by S. C. Stokes
Tristan and Marcus exchanged a glance. Of all they had expected to find here, the two old men speaking in riddles had taken them by surprise. Where the third Master hid was anyone's guess. Tristan supposed he lay concealed in the chamber, or waited in the passage beyond the door the two Masters guarded.
Tristan brushed aside the old man’s warning—these two hardly posed a threat to the combined might of the King’s Guard and the King's Own, who had gained their reputation fighting in the catacombs beneath Belnair. Specialists in close-quarter tunnel fighting, they would acquit themselves well. The two old men hardly stood a chance.
“Very well,” Tristan replied, drawing his broadsword.
Blindfolded, the Masters must have heard the blade clear its scabbard, as their response was immediate. The master on the left stepped aside, revealing a steel lever set in the floor of the chamber. With both hands he pulled on the lever, and the steel rod slid smoothly toward him with a grinding noise akin to that of a millstone being driven by oxen while the gears moved against each other.
Tristan wondered what purpose the bizarre lever served until he heard the rattle of chains and examined the walls around the chamber. Plunging downward from the ceiling was a series of iron dishes suspended on the steel chains along the walls. The chains plummeted down until the dishes struck the torches resting on the brackets and smothered the flames, plunging the room into inky darkness.
A whistling noise filled the room, followed swiftly by a scream as a Guardsman to Tristan's right fell to the ground. Tristan felt about in the dark, and in seconds he found an iron shuriken sticking out of the man's neck. Blood seeped from the wound as the man spasmed violently. “Get down!” Tristan shouted, “and fetch the torches from the tunnel—we will need them in here.”
The men fanned out into the shadows, seeking the foe that stood before them. As they moved deeper into the chamber Tristan heard the sound of stone grinding against stone. In the darkness a King’s Guard had somehow triggered a trap set in the stone floor of the chamber. As the stone settled it triggered a mechanism set below it, and seconds later a hail of crossbow bolts hurtled from a series of small holes bored in the walls of the chamber. At such a close range the crossbow bolts pierced even the heavy armor of the King’s Guard. Men screamed in anguish and terror as they suffered assault from every direction in the disorienting darkness.
The men scurried to recover torches from the tunnel behind them. Only a thin band of light illuminated the entryway to the chamber, and the rest of the room lay in darkness.
Then the Masters were among them. Blindfolded, they were in their element, the darkness simply serving to level the odds. Tristan heard rather than saw their grisly handiwork. Hardened veterans cried out in fear has the two shadowy wraiths made their way through the ranks with their kama sowing death and discord wherever they moved.
The King’s Guard sought to protect their liege, but in the darkness they could do little but provide bodies to buy time as they sought to stem the assault of the two assassins in their midst.
Suddenly the chamber illuminated and standing in the doorway was Syrion Listar.
Both of his hands were outstretched, balls of flame coalescing in the air above them. Elaina entered behind him. The shifting spheres of fire threw light across the chamber. For the first time since the attack had begun Tristan could see the old men before him, and gone was any sign of frailty or fragility. The two men made a symphony of death. Every motion was measured and graceful as they moved swiftly among the King’s Guard, blades flashing and finding their way past armor and shield. Compared to the dizzying speed of the assassins, it seemed the King’s Guard were standing still.
Syrion strove to lend his arts to the fray, but the dense press of bodies made it impossible to use his arts for fear of harming the loyal soldiers attempting to throng the masked assassins.
Tristan charged towards the assassin. Knowing that the kama in the man's hands had far shorter reach than his own sword, Tristan exercised care to keep his foe out of range while unleashing a flurry of strikes at him. Emboldened by Tristan's assault the King’s Guard thronged the second master. Now able to see their foe, the eager warriors found their confidence and pressed forward, raising their shields to drive the master back.
Tristan was locked in deadly combat with the one master, forced to focus all of his concentration to avoid the swift and deadly strikes. A moment's hesitation could mean injury or certain death as the dexterous old master weaved his deadly dance. Tristan thrust at the man's midsection, hoping to catch the assassin on the point of his sword. Unfortunately, the master was too swift, and with one deft motion he swept Tristan's long sword aside with one kama while launching a furious strike at Tristan's exposed neck with the other. Like a harvester’s scythe the kama closed on Tristan, and if he had been a lesser warrior the strike would surely have severed his head—instead, with sharpened reflexes he dodged the blow.
With practiced art Tristan brought his sword back across his foe in a horizontal slash to disembowel the man. But the master was quick, dancing back out of reach in a heartbeat, so the broadsword found only the fabric of his robes, through which it passed cleanly, but ultimately short of Tristan's goal.
Again the master launched a blinding flurry of strikes. Tristan couldn't help but respect his foe—even blindfolded the man moved with dizzying speed, able to discern Tristan's motion and counter his movements. The Master exhibited a prowess Tristan had never before seen in another soul, either in the training pit or on the field of battle. He wondered if the foe before him was truly human, for he moved with an agility that seemed well beyond that of a younger man, let alone one so advanced in years. With measured strides and in perfect economy of movement the master attacked, and Tristan ducked, dodged and weaved as he strove to avoid the lethal blades. Fortunately the kama had only a single cutting edge and a sharpened point, whereas Tristan's broadsword boasted a double-edged blade, able to pose a threat from any angle.
This edge Tristan used to great effect as he strove to use both the reach and his experience to gain the upper hand.
Tristan unleashed a furious blow on the master, the descending blade threatening to cleave the master in twain. But sensing the blade, the master crossed his kama and raised them before his exposed face.
The crossed kama caught the extended broadsword and with astounding speed, the master twisted the blades wrenching the sword from Tristan's hand. Tristan's face went white with fear as the master spun, delivering a savage kick to Tristan's torso, sending him flying through the air and landing heavily on the cold stone floor of the chamber.
The master did not hesitate—he launched himself at the fallen King. The King’s Guard sought to defend their liege, to place themselves between him and his foe—and certain death. Tristan's hopes rose as he looked about to recover his weapon only to find it well out of reach and on the other side of the approaching assassin. As one of the King’s Guard sought to waylay the assassin he feinted high with the first kama. The King’s Guard raised his shield to defend against the blow and the assassin spun his second kama and swept low, under the guard of the shield, and disemboweled the unfortunate warrior.
Without so much as a pause the master turned to the second King’s Guard, repeating his earlier approach. Again he feinted high, and when the King’s Guard failed to lift his shield, having seen the fate of his brother moments earlier, the master bought the blade down, hooking the shield and preventing him from raising it, and a moment later the kama in his right hand struck the man in his chest just above his breastplate and below his neck. Blood fountained from the wound as the blade was withdrawn and the King’s Guard collapsed, his lungs and chest filling with blood.
Now none stood before the master and he loomed over Tristan, blades raised for the killing blow.
A burst of light illuminated the chamber as a golden beam of energy struck the master in the chest. The master halted as the arcane energy tore through his chest before bursting from h
is back and continuing on its way across the chamber. The lance of energy had the desired effect and the master dropped to his knees before collapsing face first on the stone floor of the chamber.
Across the chamber the second master was completely encircled by shield-wielding King’s Guard and faring poorly as he tired, yet still tried to inflict as many wounds as possible. Surrounded by the shields, he rained his blows ineffectually upon the King’s Guard. At his companion's death he paused, turning towards where his fellow master had fallen.
That moment’s lapse in judgment cost him his life as the King’s Guard quickly delivered a killing blow. Without mercy the King’s Guard cut him down, never to rise again. With the Masters dead, silence descended on the chamber. Tristan approached the master lying before him. The man lay on the ground and no blood seeped from the wound in his chest, as the same magic that had created it had also cauterized the wound as it passed through the body, leaving the stone floor visible beneath him. Tristan knelt and examined the body, ensuring that the man before him was truly dead. He reached for the blindfold and pulled it from the man's head.
Both of the man’s eye sockets were empty. It was then that Tristan realized his foe had been truly blind, and yet he'd seen with more surety than any man Tristan had ever faced.
What manner of men are these? Tristan wondered, looking about the chamber. More than two dozen of his soldiers had fallen wounded or dead on the chamber's floor.
“See to the wounded!” Tristan shouted. “The rest of us must press on—the Prince lies ahead and we mustn't delay.”
Syrion swept forward as men with torches filed into the room casting light across the chamber. Upon seeing his son alive Marcus rejoiced and threw his arms around him.
“Syrion, where have you been? Your mother and I have been worried sick.”
“I'm sorry for the delay, Father,” Syrion replied. “It took me some time to master the arts required to return here.”
“Master the arts? I think that's being a little generous,” a feminine voice added.
Marcus and Tristan recognized for the first time the woman standing beside Syrion in the chamber. Tristan looked on the woman he had confronted once before, remembering all too well the Throne Room at King’s Court years earlier. The sorceress Kalifae had stood beside Gerwold until he had perished on Tristan's blade. With her ally slain, the sorceress had fled the battle, never to be seen since. Her presence here at this time in Syrion's company was the last thing Tristan had expected.
“What is she doing here?” Tristan demanded.
Syrion raised both hands. “Whoa, Brother, relax. She's with me. If it weren't for her I would be stuck on another world and be no use to anyone. She comes in peace as a friend to aid us in this time of need.”
Tristan’s skepticism was evident on his face, but nevertheless he relented.
“Don't look so disheartened, Tristan,” Elaina instructed. “Where this morning you had only one magician at your disposal, now you have three. The Night Stalkers don't stand a chance.”
Syrion nodded. “Agreed.”
At that Tristan took heart. “Let us press on—we have no idea how vast this network of tunnels might be. Shiona seemed to believe the Night Stalkers had rallied considerable manpower to their cause.”
“Well, let us hope there aren't any more of these maniacs,” Marcus said as he gestured to the bodies of the two men dressed all in black. “Those two alone proved formidable.”
“Indeed,” Tristan answered. “They mentioned a third, and I won't be surprised to find him holed up here somewhere.
Tristan barked orders at the soldiers milling around. Those wounded were left in the care of others as Tristan threw open the door at the far end of the chamber and pressed on.
Passing through the doorway Tristan found himself in a narrow corridor. The passage was still and the atmosphere gave Tristan pause. It was as if he were walking in to the jaws of a waiting beast and the sensation grated on his nerves. With little choice but to proceed he pushed on, cautious because his experience in the entry hall was still fresh in his mind.
Tristan noticed several raised stones in the hallway and found a number of small holes resembling those they had found in the entryway earlier. Tristan didn't need to be told that standing on the stone would trigger a violent fuselage of death. He had witnessed it first-hand for himself. “Pass the word,” Tristan said to those behind him. “Avoid the raised stones.” Tristan pondered the chaos that would result in the event of a quick retreat along the perilous passageway. There can be no retreat. With his son at stake, they would conquer or perish.
Soon Tristan came to a crossroads in the tunnel. The corridor the soldiers had been working their way along intersected with another running to either side. Tristan looked down each as far as he could, and realizing that time was of the essence he quickly made up his mind.
“We'll need to split up,” Tristan declared. “There is no way we can cover all these tunnels. Father, can you lead a party down the tunnel on the right? Mother, I'll need you to take the left. I'll take Syrion and Kalifae with me. We must divide our forces and press on. We cannot afford to leave our rear guard exposed. If we pursue the three paths simultaneously we will ensure we root out all of them, and we will cover more ground this way. If you encounter any Night Stalkers, put an end to them. If you reach a dead end, work your way back and follow us down the central path.”
“Very well, Son,” Marcus answered. “If you need aid, send a runner, and we will be there swiftly.” Marcus gestured to a nearby King’s Guard wearing the markings of a corporal. “Bring your men and follow me—we have work to do.”
Elaina did likewise and soon she was disappearing down the left-hand corridor, flanked by the King’s Guard, ready to unleash hell on all who stood in her way.
Tristan looked from Syrion to Kalifae and nodded. “Okay, let’s press on.”
One corridor led into another, the steady stream of stone passageways creating havoc on their sense of distance and direction as the tunnels twisted and turned. The Night Stalker’s lair was a veritable rabbit warren.
The party came to a new door to find the room behind it in darkness.
Out of the darkness Tristan heard a faint click . . .
Chapter 29
Tristan heard the reports of the hand-crossbows as the ambush was sprung.
There must have been at least a dozen Night Stalkers hiding in the darkness, armed with hand-crossbows, short-ranged but deadly. Normally in such proximity the poison bolts would result in a swift and painful death, but instead they clattered harmlessly off the surface of an arcane ward that Kalifae had summoned. “The darkness was the giveaway,” Kalifae responded in answer to the unasked question.
Tristan shot Kalifae a thankful nod as the King's Own and Tristan launched themselves at the assassins before they could reload. The fight was swift but bloody, as the assassins, distracted by the presence of the two sorcerers, Syrion and Kalifae, were quickly dispatched. Under the light of torches Tristan surveyed the room—an excellent place to lie in ambush. The targets would be forced to file out of the narrow corridor into a crossfire in the room ahead. Clearly the assassins were well prepared, but they did not appear to have any contingency for the presence of those who wielded magic to level the battlefield.
Emboldened by the success, Tristan moved onward. Twice more the pattern repeated itself as assassins lay in wait for them along their route. But between sword and sorcery these ambushes too were routed.
Clearing the third ambush, Tristan found himself standing before a large set of heavy wooden doors. Steel bands reinforced the timber construction, so Tristan was surprised to find it unlocked.
He turned to Syrion and Kalifae. “Whatever lies within, if you have the opportunity to take the Prince you must do so—his life outweighs all other considerations. No matter what happens, you are to ensure he makes it safely back to King’s Court—do you understand me?”
Seeing that Tristan would br
ook no discussion nor dissent, Syrion and Kalifae nodded their understanding.
“Then we go, into the lion’s mouth.”
“Don’t fear, Brother,” said Syrion. “What is a lion to a dragon? Merely dinner. Whatever lies within, rest assured they should be more scared of us than we of them.”
Tristan smiled—he'd forgotten just how reassuring his brother's presence could be. Though the two had only been reunited in recent years, Tristan had taken great comfort in Syrion’s fearless attitude. His younger brother could be impetuous and cavalier, but Tristan knew there was no other he would rather walk into battle beside.
Pushing open both doors, Tristan beheld for the first time the true magnitude of the host arrayed against them.
This chamber was the largest yet, and full of black-clad assassins, rank upon rank standing waiting, kama drawn and at the ready. Amid the sea of black it was impossible to count their number. It was then that Tristan realized the magnitude and the import of Shiona’s earlier warning. Tristan had no doubt now that the Night Stalkers had been carefully preparing for this day.
But Tristan could not see Hitomi anywhere. He felt certain the murderess lay in wait, ready to slam shut the jaws of her trap. The only person in the room not completely concealed beneath the black robes of the Night Stalkers was a man in the center of the room. He too was dressed in black garb, but his cowl rested on his shoulders. Clearly Mizumuran by birth, the man had a pleased expression upon his face and at his side stood a crib.
Tristan's heart skipped a beat.
The man was clearly delighted at the King's arrival. “Your Highness, so good of you to join us. You certainly took your time. My lady promised that you would come, and I'm glad you didn't disappoint.”
“Your lady?” Tristan answered. “I hope you aren't speaking about that wretch Hitomi. Because whatever she is, she isn't a lady.”