                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



     R. Cliff Young                   Donation Supported/Free Distribution
     10418 Woodbury Woods Court        Copyright (C)1987 by R. Cliff Young
     Fairfax, Virginia USA  22032
     
 (In case anyone wants to leave the author a comment about his story, he
  goes by the alias Taelon BlackHawke on the BBS.)    
     
     
     
                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME
     
                Tales of the Red Dragon Inn #0 (Sampler Story)
     
                               by R. Cliff Young
     
     
     
     
     
                               COPYRIGHT NOTICE
     
          This story is copyrighted material, under the provisions of U.S.
     Copyright Laws.  However, the author, R. Cliff Young, grants
     permission for the public distribution of this story as long as such
     distribution does not result in economic profit for the the
     distributor.  However, this permission only applies as long as the
     story is distributed in unaltered form, with this Copyright Notice
     attached.
     
          Readers enjoying this story can send a small donation (or a large
     one, the author doesn't really mind!) to the author at the above
     address.
     
          Thanks to E. Gary Gygax and TSR, Inc., for creating the wonderful
     world of ADVANCED DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS (a registered trademark of TSR,
     Inc.), which serves as the backbone for the Tales of the Red Dragon
     Inn.
     
          THE RED DRAGON INN and ENCHANTER'S INK (also referred to as the
     Enchanters' Guild) were both created by "GM ELEZAR" (Quantum Link
     pseudonym -- real name as of yet unknown).  Since the author of this
     story has yet to acquire any solid facts about the history and
     structure of either the Inn or the Guild, he has felt free to provide
     his own interpretation.  This may be altered in future tales in this
     series.
     
          The author may be contacted via the electronic information
     service QUANTUM LINK under the pseudonym of "GREYWOLFE".












     R. Cliff Young                                                      1


                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



     R. Cliff Young                   Donation Supported/Free Distribution
     10418 Woodbury Woods Court        Copyright (C)1987 by R. Cliff Young
     Fairfax, Virginia USA  22032
     
     
     
     
     
                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME
     
                Tales of the Red Dragon Inn #0 (Sampler Story)
     
                               by R. Cliff Young
     
     
     
     
     
          Corson ducked as the dart buzzed over his head, and landed in the
     tree beside him with a soft thunk.  'Damn!' he swore to himself. 
     'That was just a tad to close for my tastes!'
     
          With that he rolled to one side, drawing forth and stringing a
     longbow as he scouted the nearby trees.  Another dart landed clumsily
     in the earth in front of him.  He winced as he noticed the
     discoloration on the tip.
     
          As he quickly scrambled for the cover afforded behind some low
     brush, he gave thought to the identity of his attacker.  The fact that
     the attacker used darts was a bit unusual, especially given that they
     were usually not much effective beyond thirty yards or so.  But this
     attacker was close enough . . . though where exactly was he?
     
          Corson moved to the left a bit as another dart broke through the
     brush on his right, to stick in a small sapling.  It was then that he
     noticed the bright blue striped pattern on the quivering dart's shaft
     and feathers.  The Dartsman!  The assassin by that name was known only
     by the darts left in his victims' bodies.  He was never seen, and
     never did it seem he had to slice a victim's neck to finish the job. 
     All the darts were poisoned, of course, and several were even found to
     have traces of magical dweomer left.  The Dartsman was one of
     Terserantus City's best Guild Assassins, and now he had turned his
     darts upon Corson Cotropos, for five years a fugitive from Terserantus
     City's Assassins' Guild.
     
          The Dartsman had missed him three times.  Corson counted himself
     lucky, as he studied the area he thought the darts were coming from. 
     He now stood still, fearing one rustle of movement would draw forth
     the one dart that would not miss.  He cursed himself silently for not
     at least bringing along his wizard's staff, Lyton.  He had ventured
     out into the woods from a small village called Havenport, about ninety
     miles down the Swiftflow River from Terserantus City itself, with
     nothing but a longbow and a quiver of arrows.  He had expected no more






     R. Cliff Young                                                      2


                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



     danger than perhaps a startled bear or hungry wolf, especially this
     close to town.  He had foolishly forgotten the price on his head.  And
     now he was about to pay for that not so trivial mistake.
     
          He nocked an arrow to the bow, being as silent as an elf can be,
     which is incredibly silent.  Still, he knew that an assassin with the
     Dartsman's skills would most likely possess skilled hearing.
     
          Sweat began to bead across his brow when he noticed something out
     of the corner of his eye to the right.  He turned his head slightly,
     and saw a rabbit, ears twitching as it returned the stare.  Corson
     glanced down at his feet.  A small branch was resting lightly near his
     right boot.
     
          Returning his gaze to the small clearing he had so recently
     occupied, he gave a firm, quiet kick to the branch.  It sailed off to
     the right, making a rustling noise as it hit the leaf cover of the
     ground.  The sound was followed by a series of receding patters, which
     he hoped were the footsteps of the startled rabbit hopping away.
     
          As he had half-hoped, a dart practically materialized in front of
     him and sped towards the rabbit's hopefully vacated location.  No
     sooner had the dart appeared than he released his arrow to its mark
     then drew and released another.  As a form began to shape itself where
     his arrows hit, he let fly yet another to the spot.  The now solid
     shadowy figure collapsed on the ground, three arrows protruding from
     it.
     
          Corson ran towards the figure . . . and stopped cold.  The fact
     that the Dartsman was dead didn't surprise him.  The fact that the
     Dartsman was a halfling did.  Briefly, his thoughts wandered back to
     that day five years ago, as he had crouched over the sleeping form of
     the halfling mayor of a small village, poised to strike a deadly blow
     with an envenomed blade.  Suddenly, the instinctive elven appreciation
     of life had hit home through the barriers the Terserantus City
     Assassins' Guild had erected and hardened in the young elf.  Corson
     had dropped his poisoned blade and had nearly hugged the half-awake
     and very confused halfling to death.  He had immediately renounced the
     evil ways he had been following since birth, and he had fled the
     Guild, seeking new life as a free adventurer.  He had since traveled
     far and wide, and was now of some renown among adventuring circles. 
     He often rested between adventures and journeys in the Haven Inn of
     Havenport, a small but reputable place.
     
          His thoughts drifted from the halfling five years ago who had
     changed his life to the collapsed body of the halfling facing him now.
      Halfling assassins were very rare, but also usually very skilled with
     projectile weaponry, such as the sling, or darts.  And the grey cloak
     and boots of elven make this halfling was wearing accounted for his
     invisibility and stealth.
     
          Corson rolled the body of the halfling over.  The halfling's
     vacant eyes stared up at him.  Corson shivered under that dead stare. 






     R. Cliff Young                                                      3


                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



     Halflings usually possessed such calm, innocent eyes, but this one's
     had the fierce intensity of a dispassionate killer.  And he had been
     an experienced one, at that.  The reputation of the Dartsman had grown
     to near legendary status.  On the basis of this alone, Corson buried
     the body along with the remaining darts, cloak and boots, and various
     other minor possessions.  He did not need anything the Dartsman now
     had to offer.  Perhaps someday some lucky adventurer would locate the
     simple grave; that person would probably benefit more from the
     Dartsman's possessions.
     
          Corson chuckled to himself as he turned and walked off. 
     Experienced at killing politicians and merchants, the Dartsman was. 
     Experienced at stalking a fugitive with five years of adventuring
     experience, the Dartsman wasn't.  This was about the thirteenth
     Terserantus City Guild Assassin he had killed, making in total
     twenty-eight assassins that had tried for the 10,000 gold orb price on
     his head . . . and failed.
     
          Corson sighed as he broke into the large clearing containing
     Havenport.  The village was not much more than a couple of inns on the
     river, used mostly by those journeying up the Swiftflow to
     Terserantus, or down the river to Uirdor City on the Bay of Remalt. 
     It was the ideal place to rest, catch up with the news and gossip of
     the various goings-on in the Kingdom of Uirdy and other nearby
     countries, and listen for word or rumor of a good adventuring party
     forming.  He sighed relief as he stepped into the commons of the Haven
     Inn.
     
          Rejnik, the barkeep on duty, heard the sigh, noticed Corson's
     disheveled appearance, and near correctly assumed what the cause was. 
     "Eh, Lord Cotropos . . . been a bit of trouble with the animals?" he
     asked.
     
          Had Rejnik been a stranger, Corson might have taken offense at
     the implications in the seemingly innocent question.  But Rejnik was a
     simple man with no need for money at the expense of a friend's life
     and possibly his own.  Corson was curious about how the Dartsman found
     him, though.
     
          As he approached the barkeep, he asked in a low whisper, "I say .
     . . did a halfling come in here looking for me?"
     
          Rejnik replied in a rather conspiratorial manner, "Yes . . .
     called himself Trethor Skarben.  Dressed in a grey cloak with the hood
     down.  Said he was an adventuring acquaintance of yours, but I never
     heard mention of him in your tales.  He had a sneaky manner to his
     eyes, I tell you.  Didn't like the looks of him one bit, and he being
     a halfling!  I told him you had shipped off last night aboard
     Pradderc's boat, the TALMIA . . . "
     
          "And then what did he do?"
     
          "He wandered off into the woods . . . Blanos the Ranger followed






     R. Cliff Young                                                      4


                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



     him for a ways, and said the halfling just disappeared completely as
     soon as he stepped into the trees.  I say, is this the 'animal' you
     had trouble with?"  Rejnik smiled.
     
          "Yes, but I felled him."  Corson waved thanks to the barkeep, and
     turned to face the small crowd, mostly sailors, occupying the commons
     of the inn.  It seemed rather quiet, and Corson realized most everyone
     was either asleep or dead drunk.  It was rare for the Haven Inn to be
     like this, and Corson's senses had been put a little on edge due to
     the recent excitement.  He was about to go chat with the local
     minstrel, Ploriac, but the bearded, potbellied bard was out cold face
     first in a bowl of porridge, or some similar gruel.
     
          Corson turned towards the door leading into the hall where the
     rooms were located.  He sighed again.  His adrenalin had been set into
     motion, and he was already set for adventure.  Unfortunately, he had
     yet to find a suitable expedition to accompany.  And a tavern full of
     snoring and drunk sailors and farmers was not about to help him. 
     Corson could only see one alternative.
     
          He turned towards Rejnik.  "Tell Croety and everyone 'farewell'
     for me."  Croety was the Haven's innkeeper.  "Everyone" included all
     the servants and serving wenches probably using this slow time to take
     well-deserved naps.
     
          Rejnik looked up from the tankard he was polishing.  "You'll be
     leaving, then, Lord Cotropos?"
     
          Corson winced at Rejnik's second use of the noble title.  True,
     he was a High Elven Lord Knight Elite, the equivalent social status of
     an Earl, and was a member of the prestigious Lord Advisory Council to
     the King of the Elven Kingdom of Pletharas, but he owned no land, and
     rarely attended Council meetings, since Rillanius Oakcrown, the
     current King, was a fair and just ruler, and usually the Council
     meetings had nothing to offer but the obligatory feasts. 
     Nevertheless, Corson knew Rejnik enjoyed using the title, and thus he
     never said anything to the barkeep about it.
     
          "Yes," he replied, "and not by boat."
     
          Rejnik knew what that implied, and shuddered slightly before
     regaining his composure.  "Okay . . . I guess I'll be seeing you in a
     month or two?"
     
          Corson laughed.  "Yes, noble Rejnik!  And hopefully I'll have
     another tale to keep you occupied whilst yon patrons continue their
     slumbers!"
     
          Rejnik laughed and returned to polishing the tankard.
     
          Corson turned, and headed through the door leading into the hall.
      The hall turned a corner, then passed openings into the wide corridor
     leading to the dock, stable, and warehouse portions of the inn.  He






     R. Cliff Young                                                      5


                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



     entertained a brief thought of walking out on the docks to get one
     last glimpse of the Uirthan sun, Solarius, but decided against it.
     
          Corson rounded another corner, and walked towards the door to his
     room, which was the only door on the right wall of the hallway, and
     near its end.  It faced one of two hallways that branched off of this
     one.  The room was the Inn's most expensive, and largest, and it had a
     nice, large window facing towards the rest of Havenport to the
     southwest.  Corson waved his hand, temporarily removing the Wizard
     Lock he had magicked the door with.  He stepped through, picked up the
     staff leaning next to the door, and then turned and tapped the door
     with the staff while uttering the necessary and arcane words,
     dispelling the Wizard Lock permanently.  If he did not do so, Croety
     would probably fly through the roof next time Corson stopped by the
     Inn.  Croety may have been old, but he had a vicious temper when
     irritated.
     
          Corson gathered up what little equipment he had.  A magic quiver
     that held all his weapons . . . into this he placed all his remaining
     arrows and the longbow.  He picked up the backpack, equally dweomered,
     and ensured that it held enough food and water for emergencies and all
     his spell books.  He then checked out another dweomered article, a
     girdle with eight magicked pouches that held any and all spell
     components he could find, as well as all his money.  He then picked up
     two arcane appearing rings, placed one on his right hand, the other on
     his left.  The right ring merely enhanced his spellcasting ability for
     lesser spells.  The left ring, however, healed wounds that he acquired
     by draining the life-force from any wounds he inflicted.  He often
     chose not to wear that ring except in the face of imminent and
     thoroughly evil danger.  He was trained to kill, but benefiting from
     the life-force of others, as if he were a vampire or other undead
     creature, was almost against his nature as an elf, though not enough
     against his nature to prevent him from wearing it when facing a
     dragon, or even one of the lowly and despicably evil Drow, or dark,
     elves.
     
          What Corson was about to do could end him up in the middle of a
     dragon's lair, or on another world, or in the chambers of Lolth, the
     demon queen of the Drow who dwelt on one layer of the Abyss.  He wore
     the vampire ring now as a precaution.
     
          He strapped on his chain mail.  It was of elven make, and thus as
     quiet and light as if he was wearing leather or even cloth.  Over this
     he replaced his dark green cloak with one as black as the Void.  He
     placed the green cloak in one pocket of his backpack, and then slung
     the pack over his back, strapping it into place.  From the quiver, he
     summoned up his most powerful weapon next to his mage's staff -- he
     called the longsword "Protector," for that was its function exactly. 
     Its enchantment could be used entirely for attacking, or optionally
     for Corson's defense as well.  When fighting thus, it seemed the sword
     played a key role in determining the proper strikes, thrusts, parries,
     and even dodges.  He placed the sword on the bed next to the staff and
     slung the quiver over his right shoulder.  Finally, he strapped on the






     R. Cliff Young                                                      6


                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



     girdle of pouches, grabbed up the sword in his right hand, the staff
     in his left, then stood in the center of the room, hands
     outstretched.
     
          The words he began to utter echoed uncannily about the room as
     all became dark.  Then, as he finished the eldritch words of command,
     the staff began to glow with a bright blue light.
     
          Suddenly the staff imploded, sending alternating black and white
     rays stabbing at Corson's wide open eyes.  He struggled to shut them
     against the painful image, but could not.  He was now in a silvery
     haze, a cord of silver stretching from him to dissolve into infinity. 
     He opened his eyes, for they had been closed, and saw at once all
     there was, all there had been, all there ever will be.  He saw the
     homes of gods, and the pits of demons.  He saw everything, and yet it
     was nothing.  And then it was worse than nothing . . . it was
     nonexistence . . . it was neither light nor dark, neither empty nor
     full . . . and yet it was at the same time full of light: stars,
     meteors, comets, galaxies . . . he saw all as it could not be seen
     from Uirth.  He saw stars being born in fiery furnaces . . . and then
     saw aged stars either exploding in flaming fury, or withering into
     lumps of ice.  He struggled now to keep his eyes open, to take in the
     wondrous sights as his journey neared its end.  But then the staff,
     knowing where to go, took hold, and darkness descended forever . . .
     
                                     * * *
     
          'The Void sure is wet,' Corson thought, as liquid once again
     splashed against his face.  He then suddenly realized that all he had
     experienced was typical of the form of plane travel he had initiated
     via the staff's powers.  He opened his eyes and saw a wild-eyed demon
     standing over him, worms and maggots oozing forth from his scalp and
     chin, with a large horn sprouting forth from the top of his head, and
     holding a kettle of flaming oil over Corson's head.
     
          Corson shut his eyes.
     
          "C'Mon, lad!" the demon boomed.  "You can't lie here forever!"
     
          'He sure doesn't sound like a demon,' Corson reasoned to himself.
      He opened his eyes again, and saw an old man with a long, scruffy
     beard and similar hair sprouting from beneath a pointed blue hat
     festooned with gold stars and moons.  The old man held forth Corson's
     staff accusingly.
     
          "Why can't you use Guild Portals like every other decent mage?" 
     The old man peered at something on the ground to Corson's right, which
     Corson assumed was his sword, even more accusingly.  "Or are you a
     mage?  Don't tell me on your world warriors now frolic about with mage
     staffs?"  He glanced at Corson then at the staff once more.  "No, I
     suppose not.  You must be a warrior-mage of some sort."  He once again
     looked at Corson with a glance of accusation.
     






     R. Cliff Young                                                      7


                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



          "What's wrong?" Corson queried, trying to look past the old man
     to see if he ended up in the right spot.
     
          "What's wrong?!  WHAT'S WRONG?!?!  Let me tell you, when an
     ARCHMAGE like myself, Nilrem the Great, comes to Enchanter's Ink to
     hobnob with the Elite Enchanters, he comes to HOBNOB!  Not to play
     nursemaid to some lowly NECROMANCER who totes a sword and can't even
     control a mage's staff!"
     
          Corson sat up and grabbed both his sword from the ground and the
     staff from Nilrem's hand.  He then leaped to his feet and stared hotly
     at Nilrem.
     
          Nilrem backed up a bit.  "Sorry, lad . . . it wasn't your fault
     your staff was on the verge of a malfunction.  You should get the
     thing checked once in a while, you know!  The thing was about to blow
     when I fixed it.  I went ahead and recharged the bloody thing too, and
     you KNOW how hard that is!"
     
          Corson decided Nilrem wasn't too bad, and stood back a bit
     himself.  "Sorry for that, Wise One.  I must recompensate you!"
     
          Nilrem stared at Corson with no hint of eagerness.  "Of course
     you must.  Fifty pieces gold."
     
          Corson reached into a pouch and counted out the requested amount,
     plus an extra ten for good measure.  As he placed the coins into a
     similar pouch that Nilrem held forth, he asked, "What exactly did
     happen to me?"
     
          Nilrem waited till the coins were in his purse, then placed it
     beneath the folds of his robe, which was festooned like his hat with
     gold stars and moons on a blue background.  He replied, "Well, when
     you popped in out of the astral plane, an ethereal discharge of the
     staff was released, due to the defect in your staff, in such a way as
     to ricochet off one of our Guild Portals here.  It was reabsorbed by
     your staff, and thus your staff began a recursive buildup of ethereal
     force, which I immediately detected, having been working on a project
     in the main Ink building involving ethereal force.  I managed to
     cushion the ethereal field before it upset the positive and negative
     energy balance in your staff and caused a retributive strike.  I then
     fixed it with a few items I am working on in my project.  All I had to
     do with it was release all the excess ethereal charges, which I
     actually stored in order to recharge the staff, and then realign the
     staff's ethereal channeler.  It was mere simplicity.  That is why I
     charged you so little.  It enabled me to apply some of my ethereal
     distribution flow theories and see them in operation."  He beamed
     proudly.  "They all worked, of course!"
     
          Corson was a wizard, but not one as wise and knowledgable about
     the inner workings of magic as Nilrem obviously was.  He had one last
     question.  "How did my staff get that way?"
     






     R. Cliff Young                                                      8


                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



          "M'Lad, it's an old staff, it is.  Or at least it's been used a
     bit.  It just got worn out.  A magic staff can get 'rusty' just as
     your sword can!"  With that, Nirlem twirled and rushed off towards the
     imposing and towering structure ahead.
     
          Yes, Corson had made it.  He looked about.  Behind him, he saw a
     shimmering field.  A Guild Portal, flanked by the necessary two guard
     complement, though no restrictions were usually placed on who could
     enter or leave.  He could step through that and find himself back in
     the Haven Inn, or in Terserantus City, where he knew one Guild Portal
     was located.  Had he been in Terserantus, he would not have needed to
     use his staff at all to travel to this place.
     
          Yes, this place.  The building that Corson turned once again to
     face was thought by many to be as legendary and wondrous as the homes
     of the gods themselves.  The structure towered above the clearing in
     which it stood.  Around on all sides stretched vast expanses of
     woodland.  Corson had always wondered if there was anything to this
     world besides this clearing, the building in its center, and the river
     which flowed around the edge of the clearing.  It could be thought of
     as a large island on which Corson now stood.  And in the center of
     that island rose the building, THE building.
     
          The building, and the organization based there, was known as the
     Enchanters' Guild by those who spoke formally, and the Enchanter's Ink
     by those in more casual conversation.  It had been founded long ago as
     a storehouse on all knowledge arcane.  Powerful wizards and mages,
     from every world, every universe, every dimension, flocked to the
     Guild Hall, as the building was also termed.  The Hall was home to
     powerful magic-users, no matter what alignment they possessed.  Within
     its confines were said to be the darkest secrets, the deadliest
     monsters, the funniest jokes, and the most beneficial cures.  One day,
     a powerful Archmage named Razele Retsamemag realized that mages
     travelling to the Hall often needed a more "cozy" place to spend the
     night, either by resting in a nice warm bed or telling raucous tales
     and racy jokes by the light of a tavern fireplace.
     
          And thus was born the section of the Hall that Corson now headed
     towards.  The Red Dragon Inn itself, occupying the southeast corner of
     the Guild Hall.  It rose to only two-thirds the height of the
     surrounding Hall, and despite its still awesome height managed to keep
     the sense of quaintness one would expect an inn or tavern to possess. 
     One could look at it and be totally oblivious to the rather plain
     appearance of the main part of the Hall.  The Red Dragon even had the
     obligatory tavern sign, showing, of all things, a Red Dragon.
     
          The Red Dragon Inn was huge.  It had to be.  Humans were not the
     only visitors to its bar and board.  One could reasonably expect to
     find a dragon or two in there, enjoying a halfling's riddle or
     munching on a lamb.  Giants were not uncommon, also.  In fact, the Red
     Dragon Inn was often a virtual potpourri of sentient species.
     
          Of course, the Red Dragon Inn did not serve only magic-users.  On






     R. Cliff Young                                                      9


                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



     the contrary!  Powerful adventurers from many worlds regarded it as
     the "Adventurers' Guild" of time and space.  One found adventurers
     from a wide array of professions and experience within the commons of
     the Inn.  In fact, simple peasants have even been seen in the inn,
     looking understandably scared and confused, most likely having arrived
     via accidentally stepping through one of the many Guild Portals found
     in the major cities and other major areas of many worlds.
     
          If one was seeking great adventure, as Corson was, then one could
     not seek it in a better place than the Red Dragon Inn.  One could find
     expeditions ranging from simple treasure hunts to noble quests for the
     gods or against demons.  Right now, as Corson passed the gargantuan
     stables to his right (yes, many visitors brought their mounts with
     them through the Portals!), he hoped for an adventure between the two
     extremes.  Something challenging, yet not of overly great
     significance.  And it was with this hope that he stepped through one
     pair of huge double doors leading into the inn, storing his sword and
     staff in his arcane quiver.
     
                                     * * *
     
          What many could not get used to upon entering the Red Dragon Inn,
     no matter how many times they had done so previously, was the immense
     scale of the place.  It is simply massive.  So what one usually did
     was select one section of the inn, eliminate all others from the
     conscious awareness, and thus take in the inn one section at a time.
     
          This is what Corson did, and it was just as well that he did it,
     for he managed to spot a familiar face almost right away, tending bar
     near a slightly crowded corner opposite the entrance Corson had gone
     through.
     
          Corson wove his way through the crowd, frequently half tripping
     over some passed out patron sprawled out on the floor.  He managed to
     keep in a more or less straight course as he navigated through the
     maze of patrons, tables, chairs, and wooden supports.
     
          Suddenly something silvery metallic whizzed towards him.  Before
     he had a chance to dodge, the small star struck him on his left, and
     he clutched at his side in agony, feeling the blood seeping out
     between the rings of his dweomered chain and through his cloak.  He
     tore the small shuriken out and stared ahead through the crowd opening
     up before him.
     
          Facing him was a man, more or less his size, dressed all in
     black.  His head was completely covered by a black hood save for the
     eyes which stared through a large slit in the hood.  He had in his
     left hand a small, metallic object that seemed to be all blade,
     another shuriken, and had just drawn forth a wickedly curved sword
     with his right hand.
     
          The figure spoke.  "So, Corson Cotropos!  Fancy meeting YOU here!
      I hear you've got 10,000 gold pieces on your head, and I intend to






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                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



     retrieve them!  Too bad I'll have to cut your head off to do it!"
     
          While the man was speaking, Corson was making judgements, while
     still clutching his side in pain with his left hand.  The man dressed
     as a ninja assassin, a class of assassin that emphasized total mastery
     of the art of stealth combat.  Corson had befriended several ninja
     assassins, and had learned many of their mysterious ways, methods
     which had often been the difference between his life and the life of
     some Terserantus Guild Assassin or other such ruffian.  The ninja
     assassins had originated on his world on a continent separate from his
     own, Uirik . . . the continent Suderland.  Suderland had recently
     begun trade routes with Uirik, and vice versa, but much of the culture
     and traditions of the nations of Suderland remained a mystery to many
     of Uirik.  Corson had the advantage of being able to frequent the Red
     Dragon Inn, however, and adventurers from Suderland or similar
     cultures from other worlds could often be found in the Inn.
     
          Most of the ninja he had known were of a race of humans known as
     Oriental, as opposed to the Occidental majority of his home continent.
      Of course, one or two ninja he had known were elven, but that's a
     different tale.  Suffice it to say that Corson knew that this was no
     more a ninja than he was.  Unless, in some world, half-orc ninjas were
     common.
     
          Time seemed to slow to Corson as he reached back to his quiver. 
     The pain in his left side was distant; the mild throbbing of the ring
     on his left hand was all too evident.  As he was drawing forth his
     most enchanted of swords, he noticed the half-orc begin to pull his
     left arm back for a throw.  Ninja or no, the half-orc could stand a
     good chance with no intervening crowd.  Protector was free of the
     quiver.  Corson now steadied the blade as the half-orc was preparing
     to reverse the direction of his arm and thus commence the throw.  As
     he noticed the half-orc's arm stop momentarily, Corson lunged forward,
     forcing the blade into the half-orc's neck as if it were a thrusting
     spear.
     
          The blade pierced the half-orc's neck almost clean through, as
     the shuriken and curved ninja-to clattered to the ground.  Blood from
     the half-orc's jugular vein sprayed out momentarily, splashing into
     the wine glass of a nearby gentleman in foppish clothes.  The half-orc
     collapsed into a heap at the dandy's feet.
     
          Corson knelt down to the body and retrieved the sword.  As he
     grasped the hilt, he noticed the ring on his left hand glowing a
     bright amber hue.  He felt the wound in his side slowly closing.  The
     enchantment of his chain was such that any broken links would mend
     themselves in a similar fashion.  His cloak, however, would need a
     spell and a good cleaning.  Wiping the bloodied sword on the
     half-orc's uniform, he turned to the gentleman at whose feet the body
     lay. The dandy was now sniffing at his glass of wine.
     
          "Sorry about the mess," Corson apoligized.
     






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                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



          "No problem, good sir!" the fop replied.  "I say, it DOES improve
     the bouquet a bit!" he continued, sipping appreciatively at the
     contents of the glass.
     
          Corson smiled politely, quivered the sword, and quickly left,
     leaving the body to the four kobolds and kobold cook who had come up
     with a measuring rope to size the various possible cuts for their new
     dinner acquisition.
     
          He finally reached the barkeep he had been aiming for.  Prospero
     was a self-termed "retired wizard" who enjoyed the life tending bar at
     the Red Dragon.  Right now he was trying to get a slumbering patron's
     face out of a bowl of peanuts.
     
          Prospero looked up as he heard Corson seat himself at the bar. 
     "I say, Corson Cotropos!  It's been a while ere I saw you last!  Would
     thoust like a tankard of ale to moisten your lips?"  He was about to
     turn to fetch the aforementioned tankard when he noticed the remnants
     of Corson's wound.  "I say!  You've been bloody wounded!" he
     verbalized in mock horror.
     
          Corson smiled.  "No, Prospero, 'tis just a tear in my cloak and a
     bloodstain to give it color!"
     
          Prospero continued his look of sheer horror.  "That simply will
     NOT DO for a friend of mine walking about in such a fine place as this
     with such a DISHEVELED appearance!"  He uttered a few brief cantrips. 
     Corson watched in amusement as the tear mended itself, and then the
     bloodstain slowly disappeared.
     
          "Prospero, old buddy!  You still seem keen on bandying about
     spells with little or no reason or provocations!  Why don't you turn
     your talents towards eliminating the disease that one there so
     obviously suffers from!"  Corson pointed at the snoring dwarf still
     facedown in the peanut bowl.
     
          Prospero clasped his head in mock exasperation, and shook it from
     side to side in defeat.  He then smiled and shrugged his shoulders,
     then turned to fetch and fill a tankard of ale for Corson.
     
          A slurred voice issued forth from the dwarf, still resting his
     head face down in the bowl of peanuts.  "I heard that, Corson!  Don't
     think because you didn't mention my name I didn't know you were
     talking about me!"  The dwarf snorted, causing a few peanuts to fly
     out of the bowl.  "Sheesh!  You guys just DON'T know how to appreciate
     fine drink the way I do!"
     
          Corson chuckled.  The voice, as well as the body, belonged to
     Brannon Greycloak.  A stout dwarf, even more fit and able when sober
     (which was a most rare occurrence), he had often joined Corson on
     adventures and expeditions.  He did so well Corson often wondered
     whether the perpetual drunken state was just an act, and the mind
     beneath those bushy brows was a beehive of activity and






     R. Cliff Young                                                      12


                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



     concentration.
     
          Prospero returned with a nearly overflowing mug of ale.  He
     swatted at Brannon's automatically outstretched hand, and set the mug
     down in front of Corson.
     
          Corson took a sip of the warm, frothy liquid, and smiled.  "Ah! 
     The Dragon's ale is as stout as ever!"  He took a longer swill of the
     golden hued ale.
     
          "You know, Prospero . . . I had two assassins attempt to kill me
     today.  TWO!  Sometimes I wonder if some assassin will be a little bit
     too quick with the bow, or a little too heavy on the blade."  Corson
     sighed and took another sip.
     
          Prospero nodded.  "So THAT's where the stained rip in your cloak
     came from!  Don't worry, though, Corson . . . the assassins will stop
     coming someday!"
     
          Corson suddenly felt the cold blade of a dagger pressed against
     the back of his neck.  A hissing voice spoke in his ear: "Sso! 
     Corssson Cotropossss!  My brothser over there may be the guest at a
     sspessshial kobold banquet, but the orbssss I ressseive for your
     measssly head will buy me many more like him!"
     
          The voice then hissed loudly -- and ceased, followed by a loud
     thump behind him.  Corson half turned his head, and saw the cloaked
     form of a lizard man, blood swelling from a gaping knife wound in his
     chest.  Corson then turned to his right.  Brannon was there, still
     face down in the peanut bowl, wiping the blood off the dagger he held
     in his left hand on his scraggly hair.  Brannon finished, sheathed the
     dagger at his side, and flashed Corson the "thumbs up" gesture --
     without once lifting his head from the peanut bowl.
     
          Corson faced Prospero once again.  "Someday . . ." he agreed.
     
          Prospero smiled, and then bustled off towards a knight whose
     dragon mount was MOST interested in acquiring the tender morsel of
     meat now lying at Corson's back.
     
          Brannon sneezed, sending peanuts, lizard man blood, and the gods
     know what else flying off in all directions.
     
          Corson smiled and brushed a few peanuts out of his hair. 
     "Someday," he echoed with a faint hint of hope, as he once again
     raised the tankard to his lips.
     
                                     * * *
     
          Ribnor walked slowly, miserably through the dimly lit halls.  He
     always dreaded news like this.  He always feared the Guildmaster's
     reaction.  He finally reached the oaken door that was, unfortunately,
     his destination.  He knocked, almost hesitantly.






     R. Cliff Young                                                      13


                   SOMEDAY, THE ASSASSINS WILL CEASE TO COME



     
          A loud voice boomed.  "WHAT?!?"
     
          "Ribnor here, with some grave news."
     
          A loud commotion, some swearing, then hasty footsteps.  The door
     flew open, revealing the huge form of Pjarnic Trask, Guildmaster of
     the Terserantus Free City Assassins' Guild, dressed in purple
     bedclothes.  Ribnor's skilled eyes picked out the cringing form of the
     slave girl, barely fourteen, partially hiding behind the Guildmaster's
     bed, eyes widened with fear.
     
          "WHAT!?!?" Pjarnic yelled with impatience, drawing Ribnor's
     attention from the miserable girl.
     
          "Uh . . . our spy in Havenport tells us that the Dartsman has
     failed.  Corson Cotropos still manages to evade us!  The Dartsman is
     the THIRTEENTH assassin of our Guild to be murdered by that traitor!"
     
          Pjarnic thought for a few seconds, obviously trying to remember
     who the hell Ribnor was talking about.  "Ah yes . . . the traitor.  We
     need more incentive.  Double the headprice."  He turned back into his
     room.
     
          Ribnor stopped him, acting rather bravely considering Pjarnic's
     notable temper.  "But sir!  That would be TWENTY thousand orbs!"
     
          Pjarnic whirled angrily around, and Ribnor feared the end was
     near.  But the Guildmaster composed himself, and spoke.  "Yes, that is
     too much.  Who is our best assassin?  Our best FEMALE assassin?  Our
     best and most attractive female assassin?  Someone this traitor might
     take a fancy too?"
     
          Ribnor did not hesitate in answering.  "That would be Lhassia,
     sir.  She is of grey elven blood."
     
          Pjarnic turned back into his quarters.  "Send her to my chambers
     tomorrow.  I've a special task for her."  The Guildmaster slammed the
     door behind him.
     
          Ribnor breathed a sigh of relief, then walked briskly away from
     the door.  As he continued about his rounds, he had the faint hope
     that Lhassia would not find out he had suggested her name as the next
     to go after Cotropos.
     
                             TO BE CONTINUED . . .
     
                                     -=-=-
                                                                           










     R. Cliff Young                                                      14




