Chapter Nine
Veiled Vine Tavern was abuzz with revelry, its dimly lit interior aglow with the soft luminescence of candles and the raucous laughter of its patrons. The room was filled with the scent of wine, perfume, and the sweet, heady aroma of piped tobacco. Soldiers, fresh from their conquest of Marinia, mingled with the tavern's courtesans, their faces flushed with drink and triumph.
At a corner table, a buxom courtesan with hair as red as autumn leaves giggled and flirted with a pair of soldiers, her hands caressing their arms as they regaled her with tales of their bravery. Nearby, another soldier slumped in his chair, his eyes glassy and unfocused, as a lithe, raven-haired courtesan massaged his shoulders, her fingers kneading the tense muscles with a practiced touch.
The atmosphere was one of unbridled merriment, the patrons lost in the thrill of victory and the promise of newfound wealth. Gold coins clinked and changed hands, as the soldiers celebrated their good fortune.
Just then, the door swung open, and Krael, the potbellied man, strode into the tavern, a wide, self-satisfied smile spreading across his face. The soldiers, catching sight of him, raised their tankards in a hearty toast.
"Krael, you old rogue!" one of them bellowed, as the others cheered and pounded their fists on the tables. "We've been waiting for you! Bring out the gold, and let the night's festivities begin!"
Krael chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement, as he produced a pouch of gold coins from his cloak and tossed it onto the table. The soldiers cheered, diving for the coins like ravenous birds.
As the commotion died down, Krael made his way through the crowded tavern, nodding to the patrons and exchanging pleasantries with the courtesans. He pushed aside a heavy velvet curtain, revealing a narrow stairway that led to a secret inner chamber. The sign above the curtain read "Private Quarters" in elegant, cursive script.
With a sly smile, Krael ascended the stairs, disappearing into the mysterious chamber, preserved exclusively for his master, a Lord of considerable influence and power.
As Krael pushed open the door to the "Private Quarters", the sounds of muffled laughter and rustling silks enveloped him. He knocked, but the occupant of the room was too engrossed to respond. Krael knew better than to wait for an invitation; his lord's displeasure was not to be trifled with. He stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.
The courtesan, a vision in silk and lace, paused in her ministrations, her gaze flashing with annoyance as she took in Krael's intrusion. With a huff, she gathered her scattered clothing and made a hasty exit, leaving the Lord to his business.
The Lord, a tall, imposing figure with a strong jaw and piercing blue eyes, lay sprawled on the velvet-draped bed, his chest bare and gleaming in the candlelight. He raised an eyebrow as Krael approached, his expression a mixture of irritation and curiosity.
As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the Lord reached for a richly embroidered robe, its silk fabric shimmering with patterns of gold and silver thread. He wrapped the robe around his body, the soft fabric rustling as he tied the belt around his waist. The robe was exquisitely crafted, its opulent fabric and stitching a badge of the Lord's affluence.
"Krael, always delivering news at the most inopportune moments," the lord drawled, his voice dripping with annoyance. "What is it this time?"
Krael bowed his head, his hands clasped behind his back. "Forgive me, my lord. I bring news of the captives. I have selected the finest and healthiest one, and she is currently being held at the manor."
The Lord's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as he rose from the bed. "Should this message not have waited until I had finished... attending to my pleasure?" he asked, his tone dripping with displeasure.
Krael nodded, his eyes downcast. "Yes, my Lord. But there is more. Marcellus has sent word that he is enroute to Drakmara, seeking to discuss his rewards for the invasion and his future interests in the region."
The Lord's expression turned calculating, his eyes glinting with curiosity and concern. "Prepare the carriage, Krael. We shall meet Marcellus before he sets foot in Drakmara. We cannot afford to have Prince Eryx or the Court learn of our... arrangement with Marcellus, or the events that transpired in Marinia. Make haste, Krael. Time is of the essence."
As the carriage rattled along the winding forest path, Marcellus gazed out the window, watching the tall trees blur by. The soft rustle of leaves and the chirping of birds filled the air, a soothing serenade that did little to ease his growing unease. He was a man on a mission, driven by a hunger for power and a thirst for wealth.
As the carriage approached the rickety bridge, Marcellus's coachman, a grizzled veteran with a bushy beard, reined in the horses. The carriage jolted to a stop, sending Marcellus tumbling against the wall.
"What the devil...?" Marcellus muttered, pushing open the door. "Why have we stopped?"
The coachman doffed his cap, his face creased with concern. "Beg your pardon, milord, but there's a carriage blocking the way. I couldn't get past."
Marcellus's eyes narrowed as he descended from the carriage. A group of men, clad in long, dark cloaks, stood clustered around a sleek black carriage. Their faces were obscured, making it impossible to discern their features.
"Move your blasted carriage!" Marcellus barked, his hand instinctively going to the dagger at his waist. "I have no time for this nonsense."
The men remained statue-still, their silence more unnerving than any response. Marcellus's unease grew, his grip on his dagger tightening.
"I warn you, I will not be kept waiting!" Marcellus spat, his voice rising. "Remove your carriage at once!"
The men didn't flinch, their faces hidden behind the shadows of their hoods. Marcellus's coachman, sensing danger, drew his own dagger, positioning himself between Marcellus and the mysterious strangers.
But before the coachman could react, a figure emerged from the darkness, a glint of steel flashing in the fading light. The coachman let out a strangled cry as he was stabbed and hurled into the river below. The splash of water was like a cold slap to Marcellus's face, jolting him into action.
"God's blood!" Marcellus exclaimed, his sword flashing in the moonlight. "You'll pay for this!"
But before he could charge, a pair of hands shoved him forward, sending him tumbling into the river. His carriage, still hitched to the horses, careened into the water, the sound of splintering wood and screaming horses echoing through the night air.
As Marcellus struggled to stay afloat, he heard a voice, low and menacing, carry across the water. "Lord Darius says to greet Regent Cormac for him...when you meet him in the afterlife."
The darkness closed in around Marcellus like a shroud, the last thing he remembered being the feeling of icy water enveloping him, pulling him down into the depths.