Old Eldarion – Chapter 8

A brief second of surprise—just a brief moment. The voice was low, melodious, and… personable? Strange, he thought, though he wasn’t dead yet. He wondered what did that mean.

“Yes?” Eldarion turned, weighing how to play this encounter. The man—clearly a man, and judging by the clean grey clothing he wore—appeared to be a big shot for the Guild. Great.

“My name is Blot,” the man said straightforwardly. “Though, as you can guess, that isn’t my real name.” Eldarion leaned back on the table, one hand casually resting protectively over Phin, who slumped nearby.

“Strange—what is the Guild doing in my pub?” Eldarion asked, his tone measured yet tinged with contrition and curiosity. Blot’s eyes shone with suspicion as he regarded him.

“Well, there has been an attack on our church—of the Goddess Shanuk, patron of all those of us who slither in the dark. Several of our own lie dead or incapacitated, and the chief of the building has vanished.” Eldarion listened without feigning interest; Blot was being open and forthright with this information. “What is he planning, and what does he know?” Eldarion mused silently.

“That is terrible, Blot, but I don’t see how it concerns me. More to the point, I still haven’t even heard of this incident—yet,” Blot replied, as if clearing a mental check from his mind.

“Which is good to hear,” Blot continued, “we’re keeping a lid on this until we can find some answers. We’ve checked most of our usual sources and contacts.” Damn, they work fast, Eldarion thought. “Not a clue—problematic indeed. An entire group of our people taken out by a single attacker? Troublesome, damaging to our reputation—not to mention that he kidnapped one of us.” As he spoke, Blot wandered around the workshop, inspecting the containers Eldarion had used to produce the toxic fumes—fumes that still lingered. Eldarion hoped against hope that they were lost in the organized chaos of the place. He was nearing the spot where he had hidden the bloody arrowheads.

“Single attacker? He?” Eldarion asked.

“Indeed, a single solitary elf” Blot replied. “Quite embarrassing—and dangerous to have such a person loose in the city, don’t you think?” Blot moved closer to the cupboard where Eldarion had stashed the two arrowheads, uninvited and uncalled for, beginning to peer inside.

“I agree,” Eldarion said, not turning to face him, “though I still don’t know what this has to do with me.”

“Well,” Blot continued, “it so happens there was a contract on you. I must admit, you not being dead—nor having been reached if the assassin failed his mark—and that the assassin vanished into thin air… all of that is quite suspicious.” Eldarion turned, his mind racing, then he nodded slowly.

“Yes, he came after me. He was sloppy—I knew he was here the second I entered the workshop and began mixing toxic compounds to, well, poison him,” Eldarion admitted. “The corpse is inside that large vat—I haven’t used it in quite some time.” Blot remained motionless, his hands hovering inches from the cupboard where the arrowheads were hidden. He paused, then, moving with slow, deliberate motions—the very sound of his movements unnerving—he ascended the stairs Eldarion used to access the top of the vats. Blot opened the hatch, only to recoil at the sight. Then, with calm determination, he descended from the vat and went to face Eldarion.

“I have heard of your reputation, Mr. Thorne—of your history that stretches back long before I was born. I salute you; you managed to take down one of the best I have ever known,” Blot said, his tone a mixture of admiration and guarded skepticism.

Eldarion’s eyes narrowed slightly as he replied, “But he bore no markings—he was a free agent.” He said it coolly, choosing not to back down now.

“Indeed,” Blot continued, “not one soul in the Guild wanted to take this contract, and with good reason. You have proven yourself both capable and determined.” His hand moved toward his dagger as he added, “Which begs the question: was it you who attacked one of our churches?” His voice, laced with a subtle magical undertone, seemed to search for the truth in Eldarion’s eyes.

Eldarion’s expression hardened, yet his voice remained even. “It wasn’t I who attacked the church. For one, I am no young elf,” he stated plainly, his tone carrying neither remorse nor anger. “And for two, remove that stinky, useless little spell from me,” he added sharply, his irritation rising. Blot took a step back at the rebuke.

“I might have been able to take on a single man who got sloppy from inattention,” Blot admitted, “but an entire building full of your people? Brother, you are giving me far more credit than I deserve.”

Blot’s eyes flickered with doubt as he pressed further, “Uhm, where were you last night?” he asked, unconvinced.

“Here,” Eldarion answered curtly, “finishing the last touches on my latest brew.” He gestured toward the boxes he had yet to move. Blot stepped over to inspect the bottles, uncorked one, took a measured sniff, and carefully retained it.

“We will take this into consideration,” Blot said finally, “but you should know that the Guild is taking harsh measures regarding this matte. Please, lay low, Mr. Thorne.”

With that, he vanished through the doorway, leaving Eldarion standing alone, his mind awhirl with conflicting thoughts. His hands trembled—not just from the lingering effects of the night’s chaos or the still lingering effects of the poison, but from how close he had been. Uncertainty and a simmering fury churned within him, as he wondered if Blot truly believed his words or was simply stalling for time for some other reason.

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For someone as silent as Blot, his presence left an incredible—if not entirely empty—void in the room. Or perhaps it was merely Eldarion’s own nerves playing tricks on him. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Everything he had said to Blot was true, yet it was not the whole truth.

At that moment, Phin stirred, pulling Eldarion back to the present. Worried that his resident halfling might have overheard something he shouldn’t have, Eldarion moved quickly to check Phin’s vitals. The halfling was sound asleep, lost in a drunken slumber. Eldarion extended his hand, and with a soft, ethereal blue glow of magic enveloping his fingers and eyes, he confirmed that Phin was indeed fast asleep—likely oblivious to anything around him. A sigh of relief escaped him; for now, he was out of the woods.

Without delay, Eldarion gathered a few herbs and heated them over one of the small braziers he had scattered throughout the workshop, stirring them until they formed a thick, homogenous slurry. Next, he retrieved a tiny dried branch from a sealed pack. Moving swiftly, he closed it up and lit it with the small flame he’d conjured to cook the herbs. He allowed it to burn only briefly, snuffing the flame before it had a chance to grow too large.

Cautiously, he brought the smoking tip of the branch close to Phin’s nose, holding his breath. The halfling’s nostrils twitched, first subtly, then more forcefully, until his entire face contorted in revulsion as he awoke—he would have vomited on the floor if Eldarion hadn’t been quick to grab one of his unused buckets. Discarding the dried branch, Eldarion took Phin by the nape of his neck, holding his head firmly while he forced the brown herbal mixture down the halfling’s throat.

For a brief second, Eldarion’s mind flashed back to what he had done of last night, and his hand trembled with the memory. He forced himself back to the present, steeling himself for the inevitable awakening of his halfling. Phin grumbled as he slowly roused. Eldarion rose, then headed over to the large faucet, filling a hefty mug with clean water and waiting patiently.

Phin mumbled incoherently for a moment before finally opening his eyes a bit. “I’m thirsty,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. When he saw Eldarion offering him the mug, he drank greedily. With a paternal smile, Eldarion watched over Phin, relieved that his ministrations had worked—at least for now.

“I know that this is pub but, lad, but drinking on the job isn’t something you ought to do” Eldarion commented, entertained by what the halfling had done. Phin focused with a startled and looked at his Boss.

“Sir I” Phin muttered, brain half out of it due to the alcohol

“While I will have to punish you for drinking on the job until you sobered up, it’s also my responsibility for sending you to the stockroom alone—I should have known better,” Eldarion said, chastising both himself and Phin.

The halfling relaxed slightly, thinking he was off the hook, but Eldarion pressed on, “Not so fast. I’ll have to do an inventory of what you drank and deduct it from your pay. And don’t worry—I’m sure you managed to skim off enough from the Inn’s earnings while I wasn’t looking.” At these words, Phin tensed once more.

“Now, lad, go home. Rest and relax; a lot of work awaits you in the coming weeks,” Eldarion commanded, looming over the halfling. An elf is so much taller than a halfling that even with Phin lying on the table, the disparity was striking. Furthermore, Eldarions’s tired, exhausted eyes—muted green against his pale skin—gave him a cadaveric look. The halfling went pale, clearly frightened.

“Yes, sir, I—I am sorry. It won’t happen again,” Phin stammered as the effects of the alcohol vanished almost instantly.

“Good. Now scamper off home,” Eldarion said. Phin needed no further prompting; he clambered off the table and, without even glancing around the room, hurried out, closing the door behind him.

Eldarion then sat on a stool, leaning heavily on the table. “The old me is resurfacing,” he thought, noticing the sheen of sweat on his forehead and his trembling hands. What frightened him wasn’t the trembling itself, but that he had not trembled when he went after the assassins. There was little regret within him—so why was he feeling this way now? Then the familiar sounds of the pub began to percolate into the workshop. He had managed to build something good, something he truly loved, and it could all be undone in an instant. He had to protect it; he had to make them pay for coming after him and for putting his pub, his people, on the line.

Eldarion took a deep, cleansing breath. He was not merely Eldarion Thorne, the pub owner; he was his old self—a self he had tried to bury, but had failed to kill… and now it had returned. The first step was to put Molly in charge of daily operations so that he could focus on cleaning up the mess.

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“Clink, clank,” the coins sang—a melody Eldarion now relished. Everything was winding down after a busy, busy night. Eldarion, ever sharp, had been taking notes and counting coins, paying his employees, and, despite the exhaustion etched on his face, he was enjoying himself.

“Now, please, Rook—here’s your payment for the day,” he said to the young lad as he handed him a small bag, Rook was massaging his own hands as they trembled slightly and his pallor deepened.

“Are you okay, lad? You look worse for wear,” Eldarion added as he carefully placed the coins in a secure safe box.

Rook replied, his voice earnest yet tired, “Yeah, I just need to keep working. I just need to keep playing—at long last, I’m doing what I truly love and… I don’t want to waste it.” Eldarion, with a thoughtful glimmer in his eyes, infused a touch of mana into his gaze, enhancing his vision, even as he scrutinized the lad’s trembling hands.

“Come here for a moment,” Eldarion beckoned. Rook hesitated as chairs were being arranged atop tables and the entire pub was being tidied up. Molly was still running the show, orchestrating the bustle with practiced efficiency. All Eldarion had to do was close the box and settle the payments—it was, in its own way, refreshing.

Rook approached, and Eldarion leaned in, whispering a small incantation and channeling mana through his hands using an aligning spell. “There you go, lad. This should ease the pain and numbness. But you really shouldn’t push yourself so hard—I’m sure I’ll deduct a bit from your pay, but perhaps you’ve already skimmed a little extra from the Inn’s earnings while I wasn’t looking,” he teased, glancing around the pub where the general consensus murmured a quiet “yes, but…”. It was enough for him.

He sat back down and began to jot down the final notes of the day. “Done. Now, everyone—please gather around, I have an announcement,” he called out. His employees approached with curiosity shining in their eyes.

“I need a little rest,” he began, “so, Molly, please take over my duties for the day—with the corresponding pay raise. This will allow me to dedicate myself to my true passion: mixing new drinks.” A stunned silence fell over the room before murmurs erupted.

“Sir, are you sure? This pub is your life,” Molly interjected as she approached, her small, nasal voice accentuating her worry. “And it’s so sudden.”

“Dear Molly, worry not. You’re more than ready. Besides, I’m not going anywhere—I’ll still be here. You practically run this place by yourself at this point, old lass.”

“Sir, I’m not—” she began, but then contained herself. “I understand, thank you, sir,” she replied, and the rest of the staff started clapping in encouragement.

“Open a barrel of beer, to Molly!” Eldarion ordered, and that declaration lifted everyone’s spirits. With the pub humming along in its familiar routine, he used the moment as cover for his own escape toward the workshop.

A sense of satisfaction mingled with lingering fatigue as he slipped away—a quiet resolve behind the day’s calm, and the promise of secret work to come.

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It was deep into the night; everything inside the pub was quiet—even though the city outside never truly slept. Eldarion stood, gazing at a corner of his workshop. He had spent a few minutes tidying up—piling dirty containers into a sink and drawing the curtains to cover the windows. The sharp smell of toxic fumes now mingled with the more benign stench of alcohol production—a stench that would take a long time to fully dissipate. His coffee-and-honey liquor variant remained secure in their boxes; soon, they would be put up for sale.

He drew a deep, cleansing breath—a breath that seemed to purge his doubts. He had to do this. Silently, like a shadow, he approached the windows and invoked one of his stronger spells. With a subtle gesture, he applied a powerful obscuring charm to the frames and glass panes, ensuring total darkness from the outside. Then he moved to the door and repeated the process. Finally, after one last meticulous inspection, everything was tidy and organized. There was nothing left to trouble him—no excuse to delay.

Almost mechanically, without conscious thought, he extended his arm toward a particular section of exposed wall. Even after a century or two, his body remembered the motion. With deliberate effort, he pushed mana into five tiny stones from a sea of similar rocks embedded in the wall. They shimmered faintly before beginning to shift. In complete silence, the stones parted to reveal a narrow opening—a cold, gaping maw in the wall. He recalled the old stairs and the narrow corridor beyond; when the building was first constructed, they had hidden it this way. The years had weighed heavily on the structure, and the very soul of the place felt dense.

Eldarion straightened up and slid into the dark passage, clutching the emergency crate—the very one he had used to extract the two arrowheads. The corridor reeked of humidity, emptiness, and void—an oppressive silence that pressed in on him.

As he descended the narrow steps, a ghostly apparition of himself appeared, looking back up at him. It was hazy—long, dead hair hanging limply from a skull that recalled two centuries past, a mixture of black, gold, and grey. It was also the last time he had worn his deep green overcoat over his armor. The apparition climbed the stairs awkwardly—a poorly cut beard, short yet unmistakable, and an expression of horror and fear etched on its face. In the cramped passage, their paths inevitably crossed; the specter dissolved into nothingness as Eldarion collided with it. Cold and merciless, that encounter sent a shiver down his spine. Without thinking, he pushed on, mechanically reaching the bottom of the stairs and daring to breathe again.

The gloom from his workshop reached only so far, and just beyond lay a large, gaping maw of darkness awaiting him. Cradling the crate under one arm, he pressed his right hand against a specific section of wall. He pushed mana through it, and the circuits along the wall lit up. Residual magical energy sparked to life, activating the hidden mechanism, lighting crystals embedded in the wall. Up ahead, the hallway revealed itself: stone tiles covered in dust stretched out in ghostly blue light cast by magical crystals.

He kicked something—a sound of wood striking stone—and looked down. It was the torch he had brought from his adventure outside. He kicked it again, then dismissed it with a shrug. Ignoring the closed doors, he strode past the common room, a twinge of second-hand pride welling up as he noted that the magical wards and protections installed by his former companions still held firm. No vermin, no intruder had disturbed these sanctuaries of memories. A long time had passed since he had walked over these stones, in reverse, hoping it would be the last time. As many times as before, he had been proven wrong.

Every step was accompanied by the soft echo of his boots on ancient stone, the faint hum of residual magic, and the distant whisper of memories long buried. The air was cool and damp, filled with the weight of forgotten secrets and the palpable promise of confrontation.

Making a conscious effort to silence his wandering thoughts, Eldarion managed to reach the far door at the end of the base—a heavy, rusted security door that bore the marks of time and neglect. With deliberate care, he opened it. Inside, bound tightly by both coarse ropes and ancient magic that had not faded despite the passage of days, lay the assassin he had been forced to abduct.

She was securely restrained; the ropes, intertwined with lingering enchantments, held her wrists and ankles fast. The old magic that sealed her bindings pulsed faintly, a reminder that even time could not completely erode its power.

Eldarion moved to a sturdy table and placed the crate upon it, raising a small cloud of dust that danced in the sparse light. Then, with measured focus, he pressed mana into his eyes and ears, heightening his senses. The woman remained in a deep, unbroken sleep, her chest rising and falling softly in the quiet.

Before she awoke, Eldarion paused. His youthful disguise—an artifice he maintained to mask his true, venerable age—remained in place, yet beneath it lay centuries of experience and a burning need for answers. Rumor had it that this assassin was no ordinary rogue: a free agent hired by a guild from outside the city, and she had been paid handsomely with gold. If she could only provide him with a few nuggets of useful intel—the identity of her employers and the true motive behind her attempt on his life—then he might finally piece together the mystery that had haunted him for so long.

Quietly, almost reverently, he set about preparing the space for the interrogation. He arranged a small tray with water and modest provisions near the table—a gesture of reluctant hospitality, designed to coax the truth once she awakened. His mind churned with plans and warnings alike; this was not merely a question of survival but a matter of reclaiming his dignity and protecting what he held dear.

In that dim, dust-laden room, every breath felt heavy with anticipation. Eldarion, ever the tactician tempered by time and hardship, steeled himself for the coming interrogation. He would extract the truth from this captive, and in doing so, begin to unravel the tangled web of betrayal that had brought this free agent into his path. The stage was set, and as the minutes ticked by in oppressive silence, his resolve grew stronger with every passing moment.