Assassin's Quest

by Jon Kiln

  As Rothar slowly approached the downed tree, Stormbringer moved broadside behind him, protecting his back. A horse as wise as Stormbringer is a rare beast, and one essential to anyone wishing to live long in the Banewood. Silence reigned in the wood as Rothar moved close to the log, sword ready. Just as he was about to lean into the bark of the tree to peer over the far side, Stormbringer snorted loudly.

  Rothar spun back to see what his horse was alerting him to, but the steed simply stared back at him with some degree of animal intensity. Then Rothar understood. Turning back to the stump, he nipped at some of the vines growing around the trunk and held them up to the moonlight on the tip of his sword.

  Quietus.

  The deadly vine would bring down any horse that brushed against it, and kill any man that touched it, instantly.

  Rothar shook the mortal plant off of the end of his sword and doused the blade with water from his flask, before sheathing it.

  “Thank you, old friend,” he said to Stormbringer. “You are right, as always. We shall go around.”

  Rothar took his horse by the bridle and began to lead him around the massive tree. Well off the trail, in the dark shadow of a massive evergreen tree, both of them fell still at the same instant.

  Something was not right. An indefinable, instinctive alarm went off in Rothar’s head. It may have been a sound too small to realize he had heard it, or a scent too faint to register in his conscious mind, but something in the darkness had changed.

  Without a thought, Rothar drew his sword and wheeled around. He felt the tip of the blade catch something soft, and a man’s voice cried out, very near. Rothar kicked forward with the sole of his boot and drew a loud grunt from the man. He followed the grunt with his shoulder and drove the invisible stranger into the forest floor with all of his weight.

  Now that he had the advantage of knowing exactly where his adversary was, he drew the magnificent dagger from his boot, raising it up to silence a life. All at once, Stormbringer whinnied loudly and the night lit up with a blazing orange glow. Rothar turned and tried to orient himself in the sudden light. There was a cyclone of tramping hoofbeats and circling torches, no less than a dozen men emerged in a ring of chaos, trapping Rothar and Stormbringer in the shrinking wheel of space beneath the giant evergreen.

  The only other soul in the middle of the trap was the man that he had cut down in the darkness. Rothar rushed to the figure laying on the ground. He was a small man, thin and spry looking. No doubt the slyest of the bunch, which was why he was chosen to sneak up on the unsuspecting travelers who stumbled into this pitch black snare. Rothar prayed to whatever gods would hear him that the man was still alive. If he were dead, Rothar would have no leverage against the whirling clan of murderers.

  When he reached the downed man, he saw that he still drew breath, and even opened his eyes a little as Rothar stood over him.

  Rothar heaved the man to his feet and laid the blade of the dagger across his throat. The hellcats of Banewood followed no law, but were fiercely loyal one to another. Besides fighting the mounted band of brutes single handedly, imploring to their sense of loyalty was his only chance at surviving this encounter.

  Almost instantly, the circling ring of horsemen slowed as one. Rothar could now make out the faces of thirteen surly men, some aged and some merely boys, but every one of them armed with as many blades and clubs as a saddle could carry. Finally, the cavalcade came to a halt. For a long time, the only sound in the night was the heavy breathing of the horses - all except for Stormbringer, who stood as silent and still as his master.

  It was Rothar who broke the silence.

  “If you seek to kill me, your man will be dead before your swords clear sheath. However, if you grant me passage, you may all live through the night.”

  None of the men said a word, nor made any expression. After a long moment, a booming, hearty laugh burst out of the darkness beyond the ring of ruffians.

  “Rothar!” the darkness roared. “You are the same man you have always been! Never missing a chance to slash your way out of trouble!”

  The circle of horses parted, and a towering black steed stepped into the torchlit arena. As large as the horse was, it appeared as a pony beneath the colossus on it’s back. The man dismounted and stood a full head taller than his mount.

  Rothar shook his head, then smiled begrudgingly.

  “Brath, you son of a nephilim, I should have smelled you miles off!”

  The red bearded giant roared with laughter and strode forward to embrace Rothar, having to bend his knees considerably to do so.

  “What brings you to our illustrious grounds? Still mopping up the king’s spilt milk are you?” Brath teased. “Haven’t you earned quarters in that big shiny castle yet?”

  “Better off mopping up messes than stabbing innocent fellows in the dark, I should say,” Rothar shot back. “And you of all people know I’m not fit for castle living.”

  “That is a fact!” Brath roared. “A fact indeed! Well, come now, I have captured you, and I sentence you to drinking much mead with me to ward off the chill of night. You owe me that much for abusing my man so badly.”

  Rothar took up Stormbringer’s reins as he shook his head.

  “I haven’t time for revelry, Brath. You have waylaid me too much as it is. I must be to Thurston by daybreak. Duty calls.”

  Brath nodded knowingly.

  “The call of your duty is the death knell for some poor slob, no doubt. Tell me, has this anything to do with the Southlanders?”

  Rothar looked up at the man quizzically. “Where did you encounter Southlanders?”

  “Here in the Banewood, three days ago,” Barth answered. “We came down upon a small contingent, about twenty men. They flung out a King’s banner when we pressed them. It looked like a counterfeit, but I could not take the chance, so I let them pass. The leader told me there would be more of them passing through, and to leave them be. The whole thing does not set well with me.”

  “Nor I,” said Rothar. “I will inquire of King Heldar about the matter when I return.”

  “Indeed.” Brath was distracted by a bat flitting about his head. With one blindingly swift motion of his giant hand he snatched the creature out of the air and crushed it like a fly, tossing it aside. “Who are you calling upon in Thurston? Any friends of mine?”

  “I should hope not,” said Rothar. “A man called Sleeth, who shall soon be no more.”

  Brath frowned.

  “I know him. I buy seeds from him. Kill him if you must, but bring me as much barley and carrot seed as you can carry. Consider it a toll for safe passage through the Banewood.”

  “I never would have taken you for a carrot man,” said Rothar. “But I will see what I can do.”

  Rothar mounted Stormbringer and began to ride off.

  “By the way,” Brath called after him, “what did you think of my Quietus blockade?”

  “You’re expertise with greenery is astounding, Brath!” Rothar shouted over his shoulder. “In another life you might have made an imposing gardener!”

  Chapter 4

  Rothar rode through the rest of the night without any incident to keep his mind from turning over what Brath had said about the Southlanders.

  There was no conceivable reason that such mercenary savages need be in the realm of the King’s City, without the King’s consent. And had the King consented, Rothar would certainly know about it.

  There was such a general aversion to contact with the Southlanders that, generations ago, the King’s City itself was situated in such a way that the mountains separated the land of the heathens from the King’s stronghold. A century ago, a band of Southland assassins were hired by a wealthy pretender to the throne, crossed the mountains and nearly succeeded in killing King Heldar’s great-grandfather, King Bellnor. After that, Bellnor ordered the construction of the Great Southern Wall.

  The Great Southern Wall was fifteen meters high and five meters thick, dotted all along with arrow sl
its that were guarded constantly. The wall stretched from the Yawning Cliffs which shielded the King’s City from the west, clear to the dense edge of the Banewood east of the city, where the vagabonds halted any unauthorized entrants, and killed most. To the north, the city was protected by the vast Amethyst Sea, and the King’s armada that patrolled it’s foamy depths.

  Southlanders, as a lot, were truly fearsome people. They were and always had been raised to fight, and win, at all costs. As a result, the entire culture of life behind the mountains was one of discipline and mercilessness… and greed. Being that the ground in the south was barren, the primary export was mercenary soldiers. For a price, any man could hire one or a thousand Southlanders to conquer or eliminate any enemy. The task at hand was never questioned, only the price to be paid.

  True, there had been times in Rothar’s life when King Heldar, or his father, King Victar, had employed very small bands of Southlanders to squelch uprisings or intimidate neighboring kingdoms that were encroaching on the borders. But, as a rule, Southlanders were not permitted near the King’s City. Even at times when the crown employed southern mercenaries, meetings with the savages were only held on neutral ground, far away from the city.

  If what Brath said was true, twenty Southlanders were now in the Banewood, with more on the way. Rothar could not think of any reason for this which had a good outcome for the throne, or the city which surrounded the Castle. At one point, he nearly turned Stormbringer around to head back for the King’s City, but his mission was his pledge, and he had never returned to the King without completing his orders.

  As the horizon ahead of him showed the first faint hues of a pink sunrise, Rothar came to the edge of the valley which held the merchant city of Thurston. Gazing down upon the city, he watched the tiny squares of light as people fed their lanterns and went about their morning business.

  Somewhere in the array of speckled lights there was a man named Sleeth, who had evil in his heart, and who had hurt the innocent and the pure. Before the sun reached the top of the sky that day, Rothar would have this man’s head in a satchel, and would be on his way back to King Heldar. The children of Thurston would be safe again, and the blade of Esme would have shed it’s first unrighteous blood.

  Rothar nudged Stormbringer with his heels, and the two of them began the descent into Thurston.

  ***

  This mission was a little out of the ordinary for Rothar, who preferred to do his work under cover of night. Given the choice, he would move about the city all day and re-familiarize himself with the groundwork, as he had not been to Thurston in a couple of years. He would formulate a plan of attack and, as evening drew near, lie in wait for his prey. Unfortunately, that would not be the case today. He knew he could not wait any longer to dispose of Sleeth. Not only would he be running the risk of the devil taking another child, but the troubling matter of the Southlanders gave Rothar cause to deviate from his usual methods. Sleeth would be dealt with as quickly as possible.

  As he entered the city, Rothar drew up the hood on his cloak and lowered his eyes. Working in the daylight necessitated he be discreet. While his murderous actions were secretly commissioned by the King, his position was known to only a few people in the kingdom, and he carried no credentials. If he were ever caught in the act, he may well be hunted and even killed, and no one would ever know who he had been.

  There were no guards at the gateway into Thurston. Rothar let his cloak cover his broadsword. To any casual observer, he looked the part of a lone traveler or a peasant farmer riding into town.

  Riding slowly between rows of stone houses, Rothar steered Stormbringer towards the bustling sounds of Market Street. The street was crammed with people buying and selling. Peddlers shouted and haggled, hawking everything from chickens to candles, fine silk to burlap sacks. Stormbringer pulled up abruptly as a peasant woman dashed in front of him, chasing a goose that had apparently fled its execution.

  It would be difficult, Rothar knew, to separate Sleeth from this throng and get him alone somewhere.

  Seeing a bread dealer that was not presently engaged, Rothar approached and inquired of where he might find a man called Sleeth.

  “I am in need of barley seed. My friend told me to call on him,” he told the baker.

  At the mention of Sleeth’s name, the man eyed Rothar suspiciously.

  “I cannot imagine being so in need of anything that I would go to that bastard,” he spat. “But if you wish to be cheated, you will find him at the end of Durrow Row.”

  Rothar thanked the man for his help, and assured him that he would be very mindful of his dealings with Sleeth.

  Durrow Row was one of several narrow, dank alleys off of the far end of Market Street. While the more legitimate businesses kept to Market Street proper, the side alleys were a roiling mess of wagering houses, brothels and taverns. Tucked in between a tavern and a brothel called “The Pink Leg,” Rothar found Sleeth’s hovel of a shop.

  A sign on the door said that the proprietor was out, but would be returning shortly. This suited Rothar’s plans very well. He moved around to the back of the shop and deftly pried a door open with his dagger, slipping inside unseen. Inside the shop was a turmoil of wares, enough to outfit nearly anyone in any vocation, provided the buyer cared nothing for quality.

  The rafters were hung with shoddy rugs and poorly fashioned horse tack. Every wall space in the room was covered with dusty odds and ends, cheap shields, tin tableware, baskets, flasks, axes, blades, lanterns, tunics and scythes. The middle of the floor displayed what seemed to be Sleeth’s primary products; seeds for harvesting. Large burlap sacks stood leaned one against another in rows, teeming with seeds for every plant the land would yield.

  Not having any way of knowing whether Sleeth would return alone or in company, Rothar searched about for a place to lie in wait. In the far back corner of the room he noticed a set of peculiar scrape marks on the wooden plank floor. The scratches arced out in a quarter circle from the edge of a large oaken shelf that held an array of ugly pottery. It looked as if one side of the shelf had been slid away from the wall repeatedly. Rothar grasped the edge of the shelf and pulled. Surely enough, the shelf moved fairly easily, with a slight grating sound, apparently hinged at the other side. Behind, he found a portal opening upon a steep set of steps leading down into darkness.

  Rothar’s pulse quickened slightly as he realized the gravity of this secret passageway. Not one of Sleeth’s suspected victims had ever been found.

  In a corner of the shop, a stack of torches leaned against the wall. Rothar took one up and lit it from the embers of the still glowing hearth. Pulling the bookcase door closed behind him, Rothar descended into the hidden mouth of Sleeth’s lair.

  The stairway was not terribly long, but spiraled gradually, so that Rothar got the impression that he was heading the opposite direction by the time he reached the bottom landing. He found himself in a corridor not more than twenty paces long, with three closed wooden doors on each side and one iron door at the far end. The walls were made of stone, but the ceiling was of wooden rafters and boards. Rothar could tell by the rhythmic thumping from above that he was standing beneath The Pink Leg.

  The wooden doors all bore heavy metal hasps on the outsides, but none of the hasps appeared to be bolted. Rothar readied his dagger and eased open the first door. When he shone his torch inside, he found a small cell, empty but for a single chain with a manacle at one end and the other attached to the wall. The next door revealed the same scene, but with a small tin water cup on the floor. The remaining rooms were all empty and all fairly identical, save for small, heartbreaking variations.

  In one cell someone had scrawled pictures onto the walls with a chalky stone: flowers and horses, as far as the chain reached. In another, Rothar found a small shoe, not even as long as his hand. The last detail that set Rothar’s blood on fire was the tiny size of each manacle.

  Seething, Rothar checked the iron door at the end of the corridor and found
it locked securely. Just as he was about to set about wrathfully destroying the lock with his sword, he heard a faint bump that was not in sync with the lusty thumping from above. The sound echoed to him from the stairway at the entrance to the hall.

  Rothar flung his torch into one of the stone cells and shut the door. In total blackness, he felt his way swiftly to the stairway and ascended. Once he felt the back of the bookcase, he pressed his ear to it and listened without breathing. Someone was rushing about within the shop, hurrying this way and that, and making an awful racket.

  Rothar leaned carefully against the secret portal and it moved ever so slightly. Through the crack Rothar could catch the occasional glimpse of a slim and harried looking man with blond hair darting back and forth through the sliver of light. The man was talking to himself in a very anxious way, and grabbing all manner goods from the shelves, tossing it all into a large satchel.

  Working his dagger into a crack in the wooden back, Rothar lifted up on the shelf and swung it open silently. The nervous stranger had paused with his back to Rothar, seemingly taking inventory of the contents of his bag. Looking to the front of the shop, Rothar saw the the door was once again locked.

  “Sleeth,” he said.

  The man cried out audibly, spinning around.

  “I get the impression that you were expecting me,” Rothar said, eyeing the satchel full of provisions. “So you planned a trip?”

  The man’s eyes were as wide as onions.

  “I… I am not the man you seek! I do not know this Sleeth!” he stammered.

  “You are not Sleeth?” asked Rothar, eyebrows raised. “You certainly seem to have an intimate knowledge of the locations of all of his wares… and you are as skittish as Sleeth should be.”

  The trembling wretch edged away from Rothar, inching backwards towards the clerk’s table.