Assassin's Quest

by Jon Kiln

  Assassin's Quest

  by Jon Kiln

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

  Chapter 1

  Rothar sat silent, an oblique shadow against the trunk of a massive tree. The morning was cold and frost grew on his cloak, making him all the more indiscernible from the gray bark of the ancient oak. The forest had been alive with snorting and stampings throughout the night, but Rothar had remained motionless. He had not even notched an arrow.

  The archers in the camp where he had grown up were fond of saying, “A shot in the dark is as good as a lost arrow.”

  So Rothar let the creatures have the night. Now, as first light began to break, he moved only his eyes in search of prey. A hare passed by, pausing once. A turkey strutted near for a bit. Neither bore enough meat to feed more than a family. A badger waddled out of the brush, right up to Rothar, sniffing the air. Rothar remained a part of the tree, as if he were made of it, and it of him. After a time, the badger went away.

  A cracking of twigs in the thicket announced the arrival of something larger. Finally, a buck stepped into the small clearing. The majestic animal flicked it’s ears back and forth and scanned the woods. Seeing nothing, he bent his head to graze at the lichens that grew there.

  Rothar slipped an arrow from his quiver without a sound and notched it in his bow. He brought the bow up and drew back, just as the buck meandered forward in it’s grazing, concealing it’s shoulder behind a small tree.

  “Tisk,” hissed Rothar, and the buck stood bolt upright, ears pricked. Rothar loosed his arrow and the animal leapt once and fell dead.

  A murder of crows exploded from a nearby tree and flew off, cawing into the morning sky. Afterwards, the dawn was silent again. Rothar approached the deer and knelt beside it, pulled his arrow and said a prayer to the sky, thanking the gods for sacrificing such a bounty. When he lowered his eyes he saw the north spire of Castle Staghorn, a red banner waved from it’s point.

  Rothar hurried to bind a long leather strap about the buck’s antlers and across his own chest. He began the hike down the mountainside, dragging the beast behind him. The red banner was for him. He was needed at the palace immediately.

  The path down the mountain and into the city took Rothar past the shop of Bester, the butcher. He dragged the buck to the front door and called out for Bester. A moment later, the tall, wiry man came around the corner of the building. He had been out behind, feeding the small sounder of pigs that he kept.

  “Good day, Rothar!” said Bester. “You’ve had fine luck as always, I see!” He gestured to the buck on his stoop.

  “Luck is a myth. The buck knew there were hungry people in the city,” answered Rothar, smiling.

  Bester nodded understandingly. “So, none for you then? Just the witherings?”

  “Whomever of them needs it the most,” said Rothar. “I’ve no time for it anyhow.”

  “You never do.”

  ***

  Rothar entered the throne room without fanfare, his steps silent on the scarlet rug that split the cavernous space. The King sat waiting on an elevated throne of oak and bronze, the Queen was at his left on a seat of iron, inlaid with jade. On the right of the king was Feril, Duke of Baelzpass.

  King Heldar stood as Rothar approached the throne and knelt at the foot of the steps.

  “How many times have I told you? Stand up!” King Heldar said. “Rothar, you kneel to no man, least of all me.”

  Rothar rose, but kept his head bowed.

  “My allegiance is to you, my king. You flew my banner and I am here. How may I be of service?”

  King Heldar leaned in close to Rothar. Seen together, the two men bore a striking resemblance. The king and his servant shared the same wavy black hair and green eyes, although King Heldar’s beard was beginning to gray, and he had the paunch that comes with leisure living, while Rothar was built of the lean muscle of a man who fought for a living.

  “Always business first with you. I suppose it’s just as well,” the King said, “the matter is time sensitive. I need you to act, before any more innocents are harmed.”

  King Heldar returned to his throne and sat down, taking Queen Amelia’s hand in his own.

  “I need you to travel to Thurston at once,” Heldar said. “There is a certain merchant there who needs to be… dealt with.” The King shifted uncomfortably on his throne, a pained look in his eyes as he continued.

  “This merchant, his name is Sleeth. My people tell me he has been taking children.”

  The Queen’s eyes had been pegged to the floor, but she closed them upon mention of the children. Only Feril seemed impervious to the situation.

  “The children that Sleeth takes are never seen again. I have decided it is safe to assume the worst,” said King Heldar, his voice beginning to rise. “There is no place in my kingdom for such lechery. I will not stand idly by while a monster preys upon the smallest of my subjects! I need you to travel to Thurston, locate this devil and…” Heldar trailed off.

  Rothar approached the throne and knelt again, this time the King did not protest. With his left hand on the King’s hand, and his right hand - his sword hand - on the Queen’s, he replied with simplicity.

  “I will reach Thurston by morning. Your man will be dead before midday.”

  Rothar stood and turned to leave. Feril, silent to this point, finally spoke.

  “Your Highness, I feel I must raise a question,” the Duke’s sneering voice rang irritatingly off of the high stone walls of the throne room. “Being that the… victims… of this Sleeth are never found, how is it that we have enough cause to send this crude assassin to dispatch him? Haven't we enough spies in my employ to take care of matters such as these?”

  Feril employed spies in every corner of the kingdom, and had in the past proven his connections quite useful. It was for that reason, and that reason alone, that he sat at the right hand of the King today.

  “I have given your spies quite enough time,” growled King Heldar. “And what of it? All came back silent, and one even turned up dead. Now, I suggest you hold your tongue and say nothing more to insult my honored guest here, or I may send him to visit you sometime.”

  Feril turned as red as the carpets. He rose, bowed to the King and strode briskly out of the throne room.

  Rothar watched him until the doors were shut noisily behind him, then turned to the King with eyebrows raised.

  “I think you hurt your friend’s feelings, your Highness,” he said.

  The King shook his head wearily and grinned as the Queen stifled a laugh.

  “He is no friend to anyone,” Heldar said. “He is just too valuable to lose sight of. His ambitions are his greatest enemy.”

  Queen Amelia spoke for the first time. “Someday he might make a fine flag bearer.”

  All three laughed, but only for a moment. Rothar bowed and told them he would be on his way to Thurston that moment.

  “Shall I return with any memento for you?” he asked.

  “Only the head of Sleeth.” was the King’s reply.

  Chapter 2

  Rothar exited Castle Staghorn through the back, as he always did. His horse, Stormbringer, was waiting by the stables, eating oats.

  “Fill yourself, old friend, we have a long ride tonight,” Rothar said, stroking the horse’s neck.
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  While Stormbringer ate, Rothar inventoried and inspected his weapons. The bow and arrows would stay home. Rothar always traveled light, and he wouldn't be needing them. He only used them for hunting game, anyhow. For hunting man he preferred the blade. He was skilled with the broadsword, which would most certainly make the trip. He checked the weapon. It was as sharp as the devil’s tongue, and he sheathed it on Stormbringer’s saddle. The broadsword was useful, but Rothar’s pet weapon was the dagger. He pulled the blade from the sheath on his boot, inspecting it even though he knew every knick on the blade.

  King Heldar employed Rothar often enough that he never got too attached to any knife, they got too much use. His current blade had been with him for a few bad months, and it was in need of a sharpening.

  Rothar’s only armor was a light suit of chain mail that he wore even now under his gray woolen cloak. With the exception of the dagger, he was ready to ride, so he swung his leg over Stormbringer and rode off toward the shop of Harwin, his friend and the local blacksmith.

  The ride to Harwin’s took Rothar into the heart of the northern part of the King’s City, unofficially called Witherington. The city’s peasantry milled about on every dirty street, peddling wares and hustling any nobility that may chance to pass through their ghetto. Here and there, witherings clutched parcels of deer meat close to their bodies and hurried home. Rothar was glad to see that Bester had already carried out his instructions.

  Harwin’s shop was a wide, squat building in the middle of Witherington. In the front stood the furnace, always stoked. Behind it was a long, shallow room arrayed with every type of metalwork imaginable. Weapons, chains, locks and tableware ranging from simple water cups and plates to ornate chalices, inlaid with shining stones, sat on every shelf.

  Harwin’s work was impeccable, and even some of the City’s nobility came to him for his beautiful wares. The result was that Harwin could have been far less poor than any of his neighbors in Witherington, if he had chosen to keep his income to himself. But Harwin kept only what he needed and distributed the rest throughout the slums, making sure that everybody had enough to eat, and that every orphan had a roof over their head at night.

  Harwin’s generosity was one of the reasons that Rothar liked him so much. It was easy for a man to be crooked, given a certain lot in life, and both Rothar and Harwin could have been quite successful at fleecing the rich and standing on the shoulders of the poor, but both men had devoted themselves to watching over the lowly and meek in Witherington and beyond.

  Rothar found Harwin in the stable by his shop, nailing a shoe to a horse’s hoof.

  “Good day, Harwin!” Rothar called out between swings of the hammer.

  Harwin looked up at him and smiled, swung the hammer once more, burying the nail up to it’s head, and released the horses leg from his grasp.

  “Rothar! Good to see you!” Harwin said good-naturedly. “Do you visit me for pleasure, or has luck run out for one of the kingdom’s miserable wretches?”

  “I’m afraid it is the latter,” chuckled Rothar, “but it is always a pleasure, nonetheless.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Harwin, wiping his hands on his apron. “What matter of business can I assist you with? The sword is looking well, I see. So is it the armor or the dagger that you have abused this time?”

  Rothar drew the dagger from his boot and tossed it up, catching it by the tip of the blade and handed it to Harwin.

  “My blade requires your expert attention, friend,” he told the blacksmith.

  “I should say so,” Harwin remarked, examining the dulled steel. “But, perhaps you would consider an upgrade? Then I can get you on your way more quickly, and justice can be served more swiftly.”

  Rothar cocked his head to the side. “What have you?”

  “Come, come,” said Harwin, gesturing for Rothar to follow him into his shop. Inside, Harwin opened a locked cabinet, withdrew an object wrapped in black cloth and handed it to Rothar.

  “This is to your exact specifications, with a twist,” Harwin said.

  Rothar removed the cloth to reveal a brand new dagger. The blade was longer than his hand and as thin as his finger, per his preference, but this knife bore a beautifully carved wooden handle, while most of his weapons had only very plain, utilitarian grips. He examined the work closely. The cross-guard splayed out from the plunge line of the blade, resembling an open rose. The handle itself was intricately carved to resemble horned vines, intertwined with human bones. At the pommel, a smooth piece of jade was set.

  “This is stunning,” Rothar said as he held out the weapon, checking it’s balance. “I never knew you worked so well in wood.”

  “I do not,” answered Harwin, smiling widely. “Esme is the artist. I only fashioned the blade.”

  “Your daughter made this?” asked Rothar, visibly surprised. The girl was only nine years old.

  “She made it for you,” Harwin replied, and called for his daughter, who was in the back of the shop.

  The little girl came in sheepishly. When she saw that Rothar held the dagger she blushed and looked down.

  Rothar knelt in front of her.

  “This is very beautiful, Esme,” Rothar said in a gentle voice. “But I have to ask, why did you make this for me?”

  Esme looked up at him, her blue eyes framed by raven black hair that spilled down in curls past her shoulders.

  “You protect us all from ugliness. I wanted you to have something beautiful,” was all she said. Then she bowed slightly and returned to the back of the shop. Rothar wondered what kind of amazing art she was creating back there.

  Rothar turned to the blacksmith, feeling a little speechless. Harwin laughed loudly at the expression on his friend’s face.

  “The mighty and mysterious Rothar, stunned by a child!” he shouted, then he lowered his voice and put his hand on Rothar’s shoulder. “Truth be told, Esme asked me when your name day was. I told her I didn't think you had one. She was so heartbroken at the idea that someone would not have a day to be celebrated! She insisted we make you a new dagger. She came by that piece of jade by some means that I know better than to ask about. She said it matched your eyes.”

  Now Rothar feared it was he who was blushing.

  “Call the girl back out here, will you?”

  Harwin obliged and once more Esme tiptoed shyly into the room.

  “You’ve given me this fine gift for my name day, but for all nine of your name days, I’ve given you nothing,” Rothar said. “I seek to remedy that right away.”

  Rothar picked up his old dagger from the table where Harwin had set it.

  “This knife is ugly, it is dull, it is old… but it is also very beautiful,” he spoke softly to Esme. “But I think you are old enough to know, it has taken the lives of many men, all of whom deserved it very much.”

  He handed the knife to Esme, handle first.

  “Your father made me this blade, and it has performed a beautiful service to this kingdom. Now, I pass it on to you, because, like this dagger, you are beautiful and fierce.”

  Esme beamed and held the blade up to the light before scampering off to a corner of the shop.

  Rothar turned to Harwin. “Don’t fret, it’s quite dull.”

  Harwin chuckled slightly as a high-pitched scraping sound filled the air. “Not for long.”

  Rothar turned to see Esme, hard at work sharpening the dagger on her father’s grinding wheel.

  Chapter 3

  Rothar and Stormbringer set out from Harwin’s just as dusk began to fall. The soft light of evening shone golden on the brown wooden shacks of Witherington, making the impoverished neighborhood on the hillside glow like a king’s ransom. The assassin turned his steed around at the edge of town, gazing back at the scene. The highborn nobility in their stone estates knew nothing of the treasure here. It was not a treasure of gold or precious stones, things that can be stolen away in the night, but a treasure of man, woman and child. Pure, hard working souls who amou
nted to more than riches, and were richer than most men by their own virtue.

  As always, Rothar bowed a fond goodbye to this golden slum, in case he failed to return from his mission, and steered Stormbringer back onto the road to Thurston.

  Not far from the city, man and beast entered the Banewood, the thick forest that guarded the eastern edge of the King’s City. Once beyond the tree line, any remaining vestige of evening light was blotted out, and the road was inky dark. Stormbringer was as sure footed and wily as any horse could be, and Rothar let the stallion be his eyes, cantering along with confidence. They would remain in the forest until near dawn, Rothar knew, and they would not stop to rest or eat until they were beyond the trees.

  The Banewood was a shelter and preying grounds to all manner of vagrants and thieves. By this virtue alone it made a very effective defense of the King’s City against any invasion from the east. There was a sort of unspoken agreement between the King’s formal forces and the dangerous men in the Banewood. The cutthroats were left alone in the wood, and in exchange they would rain hell on any foreign contingent passing through from the east, who did not fly the banner of the King.

  As for any other wanderers, there was a strict policy of “enter at your own risk” in the Banewood. It was for this reason that Rothar would ride through the night. A man at rest is always an easier target than a traveler on horseback, and while Rothar could easily dispose of any single ne’er-do-well in the forest, the prospect of battling a gang of them was not something he wanted to waste time with tonight.

  As evening became full darkness, the going actually became a little easier, as a gauzy moon lit the forest floor at intervals, wherever the forest canopy opened to the night sky. A couple of hours after dark, Stormbringer balked suddenly as he approached a downed tree across the road. Rothar knew that Stormbringer wasn't affected by the trunk itself, as his horse would easily jump any obstacle as high as it’s shoulder. He dismounted and drew his sword. In close combat, Rothar almost always reached for his dagger, but in the dark, the long sword’s reach made up for what his eyes could not perceive.