He spent five days in the dungeon in Velfor. The dampness seeped into his marrow, the lash wounds on his back throbbed, and his right hand pulsed with a rhythmic, sickening heat. Water and a crust of stale bread arrived only in the mornings. His head spun constantly. Reed wasn't sure if it was from hunger or the concussions. The same guard came for him every day. He struck his face, his ribs, and his stomach, spat the same questions, hurled the same insults, and vanished. The torturer never removed his helmet; Reed had no face to memorize, only a voice. It was steely, coarse, and devoid of any human inflection. A void where a man should be.

  The first night was the worst. The market brawl felt like a pleasant stroll compared to the guard's professional cruelty. Reed was lashed to a chair where he would spend nearly all the following days and nights. The interrogation began the moment the guard crossed the threshold. The first blow was a clap of thunder. Reed felt his skull rattle, and blood began to leak from his already mangled lips.

  "What were you doing here?"

  "Just passing through," Reed grunted, swallowing viscous, copper-tasting saliva. Nausea rose in his throat, but he choked it down.

  "Where were you going?"

  Instead of an answer, a wet cough escaped him. The second blow landed square on his liver; Reed nearly suffocated, his lungs seizing in a desperate cramp.

  "The capital," he wheezed. "Looking for work."

  "What kind?"

  "Any kind." His tongue felt like a lead weight. His vision blurred, and a nearly severed tooth dangled precariously on the left side of his jaw.

  "Do you know any mages?"

  "Which ones?"

  "Any of them." The torturer didn't wait for the finish; he struck again. The tooth hit the stone floor, scattering burgundy droplets like freckles across the dark rock.

  "I don't know anyone."

  "Do you serve your elven demons yourself?"

  "What?" Reed barely lifted his head to look at the narrow slit in the helmet. Where eyes should have been, there was only darkness and the promise of more pain.

  "Are you a mage?!" the guard roared, his fingers—encased in plate gauntlets—clamping around Reed's neck. The steel squeezed, cutting off his air. Blood gurgled in his throat, but Reed could neither swallow nor spit. Just as the world began to turn black, the torturer loosened his grip, leaned in, and repeated:

  "Are you a mage?"

  "No... not a mage."

  Slaps and kicks punctuated the endless string of questions until Reed began to drift, hearing only fragments of phrases. Then, the world went silent. He woke near dawn, lying on the floor, still tied to the chair. A dark blot of blood had frozen against his cheek; his lost tooth lay beside it. He thought he groaned, but only a dry rasp left his throat. His numb hands ached, his face throbbed with every heartbeat, and his stomach turned from the blood he had swallowed. The corridor was silent. Too silent.

  Lying in the dark, he waited for oblivion to take him again. But instead of peace, he was haunted by fear, pain, and memory. Recollections festered in his mind, shattering the walls of self-control he had spent decades building. Reed felt exactly as he had thirty years ago, broken and discarded. Yet he didn't scream. He didn't beg. He endured the humiliation in silence, promising himself and every god that listened that he would return every drop of this blood to the kreyghars.

  The second morning brought no breakfast, only a new torment. The guard entered without a word, a long, thin rope coiled in his hands. Reed was forced face down. The guard bound his wrists so tightly the coarse fibers bit deep into his flesh, as if his skin were ready to burst. Then, he was hauled up and tied to a ring in the wall, high near the ceiling. Abandoned in that agonizing stretch, Reed felt his body being chewed by the jaws of Haderat. Hours bled into one another, the tearing spasms in his back, the blood dripping down his forearms, the fire in his shoulders. He had been wrong to think the first night was hard; he hadn't known what the second could be.

  On the morning of the third day, the helmeted shadow returned. Despite the exhaustion, Reed felt a spark of white-hot hatred. The guard untied him, fastened him back to the chair, and went through the ritual again. Same questions, same answers, same rhythmic violence. On the fourth day, Reed stopped answering entirely. He met every question with a wall of silence, which quickly wore down the guard's patience. It seemed the man was moments away from snapping Reed's neck, but he held back.

  Reed smiled then, a jagged, malicious stretch of his bruised lips. He gathered what blood remained in his mouth and spat directly onto the guard's polished armor.

  He was left alone for the rest of the day.

  On the night of the fifth day, Reed awoke to the sound of footsteps. It was too early for his meager breakfast; a new interrogation awaited him. A figure in pristine blue-and-white armor and a heavy cloak stopped at the bars. A proud bearing, graying hair, and a face devoid of emotion. Everything about him betrayed a man of authority, a veteran of many battles.

  "You attacked first? In the market," the kreyghar asked. Reed recognized the voice. It was the same one who had ordered his arrest.

  Reed gave a short, jagged nod.

  "For what reason?"

  Silence followed. The guard struck the bars with his gauntlet, the iron ringing through the stone corridor. "Answer me!"

  "And what should I say?" Reed smiled brazenly. He always smiled when he felt his most helpless. Licking his mangled lips, he continued: "You know everything already. There's nothing to tell. Or maybe you can come in and beat me some more. I haven't bled enough for you yet, have I?"

  The Captain exhaled slowly, examining the elf. Reed had mustered every ounce of his arrogance, refusing to play by their rules. If they killed him, he would at least die with the satisfaction of not having surrendered to a kreyghar one last time. They could cage him, torture him, and spit on him, but they couldn't break him. Reed was not that generous.

  Suddenly, the Captain's face softened; a shadow flickered in his eyes.

  "Tell me, elf," the kreyghar said, shielding his eyes with a hand as he sighed. "Are you an idiot?"

  "What?" The question was so unexpected that Reed didn't grasp it immediately.

  "I asked: are you an idiot?"

  "No more than you are."

  "What are you even doing here?" the Captain continued, letting the insult pass. "Only an idiot wouldn't know how elves are treated in Dalgaard."

  "I didn't know," Reed snarled. "And by the time I found out, it was too late to turn back."

  "How could you not know? Do you think I'm stupid?"

  "You don't look it. I didn't know because I've never been to Bradenmain. I lived across the ocean."

  "Lie more." The Captain's finger jabbed toward the old, faded scars on Reed's wrists, sitting beside the fresh, raw rope burns. "I know where those come from. You're Beldenite."

  "So what? I couldn't have lived across the ocean?"

  The guard fell silent. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp. "Everything about you screams 'slave.' Your habits, your gaze, even the way you speak. You must have escaped…"

  "So, will you send me back?" Reed interrupted.

  The Captain didn't answer. Instead, he pulled out his keys, unlocked the cell, and entered. Soon, Reed was standing on his own two feet, swaying.

  "No tricks."

  "Sure", Reed mumbled, rubbing the deep bruise on his cheekbone.

  The kreyghar ordered him to stretch out his hands, bound them, and led him down the corridor like a leashed dog. A fire flared in Reed's chest. He despised the role of the captive. He despised it enough to prefer death over the feeling of the rope. The guards they passed looked on with disgust; some threw jokes, but Reed remained silent, drilling an incinerating gaze into the back of the man who led him.

  They stopped in the courtyard of the fortress. Reed was tied to the Captain's horse, and they proceeded onward. By the gate, Reed caught snippets of conversation: he learned his captor was the Captain and that the elf would not live to see the dawn. It was enough to lay out the gist. Anger flashed for a moment, then gave way to a cold indifference. Why waste emotion when he was battered, exhausted, and unarmed? He wouldn't stand a chance against a fresh kreyghar.

  The night city breathed cool moisture, promising rain. After the stuffy dungeon reeking of blood and sweat, the clean air was a blessing, the Great Mother's final gift. Reed accepted it. His steps were unsteady, but the Captain didn't spur the horse; he allowed Reed to plod along at his own pace.

  They left the city quickly, heading for a young grove where the trees were thin and the moss was sparse. The dew on the spring grass chilled his feet, seeping through his boots. It made him shiver, but it was a pleasant tremor. As long as he felt the cold, he was alive.

  They stopped just short of the grove's heart. The Captain dismounted and untied Reed's hands. For a moment, their eyes met: sharp and calm. Reed considered fleeing, but before the thought could take root, the guard threw his bag at his feet.

  "I'll only offer this once," the Captain said. "You take your belongings, you get the hell out of the city, and you never come back. And I won't send you back to Belden for banditry."

  "And what's in it for you?" Reed asked, trying to hide his relief. Even his bruises seemed to hurt less.

  "I served in Belden."

  The phrase was a heavyweight. Not everyone could serve as a supervisor in Belden, and ordinary soldiers didn't last long there. Reed remembered that from his childhood. Only those who derived pleasure from absolute power stayed. Or those who were broken by it.

  "What do you want in return?"

  "Not to see your mug here again."

  "And you'll just let me go?"

  The Captain nodded.

  "Are the others okay with that?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Interesting."

  "To them, you died here. Nobody wants to bother with you or assign a convoy to the capital so that you can be sent back to your homeland. And knowing that one more elf fertilized Bradenmain's soil will please many. Bureaucracy saved you. Say thank you and get lost."

  "Why do you care, Captain?"

  "Just get lost," he shoved Reed, who stumbled toward the trees. Reed picked up his bag and turned east, away from Dalgaard.

  "Hey, long-ears!" the Captain called out just as Reed was disappearing into the shadows.

  "Run."

  He heard the twang of a bowstring a split second before he swerved. The arrow grazed his shoulder, thudding into the earth where his heart had been a heartbeat before. Reed cursed under his breath, stumbling as the whistle of pursuit and the rhythmic pounding of hooves rose behind him.

  Damn kreyghars, he thought. A real hunt was unfolding. The realization was sharp, a cold blade in his gut: the Captain had given him the taste of freedom only to make the kill more satisfying. It was a sport he remembered all too well from Belden. Set a slave free, let them drink in the sweetness of hope, then hunt them down like game. The forest would be riddled with traps; other "safari" enthusiasts would be waiting in the shadows. Hope was the seasoning that made the bloody demise taste better to the masters than a dozen port whores. No one ever broke free. Clearly, the Captain had brought more back from Belden than just a scarlet armor.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Reed didn't want to remember Belden. He didn't want to relive the past, and he refused to die as someone's trophy. Lunging through the thickets, he felt his old scar throb in time with the adrenaline. He had run like this once before. Fate had been on his side then, but fate was a fickle bitch.

  Arrows hissed through the leaves, embedding themselves in trunks and dirt, passing inches from his head. His body was failing; his legs felt like lead, and his lungs were on fire. But he couldn't surrender. Not this time. His only advantage was the darkness and a forest that didn't care for the laws of men.

  Reed braked sharply, pressing himself into the shadows. For a moment, there was only the roar of his own blood in his ears and his ragged, gasping breath. Then, he heard the forest again. The wind tickled his sweat-soaked skin.

  He reached into the bag the Captain had given him. It was a mockery. His own weapons, his money, his supplies, all gone. In their place was useless debris, rusted iron, and scraps of cloth. The mental battle in his head was short. He couldn't fight them all together. If he stayed on the run, he was dead. He needed to split them up. He needed to stir their blood.

  He didn't wait for them to find him. He moved, but slower now, intentionally dropping the "junk" from the decoy bag to leave a trail. He snapped branches, leaving a path even a blind man could follow. He was setting his own trap, even knowing he might run straight into an ambush. It didn't matter. There was no other way.

  When the flash of horses appeared between the trees, Reed exhaled.

  "He's mine!" a roar sounded. The cry acted like a whip crack. Reed bolted again, his breath coming in shallow stabs. If anyone had asked him where he found the strength, he wouldn't have been able to answer.

  One hunter drove him forward while the others attempted to form a circle, a tactic clear even to a fool. Reed's plan was insane, but he was past the point of sanity. He was ready to tear his freedom out with his teeth.

  A horseman flashed through the trees ahead. Reed dropped onto the dead leaves, closed his eyes, and found a small, heavy stone by touch. He froze. His heart hammered so loudly he felt the entire forest could hear his panic.

  The guard pulled up, momentarily confused by the body lying still on the ground. He dismounted, his boots crunching on the foliage as he approached. He kicked Reed's leg, then his side. Reed remained motionless, a hollow shell of a man, waiting for the perfect moment to stop being the prey.

  "Filthy bastard," the kreyghar spat, the glob landing squarely on Reed. He cursed again and bent down to check for a pulse. Watching him through half-closed eyelids, Reed felt a surge of bitter triumph mixed with a poisonous, cold dread. If this failed, he would rot in this forest forever.

  The moment the guard leaned in, Reed struck.

  He hit blindly, driven by raw instinct. A sickening crunch echoed through the trees; the kreyghar's head snapped back, and he stumbled. Before a scream could tear from his throat, Reed scrambled up. He grabbed the empty bag and yanked it over the hunter's head. Dragging the thrashing man toward a tree was an agonizing struggle, harder than the entire escape.

  The bag muffled the guard's muffled gasps as Reed slammed his skull against a young oak. Blood spread across the bark in a dark, morbid stain. He couldn't stop. Even after the struggles ceased, even after the kreyghar's head had turned to a soft pulp, Reed kept striking. Breathing in ragged gasps, he finally shoved the body away and collapsed to his knees.

  He forced himself up with a groan, approached the skittish horse, and snatched the bow and quiver from the saddle. For a heartbeat, he felt something like joy. He mounted the nervous animal and spurred it forward, hoping to shatter the ring of hunters before it could tighten.

  Luck offered him one last chance. He saw the riders ahead, waiting for him to be driven into their arms like cattle. Reed didn't slow down. One kreyghar raised his bow, drawing the string taut, but the man suddenly lurched sideways. Reed's arrow protruded from his chest. He drew again, aiming through the blur of shadows. In the dark, it was impossible to be precise. He fired and, with horror, realized he had missed.

  Arrows rained from both sides. Reed flattened himself against the horse's back. Suddenly, the animal whinnied piteously, bucking with a violent jolt that nearly threw him, then bolted into a blind gallop, deeper into the dark heart of the woods.

  Reed was trembling, his consciousness fraying at the edges. Branches whipped his face, leaving stinging, bloody gasps, but he heard nothing—not the shouts, not the pursuit, not even the horse's heavy, labored breathing.

  When awareness finally returned, he pulled the reins tight. The forest was still. His only hope for salvation gave a long, rattling exhale and collapsed onto its side. Reed barely avoided being crushed against the trunk of a fallen tree. With a heavy groan, he wrenched his leg free and stood, swaying.

  A dark stain was spreading across the horse's flank, an arrow jutting fiercely from its center. A lump rose in Reed's throat. His cheeks burned. He crouched beside the animal, gently stroking its muzzle as if trying to soothe away the inevitable. Its ragged breathing mirrored the ache in his own chest. He regretted not having a weapon to deliver a final, clean mercy. He wanted to ease its suffering, but he was hollowed out. He couldn't stay; every second of delay was a prayer for his own death.

  "Forgive me," he whispered.

  He scrambled to his feet and ran. He didn't know where he was going; he just knew he had to put Dalgaard behind him. When the first weak rays of sunlight cut across the horizon, Reed stopped.

  A field stretched before him like a dead canvas. In the distance, a meager village loomed, gray and devoid of life. Breathing a sigh of relief that felt like a sob, Reed fell to his knees. He covered his face with his bloodied hands and allowed the tears to finally fall.

  ***

  Reed spent three days in the carcass of the abandoned village. If anyone was hunting him, they weren't looking in that direction, and Reed had neither the strength nor the will to move. He lay on a pile of old rags, barely noticing the days bleeding into nights. In those rare moments when he could stand, he foraged for sour gooseberries and small, bitter nuts. It wasn't enough to regain his strength, but it was enough to keep him alive. On the fourth day, he scavenged what he could from the huts and turned east.

  The farther Reed moved from Dalgaard, the lighter his journey became. It wasn't easy, but every few days, he managed to buy food and a bit of ointment for the bruises that were finally beginning to yellow. He had stolen the coins, and he considered it fair compensation for the "warm" welcome Bradenmain had offered him. The hospitality of the guards had been so memorable that Reed made sure to skirt every large city, avoiding markets and the main thoroughfares. He became a shadow in the forests and fields, only passing through villages to buy supplies, steal what he needed, and vanish back into the trees before the theft was even discovered.

  Argain greeted him with rain twenty-five days after he had escaped Dalgaard.

  The capital instilled a familiar apprehension, but it wasn't as overtly hostile as Velfor. As it turned out, in Argain, the power of gold outweighed the purity of blood. Money solved everything in the heart of Bradenmain, and Reed grasped that lesson quickly. The thicker your purse, the more "respectable" a citizen you were.

  Where else but here could a man make a fortune? The local wars for power and capital in Argain were a perpetual storm, and the city's bounty hunters thrived in the chaos. He moved through the market quickly, the sights and sounds triggering jagged memories of Velfor, and headed toward the city's rotting gut, the slums.

  Argain was a city of two halves: those with wealth, and those merely "lucky" enough to be born in the capital but cursed by a lack of connections. If you lacked a title in Argain, you were barely considered human. Your life would end only slightly better than that of the Imperial slaves whom the city dutifully supplied to the "promised land." Becoming a slave here was a simple matter: be born a peasant, earn a few silver coins a month, fall under the slightest suspicion of breaking the law, and your fate was sealed. Unlike the elves of Belden, who were slaves permanently and irrevocably, criminals here were sold for a fixed term, depending on the crime. They were called "convicts," a word that covered a multitude of sins.

  Reed never spoke of Belden. He never let it slip that it was his homeland. As he liked to say, he had no home and nowhere to return. There was no one left in Belden who would remember his face or his name, no one to say whose son he was or how he had managed to break his chains. Reed hoped, with all his soul, that it would stay that way.

  The western district of Argain sheltered a gallery of rabble: bandits, ex-convicts, thieves, murderers, and prostitutes. Occasionally, those who needed the services of such people ventured into the West. The girls there weren't the most beautiful, but the cutthroats were plentiful, men who asked no questions and took any job for the right price. Since the power struggles in Argain were never-ending, their "issues" were habitually resolved in only one way: steel.

  This was where Reed found his sanctuary. A stinking dive full of drunks and hollow-eyed strangers became his shelter and his hunting ground for work. No one was in a rush to hire an elf. Reed was tall but looked lean, almost gaunt. His battered appearance and fading bruises didn't project authority; no one looked at him and saw a threat.

  But Reed wasn't in a hurry. He had nothing but time.

  Every evening for eight days, he descended the stairs, ordered a mug of kreyghar swill, and observed. He was invisible to them, a shadow in the corner, while he watched the room, pretending his drink was the most fascinating thing in the world. He watched the brawls and the desperate feasts; he watched the prostitutes prowl. Once, he had to beat back a crowd of drunks who decided the elf was the source of their misfortunes.

  At night, he slipped out to procure a few coins, mostly through theft. Life went on around him, loud and filthy, and Reed simply waited for his opportunity.

  After several days, "opportunity" finally walked through the door. It came dressed in expensive silk and a dark blue cloak, with a gray beard, a bald crown, a prominent paunch, and jaundiced, aging eyes. The man moved with the unsteady gait of a sailor on a storm-tossed deck, yet he didn't lack confidence. Reed watched the townsman with a look of bored indifference as he approached the bar. Strangely, the guest was left unmolested; it seemed no one in the dive intended to bother him. He and the tavern keeper traded a few hushed words before the latter smirked nastily, jerking his chin toward Reed's corner. The stranger cast a quick glance his way and slipped the owner some coin, though he declined the offer of a drink.

  Reed, for his part, was looking for work but wasn't about to be caught off guard. His hand slipped subtly beneath the table, fingers finding the hilt of the short blade tucked into his boot, a prize from a recent brawl. His other hand remained on the table, idly rocking his tin mug. Ermod shuffled toward the corner, awkwardly shifting his weight as he arrived.

  "Lost?" Reed asked, his voice a low husk as he sized up his "opportunity."

  "Not exactly. May I?" Suppressing his revulsion for the grime, the man gestured toward the empty chair.

  "Go ahead."

  The man sat. He placed his hands on the table, but after inspecting the sticky surface, he jerked them back. He carefully tucked the edge of his expensive cloak under his palms before resting them again. Reed smirked.

  A delicate one. Fastidious.

  "My name is Ermod," he began awkwardly.

  "To what do I owe the pleasure, Master Ermod?" Reed looked him straight in the eye. Ermod hastily averted his gaze, clearly out of his element.

  "You see, I require assistance with a certain... matter."

  Reed grinned. They were always timid at first. The shy types you usually had to beat the payment out of later. Ermod likely thought Reed was an idiot if he believed the elf hadn't already guessed what he wanted.

  "That depends on the matter. And the kind of service you require."

  "A drastic one."

  "Ah. Someone being difficult? Not acting as Master Ermod wishes?"

  Reed could have sworn he heard Ermod's teeth grind. Men like him couldn't tolerate mockery from creatures like Reed. He would surely try to settle that score when the time came.

  "You could say that. The job is... difficult. But I pay well."

  "How well?"

  "Decently." Ermod held up several fingers. "In gold."

  "And you are willing to pay me? How do you know I'm the one you need?"

  "I don't need anyone specific. I need a ghost. Someone unknown to this city. You arrived when? A week ago? You came on foot, you speak to no one, you look like a stampede ran over you, and you sit here alone choking down that swill."

  "Well, let's assume that's true," Reed nodded. "Continue."

  "There is a certain group of individuals. Questionable sorts. I will pay you gold to eliminate their leader. Just one man, and that is all."

  "And he's so important that you risked your precious neck in this hole? Willing to pay gold for some mere bandit?" Reed squinted skeptically.

  "He is no 'mere' bandit!" Ermod flushed a shade of crimson that would shame a ripe tomato. He huffed, eventually composing himself. "Argain has suffered enough because of him."

  "Do you think I'm stupid?" Reed raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. The kreyghar coughed and cursed under his breath. A nasty smirk crossed Reed's face before he continued. "You are the one who suffered. He is an inconvenience to you. Or to whoever sent you, which is more likely. Important, 'necessary' citizens don't frequent slum taverns."

  "What are you implying?" Ermod's brow furrowed, his face flushing an even deeper shade of plum.

  "I'm just being logical."

  A heavy silence fell between them. Reed stared indifferently into his mug, while Ermod huffed with suppressed fury. The man started to stand twice, only to sink back into his seat, his indecision clear.

  "And why has this esteemed citizen offended the 'city' so grievously?" Reed finally broke the silence.

  "Business with him has become... ineffective. That is all you need to know."

  "I think I understand," Reed countered. He knew that when kreyghars like Ermod called business "ineffective," it meant someone wasn't paying their dues, or wasn't paying enough. Big money was at stake, money Ermod, or his shadow-masters, refused to lose. "Just the leader? What if I take care of the whole nest?"

  Reed watched a flash of intrigue cross the man's face. Ermod was mentally calculating the profit.

  "Then I'll double the sum. But it won't be as easy as it sounds."

  Reed smiled, already weighing the cost of a carefree life against the risk of the contract. "And if I fail?"

  "Then nothing. You die. I told you, you're free to refuse."

  Finally, Reed lifted his gaze from the swill. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the sticky table, his voice turning ice-cold and serious. "How soon must it be done?"

  "What?" Ermod's eyes widened.

  Reed sighed in weary annoyance, fixing a bored stare on his employer. "The deadline. When do you need his head?"

  "How quickly can you handle it?"

  "A few Moo... Months," Reed corrected himself, the slip of his native tongue lingering in the air.

  Ermod narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Why so long?"

  "Because I'm not a common thug. That's one. Two: you know exactly what you're asking. I can't just barge in and slaughter a warlord. I'd be dead before I could even pronounce my name—and it's not a long one, by the way. I need to find their hole. I need to become one of them. Only then do I strike."

  "And how do you intend to 'become' one of them?"

  "That's my problem," Reed chuckled. "If I take the job, of course."

  "The money isn't enough for you?" Ermod's expression darkened, his nose twitching nervously. The sight only broadened Reed's jagged smile.

  "The money is fine, but there is a condition." Reed waited until Ermod's eyebrow shot up in question. "When I give the word, you will deploy the Argain city guards."

  "Why?"

  "Because. In exchange, I'll take a smaller cut of the gold. You get the kill, you take the credit. It's nice to be a 'useful citizen,' isn't it? You'll pretend we've never met, but when the time is right, you'll mention exactly who solved your problems. For now, you'll give me everything you have on the target and half the sum upfront. Then, you're going to stand up and look very, very upset because I refused you. And you will breathe a word of our true agreement to no one."

  "Your conditions are bordering on the excessive," Ermod hissed. "Especially since I have no guarantees."

  "They would be excessive if I were just some random drifter."

  "So you say."

  "Suit yourself, then," Reed replied lazily, leaning back until his chair groaned. "But tomorrow, you'll hire some kreyghar sellsword, and the day after, another. And you'll be left with nothing but empty pockets. Rumors spread like a plague in the slums, Ermod. At this rate, you won't live to see next month. How's that for a guarantee?"

  Ermod leaned in close, his breath smelling of stale wine. "I will send a messenger with the gold and the details. Tomorrow, after sunset, at 'The Three Swords'," he whispered, then abruptly bolted upright.

  His heavy belly caught the edge of the table, sending Reed's mug crashing to the floor. Foul slop splashed everywhere. Ermod lunged, grabbing Reed's collar and pinning him against the back of his chair.

  "Choke on it!" Ermod bellowed, his hand trembling as if he were fighting the urge to strike. "Cursed elves! You're useless everywhere you go!"

  The tavern owner gaped as Ermod swept the rest of the items off the table in a simulated fit of rage. Reed, meanwhile, simply smiled through the mask of blood and bruises.