Here we go, first installment.
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Part I
Deep beneath the earth, secluded in the myriad and labyrinthine passages of Erelhei Cinlu, an assassin remembered.
Grummok sat behind his huge black desk toying idly with a medallion of burnished silver. The gargoyles gaze shifted around the small and secluded space of his personal office, noting the things that filled it. Objects that lent comfort and familiarity hung from the walls and littered the many bookshelves. Weapons and other tools of the trade were evident, but a softer, more cultured touch existed along side these instruments of pain. There were carefully selected works of art, hundreds of books from Grummok’s own collection, and a few pieces of tasteful furniture for the rare guest allowed into the assassin’s inner sanctum. The room was unlit; befitting the lightless haunts of Erelhei-Cinlu, the cavernous drow city in which Grummok plied his trade.
It had been twenty years since Grummok’s bloody ascension to guild master, but the gargoyle had changed little in outward appearance in those two decades. Short for his kind, Grummok stood a shade less than six feet in height, with a good eight inches of this stature owing to the curling horns that jutted from his brow. His face was all teeth and horns, leering and bestial, but behind Grummok’s luminous red eyes there lurked a keen mind, unmatched by most of his drow contemporaries. A great pair of bat-like wings, which were currently folded neatly behind his back, completed Grummok’s rather demonic appearance.
Grummok had learned much of culture and civility since his fledgling days hunting the Ghetto of the Dead, and had taken to wearing fine, but simple clothing, instead of nothing but his battle harness. Today, he wore a simple black tunic, cinched at the waist with a wide, mithral-studded belt. The gargoyle’s own personal insignia was sewn in platinum thread just above his right breast: two crossed daggers, one aflame, the other dark and jagged. The gargoyle was unarmed save for a single dagger at his belt, but it was widely known that even lightly armed, the master assassin was far from helpless.
The days were often hectic for the guild master, for his lofty position was demanding in the extreme. Each day brought a host of requisitions to his desk to which he assigned the appropriate assassin for the job. In addition, the more important nobles in the city would often visit him to request his personal attention on a wide variety of shadowy endeavors. Grummok managed to steer the majority of these esteemed guests to a capable underling, but some nobles, such as the matron mothers of the various ruling houses, simply could not be denied.
Today was yet another busy day, and although Grummok knew that there was much that needed his attention, he had not stirred from his office. Instead, he sat and pondered a flat disc of polished silver as it spun and flipped through his supernaturally deft fingers. Grummok’s mind had been captured by the past and moreover by the stylized fly head that adorned the poor-quality silver amulet. Thoughts that had had lain dormant for over two decades had suddenly come screaming to the surface, and they weighed heavily on the assassin’s mind. Memories of a time that still pained him greatly; memories that Grummok’s own unwitting hand had brought to light.
Today a team of slaves had carried the huge black desk and its accompanying chair from his home to the assassin’s guildhall. The desk and chair had been collecting dust in an unused portion of Grummok’s manse, and had belonged to the former owner, a sorcerer slain nearly twenty years earlier. Grummok, who often entertained influential members of Erelhei-Cinlu’s elite society, had thought the desk would make a bold impression of wealth and importance that his noble guests could appreciate. So a pair of ogre thralls had made the arduous journey from his manse to the guildhall, the mammoth desk strapped to their backs. After they had positioned the desk to Grummok’s liking, he had dismissed the slaves and set about cleaning the dust and grime that had accumulated from decades of disuse.
In the midst of his cleaning, the gargoyle had inadvertently thumbed the catch of a small hidden compartment, concealed neatly in the desk’s polished surface. He had simply forgotten about this secret hidey-hole and what it contained: an unimpressive amulet of tarnished silver. The amulet had once been worn by someone close to Grummok; in fact it had been owned by the only living creature the assassin had ever been bold enough to call friend. The relationship had ended as most do for those involved in the Grummok’s trade, with death and misery. The pain of this loss came flooding back in a torrent, and a single word had escaped Grummok’s lips as he lifted the amulet from the dust of its tiny tomb: Hek.
Hekendale Oakheart, had been a human slave that had eventually become Grummok’s apprentice, and the only person he had ever trusted beyond himself. Hek had fallen under the sway of a secretive cult that worshiped the arch devil Beelzebub, and had been slain by Grummok’s own hand for his forbidden allegiance. Such was the way of Erelhei-Cinlu; those that angered the matron mothers soon found their lives dwindling on the point of an assassin’s blade.
These aching memories had captured Grummok completely, and he had cancelled his few appointments for the day, all with relatively unimportant minor nobles, and sought the seclusion of his office to reflect. So here he sat, as he had for the past three hours, the silver amulet dancing along his fingers as he indulged in memory shrouded in both pain and pleasure. The lightless confines of his office closed in around him like a comforting cloak, and Grummok thought of his friend for the first time in years. But such personal time is scant and ill favored for those of Grummok’s rank, and soon the weight of his responsibilities came crashing down.
In the years he had been guild master twenty-seven attempts had been made upon his life, all of them by members of his own guild. Each had ended in failure, and the death of the would-be assassin of assassin’s; but these failed attempts all served as a reminder that his prestige and power was as tenuous as a lucky dagger thrust. It had been nearly a year since the last attempt, and Grummok was long overdue for another chance to prove his right to rule.
Grummok did not hear his assailant enter his office, and he still did not hear the assassin as he maneuvered in for the kill. He was good; the gargoyle had to admit, but had made a very simple mistake. The assassin had chosen to use an invisibility spell to conceal himself rather than rely upon mundane methods to remain unseen, and this was his undoing. To the untrained eye an invisibility spell was a perfect means of remaining hidden, but to one of Grummok’s experience it was completely useless. A faint shimmering was visible around the assassin’s body as the magic of his invisibility spell bent the light away from him. The shimmering was very faint, but to Grummok it was as obvious as a lantern in the dark.
Grummok watched the assassin thread his way around the pair of high backed chairs before the guildmaster’s desk, noting the height of the figure and guessing him to be drow. He allowed the assassin to draw within ten feet, never moving, never giving any hint that he had detected the intruder’s presence. The barely audible click of a crossbow bolt settling into the firing groove prompted Grummok to action. In one blurred motion the gargoyle snatched the dagger from his belt and hurled it, almost casually, at the approaching shape. A shriek of agony told Grummok that his dagger had found its mark. Before the solid thump of a body collapsing to the floor even reached his ears, the guildmaster had nimbly vaulted over his desk to inspect his victim.
“Heruush!” Grummok cried, as his taloned feet landed on the opposite side of his desk. The simple arcane word released a light spell, and the room was bathed in a fiery yellow luminance. The light elicited another shriek from the would-be assassin, as Grummok knew it would. Drow unlike gargoyles had an aversion to bright light, and Grummok often used this simple fact to his advantage.
The assassin’s invisibility spell had faded, leaving Grummok the spectacle of a young drow noble writhing at his feet. The gargoyle bent over his foe, mouth agape to end the fool’s struggles, when a flash of recognition turned his blood to ice, and closed his mouth with an audible click. The drow had pulled his body into a fetal position, cradled around the protruding dagger in his gut. Blood was slowly leaking from the wound, and a low whimpering arose from the stricken assassin. Grummok had caught a look at the drow’s face in his agony-wracked contortions, confirming a terrible suspicion, and he stepped away, fanged mouth twisted in a snarl of frustration.
“Oh, you little fool!” Grummok spat. “Three weeks! Three weeks and you make an attempt on the guildmaster? You are truly an idiot, Vedreshar.” Grummok’s frustration was well deserved, for the young drow bleeding his life away on the floor of his office was none other than Vedreshar Tormtor, favored grandson of Kezekia Tormtor, the ruling matron mother of Erelhei-Cinlu.
The young noble had arrived at the guildhall less than a month ago, with instruction from Kezekia herself regarding his tutelage. Grummok had known the desperately handsome Vedreshar would be nothing but trouble the moment he laid eyes on him. In his first week alone he had killed two of his fellow apprentices, both while asleep in their bunks. He had slit the throat of each, simply for the pleasure it gave him, and to test the limits of Grummok’s authority. Such killings were not uncommon among the lower ranks of assassins, and the attrition rate for yearlings was nearly fifty percent. So, Grummok had said nothing to Vedreshar regarding the slayings, refusing to acknowledge the young noble by name or deed
In truth, Vedreshar did have a gift for assassination, and Grummok had hoped to cool the fire in the young noble’s blood, and mold him into something useful. So far, all attempts to do so had failed. Vedreshar was uninterested in anything Grummok, or anyone for that matter, had to teach him, and wantonly slew any other pupil who so much as glanced at him. When the impetuous apprentice made an attempt on the life of one of Grummok’s senior instructors, the guildmaster had had enough. Vedreshar was thrown into the deepest, darkest cell Grummok could find, and left there to rot until he could figure out what to do with the murderous young drow.
Despite that fact that Vedreshar had just attempted to kill him, the young noble’s ingenuity impressed Grummok. He had both found his way out of his cell, and gained access to the guildmaster’s inner sanctum. Vedreshar had done all this without raising the alarm, and had managed to get within a dagger’s throw of Grummok himself.
Grummok stared down at Vedreshar, noting the spreading puddle of crimson pooling beneath the young drow. Unfortunately, he could not let Vedreshar die, and be rid of the troublesome young drow for good. Kezekia Tormtor would be less than pleased at the untimely death of her favorite grandson, regardless of who had dealt the fatal blow, or for what reason. With a heavy sigh, Grummok stooped and picked up Vadreshar’s crossbow, which he had dropped after the surprise impact of Grummok’s dagger with his gut. The gargoyle noted the sticky sheen of poison coating the gleaming head of the loaded bolt, and placed the fearsome weapon on his desk. He then moved to one of the many bookshelves that lined the walls of his office, ignoring the faint moans of pain from Vedreshar. He removed a large leather bound volume from the topmost shelf, and placed a probing hand into the dark space left by the vacant tome. Grummok found what he was looking for immediately, and withdrew a small glass vial with a cork stopper.
Grummok’s back was to Vedreshar as he replaced the leather bound book in its rightful spot, and incredibly he heard the soft scuffling of the drow noble getting to his feet. The guildmaster turned, bemused at the sight of Vedreshar, now gripping the dagger that had only seconds before been buried in his gut, shambling forward in a vain attempt to complete his assassination. Grummok let him come, marveling at how even the dark skin of a drow could become pasty and drawn with bloodloss.
Vedreshar made a clumsy overhand lunge with Grummok’s dagger as he closed the distance between himself and the guild master. The guildmaster simply sidestepped the half-hearted strike, and raked the talons of his left hand across the drow nobles face as he stumbled by. Vedreshar shrieked in pain and outrage as the gargoyles needle-like talons dug furrows into his handsome features, and spun to make another attack.
Grummok knew that the longer Vedreshar was on his feet, the less likely the healing potion he held would be of any use. He needed to put the drow noble down. Now.
Vedreshar came at Grummok again, slashing with the dagger and snarling in psychotic rage. Grummok nimbly avoided the first few strikes, giving ground to the advancing drow, waiting for the perfect opening. Vedreshar was weak from lack of blood and half blinded from the bright illumination, making it painfully easy for Grummok to step inside his defenses, catch the wrist that held the drow’s weapon, and drive his knee like a piston into Vedreshar’s crotch. The effect was everything Grummok had hoped for, Vedreshar’s sucked in a great gulp of air, and his eyes flew wide with the pain that only a male can know intimately. Helpless as a babe, the young drow slid bonelessly to the ground in a shuddering heap.
“Vedreshar, if you keep up this foolishness, I will have to kill you, regardless of your grandmother,” Grummok scolded; as he bent down to pluck his dagger from Vedreshar’s nerveless fingers. “Now roll over and open your mouth.”
Vedreshar was incompliant, he had lapsed into unconsciousness from shock and loss of blood, forcing Grummok to roll him over and pour his potion down the drow’s throat. The drow noble spluttered as the thick golden liquid splashed into his open mouth, but managed to gulp down most of the healing concoction. The effect was instantaneous; as the powerful curative worked its way through the young drow’s body, mending his flesh and erasing all trace of the recent trauma he had suffered.
Grummok stepped back, and motioned for Vedreshar to get to his feet. The young drow stood, rage and suspicion creasing his noble features. “You are fool not to kill me, gargoyle,” he hissed, still defiant even after his total defeat.
“Spare me your insolence boy, I could have killed you ten times over in the time it took you to utter that garbage.” It was truth, and Vedreshar knew it. “Now, you are going to listen to me, and you are going to listen well.” Grummok motioned to one of the chairs in front of his desk, as he moved to sit behind the great onyx workstation.
Vedreshar sat, but the defiant sneer never faded from his lips, or the suspicion from his eyes.
“You are a talented assassin, Vedreshar,” Grummok began, taking pleasure in the surprise that registered on Vadreshar’s face at the compliment. “But you will wind up nothing but a corpse if you do not cease these ridiculous rampages. I have tolerated your indiscretions mainly out of the respect I hold for your grandmother, but no longer. The idiocy you have shown here today is more than enough to warrant your execution.” A lie; Grummok knew those of Vedreshar’s lineage were well above any law. “I will allow you to live and resume your studies, but I warn you, one more mishap and I will remove that pretty face of yours along with your balls, and sell you as a eunuch.”
Vadreshar’s jaw fell open at the blatant threat, but he wisely held his tongue.
“Do I have your vow on this, or do I need to start sharpening my flensing knives?”
Vedreshar stared hard at Grummok, and the gargoyle waited for the unpredictable young drow to either spring across the desk in a rage or simple leave in a sulk.
“I will do as you ask, guildmaster, but on one condition.” Vadreshar’s voice was as cultured and smooth as his actions were savage and unpredictable.
“Very well, name your condition,” Grummok said with an exasperated wave of his hand.
“I want to be your apprentice. That is my condition, either accept or kill me now.” Vedreshar’s face was a mask of stubbornness, leaving little doubt that he would not budge from his ludicrous request.
Grummok was taken aback, he had not had an apprentice since Hek, and in the twenty years since Hek’s death, he had no desire to take one. But there was something of Hek’s fire and determination in this young drow, a willingness to better oneself no matter what the cost. In truth, it was the best way for Grummok to keep an eye on the rogue drow, and possibly reshape him into a valued member of the guild. Grummok betrayed none of the roiling emotion that had arise from Vadreshar’s offer as he answered. “Very well, that is an interesting proposal. Meet me in the weapon sparring room tomorrow, and we shall further discuss your continued tutelage.”
A very uncharacteristic smile arose on Vadreshar’s finely chiseled face – a face Grummok was glad to see his talons had not scarred – and he seemed almost child like in his glee. “Yes, guildmaster, I will be there. I will not disappoint you.”
“Good, now take your crossbow and get the hell out of my office.”
Vedreshar responded to Grummok’s order with an almost obsequious alacrity, soon leaving the guild master to reflect on his decision. Grummok sat silent for a few moments before picking up Hek’s amulet, smiling in spite of himself as he remembered the human’s stolid determination and unyielding resilience to adversity. He wondered if his new apprentice had any inkling of the boon he was granting. Many had sought to learn directly from the guild master, but Grummok had turned them all away, directing them to more willing underlings.
With a sigh, Grummok replaced Hek’s amulet in the secret niche in his desk. He then closed his eyes and let himself again indulge in ancient memories.
