CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EILISH
Grimreap
Shadow Realm
We stop walking when we reach the city gates of Grimreap. There’s a heavy wind that pummels us, howling a doleful melody that seems somehow foreshadowing. I’m afraid.
“Eilish,” Dragan whispers from where he walks beside me. I glance over at him. “I will protect you,” he reassures me.
I smile at him and give him a quick and grateful nod, but fear continues to weigh my feet down until I feel like I’m trudging through tar.
Cambion marches ahead of us, up to the towering stone wall where he extends his arm out in front of him and touches one of the smooth rocks. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply.
“What the hell’s he doin’?” Flumph asks from within my cloak.
“He’s absorbing the essence of those of his kin who came before him,” Dragan responds.
“Why?” Flumph continues.
“To bolster his strength.”
“What, he like absorbin’ their spirits or somethin’?”
Dragan nods but doesn’t take his eyes off Cambion. “Yes.”
Cambion touches the wall for another three minutes or so before he returns to us. When he does, he appears different. The constant exhaustion which claimed him in the forest is now completely vacant, and in its place is a much more alert and strengthened Seelie King.
“I will illusion myself and Thoradin,” Dragan explains to Cambion as the two face each other. “You focus on yourself and Eilish.”
Cambion nods and then approaches me, holding his hands together until dancing embers ignite between them once again. The warmth of his hands radiates against my skin, bathing me in a balmy cocoon that feels like heaven in this dank, cold place.
“It’s done,” he says as he faces Dragan.
“Then we continue into Grimreap,” Dragan answers.
Dragan’s Mask of Many Faces isn’t quite what I expected. He still looks exactly the same. “Are you going to disguise yourself?” I ask.
He faces me and smiles, and it changes his entire countenance. In fact, I don’t remember seeing him smile before. It’s an expression that suits him; he’s beyond handsome.
“Look away, and when you do, try to remember what I look like,” he says.
I do as he instructs but when I look back at him, I’m confused. It’s as if my mind is suddenly muddled. He’s unrecognizable, simply because I can’t seem to understand the lines of his face. I can see that he’s standing there, but my mind makes no connection to him. It’s like repeating a word so many times that it begins to lose meaning, until all that exists is the sound of the word itself, separate from its denotation. When I look at Thoradin, I find the same is true.
I have no mirror to see what Cambion’s done to me, but judging by the others’ reactions, the job is adequate. My robe is now dark gray and my hair is purple. My skin is the color of soot. Cambion is different, too, in a heavily hooded cloak with shoulder-length red hair spilling out from beneath it. His skin is now the color of an olive, and his face is completely unrecognizable.
Dragan gazes warily at the city walls. “Let’s go,” he says, his voice dark. “Stay close to me and say nothing.”
***
BARON
Grimreap
Shadow Realm
Poisons, such as the ones I use to complete most of my jobs, can be difficult to come by. Blue Dragon Juice , for example, is one of the most difficult essences in the world to acquire—if you don’t know where to go. But there exists a black market, where one can find the most rare and precious commodities if one only knows where to look.
The vast majority of venoms I use for my charges are expensive and challenging to locate, not to mention highly illegal. According to Variant’s edicts, possession of the venom is punishable by death.
But fuck Variant and fuck his edicts.
Death as punishment is laughable to me. Life as punishment is a far more intimidating sentence. Perhaps that’s why I chose to make a name for myself as the harbinger of death ; I no longer fear it. Waking up in the grave does something to you—it changes your philosophy on life and death. As does being immortal.
With my poison stores running low, I need to restock before my next job. Even though I know where to go, it doesn’t make the mission any more appealing. Most black-market vendors work in the town of Grimreap—a vile place, home to the worst sorts of criminals and low-lives. It’s taken years to build a name for myself there, but even now, run into a feuding gang that doesn’t respect your connections, and you’ll be in for a rough time.
Necessary, though, all the same.
An assassin is nothing without his tools.
***
BARON
The journey to Grimreap is never an easy one. The road is peppered with thieves and dangerous beasts roam the forests on either side, looking to surprise unsuspecting passersby. The conditions become even worse as you approach the town’s entrance. From there, the town has a heartbeat of its own, kept alive by the collective souls that sustain it. Not fae nor mortal nor shadow, Grimreap is a melting pot of any and everything unsavory. It exists without law or master. It is, itself, an undead, a creature roused from the pits of despair just as I was.
It is mid-afternoon by the time I arrive at the city gates, but the clouds stay dark and ominous overhead, skewing all sense of time. They promise a storm that will never come. Grimreap exists in shadow, everything cast in a constant state of darkness.
The old city is the same dark gray as the sky above it. The stones of the city walls bear scorch marks from long ago, hinting at the battle that was waged here. A battle between light and dark… A day so violent, it has lived on forever… or so I am told.
The remaining stone-wall structure is impressive, with spires that rise one hundred feet into the air and an arch so high, you must tilt your head to see the top. The deathly spikes of the wrought iron gates settle like a guillotine over the city’s entrance. Aptly nicknamed The City of Death , Grimreap sets off an alarm in the senses of all those who enter.
Within its limits, my instincts are suddenly on high alert. I feel the extreme need to flee, every fiber of my being warning me to the dangers that surround me.
The streets are damp and filthy, just as the people themselves, all bustling and unfriendly. Grimreap attracts all manner of creatures: deformed demons buying love from establishments that cater to their most carnal desires, escaped criminals, the banished insane, and black-market peddlers, to name a few. If you need someone killed, if you have a frowned- upon sexual fetish, or if you’re after a loan repayable with your soul, Grimreap is the place to come.
The main street, a dirt road, is alive with stalls and the hollers of those selling their wares. The town smells like shit, refuse building up along each side of the narrow road and streams of piss snaking through the rutted lane, fogging up the freezing air with urine ghosts. Feral creatures, both magical and not, wander the alleys, searching for food wherever they can find it. What buildings still remain are now just facades of crumbling stone, decimated so many years ago by the war that pitted light against dark—something that has come to be known as the Singularity .
Shrunken heads dangle from strings on a nearby cart. I watch the man selling them, an orc, as he places what look like dog teeth into the mouth of one of the heads, making it more grotesque than it already is.
Beside his cart are a few cages. Inside them are tigers, crocodiles, and apes. Behind these nonmagical beasts, in even larger cages, are all manner of monsters: a manticore, a sickly albino dragon, and two broken hippogriffs. All look extremely worse for wear. The manticore, usually a stunning beast with the body of a big cat and the imposing tail of a scorpion, appears blind in one eye. It suffers from mange and bears deep gashes from being whipped.
The hippogriffs are in even worse shape. With the body of an eagle atop the legs of a magnificent horse, these creatures are typically strong and proud. These specimens, though, reveal wings that are clipped. One of the hippogriffs has unnaturally bent legs, leading me to believe both hind legs are broken. Each is covered in scars; their eyes have the clouded look of something that has long ago given up. Their emaciated bodies are pressed tightly against the bars of their cells, where they lay in a bed of their own feces. The smell is vile, worse than a corpse left to rot, contributing to the overall smell of death that haunts the air in Grimreap.
“They have a taste for flesh,” says the greasy animal handler, an ogre who’s as tall as he is wide. He smiles at me with toothless, brown, infected gums. His hair is thin but thick with grease, slicked back to expose a high forehead and flesh filled with large pits from Atacomite overuse. Atacomite addicts all look the same, with missing teeth, bulging veins, pits in their flesh.
With my highly-tuned vampire sense of smell, I catch a whiff of him. His blood is rancid, like meat or cheese left in the sun. He smells worse than his animals.
“Not in the market for what you’re selling today,” I tell him, my voice low as I don’t wish to attract attention.
“They won’t eat you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I’m not. But I don’t respond. Instead, I’m irritated with myself that I haven’t wrapped myself in shadows to avoid interacting with these lowlifes. It has become my custom to hide myself in darkness before I venture into Grimreap and yet, this trip, I’ve forgotten to take this precaution. I’m surprised—I’m usually anything but scatter-brained. Well, as far as my memory will allow me to remember, that is.
I can’t recall anything before the day I awoke in the graveyard and became what I am today. What I’ve been for the past one hundred years.
Yes, this is an odd blunder. But perhaps it’s not that surprising, considering there’s been something in the air for the past few days. I can’t quite put my finger on just what that something is, but I can feel it all the same: A certain portentous energy that wasn’t there before.
One of the first lessons I’ve learned as a master assassin is to trust my instincts, because they have never failed me. And my instincts have been on high alert recently, warning me that something is coming. Something significant.
The ogre fishes an item out of his pocket: a long, thin whistle. There are curious engravings on it.
“What’s that?” I ask, somewhat disappointed in myself. I know better than to engage while I’m here, but curiosity gets the better of me.
“Fear,” he answers with a cryptic laugh, then raises the whistle to his mouth and blows. The cages nearby rattle as the creatures within them shift uncomfortably. One moans, the sound reminding me of the banshees’ wail, the lingering melody that haunts the Raven Forest.
“They’re trained never to attack whoever possesses the whistle,” the ogre tells me. “Your enemies, however, they won’t be so lucky.”
When he moves closer to me, his stench is so strong I have to take a step back. I shake my head to let him know I’m still not interested. Then I wrap myself in shadows before continuing along the main entrance of Grimreap, passing a plethora of stalls selling everything from the illegal to the dangerous. I stock up on some secondary poisons: Draught of Living Death , and chloride which I can use to make a number of toxic concoctions. Explosives, too.
Before concluding my business for the night, I make my way into a crowded tavern called “The Sunken Sword”. Although I don’t thirst, or require use of the tavern’s facilities, I’m after information. And lurking in the corner of a tavern is one of the best ways to eavesdrop and learn news from around the realms.
I make it my business to know Variant’s business.
I walk up to the bar, manned by a particularly ugly troll. Half of his face is caved in, obliterating one of his eyes and dragging part of his mouth down. He has to ask me what I want three times, because it’s difficult for him to speak and even more difficult for me to understand. I order a tankard of ale and when he hands it to me, I notice his hands are huge and his fingers are covered in hair. I pay for the drink and eye it warily; it looks like piss.
Then I find a small, inconspicuous table in the corner of the main room. I take a seat, being careful to wrap myself in shadows yet again. Leaning back, I listen.
There is endless conversation echoing around me. A blood elf informs his companion about a woman he found along the road and the sadistic sexual things he did to her. Listening to his story makes me want to subject him to the tortuous death of Rotting Worm Venom . The inky, black liquid rots away flesh and bone, melting sinew and boiling the blood.
But if I went after every rapist in Grimreap, I’d have a full-time job. Besides, it’s important to preserve my arsenal of poisons, which are rare and expensive. Perhaps it’s more fitting to say I’m no hero, nor do I claim to be. I keep to myself and that’s the way I like it.
Finally, I hear something that piques my interest.
“… Crongus fucked an angel over at Anona’s,” says a load, boasting voice from a nearby table. I turn at the sound to see an arrogant, if especially ugly, were-rat relaxed over his stein. He’s in his animal form, the form most shapeshifters choose to take while in Grimreap. It’s easier to remain unidentifiable and under the radar that way—a rat is more difficult to detail than a person.
“Bullshit, Crongus fucked an angel,” replies his companion—another were-rat, this one just as hideous with his long snout, beady yellow eyes, matted brown fur, and long, stained teeth.
“I guess, technically, he just started to but then he got interrupted.”
The second were-rat shakes his head staunchly. “I still say Crongus lied and you’re a gullible dumbass to believe ‘em, Dranmore. There ain’t been an angel in one o’ them lower precincts in years. An’ everyone knows if you see an angel, you gotta turn her over ta Variant.”
“Will you let me finish my fuckin’ story, Olegad?” asks Dranmore.
“Go ahead, but it ain’t nothin’ but bullshit.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t,” Dranmore responds.
“Then fuckin’ get to the point!” demands Olegad.
Dranmore nods and doesn’t appear offended by his companion’s surly tone. “When Crongus was about ta get to the poundin’ part, he said this huge fuckin’ gargoyle burst into the room and almost made Crongus shit his pants!”
“A gargoyle?” Olegad repeats, clearly doubting the story. “They ain’t been seen in years, neither. Not since Variant forced ‘em into the Gorge for good.”
“Just listen, fuckface!” Dranmore takes a sip of what’s probably ale.
“I’m listenin’,” Olegad grumbles.
“So the gargoyle bursts in an’ just takes the girl, bed linens an’ all, an’ walks out wiff her!” Dranmore doesn’t appear any less excited to tell the story, even as Olegad rolls his eyes. He continues. “My man Crongus ain’t one to let coin go to waste, so he grab the gargoyle an’ fuckin’ socks him right in the face!”
“Crongus socked a gargoyle?” Olegad shakes his head and laughs.
“Crongus said he was a big fella, too, but he passed right the fuck out after just one hit!” Olegad continues to laugh, but Dranmore isn’t finished yet. “Crongus sees the gargoyle’s unconscious but knows it ain’t gonna be for long. Still, Crongus fucks the girl real good then gets the hell outta there. ‘No angel’s good enough to fight an angry gargoyle twice,’ he says.”
“Shit,” Olegad laughs.
“Then Variant’s guards get there, o’ course, owin’ to his latest edict. So Crongus gets caught an’ spends the night in the dungeon. But he say it was worth it for the most legendary finish he ever had.”
“Bull fuckin’ shit, your friend hit a gargoyle,” says another man at an adjacent table when Dranmore finishes his story. “And no one who sees the inside of Variant’s dungeon ever lives ta tell ‘bout it!”
“Are you callin’ me a liar?” accuses Dranmore as he eyes the stranger narrowly.
“No, I’m callin’ yer friend a liar. You’re just the dumbass who believed him!”
There’s the sound of wood scraping against the stone floor as Dranmore and Olegad slide their chairs away from the table and stand up. The eavesdropper does the same and it looks like a standoff. A few seconds later, though, a full-out brawl erupts. Dranmore hits the eavesdropper so hard that the crack of his shattering nose rises above the high-volume level of the tavern. I see a few heads turn, but owing to the other two fights going on simultaneously, no one seems very interested.
As to Dranmore’s story, I, too, have a difficult time believing it. For starters, Olegad was right—gargoyles aren’t exactly commonplace. Furthermore, it wouldn’t be a wise decision to go up against one. I’ve come across a few and hitting one is a probable death sentence. If you’ve ever hit solid stone, you can imagine the feeling.
Still, the story alarms me. While I’m certain it’s been exaggerated, I’ve come to find that even the most ridiculous accounts still contain a kernel of truth. It’s just a matter of sorting the wheat from the chaff.
It’s not only the mention of a gargoyle that strikes me. Angels, too, are very rare. No one’s seen a male in over one hundred years, not since the Great War when Variant had them all destroyed, save himself. And the females appear to be headed for a similar fate, sightings of them continuing to be few and far between. With Variant’s newest edict, any and all females are to be returned to him. Even though the edict doesn’t explain why, I think it’s fairly obvious.
Crongus knocking out a gargoyle is clearly a lie, but why mention the gargoyle’s presence in the first place? Especially when it’s not as though gargoyles are seen with any regularity. They’ve been banished to the Gorge for as long as anyone can remember. Additionally, Anona’s precinct exists in the mortal plane—a realm a gargoyle wouldn’t dare enter. Not when Variant cursed them into turning to stone when they venture outside the shadow realm. No, a gargoyle would never take his chances in the mortal plane unless… unless there really was an angel.
The whole story appears too farfetched, too unbelievable, too ridiculous. Then why am I still considering it?
You’re not, I tell myself and continue scanning the tables for other bits of news from the realms.
That’s when I see them, a group of four travelers sitting at a table across from me. They lean over bowls of soup and eat as though they haven’t seen food for days. There’s nothing necessarily interesting about them and yet, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that there is something interesting about them, indeed.
The End