Topping a small rise, Darion spotted the river meandering in the distance, appearing as a broken shimmering reflection of the sky that stretched from one horizon to the other. Moments later Darion slowed his charger to a trot as they approached the river’s edge. Looking around and up and down the river, Darion could see nothing to tether the beast to while it drank and grazed. However, as this was one of the king’s personal mounts, Darion released the reins and, hoping he was correct, gave a simple verbal command.
“Stay,” Darion said, anxiously watching the beast for several moments to see if it would heed his command. Seemingly understanding, the beast did not attempt to wander off, instead first taking its fill of water at the river’s edge, then grazing upon the thick, lush grasses along the bank. Satisfied that he would not be left stranded, Darion unslung his small pack and pulled out a thick, woolen shirt as well as a few strips of dried beef which he consumed within seconds. Putting on the wool tunic, Darion stood once again. Flinging his small pack back over his shoulders he pulled the straps, cinching the bundle tightly to his body. As Darion turned to regain the reins of his mount, he heard the whinny of another horse from somewhere in the darkness across the river. The sound caused him to hesitate slightly, and it was that which saved his life, at least temporarily.
From the darkness across the river, as Darion paused to locate the source of the other horse in the vicinity, a series of noises, thoomp, clank, thoomp, clank, thoomp, clank, sounded in rapid succession. Darion attempted to spin and locate these new sounds, but in the process tripped over a small stone that sent him crashing to the ground in a twisted heap. His clumsiness allowed him to witness the series of whistling whooshes that lanced over him and watch in horror as a volley of arrows embedded themselves into his mount, each strike ending in a thud.
Though the animal screamed out in pain, it was an imperial war horse and was trained to protect its rider at all costs. Instead of panicking and fleeing with all haste as most horses would have done, the great white charger spun and leaped over its fallen rider with a snort before crashing through the meandering river to the far bank. Darion stared on, frozen momentarily, as he realized that his mount intended to attack their unseen foe. As his charger was lost from sight, Darion listened and distinctly heard a man shout a curse before again the strange sounds filled the night-time air. Thoomp, clank, thoomp, clank, thoomp, clank. Over and over the sounds came, accompanied by hooves beating the ground, but eventually, after several moments, all the noises came to a halt with the death scream of Darion’s mount.
Darion had no idea how many foes hid within the darkness, though he assumed it must be many with so many arrows launched seemingly simultaneously. Though his first inclination was to regain his feet and run back in the direction he had come, Darion fought his urge to panic and slid on his belly towards the river’s edge. Once there, he carefully positioned himself and lowered himself into the river in total silence. Crossing to the far bank, to hide within the deepest shadows, Darion allowed the slow current to pull him downriver as he scanned the bank for a place to hide.
*****
Mordal Whispen led his black mount eastward at a slow and calculated pace. Once crossing the border into Valdadore he had wrapped his stallion’s hooves in thick leather to muffle its footfalls and obscure its tracks. He guided the beast slowly over the foreign terrain, his senses straining for any sign of approaching danger. The night was growing colder, but Mordal liked the cold. As men cooled they moved slower, thus making them easier targets. Though he was not the top of his order, Mordal had been requested for this particular job by name. This would have swelled the ego of a man of honor, but to an assassin, an ego was something that could ruin his reputation.
It was a task of two parts, this particular mission, and though Mordal knew the first portion would be fairly simple, the second might prove most difficult. Thus far Mordal was intrigued, if not disappointed, by the fact that the roads had been clear nearly the entire journey into Valdadore. It was as if new King Garret was still unaware of King Sigrant’s plans to invade. The roads had seen very few travelers these last several days, apart from a handful of merchants whom Mordal ignored. Simple merchants were not his concern, Mordal reminded himself on two occasions, though he could not help but wonder as to how much coin was in their purses.
His orders were to lay down any messenger he should come across so as to destroy communications from Valdadore’s outposts to its capital. Thus far however Mordal had not seen a single one, and the mission was beginning to get entirely too boring. If he did not have someone to kill soon, Mordal was considering visiting a brothel to play cat and mouse before slitting a few throats, just for fun. It was while Mordal, amused by these thoughts, was stroking his black, pointed goatee that he first heard the horse thundering towards him in the distance. Merchants did not ride so fast at night. Finally Mordal would have himself some entertainment.
Pinching his great black stallion’s ear before dismounting, Mordal gave the beast a silent command to remain where it stood. Then sliding down from the beast, Mordal whispered a silent prayer calling upon his blessing from Abernash and felt the power wash through him as his vision blurred slightly before refocusing, and all of his muscles relaxed before becoming unnaturally taut. Reaching up to the saddle of his mount Mordal removed the newest weapon in his arsenal, a gift given to him by King Sigrant himself. Though the weapon was of gnomish make, it was of simpler design than most of that race’s monstrosities. Mordal had already tested the mechanical weapon for flaws and found it much to his liking. It was a weapon that could change not only the art of assassination, but also the art of war, and as such Mordal took a moment to admire the weapon as he loaded it.
The stock of the weapon was like that of a large crossbow, although a long hollow tube was mounted on it that protruded out beyond the stock by about two hands’ lengths. Upon the back end of the tube, nearest the user, was mounted a round plate in which a hole into the tube was visible. The rest of this plate had a slot carved into it that began deep at the point of the hole, but became shallower as it wound around the plate until it was barely perceptible where it met the hole once again. Attached to that plate was another plate, though the outermost edge of this one was notched at regular intervals in what gnomes referred to as a gear. Also mounted on the plate was a tightly-wound spring that fitted into the groove of the previous plate. Upon the end of the heavy spring was a small, round-tipped hammer head of sorts. This plate interlocked with a crank on the outside that the user would turn, causing the plate to turn and the spring to follow the guide around in a circle. As the spring followed the track it became more and more compressed until it reached the hole where it would uncoil, and its head would strike the projectile in the tube, launching it out the other end. The real genius of the weapon, however, was in the narrow guides atop the weapon that the creator called a hopper. The projectiles were loaded into the hopper, which could contain forty shots, and as each projectile was fired, another would fall into place within the tube thus allowing the user to continue firing without reloading.
The projectiles were another amazing feat of gnomish creation entirely. Though upon first glance they looked very much like a traditional arrow, if slightly short, there were two major differences between the two. Whereas an arrow had a notch to fit a string and fletching to guide the arrow straight, these gnomish designs had neither. The butt end of the dart-like projectiles was solid steel to withstand the force of the spring-loaded hammer, and in place of fletching, the entire shaft of the projectile had a groove that spiraled down its entire length that was said to cause the shaft to spin through the air keeping it on target. Though Mordal did not know if in fact this was the way the long darts worked, he had yet to see any shot veer off to one side or another and for that reason he presumed the gnomes were on to something big.
Listening as the approaching rider neared, Mordal scanned the surrounding area with his blessed vision. Locating a suitable spot, he headed of
f the road slightly towards the river. Focusing intently upon his surroundings, Mordal invoked the second part of his blessing, then winced as the pleasure coursed through his body, and he and his clothing began sprouting grass and reeds, camouflaging him perfectly with his surroundings. There he waited patiently and silently until his target came into view. At first Mordal thought himself spotted as the rider slowed his mount, but quickly realized his mistake as the great white charger was led to the river’s edge to drink and graze.
The man upon the great white horse was nothing of immediate concern; in all actuality he appeared just a boy. In the night, aided by his blessed vision, Mordal could see everything as plainly as day, and as such he scanned the boy and his mount for any sign marking him as a messenger. Unable to locate any scroll cases, Mordal was nearly ready to leave the youth to his own musings, assuming him to simply be out at the river to meet his young lover or some other such engagement, when the boy stood once again to reclaim his pack. At that very moment, something metallic flashed from the boy’s tunic, and even at a hundred yards, Mordal recognized the medallion marking the boy as a royal courier. Raising his gnomish weapon to his shoulder, Mordal took aim just as his black stallion did something completely out of character. To Mordal’s dismay, the stallion trained to serve only him whinnied from where he had been left, drawing the boy’s attention. Seeing his quarry turn and register the sound, Mordal quickly began to turn the crank on his weapon. As the boy again turned to locate this new sound, he abruptly went down in a heap, seemingly struck by the first arrow. As a result of this the rest of the shots flew above his fallen corpse to the mount he rode in on. Then something completely unexpected happened that even a trained assassin such as Mordal had never before witnessed.
With blood pouring from several wounds, the great white mount reared up on its hind legs. With a snort it leaped over its fallen rider and came thundering across the river at an amazing speed. Though the charger had not registered Mordal, as his blessing made him all but invisible, the beast nearly trampled him causing him to dive out of the animal’s path at the last instant. He cursed loudly as several bolts spilled from the hopper on his weapon. Fortunately the great white charger had another target already picked out, and so did not turn to face him having heard him curse.
Fitting his weapon back to his shoulder, Mordal took aim once again as the charger met his stallion upon the field. With hooves and teeth the great white war horse began its assault on his black stallion, and for a moment Mordal let his beast take the abuse. Had the animal kept its mouth shut neither of them would be in this predicament. However, even if his beast deserved the beating, he needed the animal. Turning the crank to his gnomish device, Mordal unloaded more than a dozen rounds, careful to spare his stallion any injury. Watching as the great white beast reared back, blood gushing from seemingly everywhere, Mordal witnessed it letting loose a pitiful scream before crumpling back upon its hind legs and thrashing about the ground blindly as its lifeblood pooled upon the soil.
Finally Mordal had found a messenger, though to receive payment he would need to collect the boy’s medallion and his coin purse for good measure. Collecting the bolts that had fallen from his weapon, Mordal stood, leaving his mount where it was, to go and collect the spoils of his trade. However, this night was turning out to be quite aggravating as the boy was not where he had fallen. It appeared Mordal would have to do some tracking, to which he smiled, for never in his career had a target escaped him for very long.
Excited by the thrill of the hunt, Mordal relinquished his magical camouflage and strode to the edge of the river to discern whatever details he could of the boy’s escape.
*****
Darion ducked beneath a portion of the far bank that had become washed out by the river’s slow current. This time of year the water was incredibly cold with the head waters filtering down from the mountains to the north, where winter had already staked its claim. With his teeth chattering and body shivering, Darion crouched within the small confines of his chosen hiding place and found himself in a terrible predicament. In order to entirely conceal his body, Darion was forced to kneel in the small depression in the bank, tilting his head back and leaving only his face exposed above the slow, icy cold waters. So small was the space that the roots of the vegetation above actually rested upon his face as he hid. For fear of giving away his location to the unseen attacker, Darion opened his mouth wide to keep his teeth from chattering. However, as roots dangled into his mouth, and flecks of soil fell into his throat, he was forced to fight his gag reflex. What was worse, with no way to see or hear his attacker, Darion had no idea how long he would need to wait within the icy waters, nor how long he would be able to do so. However it was not a long wait before the roots resting upon his face sagged nearer his flesh, and dirt began raining down upon him and into his mouth. Darion froze in realization, so fearful of being discovered he dared not even breathe, as his attacker was now literally standing just above his face.
*****
Mordal eyed the far bank momentarily, looking for any sign of movement in the darkness. His blessed vision showed no sign of the messenger upon the other bank. Mordal’s blessing was unique he presumed, and it had been the difference between success and failure more times than he could count. The ability to see things clearly at a distance allowed him to see details that to another assassin would be obscure. The unnatural tautness that overcame his muscles while awash in his blessing allowed him to react faster, move faster, dodge faster and even strike harder. Those two enhancements were enough to bring down most of his targets, but his ability to see the world by the heat contained within objects was the most useful at night.
This night was a perfect example, Mordal thought, as he looked to the water flowing just beyond his toes. Though the vast majority of the water appeared a dark hue of purple in his vision, a streak flowed from just beneath him of a slightly lighter hue, meaning something down there was warming the water around it as it flowed past. Smiling to himself, Mordal reached into his belt and removed another gnomish weapon he was very fond of. It appeared to be a spear except for the fact that it was only half as long as his arm. However, with a click of a catch and a flick of the wrist, the shaft extended as section after section of steel tubing with an ever smaller diameter slid out from the larger one behind it with a series of clicks. Now the spear was as long as he was tall. Grabbing its shaft with both hands, Mordal raised his arms and drove the spear down with all his might through the soil between his boots and several feet down below the surface of the ground.
*****
Darion remained unmoving for what felt like forever, his lungs tightening in his chest, his body silently screaming for more air. He knew he would not be able to remain this way much longer and wondered what exactly his attacker was doing simply standing there on the bank. Panic threatened again and again to overcome him as the warmth leached from his body and his lungs felt as if they might explode. But even when his vision began to blur, he waited a few more seconds before he finally dared to take another breath. Slowly, more slowly than what his body cried for, Darion took a breath. Little did he know it would be his last. For just as soon as Darion had filled his lungs to capacity, he was struck unexpectedly. Though no matter how vicious the attack was, Darion felt as the blade thrust into his mouth, splitting his tongue in two before plunging out the back of his skull above his neck and then driving on down through his spine and into his vital internal organs. So swift was the strike that to Darion that final moment seemed to slow, allowing him to feel each new agonizing pain individually before the shaft of the weapon was extruded from his body, releasing vast amounts of blood from each of the wounds. As the weapon was removed from his body with a jerk and a twist, Darion, his face now below the icy waters, released his last breath in a gurgle of his own blood in an attempt to scream before his eyes rolled back and the world was lost to him.
*****
Mordal chuckled as he pulled the boy’s ruined body just far
enough out of the water to remove anything of value. Taking the boy’s medallion, coin purse and dagger, the assassin then shoved the boy back into the water with his boot. Finally his mission to Valdadore was showing some promise. This messenger had more coin than some minor lords Mordal had brought to their end in his homeland. Mordal could not help but grin at his luck as he turned to regain his mount. This was going to be a lucrative venture, Mordal thought as he climbed back into his saddle, guiding the stallion to resume in their original direction.
Chapter 2
Reunited Family and Restored Glory
Morning was quickly approaching as the last of the plans were laid in preparation to defend Valdadore. All who had spent the night awaiting orders in the chamber adjacent to the king’s study had been dismissed and told to carry out their missions with all haste. The only people who remained in that high chamber of the king’s palace were the king himself and his closest, most trusted allies. Though each of them was exhausted, both mentally and physically, Seth knew that more needed to be said before he and Sara could retire from the chamber as well. So much had changed since the battle with the black horde, Seth felt that Garret, of all people, would not only understand but also need the truth in order to realistically put to use his brother’s abilities. So after many thoughts on how to begin his tale, pausing briefly to allow Linaya to yawn, an action then repeated by everyone in the room, Seth sighed loudly and began to speak.
“There are a few things you should know, brother, in reference to myself and Sara, that not only relate to our current circumstances, but also to how we will be behaving for the unforeseeable future,” Seth began, and watched as Garret’s eyebrows lifted showing both his attention and curiosity. “Sara and I have undergone changes that greatly affect our ability to aid you. Though I was affected less than she, the most I can tell you about myself at this time is that I will be greatly hindered during daytime hours.”
The Contention Page 2