Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

20

The matter was delicate, requiring the elimination of two young elven nobles. Not of the highest families, either of them, but sufficiently well connected to make silence and stealth advisable. His Lordship required their deaths, further demanding that he be present to witness the deed. He had not requested excessive torment, nor any reveal of the death-strike’s cause. Possibly meant to deal with those bits, himself.

Losirr the Feral paced the Chamber of Setting Forth; hands clasped at his back, thinking hard. Very faintly, from high above, came the noises of business and street and the “flock”; those defenseless kine on which he and his sort eternally fed.

Lord Arvendahl was a valued customer. He paid well and on time, never quibbling over The Red Hand’s steep price. In his own way, the elf was a force to be dreaded, for he knew where The Hand denned up; had seen what they were. That a blade, a noose, a blown needle was always ready for him, Arvendahl knew as well… Yet he strode that sharp line with absolute confidence.

Losirr considered the marks, those to be culled and feasted on afterward: Valerian Tarandahl, a northern high-elf, and Filimar Exile, a son of the shore. Both were newcomers to the city. According to His Lordship and scuttlebutt, they’d been meant to take up their posts in the Imperial Honor Guard.

The strike would have to be made before either young lord took service, then, as The Hand sought no brush with Imperial power. If it came down to Arvendahl versus Ildarion the First, Tamer of Dragons, Sword-Arm of Oberyn… His Lordship could quietly hang. No money refunded, no warning at all.

So: speed, silence and absolute stealth, then. Losirr scratched absently at his own shaggy dark hair, considering his options. No new-fang, fresh from the grave, for this task. He’d go himself or send forth his Left or Right Hand: Mandor the Charmer or Fallon Deathsinger.

Losirr preferred keeping himself in reserve. In five hundred years, he had never failed to bring down his quarry… but who and what he was, were tough things to miss or disguise. Worse, he could not discorporate without spell-craft that might be shielded against.

Mandor could shape-change; mist, rat or wolf-dog as well as his constantly smiling elven form… but disliked direct sunlight and temples. Extremely dependable otherwise, Mandor was Left Hand of Death. Prone to play with his victims, though; liking to lure them into a friendship, first. Claimed that it made their eventual deaths more artistic and poignant.

Fallon Deathsinger killed because she knew nothing else. Because she needed revenge against one out of reach and long gone. There was no rest at all for Fallon, except the brief peace brought by her victims’ terror and anguish. She could fully discorporate, passing through walls like so many wide-open doors… but could not cross running water or remain physical for longer than thirteen deep breaths. Fallon was Right Hand of Death. A trusted flank-runner who would only swerve if offered the throat of the one who had slain her, all those centuries past. She specialized in drownings and shattering falls, but one of the doomed was a mage; surely able to breathe water, and feather-fall.

So… who, then? Both Hands had mastered the thousand death-ways. Both were implacable once on the trail. Finding the choice difficult, Losirr turned to his god. Rumbling low in his throat, the master assassin crossed the Chamber of Setting Forth. His feet made no sound on that chilly stone floor. His breathing and passage stirred the air hardly at all.

To the great totem statue of Rictor, Lord of death and decay, he went. The Red Hand worshipped no minor god. No weakling or cub. Unlike the flock above, they burnt no incense and chanted no hymns. Their totem was a log, roughly hewn into thirteen vast, snarling mouths; each maw representing one of the Shadow Tribes.

Drawing close, Losirr first bowed, then placed his scarred hands on the base of that great wooden image. Next, with sudden, fierce violence, he gouged at the wood, adding fresh cuts to its deeply scarred surface. Till his own nails were loose and his hands ran with blood, Losirr dug at the wood. Finally, a long, sharp splinter came free, piercing one of his blood-soaked hands.

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Not far away (as the griffin flies) Val and Filno stepped out of the portal and onto a busy street. Found themselves in lower Karellon, where great doings and bustle were stirring. Everywhere the elves looked, folk were rushing about, carting goods and putting up decorations. Images of golden dragons and His Imperial Majesty draped every surface except for the road, it seemed.

Puzzled, Val stepped over to one of the city’s constables; a half-elf in black chainmail emblazoned with dragons.

“A moment of your time, Officer,” he said, bowing slightly.

The dark-haired constable turned to look, then saluted, clenched fist to brow. Bowed low enough that his chainmail rang clashing loud on his truncheon and sword hilt. His glowing name plate read: Lang.

“My Lords,” he replied, “What is your pleasure? How may this one serve?”

In Karellon, as in Milardin, the mortal races were utterly subject to elven power. The half-elf thus made no eye-contact, keeping his head down before a pair of obvious noblemen. Valerian indicated the nearest fluttering, dragon-shaped banner. Regardless of wind, it was spelled to keep swaying, sometimes displaying His Majesty’s image, as well.

“We have just gated in from the fleet,” he explained. “Our knowledge of Karellon is scant. What, if you please, is the meaning of all this activity?”

Officer Lang smiled a bit, risking a swift glance upward at Valerian’s face. Whatever he saw there must have seemed reassuring, for the half-elf said,

“The young lords are blessed to arrive near the time of hatching, when Vernax the Golden restores its first glory, and our emperor rides forth in power.”

Ah. Val would have thanked him, but Filimar handled things his way. Producing a low value coin from his faerie pockets, the young exile flipped it at Lang.

“Very good, Fellow,” said the former Arvendahl. “You may carry on with your work, now.”

The half-elf’s expression closed up again. He caught the silver penny, because to refuse it would have been seen as an insult. But then Val interfered his way, using magic to exchange the penny for a gold sovereign (one of Filno’s remaining few). Lang felt the coin change its size and weight, saw Valerian’s wink, and relaxed.

“Thank you, my lords. A good day to you.”

“And glad tidings,” finished Val, unable to help himself despite Filno’s stare. After another slight bow, he seized Filimar’s arm and then drew him out of the street, to the fluttering shade of a shop-awning. It was after midday, and cookfire smoke was rising all over the city, bearing a welter of smells.

“We need a place to stay until I’ve secured our spot in the Guards, Filno. I’ll pass you off as my milk brother.” A thought that brought him brief warmth. “Your father I know, ad Tormun. But your mother’s name…?”

Filimar scowled.

“She is no maidservant, Valno. She is Lady Faleena Arv…”

Didn’t finish. Instead, two things happened at once. First, distant war bells tolled out through the ether. Then Filimar stopped talking. Not over any mere coin, either. The color drained out of his face, leaving him pale as a starving barrow-wight.

“Filno?” asked Val, tugging his friend’s arm. Then, through Filimar, it struck him, as well; the terrible dousing of light. The loss of someone who mattered too deeply for words.

Filimar’s father was dead. Suddenly. Violently. Having stood up for right and been killed for his honor. The young exile slumped, half-turning north toward home. Valerian caught him before he could fall, saying quietly,

“Steady, Filno. Courage. No battle is lost till you’ve given up fighting.”

His friend looked at him through eyes like a pair of stab wounds. Having to work to draw breath, clutching hard at Valerian, the dark-haired young elf whispered,

“In w- water, Valno. Eaten by fish. Nothing t- to burn. No way to…”

Valerian embraced his friend tightly, feeling an icy brush of the past, himself. Shook his head stubbornly.

“No. There’s a way, and we’ll find it. My oath, Filno. Your lord father will have his release and his honors.”

Filimar was crying. Quietly, barely shaking in Val’s grip, but torn clear down to the heart of him. A certain amount of attention was drawn by the spectacle of two young elf-lords, one clearly distraught, on the streets of Low Town. Attention they couldn’t afford. Valerian stood straighter, lifted his head, and pasted a confident look on his face. Patting Filimar’s shoulder, he said loudly, carelessly,

“There now, Brother. Take heart. I’m certain the lass will forgive you, anon. You know females… Inconstant and empty-headed as sparrows. One moment she hates you, and the next, you’re the love of her life. Your mum can’t be that set against her.”

A good enough sop to appease swiveled ears and sideways looks… for now. They still needed shelter, though. Val sketched a quick sigil, calling up Karellon’s city map. Found what he wanted… there… three streets over, where Low Town melded with Outland. Spotted the Constellate chapter house, where no one was ever refused. (No matter the bloodthirsty warg-son who hunted them.)

By this time, Filimar had gotten himself together. Still looked like the wretched shade of a twice-murdered ghost, but was able to stand on his own.

“Your word, in truth, Valno?” he whispered, drying his face with a brocade sleeve. “We’ll find some way to help Dad to the Halls?”

Valerian clasped his friend’s shoulder. Find Etherion… Serve the Emperor… Rescue the soul of Lord Tormun… Trouble comes in threes, he’d been taught, and it was certainly pouring down now.

“I promise,” he said, pushing worry and doubt to the fringes. “In the meantime, folk are watching, and we have a dangerous enemy. You must act as though nothing is wrong, and you have not a care in the world beyond which breeches go best with a gold ‘broidered shirt. Your life and your freedom depend on it. For now, if anyone asks, you are broken-hearted over the loss of Neira… the faithless baggage.”

Filimar managed to straighten and nod. His gaze had a way of turning suddenly inward, though, and he swayed like a drunk battling serious headwinds.

“They’re coming,” he murmured, looking restlessly northward again. “My mother and people are fleeing Milardin. They need haven.”

Valerian nodded, getting his friend underway with a muttered spell and a shove.

“Best we get settled, then, so we’re in a position to do them some good. First, a room at the Constellate House, then…” he puffed out a long, weary breath. “Then, we tackle those palace clerks and attendants.”

Ought not to take more than a month and a mountain of bribes to work their way from front gate to the High Lord Seneschal, he figured. That, and a whole lot of charm. Meanwhile, Milardin’s war bells continued to ring. Trial fireworks flared and exploded high in the sky… and a master assassin called in his chosen predator.