The Faceless Executioner

Tsabrak relished his role as hand behind the throne. In the first decade, he and Gabreth had been the living embodiment of terror, stalking the shadows, ruthlessly killing or maiming everyone who could pose even a hint of a problem. But with their operation growing and expanding, he was happy to direct things from behind his desk, which gave him ample time to revel in the fruits of their labor. The dark elf had taken on some serious weight. Gone was the hungry, stick-thin assassin. He had changed into a pudgy, soft debauchee, found more often tangled up in sex slaves than slitting necks.

Gabreth on the other hand loved the hands-on approach. He traveled the Western Continent extensively, always making sure every small gear in their operation turned smoothly and greasing those who didn't with generous amounts of blood. When not on the road, he spent hours on end honing his skills or consulting with experts in exotic means of combat or stealth.

"I know how well things work," Gabreth said, joining his partner at the window. "Or rather, where the problems are." His finger aimed at a particular house, a whole city block encircling a lavish park, with a mighty Ironwood tree in the center. "Iorek Ironbeard."

"Yes, he's the reason I called for you. And to ask if you'd like to join me for dinner and entertainment later. I have some delicious elven twins, virgins both, for us to break in. What do you say?" Tsabrak's fingers slithered down Gabreth's neck. He sighed and put some distance between himself and the leering dark elf.

"You're far too negligent. Over the last four months, he has failed repeatedly to meet the agreed-upon quota. This should have been addressed long ago," Gabreth hissed.

Tsabrak smiled benevolently. "I let him think he could get away with it. Instead of having him killed outright by one of our ...mediators, I have decided to place a spy in his bedroom, find out where the slaves go he's not selling to us."

Gabreth nodded, pacified. What his partner seemed to have lost in raw fighting skills, he seemed to have made up for with a knack for insidious thinking. "What has your spy found out?"

"He's doing business with a place up north, a rather small community called Storm Harbour. Not even properly fortified yet but they seem to have a very active guild. And decadent customers who want to indulge in their urges far away from civilized lands."

"We can't have that." Gabreth said. "If we let him be-"

"Oh, we won't have that. How about you pay him a visit tonight? Afterwards, I'll make sure you get your share of virgin elven ass, hm?"

* * * *

The slaver jerked one last time, then lay perfectly still. Gabreth, on a roof on the other side of the road, lowered his crossbow. The poison dart had hit the dwarf right below the skull, paralyzing him. His mistress, a shockingly young-looking halfling girl, was still fast asleep. Allowing himself a thin smile, Gabreth reloaded the crossbow, this time with a line dart. He aimed carefully and placed the shot. The enchanted tip dug itself deep into the slaver's stone windowsill, dragging a fine, yet stout silken cord behind it. Gabreth pulled the cord tight and threaded it through a loop he had set into a nearby chimney. Satisfied with the line's tautness, he carefully balanced across the street below, slipping into the slaver's bedroom. The halfling girl stirred as he slithered onto the bed. She pretended to still be asleep. He saw her small breasts rising and falling quicker.

"You're not on the list," he hissed. "Get out before I change my mind."

She slipped from the bed, not bothering to dress, and fled from the room. Her lack of surprise at his appearance could only mean she was the spy Tsabrak had placed in Iorek's bed.

Gabreth turned the dwarf onto his back. His eyes swiveled madly in their sockets.

"I am sorry it has come to this, old friend," Gabreth whispered softly. "You've been with us from the start, always dependable, always stalwart, always loyal. I wonder what made you turn."

He opened his satchel and removed a rolled-up tool belt from it. It clinked softly as he opened it on the flawless linen sheets. Moonlight glinted off a vast array of scalpels, pliers, saws and other menacing instruments. "Tsabrak had been very specific. Every one of your trading partners is to receive a piece of you as a reminder. Too bad you are a very busy man."

Iorek tried to scream.

* * * *

The mansion was suspiciously quiet. Usually, Tsabrak's 'entertainment' filled up the whole house with music, laughing revelers and the moans of those engaged in all manner of wild and wanton acts of debauchery. Tonight though, it was dark and quiet. Gabreth sniffed. The unmistakable copper tinge of blood tainted the air. He unsheathed two daggers and crept deeper into the house. The first corpse he found was the majordomo, a rotund, bald dwarf who had served Tsabrak for the better part of a century. He had been killed with a swift stab to his eye, the nondescript dagger jutting like an obscene grave ornament from his face, slack-jawed with surprise. Where were the guards? The revelers?

His acute sense of smell helped him find the next corpses. They were hidden away under the stairs leading into the manor's spacious wine cellar. And here Gabreth discovered how the unknown assassin had entered or escaped their house. A drain leading into the sewers had been pried open, the jagged, acid-stained grate neatly leaning against a nearby barrel.

The revelers he found next, all slumped over at the lavishly laid out dinner table. Scantily clad waiters and maids, their limbs strewn about like so many discarded dolls, rested on the floor. They showed no outward signs of harm. Gabreth knelt next to a young human maid and brushed his fingertips against her neck. Her pulse was strong. Understanding dawned and he snatched a goblet off the table, still holding a puddle of wine. He sniffed. Under the rich sweetness of the dark green drow wine Tsabrak loved to spring on his guests, there was the faint, spicy hint of a strong sedative. Maids and waiters more often than not were asked to share in the evening's proceedings and they drank the same offerings as the guests. Seeing as he was the only elf in the room, Gabreth understood how that little telltale sniff could escape the others. They didn't have senses as keen as his.

Tsabrak was nowhere to be found. His seat at the head of the table was empty, the food untouched. A rare feeling tugged at Gabreth's heart. Worry for his partner. Had he been at the dinner table to start with? Or had he postponed his appearance to pursue other, more delicate stimulation? Gabreth flitted from the dining hall, up the stairs and into Tsabrak's office on the second floor. The door was locked but that didn't stop Gabreth. He touched a certain medallion on his belt, whispered a word and stepped through the closed door as if it was made out of mist.

It took a moment for the ghost walk magic to wear off but when it did and Gabreth's senses were back he was assaulted by the stench of blood. His partner was easy to find. Tsabrak occupied most of his large desktop. The assassin had nailed him to the wood with long, sharp iron spikes before eviscerating him in excruciating fashion. Only his head was unblemished, twin gold coins shutting his eyes.

Gabreth, holding his breath against the horrible stench, leaned over his former partner's face and examined the coins. They were freshly minted, large round gold pieces with a ship on them, sails billowed by a strong wind, prow proudly jutting forward. These were the coins of Storm Harbour. This was no ordinary attack. It was both a warning and a negotiation gambit.

* * * *

She didn't wear much clothing. Her only concession to modesty of any kind was a crimson strip of cloth wound around her hips. The rest of her strong, supple body was covered by black scales, barely reflecting the candlelight illuminating the small chamber they were in. In fact, the shadows seemed to deepen near her. A thick tail curled sinuously around her ankles, a curved stinger resting against her left foot. Most intriguing was her head. A short stubby snout dominated an angular face. Her eyes, ominous crimson orbs with vertical slits, sat more to the side than in the front of her face and instead of ears she had spined frills jutting through a mane of dull grey tresses. Two curled horns snaked away from her temples. She yawned, displaying two rows of needle-sharp fangs lining the inside of her maw. A long, forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air.

"You are awfully composed in my presence, Gabreth Es'raul," she said, a hint of disappointment in her silken voice. "I've seen seasoned warriors shaking in their booties when they had to approach me." She curled a long, scaled finger and a sharp talon slid from a sheath near its top.

"If you wanted me dead, your assassin could have done me in at the same time he killed Tsabrak. He didn't. I assume you want to talk. So talk."

"Straight to the point. I like that," she purred. She relaxed in her seat, allowing her legs to drift apart, inviting Gabreth's gaze to wander. "I am Nazha. I run the Guild here in Storm Harbour. And I want in on your operation."

Gabreth chuckled. "You could have asked."

"Where would be the fun in that?" Nazha grinned. "Besides, Tsabrak was becoming much too lenient. Iorek was not the first of your suppliers to approach me for a better deal. The others only were much more cautious doing it."

"Who?"

"I'll tell you. For a sizable stake in your claim, that is. I want all the northern routes and suppliers, you can have the southern ones and those off-continent. I'm not greedy."

"Says the half-dragon toying with it's prey," Gabreth scoffed. "I have a counter-proposal." He took his long-maligned wine cup and sniffed. Not tainted. Keenly feeling Nazha's eyes on him, he took a long sip.

"Let's hear it," she hissed, impatiently leaning forward.

"I will not kill you tonight."

She rocked back, claws extended. "My guards-"

"They frisked me, true. They missed several weapons. And I doubt even your scales could withstand most of them." Gabreth touched a pendant on his neck. For the briefest of moments, a long, heavy blade appeared in his hand. "Hear me out. I will not kill you tonight, even though I should. You had my business partner killed. My friend. He deserves to be avenged. But not tonight."

"That's all?"

"Far from it. If you are so eager to expand, have all of our operations, headaches and all."

Nazha cocked her head. "Are you insane? What do you gain from this?"

Gabreth allowed himself a thin smile. "I only desire two things from you. The first is easy. You will deliver a sizable sum of money to a particular associate of mine for safekeeping. And you will offer protection. In return, I will make your problems go away."

"You want to become my hired killer? I have plenty already."

Gabreth's smile turned unpleasant. "No, you don't. Before seeing you, I made sure of it. I am the only professional in Storm Harbour."

"You're bluffing."

"I only created demand for my services. And don't get me wrong. I will work with you, not for you. Understood?"

"Before this goes any further, I'll need to verify your claims," Nazha snarled. "Don't move." She rose, her tail angrily swiping the air behind her as she stormed from the room.

Gabreth leaned back in his chair and took another sip. He heard her shout for her guards to lock, bar and magically seal the room.

He sighed. Initially, after leaving Horwath Point for Storm Harbour, he had only planned to find Tsabrak's killer, repay him for killing his friend. On the long road north he pondered his options. Gabreth didn't like running large-scale operations. He was certain he could but he would derive no pleasure from juggling accounts and issuing orders. He was a man of the blade, of the bolt and of the poison, much better suited in finding and eliminating people, a fact he proved to himself by easily locating and killing the elf twins who had mauled Tsabrak. Before they died, he had them talk about Nazha's operation, about all the contacts she had in Storm Harbour. The rest of his plan fell into place then and there.

Patiently, he waited. Four hours later, the heavy bar was removed from the door, the magic seal was broken and Nazha strode in, fully dressed in a long coat and cowl. "Show me your mark," she ordered.

Gabreth pulled a folded-up piece of parchment from a pouch at his belt and handed it to her. Nazha unfolded it, inhaling sharply. She sat down at the table again, dropped the parchment and grabbed the wine pitcher with shaking hands. The parchment showed a simple rune, a triangle around a small circle, in an eerie blue. Gabreth had made sure that every corpse he left behind in Storm Harbour had this mark. Nazha drank greedily then she put down the pitcher. Nervously, she looked at Gabreth, his stoic little smile, the silent intensity in his eyes. She exhaled. A sharp, acidic whiff attacked Gabreth's keen nose.

"I thought I was the one in control, dictating the circumstances of our meeting," she said. "It seems I can learn a great deal from a master such as you. I accept your terms. No rival crime boss, no guardsman shall be allowed to touch you, for as long as I live."

* * * *

The autumn sunlight reflected off the elf's long, golden hair, painful in its intensity. His long, dexterous fingers plucked a lute, coaxing warm notes from the instrument. It was a bittersweet melody, reminding her of a love once lost, then found again. For a few moments, Thelma Wheatley just stood, spellbound, and listened.

The last note of the song hung in the air like a dust speck trapped in amber. He looked up, his ice-blue eyes taking in everything in front of him. Thelma cleared her throat. His intense gaze made her feel like she just stole from a cookie jar.

"Gabreth Es'raul, right?" she asked, nervously brushing a coal-black strand of hair behind a jewel-hung ear.

"If you know where to go, you should also know what to find at the end of the path." His voice was soft, almost feminine, a stark contrast to his high, chiseled cheek bones and sharp, pointed chin. His long, flowing hair hid the points of his ears. The elf wore simple clothing, a dark vest over a shirt and comfortable pants and soft suede boots. "You are right. I am Gabreth. I assume you bring work?"

"You are correct." Thelma strode across the roof and sat down onto a bench across from Gabreth. "How much have you heard about the tension between my family and the Elmholds?"

"I don't concern myself with the 'why', only with the 'how' and 'when.' Maybe the 'how much' afterwards."

Thelma made a face. Hiring Gabreth didn't turn out at all like she had imagined it. She soldiered on nonetheless. "It is important that you know. Their son, Martus, has despoiled my youngest daughter. She was destined to marry the son of Ethan Wildthorne, the Storm Lord! The marriage already had been arranged! It's the last in a long line of slights. The Elmholds are poised to ruin us!"

Gabreth listened, eyes closed. When Thelma's tirade stopped, he looked at her, his eyes piercing into the deepest depths of her soul. "If you believe that enough reason to end his life, tell me how and when."

She chewed on her lower lip. "I thought giving you his name and reason would be enough."

Gabreth shook his head. "I have no quarrel with the man, you do. So the manner and time of his death are on you."

"Martus is a lecher and despoiler of women. I want everybody to see that. Maul his privates and let his broken corpse be found, surrounded by proof of his misdeeds!"

"As you wish. When?"

"The whole family will be attending a dance at Urs the Sailor's manor the day after tomorrow. Wouldn't it be fitting to end their evening with their dead son's discovery?"

"If you say so. The day after tomorrow then. How much is his death worth to you?"

That was more what Thelma had expected. She smiled, a thin-lipped, angry affair, and pulled a small satchel from under her expensive cloak. She handed it to the elf who opened it, took a look inside and nodded.

"This will be sufficient."

"I trust that concludes our business?" Thelma asked, on the top stair of the stairwell.

"You will no doubt receive word of my success," Gabreth said. "Have a nice day."

* * * *

Gabreth slid the lute into a leather case and slung it over his shoulder, slowly rising from his favorite place in the roof garden. From here, he had an excellent view over most of Storm Harbour. To the west, the expensive manors of Old Town where most of the money was. Beyond that, the city wall and the hilly plains beyond. To the north, the labyrinthine network of narrow streets and alleyways making up the Craftsmen Quarter. To the west, the harbor itself, with its forest of colorful sails and the ocean. In the south, where the markets were and Temple Run and eventually, the Keep. The city had grown in the five hundred years since he had come here, from a few manors and the natural harbor with its surrounding infrastructure to this sprawling crescent by the sea. It had gone through sweeping changes, from being ruled by a single tyrant to a council of 'Storm Lords' who allegedly worked together for the betterment of the city. Some things hadn't changed though. Nazha, now a grizzled veteran of many turf wars, still led the Thieves' Guild and people still wanted to kill each other. Nobles especially.

In fact, there were so many people seeking to discreetly kill each other that Gabreth had no choice but to groom apprentices. One such boy, a bitter half-elven youth named Rokun, awaited each and every lecture with disturbing eagerness. He had no doubt that one day Rokun would turn out to be an even better assassin than he, provided his zeal didn't get the better of him. Until he was ready though, Gabreth had to deal with inane tasks like Lady Wheatley's himself. He would make sure to let Nazha know she owed him a favor for this one.

* * * *

Gabreth left the roof garden and walked into his inner sanctum where he kept all the tools of his trade. He stripped and placed all his expensive clothing in a wardrobe. From a chest nearby, he produced dirty and torn rags along with a threadbare cloak. A small jewelry box held his enchanted rings and amulets. He picked the ring of shapeshifting and used it to shorten his exquisite hair to an irregular rat's nest of indistinct coloration. His ears lost their points and his body changed, taking on an almost skeletal, emaciated look. One of his arms shrunk to an irregular stump. With his good hand, he took ashes and dirt from the fireplace and rubbed it generously over his arms, the soles of his feet and his face. A notched wooden bowl completed his look.

Gabreth limped through the back door of his house into the courtyard, making sure to slosh through a muddy puddle. Using a secret door hidden in the wall, he slipped into the street, disappearing in the mass of people trudging along Temple Run. He made his way into Old Town, where the Elmholds had their lavish estate. Beggars were a common enough occurrence, even in the vicinity of the large mansions. The rich of Storm Harbour prided themselves on their 'charity' which, in the Elmhold's case, meant they didn't have him beat and even tossed a few silver his way. Emboldened by their indifference, Gabreth spent the whole day watching and listening, gaining a feel for Martus Elmhold.

He saw the man walk around the house and garden around noon, quill and writing slate at hand. If he just pretended to be a poet or actually wrote anything was of no consequence to Gabreth but he made sure to memorize Martus' features. He was handsome enough by human standards with a chiseled chin, slender nose and dark hair brushing his collar, neatly parted on the left. He was lean and moved with an effortless grace afforded only by countless dancing or fencing lessons.