Funereal Echoes

Here is one of the recently-rejected stories.

Funereal Echoes
Copyright 2018 by Breton Winters

Kabor was expecting some thugs, so he had not been sleeping, and was not surprised when he heard soft footsteps in the nighted store beyond. He silently rose from his cot, brushing his long hair back, gripping a knife and angling for a low thrust.

The leather curtains separating the potter’s shop in front from this small hall, which currently served as his bedroom, had parted. His eyes already accustomed to the gloom, he watched as three close shapes bulked against the darkness and slowly moved into this tight area; already they were nearly on top of him.

“Stop,” Kabor said.

All three froze. Then the last drew steel. The one in front said a magic word and soft green radiance filled the area.

Kabor saw a short, big-eyed man in front, who obviously had at least some degree of magical talent or equipment. The two behind him were orcs, armed and in common clothing.

Kabor said, “You have been sent by Dutt.”

“Of course. The potter has been holdin’ out on the boss,” the foremost said carefully. “She hasn’t been payin’ for our protection like she should.”

“Ella – my boss – sees it differently,” Kabor countered. “So she’s paying me for protection.”

“Don’t matter what she sees, or thinks. We’re here to collect.”

“One way or the other,” the last orc said, hefting his scimitar.

Kabor looked at the man in front and reconsidered his attack, instead gauging driving his blade through the eye and into the brain. The man’s eyes went wide, as if he could read minds or at least intent. He stepped back and motioned to his companions, but another voice interrupted them. It came from behind the thugs, from the shop itself.

“My apologies for interrupting, but I am in a hurry.” The leather curtains lifted without being manipulated, and a white glow whelmed the green. Within it stood a bright-robed, dark-skinned woman.

The last orc raised his scimitar again but the other orc, with a single white brow, grabbed his companion’s shoulder and looked furiously back and forth between the woman and Kabor. Their leader watched the newcomer and stammered, “Who…who are-”

“Best if you did not know. I am here seeking a man named Kabor; I understand he is employed by the potter.”

The leader of the three cocked an eyebrow as he quickly turned his head and regarded the nearly naked man who had stopped them and said, “Kabor? Working as a bodyguard for a potter?”

“That’s me,” he called to the woman.

“My master wishes a word with you. You will be compensated even if you decline his offer.”

“I’m busy at the moment,” Kabor said, still reviewing the most efficient means of killing the initial intruders.

“With these three fools?” Mocking laughter welled as the robed woman moved back from the curtain without moving her legs. “Leave,” she told them. “Before I disintegrate you.”

The orc again began to raise his scimitar before again being halted by the white-brow, and the man quickly said, “Sure, sure, sister. We are leaving now.” He walked past the orcs, who followed him closely. The three walked cautiously back out through the curtains, edging by the woman whose hands were raised cautiously in the air, then through and out of the shop.

“You should have killed them, or have let me do it,” Kabor said. “They’ll surely be back soon to extort Ella for their boss.”

The light dimmed a bit, then she waved her hand dismissively. “My master is the sorcerer Zhevv Ordainyo. He requires your immediate presence.”

Kabor stepped through the curtain to stand beside her. “They may return any moment. I can’t leave.”

Her tone was level. “Now. And put on some pants.”

He lit a lantern in the shop and had her cast some wards at the entrance to the pottery. Then they left for the sorcerer, with Kabor looking at every shadow.

“The wards on the door will yield to you, and completely collapse at sunrise,” she assured him.

They passed down a twisted alley and then onto Settler’s Street, heading west. He walked; she glided as often as she stepped. Her black hair was long and thick and her skin deep brown where street lanterns fell. Her eyes were black and piercing but never rested long on him, as if he was of only marginally greater interest than the sloped architecture around them.

Here that architecture of Kessarch, western-most city of the great nation of Karthia, was more pronounced, with the steep-angled roofs designed for levering the frequent rains into the brick ditches on either side of the cobbled road. These angles frequently ran into the first floor of the buildings. Many businesses catering to everyday needs and survival faced them, though most were long-dark at this time of night. A few alehouses and inns showed activity.

They merged onto Lanterns Route, past the reservoir and manicured park, where fairies played luminescent in the trees. They turned into a wet alley, passing huddled figures that ignored them, and emerged onto Weaver’s Way, and from there onto Gold Avenue, well-lit despite its being barren.

His guide took a walled lane and they came to a gate. She gestured and it squeaked open before them. Four armed skeletons stood impassively and two enormous bats bowed as she walked by. She tittered, and the bats giggled – or so Kabor judged. He followed her oddly swaying figure to an iron door set in a tower. There was face graven on it, and it was alive; its features contracted into displeasure as the eyes focused on the two of them.

“Mistress Vaizha,” it said disdainfully. “So glad to see you return.” Its exaggerated gaze swung to Kabor. “Accompanied by the killer you were to retrieve. He doesn’t inspire much confidence.”

He laughed, and she said, “Enough.”

The door scowled and swung open. They passed through into a sparse but luxurious entry hall. The statues drew Kabor’s interest; an older, more exaggerated style, of multiple figures engaged in life-or-death struggles, from warriors driving swords through one another, to desperate wrestles, to mages pushing raw power through adversaries’ skulls.

They took the stairs and two flights later came to a circular room lit weakly by blue lanterns. There was a central table and an opened, glowing book on its surface. An albino elf was leaning over the tome, but watching the duo’s approach. His teeth gleamed in the gloom.

He looked at Kabor; tall, lean, but unarmored and with only a knife.

“I was under the impression you were a stealthy warrior. With his own equipment.”

Kabor shrugged.

“And that you understood discretion.”

Kabor scratched his shoulder. “Sure.”

The sorcerer nodded as if at a private joke, and continued. “I need you to retrieve a letter that has been sent to me. It was intercepted and is now being held by a political rival, Sanjoze. I will pay you 50 silver pieces for this mission.”

“Right now?”

“…Yes.”

“I’ve heard of Sanjoze. They say he is a sorcerer, too.”

“He is a charlatan.”

“Why me and not one of your own servants?”

“I do not have any I wish to expend on this minor task.”

“50 silvers seems kinda on the cheap side. Breaking into his manor –”

“You will not need to sneak into his estate. The letter is in his office at the Civic Building, as my spy has assured me.”

“So…there are no guards there?”

“Of course there are. At every door.”

“Hmmm.” Kabor looked up at the tiled ceiling. “150 silvers, and let me borrow a magic weapon from you.”

Zhevv Ordainyo’s thin body shook as he emitted a rhythmic hissing. Laughter? He gestured at Kabor. “You think I keep an arsenal of mystic weapons?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged again.

The sorcerer stared a moment, then nodded. “I do have a few charmed axes or whatnot I have gathered over the…years. So this will be your payment: 50 silvers, and your choice from among these trinkets to keep.”

Kabor was about to name a different price, then reflected upon the finality in the sorcerer’s voice. So he said instead, “Deal. Now tell me about the Civic Building.”

Five minutes later he stood beside Vaizha in a long-unopened room. A few shelves held flasks and books and boxes and tubes; one held a few weapons. A thick layer of dun dust coated everything.

“These are not particularly powerful items, eh?” he asked.

“I have never been in here, so I cannot be certain. But that is a reasonable conclusion.” She held a single piece of papyrus. “The weapons are inventoried on this page. I see six items here.”

Kabor looked at the shelf. A whip and a spearhead he dismissed instantly. That left a gladius, a kukri, a hatchet, and a small hammer. Nothing with reach – except the whip, which he’d probably wrap around his own neck. “Is it safe to touch these things?”

She laughed.

He reached for the kukri, brushing the dust off the sheath in blankets. He drew it gleamingly, appreciating the fine edge, and noticed a rune near the hilt on the right side of the blade. The weight was perfect, the heft felt natural. His gray eyes brightened.

“What does the paper say about this one?”

“Um…taken from a thief 73 years ago. The blade is magically strengthened and sharp. No other notes.”

“Sounds good.” He reached for the hatchet. An electric shock jolted his hand and it fell to the floor from nerveless fingers. “What the seven hells…”

“Um…cursed,” she said, brow furrowed as she intently read the parchment. “There is a magic word to bypass it…difficult to read this handwriting…”

“I see. With this magic word, does it cast thunder bolts, or something?”

“Yes. Er, no,” she said, squinting. “Not sure…looks like he lost interest in this one.”

“Can you make out the word?”

She tried, and he repeated it, then touched the hatchet again. It felt warm to the touch, but did not shock him. He picked it up and set it into his belt, along with the kukri. “I’ll take these two with me in service to your master, and return the one that I don’t want to keep.”

“He’s not my master,” she said. He had a retort about semantics, but decided it was best if he said nothing.

Fifteen minutes later he was almost to the Civic Building when, emerging from a shadowed alley ahead, three figures stepped into his path. A short human and two orcs.

He sighed. “I really don’t have time for this. But…perhaps it is best I kill you guys here, rather than back at Ella’s, where we’d break a bunch of pottery.”

The man chuckled. “The boss is sending another crew to rough up the place. But I told him about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Dutt remembers you, Kabor. He wants you dead. So he sent us to do it right.”

“He remembers me? From what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” The orcs behind the man snickered and drew their scimitars.

Kabor drew the kukri and said the magic word as he drew the hatchet. It sheened purple. “Well, I honestly don’t recall why your boss has it in for me, but no matter. He is about to lose two crews tonight. That sorceress left some magic wards your comrades will be stumbling into.”

One orc came forward hefting his heavy blade eagerly, but the short man held up his hand. “Wait,” he said to his warriors, as his brow worked furiously with thought. Then he backed away, motioning the orcs to follow. They did so hesitatingly, then ran after him as he cursed their slowness and said something about the magic wards.

Kabor turned back to the Civic Building.

It was empty this time of night, save a few guards strolling its halls and circling outside in weary patrol. He timed their rounds, then took his opportunity. He sprinted across a space and leapt for a thin ledge outlining the second floor. His fingers gripped and he hauled himself up, pressing against the wall with difficulty. He inched his way to the window he sought. He drew a leather pouch the sorcerer had given him and he removed the cap and swung it at the window. A thick whitish powder blossomed against the open space, and it revealed three beams of force, upright as bars would be. These rapidly dimmed in the powder, and when gone Kabor experimentally stuck the kukri through the window. When nothing ill occurred, he quickly drew himself into the room beyond just as the unknowing guards appeared below on their circuit.

“Well. Sanjoze knew the elf would try for the letter.” It was a bass voice that rumbled the floor, made of overlaid funereal echoes. There was a lantern burning lowly on a table in the book-cased room. Beside it stood a heavy, dark presence. Headless but still a foot or more taller than he, and three times as thick. It had the semblance of a face in the middle of its torso, and four tentacles radiating outward. Its legs were thin and bent backwards like a rooster’s. The odor was of the grave and the sewer. “I had hoped the albino would show himself, but no matter. I will visit him momentarily.”

“Er…no idea who you are referring to.” Kabor said, eyes darting about him for some means of escape. “I’m just here looking for the water closet.”

“A poor choice for final words,” the creature boomed as a tentacle shot out. Kabor arched his back and it passed over his head. He lashed out with the kukri. The rubbery flesh deflected it away and nearly out of his grip, though the magic edge left a slimed groove.

Another tentacle whipped out and as he dodged it, yet another belted him. He felt ribs crack as he was smacked into the wall. Chunks of plaster fell away as he slumped to the floor. All he could see were bright spots, and darkness.

He tried to roll along the wall but a tentacle wrapped around his leg and slung him to the other side of the room. Again the impact stunned him and he struggled to clear his head of pain and fog. He tried to grip the kukri but it was gone. He saw the table near him and scrambled dizzily toward it.

It was effortlessly picked up and set gently aside without disturbing the lighting, and the being from the void bulked over him. Kabor looked up and saw several new eyes forming in its vivid flesh, regarding him with cold mirth.

“There was never a letter.” The voice thundered over him. “That was a trap Sanjoze laid for Zhevv Ordainyo, feeding information directly to the clumsy spy. He then summoned me to await the elf – who it seems is a coward. So I will now rip your soul from your flesh, and then seek out your master.”

Kabor slowly staggered to his feet in this expository respite, hunched over his right side and keeping it away from the creature. His right hand was at his belt. “Not…my master…”

“I can already taste your soul…Kabor…Kabor of Kulwahr. You are…in love with a dead woman.” It snickered. “Delicious.” The tentacles swirled back for a mighty blow. “Do you wish to utter a better epitaph, now?”

Kabor said the magic word and the hatchet was in his hand. He thought he heard the creature gasp and he repeated it as he hurled the cleaver into the wide maw in the center of the black torso. The weapon flared green radiance as it disappeared, and the monstrosity staggered back and belched blue blood. It flopped against the wall and sunk down. Kabor watched it stick a tentacle into its orifice and draw the hatchet out. He repeated the word, hoping for more power, but its glow was gone. The creature quivered against the wall, but offered no other movement.

Kabor stretched; he felt the few broken ribs, and a massively bruised shoulder, but he was better off than he had thought. He saw his kukri and picked it up, then faced his foe.

“There was no letter, in truth?” he asked. The creature gave no indication it had heard him; the various eyes were unfocused and its mouth leaked a foul fluid. It quivered but it settled ever more gradually towards immobility.

Kabor heard a curse from an adjoining room, and he sprung and thrust open a door. A tapestried waiting hall; in the center was a bearded man in a flamboyant tunic.

“Sanjoze,” Kabor laughed.

The man looked fearfully at Kabor and began a gesture, but after a wave from the kukri he thought better of it. At his feet was a pentagram in blood, and in its center was a statuette of the monster in the other room. Black candles stood at the five points.

“What happens if I free the fetish of the pentagram?”

“That…that depends on if the body is still alive.”

Kabor reflexively massaged his ribs, then winced at his absent-mindedness. “It might be alive, I can’t tell.” After a moment’s thought, he kicked two candles away from the symbol. There was a roar from the other room, which died suddenly as if ripped from the air, followed by a vaster, unspeakably foul stench. This rapidly faded, and then nothing.

He looked in the other room and saw only a vile stain where the creature had slumped. He touched the hatchet, and realized its enchantment was gone. He took it to Sanjoze and cleaned off the gore on his expensive tunic. Then Kabor said, “I will take you to Zhevv Ordainyo, and you can explain to him about the letter’s non-existence.”

Sanjoze’s eyes went wide.

They left by the front door, the surprised guard recognizing Sanjoze, eyeing the extra-planar gore on his garb but waving him by as Kabor smiled. They walked in silence down the empty streets until they came to the walled alley. The gate swung open and the skeletons stood unmoving and the two bats tittered excitedly at them. He pushed his prisoner into the courtyard and toward the faced door. It sneered at their approach and said to Kabor, “Some killer you turned out to be. He still lives.”

“Indeed.”

Then a confused look came over the door’s features and it swung open. Vaizha stood there, glancing between the two of them. He shoved Sanjoze into the entry and cautiously followed.

“This is unexpected,” she said. “I am not sure Zhevv Ordainyo will be pleased.”

“Things got complicated.” When that seemed insufficient, he said, “It was supposed to be a trap. There was no letter. This ‘charlatan,’ as your boss called him, had summoned a demon, expecting the sorcerer, himself, to show.”

“Oh?”

“A shogthii,” Sanjoze volunteered.

Vaizha’s brows arched in disbelieving curiosity.

“Anyway, I killed it,” Kabor continued. “I decided it would be best if the sorcerer heard it all from him directly.” He set the hatchet down on a table. “I’ll keep the kukri, and take my payment now. I have to get back to the pottery.”

She looked at them in silence.

The elf had not been happy, for multiple reasons: the letter having been a fake; Kabor having taken two weapons and one proving to be powerful but losing its enchantment; that the shogthii would have come directly to him so he could capture and study it, but Kabor had killed it instead; and some other things Kabor did not understand. But after bearing the sorcerer’s wrath, he got a hundred silvers and both weapons he had wielded.

Zhevv Ordainyo had asked sarcastically if he desired anything else. He said, “A kiss from Vaizha.” She had grinned and obliged and as their lips touched he was paralyzed. Her pointed teeth had grooved his lips and her serpentine tongue strangled his, drawing their skulls close in crimson froth before she spat him away.

She had stood over him, smearing the blood from her lips and asking, “How about another?” He had agreed but they levitated him out of the tower, and as his movement had returned the bats had half-heartedly harried him into the walled alley.

Now he approached Ella’s pottery. The pouch of silver was tied down tightly so as not to jingle.

Four figures were gathered in front of the entrance; a fifth lay still in front of the open doorway. The small human leader he had encountered twice before on this night was trying a variety of gestures, evidently in an attempt to counter the wards that Vaizha had placed. The two orcs were with him, steel bared, as was a dwarf.

Kabor hurled a brick down the street, and then another. When the first hit he broke into a stride; when the second hit the thugs were looking in the direction the first had sounded from. He should have made the door, but one orc, the one who had twice been ready to die hacking, heard the slight clink of the coins and spun, ready to strike after earlier frustrations.

Kabor ducked under his swing, grunting at the surging pain in his side, and rose behind the momentum. He chopped into the orc’s exposed neck and then was past and into the pottery.

A wail came from the outside; the orc with the white brow. Kabor knew the orcish language of the tribes and nations west of Karthia; but these words were unfamiliar, save “brother.” He wondered if he had made a lifetime mistake. If the past was any indication…

The short man yelled.

The dwarf, in a loincloth and with a mace in each hand, bellowed, “See! The ward has fallen! It was spent after killing Jed!” as he pointed one weapon toward Kabor across the threshold. He sprinted forward, and at the doorway a sheet of lightning enveloped him. It flared out with the same suddenness. Though dead after passing through it, the dwarf forced Kabor to parry two strikes before the body crumpled into a large purple-glazed planter. He winced as it shattered.

“Kabor,” Dutt’s man from outside yelled. “Listen!”

He remained in the shadows in case either of them had a missile weapon. His broken ribs infuriated him. “Both of you will die,” he called out.

The orc was shrieking his misery over his brother’s death, possibly getting ready to charge through the door, despite what had happened to the dwarf and the fifth figure lying still in the street.

The man said, “Talk to Dutt! He said he would be willing to forgive you, and hire you again.”

There were some times in Kabor’s life that were difficult to recall because of alcohol or narcotics, when he was younger or in grief, but he was certain he had never been in this city, much less working for Dutt. Again the pain of his ribs fouled his mood. His bloody lips hurt, too. “Dutt can piss the hell off. And if he doesn’t leave Ella alone I’ll kill him.”

“You owe him an audience. Come with me; you will not be harmed.”

The orc surged to the threshold of the door and the leader called to him. Kabor threw out some taunts in the orcish dialects he knew, trying to get the orc to launch across the lethal doorway. But somehow the leader calmed him and he stepped back, showing no further response to any of Kabor’s profanity.

“Last chance, Kabor. If you don’t come with me, we’ll be back in a few hours with all of the boss’s soldiers; including some mages that will lower this ward.”

A few hours from now would be past dawn; the ward would be gone, anyway.

A faint footfall behind and he spun with a weapon in either hand – but it was Ella. A large woman, she was in her gown and held a candle in one hand, a clay disc in the other. She looked at the dead dwarf and the two bodies before her door.

“Sorry about the planter,” he whispered.

From outside a new voice sounded. “You will not even do me the dignity of facing me.” Kabor looked out and saw a thin man in a cloak approaching from an alley across the street. “After I treated you like a brother, and you betrayed me.”

“Dutt.” Kabor was a little surprised, as he had heard the “protector” of these blocks never made an appearance, only acting through his thugs. “Look, I have no idea what you think happened in the past, but it wasn’t me.”

As Dutt stopped near the doorway, the hood fell away and an elder man looked back, with hollow cheeks and eyes that blazed blue in the night. “Step closer,” he said. “It is difficult to see you in the shadows of the shop.”

Kabor took a few cautious steps forward, then Dutt gasped.

“This is not Kabor!” He turned on his henchman. “You know he would be almost as old as me!”

The man’s reply was slightly shrill. “Well I knew he seemed young…but he said his name was Kabor! And the sorceress I told you about believed him!”

Dutt looked again at Kabor then sneered in disgust and turned away.

Kabor almost laughed at the mistaken identity, but instead focused on his job. He felt confident.

“If you do not leave Ella alone,” he called out, “I will kill the rest of your men. And then you.”

Dutt gave no indication he heard and vanished back down the alley. The white-browed orc picked up his dead brother, glaring at Kabor, and followed the lieutenant who followed Dutt.

He looked at the dwarf and at the other body in the street. His boss touched his arm.

“Will he send more men?” Ella asked. She was shaking. “Or is this over?”

“Not over yet,” Kabor said. He thought about having to look over his shoulder for years, waiting for that orc to attempt vengeance. Despite his ribs, he had to end that threat tonight – and send a meaningful message to Dutt.

He dropped his pouch of silver at the warded threshold. “Don’t touch this or you’ll die like that dwarf or the other idiot in the street,” he told her as he stepped outside. She replied but he was not listening.

He reached the dirt alley at a run and hoped to take the orc unawares, but he was heard. The orc dropped his brother and drew his scimitar before Kabor could quick-kill him. Steel rang and sparked blue in the alley. Kabor had no reach with his weapons but he was fast and attacked from several angles, drawing blood with three shallow strikes. The orc ignored his wounds as Kabor ignored his ribs; but the scimitar would eventually get past Kabor’s guard if this continued.

The weapons in his hands turned ice cold and Kabor dropped them, falling back quickly; he saw the short man behind the now-smiling orc. He must have cast a spell on the weapons.

“Now you die,” the man leered as the orc closed.

The orc loomed over him for a fatal swing. When it came, Kabor leaned swiftly left and the blade bit into the soil. He grabbed the orc’s throat and pulled with his right hand as his left drew his old knife. The orc dropped his blade and they wrestled briefly before Kabor’s knife thrusts found home.

The orc slid to the narrow ground and Kabor looked for the magelet; gone. He picked up his weapons, and the scimitar. He looked at the two dead brothers as several shapes cautiously entered the alley. They shrunk away as he left for the potter’s.