Reunion

The towering black pyramid formed the perfect backdrop, as an unseen form made its way around the ancient structure in the darkness of the night. The measured placement of each softly padded boot was so silent it was almost unnatural; a skill mastered by over two hundred years of practice. The sand that coated everything in Midkemia aided the silence, muffling the quiet shifting of soft shoe leather.

  The lone figure wore a plain black cloak that covered him from head to foot. The full, black beard helped hide what the ash-smearings did not cover. Black gloved hands held the hilts of two sheathed daggers at the ready, with the location of five others just as easily accessible.

  The hunter checked his progress against the group of five men gathered around the small campfire ahead. They sat lost in their lively conversation, oblivious to the danger that stalked them. "Good," he thought. "That's just the way I like it." The men laughed boisterously and wouldn't have heard him if he had simply walked up to them. They probably wouldn't even notice or pay any attention to him if they did. But with this, he would take no chances.

  He knew that the men would all be armed. He could even see the glint of their swords flashing in the firelight, lying casually only a few inches from them. The Mendals were peaceful people, but centuries of public ridicule and bullying, from even the general populace of Midkemia, had taught them to defend themselves. With their incessant evangelizing and spouting of their unpopular religious beliefs to anyone who ventured near the monument in the center of the capital city, they gained little sympathy. Their persistent, rude approaches turned off far more people than earned them any measure of respect. But so vehement were they to their cause, they couldn't help being any other way.

  "How ideal," the dwarf had thought, considering this little exercise as much for fun as out of need. No one would ever question their deaths; just the result of one more non-believer that didn't care for their flagrant sermons against the use of magic. Midkemia, ironically the capital of Magica in all of Carrona, laughed at their prophecies and warnings and cared little for their loss.

  A long time ago, what people now refer to as Ancient Midkemia, was an even larger and more powerful city -- until the dragons razed it from the face of Thear. The dragons turned the whole land around the proud city of elves into nothing but endless desert. Most of the citizens who eventually gathered around here didn't blame this terrible fate on magic. They blamed the hordes of dragons that had tormented that ancient place during the Great Elven Wars.

  A brave man by the name of Duran Mendal was the first to adventure back into the wastelands of Midkemia. He found nothing left of Ancient Midkemia except for this strange, unexplained monolith. He accepted it as a grim warning from the gods against the use of magic. Despite his preaching, and that of the few that shared his beliefs, the following waves of opportunists quickly disavowed these claims. They used magic to rebuild that which the dragons destroyed. They built New Midkemia right around the mysterious black pyramid, as a timeless monument to the strength of that ancient city. The continually shifting sands of the deserts swallowed the ancient city forever.

  It was the mysterious forces of magic that not only made life possible in the desert city, but also gave it its purpose. All those with any interest in the Arts of Magica gathered here to study it, practice it, and even worship it. The people rarely considered the anti-magic ranting of those that followed Mendal as anything more than annoying sacrilege.

  If anything at all could concern the fortitude of this dwarf, it was perhaps that magic. Magic always bothered him, as it did any dwarf, but there was something about the unexpected effects of spells that more than innately troubled him. It was that unpredictability. You never knew what a mage might conjure up next, never really had any way of knowing what you might be facing when dealing with mages. They tended to complicate matters to no end. Especially on this mission, he wanted no complications; no surprises. He could feel the magic that emanated from not only the city, but the giant monolith as well. It tingled over his senses, filling his mind with a noise that dimmed his otherwise perfectly honed concentration.

  He was but a few feet away from the men now, and he could feel their presence, could sense the outlines of their bodies, even with his keen eyes closed. He was well within striking distance now. He considered it, keeping in mind the closeness of their swords and the bright light of the intense fire, whose heat he could feel on his exposed face. But he knew that shadows couldn't be cast upon the monolith. It absorbed all light into its eternal darkness. It would not give away his form, and against its ebony surface he was almost invisible, even at this distance. He wasn't as worried about the men's swords as he was the noise they might make trying to scamper for them. He knew they would have no time to strike at him before his many daggers dug into their hearts, no matter how close their blades were.

  But this was more than a simple assassination, the goal far beyond the deaths of these unfortunates. In fact, he mused, he may not have even bothered with them at all. If they didn't have the bad luck to camp out in the middle of where he needed to be, he would have happily avoided them. But as things stood, he could not risk their interference, that "complication."

  However, despite the arguments, he could not resist the greater sport of a close-ranged first kill. There was something about the delivery of a dagger; slipping it precisely through the back, between the third and fourth rib, angled upwardly into the heart. The thought sent a rush of excitement over him. He knew the risks were slight compared to this rush. He closed in the last few feet for the sure kill.

  He sprung into action with a flood of adrenaline and a flash of instinct. He drew one dagger and thrust it through the back of the man seated closest to him, his back facing the pyramid. He fired a second dagger into the heart of the man sitting directly opposite him, before he even noticed anything wrong with his companion.

  Continuing in a single, fluid movement, he drew two more daggers. They flew into the chests of two others, one on each his left and right. The fifth and last member of the campfire reached out for his sword. Paralyzed by a mortal wound, his hand stopped inches away from the hilt of his weapon. The thief stood among the crumpled bodies, a fiery bloodlust burning in his eyes.

  The encounter ended, having lasted only a couple of seconds. He quickly set about retrieving his daggers. He paused only a moment to bathe in the glow of the easy victory. He wiped the bloodied blades clean on the clothes of his victims. Knowing that the Mendals would have nothing of value, more a reflection of their support than their religious beliefs, he forewent the frisking and looting of the corpses. He picked up a sword, probably the man's only possession of any value, and examined it. Noting it was of poor quality at best, he used the sword to prop the man up in a more natural pose. "No use attracting any more attention than necessary," he thought.

  The fun part over with, the dwarf fished out a chain from under his cloak that hung from around his neck. At the end of the chain hung a large pendant, shaped like a diamond, with a smaller diamond on each of its four corners.

  He held it up in the air, and chanted the chant he learned. He struggled against his usually rock-solid nerves to make sure that every stress and pronunciation was perfect. There was no room for error in this, he knew. Again, an uncomfortable wave of tingling flowed through him. The mystical pendant glowed with a magical blue light. He had to fight his instincts to drop the foul magical item and run.

  Then, just when he thought nothing would happen, a very faint outline appeared in the wall of the monolith before him. Mentally, he marked the spot, and ceased the chanting, preferring the solitude of the silence.

  The thief glanced down at the sign that hung on the rope that wrapped its way around the perimeter of the monument. Written in the common tongue, and in bold, black letters, it read, "Warning - Do Not Touch." He had long heard, even before arriving in Midkemia, the terrible tales of what happened to those foolish enough to actually defy these simp
le orders. The countless bodies of all those who thought they had discovered a way to enter the ancient, door-less structure, had melted right into the surface of the black, soulless pyramid. Unless pulled off the monolith, they disappeared completely into the depths of the stone. It was a burning, agonizing death. He smiled at the simplicity of the understated sign. He looked at the ring of dead men behind him, knowing that they would not pull him from the wall if this did not work.

  The uneasy dwarf looked around. He hoped no one else noticed the soft, still-glowing outline on the black wall. At this late hour, no one was on the streets except for the five silent corpses behind him.

  He replaced the pendant about his neck, and tucked it safely under his cloak. With only the faith of the gods to protect him, he stepped forward, climbed over the warning rope and signs, and simply walked right into the side of the monolith.

  Chapter 2

  Good Friends