by Avell Kro
Keeping his ear to the door, the Man in White patiently waited for Aram to return to his rooms.
***
“I am not going to give in to this madman; I want him dead when he comes for the information, is
that clear Kravoll? Where are your men anyway?” Aram asked fidgeting on the throne.
“They will be here shortly; it won’t take the guard long to find them and then they will come
straight here. They are out looking for you as no one knew where you went.”
“Wel , I’m here now, and I need your men here for when he comes.”
The Man in White was listening to the conversation from the other room. He had been correct,
Aram would not let anyone in his room,and because he was too shaken from his recent ordeal, he
wanted to be with Kravoll and his men until they had dealt with the situation.
Taking out a small tin of oil from his bag, he poured some on the door hinges to prevent them
making any noise when the door opened. When he was satisfied, he pulled the door slowly not
wanting to cause a draft and disturb the curtain behind the throne. Luck was on his side today; the
curtain was made from a thick cloth and would not have moved even if the door had been opened
quickly. Also, Aram was satin his throne with his back to the curtain, and as he opened the door,
Kravoll turned to pour himself a drink.
The door now fully open, the Man in White slipped a knife from the leather belt around his waist
that contained several such throwing knives, and in his left hand he held a small wooden club.
Stepping from around the curtain, he quickly moved up close behind Aram and hit him hard
across the back of the head cracking his skull and rendering him unconscious. Hearing the
disturbance, Kravoll turned, his sword already in his hand, but it was too late. The knife was buried
deep in his head before he could register anything and his lifeless body fell to the floor with a
thump.
Moving quickly, the Man in White retrieved his knife, cleaning it on Kravoll’s tunic and opened the hidden doorway, dragging Aram into the tunnel and up the stairs. Away from the room below,
leaving only Kravoll’s body lying in a pool of blood, he dropped Aram’s body on the stone floor and
kicked him in the ribs, breaking more than a few, but having the desired effect of waking Aram.
Before he could cry out in pain, the Man in White stuffed a cloth in his mouth and leant close to
Aram’s ear so he could hear everything he had to say.
“I know you will not betray your precious Angels, but I will give you one last chance to do what I
ask. What is the name of the one I seek?”
“I… I cannot… tell you. They will… burn… my soul… if I betray them,” Aram stammered as he tried
to focus his eyes.
“I will find him with or without your help, so will you die for nothing?”
“It matters not… when they have… my soul… I will be… rewarded for not…betraying them.”
“Wel , you can pass on a message to your protectors. Tel them I am coming.”
The Man in White forced the cloth back into Aram’s mouth as he tried to free himself, but he was
still dazed from the blow to the head, so he was no match for the brutal strength of the Man in
White. Aram’s eyes widened as he could see his reflection in the silver blade, but he was helpless
and could not match the strength of the assassin.
Slowly and deliberately, the Man in White pushed the knife into Aram’s neck just below his jaw and
in a smooth, single movement, drew the knife along Aram’s throat. Watching the life drain from his
prey’s eyes, he could also feel the warm blood running down his hand and soaking into his white
jacket and his white pants, his uniform slowly turning red from the blood of Aram. Still staring into
his eyes, he felt nothing. No joy at seeing Aram die, no pleasure at killing someone so vile, but he
had done this hundred of times before and each time was no different to the previous. It was
something he had been trained to do, but he hoped when he found the one he sought, there would
be a feeling, no matter what it was.
Chapter 2
While Aram was not the only Voice to the Angels, it occurred to the Man in White that if they
all held the same loyalties to the Angels in their hearts, then he was going to have a problem. He
needed the name of the one that made him who he was, andhe would never stop until he had cut
the wings from the Angels back.
He had not the chance earlier, but now Aram was dead, there would be time before his rooms
were given to another. This would allow him to search them for any clues or hints as to where he
could find the Angel. It may be a waste of time, Aram may not have anything written down, but this
was an opportunity that he could not risk losing.
Slipping back down the rock passageway to Aram’s rooms, he waited at the bottom for a
moment, and when he was confident that there was no one in the reception room, he quickly
made his way out of the secret passage and into Aram’s bedroom. He knew guards would search
this room soon, so he quickly looked for anywhere that Aram could hide something.
After searching the room for a few minutes and quickly leafing through some of the draws, he
noticed a small grate high up on the outside wall. This was a vent of sorts that allowed fresh air
into the room without the need for opening the windows.
Quickly, the Man in White pulled over the large chair that was at the desk on the far side of the
room. He was trying to be discreet and unheard by anyone outside, but the chair was heavier than
he had realised and it had to be dragged along the floor.
When it was under the metal grate, he stood on the chair and reached up and lifted the small
metal cover. Sure enough, this was a place that Aram used to hide anything secretive that he did
not want anyone to find.
The small pouch had a rock sat atop it to prevent it moving if there was a strong gust of wind
coming through the vent. Moving the stone off the pouch he pul ed it out and then opened his
jacket, tying the strings on the pouch to the inside of his jacket and made his way to the door.
It was a rare moment and one that he almost regretted. As soon as he opened the door, he
realised he had been distracted by his find and had not checked the room on the other side of the
door.
“Did you hear that? Someone’s coming out the room. Men round up,” one of the Untamed said.
“Let’s get the bastard.”
Cursing himself for letting his mind wander, he stayed behind the large curtain that hid the
door behind the throne. He quickly put his hand inside his jacket and into one of the many
concealed pockets he had there and pulled out two small paper balls. One of the many things had
been taught at the House of White was to escape situations like this with your life without taking
any unnecessary risks. While his was confident of his abilities, without looking around the curtain,
he would not know how many people were there.
Holding a paper ball in each hand, he turned and faced the curtain, the thick piece of material being the only thing between him and the unknown number of men on the other side. His was
closest to the left edge of the curtain, so he threw the paper ball that was in his left hand around
the curtain and into the room. Quickly moving to the right edge of the curtain he threw the other
ball into the room, using both to ensure tha
t they got everyone that was in the room.
When the balls hit the floor, there were two very loud explosions, flashes of light and a putrid
gas that would turn the stomach of the Gods themselves. Holding his breath, he swooped around
the curtain and quickly glanced at the room, taking in all the men and processing what he saw in a
fraction of a second. His instincts had been honed,and he knew almost instantly that there was no
immediate threat to himself from the mercenaries in the room.
As he made his way across the room to the secret passageway, he pulled out another paper
ball, but this time from a different pocket. As he approached the wall, he turned back to the room
and threw this into the centre of the men. When it hit the floor a thick smoke erupted and
engulfed the six men in. Confident that he would not be seen he opened the hidden door and closed
it immediately behind himself. Not wanting to see if he had made it unnoticed, he sped up the
stairs and out past Aram’s body, out of the upper room into the corridor.
While it was certainly an advantage that there were so many corridors and floors to the
palaces and buildings in Elysia, it also meant that a wrong turn could have him unexpectedly facing
his enemies. During his time with the House of White, he had been taught some harsh lessons, but
he remembered each one of them and practiced everything he had learned. He was now following
one of the more important rules he had learned and that had saved his life many times over: ‘never
enter a situation without a way to leave it.’
It had been nothing but chance that he had come across the plans for the palace. In every city
that he visited, he would always spend his spare time looking through the archives kept there, or
in the libraries searching for any information regarding the Angels.
It had been in the archives here in Elysia, that he had met Newt. She was a small and fragile
young girl that practically lived in the archives. Her skin was pale through lack of exposure to the
outside world, and her hearing had also become too sensitive for anything above a whisper.
It had been mostly accidental, but the Man in White had befriended Newt. One of his strictest
rules was never to make friends. There were several reasons for such a harsh rule, but he had been
brought up with the belief that feelings such as friendship and love would weaken your soul, make
you vulnerable to those that want to hurt you. He had only just begun his task in hunting the
Angel; so he could ill afford to be weakened by anything.
It was this self-imposed solitude that had captured the young Newt. She had believed herself
to be different, even strange as she kept everyone at a distance and had no friends. Yet here she
was stood face to face with someone who had never had anyone close to them.
The Man in White had used an alias when he was talking to Newt, but it was not just an alias
to him. To him, it was a name that he had taken as his own, and he hoped that if he ever learned
his real name, the name that eluded him, that it would be Salabane. Newt had seen a Kindred spirit in him and so had offered her services and, living in the archives, she knew all the secrets of the
city, including the hidden tunnels in all the palaces. It was short work for her to lay her hands on the
tunnel layout for the palace where Aram was staying, andSalabane had given her an amulet in
return.
He had made several of these when he was a child in the Covenant and only gave them to
those he deemed worthy. The amulet looked unremarkable to those who glanced at it. There
appeared to be no design on the surface of the glass, but on closer inspection, one would see an
intricately carved pattern. The pattern was a calling spel , one that Salabane had constructed
himself.
Once the amulet was gifted to another, it became bonded to that person. If the amuletwas
removed from the person or destroyed, Salabane would know about it as his bond with each of the
amulets would be broken.
“I cannot thank you enough for the help you have given me Newt,” Salabane said as he opened
his bag.
“You don’t have to thank me. I have enjoyed our time together. I wish you could stay longer, but
I have a feeling you are here for a single purpose, and then you will be leaving.”
“You are right Newt, but take this.” He handed her a small green velvet pouch, tied with a
green ribbon. It had been the first time in her life that someone had given her a present and she
sobbed her thanks. Opening the pouch carefully, she poured out the contents into her hand slowly
so as not to drop her gift. One of the things that had drawn Salabane to Newt was her attention to
detail. Rather than taking the amulet at face value, she examined it under the candle that was sat on
her desk.
“What is this on the surface?” she asked before gasping in surprise. “It’s a spell isn’t it?”
“You really are very special and now I know I was right to give you this gift. It is a calling spell.
If this is ever removed from your care or it is destroyed, I will know, and I will come to you. All you
have to do is break it, and I’ll hear your call for help.”
With the map of the tunnels, Salabane was able to plan a route out of the palace when he had
completed his mission. He had hoped to gain the name of the Angel he sought, but he had found a
notebook that Aram had gone to great lengths to hide. Surely this would contain something useful.
If not the name of the Angel, then at least some other information he could use to his advantage. In
the cities he would be visiting, blackmail would be a commodity worth having. Most nobles
vehemently refused to deal with people they deemed ‘below their station’ and so having a
bargaining tool would serve him well.
***
Several times Salabane had to wait in the shadows of the tunnels to allow sentries to pass and
on one occasion a small band of the Untamed. He knew that they would scour the entire city for
him, so he needed to keep moving and be out of the city as quickly as he could.
While getting through the palace and even the city would be straightforward for him given the
amount of time he spent planning his escape route, the only thing that was left out of his control
was the actual escape from the city. This was the only part of the plan that relied on someone
other than himself, but he had used the only person he had come to trust Newt.
Chapter 3
Twenty Years Ago.
It was a warm spring evening, the sound of music and laughter drifting on the breeze. Each year
the people of Lholin would give thanks for spring and welcome in the summer. All the villagers
were out, gathered around the village green, a large field in the centre where the children played
games and competed for prizes. Traders from other villages visited and set their carts along the
edge of the field with children and adults alike excited by the variety of goods they brought.
Marta was sat on a blanket she brought, watching Gil trying to play with the other children. He was
small for his age, but he did not see it as a disadvantage. He was twelve winters old and when it
came to the older boys in the village, he was not afraid to stand up to them despite his size. Being
smaller than most of the other children in the village only made him more determined in
everything he did.
“Gil,
will you be careful and slow down?” called Marta as she watched him chase an older boy. He
was trying to retrieve the flag the other boy had taken and he was too engrossed in the game to
hear.
“He’ll be ok, don’t worry. He knows how to look after himself,” said Delia as she sat down on the
blanket next to Marta. “He needs to be more aggressive and assertive, otherwise the other boys
will see him as weak.”
“I know, but I still worry. With his father away fighting for the Duke, my nerves are stretched. I
don’t want either of them getting hurt.”
Marta and Delia were sisters and had lived in Lholin all their lives, following their ancestors.
During her pregnancy with Gil, Marta had become ill and it had not been clear if either would
survive. The illness had taken its toll on both of them and as Gil grew, it had become apparent how
the extent to which the illness had affected him. His growth had been stunted and the healers
predicted by the time he was a young man he would be a good head and a half shorter than most.
This only made him more determined to succeed.
“Come on, let’s get the two of you home. I’ll cook something to eat for us all and then I’ll head
home myself.”
“Thank you Delia, I don’t know what I’d have done without you here.”
“You don’t have to thank me, sisters look after each other,” replied Delia. “I’l go and start cooking,
see you soon.”
“We won’t be long.”
***
After Delia had left, Marta warmed some water for Gil to bathe in. He had been playing Capture the Flag with the other village boys and he was dirty. As he removed the dirt, it was apparent to Marta
just how rough the other boys had been treating him. There was a large purple bruise on his thigh
and grazes on his arms. It took all of her strength not to say anything to him about it. It was
difficult, ignoring those maternal instincts, but she knew how he felt about such things. He could
not back down from them, if he did, they would pick on him for being weak and small.
As Gil got into bed, Marta could hear him from the sitting room gasping in pain. She knew the
scrapes on his arms and the bruises on his legs would be sore, be she did not fuss over him.