20 - Hex

She looked up at the crescent moon. Incandescent rays bathed the city in a silver shroud, giving it an almost celestial aura. Soft, shimmering fronds of moonlight fell upon her and she let them ripple across her body for a while, watching how the hue of her skin altered in their path. A sob caught in her throat. Unbidden tears fell as she remembered how he used to hold her on nights such as this. "Roshu," she whispered.

Now she was destined to a life of solitude - an interminable, lonely existence with no issue to nurture, no living memory of her beloved. She inhaled deeply, forcing back her sorrow and willing her fury to the fore.

Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift to the visions she bore witness to on that fateful day. The spirits had allowed her to see through Roshu's eyes when the battle ensued. In her mind's eye, she saw it all clearly. Her people were mighty warriors, fierce and strong. They had been fighting the elves for millennia and now with her father at the head of the troll nation, they should have come home victorious. Instead, they had been forced back, dispersed and defeated. Within those losses, her beloved husband.

He had been taken by the mongrel son of a high elf. She had seen his face as his daggers sliced her Roshu's flesh and that image would burn forever in her mind. She stroked the hair which was tied to her belt - not a lot granted, but enough for what she had planned.

It had taken time for the tribe to locate her father through her ways, but it had worked and so she would employ the same tactics with the half-breed. This time, however, she would not stop at a simple location spell. His was a destiny which she would control. As he had robbed her, so she would deny him.

Now that she knew the boy's father was amongst those who fought alongside the Farstriders in a bid to keep Zul'jin imprisoned, she would invoke the spirits to help her identify those who were most important to the boy. She would still need to tread carefully though, for the Loa were not ones to be approached with frivolous and petty requests. They demanded the utmost respect. They would send the spirits to aid the tribe with its struggles, strifes, campaigns and victories but a personal vendetta?

The elves numbered in their thousands and now they were aligned with the humans and dwarves - their impact on the tribes was proving more formidable than years gone by. She was under no delusion. For her to focus her powers on one minor elf and a mere handful who meant something to him could incite her father's anger. And even a Warlord's daughter would not be exempt from his wrath.

She was not the only hexer in the Amani though, others could easily medialize their attention on the elven nation and their King; surely her cabalistic rites would remain hidden among the many? A sharp tug at her heart gave her the necessary conviction to proceed. Roshu.

Looking up once more to the crescent in the sky, she made a quiet promise. "Fah yuh, fi mi husband."

Turning, she started towards her hut. Eyes followed her as she moved along the sandy path, her necklaces and beaded braids click-clacking with each step. Some observers mumbled a greeting but she heard them not, she was lost in her thoughts. Her yellow eyes stared straight ahead, oblivious of the living. Grief, pain and loneliness fuelled her need for vengeance but she had shed enough tears. It was time.

Echolocation squeaks of bats carried on the air as the creatures searched for their evening meal, their shadows flitting across the bamboo, reed and vine rooftops. The occasional low growl of a lynx or chatter of a raptor sounded from pens buried deep within the metropolis' obsidian shadows. Campfires and torches dotted around Zul'aman afforded golden ripples within the clusters of huts and paths. Tiki totems sited throughout the troll city cast grotesque stares as the light from both moon and fire shifted across their stone and wooden carved effigies.

She ran her fingers over the contours of one which stood sentinel outside her door. From within its wooden heart, she could feel power stirring, pulsing. Perhaps the spirits would offer blessings in her bitter journey? Unlikely.

She pressed her lips to the totem. "Du wid mi wat yuh will but allow mi justice first, mi beg yuh," she said in a broken whisper. Tulu waited, but the spirits were not for answering. A resigned smile traced her lips. She knew she had to perform a ritual before she would be acknowledged, but a little part of her had hoped for their favour. She stooped a little and went inside her hut. Tonight, it would begin.

The Midsummer celebrations were still ongoing in the city and most likely to continue for a few hours still. The night was growing cooler with only a light breeze on which the smell of burning wood, charcoal and kindling hung thick and heavy. Muffled chatter, laughter and music drifted up from the many venues where minstrels carried on entertaining their audiences.

Sauren was inwardly relieved that the Crimson Blade was quiet, it made reaching his chambers all the easier. For all he was stealthed, other rogues would have been able to detect him. As it was, most seemed either absent from the complex - enjoying the festivities perhaps - or they had opted for an early night. Nevertheless, caution was exercised.

His appearance would cause concern to any who saw him so he was best pleased when he located and asked the pageboy, Thomas, to see to the tub in his chambers being filled. The small boy had initially jumped when the gravelly voice spoke from the shadows - then promptly paled at the request. He nervously replied he would try and do his best although he feared the water would be cold by the time he managed the last bucket. Sauren could not help but smile. He reassured Thomas he did not expect him to personally bring the water, he simply wished for him to ask the house staff to fill his bath. Thomas notably sighed with relief and ran off in the direction of staff quarters.

Safely in his chambers, Sauren peeled off his bloodied clothes and tossed them in a corner. He would burn them once he had his bath; he could not risk the laundry woman asking questions.

He picked up his robe which was carelessly draped over the back of a chair and with a grimace and a flinch he shrugged it on. The visible signs of his conflict with the blacksmith were becoming more apparent as time ticked by as were the aches and pains, although nothing in comparison to what he used to endure. His slender fingers sought the belt of his robe. Tying it loosely around his waist he crossed to a window and looked out.

His eyes scanned the dusky landscape. Dots of light could be seen far across the lake and also to the north-east up into the mountains. He had no doubt more were flickering to the west and south, although he did not cross to the other windows to verify. There was a strange comfort to be had from such a sight - even when there was a war raging in parts of the land people still found something to celebrate; a unification of minds enjoying simple pleasures. He managed a wistful smile. Turning from the view he heard a knock at his door followed by the creak of heavy wood on iron hinges. He concealed himself behind the rich drapes as staff entered.

The sound of footsteps mingled with some light laughter and a grunt or two carried across the outer chamber. Sauren honed his superior hearing to the hushed whispers of chambermaids and valets as they fetched the water for his bath.

"Is he here?" A young female voice trembled.

"Doesn't look like it. Now hurry." A more authoritative one replied, male.

"Are you hoping to scrub his back, ?" another laughed.

"No! And be quiet!" the female replied hotly.

"Ah, you are! I can see you blushing."

Mahogany eyes peered out from the side of the curtains, curious.

"Stop with your teasing, Marcus, and get that water through to the tub!" the one in charge said.

"Watch what you're doing, you're spilling it everywhere!" the girl complained.

"It's you! All flustered being in his chambers..."

"Quiet! Both of you. You will show respect when speaking of or to the young master at all times."

"Yes, Mr Bryce," Marcus and the girl relented. Sauren grinned, amused by the conversation.

More feet shuffled into the chamber - four large water buckets were emptied into the tub, with another three smaller ones following suit.

"I forgot fresh towels!" the female said, concerned.

"They were supplied earlier, Heidy, when the housekeeping was done," Mr Bryce assured.

Sauren felt a moment of panic as he saw the young girl venture over to his discarded clothes. She knelt down to pick them up. He inched out beyond the drapes.

"Leave those!" Mr Bryce ordered. "The chambermaids will see to all laundry in the morning." The girl looked embarrassed and coyly returned to the bathtub and in line with the other servants.

Sauren sighed with relief and concealed himself once more.

"What about scented oils for his bath?" she then enquired. The others snickered causing the girl to blush furiously.

From the tightness in Mr Bryce's voice, Sauren could tell the senior valet's patience was being sorely tested. "He will be retiring to bed after, I doubt very much, Heidy, that he needs to smell nice in order to sleep."

"I just thought..." she ventured coyly.

"Well, don't!" Mr Bryce said firmly before ushering everyone out of the chambers.

Sauren pressed against the wall as they all made their way back to the door. Last out was Mr Bryce, preceded only a few short feet by Marcus, who was still quietly teasing Heidy.

"No sneaking back for a peek at him all wet and naked, mind," Marcus chortled.

"Oh, do be quiet! You are truly indecent!" Heidy dug her elbow into his side.

Marcus guffawed but was soon silenced after a disciplinary clip to his ear from Mr Bryce.

Once the door was closed, Sauren moved out from behind the drapes, chuckling at Marcus' teasing of Heidy.

Stepping into the rear chamber he let his robe slide from his form - it fell in a crumpled heap close to the tub. He groaned as he entered the water - it could have been a little warmer, but it was welcome nonetheless. He eased himself down and reclined with arms resting along the sides of the bath. He looked down at his body. Blue and yellow bruises had formed around his ribs and the scar from the troll's spear. He was a little tender, but they would heal soon.

Reaching out to the small vanity unit, he picked up a bar of soap and rubbed vigorously to build a lather. He soaped his face and hair then closing his eyes, slid down immersing himself, rinsing away the blood and grime from his scuffle. He remained under, holding his breath, listening to the sound of his heart beating and the blood pumping through his veins.

He relived how it had felt to drive the rasp into Adam's eyes - remembering the euphoria which had coursed through him as the loathsome bully struggled against his grip. Bubbles escaped his lips as he smiled.

But, a second later he shuddered as the memory he had suppressed for years floated back to the surface. He slammed his fists against the side of the tub and focused on the punishment he doled out to blacksmith's son. Eventually, as the image from his past faded he pushed himself up from the water. His chest hurt from holding his breath for so long but he forced his breathing to be slow and steady.

A shadow flitted across his lids. He flinched. "Yuh guh fi drown inna dere, bwoy," a voice said. The dull clack of wooden tubes and hollowed bone rattled before him.

Instantly, his eyes sprang open and he projected himself from the tub. He crouched on all fours, fingers spread wide on the wooden floor giving him balance. His heart was pounding and he fought to keep the tremors at bay - there was no denying that female troll had somehow invaded his psyche. Water dripped from his hair and body creating reflective puddles beneath him. His eyes burned through the drenched mane. Every muscle was taut ready to propel him forward, to attack.

"Jumpy, are we not?" a familiar voice chuckled. The troll beads rattled again.

Sauren took a long, deep breath. "You bastard, Louvel!" he growled.

The young rogue laughed openly and tossed the beads on the floor in front of the naked half-elf. "A souvenir from our battle," he announced. "I gather my impersonation was convincing as well, judging by the way you leapt from your bath?"

Sauren pushed up and reached for a towel. His nerves a little less frayed he managed a small chuckle. "Yes. Bloody convincing, in fact." He dried himself roughly then picked up his robe and put it on.

Louvel watched him, noticing the bruises to his ribs. "You been battling on your own?" he motioned to Sauren's torso.

Sauren tied the belt around his waist. "Training has been intensive," he lied.

The flamboyant rogue grinned. "I see," he replied.

Sauren chose to ignore the hint of suspicion hanging in Louvel's tone and moved through to the other room. "How long have you been here?" he threw over his shoulder, trying to disguise his irritation.

Louvel glanced around as he moved through to the bedchamber. He spotted the bundle of clothing in the corner at the window. He stopped beside it, flipping his monocle between his fingers. "Oh, not long. I didn't see you slip into your bath, put it that way." He looked up to find Sauren staring at him, his eyes hard, accusing, but he was no fool. He knew the half-elf was hiding something, the furtive glances to the floor at his feet were enough to inform him of that.

He stepped away from the window, proving a point to himself as he noted the tension leaving Sauren's shoulders. "I happened by as I was concerned," he offered.

"Concerned?" Sauren watched him closely as he neared the small cabinet beside the bed.

Without even asking, the rogue bent down and opened the bottom door. A small pleasurable sigh left Louvel's lips. He had discovered a little secret. He reached in and grabbed the bottle of wine and two glasses. "Does your father allow you this in your chambers?" he asked, an eyebrow cocked while removing the cork with his teeth. He proceeded to pour, eyes twinkling as he saw the ambivalent expression cross Sauren's face.

"He doesn't know," Sauren said dismissively. "How did you...?" the half-elf started, pointing to the wine.

Replacing the cork and returning the bottle to its rightful place, Louvel then handed a glass to Sauren. "Oh, I have a nose for a good vintage."

Sauren accepted the glass. He took a sip then returned to the subject in question. "You said concerned. Why?"

His unexpected guest patted the bed then sat down, reclining against the headboard. "I heard there was an incident in the old quarter."

Sauren's jaw tightened. "Incident?"

"Yes. Some blacksmith and his son, I assume, were found dead in his workshop," Louvel's eyes never left Sauren's and the half-elf maintained the contact, steadily.

"Regrettable," he replied. "I do not follow though. Why would that make you worry about me?"

Louvel drained his glass and placed it on top of the cabinet before rising from the bed, straightening his waistcoat. "I gathered you would be out enjoying the festivities and I wanted to make sure you were not injured." Again the rogue held Sauren's stare.

The half-elf was astute enough not to fall into a trap of wits. "I still do not get the connection, Louvel. Someone dies and you think I might be injured as a result? People die every day in the city - all over in fact."

Louvel smiled, a hint of quiet resignation flickered in his eyes. "That is true. I just assumed you were out celebrating, perhaps a little worse for wear and I just - well, worried that you had been in the area and perhaps ..." He shrugged. "Silly of me, really. I guess after our encounter in the Blackened Woods I feel a little responsible for you."

At that Sauren guffawed. Relaxed now, he put down his wine on a nearby table. "There is absolutely no need for that. I was foolish in my bravado then, it was no-one's fault but my own. You did, however, save my life and for that I am indebted. I can assure you I have learned from that experience."

Louvel nodded. "That is good then."

To authenticate his explanation the half-elf then enquired how the blacksmith had died. Louvel said it was unknown what had happened exactly, but the two bodies were discovered badly burned, unrecognisable, really. People in the vicinity believed it had to be the blacksmith and his son, not only because it had occurred in the forgery but also they reputedly fought on a regular basis. It was surmised that perhaps too much festival ale had caused the feud to go too far. Sauren nodded and assumed a somewhat sympathetic countenance.

"Anyway," Louvel announced, once more him amiable self. "As I see you are in good health, I shall bid you goodnight. I shall be heading off on some missions tomorrow so I will not see you for quite a while, whipper-snapper."

Sauren could not hide the grin on hearing Louvel's nickname for him. "Missions? I thought you were a lone wolf."

Louvel opened the window and started to climb out onto the walkway. "Oh, I never said they were my missions," he smiled mischievously.

Again Sauren laughed at the rouge's temerity. "You could use the door you know," he gestured towards it.

"Oh no, I could not. Should your father find me disobeying his disbarment, I do not think he would be too pleased."

Sauren shrugged and stepped towards the window to close it after Louvel made his exit. His foot nudged something on the floor. He looked down. Feathers and beads all intricately bound by a pliable vine had skittered across the wooden boards. He bent down and picked it up. "Hey, Nottley!" he called and reached the window, holding out the bizarre little talisman. "Stop leaving your souvenirs everywhere."

The affable young rogue looked at what Sauren held, his brow furrowed. "That's not mine," he said shaking his head. "I've never seen that one before, only the one I left on your washroom floor." Then he turned and disappeared over the wall.

The half-elf stared at the talisman, his mind starting to form ludicrous explanations as to how the thing was in his chambers. He felt goosebumps run up his spine. Was it some sort of hex?
No! Surely, Louvel was teasing him. Yet, somehow, he did not think he was. He cast the object from the open window, over the wall, no doubt into some unkempt shrubbery on the other side.

He slammed the window closed and locked it, pulling the drapes shut. For a moment he stood, inwardly chastising himself for thinking such nonsense - he was being irrational.

Reaching for his glass he crossed to the cabinet and retrieved the bottle of wine. His hand trembled as he poured. Holding the bottle up to the fading light from the other side of the room, he saw it was still half full.

Not for long, he thought