Cover artwork by @clya_lyren
Story written by “Jungle”
Once upon the second day of spring, a blazing sun heralded the tides of war: a bloody phantom of smoke rising up from its grave, the horizon. The shade loomed tall and menacing – visible even from across the Medial Sea. An appropriate declaration of defiance. As I turned away from the saltwater spray of the docks, I felt a warmth I’d nearly forgotten as it washed over the scars on my back: the first rays of Dawn, embracing the day and casting the night’s cloak aside with her sweet refrain. I shivered at her touch.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spied an elderly gentleman with disheveled tufts of gray hair, matching spectacles, and clothing frayed in odd places, likely from sleeping on the cobblestone streets. He stood a little further down the alleyway, staring at the strange man who had just crawled out of his own shadow. I turned my head towards the gentleman, offering him a curt nod. His lip quivered and I saw my own reflection gazing back at me through his panicked eyes.
A few measured steps carried me over to the old man before his heart could finish palpitating. He looked as though he wanted to speak, but couldn’t grasp any words, only big, empty gulps of air that did little to calm his racing heart. He reminded me of a drowning sailor. I gently placed my hand upon his shoulder for reassurance. A stray strand of silver hair lilted to the side as I tilted my head, regarding the old man with my best impression of a warm smile shared between old friends.
“Marvelous cloak you have there, my friend. May I offer you a gold coin for it?” Now I found the man tilting his own head to the side, much like the way a confused dog might look at its owner after an unfamiliar command. I almost laughed at the thought. With a quick flourish and the snap of my fingers, a single gold coin appeared in the palm of my hand, as if summoned from thin air. The bottoms of the old man’s eyes curved upwards with a hint of hope as he started to wrap his mind around the offer.
He reached for the coin, but I pulled it away first. His jaw went slack and I shook my head. He seemed hesitant, as if the deal was too good to be true. And why should it be? In many cases, he would be correct to mistrust a stranger. By my estimate, everything this poor fellow owned was probably worth less than one solitary silver piece. I casually cascade the gold coin over my knuckles, adding another, and then another. By the time he had seen the third coin, he was already hurrying to pull off his old rag and hand it over. The man’s eyes were so transfixed by the flash of gold that he did not notice the steady stream of what would appear to be rodents scurrying out of the back of my pant leg. Away you go, little denizens of the dark. Find that which I seek.
“Don’t spend it all in one place.” I took the garb and departed with a wink.
A couple of minutes passed and I found myself hunched over, wearing my freshly purchased, dirty, tattered cloak as I pretended to hobble my way down one of the main roads. West would take me towards the center of Dalmar’s infamous pleasure district, and so I kept walking, the sun nipping at my heels. Along the walk, I felt a dull pang in my chest, right below where my heart should be beating. What was it? Remorse? For the orphaned pickpockets that passed me by, figuring I had nothing? Or perhaps it was sympathy that I felt as I passed by the homeless mother sheltering her children? I leaned over and pulled a few more golden coins from the beyond before tossing them to her without a word, or even an acknowledgement. I simply carried on as she and her children stared at the coins with disbelief.
As my journey continued, the buildings grew more robust and lavish, as did the garbs of all those who would pass me by. Sport coats, fur coats, top hats, tuxedos, and all other manner of elegant formal wear flew away at the very sight of me, the homeless beggar hobbling his way into the upscale part of town. I suppose I shouldn’t judge them too harshly, after all – with every few steps I lurched, another black rat scurried off into the gutter, or scuttled inside of a bar or brothel. Every time I pretended to retch up a meal, a few more flies began to buzz around. As a party of nobles and other well-to-do’ers sneered and spat at me, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. To be ignorant and to be oblivious are two different things, but in this case, they were guilty of both.
I heard a shrill squeak in my ear and so I closed my eyes for a moment. One of the rats had found what I was after. The hazy image of a hanging sign emblazoned with, ‘The Dancing Doll,’ in elegant red script. Ah, Gideon. I should have known. He was a glutton, and the only thing he liked more than food and spirits was to break the beautiful and the elegant. There would be no shortage of any vice at the Dancing Doll, the brothel where only the ‘best’ dancers were allowed to perform, serve, or… service. I felt that familiar pang again. The muscles in my neck relaxed as I suddenly twisted my head from side to side, relishing the loud pop I received as a response.
I changed directions and set off once again, following the enthusiastic chirps of my little friend. Before much longer, I found myself standing underneath that same swaying wooden sign. I turned towards the door. The man standing guard there stared at me in disbelief for a moment before his brows furrowed. He puffed his chest out and glared at me.
“Beat it. We’re closed.” His voice was gruff, leathery. He smelled like smoke and piss. I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose. Some people have no respect for themselves, I suppose. No matter. I straightened my back, rising to my full height, before standing chest to chest with him. His eye twitched as I tilted my head down to meet his stare.
“I just want… one drink, mister…” I put some extra gravel in my voice, ending the last word with a growl. The man responded by planting his hand on my chest and pushing hard. I didn’t budge. Instead, I grabbed his wrist with an icy grip like a steel manacle as I looked him dead in the eye.
“I’m coming in for a drink.” My words fell heavy with the weight they carried; the unsaid threat lingering behind my empty stare. I felt my gaze getting hotter as a little spark of electricity leaped from the surface of my left eye before diving back in like a fish jumping out of the sea before rejoining its school. The door man was stupefied, absentmindedly nodding his head as he stepped back to let me pass. I resumed my act straightaway, cowering down as I hobbled my way inside, leaving the doorman to convince himself he had imagined everything that had just transpired.
The Dancing Doll greeted me with a nauseating wave of perfume and smoke. Ugh. At the very least, the place was only dimly lit by the many candles dotting the faded, yellowed wooden walls. The daylight was kept at bay by the many curtains still covering the windows, protecting from prying eyes. Plenty of shadows, plenty of places to hide. I’m not above redundancy. I spotted the bar a dozen paces away, the bright center around which this depraved little world revolved. As I approached the barkeep, I spotted a small crowd of soldiers and took a second glance. A dozen or so Dalmarian Royal Guards, all standing at attention as a few dancers writhed about upon the stage, keeping step to the rhythm of a single guitarist hiding in the corner. Heavy, rumbling laughter reverberated throughout the room.
I cleared my throat so obnoxiously that the bartender turned to regard me with a scowl.
“Yeah?” He looked back and asked from over his shoulder.
“Gimme-a drink! A drink!” I slurred and leaned up against the bar. “C’mon, mister! I’ll pay ya tomorrow!” I meekly offered him a thumbs up. The bartender was not amused, nor did he appear to offer credit for goods and services. I kept at him anyways, my act growing more belligerent by the moment. Soon my drunken slurs were the only thing that could be heard throughout the Doll. Before long, the sea of armed guards parted to reveal a grotesque caricature of a man.
This man was known throughout The Emerald Ring as Gideon, the Drought of Dalmar. True to his name, he could drink anybody under the table, provided you could find a stool sturdy enough to seat all sixty stones worth of his blubbery guts. Indeed, Gideon was not so much a man as he was a twisted personification of one of the famed great white whales that lurked amongst the deeps of the Medial Sea… and yet despite that, he was filled with a pride as boundless as his endless waistline. I found it hard to believe that at one point in his life, Gideon used to resemble one of those little pickpockets I’d passed by on the way here. In fairness though… for all my barbs, it wasn’t hard to imagine what kind of appetite could have turned a starving child into a monster like him. I’d seen enough of the world to know firsthand.
“Barkeep! What’s that racket?” Gideon bellowed, his lips puckering as the jowls on his neck shook with each word. Now I had his attention.
“He’s a stiff! ‘E won’t g-give me a drink!” I shouted back, gesticulating wildly with both hands. A hushed murmur fell over the crowd.
“A drink? You’d like a drink, you say? Well then, come over here and drink with me, your Steward!” The massive tub shook with laughter. My grin grew wider as I sauntered over. I started to wonder if it would really be this easy when two crossed battle axes suddenly barred my path.
“Whu? C’mon! I thought we were drinkin’! Gotta drink before we get to fightin’, ahar har har.” I dropped the cloak I was wearing to reveal my naked torso beneath it, and with it, all of the scars that dotted each inch of tissue like so many constellations of stars. They could see that I bore no weapons. One of the guards in front of me muttered something over his shoulder before they decided to let me pass. I sat down at the table directly across from Gideon and showed him my biggest, dumbest grin. Gideon responded in kind with an insidious smile, his eyes flickering with malice.
“I’ll make you a deal then, you old beggar. You best me in a game of poison cup, and I’ll let you drink as much as you want. All you have to do… is pick the drink that’s not poisoned. What say you?” Gideon leaned back, tracing the tip of his pointer finger around the rim of his goblet. My head wobbled a bit as I did my best to keep up the façade.
“A’right! It’sa… deal! Hic.” I squeaked. Gideon’s laugh was cold and cruel. He grabbed the drinks from each dancer flanking his sides, even cuffing the one who didn’t hand hers over fast enough. I felt my jaw clench for just a second. Relax, Trent. Not yet. Gideon pivoted in his chair, trying to conceal both cups from me. I debated whether it would be out of character to ask why Gideon carries poison around, but I decided it would be wise to keep my mouth shut. Better to play the dumb mark than to let on that I know his game.
His forearm jiggled as he set both cups down on the table and pushed them forward, towards me. I convincingly lost my balance and fell forward onto the table, or would have, but I recovered at the last moment. Gideon and his guards laughed knowingly. Any fool could tell this was a trap, that both cups were poisoned.
I’d expected as much from the Drought of Dalmar, though. After all, his exploits as both a poison taster and a poisoner were all well known throughout the Ring. Rumor has it that it was a gambit like this that had allowed him to usurp the Stewardship of Dalmar in the first place. Surely, he was a cunning bastard in his right mind, but wine and spirits are not vices that lend themselves to sound thinking. Surely, even the Drought would be tipsy by the time the sun rose, and what’s more – I knew he had cause for great celebration on this particular morning.
I began to sniff both of the cups despite the fact that any poison Gideon had used would have been odorless. His laughter intensified as I seemingly took the bait. While he and his guards were too busy giggling over what they thought would be my last moments alive, a single black fly buzzed its way from my shoulder into the cup on my left. Nobody noticed it except for me. The hook was set. My expression hardened as I clenched my jaw and took the cup on the right before pushing the cup on the left forward. I raised the cup to my lips and the room went completely silent as everyone took one collective breath and held it.
“’Ey, ain’t you gonna drink that ‘un, ssir?” I lisped a little bit and jerked my chin towards the other cup. The laughter stopped and Gideon’s brow furrowed.
“I already have a drink. See?” He raised his goblet and a few of the rubies encrusted along its surface glistened in the pale candlelight.
“C’mon naw, if you dun’ drink… then how do I know you didn’t, hic, poison them both? Hic! S’not much of a game now is it.” My chest shook as I sold that last hiccup. C’mon, you pig. Nobody has ever had to twist your arm to drink. Why should I start now? As if he’d read my mind, Gideon leaned away from the table. I felt my catch slowly slipping away. It was time to double down.
“Unless… mabbe… yer afraid? Afraid? Bahaha!” My words sliced into him like a butcher’s knife. His wounded ego would be my skeleton key.
“Afraid? Me? Of a little poison? Hah! You really are an old fool. Fine. Let’s drink then. On three… oh wait, can you even count to three?” That last line got a good rise from his lackeys, and so Gideon’s smirk returned, but I could tell my arrow had found its mark. I simply nodded at him and raised my glass.
“One… two… three!” The guards chanted. We both raised our glasses and we each took a long swig. For a moment, all was quiet once again. Then my eyes started to water. I imagined my throat tightening. I clawed at it, desperately, as if trying in vain to extinguish an intense burning sensation I felt there. The chorus of laughter returned as I fell to the ground, kicking my feet into the air as I pounded my fists against the floor in agony. Excruciating pain, if only in my imagination. The chorus only intensified. Soon, my eyes stared unblinking as my struggling body became still.
“Hah! Old fool! Let that be a lesson to you in your next life, then!” Gideon’s cruel bellow is all that could be heard now. As he opened wide to guffaw once more, the black fly perched inside of his cup flew past his two rows of yellowed teeth and beelined straight for his windpipe, where it lodged itself.
“Ack!” Gideon coughed, realizing he had swallowed the fly. Nobody seemed to notice. Everyone was too busy having a laugh at the expense of my life. Nobody realized that it wasn’t a fly Gideon had just swallowed, either. No. It was a puppet, one wrought from the only thing that would follow me no matter where I wandered: my shadow. Now that ‘fly’ had grown to two times its original size. Three times. Ten times. Larger still. Soon the outline of its grotesque eyes could be seen bulging out against the fleshy prison of Gideon’s neck.
He tried to scream, but not a sound could be heard over the continued roar of laughter. He grabbed his throat with one hand, flailing the other blindly at anyone within reach. His pink cheeks tinged blue as his chest quaked, struggling in vain to capture even the smallest bit of air. To the rest of his party, it looked like he was just having a good time. A really good time. In fact, it looked like he was laughing so hard he might even fall out of his chair. Then he really did fall out of his chair, which only forced all of the royal guards to laugh all the harder. Even the bartender started chuckling. Laughter is contagious, after all.
As Gideon laid on the floor, dying, a break in the forest of legs and boots allowed us to lock eyes for a moment. He was panicked before, clearly, but now, with all of the color drained from his face and a huge lump in his throat growing larger by the second, he was clearly horrified. The corners of my mouth rolled up like two ends of an unruly carpet that refused to lay flat.
“Baal… za… bod…” He quietly mouthed the word, Baalzabod, a name given to me by the nomadic tribes that roamed the deserts far in the southwestern reaches beyond the safety of the Emerald Ring. Roughly translated, it meant, “King of the Rats,” a title I still find quite amusing. Gideon became still as the laughter began to die down. Finally, his entourage noticed his distress. They were already too late though. Gideon’s eyes had rolled backwards in their sockets, and his cheeks had turned a deep shade of purple. His tongue bulged out of his mouth like an overripe sausage forgotten in a dumpster.
Gideon the Drought was dead. With this realization, his guards began to shout and stomp about in a panic – so preoccupied with the death of their Steward that nobody noticed the corpse of the old man had disappeared, leaving only a tattered cowl and a small puddle of poisoned wine behind as the only clues to his crime.
andante 