"The Mournful Flame"
May. 30th, 2022 07:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"The Mournful Flame"
10/1213DR
I.
"Even for a dive like the TWO-HEADED EEL, the riff-raff are a most unsavory lot tonight," grumbled Varlay the Lynx. He had squeezed in behind a round table in one of the darker corners of that tavern, with a candle stub on a copper plate flickering uncertainly between his cupped hands. As always, he had his back to a wall where he could watch the open doorway beyond which midnight loomed. Not enough fresh air came in to displace the reek of spilled ale and old vomit, of unwashed clothing and unmopped floors.
Pulling out a stool to plop down unceremoniously facing the Lynx, Lankur grinned at his smaller companion. A Khebiran, Lankur had the smooth dark brown skin and sharp features of those natives of the desert realm. Even for his race, though, he was unusually large and stood closer to seven feet tall than six, with rounded muscles hard as boulders straining his linen tunic. That garment was the brightest crimson possible, and as if he did not already present enough of a flamboyant figure, the giant also wore a gold bicep band and a hoop earring on his right side. Lankur kept his head shaved, emphasizing the square jawline and deepset brown eyes. "And we are among the more disreputable of said dregs," he chuckled without trying to lower his deep baritone. "I see three of the Night Gorillas from Danarak. Sailors from distant Chujir in their silk blouses. That scar-faced glowering rascal at the bar itself must a slayer of the Assassins' League. Here we sit as their peers... the two best thieves in Mordain we may be, but wealthy we are not."
Lankur had unbuckled the leather baldric which held his sheathed two-handed greatsword and propped it up against the wall by his side. The small throwing hatchet remained in his belt. "Even so," he continued, "See here. I have two silver coins and five coppers left. Enough to drink till dawn, Lynx. Perhaps a barmaid or two will join us."
"Hah, then we will leave without even a single copper." Placing his own pouch on the table, Varlay nudged it unhappily. Not much more than five feet in height, reaching only to Lankur's chest when they stood side by side, the Lynx was a slightly built man with limp corn-yellow hair and light blue eyes in a pale oval face. He kept that face half-concealed in the shadows of his cowl. Varlay dressed like the monk he had once been, wrapped in a tightly-sashed robe of coarse brown burlap with loose sleeves in which his hands remained concealed. In contrast to his flamboyant companion, the Lynx was a creature of shadows and obscurity. His own sword was a narrower dueling weapon meant for precise thrusts rather than hacking, and he kept its scabbard against his leg.
"I think we should stay thirsty until we see what offer this Necromancer has for us," Varlay said at last. "I do not recognize the name Churustan at all, is it familiar to you, Lankur?"
"Not in the slightest. I am not even certain what land would produce such an ungainly appellation. No matter." Catching the eye of a tavern wench, he bellowed out "Two bottles of Sour-Stomach Wine, my dear!" in a tone that could have been heard clearly outside the tavern.
As the bottles were brought and he handed the robust peasant girl some appropriate coins, Lankur rubbed his wide jaw thoughtfully. "Suppose I were to let my beard grow, Lynx. Do you think it would make me even more handsome? Winsome lasses would follow me down the street."
"A beard? With your dome still shaven clean as a baby's rump?" retorted his partner. "From a distance, you would seem to have your head on upside down!"
Lankur gulped down half the wine, thumped himself in the chest and produced a prodigious belch. "Ah, thus confusing my opponent in a duel, eh?"
Both men gave a violent start, Varley dropping his barely-touched bottle to the filthy floor with a clatter and Lankur seized the dirk in his belt. A tall gaunt figure shrouded in a dark cloak had moved slightly, revealing he had been in fact standing right next to them without being seen.
"Draldros dig my grave, I'm on my way!" cursed Lankur with genuine heat. "Where did YOU come from?"
"Forgive me," came the answer in a low, silky tone. "I did not wish to be noticed. Allow me to offer my name, I am that same Churustan who asked to meet you here". Under the deep cowl which shadowed his head, the stranger further concealed his features with a gauzy scarf bounded over his lower face. Only a pair of deepset dark eyes regarded the two adventurers with sardonic amusement. "Lankur the Mighty, of Khebir? Varlay the Lynx, son of Skandor?"
"Admitted," said the smaller blonde thief. Varlay dug with the toe of one boot under the table in an unsuccessful attempt to locate his wine. "Forgive me for boldness, but your accent is not immediately familiar to my ears. Could it be that you grew up within the shadow of the Burning Pyramid?"
The stranger raised a gloved finger to his own lips in a hushing gesture. "Nay, I am no Dartha. My Race is not well-loved, for good reason. Best that the patrons of this deplorable hovel know not that a Necromancer walks among them, eh?"
"Deals with those of your Art seldom end happily, it is said." Lankur drew himself up straighter, scowling with no attempt at tact. "Too many tales are told of mortal Men who regret ever making an agreement with sorcerers. Sudden and unpleasant deaths after accepting your coins, a slow wasting away from taking your artifacts, lovely women who turn into serpents..."
"Silver is pure," came the answer. Opening the front of his tunic, the stranger held up a soft leather bag tied at its mouth with cords. "You may each examine this if you like. You must know that silver is the one substance that of my Art cannot ensorcell. None of our curses will take hold on the moon's own metal, and there is enough silver dust here to buy you each a mansion of your own."
"It would be only prudent to examine that pouch where we cannot be watched by nosy neighbors," Varlay said. "I assume that we would earn it by stealing something guarded by either a hundred armed Melgarin or by a winged Kushelan demon or perhaps a cave full of venomous spiders big as dogs?"
"Nothing so easily dismissed as that," the sorcerer smirked. "True, I do wish to retain your services to bring me a sample of the Mournful Flame, that rare violet fire which burns cold and cannot be extinguished. The real challenge you will face is that another mercenary is on his way to claim it first."
"What, only one man?" scoffed Lankur, waving a broad hand in dismissal. "Feh. I thought there would be real peril in store. He is as good as slain, the poor fool."
Churustan leaned in closer, lowering his mellow tones. "This warrior is an abomination like no other. Have you never heard of Romal the Mongrel?"
II.
Near dusk on the fifth day following, Lankur and the Lynx were riding into the rugged foothills of the mountain ridge which separated Signarm from its neighbor to the East, Myrrwha. This was a disputed buffer zone, a No-Man's-Land neither nation really tried to claim. Rounded boulders protruded up through dry dirt where vegetation had become sparser and sparser, and the heavy forests thinned to trees scattered every few feet. With four gold coins which Churustan had fronted them for expenses, the two adventurers had purchased ample supplies for an extended trek, including a pair of massive Wegan draft horses which were not fast afoot but even-tempered and reliable.
"There's a tempting brook," Varlay called to his partner, reining in his mount. "Best we water and rest both our steeds and ourselves while we can. And it is also time to switch our beasts, lest yours suffer damage to his poor spine."
Dismounting lightly for all his bulk, Lankur laughed easily at the remark. "Indeed. It is asking much for a horse's backbone to long bear the burden of a man of, shall we say, heroic proportions? I have often thought that a deer with a saddle would carry you more swiftly than any followers could hope to overtake, old friend."
"Hah. Best suited for you would be one of those huge grey brutes of Danarak, the leather-hided Rumakin with the single horn on their snouts." The two occupied themselves with letting their animals drink from the stream, then vigorously rubbing the horses down and checking hooves for damage. Finally, satisfied by taking care of their mounts before their own welfare, Lankur and the Lynx stripped to the waist and splashed themselves in the icy water of the narrow stream, then knelt to scrub their upper garments in the water before sitting beside their backpacks and putting on fresh tunics from their gear. The wet clothing they wrung out and hung up on the branches of a straggly brush.
Salty strips of dried meat and handfuls of shelled nuts was their meager meal, and they had brought no wine or beer. Each filled a large tin canteen from the stream and sipped thoughtfully as they watched the sun turn a sullen red near the horizon. "Might as well camp here, Lankur," said the Lynx, getting up to stretch. "Too many vermin holes in the ground for safe night riding. If one of our horses gets hurt, our job will take twice as long."
"That suits me well," replied the giant Khebiran. "I was composing another stanza in my epic poem about how I lost my virginity at the tender age of twelve to a widow about to be hanged, but I am too sleepy to sing it tonight."
"The world is a richer place having been spared that." Varlay bustled about and eventually gathered enough twigs and branches to begin a fire. He selected a likely spot near a stone outcropping ten feet high, arranged some loose rocks and started the flames with sparks from striking his sword blade with a piece of flint he always carried.
"Harumph. That reminds me, Lynx," grumbled Lankur. "You know a great amount of esoteric lore. I am impressed despite myself with how many obscure languages you can read. What do you know of this so-called 'mournful flame' we seek?"
"Naught but the name itself," came the reply. "I was not a knight of the Order, nor a Teacher after all, merely an archivist. I was charged to concern myself with healing properties of plants. The raising of the Tagra bushes was my specialty. So I sadly know nothing more of this Mournful Flame than you."
The big Khebiran had made himself comfortable on his outstretched blanket and was setting up his wooden saddle for use as a pillow. He had chosen a spot next to the outcropping that stretched out its ledge over him. "That shady Necromancer warned us not to take any chances getting burnt by it, even though this Mournful Flame seems to give off little heat. And he said we would find the flame by the barren waste surrounding it, which also suggests an unhealthy aspect."
"The more I think on it, the less I like this commission," the Lynx muttered. "It reeks of forbidden magick. And I would wager one of my eyes that the wizard did not tell us even half of the perils we will encounter." He stopped talking as a deep rasping snore interrupted him. "Well, that's showing your usual thoughtfulness, old friend. I guess there is no question who will take the first watch tonight."
Getting a whetstone from his bag, Varlay saw that the horses were comfortable and beginning to doze off as well. Lowering himself near his partner, the Lynx sat cross-legged and began sharpening the edge of his narrow-bladed dirk. Above and behind him, a dark human shape crept up atop the rocky ledge to watch the quiet scene for a few moments. Then, still moving in absolute silence, the figure stole back down and into the darkness without his presence being detected.
III.
By noon of the following day, Lankur and the Lynx were growing uneasy about the terrain. This had evidently been an ancient and well-populated forest not long ago. Bare trunks of dead trees stood separate from each other, the stubs of broken-off branches sticking out like bones that had been cracked for their marrow. The bushes had dwindled to a few huddled remnants here and there, even the grass underfoot had turned dry and brown and dead. An unwholesome tang in the still air tickled their noses. It had been more than a day since they had seen any birds in the hazy sky.
Earlier, Varlay had brought his horse to a halt and leaped nimbly down from his saddle. With the long sling he wore around his waist, he had whirled a round stone twenty feet to brain a scrawny rabbit which had frozen into position in a doomed effort to escape detection. Now, with the sun suspended directly overhead, Varlay suggested they stop to prepare lunch.
"I'm all for that," the big Khebiran grumbled. "What devil's breath has scorched this land? I swear, Lynx, this must be the blighted area that the sorcerer told us to seek."
Finding a small pool of stagnant water in the hollow under a rocky ledge, Varley drew his dirk and began cleaning the dead rabbit. "I would not recommend drinking from here," he said. "It does not smell foul, yet the way no plants grown within sight does not fill me with optimism. Has building a fire to cook our little guest occurred to you, my friend?"
"Work, work, work," replied the giant Khebiran as he walked around seeking twigs and dried grass. In the direct sunlight, his already dark skin showed a deep, nearly permanent tan. Son of a blacksmith, given to much training with dummy weapons much heavier than actual swords or spears, he had built his body into an imposing mass of hard muscle. Gathering up an armful of tinder and enough larger branches, he dropped to his knees in a cleared space and began arranging the material.
Glancing over to watch his partner skinning the rabbit by the pool, Lankur finally said, "We have never yet gone back on a job after agreeing to it, have we?"
"I should say not," came the answer. "Grelok's Horns, this poor beast is stringy. We are in for some difficult chewing, old friend."
"Our reputation as thieves and as fighters is built on being true to our word." Lankur had spun a thick branch into a mass of dried tinder and, when a wisp of smoke arose, he blew carefully until flame sprang up. "And yet, if I was ever tempted to turn back and repay that damned sorcerer the coins he advanced us...."
"That's not like you, Lankur. Is it the mention of Romal the Mongrel that worries you?"
"Hah! Not damned likely." The Khebiran was piling up loose rocks to support a thick stick he had chosen to use as a spit. "Tall tales and drunken exaggeration, I dare say. Strong as a Troll and quick as a Snake man, indeed... I don't believe the legend of Romal for a heartbeat, Lynx. I will bet a year of my dotage that if we ever met the infamous Mongrel, it would be a great disappointment."
He stopped before beginning the next sentence because he saw Varlay had placed a palm to the ground and had assumed a wary expression. He knew what that meant. Lankur had slung his scabbard across one wide shoulder for convenience and now he rose to his full height, buckling the swordbelt tight around his waist and adjusting the small throwing hatchet where it was stuck by his right hip.
"Horses," Varlay said simply, forgetting the skinned rabbit as he wheeled to secure his own sword, making sure it was ready to be quickly drawn. "Curse our banter, I should have heard them sooner..."
Even as he said that, eight of the massive Signarmian chestnut stallions emerged from over a nearby hill and sauntered toward them at a measured pace. The riders were men in assorted rags and garments stained with long use. Seeing the assortment of weapons the riders bristled with and the surly hostile glares, Lankur and the Lynx began taking deep bracing breaths and readying for the inevitable attack.
IV.
As the bandits drew closer, Varlay could not repress a gasp. "You men look as if every moment may be your last," he said.
"Be still!" shouted the biggest man, the evident leader, but the words provoked deep wet coughing. He pressed the back of a filthy hand to an equally unwashed beard and tried to stop the fit.
"It is a cold day but your shirts are soaked with sweat," the Lynx continued unabashed. "Your hands tremble like those of old men. Even from here, the sound of your breathing is hoarse and strained. What AILS you fellows?"
"They carry the Wasting Death," Lankur growled, openly clasping the hilt of his greatsword. "Or maybe the Green Plague. Either way, they will not get near enough to me to pass on their horrible diseases!"
The leader had finished hacking and he called down from his horse, "I said to hold your tongues! If you have any coins or gold or silver, produce them now. Maybe you will live to see the next sunrise."
"Har har, that's more than you can expect," roared Lankur in open mockery. "Tell me, have you all been drinking foul water and eating spoiled meat?"
All the bandits were fidgeting and clearing their throats of phlegm, but swords had been drawn and they were still a menacing presence. One in the rear of the party spat a red wad to the ground and stared at it unhappily.
"Enough of this," yelled the leader. "Let's get this over with. If nothing else, we'll have some new clothes and two fresh horses. Slay them now."
"Many have tried," responded Lankur. He whipped the massive broadsword up and twirled it as though it were a straw. "Yet, here we stand and those who threatened us sleep the dreamless sleep."
The bandit chief opened his mouth to give the attack command. From nowhere came a hiss and an arc of steel flashing in the sunlight, then the brigand's head went spinning away as his corpse fell from its saddle. Wheeling around, a newcomer lunged over to seize a bandit by the tunic. As easily as if lifting a child's rag doll, the stranger lifted the burly man overhead and threw him to crash headlong against another bandit, sending both bandits tumbling hard to the dirt.
All this had happened in much less than a second. Lankur and Varley had instinctively moved back a few paces until they could comprehend what this sudden blur of violence meant to them.
One bandit thrust with his sword. The black-haired stranger did not seek to block or deflect the blow. He hopped nimbly to one side and whipped a backhand slash that lopped the attacker's hand neatly off at the wrist, then immediately spun to evade a wide looping stroke from the next brigand. Before that man could bring his sword back for a second slash, three feet of steel slid into his chest so hard that the sword's point emerged with a gout of blood from between his shoulder blades.
Only one of the band remained. For some reason, possibly to get some protection between himself and this demonic fighter, the last bandit had slid down from the saddle and stood on the other side of his horse with his short blade raised. The stranger had left his own sword embedded in the chest of the dying bandit. He slapped both palms against the side of the final bandit's horse and shoved the great beast entirely off its feet to crash down on its former rider with bone-breaking finality.
As the startled but unharmed horse scrambled back up onto its hooves, the broken body of its rider remained unmoving. Glaring about and seeing no immediate threat, the newcomer hurried to yank his sword free of the corpse and to wipe its blade upon the cadaver's tunic.
Now that he was holding still for a second, the stranger could be seen to be a young man, no more than in his early twenties, tall and powerfully built in a dark blue tunic and black leggings, with well-worn riding boots. A tattered travel cloak hung from his shoulders.
But what held the full attention of both Lankur and the Lynx were two odd facial traits. Under heavy black brows were two sullen blue eyes that gleamed with amber flecks. And the ears rose to distinct points like those of an Eldanar.. or a Dartha.
Hefting his sword, watching the two thieves suspiciously, the man finally spoke. "I knew I would have to deal with these scum at some point. They have been trying to track me for days. I recognize neither of you. I warn you to turn back now and flee this blasted ruin of a land while you can. You can tell your barmate friends that you met Romal the Mongrel and lived!"
IV.
Of all the reactions he might have had, being affronted at not being recognized was most typical of Lankur. He clapped his fists to his hips and moved his feet well apart. "See here, Romal, you face Lankur the Mighty and Varlay the Lynx, the two best thieves of this Age. Surely tales have reached you of how we stole the Eye of Grelok from the very crown of Chyl's Emperor?"
"That doesn't sound very likely," replied the Mongrel.
"Or how my partner and I escaped from the tower of the Forty Hunchbacks, leaving with their sacred palimpsest?"
"No, such a deed has not reached my ears, as one might think it would."
"Oh. Perhaps you recall hearing how the Lynx and I ventured to the Isle of Maroch itself and came back with the Seeking Noose even though it kept trying to coil around us?"
Romal's heavy-featured face split in a grin. "Audacity such as that should never be questioned nor disrespected. Very well. Hear me, great thieves, these are my words. The ground you walk upon is cursed. You saw yourselves how these bandits were wasting away. I tell you, whatever sordid mission you have agreed to undertake, it is not worth your health. Ride out of this land and live longer happier lives."
"Troll-droppings," scoffed Varlay. He also had positioned himself for a fight, moving close enough to Lankur to be able to join in any clash. "What will befall you? Will you not also rot away from this so-called curse?"
"I am like no other," Romal replied simply. He did not seem at all intimidated by the hostile stances assumed by Lankur and the Lynx, but was examining the bandit's horses. "Hmm. These steeds are in poor condition at best. But I think if I walk alongside two of them, once they regain their vitality, they may be useful."
Lankur exchanged glances with Varlay, and they both moved their hands away from their weapons. After having seen Romal in action, they were not exactly eager to clash with him, although their pride would never have allowed them to admit this.
"Very well," the Mongrel announced as he strapped a bundle to one of the horses. "I claim this coin pouch, these cooking utensils and a few blankets. Everything else is open for you to take. It's not as if these bandits hadn't obtained everything by theft and plunder in the first place."
Lankur cleared his throat and assumed his most ingratiating tone. "Good Romal, what exactly is it that causes the decay of this land? A Darthan curse? Some natural blight or perhaps a new sort of plague? And how do you think we should best protect ourselves?"
The Mongrel swung those hostile dark eyes at the two adventurers. "There is an unnatural artifact in the center of this wasteland, sapping lifeforce from the very air. I alone can survive long enough to destroy the Mournful Flame, and after that green plants will grow again and beasts and birds return to this blasted terrain."
"The Mournful Flame...?" repeated Varlay in sudden dismay. "But Romal, why risk your health and even your life this way? How does it benefit you?"
With a snort, the notorious Mongrel began leading the two confiscated steeds away. "My reasons are my own, thief. Concern yourself with getting far away while you have the strength to do so."
V.
Over dry dirt rough as sandpaper, Romal crawled with single-minded determination. His hands trembled visibly, the knees of his leggings had worn through so he left bloody marks behind him, and sweat dripped from his coarse black hair. Every minute, he moved more slowly and yet he never came to a complete stillness. On its loop around his wrist, the silver-plated tube dragged through the dirt as well.
Atop a small cairn of loose rocks that stood chest high, the bright orange flicker of the Mournful Flame mocked him. It swayed suspended in the air a few inches above the cairn, a small tongue of fire not too large to be covered by a man's hand. The Mournful Flame seemed to have no fuel, no wick. It danced gently by itself, not touching anything but air.
Fifty feet behind the Mongrel, Lankur and Varley also struggled on hands and knees. A mile behind them, their horses had dug their hooves into the earth and stubbornly refused to approach any further. The two thieves had long since given up on remaining unseen by Romal. There was no cover to hide them in this ruined land, only the sullen reddish sky glowering over dead brown dirt. But although the Mongrel must have been aware of their following him, he gave them no heed.
As he reached the cairn, Romal slumped full length on the ground, his head sagging down. The barrel chest heaved to draw in each breath. Watching from a distance, Lankur and Varlay felt they were not doing any better and inwardly doubted they would be able to even reach the Mongrel, much less carry on where he had failed.
To their surprise, Romal slapped his free palm to the ground and swore a particularly coarse oath. He pushed himself up onto his knees, struggled to uncap the end of the silver tube and dropped it before summoning a last reserve of willpower. The Mongrel raised the tube and brought it down over the Mournful Flame, then screwed the cap back on its open end before rolling over onto his back.
Relief washed over the world as if an oppressive weight had been lifted. For the first time in days, the three adventurers felt a light breeze stir the air and the stifling heat broke. Except for the rise and fall of his chest, Romal might have been a dead man.
Still forcing themselves to crawl closer, Lankur and Varlay felt an unexpected thrill as the reprieve from their agony. Both men remained on their knees, holding themselves up on stiffened arms as they felt less certain of imminent death.
"Lynx, how fare you?" rumbled the giant Khebiran.
"Fine. I feel like dancing."
That drew a snort from the big man. He pushed himself up to lean back on his haunches and wiped his dripping face with a sleeve. "Our patron must have known we would not survive this task, my friend. He did not provide us with a device to capture the flame, only a suggestion that we thrust a stick into it and carry it with us as torch."
"I was thinking the same," the former monk agreed with a deadly quiet in his tone. "Romal! Romal, do you live?"
The Mongrel stirred weakly, raising himself up on one elbow and fumbling for the hilt of his sword with fingers that would not obey. "Come no closer, you two. I have paid dearly for this prize. My body aches as though I have been pelted by stones. But try to take the Flame and you will find I am not helpless yet."
The two thieves were sitting up by now, trying to recover their own strength. Even the dark face of the Khebiran was peeling from exposure to the sun, yet he managed to grin. "Oh Mongrel, does it seem clear now how we have been played for fools by that vile Churustan?"
"Say on, then." Romal also forced himself to sit upright, leaning back against the cairn of black stones. His eyes cleared as the clouded aspect of surviving by sheer doggedness left them. "Tell me what you suspect."
"That the sorcerer expected you to reach the Mournful Flame but not survive its capture?" Lankur asked. "And that my friend and I would be revived enough to claim the filthy thing from your dead hand and bring it back to him?"
A low long peal of thunder sounded overhead. Dark clouds were sweeping in from the West, born by rising gales. All three men stared upward in unexpected hopefulness.
"The effect of the Mournful Flame has been broken," Varlay announced. He clasped his open palms together and bowed his head. "Great Jordyn! Cirkoth! Eryasha! You Halarin are pleased to bring life back to this desolation."
Rain began to fall with sudden intensity, cool and welcome. The three men sat and let their bodies soak it in, washing away not only grime and dried sweat but the uncertainty of ever living past the day. They caught the rain in their cupped hands and lapped it up.
Lankur let loose a guffaw of pure delight. "I will swear before any judge that clear water to a parched throat is more welcome than the finest wine. And I take back all my unworthy misgivings about the callousness of the Higher Ones. They deserve praise indeed."
"Let us regain our strength for a moment," Romal said. He rose to his feet, bracing himself with legs braced well apart, then walked stiffly toward where the two thieves sat. "You were hired by this warlock to fetch him the Mournful Flame?"
"Aye, true enough," Lankur admitted. "To speak my mind, I now regret our taking the task but, you know... the reputation of a thief for hire is valuable. If we are seen as unreliable or going back on an agreement, the fee we charge will dwindle."
Varlay had begun scrubbing his pale yellow hair with his fingers, using the downpour to rinse days' worth of grit out of it. It had begun to assume a brown hue. He exhaled sadly. "My partner speaks bluntly as always, but truly as always. Romal, we are sworn to return that cursed fire to our employer. Whether it's wise or righteous to do so, Lankur and I are duty bound to finish our task."
"There are two of you, and I sense that you are skilled fighters," the Mongrel replied, resting his free hand on his sword hilt. "But know that you face a foe like no other who walks the world. Strong as a Troll, quick as a Snake man! Wise as an Eldar, cruel as a Dartha! This is Romal the Mongrel you seek to challenge."
IV.
An hour before dawn, THE TWO-HEADED EEL had finally closed as the tavern keeper felt only one besotted customer was not worth fighting back the yawns any longer. The door was bolted and shutters tied over the windows, a single torch burned on an iron post beside the sign. The cobblestone courtyard held a long heavy bench on which a hooded figure sat with hands hidden up his robe's sleeves.
Lankur and Varlay strode boldly up toward the sorcerer. A full day had passed since they had returned to the city, they had taken the opportunity to feast and doze in the sunlight while they could. Now, in the darkest and quietest time that the city ever knew, they approached their employer. In one broad hand, the Khebiran clasped the silver cylinder.
"Hah! As you see, we have survived and also earned our fee, Churustan!" Lankur announced in what for him was a low tone.
"Excellent, indeed," came the oddly accented voice. "Did you encounter that abomination, the hybrid Romal? He is said to be formidable."
"Yet it is we who stand before you," Varlay the Lynx told him. "To business then. The other half of our fee and this cylinder, both shall change hands. Then our arrangement will end and I think we shall not meet again."
The hooded man held out a soft leather bag as Lankur handed over the cylinder. Even as the big Khebiran hefted the weight of the bag and seemed satisfied, his smaller partner held up an open hand.
"You have claimed you are no Dartha," he said. "Yet why hide your face? Are you not Human?"
Churustan chuckled in a remarkably unpleasant way. "There are other Races than the Darthim who are skilled in the dark arts. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Experience Which Comes Last?"
"That is the slogan of the Nekrosim!" gasped Varlay, involuntarily drawing back a step. "You, with your unholy worship of Death. Seldom do you leave your own realm."
"I see you are learned in forbidden knowledge. Behold, gaze upon what few Humans have seen and lived to tell others." The sorcerer flung back his hood in an unnecessarily dramatic flourish. In the flickering light of the torch behind him, his head resembled a skull tightly covered with dry skin, completely hairless without even eyebrows. Under a protruding brow ledge, deepset dark eyes mocked them above a nose that was no more than two nostrils. "Do you wonder why we revere The Sleep That Has No Ending, little Human?"
"I've seen worse," scoffed Lankur.
"I will be undertaking my crusade now," Churustan said. "Heh. You have done great disservice to your kind by placing the Mournful Flame in the hands of a Nekrosan. You saw what it did to the terrain and the animals and those Humans who came near it. Perhaps I will hide it somewhere in some cellar in this city, and laugh as the entire population sickens and dies off without knowing why."
"Do you think we will allow that?" grumbled Lankur. "You seem unarmed, Skull-face. Whatever magick you know cannot strike us both down before we slay you."
"Feh. I fear you not," the hideous warlock replied. "You will not strike me, it is the most strict taboo for a professional thief. You swore an oath to never harm an employer. Hah."
From behind Churustan, a third voice growled, "I took no such oath!" The Nekrosan whirled around in sudden alarm, to find a edge of a sword already flashing toward his throat. The last thing he saw in this world was the grim face of Romal the Mongrel.
8/1/2021 7.440 words
10/1213DR
I.
"Even for a dive like the TWO-HEADED EEL, the riff-raff are a most unsavory lot tonight," grumbled Varlay the Lynx. He had squeezed in behind a round table in one of the darker corners of that tavern, with a candle stub on a copper plate flickering uncertainly between his cupped hands. As always, he had his back to a wall where he could watch the open doorway beyond which midnight loomed. Not enough fresh air came in to displace the reek of spilled ale and old vomit, of unwashed clothing and unmopped floors.
Pulling out a stool to plop down unceremoniously facing the Lynx, Lankur grinned at his smaller companion. A Khebiran, Lankur had the smooth dark brown skin and sharp features of those natives of the desert realm. Even for his race, though, he was unusually large and stood closer to seven feet tall than six, with rounded muscles hard as boulders straining his linen tunic. That garment was the brightest crimson possible, and as if he did not already present enough of a flamboyant figure, the giant also wore a gold bicep band and a hoop earring on his right side. Lankur kept his head shaved, emphasizing the square jawline and deepset brown eyes. "And we are among the more disreputable of said dregs," he chuckled without trying to lower his deep baritone. "I see three of the Night Gorillas from Danarak. Sailors from distant Chujir in their silk blouses. That scar-faced glowering rascal at the bar itself must a slayer of the Assassins' League. Here we sit as their peers... the two best thieves in Mordain we may be, but wealthy we are not."
Lankur had unbuckled the leather baldric which held his sheathed two-handed greatsword and propped it up against the wall by his side. The small throwing hatchet remained in his belt. "Even so," he continued, "See here. I have two silver coins and five coppers left. Enough to drink till dawn, Lynx. Perhaps a barmaid or two will join us."
"Hah, then we will leave without even a single copper." Placing his own pouch on the table, Varlay nudged it unhappily. Not much more than five feet in height, reaching only to Lankur's chest when they stood side by side, the Lynx was a slightly built man with limp corn-yellow hair and light blue eyes in a pale oval face. He kept that face half-concealed in the shadows of his cowl. Varlay dressed like the monk he had once been, wrapped in a tightly-sashed robe of coarse brown burlap with loose sleeves in which his hands remained concealed. In contrast to his flamboyant companion, the Lynx was a creature of shadows and obscurity. His own sword was a narrower dueling weapon meant for precise thrusts rather than hacking, and he kept its scabbard against his leg.
"I think we should stay thirsty until we see what offer this Necromancer has for us," Varlay said at last. "I do not recognize the name Churustan at all, is it familiar to you, Lankur?"
"Not in the slightest. I am not even certain what land would produce such an ungainly appellation. No matter." Catching the eye of a tavern wench, he bellowed out "Two bottles of Sour-Stomach Wine, my dear!" in a tone that could have been heard clearly outside the tavern.
As the bottles were brought and he handed the robust peasant girl some appropriate coins, Lankur rubbed his wide jaw thoughtfully. "Suppose I were to let my beard grow, Lynx. Do you think it would make me even more handsome? Winsome lasses would follow me down the street."
"A beard? With your dome still shaven clean as a baby's rump?" retorted his partner. "From a distance, you would seem to have your head on upside down!"
Lankur gulped down half the wine, thumped himself in the chest and produced a prodigious belch. "Ah, thus confusing my opponent in a duel, eh?"
Both men gave a violent start, Varley dropping his barely-touched bottle to the filthy floor with a clatter and Lankur seized the dirk in his belt. A tall gaunt figure shrouded in a dark cloak had moved slightly, revealing he had been in fact standing right next to them without being seen.
"Draldros dig my grave, I'm on my way!" cursed Lankur with genuine heat. "Where did YOU come from?"
"Forgive me," came the answer in a low, silky tone. "I did not wish to be noticed. Allow me to offer my name, I am that same Churustan who asked to meet you here". Under the deep cowl which shadowed his head, the stranger further concealed his features with a gauzy scarf bounded over his lower face. Only a pair of deepset dark eyes regarded the two adventurers with sardonic amusement. "Lankur the Mighty, of Khebir? Varlay the Lynx, son of Skandor?"
"Admitted," said the smaller blonde thief. Varlay dug with the toe of one boot under the table in an unsuccessful attempt to locate his wine. "Forgive me for boldness, but your accent is not immediately familiar to my ears. Could it be that you grew up within the shadow of the Burning Pyramid?"
The stranger raised a gloved finger to his own lips in a hushing gesture. "Nay, I am no Dartha. My Race is not well-loved, for good reason. Best that the patrons of this deplorable hovel know not that a Necromancer walks among them, eh?"
"Deals with those of your Art seldom end happily, it is said." Lankur drew himself up straighter, scowling with no attempt at tact. "Too many tales are told of mortal Men who regret ever making an agreement with sorcerers. Sudden and unpleasant deaths after accepting your coins, a slow wasting away from taking your artifacts, lovely women who turn into serpents..."
"Silver is pure," came the answer. Opening the front of his tunic, the stranger held up a soft leather bag tied at its mouth with cords. "You may each examine this if you like. You must know that silver is the one substance that of my Art cannot ensorcell. None of our curses will take hold on the moon's own metal, and there is enough silver dust here to buy you each a mansion of your own."
"It would be only prudent to examine that pouch where we cannot be watched by nosy neighbors," Varlay said. "I assume that we would earn it by stealing something guarded by either a hundred armed Melgarin or by a winged Kushelan demon or perhaps a cave full of venomous spiders big as dogs?"
"Nothing so easily dismissed as that," the sorcerer smirked. "True, I do wish to retain your services to bring me a sample of the Mournful Flame, that rare violet fire which burns cold and cannot be extinguished. The real challenge you will face is that another mercenary is on his way to claim it first."
"What, only one man?" scoffed Lankur, waving a broad hand in dismissal. "Feh. I thought there would be real peril in store. He is as good as slain, the poor fool."
Churustan leaned in closer, lowering his mellow tones. "This warrior is an abomination like no other. Have you never heard of Romal the Mongrel?"
II.
Near dusk on the fifth day following, Lankur and the Lynx were riding into the rugged foothills of the mountain ridge which separated Signarm from its neighbor to the East, Myrrwha. This was a disputed buffer zone, a No-Man's-Land neither nation really tried to claim. Rounded boulders protruded up through dry dirt where vegetation had become sparser and sparser, and the heavy forests thinned to trees scattered every few feet. With four gold coins which Churustan had fronted them for expenses, the two adventurers had purchased ample supplies for an extended trek, including a pair of massive Wegan draft horses which were not fast afoot but even-tempered and reliable.
"There's a tempting brook," Varlay called to his partner, reining in his mount. "Best we water and rest both our steeds and ourselves while we can. And it is also time to switch our beasts, lest yours suffer damage to his poor spine."
Dismounting lightly for all his bulk, Lankur laughed easily at the remark. "Indeed. It is asking much for a horse's backbone to long bear the burden of a man of, shall we say, heroic proportions? I have often thought that a deer with a saddle would carry you more swiftly than any followers could hope to overtake, old friend."
"Hah. Best suited for you would be one of those huge grey brutes of Danarak, the leather-hided Rumakin with the single horn on their snouts." The two occupied themselves with letting their animals drink from the stream, then vigorously rubbing the horses down and checking hooves for damage. Finally, satisfied by taking care of their mounts before their own welfare, Lankur and the Lynx stripped to the waist and splashed themselves in the icy water of the narrow stream, then knelt to scrub their upper garments in the water before sitting beside their backpacks and putting on fresh tunics from their gear. The wet clothing they wrung out and hung up on the branches of a straggly brush.
Salty strips of dried meat and handfuls of shelled nuts was their meager meal, and they had brought no wine or beer. Each filled a large tin canteen from the stream and sipped thoughtfully as they watched the sun turn a sullen red near the horizon. "Might as well camp here, Lankur," said the Lynx, getting up to stretch. "Too many vermin holes in the ground for safe night riding. If one of our horses gets hurt, our job will take twice as long."
"That suits me well," replied the giant Khebiran. "I was composing another stanza in my epic poem about how I lost my virginity at the tender age of twelve to a widow about to be hanged, but I am too sleepy to sing it tonight."
"The world is a richer place having been spared that." Varlay bustled about and eventually gathered enough twigs and branches to begin a fire. He selected a likely spot near a stone outcropping ten feet high, arranged some loose rocks and started the flames with sparks from striking his sword blade with a piece of flint he always carried.
"Harumph. That reminds me, Lynx," grumbled Lankur. "You know a great amount of esoteric lore. I am impressed despite myself with how many obscure languages you can read. What do you know of this so-called 'mournful flame' we seek?"
"Naught but the name itself," came the reply. "I was not a knight of the Order, nor a Teacher after all, merely an archivist. I was charged to concern myself with healing properties of plants. The raising of the Tagra bushes was my specialty. So I sadly know nothing more of this Mournful Flame than you."
The big Khebiran had made himself comfortable on his outstretched blanket and was setting up his wooden saddle for use as a pillow. He had chosen a spot next to the outcropping that stretched out its ledge over him. "That shady Necromancer warned us not to take any chances getting burnt by it, even though this Mournful Flame seems to give off little heat. And he said we would find the flame by the barren waste surrounding it, which also suggests an unhealthy aspect."
"The more I think on it, the less I like this commission," the Lynx muttered. "It reeks of forbidden magick. And I would wager one of my eyes that the wizard did not tell us even half of the perils we will encounter." He stopped talking as a deep rasping snore interrupted him. "Well, that's showing your usual thoughtfulness, old friend. I guess there is no question who will take the first watch tonight."
Getting a whetstone from his bag, Varlay saw that the horses were comfortable and beginning to doze off as well. Lowering himself near his partner, the Lynx sat cross-legged and began sharpening the edge of his narrow-bladed dirk. Above and behind him, a dark human shape crept up atop the rocky ledge to watch the quiet scene for a few moments. Then, still moving in absolute silence, the figure stole back down and into the darkness without his presence being detected.
III.
By noon of the following day, Lankur and the Lynx were growing uneasy about the terrain. This had evidently been an ancient and well-populated forest not long ago. Bare trunks of dead trees stood separate from each other, the stubs of broken-off branches sticking out like bones that had been cracked for their marrow. The bushes had dwindled to a few huddled remnants here and there, even the grass underfoot had turned dry and brown and dead. An unwholesome tang in the still air tickled their noses. It had been more than a day since they had seen any birds in the hazy sky.
Earlier, Varlay had brought his horse to a halt and leaped nimbly down from his saddle. With the long sling he wore around his waist, he had whirled a round stone twenty feet to brain a scrawny rabbit which had frozen into position in a doomed effort to escape detection. Now, with the sun suspended directly overhead, Varlay suggested they stop to prepare lunch.
"I'm all for that," the big Khebiran grumbled. "What devil's breath has scorched this land? I swear, Lynx, this must be the blighted area that the sorcerer told us to seek."
Finding a small pool of stagnant water in the hollow under a rocky ledge, Varley drew his dirk and began cleaning the dead rabbit. "I would not recommend drinking from here," he said. "It does not smell foul, yet the way no plants grown within sight does not fill me with optimism. Has building a fire to cook our little guest occurred to you, my friend?"
"Work, work, work," replied the giant Khebiran as he walked around seeking twigs and dried grass. In the direct sunlight, his already dark skin showed a deep, nearly permanent tan. Son of a blacksmith, given to much training with dummy weapons much heavier than actual swords or spears, he had built his body into an imposing mass of hard muscle. Gathering up an armful of tinder and enough larger branches, he dropped to his knees in a cleared space and began arranging the material.
Glancing over to watch his partner skinning the rabbit by the pool, Lankur finally said, "We have never yet gone back on a job after agreeing to it, have we?"
"I should say not," came the answer. "Grelok's Horns, this poor beast is stringy. We are in for some difficult chewing, old friend."
"Our reputation as thieves and as fighters is built on being true to our word." Lankur had spun a thick branch into a mass of dried tinder and, when a wisp of smoke arose, he blew carefully until flame sprang up. "And yet, if I was ever tempted to turn back and repay that damned sorcerer the coins he advanced us...."
"That's not like you, Lankur. Is it the mention of Romal the Mongrel that worries you?"
"Hah! Not damned likely." The Khebiran was piling up loose rocks to support a thick stick he had chosen to use as a spit. "Tall tales and drunken exaggeration, I dare say. Strong as a Troll and quick as a Snake man, indeed... I don't believe the legend of Romal for a heartbeat, Lynx. I will bet a year of my dotage that if we ever met the infamous Mongrel, it would be a great disappointment."
He stopped before beginning the next sentence because he saw Varlay had placed a palm to the ground and had assumed a wary expression. He knew what that meant. Lankur had slung his scabbard across one wide shoulder for convenience and now he rose to his full height, buckling the swordbelt tight around his waist and adjusting the small throwing hatchet where it was stuck by his right hip.
"Horses," Varlay said simply, forgetting the skinned rabbit as he wheeled to secure his own sword, making sure it was ready to be quickly drawn. "Curse our banter, I should have heard them sooner..."
Even as he said that, eight of the massive Signarmian chestnut stallions emerged from over a nearby hill and sauntered toward them at a measured pace. The riders were men in assorted rags and garments stained with long use. Seeing the assortment of weapons the riders bristled with and the surly hostile glares, Lankur and the Lynx began taking deep bracing breaths and readying for the inevitable attack.
IV.
As the bandits drew closer, Varlay could not repress a gasp. "You men look as if every moment may be your last," he said.
"Be still!" shouted the biggest man, the evident leader, but the words provoked deep wet coughing. He pressed the back of a filthy hand to an equally unwashed beard and tried to stop the fit.
"It is a cold day but your shirts are soaked with sweat," the Lynx continued unabashed. "Your hands tremble like those of old men. Even from here, the sound of your breathing is hoarse and strained. What AILS you fellows?"
"They carry the Wasting Death," Lankur growled, openly clasping the hilt of his greatsword. "Or maybe the Green Plague. Either way, they will not get near enough to me to pass on their horrible diseases!"
The leader had finished hacking and he called down from his horse, "I said to hold your tongues! If you have any coins or gold or silver, produce them now. Maybe you will live to see the next sunrise."
"Har har, that's more than you can expect," roared Lankur in open mockery. "Tell me, have you all been drinking foul water and eating spoiled meat?"
All the bandits were fidgeting and clearing their throats of phlegm, but swords had been drawn and they were still a menacing presence. One in the rear of the party spat a red wad to the ground and stared at it unhappily.
"Enough of this," yelled the leader. "Let's get this over with. If nothing else, we'll have some new clothes and two fresh horses. Slay them now."
"Many have tried," responded Lankur. He whipped the massive broadsword up and twirled it as though it were a straw. "Yet, here we stand and those who threatened us sleep the dreamless sleep."
The bandit chief opened his mouth to give the attack command. From nowhere came a hiss and an arc of steel flashing in the sunlight, then the brigand's head went spinning away as his corpse fell from its saddle. Wheeling around, a newcomer lunged over to seize a bandit by the tunic. As easily as if lifting a child's rag doll, the stranger lifted the burly man overhead and threw him to crash headlong against another bandit, sending both bandits tumbling hard to the dirt.
All this had happened in much less than a second. Lankur and Varley had instinctively moved back a few paces until they could comprehend what this sudden blur of violence meant to them.
One bandit thrust with his sword. The black-haired stranger did not seek to block or deflect the blow. He hopped nimbly to one side and whipped a backhand slash that lopped the attacker's hand neatly off at the wrist, then immediately spun to evade a wide looping stroke from the next brigand. Before that man could bring his sword back for a second slash, three feet of steel slid into his chest so hard that the sword's point emerged with a gout of blood from between his shoulder blades.
Only one of the band remained. For some reason, possibly to get some protection between himself and this demonic fighter, the last bandit had slid down from the saddle and stood on the other side of his horse with his short blade raised. The stranger had left his own sword embedded in the chest of the dying bandit. He slapped both palms against the side of the final bandit's horse and shoved the great beast entirely off its feet to crash down on its former rider with bone-breaking finality.
As the startled but unharmed horse scrambled back up onto its hooves, the broken body of its rider remained unmoving. Glaring about and seeing no immediate threat, the newcomer hurried to yank his sword free of the corpse and to wipe its blade upon the cadaver's tunic.
Now that he was holding still for a second, the stranger could be seen to be a young man, no more than in his early twenties, tall and powerfully built in a dark blue tunic and black leggings, with well-worn riding boots. A tattered travel cloak hung from his shoulders.
But what held the full attention of both Lankur and the Lynx were two odd facial traits. Under heavy black brows were two sullen blue eyes that gleamed with amber flecks. And the ears rose to distinct points like those of an Eldanar.. or a Dartha.
Hefting his sword, watching the two thieves suspiciously, the man finally spoke. "I knew I would have to deal with these scum at some point. They have been trying to track me for days. I recognize neither of you. I warn you to turn back now and flee this blasted ruin of a land while you can. You can tell your barmate friends that you met Romal the Mongrel and lived!"
IV.
Of all the reactions he might have had, being affronted at not being recognized was most typical of Lankur. He clapped his fists to his hips and moved his feet well apart. "See here, Romal, you face Lankur the Mighty and Varlay the Lynx, the two best thieves of this Age. Surely tales have reached you of how we stole the Eye of Grelok from the very crown of Chyl's Emperor?"
"That doesn't sound very likely," replied the Mongrel.
"Or how my partner and I escaped from the tower of the Forty Hunchbacks, leaving with their sacred palimpsest?"
"No, such a deed has not reached my ears, as one might think it would."
"Oh. Perhaps you recall hearing how the Lynx and I ventured to the Isle of Maroch itself and came back with the Seeking Noose even though it kept trying to coil around us?"
Romal's heavy-featured face split in a grin. "Audacity such as that should never be questioned nor disrespected. Very well. Hear me, great thieves, these are my words. The ground you walk upon is cursed. You saw yourselves how these bandits were wasting away. I tell you, whatever sordid mission you have agreed to undertake, it is not worth your health. Ride out of this land and live longer happier lives."
"Troll-droppings," scoffed Varlay. He also had positioned himself for a fight, moving close enough to Lankur to be able to join in any clash. "What will befall you? Will you not also rot away from this so-called curse?"
"I am like no other," Romal replied simply. He did not seem at all intimidated by the hostile stances assumed by Lankur and the Lynx, but was examining the bandit's horses. "Hmm. These steeds are in poor condition at best. But I think if I walk alongside two of them, once they regain their vitality, they may be useful."
Lankur exchanged glances with Varlay, and they both moved their hands away from their weapons. After having seen Romal in action, they were not exactly eager to clash with him, although their pride would never have allowed them to admit this.
"Very well," the Mongrel announced as he strapped a bundle to one of the horses. "I claim this coin pouch, these cooking utensils and a few blankets. Everything else is open for you to take. It's not as if these bandits hadn't obtained everything by theft and plunder in the first place."
Lankur cleared his throat and assumed his most ingratiating tone. "Good Romal, what exactly is it that causes the decay of this land? A Darthan curse? Some natural blight or perhaps a new sort of plague? And how do you think we should best protect ourselves?"
The Mongrel swung those hostile dark eyes at the two adventurers. "There is an unnatural artifact in the center of this wasteland, sapping lifeforce from the very air. I alone can survive long enough to destroy the Mournful Flame, and after that green plants will grow again and beasts and birds return to this blasted terrain."
"The Mournful Flame...?" repeated Varlay in sudden dismay. "But Romal, why risk your health and even your life this way? How does it benefit you?"
With a snort, the notorious Mongrel began leading the two confiscated steeds away. "My reasons are my own, thief. Concern yourself with getting far away while you have the strength to do so."
V.
Over dry dirt rough as sandpaper, Romal crawled with single-minded determination. His hands trembled visibly, the knees of his leggings had worn through so he left bloody marks behind him, and sweat dripped from his coarse black hair. Every minute, he moved more slowly and yet he never came to a complete stillness. On its loop around his wrist, the silver-plated tube dragged through the dirt as well.
Atop a small cairn of loose rocks that stood chest high, the bright orange flicker of the Mournful Flame mocked him. It swayed suspended in the air a few inches above the cairn, a small tongue of fire not too large to be covered by a man's hand. The Mournful Flame seemed to have no fuel, no wick. It danced gently by itself, not touching anything but air.
Fifty feet behind the Mongrel, Lankur and Varley also struggled on hands and knees. A mile behind them, their horses had dug their hooves into the earth and stubbornly refused to approach any further. The two thieves had long since given up on remaining unseen by Romal. There was no cover to hide them in this ruined land, only the sullen reddish sky glowering over dead brown dirt. But although the Mongrel must have been aware of their following him, he gave them no heed.
As he reached the cairn, Romal slumped full length on the ground, his head sagging down. The barrel chest heaved to draw in each breath. Watching from a distance, Lankur and Varlay felt they were not doing any better and inwardly doubted they would be able to even reach the Mongrel, much less carry on where he had failed.
To their surprise, Romal slapped his free palm to the ground and swore a particularly coarse oath. He pushed himself up onto his knees, struggled to uncap the end of the silver tube and dropped it before summoning a last reserve of willpower. The Mongrel raised the tube and brought it down over the Mournful Flame, then screwed the cap back on its open end before rolling over onto his back.
Relief washed over the world as if an oppressive weight had been lifted. For the first time in days, the three adventurers felt a light breeze stir the air and the stifling heat broke. Except for the rise and fall of his chest, Romal might have been a dead man.
Still forcing themselves to crawl closer, Lankur and Varlay felt an unexpected thrill as the reprieve from their agony. Both men remained on their knees, holding themselves up on stiffened arms as they felt less certain of imminent death.
"Lynx, how fare you?" rumbled the giant Khebiran.
"Fine. I feel like dancing."
That drew a snort from the big man. He pushed himself up to lean back on his haunches and wiped his dripping face with a sleeve. "Our patron must have known we would not survive this task, my friend. He did not provide us with a device to capture the flame, only a suggestion that we thrust a stick into it and carry it with us as torch."
"I was thinking the same," the former monk agreed with a deadly quiet in his tone. "Romal! Romal, do you live?"
The Mongrel stirred weakly, raising himself up on one elbow and fumbling for the hilt of his sword with fingers that would not obey. "Come no closer, you two. I have paid dearly for this prize. My body aches as though I have been pelted by stones. But try to take the Flame and you will find I am not helpless yet."
The two thieves were sitting up by now, trying to recover their own strength. Even the dark face of the Khebiran was peeling from exposure to the sun, yet he managed to grin. "Oh Mongrel, does it seem clear now how we have been played for fools by that vile Churustan?"
"Say on, then." Romal also forced himself to sit upright, leaning back against the cairn of black stones. His eyes cleared as the clouded aspect of surviving by sheer doggedness left them. "Tell me what you suspect."
"That the sorcerer expected you to reach the Mournful Flame but not survive its capture?" Lankur asked. "And that my friend and I would be revived enough to claim the filthy thing from your dead hand and bring it back to him?"
A low long peal of thunder sounded overhead. Dark clouds were sweeping in from the West, born by rising gales. All three men stared upward in unexpected hopefulness.
"The effect of the Mournful Flame has been broken," Varlay announced. He clasped his open palms together and bowed his head. "Great Jordyn! Cirkoth! Eryasha! You Halarin are pleased to bring life back to this desolation."
Rain began to fall with sudden intensity, cool and welcome. The three men sat and let their bodies soak it in, washing away not only grime and dried sweat but the uncertainty of ever living past the day. They caught the rain in their cupped hands and lapped it up.
Lankur let loose a guffaw of pure delight. "I will swear before any judge that clear water to a parched throat is more welcome than the finest wine. And I take back all my unworthy misgivings about the callousness of the Higher Ones. They deserve praise indeed."
"Let us regain our strength for a moment," Romal said. He rose to his feet, bracing himself with legs braced well apart, then walked stiffly toward where the two thieves sat. "You were hired by this warlock to fetch him the Mournful Flame?"
"Aye, true enough," Lankur admitted. "To speak my mind, I now regret our taking the task but, you know... the reputation of a thief for hire is valuable. If we are seen as unreliable or going back on an agreement, the fee we charge will dwindle."
Varlay had begun scrubbing his pale yellow hair with his fingers, using the downpour to rinse days' worth of grit out of it. It had begun to assume a brown hue. He exhaled sadly. "My partner speaks bluntly as always, but truly as always. Romal, we are sworn to return that cursed fire to our employer. Whether it's wise or righteous to do so, Lankur and I are duty bound to finish our task."
"There are two of you, and I sense that you are skilled fighters," the Mongrel replied, resting his free hand on his sword hilt. "But know that you face a foe like no other who walks the world. Strong as a Troll, quick as a Snake man! Wise as an Eldar, cruel as a Dartha! This is Romal the Mongrel you seek to challenge."
IV.
An hour before dawn, THE TWO-HEADED EEL had finally closed as the tavern keeper felt only one besotted customer was not worth fighting back the yawns any longer. The door was bolted and shutters tied over the windows, a single torch burned on an iron post beside the sign. The cobblestone courtyard held a long heavy bench on which a hooded figure sat with hands hidden up his robe's sleeves.
Lankur and Varlay strode boldly up toward the sorcerer. A full day had passed since they had returned to the city, they had taken the opportunity to feast and doze in the sunlight while they could. Now, in the darkest and quietest time that the city ever knew, they approached their employer. In one broad hand, the Khebiran clasped the silver cylinder.
"Hah! As you see, we have survived and also earned our fee, Churustan!" Lankur announced in what for him was a low tone.
"Excellent, indeed," came the oddly accented voice. "Did you encounter that abomination, the hybrid Romal? He is said to be formidable."
"Yet it is we who stand before you," Varlay the Lynx told him. "To business then. The other half of our fee and this cylinder, both shall change hands. Then our arrangement will end and I think we shall not meet again."
The hooded man held out a soft leather bag as Lankur handed over the cylinder. Even as the big Khebiran hefted the weight of the bag and seemed satisfied, his smaller partner held up an open hand.
"You have claimed you are no Dartha," he said. "Yet why hide your face? Are you not Human?"
Churustan chuckled in a remarkably unpleasant way. "There are other Races than the Darthim who are skilled in the dark arts. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Experience Which Comes Last?"
"That is the slogan of the Nekrosim!" gasped Varlay, involuntarily drawing back a step. "You, with your unholy worship of Death. Seldom do you leave your own realm."
"I see you are learned in forbidden knowledge. Behold, gaze upon what few Humans have seen and lived to tell others." The sorcerer flung back his hood in an unnecessarily dramatic flourish. In the flickering light of the torch behind him, his head resembled a skull tightly covered with dry skin, completely hairless without even eyebrows. Under a protruding brow ledge, deepset dark eyes mocked them above a nose that was no more than two nostrils. "Do you wonder why we revere The Sleep That Has No Ending, little Human?"
"I've seen worse," scoffed Lankur.
"I will be undertaking my crusade now," Churustan said. "Heh. You have done great disservice to your kind by placing the Mournful Flame in the hands of a Nekrosan. You saw what it did to the terrain and the animals and those Humans who came near it. Perhaps I will hide it somewhere in some cellar in this city, and laugh as the entire population sickens and dies off without knowing why."
"Do you think we will allow that?" grumbled Lankur. "You seem unarmed, Skull-face. Whatever magick you know cannot strike us both down before we slay you."
"Feh. I fear you not," the hideous warlock replied. "You will not strike me, it is the most strict taboo for a professional thief. You swore an oath to never harm an employer. Hah."
From behind Churustan, a third voice growled, "I took no such oath!" The Nekrosan whirled around in sudden alarm, to find a edge of a sword already flashing toward his throat. The last thing he saw in this world was the grim face of Romal the Mongrel.
8/1/2021 7.440 words
