The Flaming Hall

by EternalFlare

Chapter 1: Zephyr

Blackness. There was no sun under the earth. There was no source of energy, no source of light, no source of warmth save the earth itself — in the Underworld, resources were scarce. And perhaps that is why our story begins in a thieving community.

Barad. Ask anyone in the world that didn’t live there about it, and they’d tell you that they knew naught of it. Nestled in the caverns of the Underworld, the people of Barad were completely safe against the terrors above the ground. But the terrors below were theirs alone to deal with. When was it founded? For what purpose? By whom? These questions alone are known to few, and they guard the knowledge fiercely.

Yet it is from this corrupted and isolated city that change stemmed. It was within Barad that the wheels of a revolution began to turn. And it happened suddenly — almost too suddenly. Yet was it better for this? For the city filled with corruption and lies was wrought with very different intentions.

The shadow streaked quietly under the archway, pitch black save the gleam of his deep green eyes. He stopped just before the stairs leading up to the bedroom of a Baradan ‘noble’. Our shadow slipped up the stairs without a sound, his eyes enchanted with sight in the dark, all his movements carefully calculated.

The form came into the black chamber of Pierda Vanaer, a ‘protected’ official of one of the many crime syndicates forming Barad. Normally, a human wouldn’t bother with them — if they got caught, then they’d die. But our shadow had no choice. He was a student for the Guild, THE Guild of Barad. The Guild that paid for food from Brinksar, a Dwarven city; the Guild that made sure that Barad didn’t come under attack; the Guild that truly ruled Barad, the Guild that held the Council. The Council was untouchable; it held the most powerful men in Barad. Any crimes against them were punishable by horrible death.

Our shadow’s name was was sixteen, and already one of the top thieves of the Guild. In actuality, that depended on your view from the top. Zephyr was believed to be the most talented of all the thieves of Barad; however, he had what few thieves had:

Morals.

Zephyr was utterly opposed to stealing. He deemed it morally incorrect, and tried his hardest to prevent himself from going down that path. And yet, in the end, he failed. For in Barad, there was no life aside from the Guild. Only a cold, cruel death.

A shadow among shadows, even despite his height, which was considered tall for a Baradian, he slipped quietly up the stairs. There was a mirror hanging up on the left side wall, which Zephyr used to catch a look at himself. As usual with magic sight, which illuminated darkness by causing the eyes to glow, his green eyes shone faintly. It was creepy in a way. When compared to his blue-grey hair, cleft chin and the rest of his face, the eyes seemed ethereal. He never got used to the notion of his eyes glowing.

‘Let’s get to work,’ Zephyr sighed in resignation as he took several steps forward. Even in magical sight the room he was in was dark. Zephyr, however, had been here before. Pierda Vanaer was his favourite victim, because the man was fat, rude, and greedy. He reminded Zephyr of Councilman Greal.

Pierda slept silently, counting coins in his sleep or dreaming of a beautiful maiden — so Zephyr figured. Don’t most fat, rich men dream of such things? The things they have and the things they want more of?

Pitiful, thought Zephyr as he opened a drawer silently. Not surprisingly, the thief found several rich velvets and other garments — things that had high value. They’d give him good vin, the currency of Barad, and possibly earn him enough to pass his final exam. Silently he stuffed them into a pouch at his side, and was about to move away when he spied a pretty thing in the bottom of the drawer.

It was a short blade, red, made of some gorgeous metal that reflected non existent light. The fabric upon the hilt was a hue of deep purple, and when he held it, Zephyr felt that no matter how bloody, sweaty, or weak his hand might be, the grip wouldn’t let go if he didn’t. Now Zephyr presumed it to be a throwing knife, something he hadn’t ever been able to afford but always wanted. He found a sheath too, red and decorated with jewels.

But it’s worth so much. Metal’s so rare in Barad . . . I’d be a rich man at any market! Something still compelled him to keep it. That’s greedy, but it’d be really useful . . . Before he knew what he was doing, he had the dagger clipped onto his belt.

Suddenly the room was filled with a brilliant light. On instinct Zephyr put his hands to two hollow, serrated scimitars in sheaths at his sides. For the years Zephyr had wielded them, they never had seen serious combat, and were in fact quite dull. To make matters worse, Pierda Vanaer stood with a thin longsword in his hands, triumphant, with several glowing lanterns above his bed.

The fat bastard wasn’t sleeping . . . he was baiting me . . .

‘Nice job,’ Zephyr muttered as he took a step to his right. He snapped the blades from their sheaths, felt their weight, and crouched, blades at his sides, left one elevated to parry, right one reared back to counter. Zephyr was born ambidextrous, however, and, though with a little delay, he could reverse the position if Pierda attacked his right flank.

‘So!’ Pierda said gleefully, ‘the little mouse is caught in the trap at last! This little trap took a whole month to plan, my friend. And there is no escaping it.’ Pierda’s smile faded, replaced by a scowl. ‘My money will not be carried off by your peasant hands, nor given to the Guild of Thieves and Beggars!’

‘Money that you’ve taken from another!’ Zephyr said loudly yet uninterestedly. He hated this fat man, this damned wretch that claimed to earn his money.

‘Oh don’t act all high-and-mighty on me, Zephyr Regenal!’ Pierda was slowly moving toward Zephyr. Zephyr was still, waiting for his moment. He could see, clear as day, the window leading out to the streets. He could make it without a confrontation—

‘I . . . don’t think that I’m going to report you to the Punisher. I’m going to kill you myself, you son of a loose, penniless prostitute—’

Something in Zephyr exploded. There is a love of one’s mother that one carries, one that ignites at an insult or threat. Zephyr was an orphan much like all of the children raised by the Guild,and did not know his mother. This caused Zephyr to feel such animalistic rage that he cared little for the longsword resting in Pierda’s hand.

Snarling like a beast, Zephyr surged forward, left scimitar raised at his chest level. Pierda was right handed. Thus, the fat man came in a wide blow to Zephyr’s left — the left scimitar intercepted the thin blade, and the right smacked Pierda hard in the cheek. As the man reeled, Zephyr dealt a forceful kick to Pierda’s stomach, sending him on to his back. Snatching Pierda’s longsword, Zephyr sheathed his blades once more and gave Pierda a solidly hateful glare.

‘And that,’ the grey haired boy declared, ‘is all for today.’ Leaping out the window, he didn’t look back.

Pierda struggled to sit up, and immediately began to cry. He’d never be able to foil that damned boy. Not with thirty armed guards. Zephyr was simply to obscure for his understanding. There was no way he could sleep for now, at least not for a few hours. And he had no evidence to convict Zephyr. Cursing and whimpering, he descended his staircase to go eat.