Chapter 1

It seems odd that it all started with a drunkard named Coren Vishod. He lived in his ramshackle wagon, traveling from kingdom to kingdom, throughout the Empire, hawking his services. He was an apothecary, dealing in herbal remedies and useful unguents. He was also a smuggler, dealing in darker drafts and potent poisons, brought from his home in Mareth’totam. He didn’t advertise these services, but those who wished could find him.

He was slumped over his workbench in the back of his wagon, an empty flagon laying next to his unshaven face, the last drops of the amber liquid it had contained running out across the rough wooden surface.

There was a loud knock at the door. Coren groaned in pain as each knock drove into his head like a spike through the ear. “Great Gods! Who could be needing aid at this early hour of the morning?” Coren shouted through the door, regretting it instantly. His hand fumbled around until it closed around a dark bottle, filled with amber liquid. He pulled it close and pried the cork out.

“It’s the hour after noon,” came the accented reply.

Coren took a long swig from the bottle, squinting against the bright sun streaming in through the blinds. Perhaps his visitor was correct. He stumbled over to the door and opened it.

Standing before him was one of the desert people. His skin was a deep brown, almost red in color. His hair was a long, shiny black, in twin braids. His eyes were a bright green, unusual for one of his kind. But Coren was too busy looking over his rich clothing, gauging the man’s ability to pay. “What can I do for you?” He took another healthy swig from the bottle.

The desert man stepped into the back of the wagon, pulling the door closed behind him. Coren looked at him suspiciously. “What are you doing? Customers aren’t allowed back here.”

“The business I wish to conduct shouldn't be done in the open,” the man replied, looking around the wagon in mild disgust.

“And what sort of business is that?” Coren asked, noting the man’s distaste.

“I wish to buy something special. No mere folk remedy, but a special gift for a special friend.” The way the man said the word friend indicated that the recipient was anything but.

“I’m sorry. I don’t sell those kinds of gifts. No one does. Those sorts of ‘gifts’ are illegal in the Empire. To sell them would mean my death.”

“Only if you’re caught, Vishod.”

Coren arched an eyebrow, setting the bottle down. “You know me?”

“I know you. And I know you can sell me that which I seek.” The man locked his eyes on Coren’s.

Coren thought for a moment. It was possible that this man worked for the Imperial police force. But they didn’t usually stoop to subtlety. Additionally, the man was too richly dressed to be in the Empire’s employ.

“Let us say that I can,” Coren began. “My supplies are limited and the risk is great. Such a gift would be quite expensive.”

“Enough circumspection. You have what I want. Name your price.” The man’s manner was brusque.

Coren considered. “Three hundred kekil.”

The man snorted. “You’re drunker than you look if you think I can afford that. Fifty kekil.”

Coren grabbed his chest as if he had just been stabbed. “Sir, you wound me. I couldn’t possibly afford to part with anything for less than one hundred fifty kekil.”

“Spare me the theatrics. Seventy five kekil.”

Coren got serious. “One hundred twenty five kekil.”

“Fine, one hundred kekil. But I need something slow acting.”

“How slow?”

“The victim must live no less than three hours after ingesting.”

“Hmm….I have something that might work. But I’ll have to mix it. For that, I’ll need an extra ten kekil.”

The man stared hard at Coren, but finally relented. “Very well. How long until it’s ready?”

“Come back in an hour. It’ll be ready then.”

“One hour. But no payment until it’s ready.”

“Of course not, sir.”

The desert man left the confines of the wagon, and Coren took another drink. He then set the bottle down and began his work. He grabbed a pestle and mortar and set them on his work bench. Then he shuffled to the front of the wagon, climbing down to his hands and knees.

He tripped a small latch and a piece of the wagon wall came out, exposing a small hidden space behind it. A variety of dark, unmarked bottles sat there, carefully arranged. He grabbed three bottles, looking at them carefully. Sure that he had the three he sought, he closed the small compartment and returned to his work bench.

Two of the bottles contained dried herbs. The third an odorless liquid. He took two small leaves from the first bottle and a small bulb from the second. He placed this in the mortar and used the pestle to grind them into a fine paste. He was carefully measuring five drops into the mix when his hand shook, splashing the mixture with a liberal dose of the liquid.

Coren cursed and grabbed his wine bottle, taking a long chug. The potion was still lethal. Indeed, it was much more lethal than the client had asked. Oh well. These ingredients were too expensive to start again. Besides, prolonging death was cruel. Three hours of pointless agony followed by death. What did it matter if the intended victim suffered first? The end result was the same.

He sat debating with himself for a few minutes more. Chances were, he’d never see this desert man again. And if he did remake the potion, he would suffer a loss. The man was a shrewd bargainer. He had set the price before naming the conditions. Coren shook his head. He knew better than to haggle when hung over.

There was another knock at the door. Either he had another customer or his original client was impatient. It didn’t matter. He’d padded the estimate of the time it would take, in order to squeeze out the extra ten kekil. He reached for an empty bottle, forgetting in his haste to grab one without his mark. He poured the lethal brew in, and sealed it with a wax stopper. He then opened the door, just a crack.

The desert man was there. “You have what I ordered?” He apparently didn’t want to risk being seen entering the wagon.

“I do. You have my money?”

The man reached into his belt pouch and removed two coins, a lashak and a kerek. “One hundred ten kekil, as agreed.”

Coren reached for the money with one hand while slipping him the small vial with the other.

And just like that, a war was begun.

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