Chapter 38 - Stranger in the Night

It was a long road back to Halruaa.

The destruction of the Crinti’s supply run had sent the country into a frenzy of amplified security. The roads were all but impossible to travel, with the excessive number of guards and patrols that stalked the countryside. They’d taken to traveling by night, under the glow of the moon and stars.

While the country was hot and muggy during the day, at night a cool chill had settled upon the humans as they trudged through long stretches of field and grasslands. Every so often, they would pass by the odd herd of wild horses, who lifted their heads to examine them only for a moment before they bounded into the grasses, swallowed by the countryside.

Marcello had the little girl in his arms, while Aven rode with the boy sleeping in front of him, curled into a ball against Jorak’s neck. They’d finally exhausted themselves into silence. Two young children, torn away from their people after a horrific accident… it had been a long few days of crying and tantrums.

Marcello heaved a breath. “I’m going to be glad to finally return home,” he murmured and Lucian, riding Soleil close by, nodded.

“I’m inclined to agree.” He paused. “And when we return home… you intend to make good on your promise?”

“Who do you think I am?” Marcello snorted with a smile that did not touch his eyes. “You know I don’t make idle promises. If I told you I was going to help you retake Aeliorn, then consider it done.”

“I’m nervous.”

“I know. There’s a long stretch before you can come even close to your uncle. I know Aven would like nothing more than to break down his doors and cut his axe into him, but… I believe this game will be far more elaborate than he could ever know.”

“And… what about you?”

Marcello looked up. The night sky was as expansive as fields that swayed in the wind. “…I’ll thrive. As I always do.”

Lucian frowned. Somehow… that didn’t sound genuine. Marcello looked the furthest from ‘thriving’ he’d ever been. Dark shadows clung underneath his eyes. His features were sunken, and tired. No longer with the energy to cast a glamour upon himself to hide his flaws, his weariness.

“I think I see something.” Aven cut off Lucian’s train of thought and pointed into the darkness. “Is that… a town?”

It was. A spot in the distance against a sea of emptiness, set against the mountains that loomed behind them. Lucian squinted. “…I don’t see a road leading to it. It could be abandoned.”

“No,” Marcello murmured. “There’s candles. Perhaps they have a tavern for us to stay at. Be careful. We’re still in the territory of the Crinti, and they’ll be looking for us.”

They’d seen much of Dambrath’s architecture in their journey. Sprawling ranches and self sufficient communities with numerous open barns and thousands of acres where horses run.

This village was not in the same style of the other Dambrathan buildings.

It was small and miserable, with low built homes that seemed older than the other surrounding communities, built like wooden pyramids suspended above the ground and topped with locks of woven hay. The few men that still roamed the village in the night were covered in soot and dirt, golden ores flowing through their fingertips where they were stacked in crates marked with the symbol of the Crinti Matriarchy.

Too tired to be suspicious. Their eyes were kept down as they worked, even into the night. “What is this place…?” Aven murmured and Marcello hesitated.

“…it must be one of their settlements, from before the Crinti won the Dambrathan civil war. I suppose the Crinti finally caught up with them…servants to the bastards.”

“That must be a tavern.” Lucian pointed. The largest building dominated the middle of the town, a small rickety sign swaying in the wind.

Marcello wrinkled his nose. “Brilliant. Everything here is disgusting."

"When you live enslaved to others, you don’t have the luxury of fine establishments,” Lucian’s eyes followed a man limping down the streets, the back of his shirt torn with the distinct lines of whips lashed down his spine. His face went white, and avoided Aven’s gaze as they approached the tavern.

A fire dominated the expanse of the den, several Arkaiuns crowded about, hands out for warmth and eyes tired and sad. Lucian approached the innkeeper. “Two rooms, and one piece of ass for my friend, here."

Marcello gawked. "No. Ignore him. Just the two rooms."

"Your finest woman, in particular. If she’s interested, of course."

"Lucian."

"No. I’m tired of you brooding. I know you’re hurting, but you’re making me god damn depressed and I have enough to worry about than you losing your mind to grief.” He poked his friend in the ribs. “Tonight, I’m going to fuck my lover. I expect you to do the same.”

Aven gawked in the background.

Marcello looked two seconds from losing his composure. With a deep breath, he swept back his black hair. "Just direct us to our rooms, then."

The inn-keeper shrugged his shoulder, utterly disinterested in the drama as he directed the men to their rooms. Opposite one another, Aven and Lucian waved goodbye to Marcello and the Netyarch cursed them under his breath, sweeping inside his room. It was a dingy little place, with a moth eaten bed and a fireplace filled with wet, cold wood only just recently plucked up from the damp ground.

Marcello stared at the disgusting display and clicked his teeth. "Absolutely not,” he muttered, snapping his fingers. The bed all but rearranged itself on the spot. The wood bent and broke itself into a sweeping bed frame while the fabric ripped itself into pieces and shook the dust from themselves before mending themselves back into place. The dry logs burst into flames and pieces of glass from a broken bottle swirled into the air before mending back into shape.

It wasn’t perfect. But it would have to do.

Every muscle in his body ached. Without pause, he flopped forward onto the bed and buried his face into the musty blankets, a ragged breath breaking from his chest.

He just wanted to go home.

…no. At home, the Council was surely waiting to pick him to pieces. How dare he let the Crinti attack him on Palace Grounds. How dare he waste resources on a disgraced Prince of Aeliorn. How dare he leave his people to go on some adventure.

How dare he come home without the Princess of Halruaa.

Marcello’s fingers twisted miserably into the bedspread. No. Not even home could offer him comfort, anymore.

“Doing a little bit of light remodeling?”

Marcello peeled his head up from the bed and all but shot to his feet.

A young woman sat in a chair in the corner. He hadn’t even seen her enter. She was… stunning. Clearly of Arkaiun heritage, dusky skin glittered in the candle light and piercing gold eyes watched him from the darkness. A cloak covered her slim frame, and the rest of her was half-way hidden under translucent silks, one leg folded promiscuously over the other.

“…consider it a favor to the proprietor,” Marcello said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “This place was an appalling display of lodging.” Damn Lucian. His gaze swept the woman slowly and he eased to lean upon an arm that propped behind him. “You’ll have to forgive me, my friend doesn’t quite know when to take no for an answer.”

A white smile glittered in the dim lighting as the woman leaned forward with interest. Her legs uncrossed and she drew onto her feet, carefully picking her way over to the bed. “I do get paid regardless of intent,” she purred. A hand drew down Marcello’s shoulder as she neared and lowered to the mattress aside him.

It’d have been a lie to deny his interest. To be homesick and have no home left to return to, to feel exhausted and ill with grief and paranoia. Lucian knew distractions well. Marcello exhaled and with a hand out, the glass cup he’d fixed floated into his grasp, an unseen stream of wine sloshing down to fill it. “I could not imagine getting paid to entertain piggish men and the occasional forlorn traveler.” He held the glass outward. “What is your name?”

“Zaadia.” The woman took the glass, letting the wash of red disappear between her lips, coating them pink with a stain. “And I have standards, at the very least. I smell nobility when it drifts on by.” She slips closer, tipping the glass until it rests back against Marcello’s lips. “You look like you need this more, my lord.”

Marcello’s eyes shone with a knowing glimmer and he polished a few gulps of the wine before setting it aside the bedside table. “That’s certainly true. You are very perceptive, Zaadia. You may just call me… Marlowe.”

Her laugh chimed like soft bells, her hand drifting to span down his abdomen before sweeping to push at his chest. “Well Marlowe, tell me how it is lords treat beautiful girls where you come from. Perhaps it may make you feel a little better.”

Marcello allowed the hand to ease him until his back touched the mattress again, where she delicately swung to straddle over top. Their faces drew close and a warm chuckle rolled in his chest. “Well,” he began, his hand drifting up to cup her bronze cheek, a thumb dragging across her lower lip. “They’re treated as the royalty they should be.”

Coy. Her teeth flashed in another smile as fingers guided the loose fit of Marcello’s robes up his frame. Nails skidded softly against the curve of muscles and skin. “Then you should…” Zaadia leaned in, bold for a whore, and nipped down at Marcello’s lip. The wash of her breath spilled over his mouth in a whisper, “show me.”

Before she could draw away, Marcello’s lips snagged hers in a kiss. Slow and dominating. He was a man who knew what he wanted and went after it with all the elegance of a well trained noble boy. His arms swept down around Zaadia’s frame, drawing them flush as he turned on the mattress. Their weights swapped and she pinned beneath him.

In a sparring breath, Marcello’s tunic and robes were eased from his shoulders, the strap of silks spilling off of Zaadia’s shoulder. He watched her closely as her head connected to the pillows, dark brown locks fanned out beneath her. She dared a bold reach for his trousers and Marcello caught her hand, pinning it above her head. “Slower,” he hummed, bowing to fit their lips back together. “You’d skip the best part.”

“If you say so,” Zaadia purred in return. Her hand was freed in a flash, twisting up into messy raven hair. They kissed, Marcello’s hands roaming her and her’s roaming him. A satisfying rush of heat burned the aches of Marcello’s body, his mind falling distracted in the woman.

His hands finally twisted into sheer silks, slowly easing them to unwind, and he could feel Zaadia’s smile against his mouth.

“It’s my turn to show you how I treat lords like you.”

Marcello hesitated.

Something had changed. Perhaps the tone of voice.

He caught a glimpse of skin darkening to an ebony sheen, dark brown hair fading white. He yanked back to the cold press of steel stabbing into his back and the rush of panic as pain seared throughout his body. The breath strangled in his throat. In an instant they were disconnected. Marcello crashed onto his side, a crawling stiffness beginning to seize at his muscles. “You,” he hissed.

“Me? Me what?” The dark elf swung his legs over the side of the bed lazily and pushed onto his feet, moving about the bed to stare down at Marcello. “If you’re going to be racist, save your breath.”

Laughter. It wheezed from Marcello and he struggles to push himself up. His trembling muscles cave with exhaustion far worse than he’d ever felt. Like every ounce of strength had been zapped from his body. How pathetic, to die at the hands of a disguised whore in a foreign land, useless to his family and people. “It’s simply a low blow,” he gets out, coughing as a swell of metal meets his tongue.

The elf lashed out and grasped Marcello by the throat. His fingers curled in tight, flipping him to face upwards. Confusion marred features contorted in anger. “Why are you laughing!? This is where you die and you have no concern.”

“May as well die with a smile on my face. What? Does that upset you? I’m sorry I don’t pander to the needs of my assassins.” Marcello winced as the knife was summoned into the Crinti’s hand again, pressed right up against his skin where the sharpened edge threatened to break the skin at his throat. “Least I’m the one dying a free man.”

A horrible snarl twisted to the elf’s features and his blade hesitated in its draw. Some new urge flickered over and the dagger fell to the bed, replaced with the hungry glow of runes that burned a sickly red crawled and winded down the elf’s arm. “No you won’t.”

Those runes…. Those markings. Marcello’s gut chilled with terror. He knew what this elf was.

A spellthief.

The window on the far wall exploded into sharp fracticles and shards of glass as they sprayed the bed and floor and a white figure lunged through. The blur of Acheron crashed against the assassin, his teeth shredding into his arm.

Fangs tore across dark skin. The crinti ripped his arm back, blood dripping down his fingers and Acheron curled protectively around Marcello, red stained teeth snarling against pulled back lips.

Intricate runes wrapped down the spellthief’s body, glowing a bright, teal glow. They hummed with the hunger for mana that only a spellthief possessed as the half-drow regarded him with malicious intent.

Marcello’s fingers twisted into white fur. “What am I to do without you,” he rasped, heaving himself to his feet.

Not a second too late.

With knife gripped tight in hand, the spellthief lunged forward, the wicked sharp point tearing at thin air. Marcello staggered backwards against the table, and with a thud, looked down.

The ring gate had fallen onto the moth eaten carpet. The ring gate. Another swing at his throat and he ducked downwards, grabbing the ring gate and fired a dazzling light spell through to wake up his sleeping companions.

The half-drow crashed into him. Marcello gasped out as he was slammed onto the bed, the slightest duck of his head dodging the dagger that dragged into the bloodied blankets. Acheron snarled, trying to wrench him off and yelped as the man’s foot kicked out, slamming him away. They wrestled on the bed, desperately trying to pin the other down and Marcello felt the man’s fingers touch his head.

Thumb to his temple.

Middle and index finger to his forehead. He could feel it in an instant. The spellthief’s will pressed against his, like an invasive parasite, searching, reaching, to take, to steal-

Horror clenched every fiber of his being. “No!” With a free hand, he reached out, grasping the man’s arm. Electricity coursed through the assassin’s body, making him wrench up in alarm.

Marcello flipped him onto his back with a roar. His forearm pressed against the elf’s throat, and as the assassin’s free hand reached to grasp at his head, his own slammed it down in a pin. He should have been struggling. Should have been fighting for his life. Yet, the spellthief simply went limp under him, gazing up at Marcello with dark, mint green eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” Marcello hissed, his hand grasping the man’s wrist tighter. “A lone man taking me on, with my companions a room away. That’s sloppy.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” The Crinti hissed, a slow smile spreading over his features. “Use your magic on me.”

“I’m not that foolish. You’ll just redirect it” He could feel the sensation of warm blood dripping down his back. “I’m going to ask again. Why are you doing this.”

Their faces were close. Close enough to where Marcello could feel the half-drow’s breath against his lips. “Because I have to.” The assassin’s voice was listless.

“Bullshit,” Marcello snarled. Acheron tried to snap at the man’s throat and Marcello called him off with a whistle. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have waited until I was asleep. You’re no assassin.” A cold anger clenched at him. “…you’re a spellthief,” he bit out. “Just like the others who took-”

“Theseus?” The drow taunted. The smile widened at Marcello’s look of shock. “I know him. So do something about it.”

Marcello stared. “W-what are you-”

“Come on, are you just going to sit there and let me go after trying to kill you?”

Marcello’s mind was reeling. What was this bastard expecting him to do? Unless… he expected him to- unless he wanted him to-

The door suddenly burst open.

Bands of steel lashed out of the half dressed Prince’s palm and wound around the spellthief’s mouth and bound his ankles and wrists together.

The spellthief didn’t struggle. He sat limp on the bed as Aven and Lucian charged in, axes glittering in the fire light. "Marcello!” Aven said. “You’re hurt!"

Marcello’s vision blurred and he slumped to the floor, hand on his pup. "Put away your axes, Aven,” he uttered tiredly. “I need him alive. And get me a change of clothes."

Lucian rushed to Marcello’s side, brows kit with concern. "Here,” he said, summoning clothes from the air. “Where is the girl?"

Marcello nodded his head towards the bound assassin. "Not sure if I liked him better as a man or a woman."

The blood drained from Lucian’s face and he looked from the spellthief back to Marcello. ”…I didn’t know. I swear, I was just- I just wanted to-“

"I know,” Marcello eased with a wince. “I enjoyed it while it lasted."

“You know he’s a spellthief… we shouldn’t leave him alive. He’ll be hard to transport, and he’s dangerous,” Lucian murmured. He turned back towards the Crinti and cast out a hand. The band around his mouth came free and snapped his ankles together instead. “Who are you. How did you find us?”

No answer. The spellthief kept his gaze trained elsewhere, staring vacantly.

“Don’t- agh!” A frustrated hiss drew from Marcello as he strained to slip an arm into a sleeve. In a snap of his fingers, bandages tore from fabric and mended together to which he quickly tied around the oozing wound. “I can’t get a fucking break. Lucian, don’t bother talking with him. I know all I need to right now.”

He yanks his shirt on much to Lucian’s fretting as the Prince helps drag the back down over the bandage. “Then enlighten me as to why we must take the risk of leaving him alive after he stabbed you in cold blood.”

Sweat beaded down Marcello’s forehead. An exhausted gaze locked on the Crinti. “He knows me. And he knew Theseus, too. Like hell I will simply kill one of my brother’s murderers.”

Lucian winced and bore daggers into the Crinti where he sat dully before pushing onto his feet. “I understand. We’ll handle it then, but first.” He swiveled towards Aven. “Our location has been compromised. We need to get ready and leave immediately.”

“This late at night?” Aven stared down at one of his axes and hefted it with a sigh. “But what about the Spellthief then? We shouldn’t leave Marcello to have to deal with it alone-” Marcello waved a hand, boldly lowering onto the bed beside the bound Crinti. He feigned a look of composure. “I’m right here, Aven. And I’ve escaped sudden death for now, if I was meant to be dead this very moment it would have been so.”

Aven blinked. “He’s gone mad.”

Lucian shook his head and grasped Aven’s shoulder to direct him out. “It’s alright. We’ll pack the horses… Marcello, call for me if you need. Once we’re out of here I’ll give your wound a better look.”

“I will.”

The two reluctantly made their way from the room, shutting the door quietly behind with a twist of the knob and Marcello nearly turned to jelly, earning a soft whimper from Acheron who watched his master worriedly. “Damn,” he hissed. His muscles still ached and trembled with great strain. “What the hell was on that knife.”

Emerald eyes flicked over. “Well you’ll be feeling it a while, if that’s what you’re wondering,” the Spellthief muttered beneath his breath.

“Ah, he speaks but only to the man he tried to kill. You are terribly inconvenient.” Marcello spoke slow, a blood-stained hand dragging up to massage at his temples. “I’m so glad I have crippling exhaustion on top of my pre-existing crippling exhaustion.”

Outside of the room, Marcello could hear Lucian barking orders to a few workers.

“What are you going to do with me then? You’re wasting your time,” the Crinti responded, his voice devoid of care.

“Certainly not kill you. I’ve grown familiar with the look of a dead man walking. I plan to take you back to Halruaa with us and get all the information I need from you.” Marcello frowned and gathered himself back to standing. He twisted his fingers into Acheron’s fur for purchase, unsteady on his feet. “Will you make it difficult for me…?”

The Crinti considered it a moment. His gaze trained down to his bound hands, slathered in blood. His fingers clenched into fists, something hopeless and sad lingering behind his eyes. “I guess we’ll see what happens, then. For now… no.” As Marcello motioned him to stand, he slowly sank onto his feet, standing much shorter in stature than the average man.

Marcello gave a breath of relief. “Good, what is your name? It’s only fair considering you know mine.”

A soft scoff came from the ebon elf. “Like you care.”

“I very much do.”

The elf’s jaw tensed and he tore his gaze aside, scarcely hiding the curl of his lip. “Rhaenoran. Or Rhaen, I suppose.”

“Then come on, Rhaenoran. My companions will be waiting.” Marcello turned for the door, moving aside it, with it open until the elf slowly shuffled his way over. He grasped hold of the steel wrist binding and gave a weak tug outwards.

Outside the tavern, Lucian and Aven had drawn up the horses, a new pristine white one freshly summoned and saddled for Marcello. The moon was still high in the sky, twinkling stars hidden behind clouds.

Marcello urged Rhaenoran off towards the horse as they stepped out. “Stay,” he muttered. The cool air felt like a relief against his boiling skin. “Lucian, can you help me?” Lucian blinked up from his focus where fingers clasped Soliel’s saddle into place. “Marcello,” he hissed. “You just dragged yourself out here? We would have come help you.”

“I was stabbed, not sawed at the legs,” he dismissed. “Just help me onto the horse with him.”

“No. He walks behind you. You’re too weak to be handling him up close, I don’t trust it.” A pause. “And… we should search him first.”

Marcello had little energy to fight Lucian’s insistence and gave a soft nod of his head. He briefly leaned to his friend. “Alright. You’re right, just give me a second then.” When he parted, Lucian followed behind back to where Rhaenoran quietly leaned against the horse who seemed careless to the elf.

He seemed to stare off into the night.

“Thinking of running?” Marcello questioned.

“No.” Rhaenoran’s gaze snapped towards the man and held his bound hands out from his body. “Go on then, search me, but you won’t find much.”

A lie.

It took only a cursory patdown for Marcello to toss aside three more daggers of varying sizes onto the ground, but none took as heavy of a toll on the spellthief’s features until a hand paused over the intricate tattoo of a bow woven into ebony skin on his forearm. It disrupted the area of runes. “Nice tattoo.”

Rhaenoran tensed, sliding his jaw. “Like it? Got it down in Skullport. Place has lovely weather this time of year.”

“Oh I bet.” He tapped the tattoo idly. “Will you fight my magic, spellthief?”

He knew. Rhaen swallowed the rock-sized lump in his throat and slowly shook his head. “No.”

There was a flash of blue magic that struck down at the tattoo and the unique glow died. It shuddered and out burst a fully formed bow as well as several silvery arrows. Marcello bends down, carefully plucking them both up in hand. “That sure is handy. I hope you don’t mind, I’ll hold onto them for you.” He swung both over the horse’s saddle bag, tucking them inside.

Rhaen watched carefully where the bow disappeared before finally Lucian stalked up to his side. Hostile.

“Hands out,” Lucian commanded, heaving a rope in hand. “Don’t think for a second you are not being watched. You will walk behind him and in front of me, got it?” In seconds, the elf complied with his hands out, the ropes were tied and secured around in several knots.

“Lucian…” Marcello watched him softly. “Thank you… he can walk behind us for the first half but after that, it’d only slow us down. I should be alright to take him on horseback.”

Lucian hardly seemed to agree, but reluctantly caved with a nod. “Alright. But let’s get you up there first and ride before we consider it.” He quickly tied off the other end of the rope to Marcello’s horse and circled around the side to take a knee, forming a lock with his hands for Marcello to step. “Now up you go.”

A hand pushed down on Lucian’s shoulder and Marcello stepped a boot up onto the hand. With screaming muscles, he lifted up, swinging a leg over and collapsed against the white mare. His breath panted out in pained rasps. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“Still absolutely thriving,” he lied with a glittering smile. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”