The Assassins: Forged In Blood

by Goran Zidar

  “I suggest you refrain from angering him,” she whispered in his ear as they climbed the stairs. “I’ll be going away for a while, so I won’t be around to speak up for you. Don’t do anything that will cause him to doubt the wisdom of saving you.”

  Tallow didn’t reply. His mind was working feverishly to think of a way that he might save himself. No one here was his friend and there was only one thing he could be sure of; nothing was what it seemed to be.

  Chapter 2: Honour Among Thieves

  “Civilisation is but a thin veneer over savagery.”

  - Peter V, King of Arigend

  Early Summer – Year 2118 SA

  City of Gyrlund in the Zeragoth Empire

  Surveillance was never fun.

  Even though the summer sun had long since dipped below the horizon, the hard baked stone of the buildings continued to radiate heat, making the alcove he hid in uncomfortably warm. Sitting outside, cramped, hot, hungry, and bored, while inside the luxury apartment the subject of his surveillance sat in comfort, enjoying succulent food as servants wandered about with pitchers of cool water, made this job particularly unpleasant. It brought home everything that Atilen hated about this life.

  “What am I doing here?” he muttered to himself.

  Atilen, or the Fox as he liked to be called, was not a pretty man: his reddish brown hair was thinning, his eyes were a little bit bulbous, and his nose was too big for his small round head. But despite this less-than-heroic appearance, he was intelligent, and he had a way about him that others found charming. The gods may not have been generous in the looks department, but they compensated him in other ways. Atilen made the most of what he had and always tried to work to his strengths. Cunning and agility rather than beauty and strength: that’s what gave the Fox his edge, and Atilen was quite proud of the reputation he had earned among his peers.

  The emergence of his target snapped him back to the here and now. The woman he was following stepped out of Jodah’s apartment and started walking along the quiet street. She was dressed in a deep red shirt beneath a fitted leather corset, and tight-fitting leather breaches that hugged her dancer’s figure nicely. A dark headband kept her long red hair out of her eyes, and soft leather gloves covered her hands. Atilen had been following her for some time and knew that this woman had some martial training. The well-maintained sword strapped to her side was a warning to any would-be attacker that she was not a person to be trifled with.

  Slipping from his hiding place, Atilen carefully picked his way from shadow to shadow as he kept pace with his quarry, using his substantial skill and experience to follow her without betraying his position. This woman was an important thread in a tapestry of mysteries that Atilen had been trying to unravel.

  Several weeks ago, Greythorne, a colleague of Atilen’s, had gone missing, along with a tall young man he had taken on as his apprentice. Greythorne must have suspected something might happen to him, because he asked Atilen to dig into Jodah’s affairs if he hadn’t been in contact by the end of the month. The date came and went without any word from Greythorne. True to his word, Atilen began to sniff around. In reality Atilen didn’t like Greythorne all that much, but a promise was a promise. Besides, he owed the man, and Atilen always paid his debts. Several months ago Greythorne had saved Atilen from the headsman’s axe, and this was his chance to balance the books. Punishments for even the smallest of crimes in Gyrlund tended to be harsh. Everyone who chose a life outside the law in this city had to look out for one another, and Atilen was not one to take that responsibility lightly.

  Greythorne had told him to look into the merchant Jodah, so Atilen had been doing just that. What he had learned since then made him very curious. Jodah was not all he seemed to be. Despite a façade of privileged retirement, Jodah had regular contact with more than a few shady characters, some of whom Atilen knew personally, and the Fox had spent the past few days following most of them. But the woman he now followed was, in Atilen’s opinion, the most interesting. He was certain that she had something to do with the disappearance of Greythorne and his lanky young charge.

  The woman continued her walk through the poorly lit streets, careful to avoid interacting with beggars seeking food or myst addicts seeking coin. Despite being a major city, Gyrlund had little in the way of organised public services. While most streets had lamps, few of them were lit regularly – a fact that suited Atilen perfectly right now as he pursued his quarry through the city.

  Despite not knowing her name he had learned a few interesting facts about her. She had contact with a number of Gyrlund’s thieves but was not a thief herself – or if she was, she remained aloof from their community, an unwise decision in this city. He knew where she had been staying since she arrived in town, and he’d bribed the innkeeper to let him take a look inside her room. He hadn’t found anything useful there, but he did see that she travelled light: just a backpack, a bedroll, some trail rations, and several changes of clothes. He suspected that she was not going to be hanging around town for very long. Atilen decided that when she finally did leave the city, he would be right behind her.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, scanning the street ahead.

  The woman was no longer in sight. Atilen knew this city well; there was only one way his quarry could have gone, but that suggested that she might be aware that someone was following her. Atilen smiled. He loved a challenge. He had been in Gyrlund for many years, and recalled that this particular alleyway was accessible from a long-abandoned storefront. He made his way there, all consideration for stealth forgotten.

  Atilen quickly had the old shop’s door open. He was careful to make as little noise as possible as he picked his way through the scattered furniture. The darkness inside was almost total and he daren’t risk a light, so his progress was painfully slow. After what seemed an eternity he was standing at the rear door.

  He placed his ear to the wood and listened intently for several heartbeats, but heard nothing. The door was locked with a simple wooden bar, but the wood had swollen from disuse, which made removing it a difficult proposition. With a deep breath Atilen set to work. This was his only chance to get into the alleyway undetected. Bunching his muscles, Atilen brought his strength to bear and lifted the wooden bar out of its cradle. Luckily the task was not as difficult as he feared, and he soon had the door open a crack. He listened once more before stepping out into the alley, and was rewarded for his caution by the sound of quiet conversation: a man and a woman speaking in hushed tones a mere five feet from his current position.

  Atilen froze and waited to see if he had been noticed. When the conversation continued without pause he allowed himself to relax. What luck; he had stumbled onto the woman’s prearranged meeting. Cadinas must indeed be smiling on him tonight; Atilen had a love/hate relationship with the god of luck but for now at least things seemed to be going well. With a wry smile he shook his head and strained to overhear them.

  “... And Carabin wants to be sure his instructions to you are clear,” the woman was saying. “The merchant, Jodah, must be killed. He has become a liability and we cannot let our enemies use him to their advantage.”

  “I’ll kill him tonight,” the man replied.

  “See that you do. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

  “I'm not a child, Tara. This isn’t the first such task he's given me.”

  “I know that, Mykal, but this operation hasn't gone as planned,” Tara continued. “We gained nothing from the two we kidnapped. The old one died without giving us anything and I'm not convinced we'll succeed with the young one, despite Carabin’s plans.”

  “Don't give up just yet; Carabin knows what he’s doing.”

  “I hope so, but I worry that this time he may have gone too far. This isn't an enemy to be trifled with. I just wish he'd tell me more about what he's got in mind.”

  “It’s not his way, Tara. You've worked for him long enough to know that,” Mykal pointed out. “Besides, as much as I fear those we're hunting, I
fear the Emperor much more.”

  “I know you are right. Still, I have my doubts.”

  There was a brief pause in the conversation, followed by the rustle of clothing. Atilen could tell that the pair had paused to exchange a kiss. Clearly they were more than business associates.

  Who had been kidnapped? Who had been killed? Did this mean that Greythorne was dead? And what was this talk about a frightening enemy and the Emperor? Atilen had more questions now than ever before, and he did not like the direction this investigation was taking. Maybe he should just stop now and let this go. Greythorne didn’t appear to be in any position to do anything now. But he could not bring himself to give up. He’d given his word, and to Atilen that meant he would see this through. He wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if he stopped now, and Atilen needed his beauty sleep more than most.

  “When will you make contact again?” Mykal asked. His words snapped Atilen back to the here and now.

  “I’m leaving Gyrlund tomorrow,” she replied. “I’ll meet you in N’Dreki in eight days.”

  The pair kissed once more, then parted company. Tara waited for Mykal to step out onto the street, and then she turned and walked in the opposite direction, past Atilen’s open door and deeper into the alley.

  He had to hurry.

  He closed the rear door but did not bother to lock it. If he was fast enough, he should be able to pick up Tara’s trail once he was back out onto the street.

  Once out of the building, Atilen moved quickly through the streets and rounded the corner in time to see Tara disappear down a second alley. She was moving much faster now, no doubt heading for her room at the inn.

  Atilen had to run from corner to corner to keep her in sight. Thankfully the streets were all but deserted, so he did not have to contend with bustling crowds – but running did risk the attention of the town militia. He reached the last intersection just as Tara entered the inn. Atilen slowed to a walk.

  He went inside and sat in the common room long enough to be sure that she would leave again. He planned his next step. It was still a few hours until midnight, and Atilen needed to find out where N’Dreki was. Thankfully, he knew someone that could help him with that – but Bran was very likely drunk, and at this hour it would take all of Atilen’s charm to extract the information from the well-travelled dwarf. He finished his drink with a grimace and left the building. He was not looking forward to this.

  Bran was probably one of the few people Atilen called a friend, and he knew that the feeling was mutual. Bran had not lived an easy life. A man who was barely four feet tall had some serious problems to overcome, especially in this part of the world. Bran had struggled his way past the prejudice, snide remarks, and questions about his manhood, and made something of himself. A successful hunter and tracker, Bran knew more about the lands surrounding Gyrlund than most, and he was highly sought after as a guide. Bran loved the wilderness and despised the city. Whenever he was forced to be in town he existed in a state of perpetual drunkenness to ease the pain.

  Atilen reached his destination – the Purple Haze, a myst house on Crossley Street – and entered through the front doors. Despite the lateness of the hour its doors were never closed. It was open all day, every day, and all were welcome provided they had money and a strong constitution.

  The ground floor consisted of a large open area much like a tavern, except where a tavern would be brightly lit with tables and chairs, the Purple Haze was kept dark and offered cushions and low benches. The air in the common area was filled with the haze that gave the business its name. Smoke from the myst pipes combined with cheap wax candles and tinged the air purple. Many first-time visitors here found the suffocating combination more than their stomachs could handle.

  Atilen stood by the door and scanned the room, hoping to find Bran. He eventually spotted Bran in his usual spot by the fire, which – despite the uncomfortable heat of summer – was burning fiercely. The room had a few other occupants, but none paid Atilen any attention, focussed as they were on the visions inside their heads.

  Bran looked up as Atilen sat down and gave him a slack-faced smile as he struggled to keep his head from lolling. He was deep into his pipes tonight, and it would be morning before Atilen could get any sense out of him. Through long experience Atilen knew better than to attempt to coerce Bran into leaving. He leaned forward and blew out the flame at the base of the pipe. Bran didn’t notice what Atilen had done. Atilen lay back to wait for his friend to come down from his drug-induced high and promptly fell asleep.

  “Wake up, you thoughtless bastard!”

  Atilen felt somebody shaking him awake and opened his eyes to see Bran leaning over him with a murderous look in his eye. It took Atilen a little while to remember where he was; his normally quick mind was addled by the drug-filled smoke in the room. He was not going to enjoy the next few hours at all.

  “I said wake up!” Bran shook him once more.

  “Stop shaking me, I’m awake,” Atilen said as he pushed the dwarf’s hands away.

  “Good,” Bran grunted, then drew back his arm and slapped Atilen firmly across the face.

  “What was that for?” Atilen said, the pain from the slap helping him to focus.

  “You know exactly what it was for,” Bran said accusingly. “You blew out my pipe and now I’m awake in this cesspool.”

  “I need you to take me somewhere,” Atilen explained, still rubbing his chin. Bran snorted and said nothing. “N’Dreki, have you heard of it?”

  “I know it. It’s not a pleasant place and it’s not a pleasant journey. Why do you want to go there?”

  “Paying a debt, you know how it goes.”

  Bran looked at his friend for a long while without saying a word. He knew from personal experience how seriously Atilen took his obligations. If his friend needed his help now, then he would gladly give it.

  “Fine, I’ll take you it’s about time I got out of this crap hole of a city. Meet me at midday outside the South Gate and pack lightly. We’ll be walking overland for about a week through some pretty bad country.”

  Atilen nodded.

  “And make sure you bring your weapons. That area is lousy with orks, and they won’t take kindly to the likes of us.”

  Chapter 3: The Great Outdoors

  “Paradise is always on the other side of a wilderness.”

  - Havelock Ellis

  Early Summer – Year 2118 SA

  Disputed Lands South of Gyrlund in the Zeragoth Empire

  After two uneventful days travelling south through open grassland, Atilen and Bran left the little-used road and headed west into the hills. The going soon became much harder, and Atilen was not looking forward to another four days of travel as they made their way over the rocky hills toward N’Dreki.

  Once away from the city, Bran was a different man, and it was clear that he felt most at home beneath the stars. The city was like a prison for him but out here he was truly alive. Bran usually travelled in silence, and as the day wore on he regretted not packing a pair of earplugs to block out the almost constant stream of whining that emerged from Atilen’s city-born mouth. By the time they reached a suitable campsite Bran was ready to stuff his friend’s mouth with cloth and gag him.

  “Tonight’s the last night we’ll have a fire,” Bran said as he expertly arranged the wood.

  Atilen looked stricken. “Why’s that?”

  “It’ll attract orks. There’s no need to go out of our way to tell them we’re here.”

  “Great,” Atilen sighed. “I knew there was a reason I preferred the city.”

  Bran snorted. “You’re soft. We don’t need a fire to stay warm out here. It’s the height of summer and the stones hold the day’s heat almost till sunrise.”

  “It’s not the warmth I’ll miss.”

  “What then?”

  “A cooked meal, a comfortable bed,” Atilen said, as if these things were obvious. “I could deal with sleeping on grass but how can anyone sleep on that?�
�� He indicated the rocks at his feet.

  Bran laughed. “Never you mind, I think I have the solution in my pack.” The small man reached into his backpack and withdrew a wineskin. “Get a few belts of this into you and you won’t feel a thing.”

  Atilen looked shocked. “Didn’t you say there were orks out here?” Bran nodded. “I can’t drink myself senseless when I need my wits about me to stay alive.”

  “Then quit your whining and start being useful for a change,” Bran said as he returned the liquor to his pack. “We need more wood.”

  “Why do you even have that?” Atilen asked as he rose to collect the wood. “I thought you only drank in the city.”

  “I do,” Bran said flatly. “I brought it for you.”

  * * *

  The following morning the pair awoke and continued on their journey. Bran greeted the day as though he had slept in the lap of the gods, while Atilen looked as though he had been beaten with a stick. Their route took them across a landscape dominated by large boulders and rolling hills. Vegetation was limited to tough grasses and a few hardy shrub-like trees that grew in scattered clumps in the small valleys between the hills. Bran spent the whole day espousing the virtues of the area and pointing out interesting rock formations or unusual flora and fauna – anything to keep his companion from noticing his discomfort. Bran explained that the trees indicated that there was water nearby, and if their water-skins ever needed to be refilled their best bet was to dig at the base of a tree. The area was teeming with wildlife, so there was no risk of either of them starving. Even though Atilen was not really listening to the dwarf’s educational titbits he did welcome the conversation, as it made the travel that much more bearable.

  As the sun set they hunted around for a suitable place to make camp. They took turns keeping watch at night, as they were crossing the region where ork tribes sometimes ranged to hunt for food. Ork hunting parties could consist of as many as five well-armed hunters, sometimes accompanied by wild dogs or even wolves. The pair agreed that it would be best for them to avoid any contact with the pig-faced brutes.