Jess Lebow: Obsidian Ridge

The guards charged, a wall of chain mail and sharpened steel. Their blades came down, and the Claw bashed them aside, his gauntlets catching the incoming swords and turning them away.

Flipping forward, the Claw bounded over his assailants. Upside down, hurtling through the air, his bladed hands flashed out, striking one guard on the shoulder and another along the back of the neck. Both collapsed to the floor, one clutching his arm, the other simply in a heap.

That was all the workers needed to see.

"I'm getting out of here!" shouted one, and he ran for the door. The rest followed.

"Where are you going?" shouted Pello. "I gave you an order. Kill the Claw!"

The workers ignored the pudgy sorcerer, flying past him and out the open doors.

Three of Jallal's guards remained. They looked at each other, then at their fallen leader. Pello was struggling to get to his feet, the front of his robes covered in sanguine stains, his brother's dead body folded on the floor.

The Claw took one step, and all three guards turned and bolted. He made no motion to follow. They weren't the reason he was here.

Casually, the masked man crossed the wooden floor to loom over the sorcerer. Pello slipped in the pool of his brother's blood and fell flat onto his back.

His voice shook as he scrambled away. "What… what do you want?"

The masked figure lifted his arm, his bladed gauntlets reflecting the moon's glow.

Pello screamed, "No. Please no," and covered his face.

The Claw's right hand came down, grasping Pello Tasca by the arm and flipping him over onto his stomach. Producing a thin rope, he bound the fat man's hands behind his back. Then he turned his attention to the glass vats.

From a tiny pouch on his back, the Claw recovered two small globes of alchemist's fire and hurled them at the contraption. The fluid-filled orbs impacted and flashed, then exploded in a huge ball of flame.

He watched for a moment until the concentrated Elixir caught fire. It didn't take long. The sticky substance bubbled and spat, flames reaching high into the air.

Satisfied with his work, the Claw grabbed Pello Tasca by the back of his robes and dragged him from the slaughterhouse.

Inside the palace at Klarsamryn, King Korox placed his hand on his cheek and sank down deeper into his throne. Spring had just arrived in Erlkazar. He'd only been king since his father had passed away the previous winter. Already he missed his duties as the head of the Crusaders, protecting the five baronies.

It had been a long morning and afternoon, as most of them were. The business of running the kingdom took all day, and so Korox had begun holding court after sunset, hoping it would discourage those with petty complaints. It hadn't quite worked out that way.

"I demand an explanation!" A thin, opulently dressed older woman stood before the king, shaking her long, craggy finger in his direction.

It was going to be another very long night at court.

"What is it this time, Lady Herrin?" asked the king, trying not to let the complete lack of interest he had in this matter seep into his voice.

"Are you mocking me, Korox?"

The King of Erlkazar sat up straight in his throne and then leaned forward to scowl at Whitman, his scribe-a stocky man who looked like someone who had been sincerely over-educated. The royally dressed courtier was busy recording every word of the conversation and didn't notice that the ruler of his country was staring down at him. Nor, apparently, had he noticed the merchant calling the king by his proper name. With a sigh, the king turned his attention back to the cranky merchant.

"The last time I checked," he said, a smirk rounding out the corners of his lips, "the proper way to address your king would be as 'my lord,' or 'your majesty,' or even simply as 'King.' Isn't that right, Scribe?"

Whitman looked up from his vellum and quill. "Uh, yes my lord. Those are all acceptable addresses."

King Korox scowled again.

This time Whitman realized his lapse in duty. "Oh, uh, yes." He looked up at the merchant, pushing his wire glasses down his nose and glaring over the rims. "Lady Herrin. I find myself in the awkward position of having to remind you, once again, that this is the seat of power of Erlkazar, and King Korox's personal audience chamber. Your disregard for protocol will not be tolerated."

The fusty merchant crossed her arms, lifted her nose in the air, and let out an almost imperceptible offended chuckle. Then, after a long moment of pouting, she uncrossed her arms and turned to face the king.

"My lord-" she started.

"That's much better," interrupted Korox.

Lady Herrin took a deep breath, visibly irritated. Then she started again. "My lord, I am here as a representative of the merchant's guild to lodge our protest of your newly adopted tariffs."

"And what is it that you don't like about them?"

"We don't like anything about them," said Lady Herrin. "Surely, my lord-"she said these last two words with a fair amount of sarcasm-"even you can understand that we merchants can't make a living if the crown keeps taking all of our profits."

The king looked over Lady Herrin and her hired bodyguards. Her robes were made from the finest spun silk, accented with gold filigree. Her hair, gray and thinning as it was, was adorned with tiny gemstones. Her fingers dripped with gold and platinum rings. Even her guards were accessorized-golden, fitted chest plates with ornate inscriptions and magical protective wards.

"I can see by the state of your dress that times are hard." He sat back. "I'm sure every copper you can save will help you bring food home for your children."

Lady Herrin narrowed her eyes and lifted her hand to begin another of her finger-shaking tirades, when the doors to the outer chamber burst open, and a unit of the King's Magistrates stormed in. They had with them a pudgy man in robes whose hands were tied behind his back.

"What is this interruption?" said Lady Herrin, distracted from her initial thought.

The king stood, grateful for the turn of events. "You want to know why you are charged tariffs on the goods you import and sell in Erlkazar?" He pointed at the Magistrates' prisoner. "It's so we can apprehend men like this. Men who prey upon you and your fellow merchants. Men who break the laws of the realm and make this a less-than-safe place to live and do business." It was the king's turn to cross his arms. "Without those tariffs, there wouldn't be a marketplace to sell in, or safe — roads to transport goods on, or even regular commerce. You should be happy to pay for such things, and thankful for the comfortable living you have made out of them."

"Your Magistrates are hurting that man," she said. "I demand that you release him at once."

King Korox narrowed his eyes. "This is my audience chamber, and I am the king." He took a step closer, leaning over the merchant with his superior height. "You do not demand anything from me."

A soft hand pulled on his arm, urging him away from Lady Herrin.

Furious for the interruption, King Korox's face burned red, and he spun around intent on giving someone a piece of his mind. But he stopped dead away, and his fury disappeared, replaced with a sense of ease.

"Perhaps, Father, you should continue the conversation about tariffs at another time." Princess Mariko pulled the king back and urged him toward his throne, then stepped into the space he had just vacated. "I'm sure you understand, Lady Herrin. The king has pressing business with the Magistrates right now."

The king smiled at his daughter. "Yes, Lady Herrin. You'll excuse me." The king walked past his throne, touching Whitman on his shoulder as he passed. "Send for Quinn. I'll need him when we question Pello Tasca."