Orders

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Orders

Liadrin sipped at a cup of tea. Miss Madiva's had always made the best Golden Thistle Tea in her opinion. Three days had passed since she had received a summons from an old friend. She agreed to it, as long as it was at a place of her choosing. Liadrin was a busy woman, and were it anyone else, she'd have denied the meeting on the spot. But she and this friend had a history, they had once been an item. Such times were long past but they had remained great friends. If he had something to discuss, she trusted him enough to know it was important.




It was raining heavily. Smoke wisped past the eyes of a hooded figure. The glowing green orbs stared intently across the street, eying a woman sipping tea, through the window of one of the many shops here in the side streets of the Bazaar. A platinum blond man entered the shop, the hooded eyes shifted to watch him. Both were recognized as Lady Liadrin, Matriarch of the Blood Knight Order, and Commander Andaril of the Farstriders. The hooded figure took a slow puff from the pipe hanging off its lips, sending another wisp of smoke across its visage. The faint light from the pipe weed danced over the face as well. Long golden hair hung down the sides of the face, splaying out of the hood and over the shoulders. A tuft sat neatly trimmed on the chin. The figure was male.


He rose quietly, snuffing out the pipe and placing it somewhere safe in the large cloak draped around his form. With a glance up the street he set off as if headed away, passing by the window of the shop long enough to chance a glance inside and confirm to himself that there were potted plants floating between each of the tables. Once out of sight of the window he turned down an alley that ran along the side of the tea shop. With his back to the wall, the hooded man sunk low and produced a cup. With his hood as low as it was, he almost looked like a beggar. And here he would wait.




“My lady, it's been a long time.” Andaril bowed before the woman at the table.

“So it has. I was glad to hear from you, Andaril, even if this is strictly business.” Liadrin took a sip of her tea as she looked across the table to the other elf. She was just as he remembered her, not a day older. Yet her eyes showed a wisdom gained from taking charge, pioneering into places not generally seen by Elves. Making alliances not generally accepted by Elves.

“Shall we get right to it then?” she interrupted his thoughts. He realized he'd been staring when her cheeks reddened slightly. He nodded his agreement, his eyes shifting to glance at a hooded beggar passing by the window.

“As you no doubt know, Hadin is dead.” Liadrin frowned at that. Hadin had been a childhood friend of Andaril's, and he had meet Liadrin as a young man. Hadin was the one who had introduced Andaril to her. Hadin had gone on to raise a daughter and open a restaurant, called The Goblet.

“Yes, I had heard about it from Dranarus.” Dranarus was another mutual friend, one who was practically Liadrin's right hand in the Blood Knight Order.

“He was a good friend.”

“He was.”

“And that's why you wanted to meet with me?”

“Partly. As it turns out his shop was closed down after his death.”

“His daughter didn't keep it open? She was shaping up to be a fine chef.”

“She vanished. Along with nearly half of the rest of the employees.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Seven people, gone without a trace.” Andaril quietly hinted for silence as a waiter came to the table. He ordered a herbal tea of Silverleaf, a cool, minty drink.

“What do you want to do about it? This isn't much to go on.” Liadrin commented when the waiter was finally gone.

“Ahh. Well, hear this. Hadin had taken out a loan with a Hand of Rommath agent. An agent named Kelios Val'ish.”

“Liadrin raised an eyebrow and lowered her tea. “The one found dead yesterday?”

“The very same. Now, what sort of situation kills the loanee and the loaner?”

“I'd say someone sent the sharks, but why would they kill Kelios as well?”

“Because it wasn't his money either. The money they use for loans comes from state coffers. It's government money, supplied in part by taxes, and in part by donation from politicians.”

“You think someone from the inside ordered a hit?” Liadrin rubbed at her ear slowly, Andaril noticed. It was an old habit of hers that she did when deep in thought, the way someone might rub their chin and not even notice.

“I'm not sure, but that's what it's pointing to. A corrupt politician not very appreciative of his money being used in the way it's being used.”

“But what of the missing employees?”

“They had to be connected in some way. Probably saw too much. Saw the shark's faces, it wouldn't do to let them just walk away. But that many death's would be far too suspicious. I recon they took them to the dungeons and hoped people would see it as an employee break in response to the owners death.”

“So they are being held for unjustifiable cause. Guards were probably paid off to look the other way.” Andaril nodded in satisfaction. “And there you have it. So what will you do with it?”

“I'm going to check the dungeon ledgers for sign of his daughter or the other employees. What was her name, by the way?”

“Devon. I knew I could count on you, Liadrin.”


Andaril's eyes were drawn to a plant floating behind her. A beetle took flight from one of the leaves. He grinned, as a Farstrider he recognized it easily, but too late. “It may also interest you to know this conversation is no longer private.” Liadrin spun about, but Andaril shook his head. “No need to worry, it was one of Halduron's. But step lightly just in case.” Liadrin nodded and rose, “Then I'm off. Wish me luck, and hope that I don't run in to trouble.”

“The best of it.”

She kissed him gently on the cheek. It wasn't so much a show of affection as a cover for their tea shop meeting. Andaril's fingers rested on the spot as he watched her go.




The beggar pushed himself up, leaving the coin-filled cup on the ground. An outstretched finger acted as a perch for a beetle flying around nearby. The hooded figure smirked, heading out of the alleyway.

“Tell me everything.”




The sea air rushed into Hagen's large scarred nose. He loved the salty smell, reminded him of his late wife, bless her soul. His beard was heavily braided- another remnant of his late wife- and his reddish-brown hair hung scraggly and loose over his forehead, held only in place by a bandana. He was the very image of a swashbuckler, from his dental hygiene down to his scuffed up leather boots. He didn't have a parrot, but he felt okay without. Despite his image, Hagen was pretty well off. He'd made his fortune as a ship captain, shipping goods to and from ports all over the world. Stolen goods that is. He turned to his first mate and muttered something in Dwarven, earning him a grin.

“Lock her running straight and true, lads,” he announced to the crew, “then the lot of ye report cabin-side.” The captain headed below deck after his men, leaving his first mate, an older Dwarf named Gen, to keep the ship on course.

“What's the word, Cap'n?” came the sharp voice of a Goblin named Wrix. He sat in the back, on the shoulders of what looked to be a small ogre, with reddened Goblin-like skin stretched over its features. This was Wrix's best friend, a Hobgoblin named Jexel. They had a brain-and-brawns relationship that Hagen had grown to appreciate was on his ship, and not an enemy vessel.

“We've always been an independent crew. Been outrunning' the South Sea feckers fer years, aint we?” He patted the wall of his ship. She was faster than most they had run into on the open blue, and he named her the Dwarven Maiden, he loved the irony.

“Hear, hear!” sounded out amongst many members of the crew.

“Well, we're being scouted. We've done damn good smuggling and someone's finally noticed.”

“Blackwater?”

“Hah, you wish Wrix. Won't be seein' home that soon after our last visit though. Nay, this one's a bit controversial, but feck it, the pay out is huge, lads.” The room was dripping with anticipation.

“We'll be smuggling for the Elves.” Many groaned at this news. None were particularly fond of the Elves, and in fact there were none in the crew either.

“Calm down, lads, calm down. Before you get your panties in a bunch, think o' the gold we'll be getting off those rich bastards.” He grinned and looked around. “Think o' the gold, and make fer Eversong.”




“Seven?”

“Yes, sir. Seven missing persons, including the owner's daughter.”

“Not sure what to make of it, but it's to be expected. I'm not told much these days. It doesn't seem like Liadrin has checked anything yet. You're sure she said she was going to do it personally?”

“She said she would look into it. I assumed she would use her sway to make the job easier as opposed to making a subordinate try and fail.”

“Good call then. I'll have someone watch the dungeon records just in case however.”

“Of course, Ranger-General.” Halduron frowned to himself. A figure stood a ways away from him, pulling his hood down and squeezing the rain from it. “I'd have thought someone would bring this sort of thing to our attention before. Your efforts are commendable, Andelas. Nice use of the beetle.”

“I try.”

“I'm a tinge disappointed that Andaril chose to confide in Liadrin over myself.”

“If you recall, they were lovers once. Perhaps he finds it easier to open up to her.”

“Which is why I won't hold it against him. Either way, I did find out. Let's keep track of where this investigation of theirs leads, I'm finding myself interested.”

“Probably a wild goose chase.”

“Probably. Speaking of wild geese, I need your air units ready.”

“My lord?”

“The Hand of Rommath is expecting a transport ship in Sunsail, and they need someone to guide them there.”

“Right, sir.”

“Dismissed.”


Andelas bowed and left the room. Halduron glanced around at his office. It was located in the north of Farstrider Square and he spent most of his time here. Despite having sworn himself to supporting Rommath, he found that he preferred to be here in his own element than in Sunfury Spire with the rest of the Council of Advisers. He'd never really been close to Rommath, even in the time of Lor'themar. He had fought by Lor'themar Theron's side as a ranger, but he choked when faced with Theron's assassin. Yet Rommath had ignored the scene before him that night, focusing all his attention to avenging the death of their leader. Halduron wasn't sure what to think anymore. The new Regent Lord had certainly done a lot of good so far in his time.


Halduron felt he was farther than ever from the influential figure he had once been. His mind suddenly went to an image of Korithas, champion of the Fel-sworn Blood Elves. Rommath had offered them a place in elven society, yet they had declined. That hadn't painted Rommath in a great light, even though he had just added the waters of the Well of Eternity to those of the Sunwell. Halduron had figured he would feel it more, but after the initial wave of power emanated when the waters mixed, everything seemed to be the same.


Such thoughts planted a seed of doubt, something that Halduron pushed away. He didn't need to find fault in Rommath's rule. Besides, if it weren't for Halduron himself, the Fel-sworn would be dead. He had shown them mercy after the death of Prince Kael'thas. He thought to let them live in peace, truly believing that they were led into darkness and disfigurement by false promises. Yet, he never imagined them living in the glorious city of Silvermoon. He was secretly glad they had declined…


These thoughts, too, planted the seed of doubt and Halduron buried them deep. He'd go back to his business. There was work to do.




Liadrin sat in front of a long ledger trailing off her desk. Half the names had been checked off or crossed out. She was tired and had finally finished reviewing the cases of over fifty prisoners in the city dungeon, after two days of straight work. She had found not one of the missing employees Andaril had mentioned, which led her to believe they were being held in secret somewhere, killing her guard bribery theory. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but she had found that many of the prisoners here, shouldn't have been here. Their cases had been cleared and were to have been released. She rolled up the ledger, deciding she would bring it up after a good night's rest.




Andelas pushed his dragonhawk hard. The ship they were to guide to Sunsail Anchorage had finally shown up in the distance. He had brought five riders. Two would have worked well enough, but he'd never really liked chancing anything. For all the riders knew, this was an enemy ship, not the one they were after. The only thing they had been told were the colors their ship was to fly- and from this distance the flag did seem to match up, but no chances.

He had his men flying wide, in three pairs, two of which were to come around the sides and back of the ship, while the third came straight up the front. It was an attack formation, and Andelas knew the captain of this vessel should recognize it as such. Their reaction to swooping dragon hawks would determine the rider's next move. It was entirely possible they would have a battle on their hands.


They were nearly upon the ship. Andelas and his partner, Goven, pulled back as the other groups moved ahead to loop around the rear of the vessel. He pushed his mount on, coming in fast and angled down. Just as they seemed likely to collide with the hull, the dragon hawks pulled up. No cannon fire. Good, the captain had chanced it just as Andelas had. He circled over the ship to double check the flag, sure enough t was the one they needed. Black and gold, with a skeletal gryphon. He frowned as he saw the crew. Multiracial. He'd make note and tell Halduron. The elven riders pulled away in the direction of the port city. The ship quickened its pace to keep up. Every mile they covered put more concern into Andelas' mind.




Vanikos placed his hands over the head of a recently tortured prisoner. His middle fingers rested just on the temples. Lightning sparked around his hands, arcing from the fingertips to the head before them. Nerves fried, the skin where Vanikos' fingers touched began to blacken as blood vessels exploded, then started to burn slightly. He hated the smell, it reminded him too much of when the Scourge tore through the Eversong Woods.


The mage pulled his hands away, letting the prisoner fall limp. It was dead. No longer was a sex discernible from the distorted figure. The skin hugged tightly to the skeleton, cheeks sunken in, and eyes deep in their blackened sockets. The skin itself was ghostly white, almost a blue-green tint to it, the reason, Vanikos noted, for the elimination of this subject. It had been exposed to too much magic, had begun changing into one of the Wretched. Three, so far, had been disposed of this week. But there were plenty more, all awaiting their turn.


Vanikos had begun testing the correlations between sex, body size, physical and mental condition, and total amount of magic one could handle. He cleaned his hands with his fine silk cloth then jotted down the notes for this session. Once they had the information needed on the Wretched, then the real tests could begin.




“Captain, I do not doubt your ability in your position, but surely you can give me proper reason.”

“I'm sorry, my lady, but I cannot. We are to hold all prisoners until further notice.”

“Yet there is no proper cause to hold these people,” Liadrin retorted as she patted the scrolled up ledger, “they have been questioned in each of their supposed crimes and, in your own writing, they are officially released. Yet they remain locked down here.”

“I understand your concern, ma'am, but we have our orders, and not even your position can override them. You may rest assured that these prisoners are well cared for and are merely awaiting further notice.” Liadrin frowned, knowing that he told the truth, “I'll have to look in to this then, and try to convince whoever gave these orders to see reason.”

“That will pose most difficult, my lady. I have with me a copy of the order. Notice the signatures. Approved by the Council of Advisers.” The guard captain produced a scroll and handed it to her. She looked it over, noting that indeed it bore the signatures of the entire council. Her eyes lingered on one in particular.

“May I borrow this?”

“Aye.”

“My thanks.” She rolled the orders and tucked them away with the ledger, then turned and ascended the stairs from the dungeons. The image of that one signature still stood out in her mind. She had seen it countless times, or rather she had seen the real one countless times. This was a copy, a good one, enough to fool the guards, but a copy nonetheless. This man did not truly sign this order, and she would bring it to his attention.

Halduron Brightwing's signature had been forged.