice!”
Rhelin cursed under his breath while he thumbed for the coins in his pouch. “Twenty, then.”
“That sounds a bit better, for a righteous man such as I to be so lax on my morals.” He winked and took the coins.
Rhelin had the man drop him off a short distance further down the road, and made his way back to the Compound. He decided against cutting across the fields, it would be quicker, but he would be seen from a great distance, and drawing the attention of the Blackwood Guardsmen was not something he intended on doing. His plan seemed to be working just fine, well, the part about bribing the wagon driver anyway. The rest was still left to chance. Rhelin was horrible at quick plans.
He was back to the first hill outside of the Gates before the hour was through, and waited in a shallow irrigation ditch at the side of the road. He would have to catch a wagon back in, without being caught by the Guards. No one could know he was not on the Wagon to Camp Perillis, especially Skingrad. If he was caught, the ruse would be over, and he would probably end up in a ditch like he was in now, but in no shape to crawl out of it.
Dark clouds were beginning to cross the evening sky, laying cool patches of shade along the valley floor below. As sweat dropped from Rhelin’s forehead, he wished that one of those moving shadows would find him and sit a while. He had been waiting for what must have been hours for a wagon heading in bound to the Blackwood Compound, but all were heading out, laden with cargo meant for the various logging camps Blackwood sponsored. Hell, as long as he had been waiting, Rhelin began to wonder if he would catch a ride back with Kellis upon his return. It seemed as though his luck truly was dwindling, but just as he was beginning to rethink his strategy, he heard the clatter of hooves and heavy wheels around the bend of the road. He grinned to himself, I knew you hadn’t lost your touch.
Waiting for just the right moment, he lunged from his hiding spot as the wagon passed, and leapt on the back of the open back end. Whatever the fellow was hauling, it was covered with a heavy canvas. Rhelin pulled the edge up quickly and nearly fell out from the stench. The canvas served to cover the smell emanating from the pile of dung underneath, but it would also have to serve as his way back in. He pinched his nose and slid underneath the canvas, closing it back up behind him. It was going to be a long ride indeed.
The thirty minutes or so that it took for the wagon to reach the gates felt unimaginably long. Tears welled up in Rhelins eyes and he held back the urge to vomit with all his might, but, like all bad dreams, it mercifully came to an end. The wagon slowed to a stop. They must be at the gates.
“Hold!” He heard a familiar voice, Skingrad’s voice. “State your business.”
“Aye, a fresh load from the stables.” A gruff voice replied, it must have been the wagon driver.
Rhelin’s stomach tied itself into a thick knot, and he realized that it was from nerves, not from nausea. He heard footsteps crunching on gravel as the Guards rounded the wagon, and a sliver of sunlight as one of them peeled up the edge of the canvas, but quickly let it drop.
“Agh! What in the bloody hell! Horse shit!”
“I told ye,” the man laughed. “A fresh load from the stables. You know Lady Dimintri enjoys her gardens, and wants the shit spread on it from nothing but the best horses ass. I don’t understand why, it seems she has plenty of those around!”
“Enough of that, you fool!” Skingrad griped. “Go on then, drop your load.” He hesitated. “In a manner of speaking…”
Rhelin held back a cough as the wagon started on its way again, past the gates. He was in, and just in time, he was not sure how much longer he could hold back his bile.
Waiting for a time that he felt was safe, Rhelin tossed back the canvas and got on his knees to peak just above the wooden rails. There! Some barrels by the wall of a warehouse. He made for it, diving off the back end of the wagon, he rolled behind the barrels. Pressing his back against them, he held his breath, waiting for the shouts of Guards, or just curious words from passersby.
So much for anonymity. His stench was something awful. Taking stop of himself, he checked his sword, his pouch of lock picking tools, and of he thought of poking that tooth again, just to see if it was any more knocked loose. That would be disgusting though. Looking around the barrels, he realized he had made it at the edge of the courtyard, not too far from the administration building, then he thought of what to do next.
Upon further inspection, the barrels appeared large enough for a man of his size, Rhelin figured that would be good enough a place as any to hide out until dark, and they had lids too. Perfect. He pulled the lid off one of them, looking about to make sure no one saw, and stuffed himself inside. He shuffled around a bit to try to get comfy, the cramped interior made that an impossible task, and everywhere he put his hands he felt something sticky and fat squishing underneath, as well as a sickly popping sound.
Rhelin pulled a single coin from his pouch and worded the spell of a simple cantrip, the coin lit up with a soft light no brighter than a small candle. The walls of the barrel was stained a deep crimson, with gleaming white dots that seemed to pulsate. He looked closer. Maggots! It donned on him that he was outside of the Warehouse that housed the Healer’s office. This must have been where they dumped old bandages, or maybe even discarded amputated limbs. Rhelin squirmed and began writhed, but calmed himself when he thought the barrel was going to topple over.
He could not afford to move around the Compound during the daytime, he would surely be seen and blow his cover. His spell wore out and put him in complete darkness again, probably for the best, Rhelin thought as he tightened the sleeves of his tunic and tucked his trousers in his boots.
Wrapping his arms around himself, he tried not to think of the sickly creatures all around him, or getting captured by Skingrad and being exposed as a spy.
Instead, between fits of dry heaves, he thought of his mother. His only true happy place. Rhelin remembered the expression one would use when one could not escape a predicament they should not be in. Rhelin had found his rock and hard place all right, and he was right between them…
Rhelin did not get much sleep during his stay within the confines of the barrel he had the misfortune of residing in until nightfall. It was dark and cramped, too things one gets comfortable with as a tomb robber, but the maggots made his skin crawl. He tried not to move too much, the sickly squish and pop of the maggots bloated white bodies were enough to make his stomach flop. The stench was unbearable, and there was something at the bottom of the barrel that had the consistency of cottage cheese. He did not want to even think of what it could possibly be.
Choking back his anxiety, he bit through the remaining hours of the day, using the time to plan his break in, playing several different scenarios through his head. What would he do if he were captured? How would he get out after he found what he was looking for? A better point, what exactly was he looking for, anyway? He found himself reeling with doubt. Was it too late to turn back? For all Brenheld fellow knew, there was no wrongdoing whatsoever. From what Rhelin had seen so far however, that would be hard for anyone to believe. No, there was really only one choice. Push on, try to find something, anything of use, and leave before anyone was aware of his true agenda.
As day mercifully turned to night, Rhelin worked up the courage to lift up the wooden lid and peak out into the courtyard. The courtyard was clear, no workers toiling about, nor were there foot patrols of guards, but he expected them to come through soon. He pushed himself out of the barrel and took in the fresh air gratefully, and quickly checked himself for clinging maggots before he stepped off to the administration building.
Getting across the courtyard was easy enough. There were plenty of shadows to hide within, and the moon was waning, so there was hardly any light cast. Making his way up the flagstone stairs of the building, he tried to door. Amazingly enough it was unlocked, but he figured it was probably so guards could patrol inside. He would have to be very careful. Mustering himself, he slowly eased the door open, and squeezed inside.
He crouched in the shadows while he allowed his eyes to adjust to the low light of the interior. There were only a few oil lamp sconces left burning, which lent long, menacing shadows to even the smallest object in the great hall. Silvery shafts of light from the huge arched windows gave the polished wood floors a beautiful luminescence. The place looked more like a personal mansion than a professional building. He crept across the hall and up the lavish staircase. He ran his fingers across the mahogany banister, admiring its craftsmanship for a moment, before slipping further up. His silent footfalls found a few steps that creaked under his weight, which was not silent at all. He clinched his teeth and squinted his eyes shut, the echo in the great hall was ear shattering in Rhelin’s high state of alertness. Standing very still, he waited a moment, the very hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. To his relief, there was no great clamor of guards rushing to investigate. He pressed onward, sticking close to the wall as he made it to the top of the staircase and rounded the corner to the right, down the hallway that led to Illyth’s office chamber.
When he finally reached the door to her office, he took a knee and inspected the lock. It looked simple enough, nothing even a novice would have trouble cracking. He worded out a cantrip and waited to see if the lock would set off the tell tale glow of an enchantment, there was none. That made life much easier. He fished through his tool pouch and recovered his lock picks, and began his work. Inserting one pick through the keyhole, he ran it along the tumblers with care, sensing out the tension and placement of each one, closing his eyes in order to imagine actually being inside the mechanism. He could imagine each one lifting and dropping to his pick, and with his steady hand he could feel every piece of the lock.
Once he was comfortable enough, he manipulated each pin and set them in the pattern he thought would turn the lock, and inserted his second pick. Giving it a slow turn, he grinned as the mechanism activated, turning the bolt in the door. He turned the doorknob, cracking it open with just enough room for him to slink inside Illyth’s office. Her office was just as nicely appointed as the rest of the building, with an antique desk at the center, and shelves upon shelves of books on the wall on the left wall.
“I bet you haven’t even read half of them,” he mused to himself as he ventured further in, beginning his search. He figured the best place to look for something illegal would be the least obvious. He thumbed through the pages of tomes, looked under the two plush chairs at the window, tapped as loud as he dared in search of some false wall. After half an hour of no results, he looked at the desk in the middle of the room. Could it be so simple? He examined a small drawer with a puny lock. Surely not. He quickly worked the lock with his tools. If there was nothing in the drawer, he could always search Nelond’s office. Sure, Rhelin would hate to implicate Nelond, his only ally on the Compound, in anything illegal, but the bad feelings would only last a day. Maybe two.
Once he popped the lock, he searched inside. There was nothing but a bundle of letters tied by a twine of string. He pulled them out and untied the bundle, opening the first one. There was a small, broken seal on all of them, apparently from the same person, whoever or whatever the “L.K.” represented. As Rhelin read each letter, squinting through what little light there was, he found that most were quite steamy, to say the least. However, one struck his interest right away, it detailed plans for Blackwood to acquire land usage rights, and even went so far as to outline what L.K. would do in order to accomplish that task. Namely, forging documents that would insure territory to the South of Underwood would be guaranteed to Illyth, and the Blackwood Company. Which, as Rhelin had only recently learned, was surely the Elves land.
Rhelin’s senses bristled. He found it! If this was not proof of wrongdoing on Illyth, and whoever L.K. was, then it would take nothing less than murder. He rolled up the letter and closed the drawer. Now he would have to make his escape back to Knife’s Edge, and report to Coren immediately. He reactivated the lock on Illyth’s door, and retraced his steps back down the hall and stairs, getting out of the administration building just as fast as he dared. Swiftly, he made his way back to the Bunkhouse, dodging a couple of guards along the way. Just before shoving through the door of the Bunkhouse to retrieve his belongings, a familiar voice froze him in place.
“Master Rhelin!” Illyth said in her husky, temptress voice. She managed to sneak up behind him without even notiving. How careless, Rhelin reprimanded himself.
He spun around on his heels, reaching for his sword, expecting her to be surrounded by guards, ready to pounce. It was just her, to Rhelin’s surprise.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Master Rhelin. I was just searching for you, and I was wondering if you have a moment to spare, which I know you do.” The tall female smiled sweetly, her soft skin shone as brightly as the moon would if it were full. Rhelin could feel the manipulation in her words, perhaps even a bit of bard magic, but it did not seem as though she suspected him of anything, so he played along.
“Of course I do, M’lady Illyth, anything you desire.” He took an exaggerated bow, tucking the letter he had confiscated in the waistline of his leggings, and under the back of his tunic.
She motioned for him to follow, and soon the two set a casual pace toward the courtyard. “You smell awful, Master Rhelin, what have you been doing all day?”
Rhelin paused for a moment. He did smell awful, but considering everything he had been through earlier that day, who could blame him? He figured that Skingrad had not informed her that he was supposed to be on his way to a lumber camp. “I, uh…” he reached out for a quick lie. “I was working with the…horses all day.”
“Oh! Terrible duties, I imagine. I’m quite sure your skills are far above such demeaning labors. Particularly, with that beautiful blade of yours?” She smiled at Rheln, placing her slender fingertips on the hilt of his sword suggestively.
Rhelin swallowed.
“Just what is it that you need of me, M’lady?” He asked as politely as he could.
They both stopped and she turned to him with that beautiful smile of hers. He felt his heart tingle, even though he knew she was merely spinning a web. She leaned in as close as she could, bearing the stench, and placed a hand on Rhelin’s chest, then pulled away as something slimy and pulpu stuck to her fingers. A small sneer broke her smile before she realized her distaste could be read, but quickly put back on her smile and continued. Charisma was her weapon after all, and she wielded her words and looks as well as any warrior on the battlefield.
“I need you,” her voice was silky smooth. “For a very special task. There is a man, a very corrupt man, who is leading the town of Underwood to ruin. He goes by the name of Jethri Morendis. He sits on the town council.”
“I am no assassin, M’lady.”
“No!” she gazed at him. “You’re a noble man, I saw it in you from the very moment we first met. If you were to put this man down, you would do me…this town, its people, a great ervice. Not to mention the gold in store for the hero that takes care of him.”
So an assassin, Rhelin thought as she grinned, his ruse was working it seemed, she thought he was eating it all up. “Well, I do like to think of myself as noble,” Rhelin lied yet again, trying to keep a straight face to such a farfetched notion. “But how much coin are we talking?”
“More than you could make in a lifetime, and, I would be forever grateful for such heroic deeds.” She leaned in a little closer to him. “And maybe my dowry, for such a handsome man.”
If he was not the observant type, he would have fell for those greasy words, but he noticed her nose crinkle just a little bit from his smell.
“M’lady Illyth, anything for your beauty…just tell me what needs to be done.” He gave his most sincere expression.
She smiled, his acting skills were not the best, but they got him by it turned out. They continued on their walk as she detailed her plan...
The Red Dragon Inn was not a bad place by any means. For just a few gold coins Rhelin was offered a small bed in a cramped upstairs room, with straw strewn about the floor. For a few extra coins, he had his first bath in weeks, but the places that fate made him visit the day before made it seem even longer. The Inn had more to offer than first class service though, it was also the location that made Rhelin decide to rent a room for the night, it was directly across the street from the Council Hall. He could look down on the entrance of the Hall through the small dirty window in his room.
With the description Illyth gave him the night prior, it was all but impossible to mistake him. Silver hair, tall, pale skin. Yeah, she gave him the description of just about every Human politician in Althanas.
She told him that there would be an emergency meeting that very morning, and that the city guards that were posted to protect him were sympathetic to ‘Blackwood’s cause’, and would surely not arrest him for the noble act of putting down a tyrant. In truth, Rhelin knew it would end in his own death.
If it were not for the fact that her words were laced with bardic magic, that would have sounded farfetched to say the least. Almost every word she said made the hair on the back of his neck prick, a small sign that, for the aware, can mean the difference between life and death, a sign that means a spell is being worked. It was by sheer force of will that he had not fallen victim to her words, she was indeed a temptress, which is why he understood this “L.K.” and his obsession with the beautiful wench.
He was not fool enough to believe her, or to carry out her request, he truly was no assassin. A robber of the long dead he may be, but a cold murderer? It would take more than the promise of fortune and fame to push Rhelin that far. More like, a lot of fortune and fame.
He would however at least attempt to warn the fellow of his impending doom. After all, if Rhelin did not kill him, someone else would sure have a try at it. His plan was simple, wait on Jethri to show up for the meeting, and present him the letter implicating Illyth Diminitri and L.K. in a conspiracy, which would end in his assassination. If taking a life would yield promise of money, who knows how much he would get for saving a life.
For now though, he was content to sit back and wait for his prize. He wondered if that was how a real assassin felt, waiting, staking out their prey, moving in at just the right moment to end a life. He thought about how bittersweet it must feel knowing your livelihood depended upon the death of someone else. Well, he already knew how that felt. Perhaps the afterlife had more or less the same in store for him and an assassin.
He cut a piece of bread from a complimentary loaf given to him by the Inn keep the night before, and sipped at a cup of cheap wine he bought. He needed a drink to wash down the hint of mold, as well as to help swallowing the irony of it all.
Joy. For the first time in months Illyth felt it. Joy. Usually a joy like this was reserved for a little girl getting a doll for her birthday. That is what this joy was like, unwrapping a gift, winding it up, and watching it go. Her gift was that of death, Jethri’s death. With him out of the way Limbus would succeed him, and he was so wrapped around her little finger she wondered if one day she may be forced to have him killed as well. She found joy in that thought as well.
She used her skeleton key to unlock her office chamber for the morning, bursting into the room as if being carried by doves. She wrinkled her nose as she smelled a subtle, but fowl stench, did she leave her gardening gloves in the room over night? She wondered to herself, she was toiling in with a fresh delivery of fertilizer. Oddly enough, dealing with the horse shit was often easier than dealing with the bullshit she put up with on a day to day basis.
After opening the curtains to allow some light in, she sat upon her plush chair at her desk. She had much to do today, new contracts to mull over, payrolls to audit, surprise to fake when she found out poor Jethri was killed by some rogue hired by the Elves. A crying shame that it would come to blood.
The Elves would have to be taught a lesson, which by the end of it all would mean no less than their extermination. Using a much smaller key, the opened the drawer at the side of her desk, picking up the bundle of letters contained within. One of her favorite past times was rereading the letters Limbus had written her over the past few weeks. He was such a fool, an even bigger fool than Rhelin, for the simple fact that he believed she loved him. She did not even have to use her speech enchantments on him to make him believe it. Of course, sleeping with him helped as well. Men. What idiots.
She untied the bundle but stopped just short when she heard a soft wet thud. Her brow furrowed as she moved the letters to see what was what. A maggot?!
“Ew!” She squealed, leaping to her feet. “How in the hell?! I’m the only one with a key!” She yelled furiously. That smell still lingered in her nostrils.
That smell…
She ripped the letters in her hand as reality donned on her. Rhelin! How could she have been such a fool? He smelled like manure, she did not know why, but she knew it was not because he was working in the stables. Not that late at night. Maggots, that must have been what stuck to her hand when she touched him.
“Uggggh!” She squealed again as she wiped her hand instinctively. “Belqueth! Belqueth, come here right now!”
“Yes, M’lady?” her assistant rushed in, the sweet blond girl obviously shaken and confused by Illyth’s outbursts.
“Find Skingrad, tell him to report to me immediately…now!”
“Y-yes, M’lady!” The assistant ran out of the room.
She looked about the room, as if the answer to everything would somehow materialize. Was Rhelin a spy of some sort? From the Council? No, that could not be. If that were the case she would have been arrested by now, and Limbus would have heard about it long ago. Maybe from another agent within Blackwood itself? Treachery was not only encouraged in large companies such as Blackwood, but a way of life. That must be it…but who?
She rested her hands on the edge of her desk, stilling herself as she began to feel dizzy from the rush of possibilities swimming around in her head. She looked down at the maggot, its shiny fat body wriggling in her drawer. She could not help but feel sorry for it, helpless and confused, just like every other being in Althanas. No hope. She squished it with a block of Elkan wood paperweight.
It did not take long for Skingrad to shove open the door, halfway expecting a murder scene from the sheer terror Illyth’s assistant had been in. “M’lady Illyth! I came as soon as I could. What is going on?” He breathed heavily from running in his heavy maille armor.
“Skingrad!” She had composed herself by this time, squishing the maggot had helped her put things in perspective. Rhelin was a maggot to be squished. “I need you to find Rhelin and bring him back to me.”
“But...” The north man looked confused, “Rhelin is on his way to the camps in the east, I have him escorting supplies…he won’t be back for at least three days.”
She lost composure again. Pounding the desk top with open handed, her hair falling in messy waves as she shook her head. Then began to laugh. “What a bright little spy he is! Rhelin is in Underwood, of that I have no doubt. Find him. Bring him back to me, alive. And hurry, he’ll be near the Council Hall.”
Rhelin was growing rather impatient; every carriage that arrived at the Council Hall teased him as he looked for the Jethri crest that Illyth had told him would be emblazoned on the side. This is why he tried not to get his hopes up when he heard the clatter of hooves echoing down the street, he looked for the coat of arms, and sure enough, it was not the J.M. he was looking for. It did however bear a very distinctive two-headed lion, with the initials L.K..
“Why, there’s the little heart breaker.” Rhelin smiled.
The door of the carriage swung open while porters sat a step stool down so the passenger could depart. What came out was nothing like Rhelin imagined, a man so hefty that the carriage swayed in the sudden absence of his weight. He wore a long, black robe, and it seemed like that would be the only thing that could fit around his girth. His prominent double chin jiggled when he spoke to the porters in what looked like derisive tongue. A lovely catch for any lady, Rhelin mused.
Unlike the other Council members, L.K. stayed just outside the entrance, as if waiting on someone. Sure enough, just a few minutes later, another carriage rounded the corner and slowed to a halt in front of the building. Rhelin’s eyes widened and he snatched up the letter as he ran out the door of his room.
Bursting through the door and spilling out onto the street, Rhelin made haste across to the Council building. Slowing down as he noticed the guards tensing when they spotted him, he would try to get as close as he could in order to give Jethri the bad news he carried.
Luckily, the guards were just far enough for him to slip up the stairs unimpeded, behind Jethri. Perhaps they were sympathetic to the Blackwood cause after all. More likely on their payroll. The fat man looked upon Rhelin with a knowing glance, allowing him to pass. The moment seemed to drag on, as if in slow motion. He could almost sense everything around him. The guards eyeing him suspiciously, yet doing nothing to stop him. The fat man knowing what was to happen, or at least thinking he knew. Almost out of his field of vision, he could see a group of seven or so men armed with swords, dressed in Blackwood garb. A familiar face. Skingrad!
Just like that, the surrealism was over. He hurried up the last few steps before he was level with Jethri.
“Master Jethri Morendis!” Rhelin shouted. “I have some important – “ The fat man cut him off before he could complete his warning.
“Assassin!” He yelled. “Master Jethri, watch out!”
Jethri turned back with eyes glazed over in sheer panic. Rhelin was sure his eyes were the same as he heard steel being drawn from all sides.
“Get him! Blackwood needs him alive!” Skingrad’s dark voice boomed above everything else.
Rhelin did what any self-respecting coward would do. Turning about, he fled down the stairs, but not before shouldering that J.K. fellow so hard he tumbled down in his wake.
Onlookers watched in horror while the would be assassin was chased down the street by the noble Underwood town sentries, backed up by concerned Blackwood guards.
Or at least that is how it would be spun, Rhelin imagined…
Rhelin’s legs felt like jelly as he sprinted through the Market place, slowing his pace to a quick walk, trying to sink into the crowd of merchants and shoppers. He looked back over his shoulder, only to see the two score of guards and Blackwood mercenaries searching for him, weapons drawn. When he passed a small clothier stand, he noticed the tender was busy haggling over the price of leggings with a customer. Seizing the opportunity, he snatched a small oiled cloak from the display rack, quickly throwing it over his shoulders once he was out of sight of the stall.
Pulling the hood over his head, he looked about again. The guards had split up into groups of twos, they were making their way quickly across the plaza looking for their failed assassin. Rhelin ducked behind a cart loaded with large barrels of ale, taking a moment to assess the situation. From where he stood, he had very few choices. Stand and fight, and die. Surrender, and try to explain what was happening, but most likely just die. Or keep running, but to where? Out of those options only running sounded right, he dying for trying to do the right thing simply did not lay right with him.
No good deed goes unpunished, he reminded himself and pushed off towards a small side street.
Turning back one more time to make sure no one was following him, he walked backwards for a few steps, colliding with someone along the way. Chain maille clanked. A guard. Or worse, Blackwood. He dared not flinch or run, he was almost paralyzed in fear.
“Watch where you’re going, Citizen!” The guard said sternly.
“My apologies.” Rhelin replied, trying to gain some distance without showing his fact. He even hid his hands under the cloak, afraid his skin would betray him as the person the guard was looking for. “I’ll be more careful next time.”
Rhelin turned away but was stopped in his tracks by a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Hang on! Let me get a look at you!”
Rhelin shunted his weight into the man, slamming into the rings of his armor, knocking the guard off balance as he made his escape to the side street. Shouts from the guard alerting his comrades echoed down the narrow street, putting more haste in Rhelin’s steps. He took a couple of turns to try to lose his pursuers, every street started to look the same, multi-story grey stone buildings, many with awnings casting shade on ground.
No matter how many twists and turns he made, they were always just behind him, he was becoming winded, breathing in loud pants, his leg muscles aching, crying for him to stop, but to no avail. Taking a left turn into yet another alleyway, his heart sank on the realization that it was a dead end, panicked, he pressed his hands against the wall, and faced the inevitable. Turning his back to the wall, he drew his sword, the guards would find him soon, and even now he could hear their footfalls.
When the guards finally reached him eight in all, they raised shield and sword, boxing him in. Rhelin looked for a way out, maybe an opening in their line, perhaps a guard that appeared weaker than the rest to roll over. Nothing. No place to go. But up.
Betting his life on a long shot, Rhelin searched frantically for a way up the walls. There, behind the line of guards was a ledge about ten feet up, it looked wide enough to accommodate him, but just barely. He tossed the hood of his cloak off his head and gave the loudest war cry he could muster. Straightening his shoulders, he charged towards them. This caught the guards by surprise, even the more battle hardened Blackwood mercenaries that fell in with them. Readying themselves for what would surely be a suicidal frenzy, they pressed towards alleged assassin.
Dodging sword blows, he whirled past the first three guardsmen, deflecting a blow with his sword, while he felt a tug on his side from another assault that only just tore a divot into his tunic. The nose of one of the men shattered against the pommel of his sword as Rhelin finally lashed out, blood was sent across his face. The small alleyway made it hard for anyone to get a good fighting stance, too many fighters in one area, but all of them out for blood. Rhelin focused on one guard whom stood between him and the ledge he was betting his life on. The young broad shouldered fellow dressed in Blackwood garb held his sword at the ready, daring Rhelin to attack.
Rhelin obliged. He was not willing to harm the town guard, but a Blackwood was fair game in his mind. He jabbed the point of his sword towards his opponents torso, which was easily deflected by a glance of his sword, dodging right, the man struck to the left, Rhelin barely ducked the swing, which was aimed for his neck. This guy was not playing.
Finally he saw his opportunity, the man was skilled, but over extended himself, and Rhelin darted under the range of his arc, pushing past him altogether. Rhelin twirled, swinging his blade in a downward strike armed for the back of his opponent’s calf, the sword met the resistance of cloth and flesh, digging a deep gash into muscle and sinew. Screaming, he fell to the ground while Blackwood and town guard alike looked on, stunned for just a moment.
Capitalizing on the sudden lull in the fighting, RHelin got the running jump he needed, vaulting himself onto an awning, the old cloth sagging and straining to support his weight. It gave him the extra height he needed to make the extra leap. He held onto the edge by just his finger tips, feet kicking trying to find footing on the stone wall of the building. Finally catching purchase, he pushed himself on the ledge and ran along the side of the building.
His assailants left their fallen, screaming in pain and hatred, and gave chase, following Rhelin at street level, cursing and yelling to him. To his luck, a low, steep roofed building lay just ahead. He picked up his speed as much as he dared, grunting as he took those last few steps off the ledge, past the point of return. Leaping across the gap between buildings, he landed on the other side. Baked clay tiles shattered and fell underneath his feet, staggering him until he found his balance. Skittering up the roof, he moved to the other side. Crouching down as best he could, he ran towards the far end of the roof, leaving broken and fallen roof tiles in his wake.
Just behind him, he heard tiles break and wood splinter, arrows. He looked behind him, three or four arches readied their bows for another volley. Rhelin dived behind a large chimney that bellowed thick, black smoke just in time, pressing himself against the stone as arrows struck the opposite side. While they reloaded, he made his run for it. Scrambling back over to the other side, he noticed that he was on top of a small pottery shop. Clay pots and vases, ranging in sizes from cup size to absolutely huge, sat in neat rows underneath, and best of all, there was not a guard in sight.
When Rhelin neared the edge of the steep roof he lay on his chest and scooted his lower half over. Underneath was a pile of dirt that he hoped would provide some cushion for the fall. The roof tiles began to slip.
“Not good!” Rhelin muttered, his hands scrambling for a better grip, to no avail.
Falling uncontrolled, his right foot scraped the wall, sending him in a backwards roll in the air. The last thing Rhelin felt was the back of his head slamming against something hard.
Then darkness…
Rhelin awoke in a down feather bed, yawning and wiping the sleep from his eyes. Tossing back the plain white sheets he covered with, he jumped out of bed that morning feeling great. The toes of his bare feet curled against the cool wood floor of the room he shared with his mother. Their room was partitioned by a bookshelf that was large enough to hide him from the many friends she had over, with a large enough space from the end of the bookshelf to the wall to allow him through. The space had a blanket stretched across to serve as a makeshift door.
Rhelin pressed his face against the blanket, seeing a muffled version of the room through the loose knit fabric, centering on her bed. No elongated lumps under the blankets, there was not even clothes strewn across the floor, hers or her ‘friend for the night’ as his mother often referred to them as.
Still in his night shirt, Rhelin left the room in search of his mother, their room opened to the central gallery of a large home. “Earthly Delights” is what the visitors called the house of prostitution, but his extended family of all different races just called it home, and treated him and the other children born there as their own.
He looked around for his mother, wandering around stone columns that held the vaulted roof over head, in the kitchens where the ‘retired’ ladies of Earthly Delights prepared what would surely be a feast. One of the ladies even gave him a fresh sweet roll, still steaming from the oven, which he enjoyed as he continued on his search.
“Rhelin! What are you doing up this early, young man!” Mina asked, she was young, maybe in her late teens. Rhelin and her became fast friends from the day she arrived there, he always knew her smile. She did not smile as much these days, a scar ran straight down her face, cutting a bright red divot in her lips, she got it from a john that refused to pay her their agreed upon price.
The young boy idled up to where she sat on the small stone fountain in the middle of the gallery, still in her white flowing nightgown.
“I’m looking for my Mother, have you seen her?” He asked.
“Oh, she’s outside, preparing water to wash her sheets, I think.” She smiled kindly to him.
He gave his thanks and made his way outside. The streets were dotted with puddles of dirty water, which his nimble feet avoided easily. He circled around to a small alleyway where the ladies did their washing.
The alleyway had several clotheslines across it, swaying in the wind with their loads of drying clothes and sheets. A small well at the end provided water for the washing, with a large wooden container that was used to hold the laundry. It was behind the container that Rhelin saw his Mother’s legs outstretched, her dressed ridden up, a man between them. He could hear her straining to yell, her voice muffled by the man’s gnarled hand held over her mouth. She was screaming in a way he had never heard before, sheer terror.
Rhelin’s heart pounded, ached, and anger welled up in him all at once, but the terror that gripped his Mother seemed to capture him in its web as well. The man that assaulted her did not seem natural. His skin was ruined with poc marks, large white and red pustules wept thick fluid. Open sores exposed festering flesh.
It was when his Mother noticed him standing there that the man turned to him, incomprehensible words sputtering from lips so blistered he could not close them. It was only then that Rhelin was able to turn and run. As he was reaching the mouth of the alleyway, the cobblestone underneath his feet turned to mush, and he sank in. Fighting against what felt like quicksand, the walls surrounding him swayed and bent silently, the rooftops swirling away like smoke in high winds. Then his head began hurting.
Rhelin woke up gasping for air, he opened in his eyes and tried to shoot up to his feet, but only managed to hit the top of something that echoed like the inside of an earthenware pot. Rubbing the back of his head and pressing against the sides with his free hand, he figured he had fallen into one of the massive pots used for shipping oils. He looked up at a large round opening at the top, confirming his suspicions.
His nightmare was almost overwhelming, more vivid than the rest, he felt sweat prickle on his arms and back of his neck. It only seemed fitting to wake up in a situation far worse than memories. He knew one thing though, he had to get out of town, but first, he had to get out of that pot.
He felt for his sword but could not find it, he cursed. It must have fallen outside. He pressed his ear against the wall of the container and listened carefully, waiting for the shouts of angry men seeking him out. Nothing. He began to wonder how long he had been out.
He hit the wall of the pot to see if he could simply break his way out, he only pulled back bloody knuckles. He tried jumping to the top, his fingertips just out of reach of the rim. “Damn” he sighed while he weighed his options. He could easily stay in there until nightfall, but who knows what would happen in the meantime. Even now he was being searched for on every street, it was only a matter of time before someone happened upon him.
Rhelin pressed himself against the wall of the pot, then flung himself towards the other side, the pot leaned some, then settled right back in its place. He tried this several other times, each time throwing more power into it, until finally it topped over. The heavy clay container shattered towards the top, allowing Rhelin to escape it, quickly scrambling to his feet to search for his weapon. He looked around the clay pot that he fell in, shuffled the pile of roofing tiles that gave way when he fell, nothing. He could not spend much time looking for it; it was only a matter of time before he was discovered.
He looked around the warehouse grounds, it was a fairly large area, with pots piled up ready to be shipped. The area opened up to the streets at both ends, and to his surprise, there were a couple of horse drawn wagons ready to be loaded. He slipped towards them, trying to stay out of sight as much as he could. There were no laborers around, but one could not be too careful.
Hiding behind a pile of small clay decanters, he waited until he was sure no one was around, and darted towards a wagon. He slowed down just before a team of two horses, so they would not startle, he took the closest ones by its reins and patted its muzzle to keep it calm, before setting to work on the equipment holding the mare to the wagon.
Freeing the mare from her burdens, he climbed up her side and nearly fell off again, but found his balance on the tall horse. Giving her a kick, she began a slow trot out of the warehouse grounds. He was just about onto the streets, when he heard shouts behind him.
“Hey! You! Bring back that horse, you thief!”
Giving a sharp jab to the horse, she picked up a gallop, then a full run, her hooves clapping he pave stones as Rhelin made his getaway. He felt his heart pound just as hard as his newly acquired horse ran, doing his best to keep from running into the throngs of people that crowded the streets. There was no turning back now, run or die.
Sure enough, Rhelin was spotted. At first it was just by a couple of guards on foot, posing no real problem to dodge and get away from, spirited by a fast horse, but soon he was being pursued by mounted guards. Rhelin’s horse was not particularly fast, bred for carrying heavy loads and not for spiriting away alleged criminals, it turned out, and the guards were slowly gaining on him.
The unfamiliar streets confused him, he made blind turns with no real sense of direction, until finally he happened upon the main road that led through the town and tore down it like a bat out of hell. The people in the streets gave way, sometimes violently, spilling themselves out on the ground in a desperate bid not to get ran over by the horses that raged past them.
Behind him, he could hear the men behind him, hurrying their horses trying to get within blades reach. He ducked just in time to miss a spear being chucked at him by a guard on foot; the spear tip caught his tunic and tore it across his back. He heard a man scream as the spear found a place in his calf.
Just ahead, a cart full of fresh vegetables was being hauled across the road, the old man struggling over a pothole. He tried much harder when he realized his livelihood was about to be trampled. He pushed and pulled to no avail, and Rhelin was thankful for it. He hunched back on the horse and pulled taught on the reigns, the mare whinnied and made the hard jump over the small cart, he hoped his pursuers would not be as successful. Looking back over his shoulder, he was dismayed as two of the five horsemen simply dodged around the cart, and another vaulted over it all together, knocking apples down onto the street. The last two were caught by surprise and their horses refused to turn or jump, and simply reared up, throwing one of them.
Several times the guards almost caught up with him, but he managed to stay one step ahead, dodging and maneuvering as best he could, until he was out of the city. He charged his horse across the golden fields that surrounded the town, making his way to the tree line where the forests of Underwood began.
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