Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Bloodsticks: The Rules

The following rules are an official standard, used by betting houses and used by side bookies. This game can be played anywhere there is an open, flat, dry surface.

We always recommend that someone act as “muscle”, just in case someone gets bitter and causes problems. Though Bloodsticks is intended to be a friendly game, some players might get irritated when they lose — just like any game of chance where money is involved. 

Aspects of the game:

• The length of a game comprises rounds, betting, dropping & counting.

• The number of rounds is equal to the number of players.

• There is a required minimum of three players to play a proper game, a maximum of six — with the optimum number being five. Games of two players are called “challenges” and go by slightly different rules (see modifications below).

• Each player uses a pair of sticks (also called reeds or bloodsticks — plural form), which are identical to each another in markings. Challenges use five reeds (see modifications below).

• The object of the game is to accumulate the most points, through the random fall of your pieces. The player who accumulates the most points after all rounds are completed and added together is the winner.

• Each player receives a turn to lead the round as a “dropper” and to follow the round as a “counter”. 

• They place a "cap" on every game for betting, preventing richer players from driving out opposition at the last minute by placing a bet that cannot be matched. The default cap for a Bloodsticks game is five silver pieces per round. Players can use any cap limit, as long as they announce and agree upon the terms before the first sticks are thrown.

Pieces of the game:

Each player uses a “set”, which is typically two sticks/reeds, unless playing a challenge (see modifications below). Normally, whatever gambling house you play in provides the sticks, but many addicts and professional players have their own sets made. 

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

EPILOGUE

“I told you it would all work out.”

“Don’t rub it in. There’s no way I could have known Iyl-Tandril was behind the scenes, orchestrating most of this, now could I?”

Huge hands work the dirty rag into the fibers of the counter. “Probably not, but you should still be grateful.”

“Oh, I am…I am!” I take another swig of Woods Blackseed Rum, a perfect ending to a three course meal. “It feels good to pay Dathern back, with a little interest as a thank you, and to compensate Eugene for the diving pod I ruined. Though he’s happy to have a brand new pod, I don’t think he’ll soon forget me pulling the emergency release lever like that.” I chuckle, “Poor man just about had a heart attack…thought I was plunging to my death.”

“And Keeley’s on the bottom of the ocean floor?” Wood gives a slight shiver at the thought.

“Yup. Without grabbing his own port key, it was a one-way trip to,” I make a grotesque face, sticking my tongue out, “UNGH!”

Wood cringes, “You are a sick old man.”

I flick my eyebrows up and down, “Yes, I believe I am at that. But I’m a content one. Didn’t get rich like I hoped, but I have enough for food and drink until I can get another job. That’s good enough.”

“And did the pee work?” Wood stifles a laugh.

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 15 — The Final Pieces

The Whipped Mule explodes in shouts and barked orders from Iyl-Maddok and Iyl-Rayne. Patrons are questioned before leaving The Whipped Mule.

Gypsy Sentries immediately round up Keeley’s employees before they can get to the exit and grab their own port keys. Thrown to the floor, tied, and restrained, each is questioned. Some resistors are quickly beaten and rendered unconscious by the Sentries. Aswin and Culver are located and taken to the market square. They are placed in the pillory until their trial. I almost feel sorry for them.

Almost.

Blood continues to drip down my neck, but I don’t care. I can’t help but breathe a deep sigh of relief. The pain from the cut under my chin reminds me I’m still alive. My heart pounds out the beat of gratitude. Old, calloused fingers run over my skull. Thanks to Tgii, the seam remains securely in my flesh, unable to be pried away. When my mind finally puts all the pieces together — the flash of events which just took place and what I just risked on a hunch — my hands tremble. 

I’m alive! Hard to imagine I almost died…but the bluff paid off. Keeley got exposed. I’ve set a serious wrong straight.

Well…almost.

Iyl-Tandril sits across from me. Two Sentries stand guard behind him, watching the door. The Gypsy leader is still breathing hard — and I can only imagine how frustrated he must feel…how angry. The man who murdered his son just escaped his grasp.

His eyes move slowly under his thick brows, studying every fidgeting motion I make.

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 14 — Double or Nothing

So here I am, back at the beginning. Or, in the middle, if you want to get technical about it, laying uncomfortably in the middle of the table, cold, sopping wet and without a drop of dragon’s urine on me.

I mean, on me….not on me. That would be gross.

“Well?” prods Iyl-Tandril, “Do you have an explanation, Höbin?”

“I want a rematch,” I cough, still trying to get my breath back.

“A rematch?”

I nod at Keeley, whose seething eyes dart around at all the damage I’ve just caused. “I want a rematch with Keeley…double or nothing.”

The gambler in me can’t help but up the odds. It’s more of an ego thing — but I have to make this real. Make it worthwhile and reel the dirtbag into a game. I have to locate that blasted vial.

Keeley scoffs, “You have nothing left I want, except my money, I presume?”

“No,” I admit out loud, “but I have something. Better, in fact. Something most humans try to get their hands on, but never do.”

“Oh?” Keeley smirks. “And what, pray tell, is that?”

I pause, letting his curiosity to build before I grin wide and answer.

“Gnome Technology.”

You could have heard a pin drop. All eyes are on me and I know everyone is wondering if I hit my head during my landing. Gnomes have certain laws. Vows our race makes at adulthood, by anyone wanting to leave our island homeland, which are non-negotiable. The greatest being that technology is for gnomes. Only gnomes. I’m not talking about grain wheels, indoor plumbing, and the simple mundane tools that make life a bit more comfortable.

I’m talking about computers, transistors, motor vehicles or…cybernetics.

Keeley waves a hand and his goons at the doorstep outside the curtain. 

Good, I have his full attention.

“You’re bluffing,” he whispers, half-sneering and completely ignoring the Triad.

I look at Iyl-Tandril, then at his brother and grandson. “The technology I used to sustain my life is worth more than the whole of this establishment,” then to Keeley directly, “or any debt I’ve already incurred. If I win, you forgive my debt, including all damages. That’s all I ask.”

Iyl-Tandril puts a hand on my shoulder, “And if you lose, my little friend?”

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 13 — Pee in a Bottle

It’s several minutes before I realize I’ve thrown caution to the wind, dashing through crowded paths and streets. But all I can think of is getting away from the wicked witch of lust. Sprinting through the center of the Market, I slip back into the Roadkill Tavern. 

My lungs feel as if they’re about to burst by the time I jump up onto a stool — wheezing and tomato red faced, which turn a few heads. 

“You look like you’ve danced with an evil spirit and lived to tell the tale!” Wood teases me from behind the counter. He stifles a chuckle and sets a mug in front of me. With a steady hand, he pours me a drink. “You alright?”

“You’re not far off,” I grimace, “Barely escaped with my…uh,” but the thought is too revolting. “I just fled from Inimitable Essentials.”

Wood winces and splashes the drink all over the counter. “Now what’d you tell me that for, Höbin? Put that sick woman’s face in my mind…now I’m gonna have nightmares.” He shutters violently.

“Sorry,” I mumble, pulling out the last of my coins. I slide them across the counter. “Here, I think I have my money problems figured out,” I lie. “I’ll get the rest to you soon.” Better a good man get the last of my coins, than the thugs who’ll probably bury me once they catch me.

Wood takes the coins, but his sickened expression remains. “What in the gods’ names did you want to visit Dodie for?” It’s a question I’m not sure I can answer fully.

She will not let this infraction go, either — not when she’s been after me for the past two years. Before I know it, she’ll reorder any products I’ve mentioned and come looking for me. I taste bile again as I look pleadingly at Wood. “I was desperate,” I choke.

“Romancing a fate worse than death, if you ask me,” he says, clearing the dirty mugs from the counter. The large circles he’s rubbing into the wood get smaller and smaller until he finally stops and stares at me. “Is there something I can do to help, Höbin? You…in some kind of trouble?”

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 12 — Day Nine

It takes a considerable amount of time to get back into the Black Market. It’s important I get inside without drawing undue attention to myself, mostly because I’ve become quite fond of my skin. Unfortunately, it requires a bribe to keep Horst from complaining and causing a loud scene. I definitely don’t want a scene. There’s no way of knowing if any of the Sentry are on Keeley’s payroll.

I promise to get him any item he wants, within reason…and I’m willing to call in favors to get it. Food, antiques, herbs, even drugs — though seeing his reaction to that last offer, I won’t suggest it again. Just need to slip into the Market without a sound.

Turns out to be easier than I thought.

Horst has a fetish for women’s sandals.

Just when you think you know someone.

Lucky for me, the streets are crowded with patrons and vendors. Unless someone’s specifically looking for an old gnome, no one’s gonna notice me.

Taking an immediate right turn outside the entrance, I hobble as fast as I can along the upper path, behind the first row of buildings. These are mostly homes of local merchants. At the end of the row, a wide open space and a small patch of soil where käärunä is grown can be found. There’s no other path I can take without being seen, so I wait for a crowd to exit Leilani’s clothing store. When they turn their attention elsewhere, I tag along in their wake. A few seconds later, I’m able to dash between the buildings.

My heart is beating so hard, I’m afraid it’s going to burst from my chest. Don’t know what’s worse — being caught and skinned by Keeley…or having to deal with Dodie, the owner of Inimitable Essentials. I grit my teeth and swallow hard, then slip around the corner and through the door, closing it quickly behind me.

Out of the frying pan and into the fiery succubus pit of hell.

Inimitable Essentials is the only place I know of where you can ask for any component your mind can conceive, for science and magic…so long as it’s hard to find and very expensive. You’d never guess Dodie McGlynn was one of the wealthiest residents of the Market, from all the vials, jars and who-knows-what hanging from ropes and hooks behind the counter. The narrow building is deceptive, as is its capacity to store her inventory.

The key lies within the drawers. Thousands of them behind the counter, each one three inches wide by three inches high — with a label and an oxidized copper knob to pull on. Petrified goat's horn to pickled vallen liver, powdered dragon testicles to the filtered bile of a deep sea cavern serpent…she has it all in those tiny drawers. Magically enchanted and protected so only she can touch them, only she can open them to access their priceless contents.

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 11 — Trail of Blood

My time is quickly running out and frankly, there’s not enough here to warrant the FAF releasing those funds to me. There’s just enough on bloodsticks to provide a tidbit of knowledge. Most of what I’ve discovered is hearsay. The rest is mere theory and hunches, which I couldn’t prove to the board. I could always fabricate my facts, but then I’d be lying.

I’m feeling desperate. Of course, I could withhold information and evidence, but then I’d be going against my personal beliefs and professional practices. 

I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the face again. 

No, I’m not that desperate.

Nishant’s visit was a breakthrough, but it was time for me to leave Castle Andilain and head south. At least I can stop by to see Toshi Szeli and inquire if that slant-eyed genius has a solution for my horrible stomach pains.

There’s enough coin left to rent a carriage. I sleep during the trip, which helps my cramps. The driver’s old and doesn’t want to chat anyway — which is fine by me.

For the next three days, I stop at each town along our path and seek the gambling establishments. I hope to collect enough filler — creative tales — to feed the minds of my employers. See if I can scrounge up enough information to be useful. The smaller villages don’t have gambling houses, but once you hit a population of three hundred or more, they pop up.

They serve as a poor substitute of ale or grog in dark and dank places and fry up the latest desecrated animal found dead and rotting on the road. 

Something interesting, however, pops up during the trip.

Each time I interview an owner about players in the region, they mention the same name repeatedly: Sabin Bathos. A player that, according to the people I talk to, walked away with a fair chunk of change from every game he played. 

No one’s that lucky.

We pull into Ashbrook on the third night, and I dismiss the driver. I’ll catch a ride home with Toshi and figure out how to package the information I have. Maybe I can do a presentation piece — enough to pay the rent. Of course, there’s nothing I can do about Keeley now. His thugs are more than likely looking for me, watching the new arrivals at the market.

Ashbrook is a hub for traders and merchants, both in traditional goods like furs, food and arms…as well as for those with discerning tastes. Those looking for rare animal parts, herbs, precious gems and even mägo rudimentary spell scrolls don’t always have to visit the Gypsies. Ashbrook is a great place to find what you’re looking for, merchandise-wise.

If you know who to ask, that is.

The moonlight is bright enough to walk by, so I wander through town on a casual stroll. Shops are closed, street deserted…and I can see only an occasional candle in the widows. 

I don’t remember Ashbrook being so peaceful.

My heart sinks as I round the corner near the stables. Black ribbons wrap around the front pillars of Toshi's home.

…a sign of a family in mourning.

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 10 — Mr. Nishant

There’s no chance of mistaking this man for a janitor, let alone a mägo.

Even in the candlelight, the silver streaks in his combed hair and beard almost glow against his maple skin, looking like metal strands pulled back into a loose ponytail. He isn’t wearing the traditional robes of his Order, either. The light weave vest barely covers a hairy chest and the loose trousers rest on dark, sandaled feet. He isn’t even using a staff or walking stick. He looks more like a gypsy than a user of magic.

I rise from my chair to shake his hand, but he smiles brightly and shakes his head, “Sit…sit! Don’t get up on my account, my friend. You must be tired after a day of connecting the scattered dots, no?” His hazelnut eyes reflect the light back at me and I have to admit…I have no clue how old this man is. 

He leans over the table and clasps my hand in a firm handshake, “This is a most exciting opportunity, to meet you at last, Mr. Luckyfeller.”

He’s…excited? I open my mouth, but nothing seems to come out. It’s strange enough that a person of his Order would acknowledge me…not associating with people of a ‘lesser’ class. Well, other than Chuck, anyway, but excited? 

I stare at him. He keeps smiling back. 

“You…know of me?”

He laughs. A clear baritone sound that fills the deserted library without resistance. “Oh, I do indeed!” Without pausing, he reaches out and snatches up the carafe of wine, pouring it into a fluted glass. “There are few who would take us to task, telling the blunt truths of our Order.” He raises the glass to his face and sniffs the wine, instantly wrinkling his nose. “You make many assumptions about my profession, my little friend,” he sets the glass back down, “…but whether a mere janitor is worth a fine bottle of wine should not have been one of them.”

“I’m sorry, Mr…”

“Oh, Nishant is fine. Just call me Nishant. May I call you Höbin?”

There’s no way this guy is a mägo. He has manners. I wonder if the scribe mistook Nishant for an opportunity seeker. Answer a few questions I wouldn’t be able to check…and get a free drink or three. Then it hit me—how can I even know if this guy is a mägo?

As if on cue, Nishant picks up the empty bottle of wine next to the carafe. He studies it carefully. “Hmmm,” he mutters, biting his bottom lip. “Not to sound ungrateful, my friend, but this is offering is completely unacceptable. Do you…have a coin?”

“Pardon me?”

He rubs his thumb and index finger together. “A coin. My Order rarely deals in coin, but it does bar us from enjoying some of the more wonderful pleasures of life. Preferably a silver one, if you don’t mind…for a better bottle of wine?”

“Oh, uh…” and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve handed him money. I could almost slap myself.

“Thank you,” Nishant replies, rolling the coin over the tops of his fingers, “I don’t like to steal.” It flips effortlessly across the smooth knuckles and jumps up to spin on the surface of his pinky nail. Before the coin can waver, he flicks his finger and the silver piece leaps into the air, tumbling faster and faster as it arcs high. I watch the flashes of light reflect off the silver as it drops into the bottle now held in Nishant’s hands. Right through the wall of glass! The coin rattles as he swirls the residue of liquid around.

Well, I’ll be…

Pouring out the past drizzles of wine into the carafe, he scribbles a quick note on a scrap of paper, rolls it up and inserts it into the empty mouth of the bottle. He looks at me and winks.

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 9 — Castle Andilain

The village turns out to be further north than expected. I’m forced to find a ride with a farmer taking grain to the capital. Not ideal, but my escape was timely and I’m able to get to Castle Andilain by nightfall the following day.

The ride in the back of the wagon allows me plenty of time to ponder, work out some details, and construct a plan of action to best use my time here. Once my notes are complete, I do the only sensible thing left to do.

I catch up on sleep.

There seems to be tension among the castle servants when I arrive. Most humans have a difficult time coping with the mental intimidation we gnomes exude…and I refuse to be ignored. No one seems to want to stay in the same room with me, but I follow the servants like a shadow until they turn me over to the castle soldiers. I would never bother King Robert unless I had to. Instead, I present my royal invitation as an International Historian…and smile. It’s fun playing that trump card. A gift from the King for helping solve the mystery of the Shrunken Heads.

Long story.

Anyway, after a few nervous glances, I’m presented to the castle steward, in charge of accommodating guests like myself. I am immediately assigned a comfortable room with a gigantic bed, fireplace, and a scribe to assist me in my work. Best part is, King Robert is flipping the bill…as I’m considered his guest.

Note to self: Send the king a nice gift basket with his favorite mustard pickles. 

No use trying to wear myself out on my first night—it’s too late to start my research. I have food brought to me instead and settle in for the evening. Full stomach, a warm bed…I’ll think better after a good night’s rest.

***

Living in the Black Market has messed up my internal clock something fierce. I’m up before dawn, which isn’t a problem, other than that it’s four hours before dawn. As soon as the scribe arrives, I send him on an errand as I wait for breakfast. I decide that the young man would benefit from getting the exercise I don't want, as I don't actually need help in the research department.

“But sir,” he complains.

“Just do it,” I repeat.

“What if they turn me into a bug, or a toad…or set me aflame?”

He really looks nervous, the poor kid, but I can’t help but laugh at the notion. “The mägo will not set you aflame. Call down lightning and fry you where you stand, maybe, but they’d never actually set you on fire. That would be rude.”

His mouth drops open.

“I’m kidding! Oh, for….RELAX! My research requires access to some of their records, but since I know that’s not likely to happen, I just want to talk to someone from the Order. Anyone who has knowledge of enchantments, specifically having to do with enchantments used in gambling.”

It takes a little more encouragement, but he finally leaves…just in time to enjoy my breakfast of cold meat and cheese. Mmmmm.

Within the hour, I’m standing int he lobby of the Royal Archives—one of my favorite places on the planet. It’s the candy store for historians the world over. Not only is this impressive library one of the finest hubs of written information, it’s an experience — centered within the greatest structure ever constructed by human hands.

Commissioned to be built by High King Gaston shortly after they crowned him in 5232s, Castle Andilain housed all that was good among the human nation. At its center is a library, designed to preserve important information. The Royal Archives became the heart of the castle’s construction, which took three generations to complete. Five hundred master craftsmen, fifty architects, and two thousand laborers united to build the pinnacle of human society. The project lasted 112 years. The Archives itself are twelve stories high, contain over 230 million books and items of reference, including charts, scrolls, maps, rare geological items and complete family works.

If you have the royal consent to step within these walls.

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 8 — Day Three

“What d-do you m-mean, you l-lost it all?!?”

Dathern keeps shaking his head in disbelief. I can’t help feeling like a six-year-old being scolded by a parent. His voice scrapes the back of my brain, which aches from the lack of sleep. 

I shrug my shoulders, “I…don’t know what happened.”

“Obviously.”

“I have nothing left. No savings, no back up…Keeley took it all and I don’t know how. I won the first two games and then he came out of nowhere like a landslide, wiping the table clean of money. Now I owe him twenty gold pieces and I still didn’t get any information.”

Dathern chokes on his tea, spitting it all over his lap, and Tilly. She squeaks and darts from the room.

“HOW much?”

“Twenty…pieces of gold.” Oh, that hurts, just saying it out loud. I pull the port key out from under my vest. “He offered to wipe the debt clean if I turned this over to him, but I had to refuse. I gave him my marker, instead, based on this job. Oh, don’t look at me like that Dathern….I know…I KNOW! This is exactly why I didn’t want the cursed assignment in the first place!” I scratch my scalp, trying desperately to think of what I’m going to do. “There’s still enough if I get this done on time. My only hope to pay back Keeley and all my other obligations is to get the job completed as fast as possible.”

“You’d b-better disappear!” Dathern blurts out frantically.

I sigh heavily, flopping back into a chair. He’s right. Keeley’s a thug that hires dirtbags just like himself to deal with collections. There’s no way to tell how long I have before his goons lose patience and start looking for me. Not to mention a lack of places to run or hide here in the Market, even for a gnome.

My hand shoots to my side as a sharp pain rips through my belly. “Ungh!” It’s getting worse—and I can feel the pain moving towards my hips and up towards my chest.

Dathern looks at me, concerned. “And you n-need to have t-that looked at.”

“I know. Figured if I had to go to Humar, I might as well start at Ashbrook and drop in on Toshi—but that doesn’t matter now. I don’t have the coin.”

“Yes, you d-do,” he mutters softly.

“What?”

“You do h-have the coin. I’ll l-loan it to y-you,” he glares at me, then shakes his finger in my direction, “on one c-condition.”

Hope floods back into my bones, and I sit upright in one fluid motion. “Name it!”

“You b-buy a fresh p-pouch of licorice r-root for Tilly. S-she l-loves it m-more than anything.”

I grin so wide my cheeks hurt—I’m back in business! “Done.”

Dathern’s always been a kind soul, but I was believing he was a poor beggar. There’s rarely anyone in the shop and I’ve never seen him exchange more than a few coins at a time. I’m shocked to see him return with a modest bag of money, which he drops on the table.

“This should d-do it. Just steer clear of T-the Whipped M-mule, you hear m-me!?”

I nod. “This is a lot of mon…”

“D-don’t worry.” He pats me on the shoulder. “You j-just pay me back as y-you c-can.”

I take out a couple of coins and hide the rest in the cavity of my metal leg. With a firm handshake, I bid Dathern and Tilly goodbye, grab my notes, and hobble out the front door. 

The other advantage of going to Andilain, besides staying clear of Keeley, is Ashbrook’s close to Castle Andilain. That means access to the Royal Archives. If I’m going to find any significant records, it’ll be within the greatest library in the world. Luckily, it pays to be a friend of the King.

Just one more quick stop before I pack for the trip…just to settle my curiosity.

***

It’s unnaturally quiet as I walk up the path—well, so to speak. The underground stream drowns out any residue of sound from the Market, but there are no citizens, no kids playing about. The air is cooler here—thick smoke rolling along the ceiling of the cave, leaving a charcoal taste in my mouth.

Funny, with all the money Akland Cooper made over the years running The Whipped Mule, I would have thought he’d live in a nicer place.

The house looks haphazardly made, wood and stone used in ways that seem diametrically opposed to one another. The builder hastily assembled the remaining materials of the project to avoid wasting them. It’s not too big — set back from the community, just off the path. The roof isn’t flat like most of the buildings in the Market, either. This one has a pitch to it with thatch work. It looks more like wild, unkept hair, sticking out in every direction. There’s no rain here…unless you count dead snails falling from the cavern ceiling, so it seems rather pointless. The entire structure is short, stained and…almost alive, walls leaning towards the path, like it’s squatting in front of the small fire to keep warm.

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 7 — How to Lose

One of the most competitive forms of gambling, Bloodsticks, is a fast-paced game of chance that can suck you in and spit you out before you can blink. Though many things have been used to refer to it, including the simple name "sticks", rumors say that they renamed the game after an incident here in the Black Market. I rarely give much credence to urban legends, but I’ve seen enough to realize that even the strangest stories can have a good foundation, in fact. The story I’ve pieced together mentions trouble between the counter (an Evolu) and an irate Vallen player, who had already lost most of his coin at dice.

Not able to do the low level addition, the Vallen flew into a frenzy, accusing the counter of miscounting his sticks…promptly stabbing one reed into the Evolu’s eye socket.

Easy way to have your day ruined if you ask me.

The bloody event caused such a big stir in the community, they nicknamed the game Bloodsticks, but it stuck.

At Keeley’s mention of Bloodsticks, three stragglers from other tables join us to play. The bartender reappears from the back room, carrying a long wooden box, painted red. He places it in the center of the table and returns to the bar. Mr. Keeley unlatches the lid and pulls out the eye—a key piece to any of the bigger games played. It’s a small stone, about the size of a man’s fist, with a faint green glow to it. It’s magical. The eye is a safety measure to thwart cheaters, turning bright red if they used any magic during the game. Keeley sets it in the center of the table, then gingerly takes out a bundle wrapped in a soft white cloth.

He unwraps a pristine group of decorated sticks, twelve in all. “I hope you don’t mind using these, gentlemen? I rarely get to play…and I love a hint of elegance in a game of chance.”

Without waiting for an answer, he takes each set and hands them around the table.

Keeley holds his own set up to the light, admiring the intricate designs of leaves and flower patterns along the polished wood surface. When he picks up the henki, a solid green stick, he rolls it together with his own game pieces. “For a little luck,” he says with a cheesy smile.

Never would have taken him for the superstitious type, but then again, this game brings out the wacko in many people. He adds the Bloodstick and holds out his hand to the rest of us. Each player turns over their game pieces.

“Are we all ready?” he says casually, but there’s a sly grin on his face that…bugs me. Course I can’t stand the man anyway, so maybe it’s a personal thing, I’m not sure.

Small coin pouches appear along the rim of the table.

I hate being conned into crap like this, but there’s one thing I don’t mess with, and that’s my integrity. Ok, unless I’m lying. Or stealing. Or…breaking and entering.

Whatever. I hate being conned.

With trepidation, I pull out my coin purse. It’s feeling light…and it’s all I have left to live on. This will not end well for me, I can feel it. Maybe I should just fall and walk away from the table? No. That’s exactly what Keeley wants. I can see it in his face. He wants me to give up.

Keeley takes the first turn as a dropper, which makes me the counter.

I’m handed a scroll and a small piece of charcoal. I scratch a grid onto the paper, labeling the players’ names and the rounds into the columns and rows.

Taking the bundle in one hand, Keeley bends his elbow forward.

He tosses a silver coin on the table to start the betting. Cheeky bugger—he’s not wasting any time with chump change. It’s a new game, so no one’s going to be shy about betting. Anything can happen and anyone can win at this point.

Once the money is in the pot, Keeley opens with a High Drop and the pieces of wood fall, bouncing about, scattering across the table. 

Something flashes as the reeds hit the table. A slight flash of light—intense and focused. It sends a shock, like the prick of a needle, through my cybernetic eye, back into my brain. My head reels as if I’ve been slapped. 

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 6 — Mr. Keeley

You’d think there’d be smoke billowing up from the paper with how fast my hand was moving. My fingers speed across the surface, scribbling every thought as it appears in my mind. Dathern’s suggestions revealed several patterns I just wasn’t seeing.

A license record displays who is in charge of an establishment. The establishments' owners keep player records if they want any recourse or exemption from the law, should patrons be swindled. This includes The Whipped Mule…the main gambling hall of the Black Market. Now, that information only helps me find who plays here…and only IF the license holder will let me see the records.

If I can get a glance at the books, I just might discover who the big players are. This could show me a trail. It’s not likely that I would get credible information from gamblers, but it helps to have some creative stories to weave into the research. Entertainment is always good for keeping a reader’s attention. 

Those who win big at gambling don’t stay in one place, which is a good thing. You don’t drain the pond of all the fish—you move from town to town, game hall to game hall. Shake it up, take a little from many pockets. So, mix with those in the know…and you just might uncover something…or meet someone interesting.

Besides, owners of gaming houses know other owners. They keep a close eye on their competition and sometimes they even share secrets. Establishments have a history of their own and it’s a lot more credible than the info I’m likely to get from individual players.

I’ll have to make some new friends in low places.

Dathern also brought up another line of thought: rules that govern play. I almost missed that. Bloodsticks has changed. The organizers have employed even the mägo, or wizards, to prevent participants from cheating. Mägo are also obsessive record keepers. That means I have another set of leads to investigate.

Unfortunately, my first stop was going to be an unpleasant one.

I leave Dathern several coins and rush back to the Roadkill Tavern. A quick change of clothes, a bite to eat, and I’m standing in front of The Whipped Mule before most of the merchants have opened for business.

It’s not the only gambling house in the Black Market, but it’s the biggest…and cleanest. Well, at least after drinking hours, anyway. The bright blue double doors stare down at me. A small sign says: Open All Night. 

I don’t want to go in. Haven’t set a foot inside this, or any other gambling hall, for over a decade. Not since my wife died. 

The walls of the place have corroded paint that is flaking off, with dried snail guts accumulated over time and broken shells scattered along the ground.

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 5 - Day Two

I follow Tilly through the maze of books. She hops up and over the aisles, waiting patiently as I step between and around this organized chaos. Finally perching on a stack of literature in the middle of the floor, she purrs at me, the end of her long tail tapping a thick book underneath her.

It has a blue leather spine on it.

Tugging it free, I read the title and laugh out loud. It’s called The Malfeasant Register.

It’s a history book of sorts, of the Gypsy society. People who live here, in the Black Market throughout the centuries. People who sought to make a new life, away from the prying eyes of the world…and the cold reach of the law.

Throughout the night, I sit and scan the yellowed pages, looking for clues. The lives displayed before me are fascinating. I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like to share in such adventures with those fleeing the authorities. Many of the men and women in this volume ran from the law through no fault of their own. People made mistakes or suffered from bad choices made as they lived in judgmental communities. Surrounded by people who couldn’t mind their own business. In the blink of an eye, they found themselves outcast, shunned…and labeled as infidels, filth or worse.

With no way to right the offenses which others held close to their hearts, they forced these downtrodden souls to leave…sometimes flee for their very lives. Seems so very tragic.

Sir Ulrich Gillings, in 6102s was one of the key nobles noted as funding the building of Til-Thorin Keep. So hated was he by the other Lords of the region, not only for his outspoken reputation, but for his generous nature towards the Gypsies. They changed the laws of the land. They made it punishable by death to help any Iskari outcast.

King Shelmon had yet to be crowned king and a council of Lords ruled Andilain, supposedly overseen by Her Majesty, Queen Älodiä — but that was not the case. The Lords ran the country in secret, keeping their dealings from the Queen and her son…simply to throw Sir Ulrich into prison. While they imprisoned Gillings, they ravaged, burned, or sold off his lands. They conducted a series of mock trials to convict and execute their fellow noble. Gillings escaped before the execution and vanished into the forest regions.

He spent the rest of his life striking out and robbing those very lords who imprisoned him. Twelve years later, Gillings died in a duel while trying to defend the honor of a widow farmer. The villainous sheriff, who had committed a grievous crime against the woman’s virtue, had an ambush waiting. A hired archer shot Gillings in the back during the bout.

Another entry records that Krystiana O’Connell, a young village maiden, refused to pollute herself in the bed of the Lord Regent of Forde. He was so outraged he had the young girl flogged at the center of the small village in which she lived. This village had already sacrificed their young men to the service of the war. Most had died in service to the Lord Regent, and few children remained among the families. Krystiana was supposed to be made an example, to strike fear into the hearts of the families, but it backfired. The entry reads:

“The people knew her virtue, her tender heart and loving nature towards the sick and afflicted. The pain inflicted upon her body…her screams, was more than the people could bear upon their souls. A revolt ensued. The elders of the village rose and slew the soldiers present, including the Lord Regent, beaten with clubs, then beheaded — his body

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 4 - Perspicacious

Making a quick stop at my room, I pack a small bag with a notebook, pens, and a small drawing kit. Tools I need to collect facts and spin my tale. It’s going to be a long night…but at least I get to spend it in my favorite shop.

Perspicacious is a small, but unique bookstore. On the northeast side of the Market, past the center hub of the community, it’s run by a little old hermit named Dathern Istul.

My friendship and admiration for Dathern has grown over the years. Not just because he owns what I deem to be the greatest bookstore in existence, but because of his open fascination with the subjects he studies. Archaeology, phraseology, history, literature, linguistics, philosophy, religion, anthropology, economics, geography, physics and the list goes on. That doesn’t even include his personal interests, such as mathematics, statistics, agriculture, architecture, engineering, law and a large array of military sciences, which he constantly dabbles in.

His deepest passion, however, is the collection and translation of knowledge itself. It is for this I admire him the most.

Dathern is, in my opinion, the brightest of that annoying, peculiar race of humans.

Perspicacious, which literally means having a ready insight into an understanding of things, is where Dathern exists. I would say that he ‘lives’ in his bookstore, but that really wouldn’t be accurate. There is very little in this life that catches his attention, other than the pursuit of knowledge. That being said, I would note that I have never seen Dathern Istul leave the walls of his store. Ever.

Maybe I should add that he is the most peculiar of the peculiar?

At first glance, one might think his bookstore is little more than a storage shed. Thousands upon thousands of books fill rows of shelves to overflowing and stacked gingerly along aisles. Books are the centerpiece of focus from any angle of view. However, upon inspection, one will quickly realize there is not a speck of dust or a single cobweb within the walls of Perspicacious. 

Ziltch.

There’s also something peculiar about the bookstore, aside from its perplexing owner.

Unlike other merchants of the written word, none of Dathern’s books are actually for sale. You can’t buy anything you find per se. The services offered in Perspicacious are few and specific. For a price, for example, one may hire Dathern to get a rare book. You may find one on his shelf and desire one just like it—he will get one for you. Perhaps you seek something rare and out of the ordinary? Using his secret network, he can secure virtually any item from the date and country of origin you request…for the right price. If you seek a particular knowledge, you can, again for a price, employ Dathern himself to collect said knowledge and he will compile it into your own private volume, bound in soft leather, guaranteed to last generations. Last, for those rare souls who are fortunate enough to gain Dathern’s respect and trust, you may sit within this universe of extraordinary and arcane knowledge to perform research of your own.

I round the corner in the street just in time to see a hunched shadow approaching the door. The small hand-inked sign that says ‘Open’ lifts from the door, then hesitates. A glint of light reflects off Dathern’s glasses as he smiles. The knob turns slowly and the heavy door opens with a lingering creek.

“Mr. Höbin, to w-what do I owe t-this p-pleasure?” His thin, gnarled finger trembles ever-so-slightly as it pushes the small bifocals up his long, hawk-like nose.

I step inside the store, and he closes the door behind me. Flipping the sign around, securing our privacy, he pulls a handkerchief from his vest pocket and intently wipes along the window frame.

“I’m wondering if I may rent a chair and purchase a few candles for the night?”

The handkerchief vanishes from view as Dathern turns and shuffles away, taking tiny steps to keep his balance. “We can p-provide that, my friend. I was a-about to retire and have a nice c-cup of tea. W-w-would you like one? I h-have a special herb to sharpen t-the mind.”

“No, thank you Dathern. I’m quite eager to get started.” But that’s not altogether true. I’m tired and my bag feels extraordinarily heavy. The strap pulls at my shoulder and I realize I have little energy. My bones feel soft. I wince, biting my lip in reaction to the sudden pain. It’s my gut again. “Unless you have some silverbark tea?” I add quickly, “Then I’d love some.”

Dathern chuckles, though it sounds more like wheezing. “T-trouble with bad m-meats?”

“You could say that,” I reply, pinching my side. Feels like knives twisting in my stomach, pushing their way back towards my spine. “I have a habit of nibbling on a cold-ground lizard tail late at night. I’m probably not eating it with enough salt and picked up something I shouldn’t have.”

Dathern stops shuffling and steadies himself on a nearby stack of books. He turns his thick, bushy eyebrows towards me. They rise and sink as he studies my countenance. “I’m-might have s-something to take the edge off t-that p-pain, but n-no s-silverbark.” The hint of a smile form on his face. “Now, w-what do you intend to r-research? S-something intriguing? Something N-NEW p-perhaps?”

His face looks so young when he gets animated. Whenever he talks about books and learning, his eyes become vibrant and clear.

“Only if you consider Bloodsticks to be new or intriguing,” I shrug, “and I personally wouldn’t consider it either.”

Dathern seems to consider the subject, then lets it fall from his attention. Not that I blame him. He turns slowly and shuffles off again. “I r-recall you having some d-difficulty with that g-game,” he adds, “D-do you think it w-wise—to revisit such a ch-chapter in y-your life?”

I have so many doubts running through my mind, I almost miss the significance of the comment. Dathern didn’t know me when I was struggling with my gambling addiction. I only recall mentioning my past during a moment of weakness,…after Sylvia died.

I’ll be damned…he remembered. I take a second to pull my thoughts together.

“I’m not comfortable with the prospect, but it’s the only job available. Fact is, I need the money. Guy’s gotta eat, right?”

Dathern nods to himself. “Quite r-right.”

We weave our way around the aisles and groups of books to the center of his shop. The dim light of the irregularly placed candles cast long, tired shadows across the floor. Sitting in the middle of Perspicacious is a beautiful, elaborately carved table, spanning three lengths of my own arms. The smooth granite top rests upon the shoulders of four slender dragons, tails curling around their legs and down to the floor—wings fanning out and blending into the skirt of the table. A large leather chair sits alone and empty behind it. 

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 3 - Day One

By mid afternoon, I was back at the Black Market.

Though it’s been frustrating, my exile from Clockworks City—there’s also a certain sense of freedom in living away from the gnome community. Even among the gnomes who live here, in their shops…it’s different. The small city owned and run by the Gypsies is probably as far an extreme as you’re going to get from a technologically advanced society. But it’s become home.

I still can’t believe I took this job. Fourteen days to find the back history of a game everyone plays, but few people really know about. Truth be told, who really cares? It’s a game for crying out loud. Why would anyone care about how folks lose their coin or how it contributes to drunkenness, theft, and violence? My mind keeps churning, my feet stumbling along the dimly lit path in front of me.

I nod to the Sentry perched on either side of the tunnel, huddled around their small fires. A few nod back. The constant echo of squeaking rats, hidden among the boulders and shadows, masks the low tone of their conversations. Disgusting creatures.

The rats, not the Gypsies.

When I reach the check-in point, I try to walk past the guards, but I’m stopped.

“Check your port key,” snaps a young man.

I don’t recognize his face. He must be new, so I’ll be nice.

This time.

A wonderful rebuke rolls off my tongue, but one of the older guards intervenes. “He’s alright, Amul. That’s Mr. Höbin. Iyl-Tandril has given him permission to keep his key. Let him pass.”

I bite my tongue and smile instead. It takes a moment for the information to register with the youth, but he steps aside. Few residents know what I do here. At least not to the fullest extent, anyway. My research sometimes requires special permission from those in charge. I grin patiently at Amul, spinning my attention to the older sentry. “It’s all right, Lucyd, he’s only doing his job…just like the rest of us.”

They let me slip through the line.

It's a justified rule that visitors aren't allowed to keep their port key when they arrive at the Black Market. It would spiral the place into chaos. Not only would it enable thieves to lift goods offered by merchants, it would allow violence to creep into the well-regulated peace of Gypsy society. Any ruffian or member of the darker races could commit murder and blink away unscathed. Not a good idea.

That's why the authorities have implemented specific measures that force all visitors to surrender their port keys before entering. When patrons are ready to leave, all they have to do is retrieve their key from the exit chamber by placing their fingerprint on any of the empty boxes and their personal key will appear inside. Quite clever if you ask me.

I shuffle on behind an old merchant, his back hunched over with furs strapped to shoulders.

We all wait in front of an old gypsy hunched over his podium, small bifocals teetering on the end of his bulbous nose. The steward of the gate. With the thin quill pen in one hand, he slides his bony finger down the list, calling each patron forward, asking them to state their business and the intended duration of their stay.

When the young couple behind me is called forth, I shuffle abruptly in front of them.

“Good day, Mr. Horst,” I blurt out with a genuine smile. It’s a smile I’ve practiced for months.

“What? Wait. No, no, no—this can’t be right.” The steward rises slightly, lifting his buttocks from his stool. He leans over the podium. “Mr. Höbin, this is quite irregular, you know. You are still not on the list, and it is not proper for you to come in and out of the Market without your presence being recorded!”

“Mr. Horst, my good man,” I say to soften the blow, “May I approach the pedestal, sir?” It’s always good to give respect, even when you might not feel it’s due. It serves two purposes in particular: one, you’ll soothe the angry beast, should the person have a temper—by visually and verbally submitting to their imagined authority—and; two, by displaying that you acknowledge their authority (especially if others don’t), you are likely to gain favor, which can be used to your advantage.

So it’s simple: step forward, look over your shoulder as if to make sure no one will overhear you, then speak meekly, keeping your head slightly lower than the person you’re speaking to.

“Dear Mr. Horst, I am so embarrassed! Mr. Horst, I assumed you would have been informed, given your importance. Surely you know that they have given me special permission from the Triad, so that I may

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 2 - The Job

Maybe I should have started at the beginning of this story. It’s important to explain how I ended up in this most precarious situation, so let me take you back ten days earlier. The day I was on a secretive visit to my homeland…

Ever since my country unofficially banned me, I’ve had to rely on my personal relationships and smuggled technology to scratch out a living.

That…and a dash of good ‘old fashioned, literal ‘magic’.

The port keys which I use for travel to and from the Black Market are powerful, but limited. Unlike the Prime Gates, they can only transport four humanoid-sized lifeforms (unless you have an upgraded key—which is as rare as an honest man these days). That might seem like a lot, but the downside is two-fold; there’s only two charges in a key…and you return to the exact spot you originally port from. You have to be careful…and remember the last place you used it from. It took me quite a few months to get across the great waters and sneak onto our little island. Then I had to find the right hiding place…to use as my port base for Clockworks City.

Now, as I was saying—the port keys are nice, but they’re not the answer to hasty problems most times. An ill-planned trip, or using this limited transport magic to avoid, say, a fall from a tall building…will eventually return you to your fate. That’s why I picked a garbage maintenance building just outside the chief city. They’re spacious, old, on the edge of the docks, secure…and rarely, if ever, used. Not much of a chance for things to go wrong.

The other advantage with this location is its close to the Fishes Archive Foundation. I can get through the all but abandoned loading docks, sneak through the storage halls and corridors with minimal exposure to security cameras or the local authorities.

It’s perfect.

The government may have banned me from speaking out against their unlawful moves…but it’ll be a while before the FAF will let their top producer go. I’m too big of a meal ticket and they know it.

So they simply pay me under the table, then recode my works for publication. It’s harder for them to pay me in coin instead of credits, but we make it work. 

Besides, now that I don’t have to worry about fees, tags, licensing and passports to appease President Shrub, I can go anywhere in the world.

That means better results for the FAF and bigger checks for me. Where my colleagues earn standard wages after all their deductions, I can make a small fortune doing the same work.

The electrical hum catches my attention and I turn to see a familiar smile. 

Damen Umbril is my contact. 

He’s a good kid. Clever, loyal, hates the status quo, and he can hide many things in his uni-chair. 

No one expects a cripple to be a covert operative for the big corporations. 

He’s the perfect employee to deliver my assignments.

“This can’t be right, Damen,” I say in disbelief. “There’s no way I can take this job and corporate knows it.” I shove the tablet back into his hands. “I won’t do it. Give me something else.”

Damen smiles and shrugs his shoulders. “Mills said that you’re behind schedule on the magic and gate lore assignment, so this is the only job he has for the next few months. With the awards ceremony coming up, they’re shutting down the field division. They’re going to finish all current projects in-house. I know it's hard, sir, but they want real documentation on this one...and you live in the community where Bloodsticks was created," he says, trying to hand the tablet back, but I fold my arms.

“Hard?” I cough. “I’m a gambling addict, Damen! Almost lost my wife over that game and now you want me to jump in with both feet?” I frown, my nostrils flaring. “Besides, we have not proved that the game actually originated in the Black Market. It’s just speculation.”

“And your wife isn’t a problem anymore now is she,” he says.

I glare at him so fast, Damen flinches.

“I’m sorry Mr. Luckyfeller. That was unkind of me, and I apologize…but see what I mean? Already you’re challenging popular belief.” He shakes his head. “Of course Mills doesn’t want you playing again.” Then he smiles, trying to reassure me, but it doesn’t work. He looks more like someone who has gas, trying to keep it in. “They just want you to do the research. You’ll know what to look for, what questions to ask and what to avoid. You know the blah-blah-blah Mill’s would say about now, so come on. Whadya say?” He rattles the tablet at me, adding his stupid, drooping, puppy-eyed look to the mix.

I hate it when he does that. Makes me feel guilty.

“What’s the pay?” I ask bluntly.

Damen never grins unless it’s good news. I don’t believe I’ve seen his mouth stretch so wide.

Read more

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

Chapter 1 - The Chase

There are distinct advantages to being a gnome. We are a naturally quick and agile race, with keen reflexes and the ability to hide just about anywhere. Unfortunately, being a gnome in your mid sixties hampers some of those advantages…and then there are the metal parts.

“I’m too old for this crap,” I huff out loud, sliding behind the rolled up rugs…and just in time. The two brutes charge past me and down the next alley. It’s a miracle those idiots didn’t notice the small trail of water I’m leaving behind—it would lead them right to me. Huh…this might not be as hard as I thought.

I try to control my breathing as best I can. There was a time, many years ago, that I’d laugh at being chased by dark things that go bump in the night. I lived for things like that…the chase. Now I just hope I’m fast enough to avoid these human idiots with the combined IQ of a bedpan.

Caleb, the rug merchant, comes to the door and notices me hiding among his inventory. When he opens his mouth, I shake my head. He glances at the two splitting up to search for me, clubs in hand, and nods understanding. Caleb slips back into the shadows of the doorway. Things happen in the Black Market. Bad things, that good people shouldn’t be a party to.

I pat my small vest pocket to make sure the vial hasn’t broken.

Still safe.

Tgii help me…I better be right about this.

Creeping into the open, I make a dash across the main road and hop over the fence of the holding pen. My metal foot catches the top plank of wood and I stumble over the side. The clanking of my metal leg and hand spook the sheep, which bray loudly.

“Shut up, mutton-heads!” I hiss. They scatter, drawing the attention of some patrons just entering the market. Not good. Use my telescopic eye to check the way I came, having a clear view of the alleyway. Sure enough, one thug looks across the road at the sheep. It’s unlikely he can see me amongst these grey fluffs of wool.

I wrinkle my nose and glance at my tunic. Yeck. My chest is steaming with hot sheep sh—aww, crap.

Sigh. Can’t stop now.

Scrambling to my feet, I hop the back fence. Slow down, Höbin. Control your breathing and try not to draw the attention of patrons at the exchange window. The Sentry lean against the main building, talking casually with one another. Luckily, I pass without being noticed.

I take less than five minutes to get from the upper rim of the Market to the cluster of buildings behind The Whipped Mule. As the only gambling hall in the Black Market, it’s for the more refined personalities…or those who want to be. If you have the cash, you can arrange for dice, cards of all types, or even a rare game of Olen at the only gambling hall in the Black Market. But the chief attraction is always Bloodsticks. Game of hell, I call it. Draws folks in and sucks ‘em dry.

Satisfied that I’m in the clear, I sprint around the corner…and slam into two of the ugliest humans you’re likely to find in the market. The impact nearly knocks me to the ground. The fat one smiles down at me, his pitted face looking more like swiss cheese than flesh. He twists the cudgel in his hands.

“Mr. Culver and I doesn’t like to run,” said the skinny one, leaning an elbow on Culver’s shoulder. “Does we Mr. Culver?”

Fatboy snarls, “We do not, Mr. Aswin. That’s we do not, indeed.” The snarl would have been more intimidating if most of his teeth weren’t already missing. Instead, I have to stifle a laugh, which doesn’t improve my situation.

“Think this is funny,” sneers Aswin, “…little…metal…man?”

The fat one chuckles.

“You owe Mr. Keeley a large bag of coin you do.”

The smug expression of bigger races always ticks me off. Aswin raises an eyebrow and inspects his fingernails. He picks at the dark spots infecting the tips of his grungy, stained fingers.

“We have also been given strict orders to take the equivalent, mind you, from your skin, if you don’t have the aforementioned bag ‘o coin.”

Culver laughs louder, patting the cudgel in his palm, “Even if we’s got ta peel back yer turtle-shell head ta find it.”

There’s another blessed talent we gnomes posses as a race, exclusive to the whole of this world: technology. Black Magic, the other races call it. Well, the narrow thinking, paranoid, ignorant donkeys do, anyway.

Call me what you like—but I enjoy shooting a pop-wire into both goons. They flinch when the barbed needle penetrates their tunics and flesh, then flop around like fish as 50,000 volts pumps through the hair-thin wires of my cybernetic arm.

“Ohhh,” I grin, with a feigned look of dismay, “I don’t think we’s like this, Mr. Culver!” The drool rolls out of Aswin’s mouth and pools under his cheek. My tone drops to imitate the low-pitched rasp. “No, we certainly do not, Mr. Aswin!”

Idiots.

Read more

An ancient puzzle box.
Fourteen letters.
A Council of Whispers.
…and a clerk.
Discover the 700 year old secret millions died to protect.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

<— Read Previous Chapter | Start Reading Höbin’s Next Book —>

EPILOGUE

From Her Royal Highness,

Lady Älodiä, Queen of Andilain

My dearest Eamon,

It is with a heavy heart that I send this letter. For I gave you my solemn vow to keep your wife and daughters safe from the darkness plaguing this land, and I have failed you.

Guards escorted your wife and daughters from their home just days after you departed the Castle for Vankiläsä. They took them to our stronghold in Bailish, as I had promised. Ethany was accepted into Lord Brahms’ care and, at my request, given a home and position in his household. He committed to watch over her and the children personally.

We could not have foreseen what would shortly come.

They have not invaded the Eastern shores in the history this nation. Within a fortnight, Bailish was overrun by Mahan’s forces. We were betrayed by Ogriel among our own people. They immediately dispatched a rider for reinforcements from the capital, which were granted in haste, but our forces were too late.

The stronghold and village had been laid waste. They discovered Lord Brahms' armored caravan ten miles west of the stronghold.

We found the bodies of your wife and daughters among those soldiers trying to defend them. Lord Brahm perished at the base of the stronghold's gate, surrounded by the bodies of his faithful men, many wounds piercing his body.

High Lord Gastons’ army engaged the enemy in the forests of Whitewater the following morning. We destroyed them from the face of the land, their bodies denied burial and burned.

We mourn your loss, Eamon.

Words cannot express our sorrow for your family and for our failure. I have tended to the ceremonial needs of your loved ones, my friend. I have laid them to rest among the Kings and Queens of Andilain, their bodies prepared by my own hands.

There were two letters discovered, which your love kept close to her breast while you were apart. A testament of her devotion to you, I have no doubt.

These I return to you, along with her locket and two bracelets we found upon the wrists of your beloved children. May they rest in the sweet company of loved ones who have gone before them.

Eamon, we pray you will be strong and ever determined to aid us in ridding our land of the enemy. Let not the pain and sacrifice of your loved ones be in vain. Avenge them and every other family Mahan has taken.

The crown will ever be mindful of your sacrifice and your service, my friend. If you have need of anything, you have only to ask. Our love, support and blessings are forever with you until our journey’s end.

With deepest respect and admiration,

Lady Älodiä

Queen of Andilain

The End…?

<— Read Previous Chapter | Start Reading Höbin’s Next Book —>

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

An ancient puzzle box.
Fourteen letters.
A Council of Whispers.
…and a clerk.
Discover the 700 year old secret millions died to protect.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

<— READ PREVIOUS CHAPTER  |  READ THE FINAL CHAPTER —>

Höbins Last Discovery

These letters sent me to far lands over the course of two years, putting together one of the greatest puzzles in my career.

I grew very fond of this Eamon, from Tildan. In the end, I travelled to Andilain once more and gained permission directly from King Robert III to study the records of the Church.

I had missed something.

I took a few days to remember that the Church requested me to supervise a kirk excavation site decades ago. I forgot to access the most obvious resources available to me: the Brotherhood. The records are independent from the rest of the world and protected by the power of the crown.

It was the law that for anyone condemned to die, a priest of the Brotherhood would be present to be a witness and record all that was done.

Mahan did not die, but he was being condemned…which meant there was most likely a priest present and recording during the event.

I was feeling embarrassed.

Could it actually be this simple? To quench the burning desire to know how Mahan, the greatest evil of all, had been bound and exiled. And to piece together the fragments of a life which had become a friend to me. A friend by the name of Eamon.

Brother Owens’ journal states:

“Old age has come too soon for me. I fear that this request of Queen Älodiä may be my last opportunity to serve her. Alas, King Gaston is dead. I administered to his burial myself. I am old and worn and unable to be the man I once was, but still I stand by our Queen in this mournful hour in defiance of darkness.”

“They gathered us around the Prime Gate in Andilain. Being created first it is the strongest. There are none here who are unnecessary to the ritual. Mahan is in the center of the platform. None may stand near the prisoner, only the Gnolaum and the mägo, exerting their powers to keep the devil quiet and still.”

“There is an older man, pale, withered and hunched in a red robe, working with the Kutollum in stoking a fire just aside the steps of the Gate. There are three irons in the fire. We wait in hushed silence for the man in red to begin.”

“The Dark Lord struggles and cries out to the Gnolaum, ‘Would you curse a wayward friend?’”

“I do not understand, but it took aback the Gnolaum as the Dark Lord laughs.”

“The man in red looked to me as he took one iron from the fire. ‘I am ready.’”

“I ask if he would like to have his name recorded. He said ‘no’.”

“Two Kutollum take the other irons from the fire and we follow the man in red up the stairs and to the devil’s side. He examines the iron in his hands and then leans down to the devil’s ear and I am forced to follow.”

“‘For this moment, I have sacrificed all I have ever had to give.’ And without hesitation, he thrust the burning iron into the devil’s forehead, chanting words I cannot recall or identify.”

“The hysterical laughter turns to screams as the man in red leans in hard. A scream which rends the very fabric of nature. I can smell the stench of burning flesh.”

“Trees within the courtyard split in twain and the ground rocks and trembles. The Gnolaum calls out to the man in red but he was unmoving. I question if this is really necessary. He only smiles as he pulls the iron from the wound, casts it aside and holds out an open hand to the Kutollum.”

“I am stunned to see the flesh completely burned away, and the marks seared into bone.”

“The Dark Lord’s screams grow with each touch until I fear the world will rip asunder. Three times is the devil branded thus, but as the third mark penetrates the devil’s flesh, silence falls upon us. The ground is still. Though evil thrashes, eyes wide in pain and terror, he cannot scream.”

“The Prime Gate is opened when the Gnolaum speaks the words. Through the portal, I can see only darkness. The devil’s body rises from the altar, an invisible force pulling him violently into the void, still restrained by chains.”

“The man in red whispers so only the devil and I can hear: ‘From darkness you came, to darkness you will return.’”

“With a snap of his fingers, the chains of the altar release their captive. They cast the contorted body of Mahan into the darkness, his eyes wide with a terror I cannot even imagine.”

“The Gnolaum closes the gate, and all is silent. There are no cheers, no laughter, not a sound of nature.”

“We have ended the war, and we have defeated the enemy. I turned to speak peace unto the man in red, but he was walking away. I never saw him again.”

So where did Eamon go?

I could only assume to find Ethany and the children, which would lead to the kirk excavation.

It wasn’t long before I located the personal journal of the priest of the kirk in question. There was a note on the box from the Church that caught my eye:

“Contents: Journal of Brother Drydan, Book of Songs, Laws of The Brotherhood, …one red puzzle box (missing)”

Woops.

Brother Drydan.

He seemed determined to have his journals endure. I say this because they committed none of his records to paper but on brass sheets bound by simple metal rings.

Interesting, maybe clever. Probably a former blacksmith.

Anyway, I didn’t find what I thought I would.

“An old man, soaked and shivering in dirty red robes, was turned face down and nearly frozen to death, not more than a hundred feet from my doorstep.”

“Oh, that I would have heard him! Seen him! I could have saved him. Throughout the night, I prayed and worked to break his fever, but it would not. Death was determined to have him. May the Gods bless his soul for the sufferings he must have endured along this long road alone and away from his loved ones.”

“It is rarely that circumstances prevent me from keeping my vow, for I know not his name and in this I am tormented. He clung to a small red box as if his soul were contained, and only whispered 'Ethany' from his lips.”

“So I have done what I can. His body was prepared and buried, but not without a stone. I cannot bear to lay him to rest without a name, and so I place upon his stone, ‘He who loves Ethany’ in the hope that the Gods will have mercy on his soul…and mine.”

“I tried to open the box he clung to, but was unable. I can hear the contents inside, and so I will send it on to those wiser than I to discover its fate.”

That was it. The end of the path.

Eamon was alone in the end and had the box and was the one who ended up at the kirk.

Before I returned home, I traveled south to the original excavation site. The hole where we dug was now a fishing pond, filled in by the overflow from the river. There were no gravestones to look at, so I walked the land for a spell and ended up resting under a large cottonwood tree, the red puzzle box turning in my hands. This was a disturbing end. My hands absentmindedly slid the pieces randomly across the surface.

The bottom of the box popped open.

…there was a locket, two small bracelets and a folded, fragile letter.

It had the red wax stains of a royal seal.

<— READ PREVIOUS CHAPTER  |  READ THE FINAL CHAPTER —>

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

An ancient puzzle box.
Fourteen letters.
A Council of Whispers.
…and a clerk.
Discover the 700 year old secret millions died to protect.

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share

<— READ PREVIOUS CHAPTER  |  READ THE NEXT CHAPTER —>

LETTER FOURTEEN

It is done.

There is nothing left for me here and I am free to go.

I have lived a lifetime without you these four years. A life I would wish upon no man, nor ask any heart to endure, though I have few regrets.

In the time I have labored, I have learned an important lesson.

Though we have bound the Dark Lord and cast him out from among us, darkness will return. It is a heavy blow to a man’s greatest work to know it is for naught. We will forever be vulnerable to the weaknesses in our own hearts and our selfish desires. Power, money, lusts of the flesh and any other desire which takes a man, a family, a village or a nation from peace or freedom.

It is the sword of tyranny and the enemy of all.

For until men desire to control their own passions, evil roots itself in their hearts and darkness will rise again.

I am certain of this.

Mahan will return, though it be by another name.

Such is the war of mankind.

My deed is done. I am consumed.

I am coming home.

All my love,

Eamon

That is the end of the letters. But not a satisfactory end of the story for me.

I want to know the details of the Demoni Vankil.

I wish someone had provided solid proof of how this was done, but the records are tainted. Each race involved in the conflict has their own version of the story.

They claim that their race defeated and bound the Dark Lord, except for the Iskäri.

The Evolu used the power of the elements to send the dark army fleeing and then cast a great sleep upon Mahan.

The Nocturi destroyed the dark armies with such power that Mahan begged for mercy.

Humans say Gaston challenged Mahan openly. That his archers pierced the Dark Lord with arrows to the extent it weakened him enough that the mägo Orders could use befuddlement and sleep charms on him.

The Kutollum say King Kimmeldell and his legion of dwarves decimated the dark army and bound Mahan in chains of enchanted metal.

…but the greatest version was from my people.

They claim to have annihilated the dark army with Gnome-powered robots and kept Mahan sedated by an electric choke-collar.

Yeah—the Gnomes didn’t have technology yet…and they didn’t even FIGHT in the war!

However, the accounts are straightforward that the Kings of all four races gave their lives to defeat Mahan and his army upon the fields of Andilain. That’s in the Book of Four Kings.

What happened to Eamon?

I don’t think they would rebuke me for saying this man is one of the greatest mägo in history. Yet, according to prominent records, he doesn’t exist?!?

After what he accomplished, I’m surprised.

Did nobody think that they should write this down? To remember?

Did he go to Bailish to meet his family?

No. Somewhere along this trail I read of Bailish being overcome.

Apparently he met up with Ethany and the children, because I found her letters and Hammel’s puzzle box in the kirk.

Where’s my happy ending?

Full and satisfied?

Neat and tidy?

Nope.

I am going to Andilain.

<— READ PREVIOUS CHAPTER  |  READ THE NEXT CHAPTER —>

Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of this series from the beginning, along with other stories and every article I’ve ever written. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial OR earn a paid membership by joining the referral program!

Get 7 day free trial

Subscribe now

Share