Wintersong

by William Cooper

  He threw himself into his work and made contact with an agent he knew he could still trust. The man’s name was Owyn, and he was a rodent of a man who imported wine. Owyn had already done some research and found that the killer was someone who was a professional, and no mere whore. She had vanished too neatly. Though vanished was a word scarcely strong enough to describe what she had done. It was if she had never existed. They could not find where she had lived or where she ate, no one seemed to know anything about the whore. Whoever she was, she knew her tradecraft well, and that sort of skill cost a lot of coin.

  However, there had been one avenue of investigation open to Tristan. Such a person would have a handler. Someone who would took care of the assassin’s money and business. Such men would work as anonymously as possible, but they would have to surface to contact clients. Tristan had always made sure his agents watched such men carefully. He had Owyn provide him with a list of men who fitted such a description. These men would be the elite of their kind. Within a week of digging around Owyn had provided him with a list of suspects that fit the bill. Tristan studied the files on the men carefully, and looked for some hint. He picked up a thin file and read the name on top and his heart leapt in a moment of recognition. Making connections was his gift. The name was Samuel Baker, a name that had come across his desk in Thornsreach four years ago. This man’s name had been connected to a maid that had killed a minor noble man in his bed. This particular nobleman, he discovered, had been fond of raping his female servants. There was also an accusation that a daughter of a Baron had been assaulted during a Wintersong celebration. A maid who had worked at the vile man’s home for but a few weeks had cut his throat in bed. Some silverware had been stolen and had turned up in a pawn shop owned by Samuel Baker. The pawn broker claimed a young woman had sold it to him in good faith. He had happily given the stolen property back to the family. There was no proof to connect him to the murder directly and the maid had vanished; so Tristan had all but forgotten Baker, but here he was again, in a different city. Yet again Samuel Baker was connected to a similar crime with a woman that had vanished. Tristan smiled as he put down the list. ‘I think we have our man,’ he said to the surprised Owyn.

  Samuel Baker had opened a pawn shop in a rundown part of the city. It was a place full of narrow lanes and overhanging houses that overlooked filth strewn winding streets. Tristan had watched the place carefully for three days. He could not arrest him in Conith, and he had to consider that others may also be watching Baker. Tristan had long since learnt the art of patience in an investigation. Too quick a move could result in the investigation going cold.

  After three days had passed Tristan had decided to make his move, and after breaking into the pawn shop, he made his way up the stairs to the living quarters of Samuel Baker. The pawn broker lived modestly and quietly. He had but one servant, a hale looking fellow who also seemed to be his body guard. Tristan had decided to face Baker with a small team of trusted men. Owyn was behind him now with two other lads, all in black, and hooded like himself. Tristan would have the bodyguard silenced by one of his men as he slept, not killed, merely pacified with a few well place blows to the head. He and the others would interrogate Baker.

  As he moved up the stairs he felt alive. It had been over two years since he had been on the field and he had missed the tension of it. The customary twist of fear in his belly only added to his excitement.

  Once they reached the landing he motioned to one of Owyn’s men to attend to the bodyguard. Then he made his way to the master bedroom. It had not been hard to learn the layout of the apartment above the pawnbrokers. Most of the houses on the street were built around the same time and to the same pattern. Reaching the door to the bedroom he took his place to the side of the door. Owyn stood to the other. An agent called Jonathan stood behind Tristan as he listened carefully at the door. Jonathan quietly drew a long dagger, and Tristan followed suit. Under the door Tristan could see a faint light. Baker was still up, probably reading or still working on his accounts. Tristan gently pressed down on the door handle. The three men started in surprise as a bell jangled loudly, breaking the silence in the hall. Damn, thought Tristan madly. The cunning bastard must have booby-trapped the door handle. Jonathan swore and pushed passed Tristan, barging the door open before Tristan could shout a warning.

  He heard the crack of a crossbow being fired and the brutal sound of a bolt punching through flesh and bone. Jonathan came tumbling backwards, hitting the wooden floor of the corridor with a loud crash. Swallowing his fear, Tristan jumped over the dead man’s body and ran into the room. He saw Samuel Baker drop a crossbow to the floor and draw a throwing knife from under his doublet. With frightening calmness and grace Baker threw the knife at him. Its razor edge sliced through the air as Tristan desperately dived to the floor. He heard something smashing in the room behind him. Tristan rolled to his feet to see Owyn go down with another expertly thrown knife that tore through the man’s throat. This bastard’s fast, thought Tristan.

  Back on his feet he rushed the man, but Baker easily side stepped Tristan and tripped him. The spymaster went tumbling to the floor, landing hard. In a panic, fearing a sudden knife, he tried to get quickly to his feet. Baker watched him for a second. Then he calmly turned and ran to the bedrooms window and he dived through it.

  Tristan stumbled to his feet, and ran to the window. Looking out, he saw that Baker had cleared a narrow alleyway to land on a roof of a building. He was currently disappearing over the ridge of the roof to scramble down the other side.

  The spymaster took a running jump, and with a cry of fear leapt through the shattered window out into the night. He landed on the tiles of the roof with an explosion of air from his lungs. Giving a small prayer of thanks, he scrambled up the roof in pursuit of Baker. When he reached the ridge of the roof he groaned inwardly as he saw Baker, in the moonlight, smoothly leap onto another roof. Once, he would have easily caught up with this man, but he was a few years passed forty now and had spent too long behind a desk. But he would be damned if he didn’t try.

  Running down the other side of the roof he took another leap across the open air. Ignoring the height and the long fall into the darkness below, he hit the other roof with less grace than the man he pursued. In all his days as a spymaster this night would be the one he would remember the most, leaping across narrow alleyways, climbing up the sides of steep roofs, while the city went on oblivious to the drama unfolding above. Tristan’s arms and legs ached as he climbed or ran. His knees screamed in agony every time he landed on another roof. Always he saw the fleeing Baker just ahead of him like some kind of ghostly shadow flitting easily across a rooftop.

  Tristan began to fear he would not be able to keep up the pace and would have to halt, but luck was finally with him. As the spymaster landed on a narrow flat roof he saw the man ahead of him scrambling up a tiled roof that was connected to the one he had landed on. Suddenly there was a cry from Baker and a dull clattering noise, as the tiles under the pawnbroker’s hands and feet slid off the roof and sent him tumbling back onto the flat roof that Tristan had just landed on. Without a moment’s hesitation Tristan ran at Baker as the man scrambled onto all fours. With a cry of rage and frustration he kicked the man in the ribs, with all the force he could muster. The man cried out and fell onto his back struggling for air. The exhausted spymaster pulled his knife out of his belt and knelt on top of the stricken man. Grabbing Baker by his hair, he forced the point of his knife to the man’s throat.

  Baker stared at him with hatred burning in his eyes. After a long silence Tristan finally spoke. ‘Who are you?’ he said

  ‘A Pawnbroker,’ he answered.

  Snarling in rage Tristan slammed the man’s head backwards onto the hard surface of the flat roof. Baker cried out in pain. Suddenly the hatred drained away to be replaced by fear as he was hauled back up by the hair again.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, boy. You’ve killed two of my men. If you’re a pawnbroker by trade, then
I’m the King!’ Again he slammed the man’s head down, blood flowed freely now. ‘Do not vex me,’ said Tristan.

  ‘My name is Samuel Ba…’ his words were cut short with a cry as the spymaster sliced his blade lightly across the man’s throat. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to cut flesh and draw blood.’

  ‘I will cut you ragged, you piece of shit,’ hissed, Tristan. ‘Who are you?’

  Baker flinched, as he looked into his tormentors eyes and saw the darkness uncoiling within their depths. He would die tonight he realised.

  ‘I understand now,’ said the wounded man. ‘You are my death and for that I will tell you my name.’

  Tristan stared at the man in surprise. To Tristan’s ears the words Baker spoke had an odd chanted quality to them, like a ritual phrase.

  ‘My name is Brother Sarl,’continued the man.

  Tristan felt a profound shock at those words as if a hole was opening up underneath him and the world had tilted out of kilter. Letting the man fall from his grasp, he stared at the man who named himself, brother Sarl, with open horror. Only one type of assassin called themselves brothers. The Brotherhood of the Whispering Angel. A savage and insane hangover of the old Calnus Empire

  ‘Who would hire such lunatics?’ asked Tristan hoarsely.

  Brother Sarl looked at him and sneered. ‘We do not ask such questions, nor do we care for the answer.’

  A sudden fire flash of pain tore through Tristan side, and with a cry of agony he fell onto his back. Brother Sarl vaulted to his feet and leapt over him. He looked down at the fallen spymaster. In his right hand he held a small knife, no more than an inch or so long. Tristan rolled to his left avoiding a sudden kick from Sarl. The spymaster finished the move by rolling up into a crouching position and facing the assassin. He saw Sarl charging at him, slashing his knife at Tristan’s eyes. Quickly he side stepped the slashing blade and punched his knife deep into the assassin’s throat. Staggering back, as the dying Sarl fell thrashing to the floor, the spymaster looked at his wounded side. He was relieved to see the wound was not deep and he was not in danger. Sarl finally lay still, and Tristan retrieved his knife from the man’s neck.

  He had to warn the King, and Tobin, that the Brothers were involved in this somehow. The Whispering Assassins were creatures of madness and chaos, and to hire them was to court their dark god. They rarely worked alone and there would be other agents loose on the Golden Isle. Tristan for the first time felt doubt. He shivered in the night air and wrapped his cloak around him. He sensed that something dark was coming, and he would have to be ready.

  Collision

  The day would have made for a pleasant ride, thought Aran. It was crisp and dry, with blue skies. Spring was in the air, and the woods were coming alive for another year. He liked days like this; clear and bright, with a clean edge to the coldness that would heighten the pleasure of returning to his rooms in Hardingstone, to sit in front of the fire and enjoy a glass of something warm and alcoholic. His horse snorted as he sat waiting for the scouts to return, he patted the beast’s neck and spoke soothing words to her.

  War has come, thought Aran. It had been a war hundreds of years in the making. This particular tale had started when the Concord had first been formed by disgruntled lords and forced on the throne after the battle of Mede Hill. The lords of the great families had made the King bow to them on that muddy field, and sign the treaty. Therein began three hundred years of power struggles between the Throne and the Concord. The poor were often caught between them like an unwanted child. The power struggles had rarely exploded into open violence, but now that had changed. Merric was too weak, and the Concord was too strong. Aran had been torn in his loyalties. His father was the strongest advocate against the tyranny of the King, but he felt sympathy for Tobin. Tobin had been like an uncle to him, and he had fond memories of days spent on the man’s estates and the hunts they had enjoyed. Now both men were at war with one another. Madness, the world had gone mad. He heard a soldier of the Ironsides say the world had turned upside down, and he believed the commoner had been right.

  Aran no longer cared about the King, or what religion his wife was; nor did he care about the power of the Concord, even though he knew one day his father would expect him to take his place on it, but if this is what such things brought the Isle; it was not something he wanted any part in. It was his duty to his father that had driven him to pick his sword up one more time. Cathan was a bloody stain on his soul, and he did not wish to see death again. Yet, blood ran strong, and he could not disappoint his father as he had done so when he had so foolishly gone to Cathan. His father had not spoken to him about his experiences. He knew he had lost his friends on the beaches and the servants must have told his father of the times he had awoken screaming, late at night. His father was just pleased to see him again, and that was all that mattered to him.

  War had coming. Already the lines were being drawn, and men who had once been brothers in arms rushed to face one another under one banner or another. So stupid, thought Aran. Many of the men who joined the Concord were sworn to the banners of a particular lord. Most of these men only saw the King as a distant figure, but their lord was real and had control of their lives. Few would, or could, refuse a summons. There were reports that the mercenaries were already arriving at Thornsreach and Conith, some hired by his father others by Middleton. Some were just turning up to try their luck at being hired by one side or another. He remembered the mercenaries he had fought alongside at Cathan. They were rough, violent men that mocked the lords and cared nothing for honour. Though Remus had been a good man in the end; even if he hid it well under a mask of cynicism. He wondered, briefly, how Remus fared, he had heard he had escaped Thornsreach with Tobin and the King’s family. That pleased Aran, at least Tobin would have a man on his side that could be trusted.

  Aran looked around, wondering where the scouts had got to. The army could not stay standing on this road forever. He looked back at the long column of men behind him and sighed sadly to himself. The pent up pressure of centuries had caused cracks through the Golden Isle. Thornsreach had to no one’s surprise called for the Concord, and many of the lords of the estates and manors connected with the Concord had joined the cause. Men were mobilising, and it had all happened so fast, everything was in movement. Across the lands small armies of men were marching to the strongholds of their forces. Towns and cities were closing their gates and declaring for one side or another. Strange, as a boy Aran had believed the nonsense his tutors had taught him. Tales of glorious battles, wise leadership and courage. They also taught the most dreadful lie of all, duty. A convenient lie at best, thought Aran. He had often dreamed of riding at the head of an army, proving his valour in battle and slaying dragons. Yet he grew up, and now he wanted nothing of war.

  He was surrounded by the riders of his father’s personal guard. He had not been given command of this army, not yet. That had gone to Middleton. His father looked embarrassed when he told him this, expecting his son to be furious at such words, but Aran had been relieved. He had no experience to speak of and felt such a task was too much for him. Hence it was Middleton who commanded now. Besides his father needed the lord’s support and his men

  Aran shifted his position on the saddle, and looked down the long column of men once more. Passed the richly adorned horses of the lords cavalry, and the well armoured foot soldiers of the lord’s personal armies; a ragged line of soldiers were formed up in rough order. They had rough spears and rusty chainmail pulled from the store houses of lords. Old equipment and weapons for untrained and undisciplined men. They were a poor lot, mostly on foot, trudging through the mud carrying their weapons and equipment. Many of them would be forced to sleep in ditches and hedgerows and they had already lost men to cold and desertion. The roads had taken their toll on the men and they were still in a poor condition after winter, and it was slow muddy work to travel. The foot soldiers were getting exhausted and the army was lucky if they made four or five mi
les in a day.

  Middleton was marching towards Castle Lythrick, another madness thought Aran. It was a castle located in the Lyth Valley, a twisting snake of a valley that the great northern road ran through. Though road was a poor word for the long, dirt track that had once been the mighty road built by the long vanished Calnus Empire. His father had explained to him the need to capture the castle. It held the valley and would control the area for miles around. It also had some of the most fertile land of the Golden Isle. The castle was held by Lord Ranhaw, he had not declared for the Concord or the King. However, the castle was too important, in the eyes of the Concord, for political niceties. It had to be seized.

  Middelton had promised the Concord that Lord Ranhaw and his family would be safe, if they surrendered the castle to his army. The Lords of the Concord nodded sagely at the Middleton’s kindly sounding words. Aran had felt sick to the bone, and had seen the lie for the conscience salve it was. Aran had no beef with the Ranhaws, and had once jousted against Marcus, Lord Ranhaws son. The lord’s son had given him a beating in front of a roaring crowd. It had been a fair fight, Marcus was the better jouster, and Aran had sought the man out afterwards. They had spent the night drinking and jesting with one another. It had been a good night. Now he marched on the man’s very home.

  Middleton had made sure his army had marched out of Thornsreach with as much spectacle as possible. The drums beat to a marching pace and the flags flew as the crowd cheered. The soldiers sung as they marched through the streets, and they must have felt they were heroes from some old Acorin tale. Aran had ridden with his visor down, so none would see the despair on his face. He could have wept for them all, for he knew many were marching to some inglorious death on some anonymous field a long way from home. Three weeks of mud, rain and dwindling supplies had taken their toll on the spirits of the men, and now the army marched silently and grimly; and they awaited the night which claimed its victims with its cold kiss. Middleton, had done his best to get supplies from the local area, and had sent out foragers, and just enough food was found, or stolen, from the peasantry to keep his men alive