Blood Artists_World of Ghost Exile short story

  BLOOD ARTISTS

  Jonathan Moeller

  Description

  Morgant the Razor was once the most feared assassin in three nations. But now he has retired, and masquerades as a simple artist.

  Yet he cannot escape his notoriety so easily, and the man who kills the Razor will receive fame and riches beyond count.

  But Morgant did not become the most feared assassin in three nations by remaining idle...

  Blood Artists

  Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Moeller

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC

  Cover image copyright Gunter Hofer | Dreamstime.com & Igorigorevich | Dreamstime.com

  All Rights Reserved

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Blood Artists

  The man who strode through the door intended to kill him.

  Morgant could feel it.

  "Welcome, good sir," said Morgant, sketching a polite bow. His visitor was young, no more than twenty-five, and dressed in fine clothes. Jewels sparkled on his fingers and in his ears, and he gave the impression of one come to recent wealth. A prosperous merchant, then, or a noble with a lucrative inheritance.

  Yet the young man looked as if he knew how to use the sword and dagger at his belt, and his eyes roved over everything, taking in Morgant and his workroom in one quick glance.

  "You," he said, looking Morgant up and down, "you are Markaine of Caer Marist? The painter?"

  Morgant smiled. "Some call me such."

  "I am Carzim, a merchant of Istarinmul," said the young man. "Recently I have achieved new wealth and prominence, and desire to commission a portrait to reflect my new station."

  "I would be glad to oblige," said Morgant. "The heat grows oppressive. Let us retire to the courtyard to speak."

  Carzim gave a curt nod, and Morgant led him through the workroom, past the half-finished canvases and shelves of paints and brushes, and to the small courtyard at the rear of the house. Four old bloodfruit trees, their branches heavy with crimson fruit, shaded the yard from the burning sun, and the fragrance of their flowers kept the stench of the city at bay. Morgant had paid a great deal of money for them. A fountain splashed in the shade of the trees, and Morgant settled on its edge with a sigh.

  "Wine?" said Morgant, reaching for a carafe and a pair of goblets. "Or perhaps a bloodfruit? They're ripe, and quite tasty."

  Carzim hesitated. "It is a little early for wine..."

  Morgant filled a goblet, took a drink. "You'll forgive me, I hope. I don't have quite the stamina I once did."

  "Very well," said Carzim. "No point in being rude."

  He had, Morgant knew, been waiting to see if the wine was poisoned. A precaution that very few merchants would have taken. Carzim took the offered goblet, drank, glanced around the courtyard.

  "This is very good wine," he said.

  Morgant shrugged. "My work has its compensations."

  "So it would seem," said Carzim. "This is a fine house. Yet you live alone? Without servants or slaves?"

  "I value my privacy," said Morgant.

  "No guards, either?" said Carzim, and his eyes had an almost predatory glint to them. "Do you not fear thieves?"

  Morgant smiled. "I never have had much trouble from thieves."

  Which was true.

  "Well, I suppose painters are entitled to their eccentricities," said Carzim. "Though you seem to have quite a few eccentricities. Even for a...painter."

  Morgant began to tire of the game. "You wish a portrait commissioned?"

  "Aye, I do," said Carzim. "After all, I am a man of wealth and prominence. And soon I will have another triumph to my name. Why should I not have a portrait to commemorate my achievements?"

  "Why not?" said Morgant. "Return tomorrow, and I will take some sketches. I can begin work soon afterward." He smiled. "Come to me, and I will paint such a portrait of you that anyone who looks upon it will stare in wonder."

  "Of course," said Carzim. "I will return soon."

  "Yes," said Morgant. "I rather think you will."

  ###

  After Carzim left, Morgant returned to his workroom, took a vial from the shelf, and sprinkled some of the powder within upon his tongue.

  Then he got to work.

  Drawing had always soothed his mind, even as a child, and he did so now. He painted for some time after that, working on commissions for various nobles and merchants. Not that he needed the coin, not anymore.

  But it kept him occupied, and he enjoyed the work.

  The light dimmed as the sun went down, and Morgant stood, stretched, and went upstairs. The walls had been covered with white plaster, rough and pockmarked. Morgant stopped before a wall, pressed a hidden seam, and a panel swung free, revealing a shallow alcove.

  Steel gleamed in the dim light.

  Morgant withdrew a Nighmarian longsword in its sheath, and buckled it to his belt. After a moment's consideration, he took a black dagger, a blood-colored pearl set in its pommel, the edges sharp enough to cut a thread in midair. The weapon felt familiar, comfortable in his hand.

  He had killed a lot of people with it.

  Last he withdrew a black cloak and settled it around his shoulders, and then closed the alcove. Wrapping the cloak about him, Morgant walked to a ladder and climbed to the roof. Like most of Istarinmul's houses, the roof was flat, and he often came up here at night to to sleep and escape the day’s accumulated heat. From here he saw the Padishah’s palace, ablaze with the arcane light produced by the College of Alchemists, and the glow of the lighthouses guarding the harbor.

  Morgant settled in the roof’s shadowed corner, cloak wrapped about him, and waited.

  He did not need to wait long. Soon he saw a shape running along the nearby rooftops, jumping over the narrow alleys. A shape in a hooded black cloak, clad in steel-studded leather armor, a scimitar and a dagger at his belt.

  Carzim.

  Morgant smiled. A merchant, indeed.

  Carzim jumped the last alley and landed on Morgant's roof, his boots making no sound. He hesitated for a moment, eyes gleaming beneath his hood. Then he nodded to himself and started for the ladder, moving silently.

  Morgant stood, sword and black dagger ready in his hands. He glided up behind Carzim, weapons drawn back for a stab.

  This was easier than he had expected.

  But, somehow, Carzim felt him coming.

  The younger man whirled, blades flying from their scabbards, and caught Morgant's thrusts. Sword and dagger and scimitar met a dozen times in half as many heartbeats, weaving a web of steel. Then Morgant stepped back, sword ready in his right hand, black dagger poised in his left.

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  "So," said Carzim. "You really are Morgant the Razor."

  Morgant gestured with the black dagger that had given him the name. "You weren't certain?"

  "I was mostly certain," said Carzim. "It seemed strange for the great Razor to masquerade as a painter, but few painters have a killer’s gleam in their eye. And if I was wrong...well, the world would not miss one old painter." He shook his head. "I planned to cut your throat while you slept. What gave me away?"

  Morgant grinned. "Please. The way you looked at every little detail, the way you flinched when I offered
you wine...only a blind man could not see that you had come for my head. Which makes me curious. Why have you come for it?"

  Carzim looked incredulous. "You're Morgant the Razor! The paramount assassin of Istarinmul. They tell stories about you, old man. They say you've killed lords, emirs, high priests, great merchants, and mighty sorcerers. You even killed the Emperor of Nighmar, and all his Imperial Guards and all his Legions could not save him."

  "Hardly," said Morgant. "The Emperor killed himself. The old fool was drunk when I broke into his chamber. I merely told him that his enemies had come to kill him, and he fled out the window to escape. Of course, in his haste he forgot that the window was two hundred feet above the ground."

  "Regardless," said Carzim. "The Empire of Nighmar has placed a vast bounty upon your head. Whoever lays your head before the Emperor's throne shall receive gold, estates, and titles."

  "Ah," said Morgant. "And so, you've come to collect my head. If you think yourself capable of taking it."

  Carzim laughed and lifted his weapons. The scimitar gleamed in the moonlight, and Morgant saw that it had been forged from red steel, giving it the appearance of a bloody talon. "Of course I am capable of taking it, old man! Do you know who I am?"

  "You are Red Carzim," said Morgant. "The man who killed the Emir of Al-Hardai and the Lord Governor of Cyrica. I heard you killed the Emir's children in front of him, so their suffering would be the last thing he saw."

  "Yes," said Carzim, his voice a purr. "You disapprove? Imagine what I'll do to you. Put down your weapons, and I'll make it quick."

  "You are young, and a fool," said Morgant. "And I've grown soft in my old age. So I shall give you this one chance. Leave, and I shall spare your life."

  Carzim laughed. "Leave? When your head will bring me wealth and power? I think not. You shall die at my hand, and I will be Lord Carzim of the Nighmarian Empire...and from there, who knows?"

  "Who knows, indeed?" said Morgant. "You would do quite well as a lord. Politics is only murder on a larger scale, after all."

  "Indeed," said Carzim. "And let's start right now."

  He came at Morgant in a blur. The crimson scimitar whirled for Morgant's head, while the dagger slashed at his belly. Morgant caught the attacks on his weapons, beating them aside. Carzim kept coming, his blades weaving a dizzying net of slashes and thrusts. Morgant gave ground, backing towards the ladder, blocking, dodging, and parrying Carzim's storm of steel.

  They broke apart, Morgant breathing hard, Carzim spinning his scimitar in slow, lazy circles.

  "Not bad," said Carzim, "for an old man."

  Morgant snorted. "I killed my first man before your father ever lusted after your mother."

  "Yes," said Carzim. "And it shows."

  "It's still not too late to walk away," said Morgant.

  Carzim laughed. "Perhaps I'll make you say that, over and over, as I cut off your fingers one by one."

  "No," said Morgant, raising his own weapons. "You won't."

  Carzim hesitated, and Morgant saw the tiniest hint of doubt on his face. Then his expression hardened, and he came at Morgant again, scimitar a crimson blur. Morgant caught the descending blade on his sword, twisted, and brought his black dagger angling for Carzim's gut. The younger man jerked aside, the edge of the black blade scraping against leather armor. Carzim rolled his wrist and thrust, and the curved blade of his scimitar reached for Morgant's throat.

  But Morgant saw it coming. He had picked up his first sword forty years ago, as a child of eight, and he had used one every day since and he had seen that trick before. He whipped his sword sideways, knocking the scimitar aside, and struck with his dagger. Carzim jerked away, avoiding the killing stroke, but a thin line of crimson showed on his left forearm.

  Carzim backed away, blades raised to block.

  "First blood," murmured Morgant. "Well. You are Red Carzim. It is only appropriate, I suppose."

  First, he knew, but not the last. He had taken Carzim's measure, and Morgant had the greater skill. But Carzim was twenty years younger. He was stronger and faster, and undoubtedly had more endurance. Already Morgant's breath came hard and fast.

  "It's not the first blood that matters," said Carzim, circling to Morgant's left, "but the last."

  If Morgant was going to win this fight, he had to do so immediately.

  Of course, he had a trick or two up his sleeve yet.

  "Then perhaps you should take it," said Morgant.

  "Gladly," said Carzim, and attacked.

  Again steel clashed, red scimitar striking against black dagger. Carzim worked both of his weapons in deadly harmony, swings flowing into thrusts and back again. Morgant retreated until he came to the trapdoor and ladder leading into the interior of the house.

  Then he jumped backwards.

  His cloak snapped around him, and he landed in the upstairs hallway, his legs collapsing beneath him. Morgant surged to his feet, ignoring the ache in his knees, and looked up the ladder. Carzim glared down at him, weapons angled for a stab.

  Morgant smirked, and beckoned.

  Carzim reacted as Morgant expected. The younger assassin reached into his belt, drew out a throwing knife, and flung it. Morgant dodged to the side, which gave Carzim more than enough time to jump down the ladder. Morgant lunged forward, his sword and dagger closing like a pincer, and he almost had Carzim. But once again, the younger man's superior speed saved him. His scimitar slapped out, beating aside the black dagger, and he twisted sideways far enough for Morgant's sword to dig a chunk of plaster out of the wall.

  Carzim whirled, recovered his balance, and brought both his blades down in a chop for Morgant's back. Morgant ducked the dagger and parried the scimitar, and found himself retreating again in the face of Carzim's furious offense. Finally Morgant backed to the stairs, his hips bumping against the banister. Again he ducked, and he seized the railing, vaulted over it, and dropped into his workshop, black cloak flaring around him.

  Carzim halted at the top of the stairs, staring down at him. He did not look tired. He wasn't even breathing very hard.

  "I know why you're so confident, old man," said Carzim, smirking.

  "Oh?" said Morgant.

  "The wine," said Carzim. "You dosed it. With grayjuice, I believe. Nasty poison. And it only activates when the victim's heart speeds up for an extended period of time." He grinned. "Like during a fight, perhaps?"

  Morgant said nothing.

  "That was clever, drinking the wine yourself," said Carzim. "You must have given yourself the antidote the minute I left. Of course, I recognized the taste of grayjuice at once. I've used it myself, several times. So I took the antidote as soon as I left. I assume you took it, as well?"

  Still Morgant said nothing.

  "Ah," said Carzim, smiling as he walked down the stairs. "So that was your plan, was it? Let me take the poison, lure me into a fight, and draw it out until the poison took effect and I dropped dead? Such a very good plan. So subtle, so clever, so like Morgant the Razor. Except your time is finished, old man. You were the best assassin in the city - but I shall be a lord of the Nighmarian Empire."

  Morgant backed towards the courtyard door. "Then if my head will bring you such riches, perhaps you should stop talking and take it already."

  Carzim grinned. "Gladly."

  The younger man came forward in a rush, slashing and stabbing. Morgant blocked and parried, dodged and weaved, sweat trickling down his face. Carzim left him no opening, no opportunity to launch a counterattack. Morgant retreated into the courtyard. The moon shone overhead, the bloodfruit trees throwing tangled shadows over the fountain. Soon Carzim would drive Morgant against the courtyard wall, or one of the trees.

  And it would be over.

  Morgant broke free and circled towards one of the trees, weapons held before him.

  "Lie down already," said Carzim, laughing. "You're only delaying the inevitable. Lie down, and I'll kill you without pain." He laughed again. "Well, without much pain."

&nbs
p; Morgant reached up and plucked a ripe bloodfruit from a branch. It felt heavy and soft in his hand, the juices threatening to burst between his fingers.

  He made very sure not to squeeze too hard.

  "A last meal?" said Carzim. "Why not? Bloodfruit is certainly sweet. Why should your last..."

  "You know," said Morgant, "you talk too much."

  He hurled the bloodfruit at Carzim's face.

  Carzim responded on reflex, his scimitar snapping up to block the missile. It exploded in a crimson spray, spattering pulp all over his face and neck. Carzim staggered back a step, blinking, and scowled.

  "Throwing fruit?" he said. He wiped some of the pulp from his eyes and licked his fingers. "How pathetic. The great Morgant the Razor, the man who killed the Emperor of Nighmar, reduced to throwing fruit like an old woman in the market." The juice glittered on the blade of his scimitar like blood. "I'm doing you a favor, putting you out of your misery."

  He took a step forward, breathing hard, raising his blades for the final blow.

  Morgant did not move.

  Carzim grimaced, his breath coming faster. He blinked, wobbled for a moment. Then he fell to one knee. His breathing became raspy, harsh. His eyes bulged, and his face turned an alarming shade of red.

  "An interesting thing," said Morgant, "about the antidote to grayjuice. It stays in the bloodstream for almost a week. It's perfectly harmless - unless one happens to consume even a single drop of a freshly cut bloodfruit. Which is likewise perfectly harmless, and also rather pleasant...unless one happens to have ingested the antidote to grayjuice within the last few days. Then it causes the throat to close up." He smiled. "A cruel way to die, isn't it?"

  Carzim clawed at his throat.

  "You young fools," said Morgant, shaking his head. "So obsessed with blades. You forget that there are many ways to kill a man."

  Carzim threw himself at Morgant, landed on his hands and knees. To his credit, he raked a shaking hand across his face, tried to fling some of the remaining pulp at Morgant. He came nowhere close, but Morgant held his cloak over his nose and mouth, just in case.