The Fourth Age Shadow Wars: Assassins (The Fourth Age: Shadow Wars Book 1)

by David Pauly

  'I will come back to check on him again as soon as I may,' Alfrahil promised. He decided not to mention that he would be leaving the city soon.

  Though outwardly calm, Alfrahil was troubled by Wynhyrra's response regarding the trustworthiness of the men of Eldora, and his grief for his best friend threatened to overpower him. Leaving Biramin's chamber, he merely glanced at Findalas, who said nothing yet whose eyes seemed to shimmer with understanding and sympathy.

  Alcar's chamber was smaller and less well-appointed than Biramin's. A terrible smell of festering wounds and burned flesh filled the close air, and it was this, as well as the dim light, that cause Alfrahil to pause a moment. Barely suppressing the urge to retch, he waited a moment as his eyes adjusted to the light that fell through a small curtained window; he slowly came to see a narrow bed in which there lay not a person but rather a collection of bandages in the shape of a person. Beside the bed was a bucket containing blood-soaked bandages and other fluids that Alfrahil could not recognize and did not want to inquire about. Now overcome with retching, Alfrahil turned and fled the room and its mephitic odor. Choking down the gorge rising in his throat, he asked Findalas,

  'Is he awake?' asked Alfrahil, his voice a throaty husk.

  'No, Lord,' replied Findalas with professional detachment. 'He has woken twice, and each time the pain of his wounds has caused him to cry out and scream, so we are keeping him asleep for the next week in hopes that the infection will respond to our treatment and he will begin to heal.'

  'But you do not think he will recover,' Alfrahil stated.

  'The odds are not good, Lord. Yet I cannot say. Certainly, with an Elven healer, he would have a better chance. I hope he will survive in any case, but even if he does, he was badly burned over most of his body and took two arrows in his back. Regaining the full use of his limbs is doubtful, and his burns will disfigure him hideously for the rest of his life. Alas, despite all our advances in the healing arts, there are still so many wounds and injuries to men that are beyond our powers, and burns are the worst of them.'

  With that, the pain and guilt that had assailed Alfrahil even before he'd set foot in the Healers' Hall overwhelmed him. Staggering to the only chair in the hall, he slumped down upon it, his head buried in his hands. Sobbing quietly and then openly, he gave in to his feelings and the terrible memories of the ambushes that overwhelmed him again. He was transfixed by his feelings of helplessness and ineptness, knowing that he was responsible for the deaths of his men, for Biramin’s injuries and this man's agony and disfigurement.

  'I did nothing, nothing.' he gasped weakly through his sobs, speaking his thoughts aloud. 'I did not know what to do, and most of my men are dead, with Alcar next due to my cowardice and fear. I should have known what to do! I should have acted. I am incompetent to lead men on a parade through the city, much less into combat. My brother is correct—he should be king, not I. I do not have the knowledge, much less the stomach, to prevail in these situations. If I cannot escape a simple ambush, how can I protect the realm? Daerahil would be much better as king someday. Perhaps I should tell Father that I resign the inheritance in favor of my brother.'

  With that, he subsided into silence, only choking out unintelligible sounds as grief and anger washed over him. So wrapped up was he in these feelings that he had entirely forgotten about Findalas' presence until she spoke, her voice soft but so unexpected that he started.

  'Lord, I have heard from other soldiers who came to see Biramin and Alcar,' she said. 'They described an inferno straight out of hell. They assured me, as I now assure you, that a deadly mind planned the ambushes for months if not years. According to them, you made no poor decisions, escaping as best you could and preserving the succession of the realm, which was your primary duty. Your guardsmen do not condemn you; instead, they praise your determination and courage in escaping the attacks. I beseech you to raise your head with pride and go talk with your guardsmen; they will tell you the truth of my words. While Alcar may die from his wounds, Biramin will recover, the realm will continue, and you will live to be king someday.'

  Alfrahil's head rose from his hands at her hopeful words. Letting them settle into his mind for a moment, he began to push the despair and horror back into the recesses of his mind. Several minutes passed as he stared at the wall, his psyche slowly repairing itself to the point where he could consciously think and function again.

  'Thank you, Findalas,' he said at last. 'You have brought me back from the abyss. All I saw of myself was a weak man only concerned for his own safety, unfit to lead the realm. Now I can at least face the rest of the day. Perhaps someday I can learn to lead men into combat as well as lead the realm itself. Besides an Elven healer, is there anything you require of me, or of anyone else in the realm to aid Alcar his recovery?'

  'Nay, Lord, all we can do is wait; see how he is tomorrow,' said Findalas. 'I spoke only the truth, Lord. You are a man of honor and respect who cares for those that he leads in any capacity. Go now with the assurance that you did all that you could yesterday, and that I and my fellow healers are doing all we can to take care of your men.'

  Nodding, Alfrahil thanked her and exited the room. Still deeply shaken by what he had seen, yet also strangely refreshed and heartened by Findalas' words, he returned to the Astrology Tower. There he found Mergin waiting impatiently in the common room, a pained expression on his face and sweat stains on his clothes.

  'Lord, we must hurry. Your brother is already here. We are delaying him, but, as you well know, he is not a man who brooks delay patiently.'

  'I am ready, Lord Mergin,' he replied. 'Lead on.'

  Mergin nodded then pushed aside a tapestry, revealing a hidden panel with a veneer of stones on a wooden surface. He lit a torch contained in a small niche from a candle he brought with him from a table, escorting him along a narrow curved passage, which ended in an alcove with another tapestry hanging in front of it. Here a pinhole had been cunningly placed to provide an observer an unhindered view of the room on the other side—where, placing his eye to the spot, Alfrahil saw his father standing with a frown he recognized all too well.

  'Not a word my lord, not a sound until your father asks for you,' Mergin cautioned in a whisper, then turned on his heel and left, leaving Alfrahil alone in the dark.

  'How many secret passages are there in this city that Mergin knows and I do not?' pondered Alfrahil. 'How many secrets does he keep, revealing them only when it suits his purpose?'

  A noise from the other side of the tapestry stirred Alfrahil from his musings, and he placed his eye back to the pinhole in time to see his brother swiftly enter the room, along with Mergin and a handful of guardsmen. 'He has no look of guile about his face, just fear and anxiety,' thought Alfrahil. Placing a mental hold upon his sympathy for his beloved but misguided brother, he nearly gasped when he saw his father make contact with his brother's mind. Not because he was surprised that Creon would interrogate Daerahil, but because Daerahil resisted so successfully. No other man, Alfrahil included, had lasted more than a few seconds against Creon's will, but Daerahil held out for nearly a full minute before yielding. As his brother began to shriek and finally collapsed to the floor in impotent rage, Alfrahil was horrified by the level of cruelty his father exhibited. Creon offered no pity or help to Daerahil. He simply waited for him to rise from the floor.

  At last, summoned by his father, Alfrahil emerged from behind the tapestry in a state of shock, wishing that these terrible events had not happened. Informing his brother that he held himself reconciled, he was surprised to hear the venomous tone of his brother's reply. Alfrahil tried to remain impassive, but he felt his brother's wounded psyche and bitter anger sweep the room, touching his own mind for a moment. As Daerahil strode from the chamber, Alfrahil was overcome by the thought that his father had gone too far, that his brother was clearly innocent, and this terrible demonstration had served only to humiliate him needlessly and blow upon the coals of rebellion already smoldering in his soul.
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  'That was too much, Father,' he said after Daerahil had gone. 'You hurt him terribly and embarrassed him. You could have done this more gently, and in private. Why do you hate him so?'

  Creon said nothing for a few moments, his face fixed upon the doorway, until at last he turned. Only then did Alfrahil see the pain and confusion he had been hiding. 'Do not seek to rebuke me, my son. Your brother, his ideas, his very popularity, constitutes threats to my reign and to the supremacy of Eldora. I will hear no more. Now go.'

  'So it is true what my brother said,' Alfrahil responded, though it took all his courage to do so. 'You are more concerned with your pride than with the truth.'

  'I said go!' his father thundered. 'Or do you wish to suffer the same examination as your brother?'

  'I will go, Father. There have been times when I have disagreed with you. Times I have been angry at you; even disappointed. But never until today have I felt ashamed of you.'

  Creon did not reply but communicated his displeasure with a silent mental thrust that caused a sharp pain to bloom behind Alfrahil's eyes—pain that was but a promise of worse to come. Unable to suppress a cry, Alfrahil ran half blindly for the door.

  He returned in anger and humiliation to his temporary chambers in the tower, reflecting that at last he understood something of what his brother felt. But he would have given much not to have gained his knowledge in this way. All he wanted now was some Dwarven ale, a light meal, and time to shake these last minutes from his mind.

  CHAPTER NINE: DWARVES

  Awakening the next day, Alfrahil proceeded down through the Astrology Tower and gingerly climbed into the saddle of a gentle gelding brought from the messenger stables. His own horse was still recovering from two arrow wounds. Trotting around the devastation in the Second District, he made his way to the great plain of the City and toward his meeting place. Only Shadows accompanied him, disguised as common merchants. Two days' stubble on Alfrahil's normally clean-shaven face, along with some charcoal under his eyes, disguised him from the people of the city, and he found himself unnoticed, carried with the gentle yet inexorable tide of city folk about their business.

  Arriving within the Eleventh District, Alfrahil crossed many streets until, in a dark and dank cul-de-sac; he came to an ale house: the Hammer and Tongs. A message sent to the Dwarven mission the night before by Mergin had requested that Lord Golbur meet Alfrahil here, under conditions of strictest secrecy, and a reply had been received in the affirmative.

  Signaling the Shadows still unobtrusively guarding him to stay back and keep hidden unless he called for them, Alfrahil strode to the entrance of the ale house and entered. He had barely time enough to dodge a very tall man whose body was flying through the air directly toward him. He stepped aside with alacrity, and the man continued his journey out the door and into the street beyond.

  'My mother would be ashamed to see me defeat such pitiful foes,' spoke a voice in Dwarvish.

  Smiling inwardly, Alfrahil proceeded toward the bar, where a small group of men were clustered, keeping their heads down both literally and figuratively now that the strongest of them lay unconscious outside in the street. The rest of the ale house was filled with Dwarves, who were muttering to themselves and casting dangerous looks toward him and toward the other men. It did not seem to Alfrahil that the tension had been defused by the emphatic exit of the tall man a moment earlier. Rather, it seemed like both sides were taking a pause in which to consider how best they might continue their fighting.

  Catching the bartender's eye, Alfrahil called in Dwarvish for a glass of proper ale. The bartender showed no surprise at a man speaking Dwarvish but simply and carelessly slopped a battered, stained pewter mug upon the counter. Then, removing a bottle from under the counter, he removed the cork and poured half the contents into the mug, setting the bottle down with a soft thump when the mug was full.

  Speaking in the common tongue now, Alfrahil asked, 'Is this authentic, unaltered Dwarvish ale?'

  Yes,' the barkeep said in a surly tone. 'This is indeed true Dwarvish ale, brought all the way from the Bastion, but you drink it at your own risk, sir. There are not many men who can stomach it. That will be one silver piece.'

  Alfrahil reached into his purse for the coin, and added another one, stating quietly, 'For your trouble.'

  The barkeep actually looked at Alfrahil then, and his eyes slowly opened widely in recognition.

  Alfrahil grabbed his hand, pulling him closer, whispering. 'Well met, barkeep. Let's keep my identity quiet for now, shall we?'

  Nodding mutely, with an expression that seemed to indicate he expected nothing good would come of the prince's visit; the barkeep turned away and resumed his desultory cleaning.

  As Alfrahil's eyes continued to adjust to the dim light, he noticed that he had drawn the attention of the Dwarves at the bar with his fluent use of their tongue. Little did they know that he had long ago studied their language with a scholar at the Bastion, and there were few words unknown to him.

  Alfrahil addressed the bartender again. 'I would like a full dozen more bottles, barkeep. I feel my thirst catching up with me.'

  At this, the Dwarvish muttering subsided slightly, and looks of alcoholic greed shone upon the faces of many of the nearby patrons. When the bottles had been delivered, Alfrahil turned to the Dwarves and, again speaking in their language, said, 'If there are any Dwarves of merit here who can handle good ale, they should come and take a glass.'

  Several horny hands extended themselves, and Alfrahil had to order another dozen bottles before the Dwarves were satisfied with his generosity. The men in the bar, meanwhile, regarded him silently, taking a glass each, viewing this sudden purveyor of drinks with suspicion, but they smiled and drank their ale quietly. Alfrahil waited, sipping his potent brew, which was flavored with the honeys of the Chilton men and the scents of the flowers of the vale of Aphon . . . and also with the keen edge of iron and the tang of gold and silver. The taste of metal was in everything touched by the hands of the Dwarves.

  After a moment, a hooded Dwarf approached on his right side. Leaning close, he whispered in Dwarvish, 'Hail and well met, Crown Prince. Golbur, son of Goldan, your faithful friend.'

  'Your most obedient servant,' replied Alfrahil softly in the correct Dwarven fashion.

  'It is encouraging to see the Prince of Men enjoying the simple pleasure of the Dwarves,' said Golbur, dropping his hood.

  Hale and hardy, the only child of Goldan, Lord of the Caves, Golbur was of medium height and build for a Dwarf, yet his unremarkable stature detracted not a whit from the noble air he possessed not only by virtue of his proud heritage but by his position as Dwarf Lord of the Edelhohle. His beard was brown and thick, and only his horny hands betrayed his two hundred plus years. Golbur's knowledge was deep, his wisdom and judgment bywords among Dwarves and Men alike. Less passionate and obstinate than many of his kind, he fit the changing needs of his people better than any other Dwarf chieftain known to Alfrahil. It was precisely this flexible and affable nature, combined with the respect shown to Golbur by other Dwarves that he intended to rely upon today.

  Responding to Golbur's statement, Alfrahil said with a smile, 'Simple? Perhaps not overly ornate, but little of the lives or the crafts of the Dwarves could be said to be simple.'

  With a smile and a nod, Golbur replied, 'I see the courtesy of Men did not completely pass away with the end of the Great War.' Raising his mug of ale, he continued, 'I thank you for your generosity.'

  'You are more than welcome,' said Alfrahil. 'While I hope that the courtesy of Men remains in Nostraterra, I know that you certainly taught the men of Farley new respect for the might of the Dwarves.'

  'So you heard that tale?' said Golbur with a chuckle. 'It was overstated—a few young rowdies that were taught some manners, nothing more.'

  'Nothing more?' replied Alfrahil. 'Ten men left unconscious for two days, and twelve others so badly bruised their mothers could not have recognized them. You call that oversta
ted?'

  'Aye,' replied Golbur with a gleam in his eye, 'it was a good tussle after our fashion. We gave them fair odds, after all. Only four of us participated in the affray.'

  Wonderingly, Alfrahil asked, 'Were the Men that drunk, or are the Dwarves such fearsome warriors that they can toss soldiers of Farley about like a child's toys?'

  'A little of both,' replied Golbur, and took another drink. 'But that incident is not what brings you here. How can I aid you?'

  'I am looking for help in solving the mystery of yesterday's attacks upon me and my men,' Alfrahil said.

  'I know nothing that I have not already passed on to your father's minister, Lord Mergin, so I don't see how I can help you, my Lord Prince,' said Golbur. 'I and all my people are heartily sorry for the loss of men and property, and glad in your escape.'

  'I hoped that you would know more than you had told, or that new information might have come to you during the night. But no matter, we shall unmask this conspiracy ourselves. Still, as long as we are here, we might as well iron out that new trade agreement, don't you think, Lord Golbur?'

  Casually, Golbur agreed. 'Not a bad idea, come to think of it; may my fellow Dwarves consume some more ale while you and I talk?'

  'Of course,' replied Alfrahil. He placed several more silver pieces on the bar to keep the beer flowing and saw a relieved smile on the barkeep's face. It had become routine for officers of the City guard and army to take what they wanted from merchants instead of paying for their items. This custom was vehemently opposed by the King, his sons, and the Council, but it thrived anyway. Most people looked at it as a special tax and a form of insurance against criminal acts or costly accidents. Now, at the sound of Alfrahil's silver on the bar, the Dwarves let out a rough cheer and began calling for refills.

  'My Lord, as ever, you have the touch of a diplomat,' said Golbur.

  Alfrahil waved aside the praise. 'Let us speak frankly, Lord Golbur. We know each other's mettle and worth do we not?'