by RG Long
“What are you doing here?” Serinde said, recovering herself and getting ready to pounce on this child. Did she even realize what she had put them through? Jurrin was in near tears when he realized she had left. Blume was madder than Serinde had seen her and Ealrin was white as a ghost.
This little girl had put them all into panics. Not to mention Serinde had nearly been caught by the King’s and Temple Guards for her trouble of coming to look for her! And here she was, peacefully praying. How irresponsible. How immature. How...
Serinde stopped fuming when she looked at Olma’s face. The girl’s eyes were red and her nose was running. A single tear came down from her eye as she met Serinde’s gaze.
“Don’t...” she began to say quietly. “Don’t be mad at me.”
The elf stopped short. She was mad at her. She was mad at her for getting everyone upset and nearly getting her captured and who knows what else.
But if anyone in their party understood grief, it was Serinde.
She let out a deep sigh.
“It’s hard to be without your family,” she said, looking at the pillar Olma was bowing to.
Olma didn’t speak. She didn’t say anything. She just turned back to the pillar and moved the fingers on one hand slowly. Serinde heard a soft clicking noise.
“What’s that?” she asked, indicating Olma’s hand with a nod.
The little girl stopped her hand moving, as if she didn’t know she was doing it. She looked up at Serinde sheepishly.
“You don’t know anything about Ladism do you?” she asked.
Serinde could tell she didn’t mean any insult by the question. There was no malice or hate in her eyes. She was clarifying a fact. The elf didn’t know anything about this strange land, its customs or its worship.
“Why don’t you tell me?” she said, making herself more comfortable next to Olma. “What are these things in your hand? Are... are they rocks?”
For a moment, Olma looked down at her closed hands. Serinde feared she may have said something insensitive or offensive, but the little girl slowly opened her hands, revealing what was inside them.
Two rocks that would have looked plain and ordinary were it not for the markings that they bore. They were slightly similar, but distinct all the same. Black edges surrounded what looked to be very small lines in the hard rock.
Olma held them like they were treasures.
“In Ladism, you say goodbye to people who...”
She took a breath and Serinde didn’t know if she should put an arm around her or just continue to sit and listen. Resting her hand lightly on the girl’s back, she felt her shudder just a bit, her breathing coming in big gulps. She listened.
“Who died,” Olma continued, though her voice was shaky. “By carving their names into a stone and placing it at the pillar they chose in life.”
Serinde decided it was time to put an arm around Olma, because tears began to flow from her freely, though she continued to speak. Others walked by them without a word, seeming to know what was going on. Or, at least, to understand someone in pain.
“This is my mother’s stone. Fera. She was so pretty and creative and caring. This... this stone is father’s. His name was Ortas. He was kind. And brave. And he was so strong.”
She couldn’t get any more words out after that. Serinde was impressed she was able to speak for so long talking about her parents. It wasn’t long before she felt real tears coming down her own cheeks. She, too, had lost those she loved so dearly. Her father and mother. Her sister.
“My father died almost a year ago,” Serinde found herself saying. “He was a wonderful father who loved my sister and me very much. My mother died before he did, many years ago. My sister...”
She struggled to form the words. She hadn’t said them out loud to any in their company, though she was certain they knew she grieved. Her spirits had been so low for so long, they had to have known.
“My sister... My sister died recently,” she finished, speaking through her own salty tears. A slight breeze blew through the pillared courtyard. It felt cool against Serinde’s wet cheeks.
“I miss them greatly,” she said. “And I’m so sorry for your loss, little one.”
Serinde felt Olma reach an arm around her. It was taking all of her effort not to weep uncontrollably. She felt great sobs escaping her like great gulps of air. The little girl held her, and she returned the embrace.
For a moment, they were not two foreigners, separated by culture and distance. For one solemn breath, they were two who had lost loved ones, comforting each other. And for a long time, they just sat by the pillar. Olma held her stones. They shed their tears together.
And when the suns had drifted over the city, and darkness was beginning to settle over them, Serinde felt like it was safe to come out from their hiding place and go back to the Green Rose; and that, maybe, she was ready to begin to heal wounds she had not yet realized were still so deep and fresh.
Hand in hand, they found their way back to the inn.
9: The Wolves of Ladis
Silverwolf was out at night again, prowling the streets, looking for her next target and hoping to attract him before too long of a time went by. This was supposed to be her last intel mission and she was keen to move on to something less predictable. Men stalked her every move. The ones she wanted to avoid, she did so with ease.
These streets were becoming more and more familiar each time she set her trap. There was surely money to be made here, she thought. Yet walking the same streets in the same city bothered her. Or maybe it was something else.
There was also a history that stalked her as well.
She could hardly believe her father was alive, let alone a high priest. The man had been a lowly priest of a smaller kingdom. Silverwolf hadn’t even bothered to look up the name of it.
She was so young when she had been shipped off and treated like a piece of trash. What father sends his daughter off to be sold as a slave? Her earliest memories were of a warm castle, which she guessed now was a Temple of Ladis, and strong arms dragging her away from the man who was forever etched into her mind that day.
Her father.
He stood there. Just stood. And allowed his daughter to be taken by ship, traded and sold like a cow. How dare he still draw breath on Gilia?
And yet...
Yet, Silverwolf couldn’t bring herself to kill him. As soon as she had stepped foot on Ladis the thought had occurred to her that she might hear of what happened to him. He could be dead or alive, rich or in rags. That she might one day even see him. And as soon as that picture of him filled her mind, standing there, arms crossed and looking away as his only daughter was pulled away from him, she decided she would kill him.
That’s what she had become, after all.
A killer.
It was the thing that had freed her from one slave ship and put her on another heading for Ruyn. Without her ability to best others with the sword, she might have been put into a trade that would have taken a darker toll on her.
Which, considering, would be quite a feat.
And yet when she was given the chance to kill the man she blamed her fate on, she couldn’t. She had tipped her bow, changed the direction of her arrow, and shot him in the shoulder, instead of between the eyes as she had planned.
It was a curious thing she felt.
Silverwolf pulled herself back from her introspection when she noticed her mark walking toward her. He was a tall, skinny looking man. Holve said this one had been at one time employed by the king to serve him drinks. Such a man would have heard talk no other servant would be privy to. Surely he knew the last bit of information they needed.
All that was required was to get it out of him.
As he stepped near her, she bumped into him. He staggered backward, looking stunned and she took a step away, taking just enough time to show him the coin pouch she had lifted from his pocket,
“Hey!” he shouted. “Those are my coins! Give those back!”
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The chase was on.
Silverwolf veered off the main street and took an alleyway, hoping to avoid guards and others trying to stop her. She needed to get to a more secluded spot, while at the same time trying to convince the man that he was chasing her because he wanted to get his things back, not because she was luring him into a trap.
She ducked and dodged awnings and barrels that sat outside people’s houses, all while the long-legged man ran after her shouting obscenities and threatening to have her whipped. Silverwolf smiled to herself and thought she’d like to see him try.
After two lefts, she turned around to see if he had managed to keep up with her. She was surprised to see him turn up much sooner than she had anticipated. Perhaps his long legs gave him some advantage over her. He turned the corner and narrowed his eyes at her for a moment before he started.
“You give me back my coins, you harlot, or I’ll...”
The words stopped coming out of his mouth abruptly. Silverwolf looked at him with an eyebrow raised. She had a great comeback line planned and everything.
But she dropped into her defensive position nearly as quickly when she saw the bloody tip of a blade extending out past his naval. Someone in a hood and mask slipped out from behind the man and Silverwolf prepared herself for a fight she didn't expect. The bag of coins rattled to the ground and Silverwolf made a mental note to come back for them when this was done.
The only thing to waste coins on is fewer coins, Silverwolf thought, remembering an old Beaton saying.
Two pairs of feet hit the ground behind her. She spun quickly enough just to take in that there were only three assailants. Laughing to herself at the irony that the hunter had become the prey, she leapt out at the one who had stabbed her target.
The assailant was wearing a black cloak, pants, and a long shirt with gray trimmings. Perfect for blending into shadows and stone walls. A hood hid his head and a scarf wrapped around his mouth hid the rest of his face. Save for his eyes. They burned with a cool fire. Silverwolf had to look into them only for a breath to know she was dealing with a professional killer.
An assassin.
The thrill of battle filled her as she began to hope this night may give her a rush. It had been too long since she had faced a worthy opponent instead of some half-drunk old man. Clutching her blade, she brought it around low, testing her opponent.
He struck out with one blade, while bringing out a second from his back and blocking Silverwolf’s first blow. The second blade that had materialized came down, nearly cutting off Silverwolf’s hand.
Nearly.
She was much too skilled to be dealt with so quickly. Not forgetting her other opponents, she used the moment he had struck down to get behind him and push, hard on his back. She hoped to knock him into his pals and make a break for it.
But the gasp that came from her elbow and shove was not masculine at all.
It was female.
Women assassins? Silverwolf thought. She was equally matched then.
Not taking any more time to think about it, she sped off down an alley, hoping to draw one of her attackers out at a time. One against three wasn’t very fair.
For them.
One of them jumped out and lashed at Silverwolf with a short spear. She turned just as she heard the small grunt of exertion and struck with her handle. Hitting the hand of her attacker, she heard another feminine cry of pain. The assassin had dropped her spear and Silverwolf took it upon herself to relieve her of both her weapon and her breath.
The spear spun and struck so quickly that Silverwolf doubted the girl even saw her own blade spinning into her heart. The assailant fell dead to the ground as Silverwolf continued to spin and run away down the alley, blade and spear in hand.
A large something came whistling through the air and Silverwolf ducked just in time to see a stone bowl fly over her head and smash against a wall. One of the assassins was trying to confuse her at best. She ran left, under the protective cover of an awning as more stoneware came hurtling down at her. The second woman must be up on the rooftops, throwing things down at her.
That was an advantage Silverwolf believed she should take away.
She leapt onto a window sill, then a cart, then grabbed hold of a balcony and swung herself up as high as she could reach. A stone outcropping was what she grabbed onto before twisting and throwing herself up onto the roof. The second assassin looked disappointed, but drew her twin blades out all the same.
Silverwolf smirked and thanked the elves in Irradan for teaching her how to cope with such an offense. The masked woman jumped forward, blades spinning in all directions. Silverwolf hunched down and drove her spear up. At the same time, she struck down with her own blade. The woman blocked her blade, but could do nothing about the spear. Silverwolf brought it up and watched it pierce the neck of her attacker, smirking.
She didn't have time to celebrate.
An arrow sailed just past her ear, nipping her hair.
Spinning, she saw the last assassin, the one she had faced off first, holding a small, oddly shaped bow. She was firing it with one hand. That couldn’t be right.
Leaving the spear embedded in the neck of her opponent, Silverwolf leapt aside as another arrow zipped past her. Luckily, this woman was not a very good shot. She backed up on the roof top and made sure she had enough speed for what she was about to attempt.
Running full tilt, she leapt the length of the alleyway, just as the assassin shot another arrow from her single handed bow. Silverwolf took her blade and, daring to attempt it, spun the blade so that it turned the arrow just as it came within a span of her head.
Landing on her toes and rolling, she used her momentum to knock her opponent off her feet and ground her. Her blade was up at the woman’s neck in an instant.
“Right,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Who sent you?”
The assassin used her knee and hand to free herself from Silverwolf’s pin and sliced with her dagger. The blade cut off a section of Silverwolf’s hair. She let out a howl of rage. Her hair was precious to her and this woman had just cut it without any regard for the beauty of her locks.
That was not to be allowed.
The woman ran and leapt into the air to the next building. Silverwolf followed, screaming with rage. No doubt people below them were wondering what in the world was happening three stories up. The cloaked woman rolled and grabbed a potted plant, throwing it Silverwolf’s way. She managed to dodge it, but turned just long enough to lose sight of her attacker.
A scuffle on the street told her that the woman was now below.
“She’s good,” Silverwolf muttered, leaping down to a balcony, then an awning, then a cart and landing on the street with a light thud. She was pounding after the woman just as quickly as she could. Her blade was flashing and people gasped as she blew past them.
The woman took a turn and Silverwolf ran around the same building, but gave it a wide berth. She was glad she had done the same trick before, knowing to dodge the knife that came flying at her. It lodged itself into a sign for a potter. The wooden thunk echoed around her just as the woman grunted her displeasure.
Silverwolf smiled to herself.
She knew this game of cat and mouse. She had been both and knew the parts inside and out. The woman turned and ran further down the street, choosing a path that went slightly downhill. Silverwolf was done chasing this woman. It was time to end this.
Running as quickly as before, she snagged a beat up shield from a Temple guard who was sleeping during his watch.
“Hey!” he said groggily after her. She wasn’t concerned.
She placed it on the ground and stepped onto it, allowing gravity and momentum to do its part. She slid towards the woman at dizzying speeds. Too late, the woman turned to see if Silverwolf was pursuing her. Just as she turned, the white-haired assassin crashed into her at full speed. They landed in a stall of fabrics and the awning came down around them. The owner was swearing and running from the w
reckage. It was messy, but necessary.
This woman had cut her hair.
The two went sprawling onto the stone path just on the other side of the stall. Silverwolf came up on top and landed a punch on the cheek of the cloaked woman.
People were still dispersing from the initial shock of the stall being smashed to pieces. Silverwolf grabbed her by the collar and slammed her once against the hard ground.
“Who sent you!?” she screamed again. Respect for the finesse of this woman had been replaced with a consuming anger.
It took Silverwolf several breaths to realize that the woman’s eyes were wide and unmoving. A thick green substance was leaking from her mouth.
Poison.
“What?” Silverwolf asked no one in particular. She hadn’t poisoned the woman. No one else could have. What in the world was going on?
“Over here!” some people were shouting. “That’s the stall! That one!”
Silverwolf swore and rose to her feet. She was sore, but it was certainly not the time to be found among this mess. Trotting down the street as quickly as she could, she found her way to the alley that would lead to their inn. She would have no information for Holve tonight. There was a moment when she thought about going back to reclaim at least some of the money that was dropped from her original target’s pouch, but that thought left as soon as she turned into the street.
A column of soldiers were marching her way.
Right towards the Green Rose.
“Oh, come on,” Silverwolf said, watching the guards come closer with each step.
Tonight was not her night.
10: Time to Flee
Ealrin sighed as he sat in the thankfully empty dining room. The last customer had left the inn a few hours ago and Deliworth had an empty establishment.
Save for the criminals he was harboring in one room.
Gorplin was carving up a piece of wood that Ealrin was certain used to be a table leg. Looking around the tavern, it was hard to tell which table sat a little lower or wobbled off to one side. They were all a little worn down and ragged. Candles burned low in their holders and not because it was late in the evening. They hadn’t yet become unusable.