Unassuming, the Verdant Drinkhouse cozily welcomed its few morning patrons out of the drizzling rain. It was nestled between a single-storey home and a bakery fallen into disrepair, shouldered by alleys, and casting flickering firelight through the streaky front windows. The dark clouds lingering overhead pulled close to the world, oppressing a sense of night upon the mid-morning city.
Two men and a woman entered without a word to the bouncer. Kazra drew a hesitant look from the sentry; on her own, she might have warranted a word of warning from the stoic gatekeeper. With Ren and Asar on either side of her, armed with daggers and swords, the bouncer bit his tongue and looked back into the street. If a lot like this was going to cause trouble, there was nothing he could do, and he knew it.
Renado’s tough façade faded as he bridged the threshold. Crollem sat nonchalantly at the bar, his back to the door. He was drinking a mead, while an empty breakfast plate blocked his left elbow’s lean.
Renado marched up to the bar and ordered a cider; while the other two placed their orders, he turned to meet Crollem’s eyes with a glare. Then, Ren struck the mercenary with the back of his hand. The man’s hand flung forward as though to block another blow, but then went for his sword hilt aggressively. Ren scowled. “That was for going to the wrong tavern,” he said and looked at the man’s hilt. “Do you really want another?”
“Someone was tailing me,” Crollem defended.
Ren blinked. He turned to the bar, picked up his cider and took a swig, and then casually leaned back against the bar with a view through the rainy windows. The errant drops were slowing now, but the world was still soaked. “In here?” he asked, quietly.
Crollem looked at Asar and Kazra, then flicked his eyes around the room. “No,” he said.
Ren nodded. So whoever had tailed Crollem was outside still, watching the tavern. Whoever had tailed Crollem had seen him, Ren realized. He turned around after taking another sip and peered over at the barkeeper. “Is there a back way out?” he asked and set a coin down on the bar top.
The torch behind the barkeep swiftly burned higher, an inch, a foot, and then three. The column of flame popped a bottle of liquor on the nearby shelf—a swath of fire encompassed the alcoholic wall. Ren’s sword was free of its scabbard by the time the singed barman grabbed the tabletop to steady himself. The other torches and the fireplace had all done the same. Curtains of heat lit up the walls and corner tables. “Back door!” Ren said, grabbing the barman, as Crollem and Asar cursed. Kazra had already started marching for the front door, but the flames licked the ceiling and it started to groan.
The barkeeper pointed the way, and Ren let go of him. Kazra kicked down the way, to a wince from everyone as it flew into the adjoining office area. The desk was toppled by her striding pace and then the back door of the burning tavern was thrown open. Crollem followed Asar out, and Ren took up the rear.
Ren got a raindrop right in the eye as he shoved between them and emerged from the steaming eaves. The alleyway had a view of the street: whoever was attacking could see them still, likely. He turned to look the other way. The suburb behind the tavern began here, it seemed, with weaving alleys ahead. “Let’s go,” Ren barked and led the way.
As they crossed tufts of grass and piles of refuse, Ren brushed through a tendril of mist. He had thought it was all smoke, but a fog was rising from the corners of the alley. He marched onward, looking for the way to a side street. He coughed as they entered a second hazy alley. They passed a hacking homeless man, and Ren froze. Was it the fog? Asar coughed next, and Ren spun on his heals. This wasn’t fog from the rainstorm. This was a murky spell… this was King Turim, same as the motes of fire in the tavern.
“Let’s—go,” Ren gagged, pointing the way back toward the alley. They couldn’t get lost in this haze. They would have to confront the sorcerer in the street. Crollem and Kazra were coughing now too, and Ren could scarcely breath as they dashed alongside the blazing Drinkhouse. Reeling, Ren stumbled into the street, his sword a crutch.
The street was clear of the noxious fumes, but two people that had escaped the common room were collapsed and twitching. Ren spun this way and that looking for the bastard who had done it. He was the only one standing in the street.
Asar tripped past Ren, rolling onto his back and heaving. His face was so red—Ren’s was too. Ren couldn’t even cough anymore. He stepped blindly away from the mouth of the alleyway and went down on one knee. He tilted to look for Kazra. The woman was hunched over, spittle hanging from her mouth and mucous from her nose. Her torso was puffing painfully, though she made no sound.
And Crollem stood tall among them, quiet and smiling. He started to chuckle, not an evil laugh, but just one of good humour. He walked up to wear Ren knelt and pulled back his fist. Ren was merciless to defend himself. He took the punch to his jaw and fell onto his shoulders.
Gasping for breath, Ren tucked his legs in and tried to push himself up on one elbow. Crollem had shoved Kazra down, but came back to Ren with the expression of a delighted child. Had Sarno’s men betrayed them? Or had Crollem always been a spy? Confused, Ren could only stare up at the un-phased man. His earlier coughing had been a charade, but his boot, driven with haste into Ren’s gut, was not. Ren expelled more breath and collapsed onto his back. Rain drops from the low-hanging clouds marked tears on his forehead to match those on his cheeks.
Then Crollem bent over Ren, his gleeful face contorting like a drop of blood in the river. His features looked like a mirage now, a shimmering illustration. His nose shifted lower, his eyebrows arched higher, and his eyes changed colour. His hair went from straight strands behind each ear to dense, dark curls. This was not Crollem—this was King Turim. “It’s child play,” the man told Ren, though his voice had to make it through all that sharp whistling in Ren’s ear. “Are you behind all this? Doesn’t matter. Ruling this filthy city was always about sending messages, and your deaths will send a proper one to whoever was behind it.”
Ren realized that he wasn’t just looking at the face of a Mage King. He was looking at the face of the man who would kill him. He tried to spit, but ended up with spittle on his chin. And that cleared enough of his airwaves for him to say, “You’re a dead man.”
Turim started to chuckle, as Ren’s vision became as hazy as the alleyway. Then, the King grunted. One of his ribs was sticking out of his chest, and blood was dribbling down Crollem’s burnt yellow tunic. As Ren’s delusional vision focused on that one detail, he watched fingers close around the rib and it was yanked back inside the man’s chest. Back in, and then out behind him. Ren watched Turim’s innards spill down his abdomen and then Kazra lost her footing again. The dead Mage King and she spilled into the street amidst a pile of gore.
When Ren sucked in his next breath, a little oxygen made it through. It took twenty minutes before he was inhaling like normal. He was the first to sit up, though Kazra and Asar were both hacking and coming out of it.
The barkeeper, minus a strip of hair where he had been burned red and bubbly, was staring at his tavern in dismay. The brother of Lerran pointed to the corpse, complete with its half-removed spine, and said, “He’s the one who did that to your bar.” Then, a few moments later, they all walked away.