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The Black Chapel
After he had recovered from the assailing fist of human stench and noise, the warm and inviting air of the tavern beckoned Minj softly and enveloped him. He sighed deeply and almost smiled at the ‘keep behind the bar as he approached. VI
“Whatcha want?” the ‘keep asked. He was a tall and burly man with a long and beer-stained red beard that spoke more for his age than the light in his jovial eyes.
“We gots anythin’ you may desire.”
“How about a way home,” Minj muttered.
The ‘keep laughed and shook his head. “Ain’t in the travellin’ business, sailor. But what kin I get you to drink?”
“Ale,” Minj said. “Dwarven ale.”
The ‘keep raised his bushy eyebrows. “You be totin’ a good sum a’ cash ifin you kin afford a spirit such as that.” He did not wait for the reply, but smiled and disappeared. He reappeared moments later with a large flagon, and an open palm. “That’ll set you back a gold piece, sailor.”
Minj grimaced: it was a good sum of cash. But the pounding in his head was quickly turning this luxury into a necessity. He reached into his belt pouch, produced the gold coin and took the flagon with a grunt. The thick ale within was a welcome taste, and it swiftly warmed his freezing bones. He turned away from the ‘keep and looked at the rest of the bustling tavern.
A fire roared merrily in the hearth, and a half-elfin bard sat near it, lute in hand. He strummed a few experimenting chords and then launched into a light ballad. Minj had not heard it before, a simple tale of an immortal hero and an evil witch, but he really had no desire to listen tonight. The people about the bard, however, seemed thoroughly captivated. Toward the other end of the rather spacious tavern people were more engrossed with their meals, their conversation, or each other to give much notice to the music. Minj’s eyes fell upon a tall and slim figure that sat in a shadowed corner. He was dressed all in black, but not the robes that his new employer had been wearing. No one seemed to notice the man in the corner, though he seemed very intent on noticing everyone and everything.
Minj leaned back onto the bar. “Tell me,” he said to the ‘keep, “who’s that?” He motioned with his flagon to the dark figure in the corner.
The ‘keep raised his eyebrows once more. “You’re certainly not from ‘round here, man. That’s the Master of Thieves o’er there. He comes in here every couple a’ days. ‘E don’t order nuthin’, jus’ sats there in the darkest corner of th’ place, watchin’ ev’rybody. Been doin’ it fer years, since my great-grandfather was a wee lad.”
Minj swallowed with difficulty and turned to look at the figure in the corner. The Master of Thieves: that was all anyone called him. Did this man have a name? Minj looked as closely as he dared. He did not seem particularly… human. The shadow in the corner seemed to wrap itself about him as if that was where he was meant to be. A shiver streaked down Minj’s spine. The Master of Thieves. The title did not give Minj any good impressions, but it certainly seemed appropriate. His employer was either extremely brave or incredibly foolhardy. “The Master of Thieves,” he said to the ‘keep. “What does that mean?”
“Jus’ what it says, sailor.”
He would not discuss this “Master of Thieves” any further, and so Minj returned to his drink, wondering just what exactly he had gotten himself into. There was trouble – and then there was trouble.
The rude hand that slapped the half-empty flagon from his hand immediately took Minj’s thoughts from his predicament. He looked up to see two men in near rags laughing at him. “Did ya drop yer drink, stranger?” one taunted. He was taller than his friend, and far more thin. His black and greasy hair was matted close to his head, his features gaunt and drawn. “Ain’t that jus’ too bad.”
Minj snarled: the thief’s breath was rank with mead.
The other circled around to Minj’s other side and leaned against the bar. “Maybe we shoul’ buy the poor sap ‘nother,” he said.
“Naw,” the tall one said. “’Is like ain’t fit to be drinkin’ ‘long with the rest of us well-bred folk.”
Minj’s dark brown eyes narrowed to thin and angry slits. He would not be insulted by two drunken sots – two human drunken sots, especially. He had other things to worry about besides the rudeness of the locals. He made a fist and held it within a hand’s-breadth of the tall thief’s nose. “You have to the count of two to get out of my face,” he said with a growl.
“An’ if I don’t?”
“I have always wondered what a human would look like with a broken nose.”
It was the shorter thief who answered Minj’s threat – with a sharp punch to the kidneys. Minj doubled over with a grunt of pain, but stood swiftly, slamming his fist into the jaw of the taller thief. A sharp crack resounded throughout the tavern, and the man fell to the floor with a howl. Minj whirled about, fists swinging, but narrowly missed the shorter thief behind him. Perhaps these two were not as drunk as he had thought. The flash of steel in the warm light of the tavern took his mind from the sobriety of his assailants. In a single swift motion Minj dropped and rolled away from the two thieves, grasping his raq-jah as he stood facing the bar.
The two men had drawn their own weapons, short swords, and were grimacing with menace at Minj. The taller one rubbed his jaw and looked incredibly perturbed. “You sonofabitch!” he cried, and leaped at Minj. He was stopped in mid-flight, however, by the arm of a large man who had just stood from his table. The thief dropped to the floor yet again with a loud grunt – but not a moment later his companion ran the large man through.
In a few moments violence had spread through the tavern like ripples in a pond. Minj swiftly made his escape through the confusion, ducking stray punches and kicks. This was the kind of trouble he did not welcome, either. As he reached the doorway, he gave one last look at the chaotic scene. “Humans,” he spat, and turned to leave.
But a patch of midnight black in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned again to see the tall, inhuman figure of the Master of Thieves calmly treading through the mass of brawlers. People seemed to part before him like sand. Minj felt another unnatural shiver run down his spine and quickly stepped out the door. He had no desire to meet this demon of a man, fifty gold pieces or no.
“There ‘e is!” came a cry from behind Minj, and he turned with a groan- raq-jah still in hand – to see the two thieves standing upon the porch of the tavern, pointing at him. A maniacal gleam filled their eyes.
“Dunes of Ranq,” the luyj cursed. He had lost all desire to fight this night, and so ran into the nearest alley. Perhaps he could lose them.
The heavy footsteps of the thieves followed him closely, though, and to his chagrin that the alley was a dead end. The thieves slowed their chase and readied their weapons as they approached. “It’s time ta teach the stranger ‘ere a lesson,” the taller one said, still rubbing his jaw. Both men were bruised and cut, but neither gave any attention to his wounds.
“I say we gut ‘im,” the shorter thief said. “Jus’ like a fish.”
He friend nodded and grinned, revealing a set of putridly black teeth.
Minj remained silent. He crouched and placed his raq-jah defensively in front of himself, barring his own teeth fiercely.
“’E looks like some kinda dog!” the shorter thief snorted.
“Then I say we kill ‘im like the dog that ‘e is!”
With sudden motion Minj twirled about to his right, bringing himself closer to men and slicing forcefully into the shorter thief’s side. The man dropped to the ground with a scream, blood pouring from a wound that cut from his shoulder into his abdomen. Minj gave a swift kick to the other’s knee and the taller thief fell to the ground for a third time. In a moment the luyj was on top of him, and in another moment the thief’s head rolled away from his body.
Minj stood and wiped the red blood from his weapon using the thief’s shirt. Gods, what fools these humans were. He returned his raq-jah to his belt and began to walk out of the alley.
He stopped abruptly when he saw the tall black figure standing at the alley’s entrance. The Master of Thieves peered at Minj with eyes that seemed to glow with an unreal redness, and then he turned sharply and disappeared into the night. Minj stood in the alley, frozen with fear. The gaze had pierced the very depths of his soul, and it left him felling colder than even the winter air.
He left the alley walking slowly, cautiously. The winter wind seemed to whisper with the night’s shadows, a tortured and inhuman voice: “The Black Hand is closing.”
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copyright november, 1999 noah mclaughlin