A cool breeze from the bay swept through the streets of Ridgeton. A slight drizzle whipped about the air, a cold sting against Telerek’s shadowed face. It was a dreary night in a hopeless place. And Telerek knew it well.
A few cloaked figures darted in and out of nearby alleys. Doors were barred, windows dark. Only the desperate—or the scum—still moved through the streets at this hour. Lurking around corners and disappearing into alleys, Telerek moved like a rumor amongst a crowd. It was home. And nobody dared mess with Varloc's fist.
Boots thudding on the cobbles, Telerek marched down the middle of the street. Not a care in the world. The cloth bag in his hand pulled heavier with each footfall. He snarled as he glanced at it, something dripping from the bottom.
Hopefully he’s pleased, he thought. Or this won’t end well.
Lightning flashed in the darkness, revealing a three-story grey brick building. Thunder bellowed in the distance as Telerek continued toward the manor. Two smaller abodes flanked the main home, framing it like a king among lesser men. A lone candlelight flickered in the uppermost window of the grey manor. A silhouette peered out over the courtyard, unmoving.
The front door was unlocked when Telerek pushed upon it. It swung open slowly with a long, low groan. Darkness. Fortunately, seeing in the dark came naturally to the wood-elf. Wealth announced itself in every waxed floorboard, every polished piece of silver, every streak-free mirror. Continuing subtly down the hall, Telerek reached a spiraling staircase near the back room and began his ascent.
Candlelight danced in the landing atop the stairs. Telerek turned to his right and made way for the dimly lit room at the end. A long red carpet lined the wooden floors, trailing from the stairs to the last room. Golden tassels decorated the edge of the carpet that had blue and gold lines swirling about the surface. Telerek slowed as he approached the room, door halfway ajar.
Inside the dim room, the hearth was ablaze, fire crackling with gentle flames. A figure sat in a chair facing away from the door. Telerek closed his eyes and sighed. He gathered himself and glanced at the bag in his hand again. He turned his nose up and pushed his way into the room.
“You're late.” The words grated out of the shadows.
Red wine half-filled a glass cup with gold filigree at the rim. The table it sat upon was inlaid with various cuts of gems. Casual wealth at its finest.
“You may approach.” A chill ran down Telerek's spine, coalescing in his gut.
He stepped slowly forward, presented the bag and dropped it onto the table with a wet thud—Telerek curled his lip at the sound.
“That had better be what I think it is…”
Telerek flinched, then stilled after dropping the sack. Waiting, he stared at the back of the man’s head.
“Open it.”
Wet cloth met Telerek's gloved hand as he grabbed the bottom of the bag. He turned it over and dumped the contents onto the dark table. Three severed hands spilled onto the tabletop, blood leaking from the stumps. Telerek felt a crooked grin stretch across his face at the sight of them. One was stumpy and fat, the grubby hands of a greedy dwarf. The other two were human. One was dark-skinned and the other was tanned by too many days in the sun. Simple as they were, three gold rings—one on each hand—caught the firelight… and Telerek’s attention.
The figure rose from his luxurious chair and turned to face Telerek and the mess he'd made. Telerek met the cold gaze. A merciless silver that edged in dark grey. But malice danced behind them.
“Rings from the upstarts as you demanded,” Telerek said, bowing his head every so slightly, keeping a watchful eye on the slender elf.
“I always enjoyed your work, Telerek,” hissed Varloc. He towered over the dead hands, golden bands on their fingers flickering. “But you've gone and made a mess of my damned table!”
“My apologies, Uncle.” With a hand to his chest, Telerek bowed again. “They were meeting exactly where you said they'd be. The ease of the task had me checking over my shoulder the whole way back.”
Varloc smiled as he pried the rings from the three fingers. He held them close to his face, inspecting them. “Bastards truly thought they could steal from me? Bold. Very bold.” Telerek's uncle scoffed and glided to a nearby cabinet. The doors swung open revealing a large wooden box. Varloc lifted the lid and placed the rings inside, then closed the cabinet.
A soft knock came at the door. Telerek’s hands went to his daggers as he moved silently to the door.
“Master Varloc?” Telerek paused. It was Tess. Master Varloc's help around the manor.
“What is it?” Varloc called back. His voice warmed, tender enough to fool her.
“I heard voices, Master. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes. Go back to sleep, Tess.” Varloc waved flamboyantly as if admired by a crowd room.
“Alright. Get some rest, Master Varloc.” A pitter patter of feet grew quieter as the gnome retreated from the doorway.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Telerek strode back to the center table, waiting for his uncle to continue. His smile slowly died, giving way to a scowl. He rolled his shoulders and shuddered, as if shaking off the ‘pleasantness' like an insect. Telerek had never really gotten used to the two sides of the coin that was his uncle. A man so well loved around Ridgeton, but so damned dangerous behind the scenes. Telerek had encountered many monsters and terrifying beasts in his travels, but his Uncle Varloc was something worse. Better to be a monster's tool than its prey.
Unfurling a large roll of parchment, Varloc splayed a time-worn map of the Tameless Shore on the table. “Ashvale.” His finger jabbed at the paper. “Find the weasel Mennad and bring back what's mine.” Varloc's hard gaze found Telerek. “Do not return without them.”
“Ashvale?” asked Telerek. “Why flee there?”
Varloc snorted. “It's where his wealth is. He came from that backwater logging town and dug his slimy roots into my territory.”
“I’m going to stick out in Ashvale.”
Unkind eyes ate at Telerek, as if searching him for weakness. “I'm sure you'll find a way to manage, Nephew. Unless you're saying your usefulness to me is dwindling…”
“No, I…” Telerek paused, watching the fire dance in his uncle's eyes. “I'll go prepare my things.”
“Good.” A dangerous smirk grew on Varloc's rigid face. He turned and came to a rest before the hearth, peering into the flames. “Nephew… do be safe. And if you happen to get caught, you know what to do.”
Jaw clenching, Telerek’s grip tightened until his nails drew blood. A lingering silence settled as he stared at his regal uncle. The monster holding Telerek's leash. A venerated businessman in a growing settlement. It was supposed to be a better life coming to Ridgeton. Oh the opportunities that would arise for poor orphaned Telerek.
“Of course, Uncle.” Telerek bowed low, hair dangling onto the floor before he turned to leave.
Shadows and death.. That's all I've become…
***
Setting out at sunrise, Telerek made haste for Ashvale. With the urgency of his task made very clear by his uncle, Telerek was left no choice but to travel during the daytime, which cultivated wandering eyes. With his cloak up and wound tight around his face, he did his best to keep the prying eyes away.
From horse-drawn wagons and carts to families and loners trudging a path to and from Ashvale, throngs of people packed the well-traveled roadway. After a few hours and a few too many men taking second glances at Telerek, he broke free of the path and led Whisper up onto a nearby hill path just to get some peace and quiet.
Leaning forward, he patted his mount on the head. “I know, girl. I was getting anxious too.” The horse whinnied and nodded emphatically.
As the sun set on the western horizon, Telerek made camp off the main road. He found an outcropping of rocks which made for a natural barrier, which was lucky since a steady nighttime rainstorm swept through the region. A warm fire and bread and jerky kept Telerek busy for some time before drifting into a trance-like meditation.
As dusk approached the next day, Ashvale finally peeked over the horizon. Telerek urged Whisper onward with a gentle kick. Her silky mane—as dark as midnight—fluttered in the wind against her silver coat. She was the most beautiful and sought after horse in Ridgeton. And she was powerful. Whisper picked up speed, hooves kicking up dirt as she thundered against path toward the settlement.
As he neared Ashvale, masses of people became unavoidable. He navigated Whisper off the main road to the outskirts of town away from the crowded roads. Making a small camp near a copse of brush and thin trees, Telerek tied up Whisper and turned his sights to Ashvale. Several stern-looking city guards were posted up at the southern gate of the surrounding wall. Smatterings of modest homes sat in the fields outside the wooden city walls. People mingled and moved about, constructing more buildings left and right.
“Damn…” He sighed and surveyed the rest of the town from behind a thick tree. Numerous houses were clustered near the north end. Tall buildings rose into the air in the west near the forest's edge. And large barracks dominated the southern edge just inside the walls—a lot of soldiers, too close together.
“Mennad knew what he was doing, that's for sure.” He looked up at Whisper who responded with nothing more than a grunt. “Yes, I agree—”
A flash of red caught Telerek's keen eye. Something moved quickly behind a copse of trees to the west. All of a sudden, he had an uneasy sense of something watching him. Eyes darting back and forth, he searched the tree line for any sign of guards or the like. Nothing. There was nothing.
“Hmm… Probably just an animal then. Huh, Whisper.” Telerek smirked and nervously eyed the tree line once more before standing. “Now, be a good girl and stay put until I return. Okay?” Whisper nodded her head with a another agreeing snort.
Telerek whisked away from the trees, moving swiftly toward Ashvale down the hill. The sun peeked over the top of the Tiuv Forest as it slowly descended toward the rest it deserved.
Removing his over cloak, Telerek’s deep mahogany hair tumbled down over his shoulders, rustling in the wind as he slowed, nearing the town. Stuffing the cloak into his pack, Telerek reached the cobbled road which circled the town's walls. Best to look inconspicuous in a place like Ashvale.
Keen to avoid as many guards as possible, he came to the main road leading through the eastern gate, joining with a horde of people filtering into the town. Guards stood ahead, waving them through, stopping any who look suspicious.
Telerek attached himself to a group of older men armed with bows and geared in deep brown leathers. Perfect. The lads were squawking about their upcoming hunt. Eyeing the guards, Telerek jumped in.
“Say, gentlemen. Have you ever been hunting worgs? I hear they are a challenging quarry.” He flashed a lopsided grin at the men. They looked back at him in surprise at his interjection.
“No… No we haven't.” One man spoke up, eyes lingering on Telerek’s ears.
“Maybe we should, Jon. Could be loads of fun, eh?” said the youngest-looking of the bunch.
After a satisfactory look on the nearest guards face—who’d just admired Telerek’s pristine leather armor—he waved the huntsmen toward the gate.
“Aye!” Telerek said, grinning. “My father said it was the most thrilling hunt he'd been on. Nothing like hunting something that will kill you back, huh?” It surprised him how easily the smile came. But it always did when he needed one.
After making inside the walls, Telerek peeked over his shoulder and found no lingering eyes. He finished up his talk of worgs with the carefree hunters and took his leave, returning to his lonesome self. Wading through the river of people, he passed the many merchant stalls and carts full of goods of which he’d heard so many wonderful things. But he didn't have time for that.
Pushing through the ambling crowd, Telerek spotted a large sign decorated with a large mug foaming with ale hanging from a windowed building. The words ‘Overflow Tavern’ adorned a rectangular sign hanging from the artistic sign above. Telerek hastened his step and reached the door, pushing it open. A sweet tobacco aroma, laughter and the dull roar of a bustling crowd hit him square in the face.
Edging himself around people, he took the long way around to the bar top as to swiftly study everyone in the room. Three squat dwarves huddled in a corner, chugging ale as they played a game of Bone Dice. A large group of humans laughed together at a nearby table as two men arm wrestled. Scoffing, Telerek continued to the bar in the center of the room.
“What can I do for ya?” A human woman—just as tall as Telerek—locked eyes with him when he reached the countertop. A plains accent spilled over her words—farm and field people.
“Long way from Arnweyal, aren't you?” Telerek asked, glancing at the woman's waist, noticing a dagger at each hip.
“Honey, I'm right where I need to be.” She smiled at him and waved to the crowd in the room. “The Overflow is my home now. Now… what can I do for ya?” She repeated her question, raising an eyebrow at Telerek.
“A room for one night is all I need,” he answered, flipping five gold pieces at her.
Hey, Red,” she stammered. “The room's only one gold.”
“I know. You didn't see me.”
“Thanks much, Stranger.” She winked at him and turned to tend to other patrons gathered around the bar.
Telerek made way for the stairs left of the bar near the back. He glanced down a long hall to his left as he moved, noticing a door and making a mental note. He climbed the stairs coming to another long hall. To his surprise, he found another door at the end of this hall that looked to lead outside. That’s useful.
He entered his room halfway down the hallway, and tossed his pack onto the bed. He fished out his cloak and three more daggers, strapping them to his belt. He flung the cloak on and pulled up the hood, bringing his face into shrouded darkness. Just as he preferred. He pulled another piece of cloth over the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible. With his bow string taught and arrows a plenty, Telerek moved swiftly through the hallway and out onto the second-floor balcony beyond the hall door, the tavern’s clamor and smokiness fading behind him. He launched himself over the railing and onto the roof of the neighboring building as the sun sank lower, settling darkness over Ashvale.
The town had quieted. Many people retreating indoors for the night. A cloudless sky above gave way to the moon rising higher in the sky, casting a soft glow over Ashvale. Telerek would've preferred to have a cloudy sky for a task of this importance, but he rarely got what he wanted.
Sprinting atop the buildings, Telerek felt as light as the wind. He was silent, breathing composed, every step calculated. He raced toward the tallest tower near the western edge of town, alone on the rooftops, jumping from one slanted roof to the next. He kept a watchful eye to the south, hoping no guardsman would pop up and see him.
When he hit the next rooftop, his foot broke through a rotted piece of wood. He pulled his foot free with a groan as shouts came from below. In an instant, he was back up and sprinting away from the raucous.
Telerek's cloak snapped in the wind, trailing behind him as he finally reached his destination. He skidded to a halt atop an angled roof adjacent to the towering building. He peered upward, studying the exterior walls, frowning.
Hmm… Not ideal…
The nearest balcony was too far to reach, even if he were to get a running jump. He peered over the edge of the roof and saw a lone guard adjacent to a door leading into the side of the tall building. The alley between the two structures was narrow. Room for two single file lines by the look of it. Telerek sighed and dropped over the edge of the roof. A short drop and the guard crumpled under his weight, bones cracking. Telerek sank his dagger into the man’s neck. A gurgle let Telerek know death had taken him. Telerek pulled his bloody blade from the man’s throat, wiping it clean on his tunic.
Staying crouched, Telerek and glanced around. No one else in sight, no footsteps. Good. Quickly, Telerek grabbed the key from the ring at the dead man’s waist and unlocked the alley door. Inside the building, Telerek found warmth and smells of delectable food. His mouth watered at the succulent aroma attacking his senses. Oh how nice it must be to enjoy a fine supper without a care in the world. Instead, Telerek was hunting. Hunting to take a man’s life for crossing the wrong person. How cruel life is.
He took in the room. A large open space with two rows of tables, almost as if it were a banquet hall. An empty banquet hall—too wide, too open. Voices came from the back serving room followed by a clattering of pots. Telerek’s eyes darted left. Doors. Then right. Stairs.
Laughter echoed into the room as a few servants appeared from the doorway. Telerek was already at the base of the stairs and bounding his way up before they could see him.
Reaching the last step before the landing, he peeked up and found a hallway on his left and right. A guard walked toward the stairs from the right, covering his mouth as he yawned like a great beast fresh from hibernation.
In one quick motion, Telerek drew his bow, nocked an arrow and loosed an arrow at the sleepy man. He crumpled to the floor, arrow in his eye. Telerek listened intently, trying to catch any sound of alarm. No other guards in sight.
One per floor? He thought to himself, eyes filtering through the hallway.
Many doors lined the inner wall. Another set of stairs waited at the end of the hall behind the dead guard. Telerek stood, dashed toward them and ascended rapidly. He needed to move quickly. It wouldn't be long before someone found his handiwork in the hallway.
He soon realized the staircase he was on went all the way to the top floor. It made his job a whole hells of a lot easier. No guards monitored the steps. Too easy… I don't like it.
Telerek slowed his ascent the higher he got, fearing traps or hidden guards. Luckily, he encountered neither on his way to the top floor. A closed double-door greeted him atop the tall staircase. No lock. No guards.
Telerek pushed the door open, poking his head in. A large chair and sofa sat beside a hearth, a warm fire crackling within. A large oaken door sat in the wall beside the hearth, slightly ajar. He crept into the quiet room and found three tall glassless windows to his right, shutters open, overlooking the town. Suddenly, a chill seeped into the air. The firelight dimmed subtly.
“I'd wondered when I'd be seeing you.”
Telerek stopped. Another wave of iciness trickled up his spine. A figure stood in the doorway next to the hearth, hands clasped behind their back.
“Mennad,” Telerek growled. The confidence had left him. Mennad had known he was coming. Shit…
“Telerek. My dear boy. You think me the unprepared sort? That hurts. It truly does.” Mennad moved cautiously into the room, resting his hands on the chair back, his golden ring glinting in the orange fire light.
“I had to try, didn’t I?” Telerek said, hand drifting toward his quiver.
“You really are his hound. ‘Tis a shame. Why do his bidding?”
“He pays well.”
“I can pay more.”
“Huh,” Telerek grunted. “I'm not a mercenary, Mennad. Besides… he is blood, after all.”
Mennad chuckled. His green eyes full of anticipation. “I did like you, you know. I can't fault you for following orders and not biting the hand that feeds. But it is a shame.”
Telerek heard footsteps behind him. Heavy boots upon wooden steps. His hand snapped to his quiver. Snatching an arrow, he drew his bow and leveled the projectile at Mennad's face. But something was wrong. Telerek was frozen. Numb. He tried to turn his head, but it was stuck firm. His eyes flitted around the room. It was all he could move. Even his lungs seemed to have failed him.
Mennad laughed, clapping his hands triumphantly. “Well done, well done!”
A thin figure clad in a crimson cloak emerged from the door behind Mennad. Long silver hair and a face as ageless as anything Telerek had ever seen. An elf woman stared back at him. Her eyes were calm. One hand was twisted into a claw-like grip, wisps of blue pulsed between her fingertips.
The footsteps behind grew louder and louder. Shouts filled the room. Something heavy struck Telerek in the back of the head. Blackness clouded his vision as Mennad's sadistic laughter drowned away to nothing.
***
Muffled voices. Throbbing head. Pain enough to make him retch.
Telerek slowly opened his eyes, blinking away the fuzziness as best he could. Squeaking rats somewhere in the dark. A mustiness drifted into his nostrils. A damp, moldy table sat in front of him. A lone candle flickering in the center. Water dripped steadily, enough to drive a man mad. He realized he was tied to a dilapidated chair. Hands and feet shackled.
A wooden door with iron bars on the window screeched open and in walked three figures. Two robed in all black, faces shrouded in mystery, and the third was Mennad. Telerek's vision cleared just enough to catch a devious smirk on the bastard's face.
“I'm glad you are awake, my boy.” A screeching stung at Telerek's ears as Mennad pulled up a chair opposite him, casually taking a seat. He rested his elbows on the rotting table and steepled his fingers.
Telerek lifted his head and winced. An aching pain reverberated from the back of his head. He groaned and frowned at the man before him. “Why am I still alive?”
“Excellent question!” Mennad chuckled. “Killing you immediately would have been the simplest thing too do, no doubt. However…” He paused, rubbing his stubbled chin. “I think I have a much better idea.” He stood and snapped his fingers.
The two hooded figures closed in, unshackled his right hand and slammed it onto the tabletop. Telerek grunted, gritting his teeth, trying to wrench his arm free. No use.
“Varloc is a thorn in my side. He's a pompous, arrogant imbecile who thinks he can just eliminate anyone who doesn't think like him. Bah!”
Telerek tried to smile but the monsters holding his arm squeezed tighter, eliciting nothing more than a toothy grimace. “I… have no love for… my uncle.”
“Yet you spy for him.” Mennad leaned over the table, leveling his gaze with Telerek. “How many have you killed for him?”
Confusion and sympathy dominated Mennad's face. His eyes searching for a reason why Telerek would die for a churl like Varloc. He'd questioned it once before. When he'd returned to his uncle's manor after his first kill task. He'd taken the life of a man who'd been skimming gold from one of Varloc's ventures. Telerek couldn't even remember which one. It was so long ago now. How many had he killed in defense of his deplorable uncle? Maybe he should flip. Maybe working for Mennad would be better.
“Join me,” Mennad’s voice softened. “I can give you the life you want.”
Telerek searched Mennad’s face—and found the same smile, the same look in his eyes. He’d seen this ruse before… staring back at him from across Varloc’s table.
No… They're all the same. Telerek held the man's gaze. I'll welcome death…
After a minute of awkward silence, Mennad stepped away, shaking his head and clicking his tongue. “I'm disappointed, Telerek. We could have done great things together.” He nodded at the two goons.
One kept firm grasp of Telerek's right hand while the other moved behind him. A clanking of metal sounded followed by several scrapes.
“Ah, yes. Please do make sure the blade is good and sharp,” Mennad said, watching the man behind Telerek. “We do like to practice clean cuts after all. Oh, do grab the pincers, Olen. I had a thought.”
The one called Olen reappeared in front of Telerek, brandishing a hatchet and rusted pincers.
“If you would be so kind, Olen.” Mennad gently touched the metal pincers. “Start with his hands… Slowly…”
The thing holding the pincers gave a sort of half grunt half snort. He gripped Telerek’s thumb and not-so-gently pinched his fingernail. At first, it was a slow, cautious pull. Telerek could feel the pressure under his skin. The nail ripped away. Tearing at the skin beneath. Throbbing and blood followed. Telerek grunted, sucking in air as he wrestled with the pain.
Through misty eyes, Telerek heard something click against the table. His nail lay there, staring up at him. He bared his teeth and looked up at Olen. Telerek wasn't even sure if there was an actual person hidden in the darkness. Whatever it was didn't give any reprieve from pain. The brute nonchalantly moved the pincers toward the next finger. Everything became a blur—metal clanks, pain, laughter.
Telerek hadn’t known when they stopped. Only that his hand throbbed with an unspeakable pain. Heaving wildly, Telerek stared through fuzzy eyes at bloodied fingernails scattered atop the table.
“Rethinking your decision?” Mennad’s voice drifted in the musty air, fuzzy through Telerek's pain. “Last chance. Refuse me now and Olen will not stop until you’re packed into a crate.”
“My uncle won't be happy about this. Not one bit.” Telerek spat a bloody mass on the ground and gave a slobbery grin, eyes still blurry with tears. He looked down at his hand. Bleeding and cracked beds of skin where his fingernails once held strong. For some reason, he began to snicker. Something about his fingers without their nails looked funny.
Olen cocked his head to the side. Telerek was sure the man was puzzled. Most Telerek’s his situation wouldn’t be laughing after losing an entire hand’s worth of fingernails.
The hooded man looked back at Mennad, who nodded. The torturer turned back to Telerek and picked up the hatchet. Painfully, the other hooded thing spread Telerek’s fingers out as Olen leveled the blade on his thumb’s first digit. The crude hatchet rose above Olen’s head then came down quickly. A piece of Telerek’s thumb flipped through the air to the ground below.
Telerek gaped at his hand. A searing pain ripped through his hand up his arm. He let out a howl that gave way to hacking and coughing. His vision went white, agony pulsing through his finger as blood spurted from the severed tip. The rest came in flashes. Hatchet rising then falling. Over and over.
His cries echoed throughout the dungeon-like room, bouncing off the stone walls with each hack of the torturer’s blade. Soon the floor was littered with pieces of Telerek’s fingers. Tears and slobber dripped from his face as he struggled to breath steadily, staring at his mutilated hand. He broke… Not from pain, but from knowing what he’d lost.
Just when he thought his right hand had seen enough, the hatched fell once more, sticking into the back of Telerek’s hand. Grunting, the brute jerked the hatchet free and hacked again. This time, the blade stuck into the wood, a portion of Telerek’s hand on either side. Olen yanked it free and picked up the severed piece. He held it close to his face before tossing it over his shoulder like a bad piece of meat.
“Oh dear, dear,” Mennad said. He was barely visible, hiding in the corner, but Telerek thought the man was covering his mouth trying not to be sick. “Looks as if you are well on your way to fitting inside the chest over there.”
Telerek glanced to his left and saw a darkened chest sitting against the wall. A nasty black rat peered at him from beside it.
Another chop of the hatchet. Another agonizing howl. Telerek threw his head back and stared at the ceiling, tears leaking from his stinging eyes. He’d never felt this amount of pain before. It surged through his arm, seeping into the rest of his body. He was tired. Consciousness was slowly seeping out of him.
Loud squeaks and hissing came from the rat by the chest. Telerek slowly turned his head, his world was spinning, until he found the gross creature standing on hind legs. Then it began growing. Telerek tried to blink away the tears, but all he could see was a blurry rat morphing and twisting. A long tail snaked from the creature’s hind quarters, claws growing larger until the size of daggers. The body surged outward, evolving into a black furry mass. Two green eyes now glared out from the once rat-like head. Telerek slowly smiled, lips trembling.
A flash of black and Olen was gone. Screams broke out as Mennad stuck himself tight to the wall, recoiling. Blood droplets flew into the air from the other side of the table, hitting Telerek in the face. Blinking, he saw a mangled arm grab the table then ripped away by something big.
The other torturer let go of Telerek and ran toward the door, but the black mass wouldn’t let him escape. Growls and hisses pierced Telerek’s ears. More yelps of pain. He slumped over the table and tried to focus on the struggle before him. All he could see was blood pooling beneath a cloaked figure. A creature stood over the body, bright emerald eyes fixed on Telerek. It almost seemed to smile at him before setting its sights on the lone remaining man in the corner.
Mennad was frozen with fear. Eyes wide, face pale. Arms splayed out to his sides against the wall, as if not moving a muscle would fool the beast. The black feline creature cautiously stalked toward him. The muscles in its back and legs rippling and flexing with each deliberate movement.
“Pl—please…” Mennad said, voice trembling. He began inching toward the lone door. “Please. Let me… let me leave.”
A low guttural growl from deep within the beasts body cooed at the man. It was an oddly soothing sound to Telerek, ease spilled into him. The sight of the beast was a welcome one.
Pointing at Telerek, Mennad pleaded with the black beast. “Kill him! I mean you no harm!” He was still scooting toward the door. “You can have him! Just spare me!”
Another growl. The feline reared back and leaped at Mennad. He screamed and turned to run but the beast collided into him, sprawling him face first into the doorway. Mennad’s cries echoed off into the distance of the hallway. Calling to whomever may still be awake at this hour. Telerek continued to smile as Mennad was ripped apart. Blood splattered the walls as pieces of him flew in every direction.
Mennad’s howls came to a stop. The low rumble of growling continued. Slowly, the feline beast turned and leered at Telerek. And then it began to change. Shrinking as it rose up on its haunches, its body forming a torso. Its angry feline head became that of an elven woman with silver hair, her powerful green eyes remained. Her transformation continued as she walked over to him. A leather jerkin and trousers formed over her olive-green skin and a dark green cloak draped over her shoulders down to the floor.
“Hello Cousin,” she said, finally breaking the silence. She looked around the room at the mess she’d made, rubbing her chin. “Good thing Uncle sent me to find you…”
“Val? Why would Uncle send you?” Telerek wheezed, looking up at her, brows furrowed. “It’s only… been a few hours.” Everything hurt. His hand. His arm. Even breathing hurt. His head swam with blinding pain.
“Oh, Telly. It’s been four days,” Val said. She moved to his chair and began untying him. “When you did not return in a timely manner, and with no raven sent, Uncle became worried and sent me after you.”
“Huh,” huffed Telerek. “Glad to see he does still care for me…”
She finished untying him and helped him up to his feet. Telerek looked at his missing hand. Blood still oozing from the stump. He held his wrist, squeezing to try and staunch the wound.
“Can you help me with this?” He raised his bleeding wrist up in front of her.
In the blink of an eye, Valeriek produced a deep red flame in the palm of her hand and grabbed Telerek’s wound. He cried out one final time as Val cauterized the wound. Flesh sizzled. The smell was near unbearable, curling Telerek’s nose when it struck him. After a few moments, the wound was sealed and he was able to relax the hand, though the pain was still immense. Gritting his teeth, Telerek moved to the mutilated corpse of Mennad and found a severed finger bearing one golden ring. Telerek grabbed the finger and pocketed the ring. A small bag was tied to the dead man’s corded belt. Cutting the bag free, Telerek pulled it open and found his uncle’s jewels. There were definitely some missing, but most of them were accounted for.
Uncle won’t be happy about that…
He turned to Val who was beaming at him with a toothy grin. “We must leave. The task is done.”
“Let me help you, Cousin,” Val said, racing over to him. She grabbed him under the right arm and guided him through the dank and musty cellar.
“Say, Val,” he asked. “Do you know of anyone who can repair this hand of mine?”
“Repair? I’d say more like make you a new one, yeah?” She giggled at that. “But no. I don’t. And such magic is beyond my skills.”
“Ah. Mine as well. Maybe Uncle will know someone… Or he’ll just kill me at the sight of my worthless arm.”
“He wouldn’t kill you!” She laughed again. “Silly Telly. Uncle Varloc loves you!”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Val.”
Telerek wasn’t sure how Varloc would react to him losing a hand. He had to hope killing Mennad and recovering the ring and jewels was enough for him to reward Telerek with a new hand. No. That’s too risky. Better to solve this problem myself. He need never know.
“On second thought,” Telerek said. “Let’s go on a quest of our own, Val. Let’s go find me a new hand.”
End of Memory