The Wanderer's Tale - Chapter 1

Chapter One.

Night seemed to fall quicker these past few years in the province of Evershine. Evershine... That name itself had become little more than a painful irony since the warlock Dolain overthrew the Lord and his council. The entire province was cast into a perpetual gloom that not even the sun dared to break through, so the once proud province of Evershine became a mockery of its past glory.
Within the city of Falconburg there is a tavern, the Talon and Tankard, and it is here that our tale begins, not with a roar, but with a whisper, or rather; whispers. Whispers regarding the stranger, new to the city, clad in a simple cotton shirt, the sleeves torn away long ago. Around his waist was tied a simple red sash over some suitably accompanying, simple linen trousers, tan in colour. Slid beneath this sash of crimson, but with its fabric tied to a ring upon the handle was a weapon of questionable usability, a hilt-less wooden sword, seemingly eastern in origin. The stranger glanced around the tavern and its inhabitants, fully aware of the unease towards him but paying it no mind for the moment as he strolled casually to the bar and took a seat. He took particular note of the group at the table to his left that had been eyeing his coin purse since the moment he opened the tavern door. He’d have to be wary of those, as they seemed up for a fight and coveting coins. The stranger finally caught the attention of the barman and glanced to the rack of bottles behind, covered with a fine layer of dust, no doubt from lack of use. “Wine, please.” The stranger’s voice was soft, like a gentle breeze on an autumn afternoon, but it was as clear as day, even over the noise of the crowd. A cautious sideways glance once more to the group; the stranger could smell them from the bar. The bartender shuffled away after taking payment for the drink, giving the stranger a feeling that only further strengthened his preconceptions. He wasn’t welcome here...
With his drink quickly finished, the stranger stood to leave the tavern but was promptly stopped by the group of men; they smelt even worse up close. “Thinkin’ o’leaving us so soon fella?” the smallest of the group chirped as the two larger, distinctly heavier men flanked him, casting the runt into shadow. The stranger stopped and sighed, brushing stray strands of his rusty brown hair from his face and staring blankly at the runt “This place has no rooms; I still need to find a place to sleep. Good day gentlemen...” but before the stranger could move, the runt had drawn a long knife from his boot and was waving it in front of him “See now. Me and the boys don’t like people leavin’ our bar, do we boys?” Two grunts from the larger men were all that came as a response, “That is of course, unless they can pay the exit toll.” The stranger sighed once more and made to reach for his coin purse but as he loosened the cord, it fell to the floor with a clatter. The stranger stooped to reclaim it but instead, with the subtlest of shifts in his body, he twisted and had unfastened the sash around his waist, his sword now safely in his hand, its tip thrust firmly at the runt’s foot, throwing the wiry man off balance, leaving him wide open for the stranger’s next casual spiral, bringing the sword up in a diagonal arc, colliding with the runt’s jaw and dropping him to the floor with a thud. The two larger men, shocked at their leader’s swift dispatching, took a step back, aghast but readying their own weapons; one wielding a large hammer, the other, an oversized hatchet. The odds were not in favour of the stranger; he only hoped that their size betrayed them with a slower pace...

**********

Corth Dalay, or ‘Fluke’ as he was known to his associates, was a lean man, young in years; no older than twenty four. His hair was of medium length, hanging no lower than his eye line out of necessity, chestnut in colour and had a natural wave to it which gave the effect of being windswept even on the calmest of days. Few would refer to Corth’s lifestyle as ‘honest’, being an ‘Item Acquisition Specialist’ for the Gilded Orb organisation: one of Falconburg’s more active thieves’ guilds.
Corth was resting lazily by the canal side, leaning against the stone wall, arms folded behind his head and eyes closed as the gentle breeze brought the scent of the Palik bakery from the eastern side of the city and allowed it to dance about his nostrils. He grinned and sighed, hefting himself to his feet and cricking his neck before making his way up the sloped stone wall to the street itself where every good thief plies his trade. Now, what to work on today? It wasn’t a market day, so the stalls weren’t out which meant no shoplifting, and no stalls meant no buyers, so no bulging coin purses for him to donate to his own personal benefit fund... He gave a small chuckle and stretched, cricking his neck once more before brushing a stray lock of hair from his face and deciding that today was a good day for cards, and what better place to hustle than his favourite drinking hole, the good old T&T, the Talon and Tankard.
It was only as Corth approached the establishment that the sounds of a fight could be heard. He quirked a brow quizzically and had to bend backwards at a surprisingly limber angle and blinked as a hefty body crashed through the window before him. He whistled in awe at the sight of a fully grown and then some man being thrown in such a manner and gazed through the wrecked hole where the window formerly was. To his surprise, there was another large brutish thug, similarly attired to the one that just flew past him and was now lying no doubt in the canal somewhere, and he was facing off against a much smaller, oddly dressed individual with the most curious of weapons; a wooden sword. Now, Corth had seen weapons like this before in the guild hall, but only for training purposes, and never one of so fine a style before. It was like a straight bladed sabre, but its length allowed it to be wielded with both hands or with just the one, and the absence of a hilt or a hand guard just added to the implausibility and seeming impracticality of the weapon, but there this man was, sure as the canal stank on a hot day, fending off the hammer swings of this brute with ease and finesse, barely breaking a sweat.
Corth shrugged and hopped through the window hole, leaning against the wrecked wall and folding his arms across his chest, watching the fight with great interest, even contemplating taking bets; but with all honesty, his money would be on the little guy. Corth knew how to fight, and he could tell when a fight was going someone’s way. The big guy was tiring, whilst the smaller fighter was playing to this, barely using any energy in his movements. The time came where the thug could fight no longer and with a swift flourish, the smaller man shifted his weight, twisted on his heels, spiralled around and with a solid thunk, brought the wooden blade to strike firmly at the base of the thug’s neck, dropping the larger man in an unconscious heap on the tavern floor. Corth was amazed and found he automatically applauded in approval, a smirk playing on his lips that meant only one thing; Corth had an idea.

**********

Corth cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair and approached this man with the wooden weapon and raised his hands as the man readied the wooden shaft once more, assuming Corth to be another assailant. “Whoa now, easy there friend... Not plannin’ on fighting with you after seeing you handle those two go-“ he glanced to the floor and noticed the smaller man, also clad in a similar manner to the larger thugs. Corth shrugged and smirked “Make that three goons...” He moved his hands, one to rest upon his waist, the other held out to the stranger, “Corth, Corth Dalay. Got a bit of a proposition for you if you’re interested?”
The stranger refastened the trailing sash from his weapon so it hung around his waist like a belt once more and then looked to Corth and to the man’s outstretched hand then back to Corth with a quirked brow. “What sort of proposition?” to which Corth continued grinning “Well, y’see, there’s a tournament approaching, in the arena. First prize is a purse of two thousand imperial crowns; a tidy sum in any book that’s for sure. Only trouble is, it’s a doubles tournament. What would you say to a straight split? Thousand each my friend!” The stranger blinked. True, that was a lot of money, and even he needed to pay his way for accommodation and supplies, but he knew nothing of this Dalay fellow. “I never said I was your friend, Master Dalay, but if your word is as good as this promised prize, then I shall fight alongside you.”
Corth couldn’t help but grin wider at this development. He didn’t much care for fighting, especially for sport, but with this new development, it seemed that even with his distaste for blood-sports, he stood a high chance of coming out of this endeavour a substantially richer man. Corth was about to buy himself a drink but then paused and turned back to his new companion “I should probably know your name at least. Y’know, for registration purposes.” He smirked once more, giving off a sense of overwhelming self-assurance and confidence. The stranger thumbed his nose and gave a nod “You probably should, but not just yet.” Corth groaned as he ordered himself an ale, the bartender glancing from Corth to the rubble that was formally a wall and then to the stranger once more. Corth sighed and shook his head “And stick the damages on my tab too... I’m nothing if not generous.” The bartender grunted and fixed the rogue’s drink “Tha’ll be the firs’ time I’ve heard you referred to as tha’ eh, Fluke?” He shrugged as he took a swig of his ale “Leave it out Ted. This guy’s only just met me, he doesn’t need to be hearing stories now, does he?” He then turned to face the stranger once more “Registration’s in two days, join me for a drink? Then I’ll see you at the arena gates at dawn on the day. Until then, you can be as mysterious as you like. We’re all entitled to our secrets around here.” And upon setting down his tankard, he adjusted the position of a ring upon his right hand, glancing casually at the emblem upon it: a simple pearl, inlaid into a silver band of metal and etched with a dragon’s head in profile. The stranger sat with Corth, nodded and ordered another wine, “His tab...” to which they both chuckled and continued to drink the night away, at Corth’s expense for the most part, but also paid for by a couple of the other patrons due to the rogue’s initial intention of a few hands of cards, accusations of hidden aces aside.

**********

The evening progressed and regardless of the flowing of liquor, the stranger’s lips did not loosen one bit with regards to information about himself; much to Corth’s annoyance. The stranger stood upon finishing his current glass of wine and turned to leave, pausing at the door only momentarily to glance back to Corth “Two days from now, dawn, at the arena gates. I shall see you then Master Dalay.” Corth stood and gave that same smirk “What, still no name?” The stranger seemed to match this smirk, shrugged and turned, leaving as casually as he’d entered. Corth simply stood there scratching his head, “Huh, I guess not... Lousy tourists...” And then was on his own way if not for the hand of the barman clasping him firmly upon the shoulder “Y’plannin on settlin’ yer tab any time soon Fluke?” The bar tab and the repair bill. Corth had almost forgotten about those, and was counting on the possibility that Ted had too, but then, with the gaping hole in his wall, it wasn’t surprising that the bartender still had money on his mind. “Ted, relax. Me and our new friend are entering the doubles arena and are gonna win big. You’ll get your money, when we get our money, deal?” The bartender grumbled incoherently beneath his breath, but gradually, Corth felt the grip on his shoulder loosening and he took his chance to leave hurriedly; actually using the door this time. He exhaled a sigh of relief as he folded his hands behind his head and glanced to the night sky. It was clear tonight, and with the approach of the summer star shower, that meant that more and more tourists would flock to Falconburg; even since the fall of the Lord’s court, Falconburg was still the best place in the entire of Southern Dolain to view the star showers. More tourists meant more business for Falconburg. More business for Falconburg meant more business for Corth. His smile widened as he turned down a small, cluttered alleyway, nimbly sliding and shuffling past the clutter before sliding aside a wall panel that had been covered with crates to disguise it and making his way through the opening behind, pulling the panel back behind him as though no one had even been in the alley to begin with.
Once through the passageway, he was in a short corridor ending in a spiralling staircase that had become oh so familiar to him by now, as this was the entrance to the guild hall of the Gilded Orb, his organisation, his brethren, his home. After descending the stairs, Corth strode in to the actual meeting hall of the establishment and being greeted by the usual boisterous noise and commotion, the stench of mead and ale mixed with roasted meat filling the air, Corth cricked his neck and made his way to his usual seat; a high backed velvet trimmed green armchair by the fireplace, though he was not allowed the luxury of sitting in his favourite chair for long as one of his associates – a short, crooked man by the name of Felderil – approached him and grinned wickedly, his yellow teeth appearing even more mouldy and sinister when reflecting the fire light. “Boss wants a word with you Fluke... Says yer t’see him as soon as you get back.” He hacked a cough, not bothering to cover his mouth so gobbets of spit and phlegm spattered through the air, “Well, yer back aintchya? So go see him!”

**********

         The stranger continued through the streets in search of a bed for the night, stopping only to drop a silver coin into a beggar’s bowl, much to the thanks and praise of the beggar. The stranger nodded and continued along his way, finding perhaps not the best of places to rest for the night, but it was the first Inn he’d seen that still had its vacancies sign hung outside. And so, with this, he resigned himself to staying the night within “The Feisty Flounder”. He glanced around the inner decor and blinked. It was a simple enough layout: a bar, several individual tables, wrap-around booths along the walls. There was even a musician playing a lute in a corner, providing a calmer atmosphere to this place, which felt odd considering the name of the Inn.
         He made his way to the bar and gained the attention of the tender, this time a woman apparently in her early to mid forties, plump and round in the face with a stern stare that gave the impression that troublemakers would not be tolerated in this establishment. “Excuse me Ma’am, but I would like a room for the evening if at all possible?” The landlady gave a nod and shuffled her way over to a rack of keys upon the wall, taking one off and setting it down before him “Tha’ll be a crown for the room. A cooked breakfast and selection of cold meats and cheeses for a lunch pack are included in the price, plus any drinks between now and when you leave, providing you behave yourself m’dear.” She gave a throaty chuckle to try and lighten the sentiment of this statement, but he knew that she was no doubt deadly serious about this; the crossed swords on the wall behind the bar did nothing to put the stranger’s mind at ease either, so he simply nodded, thanked the land lady once more and retired to his room for the evening.
         The room itself was surprisingly well kept. A simple, but tidy bed, broad enough at least for a person and a half. A chest of drawers and a small wardrobe along the wall. A curtained window, which locked for added security. Needless to say, the stranger was impressed with the value of this Inn, despite his previous preconceptions. He gave a soft smile and yawned, locking the door behind him and settled down for the night.

********

         Corth walked along the torch-lit corridor, paying no attention to the portraits of previous guild masters and deceased members of greater notability or accomplishment. He had an idea what this meeting was about and quite frankly, he did not welcome it much. He stopped and stared apprehensively at the large oaken door before him, leading in to the guild master’s private study. He knocked, waited a moment or two as was appropriate and then opened the hefty door with a groaning creak of its brass hinges. He stepped in and closed the door behind him, his eyes moving to the large, ornate desk that was the centre point of the study. Behind this intricate display of carpentry was an equally ornate chair, and upon that chair was seated the current guild master of the Gilded Orb organisation; Uriah Westerville, a large, some might even say bloated individual. Others would say well rounded on account his wealth. Either way, Westerville was large, but imposing, even sat down his whole presence seemed to fill the room. Corth didn’t dare look him in his beady, spectacled eyes. He simply stood there, arms folded behind his back, at ease, eyes to the desk, always the desk.
         “Ah, Dalay. Yes. I was wondering when you’d decide to return here... It would seem you’ve been quite the busy boy eh?” he reached to the desk for a goblet, clasping it within his portly fingers and raising it to his lips; slight trickles of red wine dribbled down his chin, staining his whitened goatee before he wiped it clean and continued to speak, “It has, however, come to my attention that despite your prosperous activities, you have still to complete your mission. You, do remember your mission don’t you Dalay?” Corth shifted uncomfortably, “Yes, Sir.”
         The fire at the back of the study cracked and spat embers up that danced upon the air as if mocking Corth. He scowled as Westerville continued his inquiry. “And, just to remind me Dalay, just what exactly is your appointed mission, hm?” Corth continued to stare, shifting his gaze downwards now to the red carpeted floor. “I. I am to kill the Mayor of Falconburg...” He sighed. It’s not that Corth found displeasure or dishonour in assassination. A job’s a job after all. He just found a certain distaste in dirtying his hands when he felt they were put to much better use stealing. That, and his own life was at much less risk by sticking to what he did best, but this task was set him as a challenge; a rite of passage almost. Corth was aiming to seek promotion within the guild, and to do so, this was the challenge given to him to prove his worth.
         “There have been some, complications Sir. But I assure you, I have a foolproof plan that will see the mayor killed by the end of the week, leaving Falconburg open to your bidding.” This pleased Westerville, as the rotund man shifted forwards in his seat, resting his stubby elbows on the desk and closing his hands together as though in a parodied prayer to a god of thieves. “And just what is this plan, pray tell?”
Corth decided to show his boldness here, glancing up and meeting Westerville’s gaze, shocking the sphere of a man into sitting back once more “I have found a partner, an unwitting accomplice. We are to enter the doubles arena, and I can assure you, after seeing this man’s skills, we are certain to win.” He grinned and cricked his neck, a gesture which proved his confidence, to be so relaxed before the guild master. “Once we have claimed the title of arena champions, we will be invited to a champions dinner, hosted by none other than the mayor himself. Once there, it shall be the simplest of efforts to kill the man in secret.” Corth smirked. He wished that there was a simpler way than to involve a total stranger in his crimes, but the glint in his eyes betrayed the fact that, in all honesty, he did not much care for companionship after all. Only results...

**********