 
# Tales of Marik Hammerhand

#

# REVOLUTION IS MY NAME

#

# Two Free Short Stories By

#

# Mike Chinakos
Copyright © 2012 Mike Chinakos

The Broad, the Bastard and the Bottle Copyright © 2011

Dragon Days Copyright © 2012

www.mikechinakosauthor.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover photo-art Copyright © 2009 Jawalls.com

The 'Prelude' excerpt from Hollywood Cowboys (Copyright © 2010) can be found in e-book editions and print copy.

# THE BROAD, THE BASTARD AND THE BOTTLE

To say the broad had legs that went up to her neck didn't do her justice. Then again, all of the Elderkin tower over me like slender mountain pines to a stunted desert cactus.

Some might claim I'm as every bit prickly and unforgiving as the spines of the aforementioned cactus. But when this dame sauntered into my small office located above the bustling Broken Unicorn Tavern, my usual surly mood quickly dissolved.

Throughout the Ten Realms, even the ugliest of the Elderkin are beauties worth going to war over. Even the beauty of their men might make the most hardened knight do a double take when they walked into a bar. This broad though... she glowed with a beauty that even the best magical glamour couldn't hope to match.

With a grace befitting all of the Elderkin, she glided across the stale rushes of the floor, pulled up the chair on the far side of my cluttered desk, and crossed those long lithe legs as she took her seat. The red velvet dress she wore parted, allowing her to cross her left leg over the knee of her right. The tip of a soft black, high-heeled shoe rested gently against my desk. Her legs were pale porcelain against the deep red of the dress.

My eyes followed those legs up her athletic torso, taking in small breasts and arms covered in long black silk gloves. The dress ended in a high collar, caressing her long neck. Her sharp aquiline facial features were equally as pale as her legs. Full red lips smiled at me like we shared some sort of unspoken secret connection. Golden eyes took in the room like she owned it. Candlelight reflected from her bald head, except for where her clan tattoos had been inked. Gold and silver studded, or hung, from every inch of her pointed ears as was the custom of her people.

All in all, even my jaded soul couldn't deny the raw sexual energy she exuded. I wanted her—even with all the past mistakes I had made thinking with my dick—at the moment she walked into my office.

I had no idea who the hell she was, or what she would want with a dwarf like me.

I found myself staring, my bearded jaw hanging slack like some dim-witted court jester.

She raised an eyebrow at me as she reached a gloved hand inside a small silk purse.

"Do you have a light for a girl, or do you always sit there gawking at potential clients like that?"

A thin brown cigarillo had appeared in black-gloved nimble fingers.

My senses coming back to me, I pushed the burning candle to her side of the desk. She leaned forward, lighting the cigarillo in its flame. The smell of cloves and cinnamon filled my office as she exhaled a slow steady stream of smoke. I admit it smelled better than the stale beer, mildew and assorted stenches blowing in through the room's one window. During the dragon days of summer, the streets of the Warren stank like the latrine of a hill giant's lair. The again, to someone obviously from the better parts of the fine city of Land's End, the seedy back alleys and muddy streets of the Warren always held a certain undeniable odor of decay and corruption.

"Ashtray?" she asked.

"The floor."

"Do you have a drink for a girl?"

"For a girl? Yes. For a lady like you? Probably nothing suitable to your taste."

Blowing more sweet smelling smoke, the broad laughed lightly. Her voice echoed off the low ceiling. The sound of her laughter sent a shiver down my short spine.

"My name is Genivisa," she told me.

I stood, coming to eye level with the seated Elderkin, and extended my meaty right hand in greeting. "Hammerhand. Marik Hammerhand."

"I know very well who you are, Mr. Hammerhand."

Taking my seat again, I nodded at her.

"I would guess that you would. We don't see too many members of higher society down here in the Warren. I have to assume you sought me out."

More smoke filled the room as she flicked ashes onto my dirty floor.

"You've garnered somewhat of a reputation outside of the Warren with your handling of the incident concerning the Jade Falcon. Recovering that particular treasure for Prince Justin has your name on the lips of many in the Royal Court."

Not to mention the lips of thieves and assassins from one part of the city to the next, I wanted to add.

"So my reputation precedes me. Even in the better parts of town."

"Marik Hammerhand," the broad smiled, "descended from the Hammerhand Clan of the Iron Mountains. The last dwarven clan with the blood of kings flowing in their veins. Your forefathers were great warriors and wise rulers. Fierce and proud in battle. Before they bent their knee to the King Who Conquered the Ten Realms. Your clan has continued in the service of His Majesty for decades now."

More cigarillo smoke drifted through the air. "You chose a different path, Mr. Hammerhand.You did ten years as a merchant marine; that in of itself is a surprising choice for a dwarf. After that, you spent three years as a scout for the mercenary band called the Bloody Sons. You found your way into the service of the Duke of Sunderly as his Master of Whispers. After that, you decided to sell your skills learned as a scout and a spy to any who had the gold. "You call yourself an investigative specialist."

If the broad had been trying to shake me up—get a reaction out of me—I wouldn't give her the satisfaction. None of what she knew about me could be considered a secret. Though her demeanor reminded me again why no matter how beautiful she might be, I really don't like Elderkin very much.

I leaned back in my chair, clasping my hands behind my head. "I prefer the term Paid Investigator. P.I. if you like."

She nodded and smiled. "Call it what you will. People come to you with problems. You solve them for money."

"Everybody has problems, lady," I said, feeling my surliness returning.

Beauty or not, her Elderkin better-than-thou attitude had started rubbing me the wrong way. I hadn't dealt directly with one of the Elderkin race in a number of years. I began to remember why.

"But not everyone has pockets as deep as I do, Mr. Hammerhand."

From within her purse, the broad pulled out a large leather bag. It clinked as she dropped it on my table. I didn't have to open it to know there was a lot of gold in that bag. I've got good ears. I can hear a gold piece drop into a pile of horse dung at a hundred yards, and tell you if it's real or not. I wondered what else she had hidden in the obviously enchanted silk purse.

"I didn't get your name." I told her, unclasping my hands, resting them on my side of the table, well away from the gold. I didn't want to appear over anxious, but I kept the gold close enough to let her know she had my attention.

"I told you. Genivisa."

"I meant your real name."

The broad looked at me like I might have taken her aback. Then again, she might have just passed some gas. Sometimes it's hard to figure out just what the hell an Elderkin is thinking. Their perpetually serene manner could be hard to read if you didn't know what to look for. Just like their complex clan tattoos and ear jewelry.

"Your tattoos mark you as part of the Artura clan," I explained. "They also tell me that you're a Third Tier Soothsayer of the Elmsblood Rite. Everyone in this city knows that the Artura clan controls the majority of the Ruling Council. I know the name of every Artura that sits on that council. Genivisa isn't one of those names. But as a Soothsayer of the Elmsblood, there's no way that you don't sit on the Ruling Council.

I like to know whom I'm working for. Where my money is coming from. Once again... what's your real name?"

The broad's cool golden eyes looked at me like I was a bug to be squashed beneath her shoe. Perhaps as a spell-slinger she considered turning me into a bug, just so she could do that. Her gaze drifted to the bag of gold for a moment, and I knew she considered picking it back up and cutting her losses. But whatever need she had of me, she knew she'd find nobody better suited to do her dirty work anywhere else in the city.

"I am Laratha Artura, Soothsayer of the Elmsblood Rite, Keeper of the Green Flame, and member of the Ruling Council."

Well, bully for you, I wanted to tell her. I had already figured out who she was. How many Soothsayers of the Elmsblood Rite could there be on the council? I just wanted to hear her say it. Bring her down off her lofty tower for a bit and get her dress dirty in the low streets of the Warren.

"That's better." I said as I smiled. "Now we can get down to some honest business together."

Laratha puffed away on her cigarillo. "I need you to find, then bring back something that has been stolen from me."

Something stolen from under the nose of an Elderkin spell-slinger? Now that got my attention. Stealing from someone like Laratha was akin to stealing treasure out of the claws of a sleeping dragon. Not too much of a future for those thieves willing to chance waking a slumbering demon like an Elderkin spell-slinger.

"I'm not an assassin, you know."

"I don't want anybody dead, Mr. Hammerhand. Just the item returned."

"ThatIcando.What'stheitem?"  
"A bastard sword."

"Must be a hell of a sword. I'm sure your clan has a few more bastard swords in the armory."

"This one is special to my clan. Much history."

"Enchanted? Rare? Dragon-forged steel?"

"The state of the sword does not concern you. Just its return."

"It does," I assured her. "I mean, if it's magical, is it going to dance around on its own? Does it talk or sing? I hate talking swords. Whoever thought up such useless magic as a sword with an ego should be shot from a catapult. Seriously. I can't stand those kind of swords."

"The sword does not sing, dance or talk."

"Good. What does this sword look like? There are a lot of bastard swords in this city. Does it have any distinguishable features that could help me identify it?"

"The sword looks like many others, save that it is made of black steel; the blade is inlaid with red runes that faintly glow. The hilt is dragon skin. Also red. The pommel has a large red ruby inset. The ruby gives off a faint glow."

I nodded appreciatively. "This does sound like a family heirloom. When was it last in your possession?"

"About three days ago."

"I see. Then there's a possibility it hasn't gone far. Yet."

Laratha stubbed her cigarillo out on the edge of my battered desk. Most unladylike, but I guess she figured my choice in décor didn't warrant good manners. She let the butt fall to the floor with the cold ashes. "So, will you take the job?" she asked.

I gave her a smile. Crooked, stained dwarven teeth in all their glory.

"We will have to settle on a price. And that price will depend on what information you have for me to get started. If I'm starting blind... no info at all to where the sword might have gone off to... then the price will be higher. So, if you can tell me who's gruel you've pissed in lately, that might give me my first lead."

I had a hunch that Laratha had pissed off more than a few upstanding, and not so upstanding, citizens of Land's End. Elderkin in power just seem to have that way with people.

"I know exactly who took the sword," Laratha flatly informed me.  
That froze the smile on my face.

"Then why the hell do you need my help?"

"That matter is delicate."

I roared with laughter. My belly shook and my smile returned. Laratha glared coolly at me until my laughter settled.

"What is so funny?"

"You do know that I'm a dwarf? Delicacy isn't exactly in our nature. But you as an Elderkin..."

"I meant that the situation is socially delicate, Mr. Hammerhand. I cannot involve myself, my clan, the Council or my magic in the sword's retrieval. To do so would bring shame to both the Council and my clan. It would be social and political suicide."

"Just coming down out of your Ivory Tower to the Warren is social suicide for someone like you," I told her, not caring for the way she indicated just how low of a rung I occupied on the city's social ladder. "Then again, I'm sure you used your magic to disguise your appearance on the streets of the Warren."

For a moment I saw a glimmer of frustration pass across her stoically beautiful face. I had hit a nerve. Her coming down here to the Warren, looking, no, asking for the help of a lowly dwarven investigator had Laratha very twisted up inside. I could only imagine how desperate she must be to get this bastard sword back.

"Mr. Hammerhand," her mask of superiority returned as she spoke, "do you want this job or not?"

I let the question hang in the air for a few moments, my eyes staying clear of the bag of gold.

"I'll help you get your sword back and keep your clan's honor clean. So tell me. Who stole the bastard sword?"

"Her name is Sunchild. Selara Sunchild."

My gut clenched. Knotting up like I'd just eaten a death cap mushroom soup served up by one of the assassins of the Left Handed Brotherhood.

I looked at the bag of gold sitting on my desk, and then into Laratha's golden eyes.

"You'll need thrice the amount of gold in that bag if you want me to win back your sword from Selara Sunchild."

The Elderkin smiled sweetly. "I see you know Selara," she said.

"Yeah," I muttered. "You could say that I do."

"She seems to have that effect on everybody she meets."

"Yeah. You could say she does."

"We have an agreement then, Mr. Hammerhand. Thirty thousand gold pieces of the Realm. Bring me my sword, or bring me the head of Selara Sunchild."

My gut continued to protest what my mouth had gotten me involved in. "I told you, I'm no assassin, Councilwoman Artura.

Laratha stood gracefully. "Something tells me that by the time you're finished with this job, you just may be."

She glided to the door, never even looking back over her slender shoulder.

"Ten thousand gold now. Twenty thousand when I have my sword."

Then the broad left as quickly and quietly as she had entered my office and my life. I looked at the bag of gold on my desk, but all I could see was a beautiful face. Not the Elderkin's. No, this face belonged to someone I knew far too well.

Selara Sunchild.

What the hell had I gotten myself mixed up in?

۞

I drove my fist into the hapless face of the guard with a satisfying crunch of broken teeth and battered flesh.

Blood, bone and spittle flew from his mouth, spraying the door like some abstract painting. It reminded my of the kind of art that high society loons like Laratha could stand around for hours debating about the artist's intended meaning, while sipping fine wines, and eating hors-d'oeovres from silver platters.

In a way, maybe this kind of beating was an art form I had perfected from one cesspit to the next all across the Ten Realms.

Not that the half-wit half-orc really deserved the beating he found himself on the wrong end of. Keeping people like me out of the Golden Crane was his job. Too bad he really sucked at it. Just because you look fierce doesn't make you so. As he hit the muddy walkway leading into the posh nightclub, I heard the people standing in the queue collectively gasp.

Standing over the doorman I gave the crowd a quick glance, making sure that none of them decided to play the hero just to impress whatever date they had brought to the Crane on such a sultry summer night. Most of them feigned disinterest in the brief altercation. The rest stood in slack-jawed shock at the sudden outburst of violence. I guess the stupid son of a bitch should have taken the gold pieces I offered as a bribe to let me into the place. As he wallowed in a pool of his own blood and spit, I guessed he learned exactly why they call me Hammerhand.

Not that I usually handled these kinds of situations with violence. It's just that this time I knew I needed to focus my creative energies into whatever kind of verbal combat I was about to have with Selara Sunchild. Nothing else could distract me. I had become a dwarf on a mission.

I left the people outside behind and entered the Golden Crane, fully expecting trouble waiting for me inside.

As usual, the Crane didn't leave me disappointed. I had taken two or three steps into the dark foyer, passing by a burly bouncer named Kimo, when trouble found me in the form of a very drunk halfling named Flint Shrubwood.

"Hammerhand!" Shrubwood slurred. "I thought they banned you after you broke the owner's nose!"

I glanced at Kimo. He gave me a knowing nod. The tall human bouncer and I went way back. We had helped each other out on occasion, and I knew that as long as Kimo worked the inside the Crane, I could come and go as I pleased. But I still didn't need Shrubwood advertising my presence to the entire tavern. It would only take one set of loose lips to tip off Selara. Then she would either beat feet out of there or have about a dozen hard-assed warriors throw me most painfully out onto the muddy streets of the Warren.

I stood a head or two taller than the halfling and had at least fifty stone in muscle on the loud mouth. Putting my arm around his shoulder, I drew him aside, directing him towards the bar.

"Let me buy you a drink, Flint."

"Soundsgood,Marik.What'stheoccasion?"  
"Your funereal if you don't stop shouting my name."

When you're a dwarf and a halfling, you don't really belly-up to the bar. But I did stand about shoulder height to the bar in the Crane. Which made me easier to see than Flint. The place was packed as usual, so I waited quietly, not wanting to draw too much attention. Despite what I had done to the doorman, as long as I didn't stand out from the crowd too much, Kimo would make sure I went unmolested.

After a few minutes I bought two tankards of ale. The bartender found himself elbow deep in serving drinks, so he didn't even give me a second glance. Which proved helpful because the little toady had his nose so far up Selara's ass, that when she yawned you could see his nostrils.

I pulled Flint away from the bar, leading him by the elbow to a dark corner with a small table. He plopped down in a chair two sizes too big for his drunken halfling ass. He looked like a little child trying to play grown-up when he wrapped his hands around the pint of ale. I took the chair opposite of Flint, my back to a wall, my eyes watching the busy nightclub.

"Thanks for the drink," he said and smiled. "I didn't think you liked me anymore."

"I don't," I told him flatly. Which didn't ring entirely true. Flint Shrubwood had been a great thief before booze took over his life. He had been a good spy for me when I worked as Master of Whispers for the Duke of Sunderly. A botched mission had cost the lives of his halfling crew. Flint felt responsible for all of their deaths, and he had been trying to drink their memories away since that night.

I felt kind of sorry for him. But it wouldn't do to let him see my pity.

"I bought you that ale as payment for the information you're about to give me."

Flint didn't look surprised, or even hurt by what I told him. He looked like he had accepted his lot in life. He just stared over the top of his tankard at me with big, brown unfocused eyes.

"Tell me what you know about the bastard sword Selara stole from Laratha Artura."

Flint swallowed a gulp of ale as if it pained him. His eyes cleared a bit as he sat the tankard back down slowly.

"For giving up this kind of information I'm gonna need you to buy me dinner too. I haven't eaten in two hours and I'm starving."

With the kind of scratch Laratha had paid me to start this inquiry, ale and a dinner didn't mean a thing to me. But it wouldn't do any good to let Flint know how flush I had become. If he got the faintest whiff of the gold I had stumbled onto, the halfling would bleed me dry. He might have become a drunk, but his thieving instincts still lurked below the surface of his alcohol soaked skin.

"It depends on what you have to say, Flint. If you give me shit for info, then you get shit from me. Give me something I can use, on the other hand..."

The halfling looked around with caution before he answered.

"Selara stole the sword, alright."

"I know that."

"It's in her office. Hanging above her fireplace."

"Seriously?"  
"I saw it myself. She has me listening in on a few people who come into the Crane on a regular basis. Pays me in ale when I get a good morsel of information. I report to her everyday. Saw it with my own eyes, Marik."

"She hasn't fenced it? Is she planning on fencing it? What the hell does she even need with some Elderkin spell-slinger's sword? That's not her style."

Flint held up his hands defensively. "Slow down, slow down. Too many questions at one time. Keep it up, and you'll be buying me rounds all night," he joked.

Of course Flint had the right of it. But my mind raced. It wasn't beyond Selara to steal an item or two if she thought she could profit from it. But why hang onto a hot item like the bastard sword? Especially a sword stolen from a powerful magic-user like my client? Laratha Artura could turn a person inside out with just a word. Even with Laratha's claim of social suicide if she directly involved herself, Selara couldn't be that crazy as to risk waking the sleeping dragon sitting on the Ruling Council.

"I really don't know what her intentions are for the sword, Marik. I have no idea why she stole it. Except maybe..." Flint trailed off. Caution filled his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Maybe what?"

He took another swig of ale. "I've said too much."

"Are you kidding me?"

"I'm sorry. Selara is my boss now. She takes care of me. I have to look after her best interests."

At least the years hadn't robbed Flint Shrubwood of his professional integrity. Although this couldn't be a worse time for the drunk bastard to grab some backbone.

"I don't like the sound of that, Flint," I told him as I leaned forward, giving him my best menacing scowl.

"No, no, no, Marik," Flint held up his hands again as he continued, "I'm not going to cause trouble for you. As far as I'm concerned, you aren't even here, and you never asked me any questions. I owe that to you. You always did good by me and my team when you were my boss."

I eased back in the chair, sliding my untouched ale across the table to Flint. "Do you know where Selara is now?" I asked.

He drained his tankard and then claimed the one I offered.

"In her office. With the Twins. Probably going over the books."

I nodded at Flint, giving him a half a smile. I could still see the halfling inside that he used to be. I hoped someday he'd find that thief again and make something of his life. Rising, I clapped Flint on the shoulder.

"Check with me in a week or two, Flint. If your new boss doesn't have any work for you, maybe I can throw you a bone or two."

"Thanks, Hammerhand."

I left Shrubwood to his ale, throwing him a copper coin for dinner.

Looking across the bar to the stairs leading up to Selara's office, I considered how I should handle the situation. There I stood in the hornet's nest. The sword waited on the floor just above my head. Of course, Selara was the queen hornet, and she waited there as well.

One of Selara's goons guarded the stairs. Kimo worked the floor. He would turn a blind eye, no matter what I did. I hadn't been a Master of Whispers in years. I didn't have to walk softly if I thought the big stick would suffice. I cracked my calloused knuckles and headed for the stairs.

One goon to guard the stairs.

What the hell could Selara be thinking?

۞

The bastard sword hung on the back wall above Selara Sunchild's head.

Standing in the doorway to her office I could see it proudly displayed as if it were her own family heirloom. I saw it but just couldn't believe. I could also see that the Twins looked very pissed off.

Then again, the two hulking brutes sported a thick dark uni-brow on their caveman-like foreheads that made them look perpetually perturbed. So who the hell knew when these two were really angry or just trying to use the tiny brains the gods had given them?

They reacted as one, their huge hands darting for the two-handed swords that each carried strapped to their broad backs. Hurla, the girl, growled deeply. Churla, the guy, grimaced through his bushy mustache. Hurla had a mustache as well, but her brother's bald head set them apart. Her own thick mop of dirty blond hair made Hurla look like some mountain giant's wife.

I held up my hands to show them I came unarmed. "I'm not looking for trouble. I just came to talk."

They stepped forward, hands still on the hilts of their sheathed swords.

"Don't make the same mistake you made last time," I reminded them. "I wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your boss again."

"You sure do know how to make friends, Marik," Selara said sarcastically. "Twins, stand aside. Let him in. Let's see what he has to say before I have you break his nose and throw him out of here."

The Twins parted, taking up stations at either side of Selara's large oak desk. Selara Sunchild sat there behind the desk, behind a stack of books, papers, coins and ledgers. She put down an ink quill, pushing back from her desk. She smiled and my heart hurt.

After everything that had happened, she still woke passions in me that no other woman had before, and no woman has since. I did my best to return the smile as I crossed the room to stand in front of her. I ignored the muscular bookends, keeping my eyes locked on Selara's. Selara's jade eyes looked bemused as they always did, no matter what the situation.

"Selara," I nodded.

"Marik. You look well."

"So do you. Looks like your nose is healing nicely, Selara."

Hurla growled again on my right hand side.

"No thanks to you," Selara said still looking amused. "But a few visits to the Healer's Guild did the trick. They owed me a few favors."

"I'll remind you, Selara, you attacked me. I was just defending myself."

"Haven't you heard that you shouldn't hit a lady?"

"I'll remember that the next time I actually meet one."

The smile never left Selara's lips but I knew those eyes well enough. Better than most considering how many nights I'd spent staring into them. A flicker of malice moved through her eyes. If only I had learned that look sooner, I would've avoided a lot of pain. She recovered quickly, as she always did, and then her eyes showed me only what she wanted me to see. Absolute ice. A cold, guarded glare that said she owned the world, and she controlled every moment that she lived in it.

"I'm busy. By all rights I should have one of the Twins gut you. So tell me why you're here, Marik. Before I forget about all of the good times we've shared."

"You remember those times? I figured the way things have been between us for awhile, some wizard, or maybe just time itself had stolen those memories."

Selara sighed dramatically. Those sighs used to melt my resolve. Now I could see right through them to the manipulative show that they accented. But damn it if she still didn't have the beauty and charisma she always possessed. Too bad beneath a full, flowing head of red hair lurked a mind nowhere near as beautiful as that face.

"I'm losing my patience, Marik. And so are the Twins."

I didn't bother to glance at the towers of muscle standing on either side of the desk. I could feel the hatred radiating off of the Twins like a bonfire of anger waiting to consume whatever fuel Selara threw on it.

"That's a nice sword there."

I raised my eyes to the black steel covered with slightly glowing red runes hanging behind Selara.

Selara leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing. "It is nice," she said. "A gift from a friend."

"A gift? Then I guess you wouldn't be willing to part with it? Even for the right price?"

I figured I'd try the easy way first. Who knew? Maybe I could just offer Selara the right amount of chump change... not enough to really cut into my earnings... just enough so I could walk out of the office with the job completed and no blood spilled. Wishful thinking, but worth a shot.

"What kind of friend would I be if I sold a gift given to me with love?"

"Love?" I had to guffaw at that. "You love gold, Selara. You love yourself. In either order."

"This conversation isn't going well, Marik. Did you come here to pass judgment on me? Did you come here to cry about the past? If you did, go downstairs and cry into a pint of ale or two. I have a business to run here."

The ice in her voice drove nails into my spine. It was hard to believe this was the same woman I had loved so deeply. She wasn't always this way. But they do say love is blind. A red-hot poker must have put out my sight if she had truly always been this way. Had all of her charm, all of her love been nothing but a lie?

I did my best to put those feelings aside. I hadn't come here to pour salt into my old wounds. I had a job to do.

"You're right, Selara. We have some business to conduct."

"I thought that after our last venture together, you wouldn't want to go into business with me again."

Despite her words to the contrary, Selara didn't seem willing to let the past stay in the past. Maybe she liked wallowing in that pain. Or maybe she liked to watch me hurt. Our one and only venture together had resulted in the end of our fiery romance, the end of my time as a Master of Whispers, and the deaths of two people I considered dear friends. In my line of work, true friends were few. Losing them hurt. Losing them because the woman you loved betrayed your trust? Nothing could ever heal that wound. Not time. Not ale. Not vengeance.

That wound would continue to bleed. And that blood would color my perception of Selara Sunchild until the day I died.

"That sword is stolen, Selara. Laratha Artura wants it back."

You might have thought a fireball had just exploded in the room as the words left my mouth.

The Twins reacted faster than I thought possible for their hulking bodies. Hurla kicked my short legs out from beneath me and I fell hard on my back. Churla stomped his enormous boot into my chest with a crunch, pinning me to the floor. I did my best not to flail my arms and legs like some damned turtle stuck on its back. Sometimes it sucks to be so damned short.

Selara stood, leaning over her desk, glaring at me, her green eyes pinning me as hard as Churla's foot.

"The sword belongs to me. If anybody has told you anything different, they're mistaken."

Gasping for breath, I pushed at Churla's boot. "Far be it for me to contradict such a convincing argument. But that's not what my client says."

"Your client is a lying sorceress. Her tongue is shaped like a snake's. Her words are venom."

She kept glaring at me. I saw something in Selara's eyes I never thought I'd see. Not fear. Not caution. Not even remorse.

Hurt. Pain lived in those brilliant green windows to a dark soul. Selara Sunchild hurt inside. If one of the gods had come down to walk the streets of the Warren, I don't think my world would come to such an abrupt halt as it did when I realized that Selara could actually feel pain inside just like the rest of the mortal world.

"I believe you," I said quietly. A strange feeling came over me. I thought I had our relationship and our history in a secure mental box. Locked up, the key thrown away. I had thought that hindsight had put everything in its proper place.

Something unspoken passed between us. Briefly, I saw her as I had years ago. Maybe it hadn't all been an act. Maybe she had actually loved me. By the gods, maybe Selara Sunchild did have a soul after all.

"Let him up," Selara said somberly. "Get him a chair."

The tremendous pressure lifted from my chest. With as much dignity as I could muster, I found my feet. Hurla pulled up a chair. Ignoring the smirk on the female bodyguard's broad face, I took a seat in front of Selara's desk.

She eased back into her own seat, folding her hands on top of her crowded desk. We sat for a few moments, an awkward silence smothering the air like an assassin's pillow over the face of an innocent victim.

Selara sighed again. "Laratha owed me."

"Go on," I encouraged her.

"The first time I met Laratha," Selara's smile looked wistful, lost in the recent past as she spoke, "I was working the high society crowd."

I knew she told the truth. Selara worked the lowest of places; the dark dives where people sold their souls and flesh to the highest of Ivory Towers. She began in those dives. She reached for those towers. Everything else inbetween just became her steppingstones. Including dwarven investigators like myself.

I watched her move in and out of both ends of society with ease for so many years, I began to believe she actually belonged in both worlds. The truth, I knew, was that Selara Sunchild belonged in a world of her own.

"I was introduced by a member of the Ruling Council. A close friend of the Prince. That Councilman wanted me. I wanted inside the castle. Closer to the powers that be. He used to frequent the Crane. When he was deep in his cups, I would make promises that he wanted to believe so badly he turned a blind eye towards some of my unseemly connections in the Warren. It didn't take long before I was on his arm at some of the most important social events in Land's End. He showered me with clothing and jewelry. I looked and played the part of a lady. They all knew the truth, but when you're part of the ruling class, truth is malleable. Truth is what they say it is."

She hesitated for a moment. For a change I kept my mouth shut. Selara seemed as if she wanted to talk. To unburden herself. As much as I wanted to ask her what the hell she knew about truth, I let it go. I wanted to hear what she had to say.

"There was a certain thrill of newness and adventure that the courtiers felt about me. I took advantage of it, endearing myself to all of them that I came into contact with. When I met Laratha, I knew she was different. Not just because she's an Elderkin. Not just because she's a powerful magic-user. The moment I saw her, I knew she would be my means to reach beyond even my wildest dreams of ascension."

"You focused all of your energies on Laratha. You worked her like any other job," I said quietly.

"I left my promises to the Councilman unfulfilled. It didn't take long before I found myself beside Laratha Artura day and night."

"Selara Sunchild, only you could charm your way into the good graces of an Elderkin as powerful as Laratha."

In some ways I admired her feat. In others, it made me sick, confirming every bad thing I thought of my former lover. Her endless ambition. Her callous disregard for any feelings but her own. "But you got in over your head, didn't you?" I asked.

For a moment Selara's face showed a flash of anger. Then she seemed to sink deep into her chair, looking defeated and sad.

"Being so close to that kind of power can make even the most pragmatic person giddy, Marik. I found myself... charmed. Not in any magical way. You know I have talismans to ward off that kind of thing. I don't know if I became enamored with the lifestyle. I began to lose sight of my beginnings. I began to feel that I really belonged with those people. I... I..."

Then it hit me. Like a war hammer to the side of my thick skull, I realized just what I was seeing in my old love. Selara Sunchild nursed a broken heart.

"You fell in love with Laratha."

Selara bit her lower lip, eyes downcast. "She wasn't the first woman I'd ever been with," she started, "but this time things were different. She made me feel alive in a way I never thought possible. I confided so many of my feelings, fears, regrets to her."

More than she had ever confided in me apparently. I filled in the rest. "And Laratha confided in you as well. She told you about the bastard sword and its meaning to the Artura Clan."

"We spent so many nights in each other's arms. We talked of so many things."

"Why betray her, Selara? I mean you betrayed me for gold and the chance at power. But with Laratha, you had these things at your fingertips. Is backstabbing some sort of sick compulsion you have? Do you always want to bugger up a good thing?"

Her hands clenched tightly. Fire returned to her eyes.

"Laratha betrayed me!" she screamed. "When word leaked to the Council that I shared her bed, her clan told her she had to put an end to it! They said I was lowborn, human, and not to be trusted. They said our love dishonored Clan Artura. No matter how much I begged, no matter how much I loved her, Laratha cast me aside. I've been banned from the castle, from the Chamber of the Council, and from any functions that Clan Artura attends. I've been black listed by high society. Cast back down into the pits of the Warren like some common whore or thief!"

"The sword?"

She smiled wickedly.

"On my way from her villa, I took it. She owes me."

"But you're not even going to sell it."

"And risk it getting back into Laratha's hands? Not likely. If she really wants it, she can come down and get it herself."

"Gods, Selara. She could kill you with a thought."

"She won't."

"What makes you think so?"

"You never did, Marik."

Sticks and stones they say. But they're just lying bastards. Some words cut like the edge of a magical bastard sword forged of black steel.

I sighed and nodded my head in understanding. "I'm sorry, my love," I told her tenderly.

Selara didn't bother to hide her shock. "What?" she exclaimed.

"I'm sorry that you loved, lost and got hurt. I know how that feels. I wouldn't wish that on even the worst of my enemies."

"I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity. Call it forgiveness."

"I've done nothing that calls for your forgiveness."

"Call it understanding then."

The awkward silence returned. We just sat across the oak desk staring at each other, each trying to read the thoughts in the other's mind. I could hear the heavy breathing of the Twins. Lost in the intense conversation, I'd almost forgotten they were in the room.

Breaking the silence, I smiled as warmly as I could. "Look at the two of us. Don't we make a buggered pair of broken hearts?"

We laughed together for the first time in years. The Twins stood there looking confused.

When the laughter died, I sat up straight in my chair.

"Selara, do you remember the night when you left me? Before it all went to hell... I bought a fifty-year-old bottle of Elderkin mead. The good stuff. I thought we'd be celebrating that night. Before everything happened, I planned on drinking it with you."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I could never bring myself to drink the damned thing. I still have it."

"And?"

"I think it's about time we drank the damned bottle. I have it with me. In my bag of holding. If you want, let's open this damned thing. We can drown our mutual sorrow and drink to dreams unfulfilled."

A sly smile played across those lips that hadn't kissed mine in so long.

"Why not? Just reach into that bag slowly. Nothing funny, Marik. Or Churla's boot will crush your skull this time. Hurla, please fetch two goblets."

I did as Selara asked. Churla had a big boot after all. As Hurla sat two silver goblets on the desk, I uncorked the sweet smelling mead, savoring the scent before filling Selara's cup. She watched me carefully as I filled my own cup.

"How do I know you're not trying to poison me?" Selara asked jovially.

I shook my head. "You've known me a long time. I'm no assassin," I replied.

"Still..."

I picked up the goblet in front of me, raised it in a silent toast. I threw back the sticky sweet mead in one long swig. The stuff tasted fantastic. One thing good I can say about the Elderkin is that they know how to make great mead.

"Tastes better than all that gold I spent buying it."

She grinned, picked up her own drink, and slammed it back like a seasoned professional barfly. Licking her thin lips, she agreed. "Tastes better than some of the mead that Laratha's clan serve up to the Council."

Setting my goblet back down, I wrapped my right hand around the bottle again.

"Selara. I do love you."

"Marik. I thi..." Selara's answer stuck in her throat. Her brow furrowed, her face flushing deep red. Her mouth opened and closed. She began to choke, hands going to her throat.

Springing from my seat like a small jungle cat I leapt up on top of her desk, smashing the bottle of mead across Churla's skull. As the glass shattered it sprayed mead and blood on the desk and I kicked Hurla square in the chin with a mule-kick that would have broken a lesser person's jaw. The giant of a woman staggered back. Churla's eyes rolled back slightly in his thick skull. I jumped over Selara's head as she clutched at her throat, seeing the fear and disbelief in her eyes.

One of my most useful skills I learned as a Master of Whispers was a bit of acrobatic tumbling. One of my friends that Selara had gotten killed when she betrayed me had taught me a trick or two. Clearing her head, I yanked the bastard sword free from the wall while pushing back against it with both of my feet. I flipped backwards, over the top of Selara's head again and landing in the middle of the desk where I had just stood. I think I did my friend's teaching proud.

Driving the sword forward with both hands, I punched it through Churla's chest. The long blade sprung from his back, blood painting the wall behind him. He fell hard to the floor as I yanked the blade free. I spun to face his sister. Then the desk itself seemed to spin, followed by the whole room.

The poison I had laced the mead with was hitting my system.

Selara had fallen from her chair and lay choking on the floor. Hurla let loose a wordless cry of anguish and rage, grabbing me by the scruff of my leather shirt as I struggled to maintain my balance. Apparently in her anger, she had forgot she had a sword strapped to her back. Hurla hurled me across the office like I weighed no more than a bag of flour.

Skidding across the wooden floorboards, I slammed hard into a far wall. Hurla charged forth, still roaring like a wounded beast. My head throbbed violently. Sweat poured from every fiber of my being. My stomach knotted in protest to being fed poison. I could barely see the room through dimming tunnel vision. Suddenly, the surviving Twin loomed in front of me, savage murder in her wide eyes. She reached down to grab me again, but I managed to roll away. She turned to grab me as I tried to scurry back to my feet.

Somehow I got to one knee, trying to use the bastard sword as a crutch to help me up. Hurla kicked it away and I fell face first onto the floor. Scrambling, I rolled onto my back. Hurla stood over me. She held her two-handed sword in one hand. Apparently she now remembered she had it. Foam rimmed her lips. Spittle flew as she shouted in anger again, raising the sword up, preparing to cut me into pieces.

My right hand fumbled blindly, trying to find the bastard sword. I gambled and lost. Not the way I thought I'd die—laying on the floor, poisoned, waiting for a bellowing brute to send me on my way to the gods.

A loud strumming sound filled my ears. Hurla's eyes widened even further as a crossbow bolt suddenly sprouted from her forehead. Her eyes crossed trying to get a better look at the bolt. A thin line of blood ran down from the bolt and into those eyes. The sword fell from her grasp, and then she followed it. I barely escaped being crushed by her body as I pulled myself out of the way.

My dim eyes searched the room for my savior. Flint Shrubwood stood by the door, holding a crossbow nearly as big as himself. He let it fall to the floor, coming to help me stand. We nodded at each other silently. No words of thanks were needed. I knew that Flint took a big risk getting involved in my buggered adventure. I also knew that he did what he did because somewhere beneath the sorrow and booze, the real Flint still held onto his past honor and duty.

My insides feeling like fire, I picked up the bastard sword and slid it safely into the extra dimensional bag of holding hanging on my belt. When I left here, none would be the wiser that the sword had come into my possession. Head still pounding, I went around the desk to find Selara while Flint watched the door.

She writhed on the floor, her hands at her sides, her face growing purple. Dark splotches marred that beautiful face. She labored for breath. I felt sorry for her. My heart skipped a beat or two. I didn't know if it was the poison, or my love for the woman who had haunted my dreams for years.

"I'm sorry, Selara. I thought the poison would act quickly. I thought it would be painless. I guess that's what you get when you mix an amateur assassin with poison."

She tried to answer, but she just continued to choke.

"I guess you've spent too much time with Elderkin. You forget that a dwarf's constitution is very hardy. Very few poisons can actually kill me. It'll take awhile for the stuff to clear my bloodstream, but I won't die from one cup of it.

I hadn't come here planning to use it. Gods know how many times I've thought about you dead. But I never thought I'd bring myself to do it. But tonight I realized that was the only way I'd survive. I realized just what the hell you really are tonight. Love you or not, eventually I'd get in the way of one of your schemes. I know you wouldn't hesitate to kill me if you thought I stood in the way of your ambitions. Even if you ever, or still do, love me."

Selara didn't answer. She couldn't anymore. I left her cold green eyes staring up at the ceiling, seeing only whatever hell the gods had waiting for her in the afterlife.

Laratha had been right. I had become an assassin after all.

With Flint in tow, I left the office, left the Golden Crane, and left the ghosts of my past resting in their graves.

۞

The bastard sword looked good hanging on the wall behind my desk. The bottle rested on top of the battered desk, next to two empty goblets. The broad would be arriving soon.

Flint slept off his drunk on a cot in the corner of my office. He snored deeply. I hoped when he awoke, he'd be ready to work.

I looked at the sword. I looked at the bottle. I waited for the broad.

We were going to share a goblet of fine Elderkin mead in celebration of the sword's successful retrieval.

If I survived that, if Laratha didn't rip the flesh from my bones with a spoken word before the poison killed her... then things were going to get really interesting here in the Warrens.

I had been a merchant marine. A scout. A Master of Whispers. A paid investigator. Now I had become an assassin. Flint and I had a lot of work ahead of us. A lot of members of the Ruling Council to kill. Selara said that the truth was what those in the Ivory Towers said it was. I planned on making the truth what I say it should be.

I would bring those Ivory Towers down. They would be on the same level as the rest of the city. Selara wanted to be one of them. I wanted to destroy all of them. For the sake of the woman I still loved, I would make them pay for what they had caused her to become. What they had caused me to become.

The door to my office opened. The broad entered. She saw the sword, arching her eyebrow in an unspoken question. The bottle waited.

I smiled.

"Laratha, sit down, have a drink in celebration with me."

I poured from the bottle. My future plans and dreams poured into that cup like a dark river. I had no idea where that river would take me, but I knew it would be one hell of a ride.

THE END.

# DRAGON DAYS

The Ivory Towers of Land's End burned brightly in the night.

The flames leapt into the cool air so high, I imagined they could be seen halfway across the continent. The heat of the fires warmed the city, turning the autumn winds warm as the summer night not so long ago when all of this had started. I had put old demons to rest the night I poisoned Selara Sunchild; starting down the path that took me to where I stood, watching the fire consume the homes of those who ruled Land's End.

The Ivory Towers burned and I smiled.

After all, I had lit the match.

۞

Weeks before the Ivory Towers burned, I found myself staring at the stolen bastard sword hanging over the door of my office located above the Broken Unicorn Tavern.

My thoughts were as black as the steel of that blade. Most of my thoughts had been dark since the day I claimed that sword as mine. It hung over the door as a reminder of things I had lost and things I meant to accomplish. I'd accomplished those things fairly well. Half of the Ruling Council of Land's End was dead.

A light knock on my door brought me out of the mire of ugly thoughts in my head. Following the knock, the door swung open. My associate, long time friend, and man-on-the-streets, Flint Shrubwood, entered, a smile on his clean-shaven halfling face.

He waddled across the creaky floorboards and stale rushes and pulled himself up into the seat meant for my clients. I rummaged through my desk, bringing out a good bottle of dwarven whiskey. The stout stuff. Guaranteed to put hair on the chest of an already hairy hill-giant. Filling two glasses, I slid one over to Flint. He sniffed at it in appreciation before upending the glass and draining it. Flint flipped the glass over on top of my desk, indicating he'd had enough.

Not that he couldn't drink more. Gods, he could put away five bottles of the stuff and still walk a straight line in a Minotaur's maze. But the halfling didn't drink like that anymore. He had pulled himself out of the bottom of the bottle because I had given him new direction the night I took the bastard sword from Selara Sunchild and Laratha Artura.

I took a swig of my whiskey and topped off the glass. "What's the word on the street, Flint?"

"The Council has gone into full lock-down since the last death. Rumors say they might close the gates to the towers."

"Which means they still have no idea who's behind the assassinations and accidents," I told Flint.

He smiled. "They're running in circles pointing fingers in every direction, but always at the wrong people."

"What else?" I asked, taking another drink. I hoped he had some news that would keep my mind occupied for a while. Keep me away from dark thoughts.

"I heard from a Councilman's drunk assistant down at the Crane that the Prince himself is coming to Land's End to get to the bottom of this apparent uprising."

"Uprising?" I raised a bushy eyebrow at my friend. "Is that what they're calling it now?"

Flint nodded. The look in his eyes told me I wouldn't like what I heard next. "Marik," he said quietly, "the Council has cracked down on some people they think are responsible. Some of them are just rabble. Common thieves and miscreants. Others are citizens who have been vocal about the way the Council rules things. Not true revolutionaries, just people who speak their mind."

"We knew this might happen," I reminded Flint. "Despite the fact the Council's seen no sign of revolution. No proclamations. Nobody taking credit for the deaths. I don't like the thought of innocent people getting hurt, but I knew it might happen."

"Maybe it's time for an actual uprising," Flint suggested. "Maybe the people in the streets, the people here in the Warrens, just need someone to lead the way?"

I've been many things to many people throughout my long lifetime.

To my father and family, a disappointment. With the blood of dwarven kings flowing in my veins, I turned my back on our family's oath to the King Who Conquered the Ten Realms. To the merchant marines I served with in my youth, I was an oddity. A dwarf on water. Who the hell could imagine that? As a scout for the Bloody Sons I became a valued mercenary asset. When I found my way into the service of the Duke of Sunderly as his Master of Whispers, I became his most trusted advisor.

To the one true love of my life, Selara Sunchild, I was merely a steppingstone in her ambitious quest for money and power. In the end, I became her assassin.

Her death gave new purpose to what I had become after leaving Sunderly's service. I called myself a Paid Investigator. My ex-client, Laratha Artura—Soothsayer of the Elmsblood Rite, Keeper of the Green Flame and member of the Ruling Council—described my new career as a service where people come to me with problems and I solved them for money. Not that far off the mark really.

Laratha Artura had been the first member of the Ruling Council I had murdered. I used the very same bottle of Elderkin mead I used to poison my old love, Selara. That night I became more than just a P.I. That night I became something new again. An assassin. A monster lurking under the beds of all of those people in the Ivory Towers that lived off the sweat and blood of lowly servants and serfs like myself.

But a revolutionary leader? I couldn't imagine the day.

To the rest of Land's End and to the people I lived side-by-side with in the ramshackle slums of the Warrens, I was still Marik Hammerhand, Paid Investigator. I still took on clients, solving their problems for money. I still drank ale at the Golden Crane and paid coin to the informants at lesser known taverns and dives throughout the city. I moved against those I held responsible for Selara's death at my hands when I could. Secretively. Quietly. Being Master of Whispers had taught me much patience when playing shadow games.

I told myself that the Ruling Council and those like them deserved what they got. But was I being truthful with myself? I blamed them for making Selara the scheming, manipulative bitch she had become. I blamed them for forcing my hand into taking her life. A part of me knew that justification was pure shit. She had probably always been that way. She wanted to pull herself up from the gutters in the worst way. Selara reached for those Ivory Towers, not caring who she stepped on in the process. Not caring one damned bit for the hearts she broke or the lives lost along the way.

The truth, if I chose to face it, was that I killed Selara because she would've done the same to me somewhere along the path to her projected perfection.

Laratha Artura had spurned Selara as a lover as Selara had spurned and betrayed me. When I took the magic-users life, I thought it was because I was taking revenge for all of those who were trampled under foot by ambitious power players like Laratha and Selara.

But had it really just been out of anger? Had it been out of my own self-loathing for becoming something I couldn't imagine becoming? An assassin. That's what Laratha thought I was when she hired me to find Selara and retrieve the bastard sword stolen from the Council member. That's what she said I would become before it all ended.

In the few short months since I had killed both women, I had already murdered half of the Ruling Council of Land's End. Six deaths, not always by my hand, but always by my design. With the Council holed up behind their Ivory Towers like rats going to ground to escape a forest fire, all I could do now was hole up in my office, taking on an occasional odd job, waiting for the next moment to strike.

The problem with all of the waiting, no matter how much patience I practiced, was all the free time to think. When things moved quickly, I didn't have time for the kind of self-doubt that plagued me lately. Self-doubt just wasn't in my character. It was starting to really piss me off.

Flint, good thief that he was, had learned a lot of patience as well. He sat there quietly waiting for an answer as I stared into the bottom of my whiskey glass. I didn't have an answer to his question about leading the people in revolution. Perhaps because my motivations weren't as altruistic as I believed. Maybe I simply sought the deaths of those who ruled Land's End because I was a shallow, vengeful bastard.

A heavy knock came at my door. I gave Flint a quick look and he knew just what to do. Swift and silent, Flint slid his empty glass across the desk as he vaulted from his chair. His large hairy feet padded across the floor without a single creak of the floorboards. He expertly faded into the shadows behind the large bookshelf in one corner of my office. You'd have to be seated in my chair and looking directly at the halfling to see him.

"Come in," I said as I dropped Flint's empty glass into a desk drawer.

Two men entered. The smaller man, probably only a foot taller than me, dressed in a black silk cloak, silk breeches of black-striped purple, and a black leather vest, strode confidently across the room to stop in front of my desk. He threw back his cowl. I knew the bastard right away. I'd seen his thin pale face before. He looked down his pointed nose at me and pursed his thin lips, causing his black mustache to arch as if in disdain of the entire world. Dark brown eyes looked me over like I might be something he found stuck to the bottom of his expensive riding boots.

"I'm Councilman Rast," he told me as if his name were some sort of magic spell meant to put me in my place.

"I know who you are, Councilman," I answered. I looked at the hulking brute of a bodyguard standing by the door and wondered if I could get the man to come forward enough to expose his back to Flint. I marveled at the fickle hand of Fate that brought Rast out of the Ivory Towers and into the office of the dwarf who meant to kill him and all of his peers. Obviously, they had no clue what I had done, or else my office would've been full of soldiers and I would probably be dead long before introductions.

"Have a seat, Councilman."

Rast whipped his cloak back over his shoulders and sat gracefully in the offered chair. He perched on the edge, his back razor straight. He looked like some sort of predatory bird ready to pounce. His bodyguard crossed huge arms across a broad chest encased in chainmail armor. Not that chainmail would do him much good if Flint got behind him. My little thief knew all the weak points in which to slip a dagger through any suit of armor.

"Drink?" I offered Rast, pulling out the glass I had just put away.

"No," he sniffed. "I have business to discuss."

"Dwarves drink for business and pleasure," I assured him, filling my glass again. "Suit yourself, Councilman. What can I do for you?"

"I need someone disposed of. Quietly."

Gods be damned! Why did all of these high and mighty Council members think I looked like some kind of bloody assassin?

"What does it say on the outside of my damned door?" I asked Rast.

"Pardon?"

"There's a sign on the door you just passed through. It reads, Marik Hammerhand: Paid Investigator. Not Marik Hammerhand: Cutthroat Assassin. Do I look like a damned killer?"

Rast smirked at me. "Frankly, Mr. Hammerhand, you look like someone who would do just about anything for money."

It took all of my self-control not to come across the desk and wipe that smarmy smile right off Rast's face. I knew Flint would take care of the bodyguard when he came to his master's aid, but I had to play this right. I needed to draw more information out of the bastard. Perhaps if I could gain his confidence by at least pretending to listen to his request, I could later use that to my advantage and gain access to the rest of the Ruling Council members still on my hit list.

Draining my whiskey I looked him hard in the eye. "There are more ways to dispose of someone than killing them," I told Rast.

"I never said anything about killing, Hammerhand."

"Tell me about this thorn in your side, Rast."

"His name is Alton Maygar."

"Never heard of him."

"No," Rast continued to look down his hawkish nose, "I don't suppose that you have."

"What has this Alton Maygar done to offend Councilman Rast so much that the good Councilman would bring himself down out of the Ivory Towers, dirty his fine boots in the streets of the Warrens, and seek the help of an unsavory dwarf like myself?"

"It's not so much what he has done as what he might do."

"I'm intrigued, Rast. Please go on."

He looked at me with cold eyes. I know when a man is judging me. Rast's eyes took in what they saw and his sharp mind calculated how much he should tell me about why he really wanted Alton Maygar disposed of. Before he even opened his mouth to speak again, I knew Rast had decided to tell me very little or out-and-out lie to me about everything.

"All you need to know is that I'm willing to pay you very well to dispose of the man. How you dispose of him makes no difference to me. I just want your promise that Alton Maygar will never be seen in this city or anywhere near my presence again. Ever."

Rast had no idea I never made promises lightly. And never to backstabbing, mud-spitting politicians like himself. I'd rather kiss a Gorgon than promise the likes of him a damned thing.

"I'll look into it for you," I told Rast. "I'll need a retainer up front. Five thousand gold pieces of the Realms should do to start. If I decide to follow through with your request to make Mr. Maygar disappear, then I'll need another ten thousand due upon acceptance of the job."

The greasy politician grinned at me. "A retainer of five thousand is understandable. I'll give you another ten thousand after your investigation just to take the job. Another five thousand when you've completed the job."

"Twenty thousand gold?" I asked.

"Twenty thousand gold pieces just to make Alton Maygar go away, Mr. Hammerhand. Good money. Easy money."

If there's one thing I've learned about politicians and their money, is that none of it comes easy. There's always two or three strings attached. Not that I had any plan to actually finish the job and take all of his money. I really didn't need it. I just wanted to see him dead like all of the rest of the disconnected, distasteful, distrusting members of the Ruling Council hiding in their Ivory Towers.

"It's a deal," I told him, finishing my glass of whiskey. "Five up front and I'll get started checking out Mr. Maygar."

Rast motioned for his brute to come forward. The bodyguard came to his side and handed the Councilman a bag of coins. As Rast fished out the gold and his man waited to take the bag back, I wondered if I should just give Flint the signal to take out the bodyguard. The halfling could close the gap between the bookshelf and my desk in a heartbeat. One well placed thrust of a dagger and Rast would find himself alone in my office, ready to find out why they call me Hammerhand. But I decided to err on the side of caution. I still had no idea why Rast wanted Alton Maygar gone. I would find that out before making any moves against the Councilman.

Placing the gold pieces in neat stacks near his side of the desk, Rast rose and pulled his cloak around his thin body.

"I trust I'll hear from you soon?" he asked.

"You will."

With that, Rast and his bodyguard left my office, leaving me alone with a stack of gold and my trusted friend. Flint stepped out of the shadows.

"What do you want me to do, boss?"

"Follow Rast," I told him. "See where he's going after this meeting."

"What are you going to do?"

Pulling the stacks of gold coins across my desk I answered, "I'm going to go earn this retainer. I'm going to find Alton Maygar."

۞

The snap of bone beneath my fist sounded pretty good. I hadn't really gotten my hands dirty with honest work since I had undertaken the insane journey to rid Land's End of our corrupt rulers.

The doorman for the seedy joint I had tracked Alton Maygar to stumbled backward, hit the door he guarded, and then slid down the door onto his ass.

Blood poured from his fractured nose. He looked up at me with dazed eyes, probably wondering what the hell had just happened. I stood over the six-foot-something doorman and glared down at him. Why the hell did these kids always want to compare dick sizes with a dwarf? Were they that insecure? Or just too stupid to know Marik Hammerhand when they saw him? I've always expected that we dwarves look the same to all humans. Guys like this confirmed those suspicions.

"I don't think I'm going to the back of the line," I told the kid. ""And I'm sure if you check your list again, you'll see my name at the top."

Holding his broken nose, the doorman stammered, "But, I... uh... you didn't give me a name."

I raised my bushy eyebrows at him. "Check again. Right at the top."

I could almost see the light dawning in the dark pit he called a brain. "Yeah, yeah," he said, pulling himself slowly up to his feet, "right there. Sorry I missed it the first time."

"Sorry what?"

"Sir?"

"Sorry," I smiled, "right this way."

"Of course." The kid opened the door for me.

"Sir." I told him as I went in.

"Sir," he mumbled as I left the rest of the queue staring at my back in disbelief.

In some ways I kind of felt sorry for the doorman. He'd have a hard time denying entrance to anybody in line after me. Then again, maybe the kid needed to find a new occupation. Something a little safer, where his lack of a survival instinct didn't matter.

I entered the Wayward Vixen, taking in the surroundings.

Not that the place had a lot to see. Or offer, for that matter.

Although I had heard of the Wayward Vixen and knew that Flint frequented the tavern for information, I had never stepped foot in the place. The tavern had opened its doors about half a year before I killed Selara. Even being located in the Warrens, the place occupied the lowliest of low parts of Land's End. Just south of the Dragon Sewers and close to Tannery Row, the Vixen had a smell that few could stomach.

I'm not sure which smell curdled my fairly strong constitution the most. The smell of slaughtered animal flesh, or the rank pit that all of the city's sewage dumped out into. As large as Land's End had become in the last fifty years, one enslaved dragon could hardly keep up with burning that much waste. How the poor creature didn't drown in all that filth was beyond my understanding.

Looking around the Vixen, I couldn't believe that this place had a line waiting to get in, let alone a doorman. Then again, being half the size of better establishments like the Golden Crane, I could see where a little mystique could help fill the tables and booths. Flint told me that the Vixen claimed to be home to the strangest of people of the Ten Realms. The owner took a certain perverse pride in his sideshow. The Wayward Vixen happily hosted a variety of carnival acts and oddities that made even the most outcast of the Warren's outcasts feel like they clung to a higher rung of the city's social ladder.

Every night of the week featured a different geek. From the typical bearded ladies (usually a female dwarf because most humans can't tell the difference) to the Snake-Man of Alverades, the Vixen had it all. Strong-men, werewolves, conjoined twins, sword swallowing women, hermaphrodites, lizard men from the Garneer Swamps... if you wanted to see something exotic and odd to take you away from the tedium of your everyday life, the Wayward Vixen had just the cure for you!

Not that it mattered what social distraction featured in tonight's show. I had come looking for Alton Maygar.

According to my sources, Maygar had recently found a home at the Vixen. Maygar, not a resident of Land's End, had wandered through the Main Gate like so many others did with just the clothes on their backs and a few worldly possessions, searching for a better life.

Besides the capitol, Land's End was the richest city in the Ten Realms. Our golden shores were the last bastions of prosperity for so many. Unfortunately, the solid foundations those bastions had been built upon had been undermined by the rich, the greedy and the self-serving. Land's End really had nothing more to offer these people than scorn, slow death or a kind of gray purgatory serving as a substitution for a fulfilled life.

So, Alton Maygar had made a home here amongst the freaks and geeks.

Not that Maygar amounted to any kind of geek himself.

As a matter or rumor, from what sources told me, Alton Maygar was kind of a throwback. An old-timer who didn't realize his time had come. Of course, as far as I still think to this day, we're all just living out the fantasies of our youth. We have no idea that our day passed us by long ago. We see ourselves with the rosy hew of our yesterdays. Those times when we could do no wrong and our immortality made us invincible.

As a dwarf, I'd left those days long behind. With seventy-something years under my belt and another fifty or so to go, I lived in the here and now. No matter how dark those coming days might be. My future could be anything. That's why I didn't wait for my future to take shape anymore. I figured I needed to make the future happen. That way I wouldn't be another one of those fools like Maygar who didn't know their best days had already passed them by.

I found Alton Maygar surrounded by drunks and low rent sycophants.

He sat with his back against a wall in a darkened corner of the Vixen. I watched from the bar, a pint of ale in my hand, as he entertained his hangers-on with a story, perhaps of his own exploits, or maybe the exploits of some other Bard. Not that it mattered. I couldn't hear what he said. But I know the general gist of a good storyteller when I hear and see one. Maygar had his listeners hanging on every word and gesture.

I listened to his inflections and watched his movements. I followed the ebbs and tides of his story, observing how his audience reacted. They leaned into his words when he grew quiet. They pulled back when the story's powerful antagonist bellowed in fury. Those around the table laughed and cried when the depths of the tale collided with their own emotions.

I finished a pint and ordered another. With my constitution I could drink a keg and still stay sharp. Waiting for Maygar to finish his story, I cast a careful eye around the rest of the Wayward Vixen, making sure nothing looked out of place.

If anybody else had an interest in Councilman Rast's friend that he wanted disposed of, then I needed to know.

Other than those at Alton Maygar's table, nobody seemed to even care that the old man existed.

When his story finished, there was a bit of small applause from those around the table. A couple of listeners parted with a few pieces of copper, which told me Maygar held some skill at story telling. Very few in a place like the Vixen would part with their money for something as hyperbolic as a rousing tale. Most would prefer to spend their meager riches on a good brawl in the Pits or the shocking exposure of the geeks that made the Vixen famous in the bowels of the Warrens.

Why the hell would Rast want someone like Alton Maygar out of the way? What could one old storyteller have on a member of Land's End's Ruling Council?

Rast had left the protection of the Ivory Towers while some unseen monster, me, prowled the darkness, knocking off his fellow Council Members, one by one. To take such a risk, Rast had to fear this aged bard more than I feared Flint Shrubwood climbing back into the bottle, with all of my secrets floating to the top.

As he glad-handed his listeners, I waited. When they all left his table, I approached with my half-drunk pint in one hand and a full goblet of fine Elderkin wine in the other.

"Great story," I told Maygar.

"Good ears," he smiled back at me. "You heard all of that sitting at the bar?"

His question told me volumes about the man. The small tavern was crowded. But even as he seemed engrossed in telling his tale, Alton Maygar kept aware enough of his surroundings that he noticed a newcomer like me sitting at the bar. Either the tale was so old and told that he could spare the attention, or he had developed the natural caution of a man living on the wrong side of the law.

"Well," I smiled at Alton, "I got the general idea."

Setting the goblet of wine down in front of Maygar, I stood, waiting for an invitation to sit. I could tell that he was lord of this corner of the bar. No matter how little time he had spent here at the Vixen, Maygar held a certain audience. His own private court that he reigned over. I decided to play into his pride a bit before taking a seat at the table.

That was the difference between those kids standing in the front of places like the Vixen, and those holding court in such establishments. Maygar's story, his life experience, deserved some sort of respect.

He looked at me, judging with eyes far younger than the gray in his long hair and beard. I could see that those eyes had witnessed it all. I knew that Maygar knew that I wanted something from him. I could play word games, I could dance around the subject, but in the end, Alton Maygar wouldn't tell me anything more than he wanted me to know. If I was gullible enough, it would be whatever story he thought I wanted to hear.

I decided to take the direct approach, albeit a little different than the direct approach I took with the doorman of the Vixen.

"So, why would a member of the Ruling Council of Land's End want you dead?" I asked.

No matter how good a storyteller Maygar was, no matter how experienced, very few people are ready for that kind of bluntness. Nobody expects you to call them out on the things they hide, or the things they truly fear. The way I saw it, if Maygar knew anything about crossing such a powerful man as Rast, then no matter how good of an actor he was, if I fired off a question so in-his-face, it would take a moment or two to recover.

He looked genuinely confused. "I don't know anybody by the name of Rast. If what you say is true, I have no idea why a perfect stranger would want to kill an old man like myself."

Looking in his eyes, I could see that Alton told the truth. You don't go far as a Master of Whispers and a P.I. without learning to read the eyes of a professional liar.

"Well you've crossed Rast in one way or another. He sent me to dispose of you."

Maygar's eyes widened. He pulled back from the table as far as the wall behind him would allow, looking suspiciously at the goblet of wine I'd placed on the table.

"Don't worry," I assured him, "it's not poisoned."

The bard's right hand began to slowly drift into his tunic.

"Whatever you're reaching for, Alton, you don't need to. I'm not here to dispose of you in any way. I just want to figure out why Rast wants you out of the way."

"How can I be sure of that?" the old man asked.

"Because if I wanted you dead like Rast, you would never see it coming. And I wouldn't bloody my hands. I'd have somebody else do it."

He relaxed just a little. But his hand still rested close to the opening in his tunic. I'm sure much like me Alton had learned to read the eyes of others. As a storyteller, he would be an expert judge of character. "So," he said slowly, "this Rast fellow approached you about getting rid of me?"

"Offered me pretty good money to make sure you weren't around anymore."

"But he didn't tell you why?"

"Seemed to think it wasn't my business. These high society types have me figured all wrong."

"So, you're no murderer?"

"I never said that," I said as I smiled a wicked grin at the bard.

He didn't see the humor in the situation. His hand inched slowly into his tunic.

"I said you have nothing to fear from me, Alton. Please don't do anything stupid. Get your hand where I can see it."

"Okay, okay," he answered, taking his hand slowly out of his tunic. As his hand withdrew, I saw movement from beneath the tunic. A slender, red-scaled tail slithered out of his tunic to touch his hand before slithering back inside.

"What the hell was that?" I asked, my own hand drifting cautiously towards the dagger at my side.

Alton smiled, leaning back against the wall. "Protection from anyone fool enough to think it easy to part an old man from his hard earned coin. You sound like a confident sort, but I think if your intention was to kill me, you'd find it more difficult than you imagined."

"I give you my word. I don't mean to harm you. Ask anybody in this room about the word of Marik Hammerhand. Even if they don't know me personally, they'll know my reputation."

He thought about that for a moment, studying me with scrutiny as if he could look through my words to their true intent.

"I believe you, Mr. Hammerhand."

"Good. I've got to know what that is in your tunic. You've got me curious."

Maygar continued to smile. He picked up his wine and sipped it thoughtfully. When he put the wine glass down, he looked around carefully before finally reaching back into his tunic. When his hand came out, he held something that shocked even my well-traveled eyes.

He held a miniature red dragon, no bigger than his right hand. The tiny dragon stretched its membranous wings, its tail whipping slowly back and forth. It looked at me with bright yellow eyes and snorted. A tiny puff of smoke billowed from its nose. The scales of the dragon gleamed dully in the candle and lantern light of the Vixen.

"Easy," Alton told it, stroking the ridges of the dragon's back, "he doesn't mean us harm, little one. I think Mr. Hammerhand might just be our first true friend in this city."

The dragon turned in Alton's hand, climbing slowly up the sleeve of his arm, before disappearing into his thick gray hair. A moment later, the dragon's head reappeared, poking out of his hair as it rested on Maygar's right shoulder. It cuddled up to the bard's neck, and I swore I could hear the damned thing purr like a contented cat.

"Is it real?" I asked, not sure if perhaps Alton was more than just a traveling bard. Maybe the old man was really some kind of wizard and the dragon just a conjured illusion.

"Oh, she's very real."

"A baby?"

"No, she's fully grown. Her name is Abraxas."

"A full-grown miniature red dragon?" I asked, not really expecting an answer. "That is one of the strangest things I've ever seen. Where did you find her?"

"The Southern Islands. Many years ago. Very few in the Ten Realms travel to those remote islands, Mr. Hammerhand. For my efforts, and for entertaining the king of the largest of those islands, she was my reward. Abraxas has been my constant companion ever since. She's save my life on many occasions, so you see, I'm not all that worried that some councilman I've never even met wants me dead. I can take care of myself."

The idea of this small red dragon boggled my mind.

But my mind never stays boggled for long.

An idea came slamming into my head like my fist had slammed into the face of the doorman outside. An idea I had to act on, before the opportunity passed me by and I doomed myself to another six months of skullduggery, bribes and murder.

"Alton," I said, giving him my best smile, "I don't think you really have to worry about taking care of yourself. Not while I'm your only friend here in Land's End. I've got an idea."

Alton Maygar pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows at me. "Go on, Mr. Hammerhand."

I nodded and began to tell him an enthralling tale of deception and mayhem. Sometimes I think I could've been a bard in another lifetime.

۞

Councilman Rast entered my office like he owned the place, his brute of a bodyguard trailing after him once again.

As Rast took a chair in front of my desk, the guard stood in front of the door. I noticed that he didn't cross his arms this time. They hung at his side, with one hand near the hilt of the long sword on his hip. I would have to draw him further into the room, if Flint needed a chance to knife the bastard in the back.

"I see you got my message," I told the councilman.

"You said you had information about Alton Maygar. I'm not paying you for information regarding the man, Hammerhand. I'm paying you to take care of my problem, so this conversation better end with the words, 'it's taken care of'."

"You're a charmer, Rast. You make a lot of friends on the council with that attitude?"

"I'm in the business of ruling this city. Not making friends. Tell me what you have to tell me. I have a council session in an hour."

"Perfect," I answered. The Ruling Council would meet in an hour. He had given me all I needed to know.

"I beg your pardon?" Rast asked, sitting ridged like a hawk again.

"I wouldn't pardon you if you had just saved a school full of the king's children, Rast."

The councilman's eyes narrowed. I'm sure nobody talked to him like that. His hands clenched until his knuckles went white. "What do you have to say about Maygar?" he demanded.

"Only that he's a pretty good storyteller and not a bad drinking buddy."

"Whatever you drank with him damned well better have been poisoned."

I smiled broadly, as if I had really poisoned Maygar. In truth, I smiled thinking about those on the Council I had actually poisoned.

He seemed to take my smile as the confirmation I wanted him to, relaxing his tense shoulder somewhat. "Then, it is taken care of?" he asked.

I liked having Rast on the hook. I could clearly see that he truly feared the old bard for some reason. I decided that I had to know why Alton Maygar caused one of the most powerful men in Land's End so much grief.

"Perhaps," I said as I leaned back in my chair, folding my massive hands across my stomach.

"I've had enough of this!" The councilman bellowed.

Rast motioned for his goon to come forward. The man gripped the hilt of his sword, striding towards us. I couldn't have planned it any better.

"No need to get your skirt in a ruffle," I told Rast. "Call off your dog, if you want the details about Maygar, the old man who makes you wet your bed at night."

Though angry, Rast wanted to know I had done the job. He needed to know that Maygar was no longer the threat he thought. Rast held up his hand and his dog heeled just behind his chair. Although he had called his man off, I could see Rast's true intent written on his angry face. He would hear what I had to say and then let go of the leash. He planned on killing me and keeping all the gold he had offered. No loose ends to connect him back to the murder he hoped I committed for that money.

"First things first," I told him. "I am damned interested in knowing why you wanted the man dead... oh, sorry, disposed of. According to Maygar, he had never met you. He was so new to the city he had no idea who you were, Rast. So, why kill a harmless old storyteller?"

Rast pretended not to want to divulge the methods to his madness. He played the part of my offended better. But in the end, since he planned on killing me, why not tell me the story? In the end, all-powerful men love the sound of their own voice. They want to tell anyone within earshot just how clever, how mighty, they really are. The councilman proved no exception to this rule. He sighed dramatically as if giving into my question.

"Because Alton Maygar would be the death of me."

I laughed. Loudly. Rast twitched in his seat.

"So you're telling me that one old man could best the bodyguard standing behind you, Rast? You really need to hire better help." Now it was the guard's time to twitch. He looked very anxious to draw steel and skewer me like an alley rat. He pretty much gave away Rast's intentions to leave me in the office, drowning in my own blood. They probably figured I had made plenty of enemies in the Warrens and nobody would think twice about fining me dead.

Not too far from the truth. But I wouldn't be cashing in my tainted soul today.

"Alton Maygar was prophesied to cause my death, Hammerhand. As a member of the Ruling Council, I have access to some of the most powerful wizards and seers in the Ten Realms. One of them saw my demise at Maygar's hands. If allowed to live, this old man of yours would somehow kill me!"

This truly shocked me. I stopped laughing, surprised at what I heard. "You wanted a man killed because some court sycophant told you they saw your death in a vision? You would take a man's life on the word of a charlatan ladder-climber?" The depths of depravity of those living in the Ivory Towers never ceased to amaze me.

I had finished with this sick son of a bitch.

"You disgust me, Rast. You and all of your kind."

Rast flicked his wrist in some silent signal to his dog. The goon's sword cleared leather in a heartbeat, ready to run me threw and pin me to my chair.

He halted mid-lunge, his entire body stiffening. The sword pointing at my chest wavered, then slipped from his fingers, clanging onto the floor of my office. The guard stumbled, leaning heavily on my desk. Then he fell over onto the floor, blood pouring out of the weak-point in his chainmail shirt, just below his armpit. Flint Shrubwood, my faithful halfling comrade-in-arms, stood just to Rast's left side, holding a bloody dagger.

The look on Rast's face was priceless. I would've given all of his gold back and then some to have an artist on hand to paint that picture when he realized how deep in the dung he stood. The Councilman reeled at the sight of Flint with the dagger. He tried to find his feet, thinking he would make a dash for the door. My halfling friend stepped smoothly and quickly back, putting himself between Rast and the door.

"Keep your seat," I commanded.

What else could Rast do? He slumped back into the chair, trembling in fear, looking more like a cowardly puppy now than the hawkish predator that had walked through my door a few minutes earlier. I continued to lean back in my chair.

"I'm the terror in the darkness," I told him. "I'm the one who poisoned Laratha Artura. I'm the one who had Councilman Kalas drowned in the bay. He didn't die in a boating accident. I had him killed. I've been stalking all of you. I've been murdering all of you. I have your fellow council members cowering behind the walls of the Ivory Towers. And now you've delivered yourself to me. I hold your life in my hands."

"Why?" he stammered. Tears hung in his shocked eyes.

"Revenge," I said softly, "is what I told myself at first. Revenge is the one power I could hold over you. I wanted to make you pay because I saw what your careless, selfish ways have done to people I love and to Land's End. Then I realized... it's not revenge at all. It's a reckoning. I've made myself the Angel of Judgment. And I judge you and the rest of the council unfit to rule this city. Unfit to live at all."

"What is it you really want, Marik?" he asked, using my first name as if we were suddenly equal. "Money? Power? I can get you all of these things. Spare me, and I can get you a seat on the Ruling Council. Spare me and I can help you kill of all the rest. We can rule this city side by side, you and me, Marik. We could be rich and powerful beyond your wildest dreams!"

"You haven't heard a word I've said." I shook my head in disappointment.

"Please," he begged, tears finally bursting forth.

I opened the drawer where I kept my best dwarven whiskey.

Alton Maygar's miniature red dragon crawled slowly out. Abraxas slithered onto the top of my desk, stretching her wings. Her long neck reeled back, eyes staring at the sobbing man in the chair before her.

"What... what is that?" Rast cried.

"Looks like a tiny dragon to me," I told him. "One small dragon that holds more power than even the mighty Councilman Rast of the Ruling Council of Land's End."

True fear dawned in Rast's eyes. The kind of fear that colors all we see when the moment of our death comes knocking on the door to our soul. He saw his death and knew that his life had been a hallow, meaningless, shallow journey straight to hell.

"Abraxas," I spoke to the dragon in the secret language of her kind. I only knew the few simple words Alton Maygar had hastily taught me. "Feier, Abraxas. D'nieth, D'nieth."

Fire. Kill, kill.

A gout of flame leapt from the jaws of the tiny dragon in a roar. Heat washed over my office and the stench of brimstone and sulfur filled the place for a moment. The impossibly large cone of fire erupting from the small dragon's mouth caught Rast in the face, enveloping his head like a blazing helmet. The smell of the dragon's breath gave way to the stink of singed hair and the stomach-churning smell of Rast's flesh slewing off his skull. I'd have a bit of a mess to clean up when this ended—If I came back to my office above the Broken Unicorn ever again.

Abraxas broke of the stream of fire. Not much remained of Councilman Rast's face. Bits and pieces of cooked flesh clung to his charred skull. His eyes had melted in their sockets. His robes smoldered and burned in small patches. It happened so quickly Rast never uttered a scream.

The dragon puffed smoke and stared at the corpse.

Flint grabbed a bucket of water we had hidden behind the bookcase and up-ended it over Rast's burning body. Steam hissed and rose from the smoldering remains. Abraxas jumped onto his chest and began to pull chunks of cooked meat from the skull.

"That smells awful," Flint said, holding his nose.

Even with my constitution, I had to admit the stench would never leave the office. I thought I might miss the old place. Run-down or not, I had called it home for a couple of years. Pulling out the bottle of whiskey, I poured two glasses. "This should help," I told my friend.

We emptied our glasses in one gulp.

Flint admired the miniature dragon. "Y'know, boss, she packs a lot of flame in a small package."

"Kind of like us."

I refilled our glasses.

"A lot of flame," he repeated as he drank. "The Council meets in less than an hour, Marik."

"I know," I answered, draining my glass.

"Funny," Flint mused, "looks like the prophecy Rast feared came true. Guess that seer isn't such a charlatan after all."

"He'll be the first to go, Flint. And I bet he doesn't see it coming."

We finished our whiskey and I gathered up Abraxas.

I left the body of Rast smoking in my office and never went back.

۞

The Ivory Towers burned. My little matchstick flew gracefully through the smoky air and landed on my shoulders. Handing Abraxas gently to Alton Maygar, I turned back to watch the flames, wondering how long it would take before they burned down and how much of the Ivory Towers would remain.

Rumor had it Prince Justin would be arriving on the morrow. He would be shocked when he arrived, I'm sure. The new council of Land's End would meet him at the gates of the city.

A Council of Three. Flint Shrubwood. Alton Maygar. And Marik Hammerhand.

I felt confident that the Prince would meet peacefully with the new rulers of Land's End in the name of King Kulmane. I knew that the prince would probably agree to all of the changes the Council of Three would propose to make Land's End a more prosperous and comfortable place for all people living behind the city's walls.

If the prince didn't agree?

Then he would burn just as quickly and quietly as Rast had.

As for the king and his armies? They would burn as well.

I intended to free the enslaved dragon burning the sewage of Land's End. With Alton's knowledge of the language of dragons, and the kindness which he had always treated Abraxas, I felt that we had a good chance at becoming great friends.

The Ivory Towers burned and so did the fire in my gut.

I would make this place a better world through a baptism of fire.

THEEND.

The following is an excerpt from Mike's first novel, Hollywood Cowboys. This novel can be found in both e-book editions and print copy. For more about the author and Hollywood Cowboys please visit Mike's website:

www.mikechinakosauthor.com

PRELUDE

Watching his date going down on some other guy, Rich Nunnencort couldn't believe his own eyes.

He simply couldn't wrap his brain around what he saw.

Rich stared dumbfounded at Trina doing her best impression of a Hoover vacuum cleaner. The dude on the receiving end of her attention sat on an expensive leather couch smiling up at the stucco ceiling like he had just won the lottery.

To top it off, the guy didn't even look like he belonged in any of the bands they had both come to see. Rich knew he should be pissed off. He should be fucking furious. But looking around at the penthouse full of rock stars, he felt too fucking elated to let jealousy rear up in all its ugly glory.

Besides, as drunk as Trina had to be, she probably had no idea at all that her effort went to waste on this guy.

Rich knew the dude had to be some sort of roadie or sound guy. The tall Mexican looking dude was no different than either one of them, just another hanger-on cashing in on the fame and fortune of the rock stars throwing this after-hours shindig.

The joke completely on his date, Rich laughed and took another swig of a Heineken beer that he otherwise couldn't afford.

Fuck it, he decided as he savored the taste of the brew. If Trina hadn't got them backstage at the Forum, he'd more than likely be at home and in bed by now. He probably wouldn't have even rated a goodnight kiss let alone a blowjob. Not from Trina. Not until his band got signed and he made some sort of impact on the scene.

His date had groupie, or gropie, written all over her from the moment he had picked her up to see the show tonight. That's the only reason he stood here right now, rubbing elbows and downing beers with some of the hottest bands in L.A. Why the fuck should he question anything at all on such an incredible night?

Most of the big boys of metal always seemed to hit the Rainbow Bar and Grill after a big show, and although the headliners weren't here at this party, Rich didn't mind at all. The supporting band was here and they had a lot of friends on the L.A. scene. Rock star friends that Rich would never have been able to hang with outside of this party.

This was the fucking coolest party he'd been to since arriving in L.A. and he intended to make the best of it.

He stood a little off to the side of a massive Alpine home stereo system blasting out Van Halen's Drop Dead Legs. For a song a few years old now, the tune still fucking rocked. Letting the music wash over him, amping up his buzz, Rich gazed about the posh digs and took it all in.

Slash and Izzy stood by a long mahogany bar next to an open balcony, surrounded by girls and empty whiskey bottles. Stephen Pearcy of Ratt made out with some girl on a Zebra skin rug in front of the couch where Trina went to town on the roadie. Jonny Mosh and Tommy T from the Hollywood Cowboys played some sort of drinking game with Mad Dog 20/20.

On top of the long dining room table they played their game on, two groupie girls danced topless to the Van Halen song filling the penthouse's ample living room.

The party looked like something out of that 8mm Caligula movie bootleg that Rich's big brother always kept hidden under his bed. Rich never thought these kind of parties could be real. He always believed them to be the stuff of legend. Just bullshit stories to entertain all of the rock 'n roll and metal fans.

Rich grinned at the scene, counting himself lucky to be here with so many of his heroes.

He watched some other dudes doing long lines of coke on the opposite end of the table from the two Cowboys. Rich didn't dig that scene at all, but knew damn good and well that a party wasn't a party in L.A. without blow.

Everywhere he looked the penthouse teemed with party people. Rich had watched other stars coming and going, some disappearing with women into bedrooms down a long hallway decorated with fine art in gaudy frames. Some of them he could place a famous face with, but not the names. Some were rock stars, some were movie stars, and some just looked like fucking stars.

What a fucking dream come true.

If his friends back home in Iowa could see him now, they'd shit fireflies. Not a single one of them had believed he'd make it when he moved out west with his bass guitar in hand. True, his band still couldn't get a gig on the strip, but tonight he felt as if he'd taken a step in the right direction.

Rich had heard of many backstage and penthouse parties leading to record deals being made. They just did shit like that out here in L.A. He might still be a little green on the metal scene, but he knew sometimes it mattered more who you knew than how much your band fucking rocked.

Right now the L.A. landscape crawled with dime-a-dozen hairspray abusing wannabes. Every smart musician looked to take advantage of whatever opportunity arrived and this party had Big Break written all over it in large glowing neon letters.

Rich guessed they'd been at the party for an hour or so.

It hadn't taken Trina long to make her move, but he knew he couldn't rush in looking like a corn fed asshole trying to score with the big boys. He had to play it cool and for the last hour he'd kept an open smile on his face, chitchatting here and there with everyone he could. He had even shot the shit a little bit with Tommy T.

He kept an eye on the stars, but tried not to seem like an awestruck fan. Rich saw that most of them were looking pretty well lit and for the most part, friendly and open... more so with the women of course, but still approachable by anyone lucky enough to be at the party.

Patting the three or four demo tapes in the inner pocket of his strategically tattered and torn jean jacket, he decided to make a move soon.

Who should he hit up first?

Doc McGhee managed a couple of the bands here and Rich knew that might be a tough sell. The man had to constantly have tapes shoved at him, even by his own acts.

He had heard that the Cowboys had a pretty sweet deal with their manager. The guy sounded like a different breed than most here in L.A. if the rumors were true.

Then again, since the band originally came from Portland, Oregon, maybe they just did things a little different there. Plus, he had already had some contact with Tommy tonight. Maybe he could get in on their drinking game, finding a way to get even friendlier with the Cowboys.

Rich had been a big fan of the Hollywood Cowboys since their early days, around the time they released their self-titled EP. He couldn't believe he actually stood in the same room as these guys!

He watched Jonny Mosh, long dark brown hair, goatee, and a stage presence to match his vocal chops. The guy dominated as a lead singer. Then there was Tommy T, a shredding guitar player that gave even Eddie Van Halen a run for his money. With his curly black hair, he could almost be Slash's twin, just without the trademark top hat and shorter, kind of like a stout pit bull.

The other members of the Hollywood Cowboys, the bass player, D.C. Hunter, and the drummer, Charlie Chance weren't at this party.

Having the full band here might have helped Rich. The more guys to befriend, the better chances he would have of getting them to listen to his demo tape. But since they weren't all here, he just had to do what he had to do.

Making up his mind to concentrate his efforts on the Cowboys, Rich took a deep drag off his beer to prepare himself.

He noticed the roadie standing and zipping up as Trina wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. The roadie stumbled off and she smiled at Rich with smeared dark red lipstick. He casually strolled over to her and handed Trina his beer.

"Thanks," she said, swigging from the green bottle and offering it back.

"Keep it," he suppressed a smile.

"Sorry about that," she reached out and touched his hand, "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"No worries."

"It's just, y'know, he's with the band..."

Rich smiled. Trina was so drunk she had no idea who she had blown.

He hated to ruin her moment, so he said nothing about the guy being nobody important, "I totally understand. It's my turn to make my own kind of move. I'm going to get in on that drinking game over there and by the end of the night one of the Hollywood Cowboys will have my demo in hand."

"That's great," she beamed. Then her face scrunched up like a pinched poodle's as her eyes wandered up towards the top of his head.

"What?" He asked.

"Well, your hair. I think it's gone kinda flat. The show was sweltering. I think the humidity killed your hair."

"Fuck."

He knew he should've spent more money on the last can of hairspray he bought, but damn, he couldn't be any more broke. Hairspray. Beer. Food. Rent. Pretty much in that order. Lately, all he could afford were the first two.

Of course the Cowboys were more sleaze metal than glam. Sure, they depleted their fair share of ozone with hairspray, but not nearly in the epic way some of the other Sunset Strip bands did.

These days image sold videos on MTV and MTV made careers for even the lamest of no-talent bands based purely on the size of their hair and the gleam of their smile. Rich couldn't go up to these guys and sell them on his demo unless he looked his absolute best.

"Fuck," he repeated.

"Wait a minute," Trina slurred, producing a bright pink handbag from a corner of the couch, "I have a small can of hairspray somewhere."

After a few moments of rummaging around she dug out a travel sized can of Aqua Net.

"Awesome," Rich grabbed it from her hands, bending down to kiss her on the cheek, "I'll find a john and get my look straight."

Quickly, keeping the hairspray low and out of sight, he weaved through some partiers bottlenecking the hallway leading to the bedrooms and started for the bathroom he'd used earlier.

He came abruptly to a halt, running right into a line longer than any at the Whisky. It seemed like everybody had need of the bathroom at the same time.

In frustration, he banged his forehead lightly against a bedroom door as he took his place at the end of the line.

The door clicked open, swinging slowly inward, revealing a plush bedroom of maroons and other shades of red and purple, bathed in candle light reflected from mirrors across the entire ceiling and most of the walls.

Two blond girls giggled as they finished helping each other zip up into short black dresses so tight they looked like they had been painted onto their bodies.

Some dude, Rich thought he might be some sort of record producer or maybe a studio exec by his looks, buttoned up a pair of slacks and smiled at him from in front of a large round waterbed. The middle-aged man pulled long ginger red hair back into a ponytail.

"Oh, sorry," Rich stammered, realizing how lame he sounded, but not knowing what else to say.

"No problem, man," the guy said, shrugging into a black silk shirt, "We're done with the room if you need it. We've got another party to get to."

"Oh... No, no," he mumbled, "I'm just waiting for the bathroom. Sorry."

The beautiful blond girls came to the door and Rich stood aside to let them pass.

One of them saw the line in the hall and whispered in his ear, "Looks like your lucky day, stud. There's a bathroom just off of this suite. Don't tell anybody, though. It should be empty."

The girl smelled of beer, cigarettes, sex, and sweet perfume. Her lips brushed up against his ear and a shiver ran down his spine, "Thanks," he smiled awkwardly, suddenly feeling like a virgin Iowan kid again.

Rich watched both girls walk hand in hand back down the hallway as the silk shirted business type breezed by him in tow.

The red-haired man looked back him with a slightly sardonic grin on his face. Rich couldn't tell why the hell the guy looked at him like that, but he had to get his hair fixed and get back to the party, so fuck that rich dude anyhow. The silk-shirted man put his arms around both girls as they headed for the penthouse's front door.

"God damn," Rich sighed to himself. He wondered if he'd ever make enough money or be famous enough to get that lucky, "God damn, you gotta love the City of Angels."

He passed through the suite that reeked of sex and alcohol and opened a door to his right.

The door led to a walk-in closet bigger than his entire apartment.

He spun around slowly, looking for another door along the mirrored walls. He spotted one on the opposite side of the room and went to it, quietly laughing to himself about the outlandishness of the whole scene. He pushed the dark teak wood door open.

The laughter died abruptly in his throat as he took a single step into an ornately lavish restroom twice as large as the walk-in closet.

In the middle of all of the gaudiness; the marbled walls, four head shower stall, Olympic sized Jacuzzi tub, plush carpeting, T.V., and stereo system... someone lay propped up against the base of a marble bathroom sink.

A needle and syringe dangled from that someone's left arm just below loosened surgical tubing. The shirtless man had long spiky black hair hanging down his torso, hiding his face because his chin had slumped down into his chest.

Even though Rich couldn't see the man's face, he knew exactly who lay on the bathroom floor in front of him. He had seen the man's tattoos in countless photos in Hit Parader and Metal Edge magazines.

He froze, not knowing what to do. Should he back quietly out of the room? Should he just take care of business and pretend he hadn't seen a thing? Fuck, he couldn't even tell if the guy was breathing. He might be dead for all Rich knew. Should he go get help?

For fuck's sake, why did he even have all of these questions and indecision in his mind? Back home, if he'd found someone in this condition he wouldn't even hesitate to make sure the dude was all right. What the hell had L.A. done to his head?

"Nicky?" Rich asked quietly, "Nicky, are you all right, dude?"

Nicky Styx, bass player for the sleaziest of the Sunset Strip bands, Leathür N' Lace, famed for his excess partying, didn't answer back.

"Hey," Rich said a little louder, hesitantly stepping into the bathroom, "You okay?"

Still, nothing. The rocker didn't twitch a muscle. He didn't give any indication that he had heard Rich at all. Rich moved a little closer, "Hey, C'mon, Nicky. The party's just getting started out there."

Christ, it didn't look like Nicky had taken a single breath at all since he had found him. Rich took another step forward. His right imitation snakeskin boot kicked something near Nicky's outstretched legs that clinked like glass. A small black vial rolled across the carpet.

Crouching down to pick up the vial, Rich kept his eyes on Nicky as one hand blindly searched the carpet in front of him. He looked for some sign of life but saw nothing. Now that he found himself down on the bass player's level, Rich could definitely identify him. Slowly, he reached out with the hand not searching for the vial and shook Nicky's leg.

"Nicky, c'mon. Wake up, dude."

The syringe wiggled back and forth, clinging to Nicky's arm like a pilot fish to a shark slicing across the dark Pacific Ocean, refusing to be left behind.

Rich felt his stomach turn and fought to hold down the Heineken he'd been swilling earlier.

His other hand came up with the vial. Looking closely at the obsidian dark glass he saw a small red emblem looking back at him. The etching looked like a bat, reminding him of the Bacardi bat he had seen a hundred times while downing 151 with his band mates.

A small red drop of viscous fluid dropped onto the carpet as Rich turned the vial in his hand. What the hell had Nicky been putting into his veins? Fear knotted up his stomach even more.

What if Nicky died here tonight? Did he want to become famous by finding another rock 'n roll casualty instead of becoming famous for his music?

He should just go. He should just get back to the party and let this thing sort itself out. He had connections to make. Let somebody else deal with this shit. He sure as hell didn't need it.

No. Not right. Not right at all.

He couldn't do that. He had to make sure Nicky would be okay. He would never be able to forgive himself if Nicky died tonight and he didn't do anything to prevent such a tragedy.

Rich reached out to shake his idol by the shoulder. The feel of cold flesh made him yank his hand back quickly.

Fuck! Too cold. Fucking shit!

Nicky must be dead. Nobody living could possibly feel that cold. Rich couldn't believe this, Nicky Styx overdosed at the very first rock star party he had ever attended.

Nobody would care much about listening to another hopeful's demo tape when one of the biggest contributors to the L.A. scene lay dead in a penthouse bathroom with a fucking needle hanging out of his arm.

Christ, he had to get out of here. He couldn't deal with this shit. Rich simply didn't have it in his make up to handle this kind of ordeal. He should just grab Trina and get the fuck out.

"Holy shit!" A voice gasped behind him.

Letting out a startled yelp, Rich almost sprawled across Nicky's lap in shock. He managed to throw his weight backwards and plopped down on the ass of his acid wash jeans instead.

"Fuck," Jonny Mosh of the Hollywood Cowboys said from the doorway.

"I just found him," Rich stammered, "I came in to fix my... to use the john and I found him. I think he's dead."

"You think?" Jonny came quickly into the room, followed by the huge roadie Trina had been blowing earlier. Rich thought the roadie might be Mexican, but if so, Rich had never seen a bigger Mexican before tonight.

No matter who he might be, the dude made Rich cringe with the dark and menacing stare he shot accusingly at him.

"I was about to call for help," he said meekly as Jonny kneeled down beside Styx, carefully checking his pulse.

The set of Jonny's goateed jaw and the look in his green-brown eyes told Rich everything before the singer even said a word.

"No pulse. Fuck."

The air in the room felt thick, filling Rich's lungs with dread. The roadie sighed heavily. Jonny Mosh shook his head.

"Nicky told me he had quit shooting up smack," Mosh said quietly, pulling the needle free and letting it drop silently to the carpet.

"I think it was this," Rich held up the vial. He didn't know exactly why he offered the bottle to the singer. It just seemed like the thing to do.

Jonny's eyes narrowed, the sad look on his face melting away, replaced by something darker. He snatched the vial from Rich's hand, examining it closer.

"Jesus-fucking-me-Christ," Jonny barked, "What the hell was he thinking?"

He tossed the vial to the roadie, who looked at it in equal dismay, "Bob," Jonny frowned, "Get Tommy. Clear the party out, and grab your gear. Quick!"

The Mexican raised an eyebrow at the singer.

"I'll be fine. Get going. We may not have much time."

The roadie hurried off.

Mosh turned his attention back to Rich.

The thick air felt even thicker still, this time with panic and confusion. He just wanted to go. Get away from all of this. All he wanted to do tonight amounted to meeting some people in the biz and having a few beers. He just wanted to get his demo tape into circulation with those who mattered in L.A.

Instead he found himself sitting on his ass, head throbbing as his buzz died, being stared at angrily by one of his rock 'n roll heroes, over the dead body of another metal icon. None of this would even be happening if he'd been a little less cheap and bought some damn decent hairspray!

"Did you give him this shit?" Mosh grabbed up the syringe. Rich could see remnants of the red fluid from the vial clinging to the syringe's sides.

"No, dude, no. I'm no drug dealer."

"Drug dealer?" Mosh clenched the syringe in white knuckles, "You better not be lying to me. I swear if you are, I'll sure as fuck put this needle through your eye and into your brain."

"Dude, I'm telling you, I just came in here to use the john and found him like this. I swear!"

The singer looked him up and down, anger seething from his eyes. He threw the syringe across the bathroom into the shower stall with a clatter, "What's your name?"

"R... Rich."

"Who are you with, Rich?"

"What?"

"Who the fuck are you with? How'd you get into the party?"

"Oh. I came with my date. We were at the show... I'm with the band, Ruff Ryde..."

"I don't give a fuck what band you're with."

"I'm sorry, I ramble when I'm nervous sometimes."

Damn. Why the hell had he mentioned what band he played with? That's just what he needed. Now Jonny Mosh would associate his band's name with this mess anytime he thought about it or any time he heard the name Ruff Ryde.

"This date you came with..."

"Trina."

"Fine. Trina. How'd she get you up here to the penthouse?"

Rich decided that might be a great question.

At the show she got them back stage by flashing her boobs at a security guard and giving him a fake telephone number to call her at. Things back stage had been kind of chaotic and he really hadn't seen much of her until she found him and said they'd been invited to the after hours penthouse gig. Who knew exactly who, or what she did to get them this far?

Jonny Mosh's eyes burned a hole through Rich's skull. The man expected an answer and unless that answer killed his suspicions, Rich believed he might well get that needle right through the eye as promised.

"She blew your roadie," he answered quietly.

"What?"

"The big Mexican. She blew him."

Mosh rolled his eyes, "He's Hawaiian, you fucking retard."

"Dude, I'm sorry. I've never seen a Hawaiian before, except on TV. I'm from Iowa." Fuck, there went his big rambling mouth again.

"Yeah, I get it. Midwest kid comes to the coast to hit the big time metal scene," Mosh seemed to relax a bit, but the anger still simmered near the surface, "Trina blew Bob. Fine, I can see that. He's got a bit of a weakness for groupies. Sorry, kid. Guess you two couldn't have given that shit to Nicky."

"I don't understand," Rich tried not to sound like a whiny kid, but heard a tremble in his own voice.

"The shit's expensive. Very expensive. Very hard to come by. No offense, but some wannabe glam-banger and a dick sucking groupie wouldn't be bringing this kind of action to any party."

Rich shook his head in confusion. The explanation didn't quite measure up to what he meant. He didn't understand why this drug would be any different from any other drugs Nicky Styx had put in his body over his years in Hollywood.

Why would just the sight of the vial piss Jonny off so badly and send his people into action? He started to say something to that effect when another thought crashed into his head, pushing everything else out, demanding to be said.

"Dude! That guy in the black silk shirt! He looked like some kind of bigwig. Like a producer or something!"

"What?" Jonny asked, "What producer?"

Rich told the angry singer about the threesome he had caught the end of. Suddenly, the way the blond told him she thought the bathroom was empty seemed somehow mocking. Sarcastic. Threatening? Not to mention that menacing look the red-haired producer had given him.

"What did this producer look like?" Jonny seemed fired up again, ready to come across the room at Rich. He tried his best to quell the fear causing his stomach to roil and described the red-haired man he'd seen.

"Sonavabitch," Jonny muttered when he had finished, "J.J. Jezreel."

"Do you know the guy?"

"Yeah. If I'd known the fucker was here, this would've never happened. I would've killed that asshole straight up, long before he could peddle this shit to Nicky."

"I saw him leave with those two girls, Jonny. I'm sorry, dude. If I would've known I would've stopped him."

Jonny glared at him again, "No, dude. You would've tried. And you would be lucky if Jezreel let you live."

Rich felt his insides turn to water. He felt scared shitless. He wanted to find his feet and get away from Styx's body. What the hell had he gotten himself mixed up in? The look on Jonny's face, the tone of his voice, told Rich that the singer meant business.

Rich believed every word Mosh said and that scared the musician more than anything he had ever known.

"What did that guy give Nicky?" He asked the singer.

Mosh leveled a hard gaze at Rich that made his stomach turn even more. He hoped like hell he didn't spew beer all over Styx and the bathroom. He didn't know what to make of Jonny's intense stare. What did Jonny try to tell him? Did those eyes judge him? Scold him? Want to kill him?

"I don't think you're ready for that answer, country boy."

Damn it, why did he let that Iowa thing slip? Fuck if he would be treated like some country bumpkin fresh off the bus. He had put in a hard year here on the coast, busting his ass to put together Ruff Ryde, trying to make the right connections, trying to learn the ins and outs of L.A. and the industry.

"Dude. I'm ready. Tell me what the hell's going on here, Jonny."

Again, Jonny judged him. Rich straightened up, giving an equally judging stare right back at the brown haired, goateed singer of the Hollywood Cowboys.

"All right," Jonny sighed, "You want the truth, hard ass? Here it is..."

Nicky Styx screamed.

The bass player howled an unearthly chorus of agony, desire, and fear. His scream filled the bathroom, echoing off marbled walls and mirrors, piercing Rich's eardrums like a banshee's wail. The bass player's right hand shot out, iron hard fingers digging into Rich's throat, cutting off his own scream of surprise.

Rich pawed at the vice-like grip. Nicky's hair danced like Medusa's snakes as his entire body convulsed. Hair flying free, Rich could see the paleness of Styx's face beneath, intersected with a highway of blue veins just below deathly pallor.

"Nicky! NO!"

Jonny Mosh threw himself at his friend, trying to pull the incredibly strong grip from Rich's throat. With a snarl, the bass player grabbed Jonny's long hair, snapping back his head with and audible crack of bones. Rich watched in disbelief as Styx tossed Jonny across the bathroom like a rag doll. The singer crashed through the shower's half open plate glass door, sending sharp shards spraying everywhere.

Choking, feeling helpless, Rich tried in vain to pull free. Nicky whipped his black hair about with a snap, looking at Rich as if he just realized he held someone in a killing grip. His fingers felt icy cold as they dug into Rich's flesh. Styx stared at him with eyes glazed milky white, drained of all color, but alive with a primal rage like nothing the Iowan upstart had ever seen.

Nicky snarled. Rich caught a glimpse of gleaming razor like incisors just before they pierced his throat with a wet crunch.

His world spun.

He tried to cry out but couldn't seem to find his tongue. It felt as if a wet woolly blanket smothered him. Blood rushed from his jugular as Nicky's lips slurped greedily. Rich moaned. He felt the bass player's tongue teasing the huge holes in his neck and beneath all of the pain, confusion, and tunnel vision, felt somehow aroused.

He was no fag, plenty of platinum blond groupies could attest to that, but this felt so strangely orgasmic. So intensely intimate. He knew he should struggle, but it felt so right, no matter how weird. He came in his acid wash jeans, still trying to cry out, still trying to work up the means to break free of Nicky's attentions.

Rich felt dimly aware of Jonny pulling himself up off the shower tiles. The singer ignored large chunks of glass protruding from his body here and there and charged across the room. Even though he felt as if underwater, Rich watched Mosh muscle his bloodied forearm around Nicky Styx's pale throat. Jonny yanked back hard and Styx's lips made a sickening popping sound as they left Rich's shredded throat.

The pale, shirtless bass player landed on top of Jonny as they both crashed to the bloodstained carpet.

Bob, the huge Mexican... No, the huge Hawaiian, appeared in the doorway, Tommy T right behind him. Both the Hawaiian and the guitar god rushed Nicky Styx.

The three musicians and the roadie turned into a tiny, chaotic, mosh pit in the middle of the bathroom floor.

Rich reached up for his ravaged throat. His hands came back slick with his own blood, but it just didn't seem to matter. The haze surrounding his mind told him not to worry about it. Fuck it. This must be some sort of very strange dream.

Maybe he sat on his own couch in his spartan apartment right now, smoking pot with Trina from his favorite bong. Maybe he'd just got his hands on a G laced with opium. It wouldn't be the first time and he knew what kind of fucked up rides those nights could be.

Out of the whirlwind of violence in the middle of the bathroom floor, Bob emerged, pulling Nicky free from the scramble of flesh and blood by the scruff of his spiky black hair. He whirled the bloodied bass player by the hair into the shower stall. Broken glass crunched as it embedded into ghostly white skin.

Nicky came up in a crouch, looking like some trapped wild beast, all fangs, glaring milky eyes, and snarling bloody spit.

Through the haze Rich noticed a large gleaming handgun in Bob's hand. It looked like a .357. Rich had seen Dirty Harry enough times to recognize the big gun. Had it been in the roadie's hand all of the time? He had no idea. How could he keep track of all the shit going on around him in such a fucked up dream where he lay bleeding to death in the bathroom of some rock star's penthouse?

Bob leveled the gun at Nicky.

Over the throbbing rush of static in his ears, Rich heard the thud of the handgun as it bucked in the Hawaiian's hand. He fired once. Twice. Once more.

Nicky jumped as blood sprayed from his body like four little Old Faithful geysers from his chest. His body twitched, danced, and convulsed. He fell to the tiles, completely motionless amongst the blood and broken glass.

Stillness fell over the fractured ornate bathroom.

The rushing water in Rich's ears suddenly ceased. Pain wracked his body as he grabbed at his throat trying to stop the red from pouring out between his fingers. He watched Tommy and Mosh help each other up as Bob, the roadie, let the massive handgun fall to the side of his thigh.

"Holy shit, Bob," Tommy said.

"It's cool," the roadie replied, "Everybody calm down. I just used the garlic loads. Not the holy water."

"Nice shooting, Tex," Mosh told Bob, "Guess it's a good thing you work security and you're not the roadie this guy thought you were," he pointed at Rich as he leaned against a wall, glass protruding from torn clothing, "Are you sure Nicky'll be all right?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Bob answered, sounding a little put out, "This is what I do."

"Sorry," Jonny continued, "It's just..."

"I know," Bob cut in, "But once that shit he shot up clears his system, he'll be fine. Silver would have fucked him up totally. Holy water would've killed him. Garlic slowed him down enough. He'll heal up from the gunshots long before that shit in his system wears off."

"When it does, I swear I'm gonna kill him," Jonny sighed, "What the hell was Nicky doing taking drugs from an asshole like Jezreel? How the hell did we not notice Jezreel at the party?"

"We must be slipping," Tommy offered.

"Charlie is going to be pissed if he finds out," Bob added.

Who the fuck cares if their drummer, Charlie Chance is pissed? Rich wanted to ask. I'm dying here!

Rich felt as if he watched all of this through a broken telephoto lens, where the only clear thing seemed miles and miles away, everything else looking like Vaseline around that pinpoint of clarity. He tried to speak, but only gagged.

What the hell? He had a pocket full of demo tapes. He just wanted to get up out of this pool of blood soaking into the carpet and put one of those tapes into some rock star's hands. Is that too fucking much to ask?

"What are we going to do with him?" Tommy T motioned to Rich.

All three of the men associated with the Hollywood Cowboys turned to Rich in unison. Their faces looked grim. He knew it probably looked bad, but the pain had to mean things weren't that bad. If he were dying, surely the pain would be subsiding by now.

"It doesn't look good," Tommy said.

"There's not much we can do," added Mosh.

"What?" Croaked Rich, "Somebody call for help. Call fucking 911."

"911 can't help you, Rich."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Rich realized his tunnel vision seemed to be getting worse, but adrenalin raced through his veins, staving off unconsciousness.

"Are you fucking blind?" Bob spat, "Didn't you see what just happened here?"

"I don't understand..."

"That vial of shit you found," Jonny said softly, "What Nicky shot up. Vampire blood."

Rich couldn't find the strength to respond, just letting the look of shock and dismay on his face say it all.

"I know that sounds crazy," Mosh continued, "It's called 'D' on the streets. Vampire's blood mixed with opiates. Powerful shit. You get the most incredible rush you can imagine.

"You share the genetic memories of the vampire whose blood you've put into your veins. Relive everything they've seen and done just like you were there yourself. Enticing stuff, the ultimate voyeurism.

"Problem is, sometimes the side effects are a little dangerous. You take on vampiric traits, gaining superhuman strength, the lust for blood, regeneration. All that shit. You virtually become a vamp until the concoction runs its course and leaves your system."

"Bullshit," Rich answered weakly. Obviously they wanted to fuck with the Iowan farm boy some more, but they had picked a bad time to joke around, "He was just whacked out on PCP or something, that's all. I promise I won't say a fucking word about what I saw if that's what you're worried about. Please. Just help me."

"We will," Mosh assured him, stepping within an arm's reach.

Somehow, Bob's gun had made its way into Jonny's hand.

The singer held the metal beast low at his right side, pointing towards the carpet. The sight of the .357 almost caused Rich's bowels to loosen. He imagined the cops having to explain to the rest of his band how they discovered him dead with cum, blood, and shit stains on his pants. How could this be happening to him?

"Please... Call for help."

"You're not listening," Tommy said from behind Jonny, his voice somber, "Nicky died. He came back. For a short while, until the drug runs its course, he is a vampire.

"His bite is like an infectious disease until he's back to normal. This infection is one hundred percent contagious. You're going to die and come back as one of them no matter what kind of help we get you. Do you want to become a blood sucking vamp?"

"Vampires aren't real," Rich cried. Tears began to run down his cheeks.

"Explain what you've seen then" Tommy countered.

The last few minutes raced by Rich's eyes as he scrambled to make sense of it all.

His mind felt ready to implode with the insanity of the situation. He had watched a dead man come back to life. A dead man with incredible strength. Sharp fangs. The dead man drank his blood. Garlic bullets had stopped this same dead man.

Rich could only think of one explanation for the nightmare he lived with eyes wide open. He just couldn't bring himself to believe it.

Maybe that had been his problem all of his life. Maybe he was just that naïve farm boy from Iowa after all, no matter what kind of dreams of rock star glory filled his head.

"Please," he fumbled with one bloody hand inside his jean jacket, coming up with a tape, "I brought a demo for you to hear. It's a good one."

He held out the tape for Jonny. The singer took it gingerly, sliding it into his back pocket. He brought the barrel of the huge pistol up, pointing it at Rich's face.

"I'll listen to it, I promise."

A whimper escaped Rich's lips against his will, "Just help me."

"This is the only way to help you, Rich. To kill you before you Turn."

The gun boomed twice, but Rich never really heard it.

His world went black and the rock star dreams of another Midwest kid went up in California smoke.

"Midwest dreams, California schemes,

Sometimes life ain't what it seems

Rock star face, fall from grace,

Sometimes you're in the wrong place."

-L.A. Ruff Ride, Hollywood Cowboys: Hellywood Nights, 1989.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mike Chinakos, is the author of the dark urban fantasy, HOLLYWOOD COWBOYS. His follow-up novel, KISS OF THE TRAITOR is due out early in 2012. His short story collections can be found on Kindle. He has short stories published in various publications including the Spec-Fic Anthology, MAGIC TO MAYHEM.

He is the Co-Founder of Northwest Independent Writers Association and a member of various writers groups on Facebook.

Mike is the proud father of two beautiful children, and has called the Pacific Northwest his home for most of his life.

For more about Mike Chinakos and his works of fiction please visit his website:

www.mikechinakosauthor.com

