2. Enter Drowchard

To the wicked, all good things must end.

Zigfrid Mallor’s venture has brought him both joy and money. He’s made far more gold trafficking Drow slaves than he ever would have as a magician. Royalty, diplomats, and celebrities knew his name and services. However, in the days of late, he felt the noose tighten. Dame Jewel, the chief of Vol Muuthik, thought the same thing and dispatched a unit of her mercenaries to protect her investment. My most capable soldiers, you’re going to be okay. Her comments rang clear in his head, as if he had heard them this morning.

Yet, here we are. The thundering fists of D.A.G.gers pounded on his door, threatening to break it down if he didn’t answer. Mage Zigfrid was certain that the sell-swords would not be oblivious to a gang of shadow elves passing by. They must have taken them out. Her best fighters, my ass! Frightened, he dashed around his cabin, flinging papers into the fire, destroying evidence that could incriminate him.

The sorcerer, his tight robes hugging his round belly, scurried about his cluttered home like a frenzied squirrel gathering nuts before a storm. Giant beads of frantic sweat trailed down his flushed face while he stuffed books and parchment into an overfilled satchel. The leather straining under the weight of his gathered belongings.

The voice outside, while soft and angelic, had become more demanding. “Zigfrid Mallor! We know you’re in there! We only want to talk to you. Please answer the door!”

“Uh... ah...,” he snatched up a canvas bag containing restraints and chains. In his rush, he knocked over stacks of ancient scrolls, sending them cascading to the floor in a chaotic mess. “There isn’t anybody here with that name!” His attempts to stall wouldn’t last much longer, patience wasn’t a Dagger virtue. At the absolute least, he should be able to negotiate his way out of this. “I’m Frumm Berthgard, just an ordinary baker, you know?” He threw the iron shackles inside the visible pantry where they spilled and clanged on wooden planks. “He moved out a year ago!” He attempted to drown out the sound of the metal.

The beautiful voice pierced the entry again. A venomous tone tinged her speech. “All right, Mister Berthgard, would you be so nice to open the door? I want to ask you a few questions.”

Zigfrid’s gaze darted around the room, his chubby cheeks flushed with exertion and panic. Is there anything I’ve forgotten? Pulling two rings from his pocket, he shoved them on his sausage-like fingers. In case I need them. Both, one blue and silver, the other red and gold, pinched his flesh, but he managed them past his joints. “Ah... be there in a second! Just... um, tidying up!”

“I’m unconcerned about the state of your home. This will only take a moment of your time.”

“Perhaps I could spare a minute for you Inspector.” He traced his hands down the length of his green robes and double-checked the room to ensure that he had covered his tracks. “Here I come.” Mallor tightened his grasp on the door’s handle, took an extended breath, and pulled it open.

A beautiful drow woman’s visage glared at him. Her stunning appearance matched her pleasant voice. She lowered her hood and thin trails of moonlight reflected on her silver hair. She glanced at him, her brilliant verdant eyes like exquisite gemstones, narrowed. “Frumm, is it?”

It was obvious his story did not convince her. Regardless, he persisted. “Yes, I’m Frumm Berthgard. How may I assist you, ma’am?”

“Inspector.” Saffron examined him. His description fit their intelligence brief. Wisps of hair twisted into a haphazard ponytail, heavy set. A thin, patchy beard framed his drooping jowls. That, combined with knowing they dispatched four Vol Muuthik mercenaries, convinced her this was her guy. “Can I come in?”

Another drow, youthful and handsome, peered over her shoulder into the home. Zigfrid gave him a nervous glance. “I… uh, don’t think that is necessary. I need to sleep, baker’s hours, y’know.”

A grin stretched across her mouth, outlining her perfect teeth. “Oh, this won’t take long. Have you seen this man?” She held up a glowing blue stone in her palm. His face appeared on the polished surface of the gem and wasn’t very flattering.

Zigfrid had an anxious chuckle. “I… um, will admit the likeness is remarkable.” Then he looked at her. “But it isn’t me. My name is Frumm.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.” She pushed him back into the room and whistled. Thulaeth shut the door and raised his bow to the fellow.

“Listen, I told you. I work as a baker. My shop is just down the street! ‘Frumm’s Bakes and Cakes’. I’ve never broken the law!” Taking a step backward, it surprised the paunchy man to realize two more shadow elves standing behind him. Among them was the most muscular elf he had ever seen.

“Here’s the thing, Frumm.” She bluffed him. “We saw the bakery and the baker. That isn’t you.” She gave him another gentle push with her fingertip against his sweaty clothes. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

Mallor recognized the jig was up at this point. His gaze lowered and murmured an arcane dialect. The rings on his fingers gleamed along with a flick of his wrist. The brilliant cerulean ring on his hand sparked to life, radiating pulsing energy that forced the elves with invisible force.

They stumbled backwards, surprised by the mage’s unexpected action. Both of them attempted to catch themselves before they fell over the clutter in his home.

“Get him! Hurry!” Saffron pushed at the shimmering blue shield, but it kept them from grabbing the man. As they sought to press through, their palms crackled with tendrils of electric shock. The metallic stench of electrical ionization assaulted their senses, so she yelled to Dayne and Maarko. The two soldiers heard the commotion and rushed through the back door.

Thulaeth, his crossbow still raised, released a shot, watching the bolt shatter as it failed to pierce the barrier. “Stop! It’s a kinetic shield! The more you push against it, the stronger it grows!”

Zigfrid’s beady eyes glowed with flaming wisps of energy. “You recognize your magic, don’t you, daisy-eater?”

Hidden from his view, she palmed a rough red stone from a pouch on her belt. “I certainly do. I also realize you can’t maintain that field with that ring for much longer.” She remained calm and pointed to his hand with the blue and silver circlet. “That’s a Garulian Ring of Force. From the weak look of your magic, it seems to be on its last charge.

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A deep, hoarse laugh erupted. “It’ll hold long enough to do this, bitch!” His red band splintered, replaced by an ethereal crimson cloud which surrounded him. His form shifted, and he grew twice his size, causing the elves to withdraw even further. Mallor’s skin stretched and warped, while dark feathers sprouted from every inch of his body. Leathery ebon wings sprung from his back, his jaw extended, exposing two rows of gleaming razor fangs and a purple forked tongue. Completing the transformation, his eyes became a fiery crimson and massive black horns wriggled from his forehead with a sickening sound. The putrid stench of smoke and brimstone cloaked the air in a thick choking haze, forcing the unit to recoil with horror and nausea.

Mallor’s limbs swelled, ripping the robe from his torso. He looked down at his hands, now taloned and clawed, a cruel grin twisted his once pudgy face into a grotesque mask of evil. “Come at me, rock-crawlers, and see what I can do!” He screeched at them with a voice like steel scraping stone. Unbearable levels of heat rose and the skin of the creature cracked, revealing lines of boiling sanguine blood coursing the length of his arms.

Dayne yelled and charged towards the beast. Zigfrid flung his arm with such vigor that he propelled the hefty Drow back. His hulking frame collided with a flimsy wooden table, splintering it into a hundred pieces. Mallor-Demon howled and clapped his beastly hands. “Yeah!”

Maarko took his turn and made the best of Dayne’s distraction. He reached out and grabbed the beast’s arm with both fists, but recoiled as his gloves burst into flames. Saffron heard his screams and could see blisters forming on her soldier’s palms. The charred leather smoldered and drifted to the floor. The elder drow dismissed the pain and returned to battle. Despite the discomfort of his damaged hands, he drew both swords from his back and approached the demon.

“Come on, you dark bastard!” Zigfrid mocked him by swiping his claws. His beastly head tilted and his mouth opened. Without warning, their minds filled with a ghastly cacophony of screams. A thousand souls howled and wailed. The noise forced them to cover their ears and wince at the shrieks.

Dayne strained to get up from the filthy floor. His body ached and groaned from the attack. Thulaeth had his crossbow out, but found it difficult to gain an achievable shot as his two comrades positioned themselves behind the creature. He didn’t want to hit them in the crossfire. Saffron whistled and signaled to him for his belt pouch.

He collected a Tharnoir disc from its holster and pulled the cork from the black disc. Hurling the object to the ground, he counted to three, which drew the beast’s attention. With a plume of dark smoke and a loud POP, a sphere of absolute darkness erupted from the weapon. The absence of all light surprised Mallor-Demon.

The grenade blinded him, but not with brilliance. Inky darkness and total obscurity. He held his hands to his face, but the glow of his scorching skin wasn’t even visible. “What in all hells is going on?”

Her sweet, lyrical voice cut through the impenetrable black aura. “Welcome to our world, you bastard.” The mage swatted the air, trying to connect with his targets. Without warning, he felt his teeth splinter, causing shooting pains in his brain. Blood and spit slobbered from an object lodged deep into his mouth. Zigfrid murmured and stammered, but could only mutter incoherent gurgles.

The sphere of darkness faded, leaving the Daggers staring at a small naked man stretched out on the filthy planks. Tattered remains of his robe strewn around his sweaty body. The dangerous claws, wings, and flaming skin had vanished into a faint cloud of ash. His face had returned to its pudgy form, except for the red stone filling his mouth. Thin crystal tendrils spread out from the blockage and encircled his skull. Beads of sweat trailed his pale visage, and he gave up his fight. Defeated, his head hit the wooden floor.

“D, you good?” She walked over to him. Struggling, he got to his feet and nodded. “Maarko, you?”

The old drow was examining his hands, still clad with his dark leather gloves. “What the hell? I’m healed!” He announced and danced a little jig.

Saffron rolled her eyes. “No, old man. It was an illusion, albeit an exceptional one.”

Dayne looked at the broken table he had fallen into, then eyed her. “Sure didn’t feel like an illusion.”

“That’s why I said exceptional. Your mind convinced you it was real. I could tell by the way his ring shattered. Took me a minute, but I figured it out.”

Dayne rubbed his bruised ribs. “All due respect, ma’am, I wish you had realized it sooner.”

“You’ll live, you big baby.” She turned to Thulaeth. “Put the irons on him. Let’s finish this.” Saffron pulled a scroll from her bag. “Zigfrid Mallor, this edict notifies you of the charges filed for the illegal seizure and transportation of shadow elven citizens for slavery. As stated in the Treaty of Vulchior, any member of any race selling intelligent humanoids for use as property is forbidden. We will expedite you, Zigfrid Francis Mallor, to the nearest Drow city or province for trial.”

They picked the slobbering man up and applied the restraints to his thin wrists. Maarko was laughing as he held firm to the man’s arm. “C’mon Francis, let’s get going.” A noise near the bed caused them to focus their attention. The four of them could see a part of the floor attempting to lift, but the bed’s leg was holding it down. Thulaeth looked to the Inspector, who nodded to him. He strode over and pushed the furniture aside.

Each soldier backed up and pulled their weapons. Saffron announced, “The Drow Empire gives us the authority to question Zigfrid Mallor and everyone in his presence. You should know we’re armed and capable, so come out for your own safety. Take it nice and easy, friend.”

The wooden panel kept creeping up. Rusted hinges squealed and the aroma of filth poured into the room as if a dam had burst and flooded a valley. Each of them grimaced the wider the door opened and gripped their weapons tighter. Inspector DeGuerro glanced at their captive, still writhing. “What’s down there, grumm dung?” The mage squeezed his lids tight, which forced tears to stream down his flushed face.

“It’s a kid.” Maarko pointed to towards the opening. Saffron’s attention pulled back to the hatch. A young Drow youngster with brilliant crimson eyes stared at them. Short and filthy locks of white hair adorned his head, and dark purple bruises encircled one swollen eye. His dry, thin lips displayed cracks and dark blood crusted in the corners of his mouth. “Come.” She addressed the boy. “Don’t worry, we’re here to help. Nobody is going to hurt you.” She gestured to her gray skinned cheeks. “See? We’re like you, child.”

The youth cried and stepped further from the hole, revealing distended belly and the deep valleys of his rib cage. Infected cuts and bruises covered his grimy skin. He wore a soiled loincloth which reeked of urine and feces. Dayne supported the lad, who appeared unsteady because of his weakened state. “Thank you.” His faint voice sputtered. The soldier helped him to a chair while the boy glared at his abductor. He spat on him, then sunk into the soft velvet cushion.

“What is your name, lad?” Saffron tried to touch him and he flinched away like a scared dog.

“I’m Bastyn. We’re from Tanych.”

“We? Are there more down there, Bastyn?” She knelt down to look him in the eyes.

“There were ten of us.” He wept. “Now there are eight.” He uttered a faint whisper. “My sister…”

Another child emerged from the darkened prison. A drow girl with her white hair tied back into a stringy, unkempt ponytail. Signs of abuse scarred her cherubic face and frail body. She appeared to be around 7 or 8 human years old and, like her brother, wearing a loincloth. She stepped out and stumbled to the floor. Her sibling showed concern, but was too weak to stand. Thu knelt beside the young adolescent and felt for a pulse. The heartbeat was there, but dull. As he examined her, he noticed dried, caked blood on both of her thighs and bruises covering her dirty skin. A few of her cuts smelled of infection and smeared with grime. The Inspector saw the same damage Thulaeth did. Her dark brow furrowed with anger.

“What did you do to them, you sick son of a bitch?” The mage’s eyes widened with fear as he gazed at her. He tried to open his mouth but couldn’t speak with the silence stone in place. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. You’re done.”

A mud-stained heel of a heavy boot coming down on his face was his last sight. Pain and darkness followed.

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