The High Priestess

Lankhmar: THE HIGH PRIESTESS - Episode 1

The innkeeper hurried up the stairs, astonished at the sudden and unexpected presence of those who rarely leave the citadel except for the shedding of blood. Thankfully, he had kept all of his inside his skin by the time he reached the door, unlocking it hurriedly and thrusting it open. There, he saw the same, strange, Northern woman who had arrived that morning and scared his barmaid with her mannerisms. She was dressed in those same ragged furs, fierce, snow lion’s head staring at him with an open maw. She sat on a bed beside a young man apparently with a head wound, quite unconscious. He was about to question it before he remembered there was a far more urgent matter.
“The Overlord’s men are here to speak to you."
She did not turn her head, bandaging the wound.
“Can it wait?”
He paused, stunned, eyes moving aimlessly around the room.
“….I said the Overlord’s men are here to speak to you.”
She still did not turn her head.
“Yes, and I said, can it wait?”
The innkeeper clenched his jaw, stifling his emotions and trying to retain a persistent, professional manner, especially when those wearing the Overlord’s badge of office were so near.
“The Overlord does not typically wait, madam.”
Esme sighed, rising to her feet, the top of her blood red mane towering far above the thinning hair of the innkeeper. She left Nat as he was while she sauntered casually toward the door, picking up her large shoulder bag as she went.
“Yes, I suppose he is a bit of a child like that.”
The innkeeper’s eyes went wide, mouth agape as he spoke loudly, just in case the Overlord’s men had overheard any of their conversation.
“I would never say such a thing.”
Esme shook her head and smirked, all but pushing past him.
“Yes, you would. He’s not here, you know. He’s just like any other man underneath.”
She strolled off down the hall, turning her head back to speak one last time, grinning.
“Trust me, I’ve seen him naked.”
Stood at attention by the bar of the Golden Lamprey was a cadre of the Overlord’s Guard clad in chainmail finery and with his house seal – a hawk devouring a raven – on the silk overhanging their breastplate. An intimidating sight of there ever was one, even compared to the Northern ruffians that frequented this rowdy tavern. Esme strolled into the bar absently, barely paying heed to the guards, and sat on a stool. She ordered an ale. The group stood dumbly before their sergeant spoke.
“My lady! The Overlord desires to see you immediately!”
She did not turn her head.
“I’ll bet he does.”
She took a swig of the ale.
“Well, what is it he wants?”
The sergeant looked around the bar, unsure, before walking over to Esme and whispering in her ear.
“There has been a death.”
Esme grimaced, downed the ale, in that order, then rose to her feet.
“You have disgusting breath.”
She took the sergeant’s gloved hand and planted a mint-scented ball in it.
“Leave it in your mouth. Let us go.”
Esme marched out of the Golden Lamprey, not waiting for the Guard to follow her.
~
Esme marched into the private chambers of the Overlord of Lankhmar, not letting the guard stop her.
It was a surprisingly small affair, compared to the size of the Citadel. A titanic desk sat facing north toward the ocean as a line of windows crossed the circular roof of this room at the peak of one of the towers. Bookshelves lined the walls and a fireplace roared opposite the desk, but you would struggle to fit thirty people inside the wide, rather than long room. A guard came running in after Esme, dropping to one knee, head prostrated.
“I tried to stop her but she pushed me out of the way! A thousand apologies, your greatness!”
Standing in front of his desk, speaking to a messenger, stood the Overlord of Lankhmar: a face of classical beauty set below a crown of shimmering ebony hair; dressed in obscenely fine, purple regalia with an armband bearing the seal of his House on his left arm. He was truly an awesome figure that gave most shivers to be in the presence of. Most.
Esme scoffed.
“Your greatness? Really?”
The Overlord gave Esme a dark look before tapping the bowed head of the guard.
“It’s quite alright. Return to your duties.”
Esme rolled her eyes and sighed, walking toward the Overlord’s desk and dumping her bag on top before sitting atop its edge. The Overlord clenched his jaw and stifled his rage as the messenger stood pale, trying to turn invisible in fear he would be caught in the strike of his master’s talon. But there was none to come. The Overlord regained his poise, being entirely familiar with the ways of this strange woman. The messenger, seeing his calm, decided it was a good time to deliver some bad news. Whispered, of course. The Overlord’s eyes flamed up again.
“What is this rumour across the city about you and I having an affair?”
Esme burst into raucous laughter, slipping off her precarious perch, occasionally entering “you” and “and me” into her relentless cackle. The messenger whispered again.
“You told an innkeeper that you had seen me naked?”
Her laughter drifted away as she wiped tears out of her eyes.
“Oh, yes, I did do that.”
“Why!?”
“Because I have!”
“In a medical capacity!”
“So!? Why are we shouting!?
“You cannot go around the city saying whatever you damn well please!”
“Yes. I can, and I will. You don’t scare me.”
The Overlord smiled.
“No, I suppose I don’t. Why is that?”
“Because I know exactly who you are. And you don’t have the faintest idea who I am. And, of course, because you need me Corvus.”
“Will you stop calling me that!?”
“Why? It’s your name.”
“My name is Corvictian Varanaehawk.”
“Yes, and Corvictian is rooted in the word Corvus. I don’t know why you southerners mess around with your names so much. An Esme is a fire sprite rarely seen in the North, but when it is, it’s considered a symbol of great prosperity. You’d do well to remember that, Corvus.”
“I do not want to be called Corvus because ravens are omens of death.”
“Yes, I suppose they are….what is this death you brought me here to speak about?”
The Overlord took on a sombre, worried expression which Esme found herself reflecting. She had seen it before. It was the same expression he had when she met him that morning. But that was in the presence of her. For a moment, she assumed the worst.
“Deaths, plural.”
“Who?” Esme rushed out.
“Five thieves, or at least, we have three bodies. We’re still looking for the other two,”
Esme breathed a sigh of relief, then cursed herself for being relieved that instead of one, awful death, there were five that meant nothing to her.
“Sgu.”
She shook her head.
“Surely thieves die every day in Lankhmar, why are these important?”
The Overlord gave her a second dark look.
“They do not. Not every day. Regardless, these five thieves are significant. I’ll tell you on the way.”
Esme frowned.
“On the way where?”
“To the dungeons, where the bodies are being kept.”
Esme stood stalwart, not moving out of the room as the Overlord walked straight for the door, the messenger moving to open it for him.
“You will not expect me to work in the dungeons. I need a room with good light. This room would do well. It’s cold enough up here.”
The Overlord walked out the door.
“Not this room. We will talk. Come, I would have you examine them as soon as possible.”
Esme found herself following the Overlord; she was not accustomed to following anyone. She had a tendency to always know where she was going.
“This is urgent?”
Corvus gave her a firm look that was not dark, but filled with fear. Esme furrowed her brow in response. It was one thing to see him sombre, it was entirely another to see perhaps the most powerful man in the world afraid.
“Very much so. Every minute these deaths bring this city closer to total collapse.”
Esme rushed ahead of the Overlord.
~
The strange, regal pair paced through the damp darkness of the Overlord’s dungeons, where only the most heinous and terrible of criminals were housed. One, a definitive Queen, the other a King, but of very different worlds. The Overlord ruled only land. Esme ruled something more insubstantial but much greater. It was rare, in fact, almost without precedent that the dim torchlight of the dungeon would illuminate the sharp features of Corvictian Varanaehawk. The prisoners rattled their cages but the sound did not seem to even reach the ears of the Overlord. It was hard to tell which their hands reached for, the woman or their captor.
“This morning, four thieves were tasked with training a new initiate into the guild. The nephew of, who I am told is being called the ‘Queen’ of the Thieves’ Guild; a woman by the name of Mari, who is in control of Guildmaster Onus. Sometime between then and now, the corpse of one of the thieves was found dumped on the pavement of the Cash District, not far from the Slayers’ Brotherhood guildhouse; another was found dead in a warehouse off Murder Alley and the third was found tortured to death in an abandoned building near Cash Street. The other two, one of which is the nephew in question, are nowhere to be found. Presumed dead, as you might imagine.”
The information moved behind Esme’s pearlescent green eyes as they stepped into a room lined with equipment that looked as though it had been used for torture in the past. Laid out on three wooden tables in the centre were three corpses: closest to the door a tiny young woman, stab wound to the chest; in the middle a man with a cut on his cheek, his bicep and a stab wound to the chest. Finally, something that even made Esme’s eyes falter slightly. A burned out husk of a corpse. No identifiable wounds at first glance.
One thought walked into the back of her mind, an intuition, but one for which she had no solid evidence quite yet. The Overlord gestured to the corpses.
“I would have you assist the Guard with their investigation. But examine the bodies before I give my own thoughts on the matter.”
The intuition burrowed into her consciousness as she looked from lifeless body to lifeless body. Fear crawled up her face as her rosy cheeks went pale and her eyes dropped, wide.
“Him.”
The Overlord frowned.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, excuse me.” Esme all-but mouthed. She began pacing out of the dungeon. “I will be back in the morning. Move these to a cold room out of the dungeons! Other than that, let no one touch them!” It was one thing to find a killer. It was another to save a life. She knew which she valued more.
~
Esme and the Overlord stood once again over the three cadavers, this time in a high tower room. Rickety and abandoned with a similar skylight-arrangement as the Overlord’s office, but all this did was illuminate a fog of dust.
“What happened last night?”
The Overlord quietly inquired while two guards stood by the door, at attention.
“I had issues to deal with, we will leave it at that.”
Corvictian winced at having something decided for him.
“What now?”
Esme walked towards the bodies with an expression of deep concern covering her face, setting her shoulder bag up on the table. She began removing her furs.
“You and your men will of course, have to leave. I will come for you when I am finished. Bring water when you’re called. Masser. Lots.”
The Overlord paused, not expecting this, but nodded and turned away. He had several ideas of why she would need privacy and all of them concerned him greatly. But he needed her. That much was true. Corvictian found his patience and his confidence especially tried as he waited for almost an hour before she called him back in, guards with buckets of water in tow. Once inside, a collection of reactions were had: Varanaehawk turned suddenly, covering his eyes; one guard vomited straight onto the floor of the dungeon, dropping his bucket in the process while the second stared, unable to tear his eyes away.
Esme was completely naked with the exception of two fur-covered leather boots, exposing her entire form apart from what her mane of bright red hair covered. If one counted the parts of her body that were plastered with blood as covered, she was not so naked. She was dripping with it, her arms, especially, were painted up to the elbow. The air stank of copper. The way her hair so persistently clung to her flesh was due to her new sanguinary second skin. It was hard to notice that the room and the corpses were similarly defiled, although she had sown up the cuts from which she must have drawn that blood. Esme angled her head and smiled, hands raised about her and blood splattering onto the wooden floor.
“I have determined how they died. And will find their killers soon enough.”
The Overlord had no capacity for a response. He had of course fatally overlooked the most important part of her words. The scene was quite unlike anything from even his most twisted nightmare. The guards, while familiar with ghoulish scenes – although not as familiar as those from outside the Citadel – were entirely repulsed by the horrid juxtaposition of images.
“Where is that water?”
“Here, my lady!” Was the call of the guards coming down the corridor.
“No, wait!” The Overlord commanded. “Stay there.” He had no desire to expose more of his guards to the image and undermine further this woman’s presence among them. He commanded the two other guards, one of them still pale and recovering from expelling his innards, to fetch the water. She dipped her hand in the single bucket, the Overlord pre-emptively standing in the doorway to prevent her exit as she was, while doing his best to keep his eyes off her.
“Cold? And nothing to scrub with? What kind of barbarians are you?”
~
In time, Esme was once again dressed in her furs and mostly cleared of the blood that covered her; although she still smelt distinctly of copper. She sat on a table next to one of the corpses she had cut open. The Overlord was meanwhile warring internally. This behaviour was contrary to all respect for the dead he had been taught, not to mention matters of modesty. But more than anything in the world at that moment, he knew he had to keep her around.
“So, your own thoughts?”
Esme interrupted them. The Overlord looked up, for a moment flinching as the image flashed in his mind again.
“Yes…well….I….”
He shook his head before looking distinctly past her, no matter how much she tried to move her head into the centre of his vision.
“It strikes me that all evidence points to the Slayer’s Brotherhood being responsible. Two were killed in an expert manner, one of which was found near the Brotherhood guildhouse and the third was clearly tortured to death, most likely by the House of Pain.”
“From what you have told me, it does suggest that the Brotherhood was involved in some way. But one: why would the Brotherhood dump a body on their doorstep if they were trying to hide ansvar… responsbility? And two: the man who you say was tortured to death was, as far as I can see, not tortured by the House of Pain. No special equipment was used and he was in fact, burned to death.”
The Overlord frowned as she began walking out of the room and down the corridor. He pursued with great annoyance.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the reason he was set on fire was not to torture him, it was to kill him and destroy the evidence. He was covered in tar, which meant they would not be able to control the flame and thus the torture. Why they did not kill him prior to burning the body? Well…I fear a terrible man has come to your city.”
“Another one?”
She was interrupted in her thought process by a strange procession coming down the corridor. A weedy, very pale man with cropped, greasy hair and a smile full of metal alongside a wiry, pasty, bald man with wide eyes and a deep gaze. The Overlord whispered to her.
“The Brotherhood. They’re here for appearances, no doubt.”
As they drew closer, she saw a third figure beside the central assassin. An ephemeral mass swathed in shadow and with the kind of aura that made your mind want to pretend it was not there. Naught was distinguishable except for two bright amber eyes. It saw her. Auroric green warred with prehistoric amber. Both had an uncanny power of perception. Both saw who the other was. Yet neither knew.

Lankhmar: INTERIM

“What should we do, my lady?”
“We should celebrate. This has gone far better than I could have anticipated.”
“My lady?”
The door opened.
Two shadowy figures had returned to a shadowy room after the stroke of a shadowy midnight. One, a giant of a man with a gruff, powerful voice, the other, a small woman with a soft, melodic voice. They positioned themselves exactly as they had been that morning, when they hired five thieves to pursue some interesting and in some cases highly dangerous individuals. They had expected that by now, those five thieves would have returned with news of their exploits, yet none had. They knew precisely why. They did not expect that door to open. Yet it did.
Arnold of House Tal, simply Tal, stepped through the dark arch with purpose and without hesitation, buzzing from grandiose dreams and an encounter with a being beyond his comprehension. He swallowed once, not entirely sure how his employers would react to his rejection of the job, but did not allow that trepidation to slow his step one knot. He dropped the heavy bag of coin on the table.
“Well, isn’t this interesting.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Tal thought he knew exactly what entertained them so much, but he was entirely oblivious; including to the sinister notes behind their syllables.
“I reject your offer.” He began. They did not respond. “I could not possibly betray the trust of the Thieves’ Guild so I cannot take this job nor this coin.” Still, silence. “You can have it back, it’s all there.” He was beginning to become disturbed. Finally, the woman spoke.
“I’m glad you returned.”
Tal was unsure what to make of that, he turned toward the door, but the woman rising out of her chair and walking into the moonlight streaming through a window made him pause. The unveiling of her identity was not something he expected. She noticed.
“Oh, it does not matter now. I am, indeed, Lady Rannarsh. Or I suppose you knew me as Amelia, didn’t you Arnold?”
He knew her very well. He was surprised he did not recognise her voice a few moments ago; she had not spoken that morning, now he understood why. Next to Duke Danius and Countess Kronia, she was one of the most powerful nobles in the city. He had met her several times when he was once a noble, now disgraced. He had danced with her at several balls. He recalled this distinctly because their height difference made it particularly awkward. She was a tiny woman, slight, under five feet but her luscious golden hair and piercing green eyes made most men forget. Tal snapped himself out of his reverie to persist the confusion that had plagued his entire night.
“Why…does it not matter now?”
She could have ignored him, it was unclear.
“You see, all of your friends, or I suppose associates would be more accurate…”
She paused, watching Tal’s oblivion.
“They are dead.”
Tal’s eyes fell. He did not know what to feel.
“Or at least, three of them are quite dead, one of them is missing but any fool can see the pattern.”
Tal looked at the floor, blanketed by the darkness of this room so it was quite beyond his vision. His eyes had not fully adjusted. He felt a certain emptiness that haunted him. He was not upset that any of them had died. This upset him.
“You were always sharp Arnold. You know what this means.”
A challenge to his intellect awoke him and his mind raced to decipher what she meant in little more than a second. He turned, his face striking the broad chest of the man he now knew to be Golleborn, her personal bodyguard. A titan of a man with a persistent, dagger-like stubble struggling to become a beard and a particularly unpleasant face to behold. Tal had no notion of how this giant had slipped behind him. But he knew why.
“You will of course have to die.”
Tal’s last sensations were Golleborn taking a hold of his head and smashing it into the door behind him. Tal’s last emotions were a feeling of guilt for abandoning his new master and a sorrow that the same master had not saved him.

Lankhmar: THE HIGH PRIESTESS - Prologue

So I’m Nat. The thief. Except I’ve never stolen a thing in my life. I was supposed to be training with those who had stolen a couple more things than me, but instead, I was pulled into a dark room and sent off alone to follow a woman with a bag of coin in my hand and a stitch through my lips. True, it was more coin than I’d ever seen, but I didn’t know anything about following someone. I knew how to repair shoes. None of the skills transfer. But I didn’t have a choice. The people who I was supposed to listen to set me on this task, that meant I had to complete it. My life was flipped on its head in the space of a day, I was numb to the chaos by then. Mostly.
We were all given different targets to watch for the day: mine was a woman, some sort of witch or herbalist from the Northern tribes. She had a name: Esme. It meant nothing to me. I had learned some of the ways of the tribes, that they were ruled by women, that their medicines were much more advanced than ours and that they were fierce warriors, but, although they – that is, a man with a voice like two screws grinding near your ear and what might have been a woman, who didn’t say a word – told me she was someone significant, she was just like any other face on the street as far as I was concerned.
I quickly withdrew that concept when I spotted her, stepping through the crowded docks. It was hard not to; she was a bestial figure, a Queen of the wild. Easily six feet tall, she was swathed in grey furs, with bright white skin and a great mane of blood red hair not to mention features you could cut yourself on. The head of a snow lion on her shoulder helped nothing but my fear. She had a look in her eye that met and beat even my aunt’s. Like a hawk: absolute focus, keen watch and little time for those who might pursue her. Or at least, that was what went through my mind as I tried to work out a way to get out of this.
I nervously moved after her as she proceeded up Nun Street and onto Temple Street, trying to just keep my head down amidst the crowds as much as I could. I knew I was unlikely to lose sight of her as she stood out quite starkly which meant I could, for the most part, hide the fact that I was watching her. I realised as we passed into the eastern half of the city, that she was heading for the Royal Road; then it struck me. In all this tumult, I hadn’t even told my master I had to leave my job. Fortunately, his shop was in the Noble District but it was a little off my path. I suppose I was lucky that the guards knew that I worked in the District and so wouldn’t throw me out. Although it didn’t stop them from treating me…well, like a peasant.
I warred over whether to visit the cobbler or keep my attention focused on this “Esme”, but I had no notion of how long I would be with my master and I was loathe to even have that conversation with him. A wrench in my gut called guilt pulled as I continued to stalk my target. For the nefarious needs of whoever had planted an oversized bag of coin in my hand. After all my master had done for me, I was going to leave him to wonder. This was Nat, this was who I was now, apparently. It would lead me to such good places.
Unfortunately, the Royal Road was not the most well-populated of streets; there was only myself, Esme and a squad of guardsmen to throw out any trespassers. Thankfully, for the time being, I did not qualify as such, although that served little to conceal my presence from the herbalist, from whom I had now fallen back a hundred feet in some attempt to hide. Her blood red hair was clear against the grimy, monochrome streets of Lankhmar, but it was difficult to tell when she turned her head…and spied me.
My feet fell onto Kings Road – the one skirting the walls of the Overlord’s Citadel - and to my shock, this tribal woman, this witch doctor, this foreigner without a day of Lankhmar under her feet, had the mighty gates to the Overlord’s Citadel, the mouth of god, open before her. It was astonishing. I had never seen the gates open before, yet they opened to her as if she was expected…she was expected. I realised that she must be a guest of the Overlord. That meant to pursue her would not be any normal crime. It would be an insult to the most powerful man in the city. I quaked and sweated profusely, shivering against the cool morning air.
I should never have let my aunt take me away. True, there were many things I wanted to see and do, all things that my ma had spoken of but never shown me, but there was no hope of me seeing these if I was in the Overlord’s dungeon for the rest of my days or worse, hanging from a rope. The thought made me feel sick and I resisted the urge to vomit, retaining the presence of mind to know that doing so on the streets of the Noble District might find me buried faster. My eyes moved to the Royal Road, looking for some magical way out of this situation. Then I spied Laena. Pretty Laena. Smart Laena. Who had been a thief all her life and come this far alive and still kicking with mostly a smile on her face.
The gates opened and out came what looked like a tall, elderly eastern man, hair all white but purpose in his eyes. Something much darker in them than in Esme’s: abyssal. Laena moved to pursue him. I realised he was her target. He was a guest of the Overlord as well, but that did not stop her. I decided I would not let it stop me. We would celebrate when the day was done.
It was a couple of hours more before Esme exited, making me think at one point that she would not emerge and my day might be over. Wishful thinking. She emerged with the same purpose she arrived, moving to apparently retrace her steps; which meant she was coming toward me. I ducked into the shadows but I was completely obvious. If there was one thing I knew about the people of the Cold Wastes, it was that they had exceptional eyesight; travelling through blizzards required particularly keen eyes. Yet she did not seem to look at me. Perhaps she had other things on her mind.
I was right, she retraced her steps almost precisely right up until Kings Road crossed with the Street of the Gods. This was the one street my ma had always insisted I never set foot upon. To this day, I don’t know why. It was rather wonderful, really. Not to say it was extravagant, like the Noble District. No, there was a measure of iniquity that was somehow beautiful. You see, the Street of the Gods was a place of business, with residences owned by the city with rent paid through the proceeds of a temple’s religion. If a religion with a greater offer came along, the city would evict the other temple. This meant, that for the most part, every temple had numerous owners down the generations.
Close to me you had the sloping obelisk, an opaque, outdoor amphitheatre that enclosed the snared followers onto a webbed altar; to worship in the name of Mog, the Spider God. The elaborate, choreographed ceremonies were as easy to unravel as the words they spoke. Their arrangement was a mass of whispers, clinging together. Every one was in the abyss at the bottom of the ladder. Even the priests. They dripped with the filth of the Marsh District, the edge of the city being claimed by nature. Yet their temple persisted. Who owned it?
At the other end of the street there was the great church of Aarth, the God Amongst Men. I know the myth, though I’ve never seen the church before. In old days, there was a man who came to Lankhmar who cast great miracles and wielded great power. The people feared him, slew him and then afterwards decided it would be a plan to worship him, declaring that he was a god who came to Lankhmar. Today, or so my ma tells me, it is a church of money. They worship the gold rilk and the amber gludditch as the most popular church in Lankhmar with the wealthiest followers.
But this was not where Esme was destined. It was a diminutive temple, a small, almost cubed, stone building stuffed betwixt the Temple of Chthon, the the three-headed serpent god and the “Theatre” of Odix, the god of wonder. A stone door slid from her path a few moments after her approach. It shut right behind her. Apparently I was not getting in. Nor did I know what this Temple was of. There was a giant about three times as tall as the Temple itself atop it, wearing only a loin cloth and with an enormous, bushy beard. Some sort of god of the Cold Wastes maybe, but not one I was familiar with. It was only a few minutes before she emerged and we painfully set off again.
I found my shoes being worn away until sunset, making me thankful I at least had the ability to repair them. She went all over the city, the speed of her stride rarely faltering, to the guildhouses of the Fellowship of Physicians, Order of Apothecaries and Embalmers’ Guild. For Lankhmar, this was one of the less morbid combinations. I realised she must have been hired to be the Overlord’s doctor or something of the sort.
I cannot say that following her into the Tenderloin District headed for the Embalmer’s Guildhouse was any easier than deciding to pursue her out of the Overlord’s Citadel. It had been some years since I had entered the District and I had extremely unpleasant memories of it. Some involving scars still on my person. Lankhmar was a cutthroat city, but the Tenderloin was worse. This was where the vilest and most evil roosted. Those who would cut your throat for the sheer fun of it.
So when I saw Esme duck into an alleyway, not a place you want to be within the Tenderloin District – and bear in mind, the Tenderloin District is already a place you do not want to be – the thought crossed my mind that she would meet a rather grisly end. One I had no desire to see. The idea of helping her crossed my mind, as well as the idea of running as fast as I could. True, she was an intimidating figure, but to a gang of thugs an unarmed woman, no matter how bestial, was an easy meal. Eventually, I found myself gritting my teeth and turning into the alleyway.
My face met the pavestones. In the ensuing, dizzying moment, I found my shins hurt and recalled something had struck me in them as I rushed round the corner, causing my impact with the ground. I rolled over and looked up, my vision blurry but the blood red and white image of the witch staring down at me was clear. I suddenly found some sort of stick I could not make out against my throat.
“Do not think a healer would not freely crush the throat of a gnat who stalks her.”
I wondered for a moment how she knew my name, before I realised it was just a very strange coincidence. True, an odd thing to think about when someone is threatening your life, but there was something in the woman’s stutter that made me instinctually doubt her. I found speaking, seeing and hearing quite difficult in that position so did not respond. She pressed the stick against my throat, causing me to cough and splutter after she released the pressure.
“Så!? Who are you!?”
I paused, my vision clearing about the sharp, angular face of this Northern woman, her intense emerald green eyes burying into me. I garbled out a response with her weapon against my throat.
“My name is Nat. Really, it is.”
My words did not show any sort of surprise in her face.
“Do not consider it chance. Who is it you work for?”
I spluttered out another response.
“We should get off the street, it’s dangerous.”
I found myself without the “honour among thieves” that was so famous. Or was it infamously “no honour among thieves”? I can’t recall. Either way, I could not think of a reason to hide my intentions from this woman.
“You are right.”
I blacked out.
“Vække. Wake up.”
My head throbbed and the light from the lantern above burned through my skull. I was unwilling to cry out as I quickly found any movement of my head made it hurt worse. I just let out a light groan, squinting at the Queen of the wild who once again loomed over me. This time like a mother, not a predator. It made me think of my own. It hurt more than my head. I was lying in a soft bed in what looked an inn room, from what I could tell. It was night.
“God, you are awake.”
“I am…”
“You are a lucky man.”
I felt very unlucky. This was the worst day of my life by some measure.
“This could have been the last day of your life.”
Her words were haunting, it was almost as if she could read my mind. That was more scary to me than her suggestion that I might have died today. I just stared up at her as my eyes adjusted and my senses returned. She was sitting next to me on the bed, one of her long-fingered hands spread over my chest. I thought it was a mothering touch, then I realised she was prepared to hold me down if she needed to.
“You selected the wrong job, thief. Maybe the right one.”
The riddle I ignored.
“I’m not a thief. I’ve never stolen a thing in my life.”
She angled her head at me.
“You aren’t lying. You were hired to follow me, this is true.”
I grimaced, then nodded.
“A tilskuer? Ah….I do not know the word. Why did you take this job if you are not a thief?”
I paused, questioning whether to answer her question for the first time.
“Family,” was all I would say. She looked knowingly at me.
“I see. Your friends are dead.”
My eyes widened and I felt sick again. I sat up suddenly and it only made it worse, causing me vomit on the floor, barely missing Esme.
“Hm, you are worse than I thought.”
She stood up, unconcerned by the vomit and removed a small blood red vial from her pack on the nearby dresser. It bubbled and fizzed black within the confines of the glass so violently I feared it would explode at any moment. She removed the cork easily.
“You will drink this.”
It had stopped fizzing and bubbling suddenly, but I was still loathe to drink some strange red substance.
“It was not a request.”
She put her other hand to my forehead and pressed my back flat on the bed. Her grip was shockingly strong. It explained how she was able to move me here. With her other hand, still holding the vial, she pinched my nose until I was forced to open my mouth, pouring the thick, sticky liquid down my throat. It was foul, like a mix of copper and molasses. I could feel it splashing over my face as I struggled, forming a thick, vicsous layer. In a moment however, that did not matter as the pain in my head completely disappeared and I felt suddenly invigorated. I tried to sit up but she still somehow held me fast. She spat onto the hem of her sleeve several times before rubbing it over my face. I felt it disperse the layer easily, and I had worse things rubbed onto my face. Still, she did not release me.
“Stay still. Let the dryck settle, or you will be in trouble.”
I found myself doing as she commanded, lying still and staring up at her. Finally I gathered, recalling what those few crazed moments had made slip my mind. They were not exactly friends. But I liked them, sort of. I felt tears welling up in my eyes as I realised that included Laena. It shook me more than I thought. Something I did not know existed within my heart, began bubbling up. I stared at her and the thought crossed my mind. Blood for blood. I found myself mumbling words I did not want to ever say.
“I will kill them.”
“No you will not. You will not kill the baneman who stabbed your friends in the heart before they were even able to struggle. You are a boy. A gnat. You would be making your life more worthless than it already is.”
The fire was simply fanned.
“I will be clear. If you stay in the city another night, you will die. I will not allow that.”

Lankhmar: THE TOWER - Prologue

Whilst my inferiors are tasked with watching assassins and princes, I am dispatched to follow an old man; of the six targets I’ve heard described, he will prove, without a shadow of a doubt, the most effortless. It leaves me perplexed as to why I, the most skilled thief among our number, was consigned to pursue this man. I should clarify: I am not one to take tasks that have not been consigned through the guild in most circumstances but my curiosity ruled me on this occasion. My employers knew when and where these individuals would be arriving and a portion of their identity but, one assumes by hiring us, they had no notion of their intent in coming to Lankhmar; apart from what one could glean from Common sense.
My target is a philosopher by the name of Aldous. There is little question to the fact that he will approach the damnable Fraternity of Thinkers. Damnable due to their rejection of yours truly; they obviously lack the factual definition of their eponym, so I would hardly desire to be among their number in any case. It is customary for a philosopher visiting Lankhmar to join them however, so I imagine, if through some trick of fate, I do lose sight of the man, he will attend their guildhouse first of all.
In mid-morning a decripit-looking gentleman with great swathes of white hair, both from his chin and his crown steps through the gate, the man seemingly only held aloft by what looks more like a tree branch than any walking stick. Much of his hair, while streaming unfettered down the front of his foot-length woolen robe, is obscured by a hood overhanging a face difficult to discern. The base of his robe looks remarkably well-kept despite no doubt dragging over all manner of terrain on his way here; no matter, it will soon be stained by the filth lining the foundations of Lankhmar.
The fellow heads down Carter Street destined for the Street of the Thinkers no doubt; how erroneous that name is. Without question any other thief among those employed would have missed this but I possess a particular, superior insight: this man seems to know exactly where he is going and without any direction. Lankhmar is not fond of its street signs and I do not see him seek guidance from another so it could be that this man has been here before. Perhaps, even, as I peer at his face from underneath his hood, he may be Lankhmart in birth. Speculation of course, but nevertheless relevant to note.
Whilst I speculate my face is set afire and my disposition distinctly frenzied as I realise I have lost sight of him. Gaining greater height atop a window sill, now irrelevant whether he spies me, I stare over the crowd. Truly, it is as though he disappeared in a puff of smoke, without a hope of any one of us keeping their eye on him. A remarkable old man, exceeding my expectations. But I am not easily deterred, I already perceived his destination would be the Thinker’s Fraternity, so I have never had a cause to follow him intently. I dart my way through a few side-streets, avoiding the Tenderloin; with it the event that some may identify my affiliation and deter my path.
A doubt, of course, never crosses my mind that Aldous would not be where I anticipated and consequently, once my feet find themselves on the Street of the Thinkers in the Temple District he exits the Fraternity quite as expected, looking entirely unchanged as before. I cannot say I see his robe marred by any puffs of smoke…or, as my perceptive eyes hone closer, the foot of his robe. Pristine. How very peculiar. Oddities do not make me falter however, I continue to watch him, anticipating he would seek out room and board if he did not have a specific client or purpose in his arrival; he does neither, or at least, as far as I can perceive, which is in most cases as far as there is perception to be made.
I watch his steps intently, determined not to lose sight of that robe seemingly immune to the filth that is Lankhmar’s very skin. Making its way down Whore Street of all places, it falls onto the corner with Cash Street and there a door rarely darkened. The First Steppes, an outfitters owned by a singular Mingol by the name of Ooslip: known for a discriminate kindness to his own race and, as far as the whispers tell, aiding fast escapes to wealthy characters within the city. Is this philosopher a Mingol? Clearly not, his head almost reaches six feet. Is he wealthy? From the robe, despite its luck in avoiding the muck of the street, it does not appear such. Does he have a reason to flee the city? He arrived in the past few hours. My mind is plagued by this strange movement.
I stand, concealed across the street, watching the shopfront. Peculiar, I see my inferior Tommy arrive and begin watching the door soon after I do, but within a few minutes he hurries off down the street. The notion that his target may have been inside as well crossed my mind; after all, it is easy to establish that these individuals we are following are in some way connected, but not a soul exits the shop in the time Tommy is nearby. I continue watching for over an hour but in that time, naught but a young woman whose unnecessarily apparent curves distract my gaze exits that store. And there is no way that feeble old man could have darted out of the establishment and disappeared down the street in the mere moment my eyes fell upon this woman. After an hour, I become decided that this Aldous may have slipped out a back entrance. Therefore I have naught but one option.
I must, grossly, consign the aid of the Beggar’s Guild. Of course, this moniker has even less truth than that of the Thinker’s Fraternity. Those under their employ are not beggars, they are spies. They watch every inch of the city streets and live pleasantly with the coin this gains them. Unfortunately, I have long since sworn off directly dealing with Mhiril, the Day-Beggarmaster – or rather Mistress – and her foul contingent. Consequently, I will have to contact a friend in the guild to act as an intermediary. It is good fortune that we were paid upfront. Another strange thing, considering, as we were hired without going through the guild, there was no legal guarantee we would perform the required task. Peculiar, but of no matter, I can easily afford to-
I. I cannot believe this. My pouch is gone. A thief. Pickpocketed. Not only is this simply illegal, easily a lost hand within the guild, but…I have never been pickpocketed. I am standing on a Lankhmar city street; regardless of the amount of attention with which I watch this shopfront, I would not sacrifice my trained awareness. The notion that some swine could have walked up to me and away with my pouch whilst I stand in complete oblivion is….debilitating, I cannot dispute. I have coin concealed at my lodgings within the guild, but I lost my pay for this task. I no longer have a reason to complete it. Or…Masters, I will be the only one among us who fails and worse yet my only excuse would be that I was pickpocketed. The mockery. The shame. No. I have to pursue this man.
After an excruciating and shameful, but necessary experience reporting the crime to the guild as well as retrieving my store of coin, hanging it beneath my shirt like some sightless rook, I take a friend to the Silver Eel for a drink and hopefully, I can convince him to act as an intermediary with Mhiril. Rowan is a peculiar character, although not nearly as peculiar as my dastardly, cunning and elusive target. He is a fairly short fellow, of Mingolian height but Kvarch Narian descent – Kvarch Nar being one of the Eight Cities – with sharp black hair all slicked back and canines that are exposed too often. I deduce he is an entirely untrustworthy character, not as Common as you would think among guild thieves at least, but he seems to have imagined some sort of camaraderie with me, so he can be useful at times.
I set a pouch of coin with a note sticking out of it atop the bar and push it in his direction. An exchange of money is not something one would dare look twice at in any Lankhmart tavern. We converse in the Thieves’ Cant, so being overheard was no issue.
“I simply need you to deliver that to Mhiril at the Begging Bowl and then report back what she tells you.”
“Two ales, barkeep!” He ignores my words abrasively and orders two drinks when I have no desire of such. It is drawing to twilight and I fear my target may have already sought lodging.
“Rowan, I really do not have time-”
“I’m buying!”
“That is besides the point. I’m on a job and I need your help.”
“Oh really? Because the ledgemaster doesn’t know any job you’re on.” My face flashes with darkness as I realise my lack of trust in them was not unfounded. He and I know very well that the guild does not look kindly on members doing jobs without cutting them in; in fact they don’t look kindly on you nabbing a purse without their cut. I look down as I reach into my shirt, lift a few bronze agols from my pouch and slide them across the table to him.
“He was mistaken.” I grumble with no small amount of malice.
“Agols?” He scoffs, a look in his eye that makes me very aware of my blade in its sheath. “Come on, you want to keep your fingers don’t you?” My face burns and stings at his words. I should never have taken this job. I reach into my shirt again and produce a handful of silver smerduks.
“Now we’re done.”
“Yeah, we’ll see…” He clears the coins off into his palm before snatching up the pouch. The notion that he would dare to persist this blackmail catches in my throat. My intellect would not allow that. I catch his wrist before he can draw away.
“No, Rowan.” I stare into his eyes, using the same threat that made anyone who crossed me tremble, lending credence to the rumour. “We’re done. Unless you’d like to make acquaintance with my friend in the House of Pain?” I do not have any friends in the House of Pain, the torturer’s guildhouse. But I’m an exceptional liar. He goes white, like all the others.
“Yeah, we’re done.” He mumbles before wandering off.
“I’ll be waiting here for news Rowan!” I did not want to burn that bridge, but after Rowan showed his true colours, I realise I should have done so some time ago. Then I would not be even shorter on coin than I already was.
In only half an hour, Rowan steps back through the door of the Silver Eel. Odd. This is odd because, while the Begging Bowl is within fifteen minutes’ ride of the Eel, that would leave him little to no time to discuss with Mhiril let alone have the beggars do their work. Yet here he is.
“Back so soon?” I eye him suspiciously. He sits back at the bar, looking as timid as I would like him before taking a swig of the ale he ordered before he left. Not the freshest but he did not appear concerned.
“Yeah, sorry to say Tal but…well, someone else had already sent the beggars looking for the same guy. Nothing. Mhiril told me soon as I got there. That man is not on the streets. Of course, she wouldn’t tell me who’s competing with you, doing whatever you’re doing, but those are the facts of it.”
Rowan is gone as soon as he arrives, apparently unwilling to witness to my reaction. My expression is aghast, I cannot believe it. Of course, I could send them out again tomorrow but by then it would be too late. We were only hired to watch them for today and if the beggars cannot see him, then that means he is no longer on the streets and I have no idea where to find him. This is mortifying. I don’t even have the money anymore to give back to my employer-
No. No. I keep looking away and back at it, convinced I’m imagining it as its presence is utterly impossible but…the pouch. My pouch. The pouch with the money I was paid, the one that was stolen when I was watching the First Steppes. It’s back on my fucking belt. I’m rarely moved to cursing, but when a pouch that was stolen suddenly rematerialises on your belt, there is little other reaction. Cursing is for when you have no words. I am in that situation.
While I remain staring at the pouch, baffled by this, I do not notice Rowan re-enter. He sits down at the bar next to me and I am only shaken out of my reverie when he speaks. Even then, I hardly hear him.
“Yeah, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Well, mostly bad news, but some good news.”
I’m still in a state of unbridled confusion, my mind failing to process what has just occurred. In my vast gnosis, I cannot concoct an explanation for this occurrence. Could I have merely imagined it was stolen? No, impossible.
“Yeah, I spoke to Mhiril and she says that the guy matching the description you gave me was in the Begging Bowl not one minute before I was, but he hired the guild’s services, so she can’t send the beggars to watch him. Of course, she wouldn’t tell me who he hired them to watch, but if I have two shades of sense I’m guessing it’s you.”
If my mind was not already occupied by the prior conundrum, I would instantly realise that there is no way, in the five minutes between Rowan exiting and arriving again he could have been to the Begging Bowl and back.
“But someone else hired the guild to follow him? How could they do that if he had already hired them?” Rowan frowns in my periphery.
“No, what are you talking about? No one hired the guild to follow him. I tried to, but they said no.” I become suddenly alert. The oddities are building up. Isolated, they could paralyse me. Collected, they invigorate me. These are problems not impossibilities and things are starting to colaesce in my mind, regardless of how preposterous the idea is.
“But only five minutes ago, you were here, telling me that both you and another hired the guild to follow him and they couldn’t see him on the streets anywhere.” Rowan pulls another face at me.
“No, I wasn’t just in here. I said nothing like that.”
I stand up. The most obvious explanation is that Rowan was lying. But he has no reason to. It would be a mild irritation, not anything that would undo me. However, the explanation that is clouded in both doubt and certainty, my instinct telling me it’s true but my mind telling me it’s ridiculous, is that the Rowan I spoke to prior to this man, was not Rowan. He was in fact, Aldous, this philosopher; or an individual who purported to be one.
I could not say that I was examining him closely to make sure he was not an impostor, but to my perception, he looked utterly identical to Rowan: the colour of his eyes, the cut of his jaw, the odd disproportionate length of his legs to his torso. He even spoke in the same manner. Visualising the figure in my mind, there were a few things that were incongruous. First of all, he did not smell like Rowan. Made apparent now the real Rowan is sitting a foot away from me with a perplexed expression, Rowan smells of oil, wax and grease, probably the components of the substance that slicks back his hair. Additionally, caught in the light, though not plentiful in the Eel, you could see the mixture glisten repulsively on his scalp; the impostor’s hair was simply slicked back, with no evidence of what did such. Finally, his clothes were clean. Rowan is a thief, moreover, he is a Lankhmart thief. His clothes reflect such. I had somehow overlooked the fact that the prior Rowan had spotless clothes. As spotless as the robe of the philosopher.
But…that was not my worst blunder, if ever there were a use for such an odious word. The “clean” Rowan. He spoke in Lankhmart, not Thieves’ Cant.
I rise, my mind now far beyond being concerned about any interaction with Rowan, exiting the tavern in silence. If my pouch had returned following the impostor’s departure, that means that the impostor stole it. There must have been a reason he returned it. I take the pouch off my belt, searching through it for a note, or a sign. Just then I hear a woman’s voice from a nearby alleyway.
“Hey handsome, you look like you’ve had a rough day. Want a little tumble to even it out?”
I only glance up, a whore’s invitation illegal off their designated streets, but too engrossed in this mystery to pay it any heed. In the next moment, my mind recognises the figure I saw leaning against the wall in that alleyway. It’s the woman who had exited the First Steppes. I look up, now seeing beyond a glance at the curves, she is dressed as a noble, no whore. She- it- he- it was the philosopher. I pace toward the alley, entirely oblivious to what exactly I would find there, but uncontrollably curious.
“Aldous.” I start.
“Very good.” She responds in a sultry tone. My mind remains a little bewildered, further struck as the character shifts in front of me, body and clothing morphing and warping into the same old man that walked through the gate, complete with that spotless robe. Which is really my target? I’m not sure I’d ever know.
“You are Tal of the Thieves’ Guild.” His voice is like strikes of a worn-out mandolin, ringing and calming but weak and decripit. “But you were not hired by the guild.”
“No.” I respond. I don’t know what I should or should not tell this character, but it strikes me that not even knowing what precisely the figure standing in front of me is, in all likelihood, not even I would be able to continue to follow it.
“Who would have you follow me?” I take a deep breath, not sure I even have the answer to this.
“I do not know. A man and a woman. They plucked me and five of my colleagues off the street, seemingly at random.” I almost see a frown form on the philosopher’s worn visage.
“There are six of you? But only you follow me. This means that there are others who are being followed. Who are they?” I begin to perspire, again, not confident of my ability to answer this, feeling for some reason, that I must answer this mysterious individual. That I cannot lie to them.
“I am not certain. A prince of the East, an assassin, a Quarmallian and his Kleshite slave and a woman from the north, a shaman of some description.”
“I see. And they all arrived on this day.” I nod. Aldous walks past me and I spin quickly to watch him. He stops and revolves, just as I.
“Tal, I know all about you. Your lies. Your deceptions. Both to yourself and others. But do you know what it is to wear another’s face?” I frown and shake my head, wary of what might happen to me in this creature’s company, or why it asks me these questions. The old man smiles.
“I do not mean as you perceive me to. I mean to -be- another, not to look as they do.” I shake my head again, words escaping me, dominated under the presence of this figure.
“You want to be great, Tal.” It was not a question. “You want to do great things. What if you had a hand in altering the very fabric of the city you stand in?” I’m dizzy. I cannot make sense of the wild events occurring about me, hoping that I will wake from this strange dream whilst wishing that I do not.
“You have seen what I can do. You know you cannot watch me. You know you will return to them with failure. What if I gave you the opportunity to leave behind the insignificance you currently know, and let you follow me? At my heel, not from afar.”
“Please.” I am shocked to find the word in my mouth, but there it is. This thing is unlike anything I have ever seen before. It bears a greater presence than even the Overlord himself. It is not the strange power that allows it to seemingly take any form it chooses. It is something else. The fact that it has chosen me. “Why did you return the pouch?”
“So you could do the same. Before anything, you must return to your employer and give them back the coin they gave you.” I nod hurriedly. Of course.
“How will I find you again?”
The old man smiles.
“You will not find me. I will find you.”

Lankhmar: THE HANGED MAN - Prologue

While my guildmates are off loiterin’ and tailin’ folks from outside the gate, I get told I’m s'posed t'wait on this street corner like a numpty or a whore and let beggars do the trailin’ for me. Literal. They tell me I won’t see this lark comin’ through the gate in broad daylight so they ask the Beggar’s Guild to keep a peeper out for ‘im. Maybe 'im. The bloke with the voice rougher than me old mum’s cheek called this assassin 'it’. Masters’ know why. I sure bleedin’ don’t. Assassins don’t walk about with their drawers down true but if you’re askin’ me to trail the bastard you should know what he- I mean it’s got tucked between it’s legs. Ammachas’. To'al ammachas. But I do what the coin tells me, usual that’s whoever or whatevers’ holdin’ it says.
S'gettin on to midday when this little runt runs up to me and tugs on my sleeve. I slap 'im to the curb quick-like my pa taught me but he gets up and points firmly to a pile of rags 'cross the street. 'cept when that rags waves to me I get the feelin’ it ain’t just rags. So I mosey on over and a dirty, foul-smellin’ git – a beggar - leaps out and sprints off down the street fasta’ that I would have ever guessed. But a thief’s worth’s measured by his gait, how fast he can run from those who wants what’s theirs back. True, I dun have a bleedin’ heart chasin’ me to spur me but I can keep up with the scruffy twat just fine. He fuckin’ runs me through alleys I wouldn’t be seen in less’ I want a fash'nable new throat 'ole, but the speed which this buggers’ pacin’ gives little time for the gangers to take a dislike to the colour of me cloth. I dint stutter, that’s bugger, not beggar, this runnin’ bum was beginnin’ to get on me dick.
I catches up with him in the Cash District, givin’ him a clip round the ear for his messin’. As he becomes a pile o’ rags again – it’s clever-like fer peepin’ I gotta give 'em that – a mate of his points at the First Steppes, an outfitters. Prapriatuh of said establishmint is a filthy little Mingol by the name of Ooslip. I wouldn’t be seen with any fella who wore somethin that git’s hands had touched. We get a lotta their type in the guild. Slimey. But tha’s another matter. I recall gravel-tongue tellin’ this Slayer came from the Steppes, but wasn’t sure it was actually one o’ them. Guess this is proof? Probably cousins or somethin’. I get some ideas about roughin’ ole Ooslip up but then I remember them whinin’ on about how this bloke’s so hard to find, don’t wanna lose 'im when he comes out.

'an he does. 'least. Masters, it’s rough to 'scribe. This bloke, or she-bloke, whatever, gonna call the knifer a bloke. Anyway, I’m watchin’ the door all intent like, lookin’ for movement behind it, gettin’ ready for anything, 'cludin a grip on my blade – ya never know with knifers – and I see nothin’ move, just when I see this thing come out the shadows surroundin’ the shop. I dint see the door shift. I dint see anything in the doorway, then sudden-like this little shit – all black and annoyin’ - comes out of nowhere. I try to keep a firm gaze on it but it’s a rough job. Dunno why. It’s all in black, head to foot, big ole cloak makin’ it so I can’t see any arms. I see a little amber peeper almost shinin’ midst it all, but surrounded by all that black, it prolly just sticks out. I seen slayers like this a hundred times, all o’ them I could keep my eye on, this one, is off in the crowd before I can shift me feet.
I’m Tommy Sharpeye. I can pick a single fella out of a crowd of three hundred for an arrow through the head. I mean, I couldn’t fire the arrow, but there’s no better spotter than Tommy. This Mingol knifer’s the toughest spot I’ve seen in all my days. An’ I don’t even need to pick 'im out, I just gotta keep my eye on 'im. Masters’ blessin’, I got a good idea of where he’s headin’. Where all knifers end up. The Slayer’s Brotherhood guildhouse. Big ole knife-shaped buildin’, it’s mangatism in 'vertsment ya know? 'course, these fellers are batshit, it ain’t just knife-shaped: on the corner of Whore Street and Cutthroat Alley, their buildin’ is one massive razor-sharp edge. You touch that thing you lose a fuckin’ finger. I’ve seen it happen.
See, Slayer’s Brotherhood are all about seemin’ fuckin’ scary. But s'just seemin’. Ya got more bouncers and 'ardboys than men 'oo know 'ow to 'old a cutter. Still, the biggest militia outside the Overlord’s and thas’ why all the Guilds like to have the Brotherhood in their pocket. 'course, I’m leavin’ out the Assassin’s Circle. Did I say that right? Real badmans. Ya don’t look up at that dome where they meet 'less you lookin’ to swing from a rope come mornin’.
Anyway, I see the shit head inside, just as I was 'spectin, but I don’t care what you think, you don’t go into the Brotherhood followin’ a Slayer. That’s a quick way to a knife through your temple. No harm, clear what e’s goin’ in fer. Membership. Can’t knife a bloke in this city without payng a tax to the Slayers. Monopoly in action, feller. Tommy also knows the shit ain’t gonna come out the way it came in. Further down Whore Street, you got the affuh’men’chend Assassin’s Circle, which I heard ya can get into from the Brotherhood. Shit’s headin’ that way and ain’t gonna come out to no audience. I slap an iron tik in a little runt’s hand to come runnin’ if he spies it coming out the other end, but I doubt it. 'cludin the runt even spottin’ the 'lusive shit.
Surprise, surprise, our knifer heads out the Assassin’s Circle doors, doin’ the same trick as before. The one where I don’t even see the fuckin’ door move. Better 'an any trick I seen from the Plaza of Dark Delights any night of the week. Funny I should say that, because next thing the shit does, is head there. It’s a roundabout way. First you slip down Whore Street, dodgin’ cat-calls, then you slip down Festival Street, dodgin’ pockets. Well, I’m not dodgin’ pockets, they know better but…whaddya know, they know better about the knifer too. I see 'em all give 'im, 'er, a wider berth than I ever seen.
Thing about urchins, vagrants, pockets, whatever you wanna call the runts, is the reason the Guild likes 'em. They ain’t got fear. They’ll harass the shit out of the scariest lookin’ Slayer you get down here and they’ll stare up at the Circle’s dome for as long as they please. Little because more often than not, people don’t fuck with kids, but also 'cause these kids ain’t got anythin’ in this world so they ain’t 'fraid of leavin’ it. The knifer I can’t quite keep my eye on, it just moseys down the street and these runts scatter like it’s shit-hot. That thing’s wieldin’ fear that even gets to the little kamikaze cunts.
I’m pullin’ up my hood as we turn off Carter onto Plaza West. It’s jus…whatcha call, etty-kett? Night or day, folk don’t show their face in the Plaza, that’s just the way it’s always been. And the Plaza has always been. 'least that’s what I hear. First thing you hear enterin’ from the West is water. A big old fountain of many spouts, all shaped like man and monsters fuckin’ like rabbits or warrin’ like Mingols, I can’t tell. Water sounds plain, but it’s purple. There ain’t any light catchin’, the water is straight up purple. Smells like burnt air and flowers. Don’t ask me which. I also don’t know much about what the fuck this is doin’ here 'part from settin’ the mood, but I know it’s called the Fountain of Dark Abundance. Fittin’ flowery name.
Shame, or maybe I should be happy it ain’t night time. Plaza’s like two sides of a coin. Durin’ the day, 'cept for the masks, hoods and the purple water, it’s just like any old black market. Mostly fencin’ shit but you also got yer fortune tellers, yer doodad peddlers and yer hoodoo wankers. 'Watch as I amaze you with a fuckin’ rabbit and an old hat’. Yeah, prick, maybe you should use that hat to cover yer fuckin’ bald head.
Guild does a fair bit of business in the Plaza, both through the fences and pilferin’ those who buy from them - never leave an angle cold – so I’ve been here a fair few times, night and day. Let me tell ya, night’s a different fuckin’ world. Plaza’s a little caterpillar while the sun shines. Funny-lookin’ bug, but jus’ a regular bug. Then about this time, it startes cocoonin’, gets a bit slow and stale. Night falls and the cocoon bursts open like an indie with hot lead down his gullet, out comes a Masterfuckin’ salt spider with six heads, thirty legs, breathin’ fire.
See, other side, comin’ in from the East, ya got a statue of this bird, arms outstretched, made from some black rock I dunno the name of. Daytime, she’s welcomin’, ya look at her, it’s peaceful. I’m not a man for art personally but it’s just pleasant. They call it the Shrine of the Black Virgin. At night, this virgin becomes a man-eater, somehow, just in the change of light those arms become the beckonin’ arms of a whore like no other. The look in her eye ain’t peaceful no more, it draws you in. Ya hear stories about blokes who have walked into her arms. They’re just stories, never seen it myself….but everyone gives her a wide berth.
That’s the Plaza in a nutshell. Daytime, somethin’ oddly peaceful bein’ in a black market with a little colour and some nice things to look at, ignorin’ the magic wankers. But night falls and it gets nasty. Everythin’ is just sour. Everythin’ harmless is out to get you. It messes with yer fuckin’ head. But it ain’t night yet, so I won’t dwell. The knifer ain’t stayin’. He stops at a doodad peddler, they change coins, maybe, can’t really tell from here, but he’s off soon after.
Anyway, I keeps on 'im, barely, as he heads to the Tenderloin District. Home. True its got its black marks and dryin’ pools 'o blood, but s'got a hell of a lot wonders at the same time. I don’t feel safe on some streets, but Masters do I feel comfy. I was 'spectin a knifer new in town like him might be 'ere to rent a room from someone like Squill, but nah, he heads straight past, past Turkyl’s tenements as well, circlin’ the Thieves’ Guild; I’ll stop to say that I wish keepin’ my eye on him got easier, that there was a trick to it or somethin’ but it was fuckin’ tough even on empty streets. My head can’t wrap itself around why and it doesn’t want to, fearin’ 'splodin.
The shit steps inside what looks like an old warehouse on Murder Alley. Yer, that’s what it’s called. Everythin’ in Lankhmar speaks for itself. He’s a knife, but he’s a slip of a knife. Half a foot shorter than me, a weedy little thing, not one I’m worried about murderin’. Me at least. 'blivious to what the warehouse was and when he would come out, I follow inside. It’s blacker than his cloth in here, no twilight findin’ its way through the holes in the roof. I can’t see the shit so I’m forced to try an’ hear it out. Mingol’s ain’t got magically better eyesight than Lankhmar born and raised, so I’m 'ardly worried 'e’s gonna jump out at me. At first.
Now outside it was still as me pet rat after me mum gave it as good kickin’, but I ain’t jokin, I feel a wind up my back in this warehouse. It crawls under the back of my jerkin, almost like a thousand tiny feet plodding up my spine in a second, nigh on makes me leap out of my skin. That I stifle, but I don’t manage to stop the yelp. It echoes through the warehouse. If my mark didn’t spy me then, he’s sure to 'ave now. I wish I could say I think it’s smart to start talkin’ to this knifer, but really, I just want him to show 'imself. Or 'erself. Whatever. As I hear little scuttling about the top of the warehouse and below, some a bit too loud for me to call rats, I call out to it.
“'ey feller- I mean lady- I mean, I dunno, you’re a bloody knifer.” My tongue waggles a bit too much as I hear a beam creak above me. Or at least, I think it was above me. The creak just echoes through this place that seemed much larger now I was inside. And darker. My eyes ain’t 'justin. “I-I don’t mean no disrespect knifer, pal. You’re good as far as I’m worryin’.” And worryin’ I am, unable to see the bastard but with just the feeling that he’s right behind me. I spin, a few times, but in this darkness I can’t see a bloody thing. I feel my heart thumpin’ in my chest, blood pulsing up to the back of my throat as the rattlin’ footsteps skirt around me.
I hear an ear-achin’ thud behind me but 'fore I was even able t'turn, I feel a blade tear through my cheek. A single slash, not deep enough that ya could put your finger through but deep enough that I feel me coppers pourin’ down my neck. I screech like a little girlie, wheel and run, fetchin’ my blade from its sheath, puttin’ me enough off-balance while blind to faceplant meself on the ware'ouse floor. But I’m on my feet in no time, the world a bit dizzier and the darkness a bit more threatenin’ as I scramble t'ward the door. Fuckin’ barred. From the fuckin’ outside. I hear a voice. No, a whisper. Or was it the wind? I’m fuckin’ losin’ me mind.
“Are you like me?”
No shit, I’m not larkin’, that is what I hear. I dunno whether to respond or ignore it, bloody hell, I dunno if I even heard anythin’ or me head’s just messin. I just make a dumb-sounding noise before I hear another crash behind me and spin. From behind I feel somethin’ hit the back of me neck and I crash headfirst into a nearby crate, splinters in me fuckin’ cheek wound! I hear that voice again. Closer now, but Masters know I can’t hear where the fuckin’ thing’s comin’ from. Or whether I even heard anythin’.

“Answer.”
The terrifyin’ thing is, if that is a voice, its got no anger. No confusion. Nothin’ Human 'bout it, there’s no bloody, whatcha call it, I dunno! It’s just there. There’s nothin’ to that voice. Maybe its a woman? But raspy like a nag. The more I try to think about it the more it disappears from my fuckin’ mind. I feel a blade tear through my arm like butter and scream, worst pain in my life, worst even than the splinters in my fuckin’ cheek. I guess I can’t lose nothin’ from answerin’ and might not get cut as much, but with my heart thunderin’ in my chest and fear wrackin’ me body I struggle to get a bloody sentence out.
“No-no, I-I-I-I mean I don’t think so. I’m with th-the thief’s guild.” Might be those noises I made are even harder to hear than this fuckin’ spook’s whispers. I decide not to wait for an answer, and runnin’s the best option, jus’ tryin’ t'find another way out from this fuckin’ death trap with a bloody madman- madwoman- whatever! A pile of crates tips over in front of me, blockin’ my path. All sudden-like I twig that I got some matches in me pocket, grabbin’ 'em and strikin’ up. “Knifer. We can talk about this, eh?” The light’s barely somethin’ but in a moment the spook’s in it…or maybe. True, I can see it clearer now, but there’s still not much to see. Odd thing is, I was starin’ at this shit for a coupla hours while I was tailin’ it, but I can see more of it now in the light o’ my match than I ever did then.
S'not as small as I thought. A few inches off my head, all covered in a big cloaked and hooded cowl so I can see naught of its face but a single strip. All in black except a small patch of skin with a coupla hauntin’ eyes. Orange, like no Mingol I’ve ever had the displeasure o’ meetin’, 'cept one of them’s all fucked up. It’s clearly taken a big slash down over it, 'causin some nasty scar to make it so it can’t even open 'cept for a little peepin’ amber. Bloody chillin’. It speaks as I’m starin’ at the bugger, but I hear the fuckin’ voice behind me. 'ows that?
“You seek Death.”
Flame catches my fingers and I drop the match just as I’m stumblin’ back, shakin’ my head thorough-like. I scramble to light another match as I try 'an reason with it, heart threatenin’ to burst out of my chest while I’m suckin’ gas.
“No, no, I don’t, please! Knifer, pal, you don’t need to do this.”
I strike a light again and the bugger is gone, just as I hear it speak it again, from where I’m facin’. Everythin’ about that voice makes me brain not want to hear it, to doubt I even heard it. F'some reason I turn around and it’s there. How does it fuckin’ do that?
“I need to do this more than you could ever imagine a need.”
I’m droppin’ to the floor, the pulsin’ pain and flowin’ copper o’ my wounds forgotten, just the chill and fear of this thing sappin’ the will to live outta me. All I have now, is this fuckin’ shade. And I need to know what I’m dealin’ with 'fore I get stuck for the final time.
“What are you?” A terrifyin’ thought pokes into my mind. “Are you Death?”
The creature kneels over me and I feel a gloved hand upon my breast, over my heart. Almost tender.
“No…I am a Ghost…when you see Death, you will ask him a question.”
I garble out a word, almost as quiet as this…ghost.
“What?”
“When will you come for me?”
Sudden-like I feel a blade in my heart. I’m done.

Lankhmar: THE DEVIL - Prologue

I came over him as soon as he arrived through the Grand Gate, probably much quicker than my colleagues did with their targets. S'one of the few benefits of having a special friend or two in that bandit group in the shanty town outside the city. The Snakes. A little boy looking more dirty than they usually do came and tugged on my pants when my mark was about to come through the gate, but I don’t think I could have missed him. An extravagant, gilded carriage on the verge of being unburdened of its ornaments – this was Lankhmar after all – rolled over the cobbles, dragged by two intimidating horses.
With my attention too focused on this orgy, I almost missed the group of guards approaching it, headed by what looked like a noble. I bled into the crowd even more than usual. My experience with some of the faces set into their chainmail coifs was far from pleasant. One of the roaming packs of vagrants, orphan thieves, stared at this event in confusion. Rule one on the unwritten charter of the urchin was: “if someone’s got a bit too much, make sure they end up with a bit too little,” but the idea of being skewered on a guardsman’s pike – and make no mistake, they would not hesitate – seemed to make them falter.
A tall man – easily six and a half feet - dusky-skinned with shoulder-length ivory hair and a thick white beard stepped off the carriage; purple, silk robes trailing behind him exposing a spotless steel breastplate. It had never seen combat. But my sharp eyes focused on a face mostly obscured and could not help but spy signs of a predator. I told myself, as he stumbled getting off the carriage, that I was mistaken.
I was not told much about this man when I was pulled off the streets and a bag of coin was dumped in my hands to follow him. “He appears to be an Eastern prince,” was the gruff, cynical tone of a large man – but not as large as the man in question – while what…might have been a woman sat at the head of a table, concealed by the shadows of the room. I’ve had the pleasure of many from the Eight Cities around here, but I’ve never had an Easterner, let alone a prince; though the fact that the big guy said “appears” gave me pause for thought. His clothes seemed to suggest nobility, but where was a regiment of his own guards to accompany him in these foreign lands?
As the now heavily guarded carriage rolled out of my periphery I cursed my daydreaming and pursued them. Remaining unnoticed while lifting citizens of their belongings was easy enough with a slight enough frame as mine. No man in the guild could claim the camouflage of a five foot weedy, innocent-looking girl. Here, I didn’t even have to risk exposing myself. I just had to follow. I fingered the chisel in my pack, eyeing up some of the jewels set into this carriage a little too lasciviously, but I did not think even I could pull off a swipe like that with a wall of guards surrounding them. Besides, I had my pay day, and overzealous greed was the mark of a dead thief.
Carter Street, weaving through the city, was luckily diverse, people from all walks of life in Lankhmar. Vagrants stood beside thieves who watched nobles with moist lips; the merchants not much different, their brains buzzing with ways to get them to lighten their load without literally stealing it. Charging ten smerduks for a woolen cap is worse than just lifting the silver straight up as far as I’m concerned. Good, honest thievery is better than tricking the stupid and the senseless every day of the week. Anyway, all this meant I could blend in easy, but when I saw the carriage approaching the Royal Road, on the way to the Overlord’s Citadel, I realised my scraggly attire would stick out like a sore thing. Plus those setting foot in the Noble District without permission were thrown out by their haunches.
I sprinted ahead of the ‘royal’ procession and onto said road, avoiding the gaze of any guards about. Spotting a hunched old woman - still a little taller than me depressingly but short enough – ducking into an alley: I followed. A few silent steps of the tough underlayer of my sole against the cobbled streets and my sap was smacking the lady on the back of the head. She folded like I do with any less than a pair. Not something I liked doing but she would wake up just fine. S'what saps are for. I whipped her robe off and closed it tight around me, hopefully hiding what I could; the few extra inches helped a lot.
I was trying to pretend that this wasn’t going to end up with that carriage going through the gate to the Overlord’s Citadel, but it did. There was literally no way I was going in there. Even if I wanted to, the thing’s practically impenetrable and I had no talent for penetration. Quick fingers, yeah, scaling seventy feet stone walls, no.
So I waited. And I waited. Then I waited some more before my man emerged. It’s a wonder how someone can just walk into the city and in the next hour enter the Citadel and not even from behind. Lucky birth. But he’s almost away from me again before I know it: he pulled out without a carriage or a regiment of guards this time. I could have sworn I saw that predator again, he looked angry, marching off with a purpose. I followed him, hearing and feeling the sound of my feet smacking against the street as the gait of my full sprint struggled to catch up to the gait of his quick stride. Now I was a bit closer, it hit me exactly how big this guy was, I had to crane my head from ten feet. Most in my line of work would say that’s a bit too close anyway, but this guy darted in and out of streets so fast it was almost like he was trying to lose me; besides, now I had done away with that robe I was nothing more than another one of dozens of vagrants until you got a good look at the lines on my face; and considering my man didn’t look at me once during, I doubt he could have picked me out.
After popping over the Clean Chin for about an hour’s bout, I almost didn’t recognise him. Without a trace of that beard left and his ebony silk hair still bouncing about his mantle but clean and trimmed, he looked like a new man. Especially when I could better see his face. He was young, too young for white hair. There was no predator there, just a soft smile on some handsome features. I can’t say the colour of his skin didn’t add to the mystique, but I was hardly one to be distracted by a pretty face. From there he ducked off Pimp Street ignoring the daytime calibre of whore and made a beeline for the Golden Lamprey, oddly.
True, this was the Cash District, second home to those with a little gold in their pouch, but the Golden Lamprey and those buildings surrounding it were the spider venom in the merchant’s flask. And there had been many such flasks, mainly owned by those who tried to have the Lamprey shut down. Nightly barfights spilling out into the streets and all manner of underhanded dealing was what you’d find in that drinking house. Yet this rose stepped inside. By now it was drifting on toward the evening and past evidence assured he would find trouble in less than an hour. I followed and sunk into a dark corner, ordering an ale from an unnecessarily buxom waitress, doing a good job of suppressing a scowl.
I watched him from the shadows as he stopped that same waitress and exchanged a few words I couldn’t hear as well as flashing a smile that might have coloured my cheeks a bit. I watched her pour him a glass of red wine, obviously putting his order before mine. Then she poured a second one. Then he picked them both up and began pacing toward me. I could feel my heart thumping. It got louder and my cheeks flooded more the closer he got. I swore inside my head he was going to walk past. But he sat. Too close. It was a small booth true, and he was a large guy – this was even more clear now we were inches apart - but he could have pulled up a stool. I was a little dizzied, the thought that he could have sussed me wouldn’t form. Instead I tried to speak and all I produced was crackling as I found my mouth was bone dry.
He smiled at me: a slight, closed-mouth motion with sparkling amusement in his abyssal eyes that was reassuring while simultaneously catching me off-guard. He spoke, and his foreign accent did nothing to aid my blurring thoughts. I’d blame it on the drink but nothing had touched my lips yet.
“My name is Elaugdir. You should drink.” He held the glass of wine toward me, I doubt unintentionally forcing me to touch his hand if I wanted to take it. I did and tried to hide my animal response but I was already bright red by now. More red passed my pale lips at his command. There was something- no, everything about this man was completely disarming. I had somehow missed him removing his breastplate somewhere back in the journey, leaving the silk undershirt to cling to his body and mark out every inch of far from a rose. I took a deep drink of my wine, completely forgetting I was working, completely forgetting the possibility that he had sussed me, and that this wine might have been spiked. I managed to gather myself enough to respond.
“My name is Laena, nice to meet you Elaugdir.” I opened my mouth to further speak but even if words might have emerged – though I doubted it – he cut me off. Rudeness was not something that concerns a thief at the best of times.
“A pleasure to meet you as well.” In a moment he had hold of my tiny hand in his great one and was pressing his lips to its palm, strangely – and embarrassingly as it was sweating – while staring down my arm at me. It was then that I noticed he was wearing purple eyeliner and eyeshadow. He released my hand and I did not have the presence of mind to lower it until a second later; long enough for him to notice. But he made no sign that he had.
“Why is it you hide yourself in a dark corner Laena?” He spoke Common perfectly, even better than some from the Eight Cities I had encountered, but there was enough of an accent to make my pupils dilate further.
“I-I-I-” it was several years since I had stuttered, “is it dark? I thought I just had my eyes shut. Heh.” My half-wit was automatic, the 'heh’ on the other hand, I don’t recall ever uttering before. That smile perked up again and I felt his deep eyes move over me, their mere gaze making my hairs stand on end.
“You are witty. Bright. You should not hide your light…how is it said? Under a bushel?” I stared at him dumbly. “In the East we say,” he began before rolling out a series of syllables that literally made my knees feel weak, continuing: “in the Common tongue that is: to hide a star in the clouds is a crime against God. You are no criminal, yes? So why do you hide in the clouds?” I stuttered and mumbled in response, allowing him to add as he dwarfed my hand in his, “I do not wish to offend the heavens, so you will come with me. I will make you the brightest star in the sky. This will be the best night of your life.”
It’s not ego, I had no secret presumptions about higher status or grand things, the notion bored me. But the presence of this man left me dumbstruck, his smile left me disarmed and his words left me infinitely willing. It had been some time since anything more than a drunk or a lech had turned their eyes on a slip like me. I was helpless, and he knew it.
“You have a moment to breathe while I find a cab.” He exited the booth and made his way toward the exit, apparently supremely confident that I would follow despite no word that I would do so. Even now he had left I still found myself a little under his spell, but I managed to gather some of my faculties in the couple of minutes reprieve I was given. I was going to follow him. But I could see more from up-close. I made sure my blade was secure and prepared for an easy draw, but found self-reprimanding thoughts for not trusting this noble.
My tongue had regained its mobility as we stepped inside the cab and I began questioning him. I told myself I was finding out more information for my employer but could not shake the feeling that my motivation was selfish.
“I just got into a cab with a complete stranger.”
He raised an eyebrow at me, but his smile did not waver.
“You did not. I am Elaugdir.”
“Yes, but who is Elaugdir?”
He laughed. It simultaneously lifted my spirits as it did cut into my heart. I was not sure which was his intention.
“That is the question, is it not? Would you believe me if I told you I was Prince Regent, heir to the throne of Horborixen?”
“I would.” I responded a little too quickly. I was not a girl who was wowed by any notion of royalty. It was the man, not the title, who had my steps faltering and my pale cheeks plastered with blood. I trusted him. His smile persisted.
“That is good.” There was a change in his tone of voice that made me furrow my brow for a moment but I was quickly set to relaxation as he uttered a small, seductive, commanding whisper; one I could not bring myself to disobey. “Close your eyes.” There was a pause, then I felt the strangest of sensations as he kissed each of my eyelids in turn. I wondered more what this strange gesture meant more than why I did not immediately open my eyes. Then he spoke. And chilled me.
“In my country, the green priestesses of Djil sealed the eyes of those departing from this world with a kiss. It became a tradition.”
The radical change of tone in his voice made my heart skip a beat; the miasma of information my brain absorbed in that instant left me paralysed. I felt him close his enormous hand over my face, covering my nose and mouth in a vice-grip. My mind swam as still, I could not open my eyes, feeling tears welling up in them and all sounds melding into a single buzzing note. I instinctually drew my knife from its sheath as I felt his breath upon my skin. I heard a whisper. It sounded like “thank you” before he had taken hold of my knife-wielding hand and snapped my wrist. I did not even try to scream, all sensations dulled.
He took the knife and drove it between my ribs, piercing my heart. Finally, my eyes shot open. He was still smiling. The steel felt burning hot inside my chest as blood flowed out even with the knife left within. As darkness swam in my vision he turned his head to speak to the driver. The cab stopped. He opened the door and pushed what would soon be my corpse out onto the dirty pavestones. As I fell he looked at me, expression unchanged. A last thought consumed my mind as I stared at him.
That was no smile. That was the face of the devil.

Type

Manuscript, Historical

Medium

Paper

Location

Lankhmar