Zizzim looked over his playing cards and across the table at Tjevrisk, his red eyes flashing as he slid another stack of gold coins into the pile in the middle of the table. Tjevrisk hated when his superior called his bluff in this manner; to be fair he also hated everything else Zizzim did.

  A brute of a dark elf, six feet tall and well-muscled, the bald warrior with an iron ring hung from the middle of his nose snarled and threw his cards face down onto the table.

  “Take it you greedy bastard.” he growled at Zizzim.

  “Very well.” the leader of the group said as he raked the pile of considerable wealth from the center of the table into a leather sack on the ground next to him.

  He looked around the spacious tent, easily the width and depth of a great hall in a minor noble’s keep. at the other dark elves. Each of them sat, stood, or leaned in his or her own space, well away from the others. All of them had folded long before Tjevrisk.

  “I must speak to M'zuphilis about raising shares for each of you,” Zizzim announced. “That you might continue to donate so generously to my own retirement.”

  A particularly light-skinned Nokturum, his complexion a medium gray, who also looked to have missed several meals smiled slyly as he leaned back against a tall crate.. “Retirement? You’ll never make it boss; one of us will kill you long before then.”

  “I’ll be disappointed if you’re lying.” Zizzim replied coolly.

  “I’m not.” said the gaunt elf. “I have foreseen it.”

  “Meaning the other dead bastards have shown you.” said Zizzim. “Tell me Sjurik Half-Ghost, do you always believe what the other side shows you? I would expect them to no more fully accept you than the dark elves and pale-faced humans who reject you as little more than a half-breed.”

  “The dead are not concerned with the same trivium valued by mortals.” said Sjurik.

  “They are partial to freaks and mixed breeds then?” said another dark elf holding a wineglass and seated in a lavish velvet chair with a high back a good twenty feet from Sjurik.

  A non-descript fellow among his peers, his fine features and wavy hair that touched his shoulders adhered to the typical dark-elven appearance.

  A brief silence, not uncomfortable but not relaxed either, sat with the company of Nokturim Tkris for a moment.

  “Really Tjevrisk.” Gafaldin spoke up, seated lazily along the right wall (if facing the doorway from inside).

  A ball of blue flame hovered over his left palm. His black hair was cut extremely close and parted down the middle. A rack of spears, scimitars, and maces next to the Nokturum stretched forty feet towards the back of the tent; not that the rear wall could be seen from anywhere near the weapons rack.

  “You didn’t even show your cards.” Gefaldin continued. “For all you know he was bluffing as well.”

  The bald elf was visibly jolted by the statement. He hadn’t considered that possibility. He snarled and replied.

  “The snake is probably cheating either way.”

  “Come now.” said Zizzim. “Don’t be bitter. One can’t have everything. You were blessed with girth and muscle, and shouldn’t take personally the fact that you have the wits of an ox.”

  “How comedic.” the big elf noted.

  “As the leader it’s on me to keep morale high.” said Zizzim without hesitation. “I do what I can with humor and positive reinforcement.”

  “When you are dead and gone, and M'zuphilis assigns me leadership of this h’manus I shall try to follow your example.” Tjevrisk spat.

  “Understand that when you threaten me like a young girl, meaning indirectly, lacking the testicular fortitude to own what you’re doing, I have no choice but to ignore the threat and disrespect the one making it.” Zizzim clarified.

  A vein became visible over the right eye of the bald, muscular dark elf. No one spoke; the room remained silent as a morgue and this time it was a little uncomfortable

  A female Nokturum, her long blue-streaked hair pulled tightly into a tail, turned the page of a book she studied intently. She sat opposite the weapons rack cross-legged atop a massive stone gargoyle that flanked a wooden door big enough for two ogres to pass through side-by-side. The female pursed her shiny blue lips and frowned at something on the page, then turned another.

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  The silence continued.

  Zizzim faked a yawn, stretching his arms behind himself in the process.

  Tjevrisk brought the outer edge of his palm down like a karate chop onto the table before him, sending coins and cards flying. With a deep, sharp popping sound, the table broke into two pieces that smacked together then collapsed between Tjevrisk and Zizzim.

  “Tjevrisk.” said Zizzim calmly as he surveyed the scattered coinage. “I need you for this assignment. Please refrain from making me kill you.”

  Tjevrisk, now trembling with rage, stood up. His right hand clutched the hilt of his square-bladed sword; called a m’ragach (“square” in the dark-elven language) it resembled a chef’s meat cleaver.

  “That is enough.” said Harajé in her typically cold, almost lifeless tone. She closed her book with a thump. “I will make a formal complaint on both of you if this moves one half-step further.”

  Tjevrisk turned and walked to the window. He shifted the closed shade just enough to peer outside, squinting at the brightness he beheld.

  “You never answered my question.” the plain looking Nokturum pointed out. “As the newcomer to your little party I am not privy to your backstories and dramas.”

  “The dead are impartial. They act only in accordance with their lot, doing such things that it is given to the dead to do, and being only that which is defined by what they are.” Sjurik answered.

  “Are you numbered among their kind?” Drelan, the newcomer held his hands out, palms upturned. “Or is half-ghost a reference to your half Nokturum, half Honai heritage?”

  “I suspect half-ghost refers to all the above and the fact that I am a being of many parts and yet – disturbingly I imagine – I am not whole like others because I am half-dead.” Sjurik replied cryptically.

  “What in the world does that mean?” Drelan pressed. “How can you be half dead?”

  “Nosey little bastard.” Tjevrisk turned from the window to face the newcomer. “Your concerns should be carrying your weight on this first task, else there will be no second outing.”

  Drelan stopped talking and finished off his wine with a single gulp.

  The bell outside the tent flap rang.

  Gefaldin stood up. “The hobgoblins have spotted him.”

  With a wave of his hand the flap over the door next to the window opened inward and Gefaldin said “Enter.”

  An armored hobgoblin, much taller than any of the dark elves, stepped into the tent. His horned helmet covered his entire face except for the amber eyes, mouth, and chin.

  “A rider on a tan Khelt stallion approaches. A very tall figure; alone.” the hobgoblin reported in the dark elven language.

  “That is good news Heglart.” said Gefaldin. As Zizzim’s corporal managing mercenaries and retainers fell into the scope of his duties. “Please execute your assignment at this time.”

  “Very well.” the hobgoblin affirmed the orders, turned and exited the tent.

  “How many of them are there?” asked Harajé.

  “A dozen.” Gefaldin replied. “Disciplined and well-trained from our outpost in Dirus Foedus.”

  “Perhaps they’ll get lucky.” the female dark elf shrugged.

  “That is unlikely.” admitted Gefaldin. “Yet one never knows; combat is unpredictable.”

  “No.” Zizzim interjected. “You were right in the first place. Highly unlikely any of your hobgoblins will survive.”

  “I see; now that failure is imminent suddenly the soldiers you ordered me to hire are my hobgoblins.” Gefaldin protested.

  “Not failure.” the red-eyed elf corrected. “Sacrifice.”

  Gefaldin turned towards the rear of the tent. “Brace yourselves all. I will loose the birds from their stables.”

  Drelan stood up.

  Sjurik pushed himself off the crate.

  Harajé dropped from atop the gargoyle.

  Tjevrisk and Zizzimm along with the others turned towards the rear of the tent.

  Gefaldin walked in the direction they all faced.

  The others silently checked their weapons belts and tugged at the fittings of their armor. Drelan cleared his throat and Harajé rolled her neck.

  Gefaldin disappeared into the shadows. His footfalls continued.

  What sounded like a very large bird cawed. Something heavy kicked or bumped into a wooden structure.

  Zizzim looked his crew over one last time. “Make ready to mount up. Once we’re outside take your positions, then wait for my signal to attack.”