Tentacles from the Deep

An apprentice warlock gets quite a shock when he pulls a beautiful, sinuous mermaid queen from the deep...

It had been five hours since the command trickled through the dark ranks. Well... to be more precise, four hours, fifty-three minutes, sixteen seconds and counting.
Ethan of Saxet was set to become the next Warlock of the Dark Order. At thirty-four, he’d be the youngest to do so since Gregory Appleton of the Fall—if he could collect the correct ingredients, of course.
The ascension tincture, however, was no small thing. Aside from the usual, easy to collect components, he’d need fresh gizzard of Albatross cured in the piss of a moon-bred mare. Then, as if that wasn’t hard enough, he’d need to collect the passion-screams of a silverfinned Siren—a tropical breed of Mermaid hunted to the brink of extinction a decade ago. They’d only just begun to repopulate, the poor creatures. No doubt they’d be skittish, considering their value on the flesh markets in the Coltish Isles.
Ethan shook his head, wondering just how he’d manage to pull it off before the third blood moon of the season. It wasn’t a reasonable amount of time to make the impossible happen. Not at all. But ‘impossible’ hadn’t stopped him before, had it? No... just ask the Giblish Tree Fliers. They’d be using his name to scare their children for a thousand generations to come.
A slow, dark smile spread across his lips. If his sources were correct—and they were always correct—there was an illegal Albatross breeder living in the Northern Mountains.

* * *

In the end, it hadn’t taken more than the hiss and pop of an apprentice Warlock teleporting into the town hall to get the information he needed. Ethan’s nose wrinkled—teleporting always left his robes reeking with the stench of sulfur, and when one was in the business of intimidation, rotten eggs was not the scent of choice.
“Good day, Breeder,” Ethan murmured from deep within the shadows in the dank, mountainside cabin. “I’m seeking something I’m told only you can provide.”
“Ah,” the breeder hummed, taking a long pull from the opium pipe pinched between his slender fingers.
Ethan glared through the haze of smoke, taking in the slight green tinge of the breeder’s skin, the long pointed talons, the delicate curve to over-long ears. An Undlesian Septem. A halfbreed from the southern hills. Rare in these parts, but it explained the Opium. Most couldn’t handle the potent mix of herbs and drugs... but an Undlesian Septem? Bah, no doubt the halfbreed could smoke that shit all day and still swindle a man out of hearth and home. With an irritated snort, Ethan broke off a slice of the Sibian root he kept on his person—it would keep his mind sharp and free of poison for as long as he continued to chew it. But it was costly stuff, rarer even, than finding a halfbreed free of bondage or chains this close to the city.
“And how can this freeeeman be of service to a ‘prentice Werrlock?” the halfbreed hissed, puffing smoke in Ethan’s face.
“Don’t fuck with me, Breeder,” Ethan snapped, swatting at the opium cloud. “It would be foolish in the extreme.”
“No, no, no, ‘prentice. I knows. I knows. Only one thing ‘prentice Werrlocks want from this freeeeman.”
“Yes, yes. An Albatross gizzard, prepared correctly, if you please.”
“In a hurry, are weee?”
“Mm,” Ethan grunted, eyes narrowed.
“This freeeeman likes a man in a hurry. Yes, he does.”
“If this freeeeman doesn’t produce what I’m asking for,” Ethan sneered, pulling a sparkling Shard of Binding from the sleeve of his robe, “this freeeeman is going to find out exactly why I’m to be the youngest—”
“Ah, but ‘prentice needs more than piss soaked gizzard to complete Ascension. Needs something even rarer, this freeeeman knows. Silverfinned Siren screams, yes?”
Ethan put the Shard of Binding back in the hidden pocket. “I’m listening.”
“What if this freeeeman knew of a slave market, specializing in the capture of Silverfins? What might that be worth to a ‘prentice?”
“How about I leave here without disemboweling you and using your skin for a pretty cloak, hmm?”
“Heh, this freeeeman doesn’t doubt the ‘prentice’s words, but...”
Ethan sighed, halfway to amused by the Undlesian’s antics. “But?”
“Well... this freeeeman knows of the great benefit of partnership between… sssimilar mindsss.”
At this, Ethan laughed aloud. “You dare—”
“Ah, no, no,” the Undlesian replied, cutting him off. “No, no, no. This freeeeman only wants to know what it would be worth to a ‘prentice Weerlock. To be handed what he needs, hmm?”
“What, you want money?” Ethan snapped, rummaging through yet another pocket within his robe for his coin purse.
“Ah, no, no, no,” the Undlesian hummed, taking another long haul of opium. “This freeeeman has a prosperous business, yes? Has no need of more money.”
“Then what?”
The Undlesian smiled a toothy, rotten smile. “Only one thing can the ‘prentice offer, this freeeeman needs.”
“I’m beginning to lose my patience,” Ethan barked, fingering the sharp edge of the Shard within his pocket.
“Favor. Freeeeman wants favor from youngest soon-to-be-Weerlock.”
For a moment, Ethan was silent. And then, “A favor from a Warlock is no small thing to ask for, Breeder.”
“Freeeeman will throw in piss soaked gizzard for free.”