Nightsorrow Chronicles: The Rend

The snow fell gently from the moonlit sky, cascading from the top of his hood to his shoulders. He sat. He waited. For several minutes, the hooded figure crouched amidst tall, dying trees, hearing them creak and wail during sharp gusts of wind. At first, a tall, slender man fully clad in leather-studded armor stumbled through the city wall’s back gate. His nose was like a pointed fin, casting a triangular shadow on the side of his face in the intense moonlight. “Ar shu comin er wut?”

The hooded figure kept his eyes closed to become one with his surroundings. The helm he wore protected his face from the elements, allowing him to concentrate. He could feel the humidity of the drunk man’s breath, the air reeking of stale ale. He heard clinking chains and hushed whimpers.

“ Yeah, yeah. We’re coming!” Two rather large city guards bustled through the gate, one with grey hair and a snowy white beard, and the other with an eye patch and fiery red hair. The joints of their half-plate armor squealed as they forcefully tugged two long, rusted chains behind them. One-by-one, half-naked women popped from the gate, covering their naked parts and shivering so violently that they didn’t care what parts were exposed.

The hooded figure crouched motionless encircled by mighty oaks. He dared not open his eyes, for they would almost certainly give him away. With his ears and nose he could make out that the guards were moving slowly, but surely. The women are struggling, the hooded figure thought. His skin felt the warmth of their blazing torches start to move further away, replaced by the piercing chill of the winter wind. The hooded figure opened his eyes – milky white eyes like brilliant pearls. As the guards descended the steep hill, the hooded figure followed. He melded with the darkness under the tree canopies, the night embracing him like a gentle mother with a new born babe. The dead wood and brown slush squished beneath his boots as he moved cautiously from tree to tree. In the distance a long, wooden two-story tavern cast beams of dim orange light from the windows and cracks in the walls. The patrons that were outside boomed and roared, echoing across the snow covered valley.

The hooded figure approached the edge of the tree line and crouched low, watching the guards and women as they approached the tavern. He could make out a bipedal creature, most likely a Rodan, greeting them at the door. This was the first time in months he had seen one of the Rended races in Karthal. He was relieved that this time it didn’t seem like he would be dealing with the Wargen or the Katan. The only Rended race to be involved in this trade is the Rodan. Anytime he had come into contact with the humanoid rodents, it’s always ended badly. They sniveled, and sneezed, and squeaked, and were horribly filthy. The Rodan figure pointed a boney finger to his left, and at once the two large guards began pulling the girls towards the side of the building. Some girls pulled away, digging their heels into the muddy snow. Within seconds, the group disappeared.

Slowly he stood up, his white eyes surveying the area. He weighed the risk of being discovered by the patrons. What if they find out who I am? He decided that he would leave his helm on. A man wearing a helm would be strange to patrons, but it would not phase Frodrec, the tavern owner. A man drinking ale with a fully enclosed helm is commonplace in the Clumsy Katan. He dusted the snow off his shoulders and slowly approached.
         
At the door, a fat Druin blocked the way, his broad arms crossed and his pointed ears as rigid as his demeanor. The hooded figure had never seen an elf this big. Bits of chicken and spittle glossed his tanned lips. “What business do you ‘ave ‘ere?”

“I just want a drink and a nice hot meal. I’ve been on the road a long time, friend.” The hooded figure bowed, trying to conceal his eyes from the Druin. Seconds seemed like minutes as he bowed low, the shadow of the large Druin engulfing him. The Druin boomed with laughter.

“I spose yer alright, traveler. Go on a’ead!”

Still bowed, the hooded figure watched the large shadow on the ground as it moved aside. He lingered no longer, quickly hurrying up the steps and into the tavern. The tavern was furnished with a dozen charred kegs turned into makeshift tables, each surrounded by shoddily crafted stools and illuminated by a dying candle on top. He slipped his way through the maze of sitting and standing patrons until he found a keg with one stool in the back corner of the tavern. As he sat, he noticed a large ceiling-wide rack of flagons swaying and clinking together, the flagons moving faster with the stomping and dancing on the second floor.

The hooded figure licked his fingertips and put out the table candle. He realized that the patrons sitting near him were either too occupied or too drunk to notice him. With his arms crossed and his hood concealing him, the hooded figure waited. What seemed like hours crawled by, until a Rodan appeared from the back of the bar. His whiskers were wiry, some missing, and his grey brown fur was matted down with dirt and grease. His long, thick snout dashed to and fro, his pink, slimy nose wrinkling. The Rodan’s left leg appeared to be lame, his weight being supported by a cane made of brown, whittled bone. Slowly, the Rodan moved to the bar and sat down across from a blonde, freckled flagon wench.

The hooded figure stood up and moved carefully to the bar. Rodan were known to spook easily, and he didn’t want that. Not in a tavern full of patrons. Once he approached the bar, he sat two stools down from the Rodan, who was now prodding the flagon wench with his cane in her private areas. Tarmara. Frodrec’s daughter was shaking, her eyes darting back and forth frantically. In these situations, Tarmara had usually been able to keep composed. It had appeared that he needed to intervene sooner than he had liked. He closed his eyes, and scooted closer.

“Pretty girl. Oh yes, you are VERY pretty!” The Rodan squeaked. The flagon wench tried to escape the bar, but the Rodan quickly blocked her path with his cane. “What’s a matter, my sweet girl? Come closer, so I can see how sweet you taste!” She started to cry, which made the Rodan laugh, his snorts sounding a lot like a sneezing fit.

“Frizl, leave me alone!”, the wench begged.

“Not a chance, wench. You are too pretty to pass up. I have a lot of friends that would pay good money for you!” Frizl gave the wench a decisive poke with his cane into her shoulder.

The hooded figure kept his eyes closed, swaying back and forth on his stool. The legs of the stool slid out from under him, sending him sideways into Frizl. They toppled over one another, trinkets and small coins spilling across the floor. Frizl quickly jumped to all fours, spitting and cursing at the hooded figure.

“Damn you, you hog’s ass! Watch it or I’ll flay you!” warned Frizl.

The hooded figure was on his hands and knees, feeling around with his hands until he found the stool and propped it upright. “I’m terribly sorry, stranger. I’m blind and clumsy, I’m afraid. Will you forgive a blind man and accept a drink as my apology?”
         
The Rodan looked around the bar, the patrons eyes all fixed on him and the hooded figure. Frizl stroked his chin with his boney thumb and forefinger, then propped himself upright with his cane. “I suppose I can accept this. Next time it’ll be your hide.” Frizl grunted.
         
The hooded figure sat on his stool and pushed a stool behind Frizl as well. “Tarmara, another round if you please?” asked the hooded figure. He opened his eyes briefly, and the bar wench stared at him for a few seconds. The hooded figure nodded, and she nodded just before disappearing behind the bar. “So, Frizl is it?”
         
“Who wants to know?”
         
“Just a curious blind man is all.” Tarmara arrived with an ice cold flagon and a long slender glass filled with violet red liquid for Frizl. “What shall we toast to my new friend?”
         
“To business!”, Frizl squeaked.
         
“To women!”, the hooded figure added.
         
Frizl snorted. “Women, eh? What do you know about women?”

“I know almost nothing, sadly. I have been travelling a long time, and unfortunately my path has not been one that caters to the pleasures that women can give.”

Frizl ran a finger around the rim of his glass, his two front rectangular teeth dripping snot and spit. “That’s a shame, my blind friend. I happen to know a lot about women”, he turned his head toward the hooded figure, “any kind of women.”

“That sounds quite desirable.” The hooded figure pulled Frizl in close. “You wouldn’t happen to be able to help a lonely blind man in his quest for love, would you?”

Frizl smirked, his criss-crossing teeth forming a razor sharp maze in his mouth. “Just this once. This is only for a friend, of course.” The Rodan tapped his glass with his cracked, pointed nail, his smirk widening. After the hooded figure had bought a few more rounds for Frizl, the Rodan began whistling a song shrilly through his two front teeth.


He hopped and skipped clumsily, pulling the hooded figure behind the bar. Behind a dark vale of crimson curtains, there were several barrels of mead surrounding a rotting, wooden cellar door. “Thisssis way, f-f-friend” Frizl wobbled as he pulled the cellar door open with ease, its rusted hinges groaning in agony. Slowly, the hooded figure walked down into the damp cellar behind Frizl. The hooded figure stood atop the steps for a second and waited. He had heard the signal that would allow him to continue his descent. The door had been latched shut behind him.

“Come, come.” Frizl beckoned as he swayed on the steps, “C-come, come, f-f-riend.”

The hooded figure pretended to stumble as Frizl guided him down the spiral staircase. At the bottom, the cellar opened up into a large room where the floors were made of stone, but the walls were made up of moist earth. The cellar was full of rows of white oak barrels, stacked as high as the tavern itself. Frizl pulled the hooded figure gently by the wrist. “Come, friend. This way. You’ll be pleased!”
The hooded figure squinted enough to see several women at the opposite end of the cellar, their wrists tied tightly to the barrel supports above them. The three guards from earlier paced in front of them, their torches looming just inches away from the women’s faces. As the guards approached them, the hooded figure sprung into motion. His foot collided with Frizl’s lame knee, the crunch of bone and shriek of pain echoing off the cellar walls. From beneath his cloak he unsheathed his longsword. Before the guards had time to react he sent the pointed end of his blade through the throat of the tall, slender guard. Crimson liquid cascaded down the blade to the hilt, steam rising from the blood touching the cold cellar air. The two larger guards came barreling down towards him. The hooded figure struggled to pull his blade free, putting his foot on the guard’s face to assist.

The guards had reached him, the older guard’s blade coming sideways. The redhead breathed in loudly, his sword raising high and coming down vertically. The hooded figure parried, the force knocking the older guard on his heels. With a step sideways, he was out of the way of the redheads path. The redheaded guard’s blade continued downward – the blade striking stone and sending bright, yellow sparks into the air. The vibration of the blade jolted the redhead’s hand violently, making him drop his weapon. The hooded figure toyed with the older guard, parrying his aggressive swings, allowing him to tire out. The older guard raised his sword with both hands above his head, allowing for the hooded figure’s blade to slip snugly into his sternum. By the time the older guard had collapsed, the redhead had picked up his weapon and cleaved wildly in the air. The blade narrowly missed the hooded figure’s shoulder by an inch. The hooded figure sidestepped the blade, pulled back his sword horizontally, and impaled the guard from one hip to the other.
After he had pulled out his blade and shook it of blood and muscle, he noticed that Frizl had managed to crawl all the way back to the staircase, lying against the first few steps. As the hooded figure approached him, Frizl tried desperately to pull himself further up the stairs. His mangy claws searched frantically for any holes in the stone that would give him leverage.

“Frizl, you have robbed the Kingdom of Karthal of innocent women and children for the last time.”

“You’ll never get away with this! The king knows I’m here in Prem!”

“You may be right, Frizl. However, the king doesn’t decide your fate. I do.” The hooded figure’s white eyes reflected the flickering flames of one of the dying torches on the ground. “I have waited for a long time for this, Frizl.”
         
“King Karthal will have you killed for this!”
         
“That’s if he finds out. Your body may just stay down here to rot,”, the hooded figure looked around, “but that would be an insult to the ale, I believe.”
         
“King Karthal will find you and kill you! He looks for you tirelessly, Nightsorrow!”
         
Nightsorrow smiled. “I imagine he’ll find me before too long. That’s if his eyes are good enough.” Nightsorrow lifted the visor to his fully enclosed helm, revealing his face. Frizl’s furry brown snout turned a shade of white. He hissed and elbowed his way up the stairs, only to slide back down again.
         
“How could this be? The king—” Nightsorrow held Frizl’s snout closed with one hand, and drove a long dagger through the bottom of his jaw deep into his brain. His body writhed and seized until his frame slid limply to the cellar floor. Before he turned he made sure his visor concealed his face once more. The women who were still chained to the barrels shook in terror as he approached. He raised his blade, the girl closest to him recoiled and the others gasped.
         
He sighed, “I’m cutting your bonds. Go. Now. Speak of this to no one.” They all murmured “Thank you” and hurried madly up the stairs, some stopping to spit on Frizl as they ascended.

Frodrec, the Tavern owner, stood atop the cellar steps. His black burlap apron was soiled with ale and bits of meat, his black eyes fixed on Nightsorrow as he appeared from below. The braid in Frodrec’s black beard seemed to be pointing, almost like a finger, at Nightsorrow. “How much did you ruin this time, boy?”
         
“This time it was pretty clean. I didn’t break anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”
         
“Aye. That’s good to know.”
         
“How much to get rid of them?”
         
“Ha! No, boy. We’ll call this one square. We were waiting for you to show up for a week! He’s been a nuisance since he got here last Week’s End.” Frodrec declared.
         
“Sorry about that. It got busy.”
         
“Busy? What? Has your father got you running around playing army officer again?”

Nightsorrow nodded. He moved towards the exit, Frodrec in tow. They both exited the tavern, Frodrec lingering behind. Frodrec looked around to make sure they were the only ones outside.

“I wonder what the king would do if he found out his son was murdering his business partners!” Frodrec said.
         
Gideon Karthal looked over his shoulder, his pale, left eye locking on Frodrec. He shrugged, pulled up his hood, and disappeared into the woods.