Darkness Falls (Tales of the Wolf) (28 page)

The Vigil were the elite warriors of the Dark Alliance military. Only one in every five applicants made it to the last year of training and over half of those did not survive that last year. They were tough, fit and highly skilled. The Vigil had become the backbone of the Dark Alliance military. Many of those who did not make it through the eight years of training to become a Sicárius, ended up in the Vigil. 

The Vigil Sergeant stepped up and in a very rude tone commanded. “No blades or bows allowed inside. Leave your weapons here!”

Without hesitation, the Sicárii downloaded all of
their weapons except one dagger, their ever present sicáe. That was all that the Vigil would allow inside and that was only because they were Sicárii.

Gray could tell in the Sergeant’s eyes that he did not like it but he had to allow it.

Once cleared, the assassins moved across a small courtyard and into a large dark room. Gray knelt in the first beam of light and lowered his head. Even without looking, he knew his friends had copied his actions. One part of Gray’s mind noticed that there were only seven circles of light, so someone knew that Meatshield had not survived the mission. Now, they waited to be noticed.

Of course, his half-elven heritage granted him excellent darkvision. Not as powerful as a full-blooded elf, a gnome or the dwarves but within about fifty feet, he could see as clearly as daytime. More than enough for him to peer through the darkness that cloaked the chamber.

Kralm Solus the Dôminus was standing at a large table covered with maps and markers. The half-orc had the grey stone-colored skin common to his father’s race but the broad-shoulders and height of his mother’s human side. He was dressed in the same manner as the Sicárii, black chainmail and leather armor, but his was a bit more ornate. The leather padding and flaps were embossed with traditional orcish symbols and his preferred weapon was an ornate spear that was as tall as the half-orc. It was close at hand and glowed with the unnatural light of magic. Kralm was talking with a semi-transparent and disembodied head that was floating above a small silver basin of blood.

Gray shifted his head slightly to the left and grinned at another advantage his half-elven legacy granted him, sensitive hearing. Enough so that he could listen in to the conversation between the Dôminus and Lalith, the Dark Lady, the true leader of the Dark Alliance and Galvorn’s mother.

“I told you that the new batch wasn’t ready. You cannot cut training and expect them to be Sicárii.”

Gray cast a glance at his half-brother. The Dôminus was echoing their own words. Over the last year, they had been forced to work with some of the new Sicárii and it was apparent that they had inferior training. It was good to know that someone in the command structure had also noticed.

Even though Lalith’s features were semi-transparent, her ebony skin and high cheekbones of her dark elven race were readily apparent. “Kingslayer had assured me that they were adequately trained...”

Kralm interrupted. “Hmm…the dwarf’s understanding of that word must be different from my own.”

Lalith frowned and continued as if the half-orc had not spoken. “Granted, the new students no longer benefit from Darnac’s expert tutelage but Zivën is the Blademaster of Timgâd and one of the Three. He has the required skills.”

Kralm folded his arms across his body. “Not everyone is a teacher. Having a skill and teaching a skill is completely different.”

Lalith raised one eyebrow. “Are you questioning the Kingslayer’s judgment?”

Kralm gestured to his prize students behind him. “Actions speak louder than words.”

“Kingslayer assures me that his Sicárii failures were aberrations due to unforeseen complications.”

Without taking his eyes off the apparition of Lalith, Kralm commanded. “Shadow, what is rule number twelve?”

Galvorn bolted upright, back straight, hands folded in front and head lowered but answered with a loud clear voice. “
Tu ne cede malis sed contra audentior ito –
Yield not to misfortunes but advance all the more boldly against them.” Seeing his Dôminus nod, Galvorn dropped back into his subservient position.

The ghostly figure of Jinx, her gargoyle familiar, appeared as he leaned in a whispered into the Dark Lady’s ear and a wicked grin overtook her face.

“That is a deliciously clever suggestion, my pet. I like it.” She turned her attention back to the half-orc slaver. “Kralm, I think it is time to test the Kingslayer’s students. Next week, he is supposed to have another class graduating. I want Shadow and Stalker to attend.”

“And their mission?’

Lalith’s grin spoke volumes. “Test them.”

Kralm pointed at the maps before him. “And our other problem?”

“I will have the Blademaster look into their failures and see how it will affect our long term plans.”

Kralm nodded. “Your words, my actions.”

With a simple nod of confirmation, the disembodied head of the Dark Lady dissipated into vapors and Kralm moved back to his war table. The Dôminus purposefully ignored his subordinate for at least five minutes before turning his attention to his students. Moving to stand in front of them, the Dôminus held out his left hand to display the golden ring of the spider. It was a gift from Clotho the Spinner and served as a symbol of his position on the Dark Alliance council. Kralm had also used it prominently during the training of his slaves in the Lüdüs.

One by one, the Sicárii calmly reached up and kissed the ring
as they had been trained.

“Congratulations on completing your last mission.” Kralm nodded his head to the basin of blood. “It was the Dark Lady’s priority mission although it had a low chance of success. She didn’t believe it was possible but I believed in your skills. I’m glad you didn’t let me down.”

Gray spoke for the rest of his team. “Thank you Dôminus.”

“Shadow and Stalker, you heard the Dark Lady. Do you understand your mission?”

The half-brothers answered in unison. “Yes, Dôminus.”

“Let me add this, I want you to totally embarrass the dwarf. I think he is a
pompous ass that has bastardized my vision. Show him the error of his ways.”

“Yes, Dôminus.”

Kralm picked his sharp canine-like teeth with one long and dirty fingernail. “Keep in mind, that you are not authorized to eliminate anyone. You may defend yourselves but no assassinations.”

“Yes, Dôminus.”

Kralm waved his hands and turned back to his maps. “Dismissed.”

Gray’s team backed out without a word and disappeared into the bowels of the Bastion.

*    *    *   *    *

Breaking the connection, Lalith stepped out of her new spell chamber and out onto the balcony that overlooked the blue waters of the Crystal Sea. Even though it was an overcast day, she could see gathering storm clouds in the distance and could feel the wind picking up.

Even though the Fortress of the Black Falls in the Highlands was still technically the main hub of the Dark Alliance, Lalith had found the coastal kingdom of Lagash more to her liking. Actually, it had not been a kingdom for over five centuries when the entire royal line was killed off in one bloody night. There were plenty of rumors of who had orchestrated it but Lalith’s gold would be on the Thieves Guild. They had moved in the very next day and claimed the city for their own. There was no standing army or navy but that did not mean the city was vulnerable. Just over a century ago, some foolish bandit had raised a small army and tried to retake Lagash. They failed. Most of the invaders became slaves and the leader had disappeared into the wilderness.

There was an old saying, ‘Anything and everything is for sale in Lagash.’

For Lalith, this human city of lawless scum was the closest thing to Avaris she had found on the surface. As much as she hated to consider it, she missed the dusky splendor of her hometown.

Lalith transferred her gaze to the south until her eyes found the shipyards. She could see eight ships in different stages of construction but they all had at least two common traits; they were coal black – black sails, black wood and even black rope and they were built under the direction of a certain infamous gnomish engineer.

Machinor was one of three gnomish brothers that were the most notorious inventors in all of the Subterreth. Most considered him as one part brilliant and seven parts crazy. Every inventors had some sort of code or conscious that guided them, not so with the three brothers. If an idea came to one of them or a question posed that they could not answer outright, they set about discovering the answer or improving it by making modifications or building something that accomplished the goal. It did not matter who or what got in their way.

One of Machinor’s favorite sayings was,
‘nothing can stop the march of progress, nothing.
’

Lalith had found him both annoying and entertaining as long as he did not stand too close. There were a couple of reasons for this, first and foremost, he smelled awful. Secondly, things had a way of exploding around him. Nevertheless she had to give him credit, point him in the right direction, guide him with subtle suggestions and he was
tenacious. When Clotho had decreed the need of a special fleet of ships, Lalith had sent for Machinor. After his brief meeting with the spider-goddess, the gnome had been unstoppable.

Hearing someone clear their throat behind her, Lalith whirled around, readied her skull-headed wand and began the beginning phrases of a killing spell, only to find the Blademaster standing there with a smirk on his face. He lowered his head ever so slightly.

“You called ma’am?”

Lalith considered reprimanding him for sneaking up on her…again, but decided against it. He had done that time and time again to her over the decades and not once had any punishment she had ever devised deterred him. Slipping her wand back into her robe, she turned back to the rolling waves of the Crystal Sea.

“It’s about time you showed up. I have a mission for you.”

“Yes, so Jinx has informed me. My orders?”

“Investigate, not eliminate. I have questions that need answers and questioning the dead is so draining.”

“So I have been told but then, the dead do not lie.”

“True but those I question tend not to lie more than once.”

Her grin was so chilling that the Blademaster
suppressed a shudder. “Time?”

“Yesterday.”

“I will leave immediately.” Darnac bowed and left the room.

Lalith stared at the closed door for a moment before asking aloud. “Will he succeed?”

Jinx floated down from the rafters. “He has never failed you in all these years, no matter what mission you’ve set for him.”

“There’s always a first time for everything
but he is still the best I have available.”

Jinx shrugged and flapped his wings absentmindedly. “There is the Shadow. He has great potential.”

Lalith cocked her head to the side as she considered his suggestion. “Do you really think Galvorn is Darnac’s equal?”

“Not yet, he is still too naïve to truly be effective.”
Jinx smirked. “But that won’t last long.”

“What do you mean?”

Jinx’s grin grew until it threatened to split his face in two. “Once Shadow and Stalker have decimated the new recruits and totally embarrassed the Dwarf,” the gargoyle never referred to Aaron Kingslayer by his self-given title, “and in turn Zivën Tenëbráe, the Blademaster of Timgâd will have no choice but to challenge one or both to a duel.”

Lalith contemplated that for a second before nodding. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“I know. You mortals tend to think so narrowly. It was one of the reasons I suggested sending Kralm’s prize students.”

“Can Galvorn really beat one of the Three?”

Jinx noticed that she had actually called her son by name, which was a rare enough occurrence in the last decade that he could count them on one hand, which only had three fingers. “I have watched his prize students over the years. Darnac has trained them expertly. They both have the skills and the knowledge required to be a Blademaster. However, Stalker has the killer instinct that the Shadow is lacking. I think it has to do with their past, the years before they met. I would wager that Stalker has felt death up close and personal where the Shadow hasn’t…at least not yet.”

“And you think its past time to push him to step up.”

“Aye, the Shadow needs to embrace his destiny or perish.” The gargoyle shrugged. “At least that is my viewpoint on the situation.”

Lalith nodded. “You’re right. It is about time the Shadow became a true Sicárii.”

As the dark elf turned away to take care of other duties, she failed to see the wicked grin of satisfaction on the gargoyle’s face as he thought,
“Mortals are so easy to manipulate.”
 

Chapter 30

Dancer stepped on the wooden deck that surrounded the house on the water and the former shaman looked around conspiratorially before slipping into the well-crafted house.

Dancer took in his surroundings as he moved through the main room of his
Chieftains’ house. In many ways, this hogan had become the repository of his people’s history. It was here that any relic from the years before the Highland Nation exiled themselves to this hidden vale was stored. There were hand-carved figurines and statues on tables, peace pipes and coop sticks, stones and tablets all across the room. He also spied the tomahawk of Kamots Hawkeye, the Wolflord and savior of the people. It hung on one wall with three other weapons of distinction. First, there was the Moonsword, a finely crafted blade in the Elven fashion. It was rumored to be one of the three Swords of Fate but more importantly to the Highlanders, it was the sword of Tatiana Amarth the Red Eagle and mother of the Chosen One.

These two weapons hung in a place of honor above a series of wooden carvings that Hawkeye had created before the fall of Itasca. Dancer knew that somehow Anasazi had rescued the figurines before the Dark Alliance had put the city to the torch. He did not explain why or how but then, the ways of wizards and shaman are unfathomable to many.   Anasazi had wanted Sun Dancer to take up the mantle of the Shaman leadership before his departure but after the battle, Dancer knew where his destiny lay and it was not the path of healing. The ancient shaman had just nodded his understanding and never brought it up again. 

Nearby was another axe that was crafted entirely of true silver by the dwarves of old. It had the burnish and shine of silver but the strength of thrice-forged steel. Dwarven runes covered the blade and a large ruby was set in a fist at its pommel. It was not flashy or ornate but he knew it was a powerful weapon, at least according to the stories told by Nilrem the Bluebear.

However, it was the last weapon on the wall that always captured his attention whenever he passed through this room, the Wolfshead sword. It was a wide single edged blade that was slightly curved and highly polished. The hilt was clearly designed for one-hand but was long enough for two in a pinch. The pommel sported a snarling wolf’s head with a moonstone gem gripped tightly in its teeth. Rjurik Silvershield, a hero of the war and a great friend of Hawkeye, had created the Wolfshead sword for the child of prophecy after receiving a vision from Bromios the patron god of the dwarves. It was said that only the Chosen One could wield the sword and all others would feel the blade’s bite. Dancer, along with many others had not believed the stories until he had seen it firsthand.

One night about five winters back, Nilrem had brought the Wolfshead sword to the Powwow and presented the blade to his people. Under the light of the full moon, he shared its tale of creation. As he spoke, the moonlight seemed to gather within the blade and the moonstone seemed to pulse with its own life until it glowed brightly. Even to this day, Dancer remembered the words Bluebear had spoken that night.

“It is foretold, that when the Darkness Falls and all hope is lost, a shadow will stalk the evil which plagues our people
. The Chosen One will be revealed by the light of this sword and the destiny of the land will begin to change.”

Otso, a young braggart originally from the bear tribes, spoke up.
“Why is it that it doesn’t bite you?”

Nilrem answered calmly.
“I am its guardian. I may carry it but not wield it.”

“Why?”

“It is forbidden.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Dancer remembered that everyone had expected Nilrem to get mad at the young brave but instead he held out the blade and said,
“Here, test the value of my words.”

Otso had stepped forward and grabbed the sword. Everyone could tell from his facial expressions that it must be a wonderful weapon as he swung it back and forth to test its balance. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of white light and Otso screamed. Even as the magnificent blade fell to the ground, he held out his bloody hand to the crowd where teeth marks could clearly be seen. Otso still bore the scars as a testament to the power of the Wolfshead sword but no one doubted the magic of the beautiful blade again.

Dancer shook his head to clear it of memories and to bring it back to the present. He had a mission to complete. He moved up to the door to Stormrider’s chambers and rapped on the frame.

“Come in Dancer,” came Amani’s soft voice.

Stepping inside, he froze at the sight before him. Amani Stormrider was sitting cross-legged with her eyes closed and her hands on her knees. That was not what stopped him in his tracks. The fact that she was floating three feet in the air while strange glyphs glowed with a blue-white light below her did. Dancer had always known that she was a spell caster, everyone in Crannog did, but seeing her like this brought that peculiarity home. Highlanders are used to magic but the magic of nature, not the type used by elves and witches. It seemed unnatural to the young warrior.

Amani opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder at him. “What’s the matter Dancer?”

“What? Why? How are you doing that?”

Amani giggled at the expression on her friend’s face. It was a joyful sound and one that Dancer liked.

“This is just a simple spell of levitation and part of a trick that Red Eagle taught me to help center myself with the Weave.” As she explained, she slowly descended to the floor. “Magic is just an extension of the universe. Since everything was created from the fabric of the universe, then everything is just a smaller part of the universe. If a spellcaster wants something, whether it be a spell of destruction or a single rose, he or she needs only access the Weave of the universe and attain your results.”

The blank look on the warrior’s face told her that he understood her words but not their meanings. She knew that he had spent several years walking the path of the shaman. Although the natural patterns and incantations of the tribal medicine men were in effect the same as spellweaving, theirs was just more familiar to the Highlanders.

Dancer shook his head. “Not that I doubt you but whatever it is that you do is so different from the way of the shaman.”

“No
it’s not. Part of the shaman training teaches you to understand the rhythms of the seasons, correct?” She paused long enough to see him nod. “Even without realizing it, a shaman is accessing the Weave. That is part of the reason there are rituals and incantations for everything a shaman does. The paths are different but the destination is the same.”

Dancer laughed. “Now you sound just like Anasazi.”

“That was one of his favorite quotes.” Amani grinned. “I remember when he first told me that, it didn’t make sense and whenever I said that, he would only smile. The more adept I have become the more I realize how profound that statement truly is.”

“I’ll take your word on it.”

Amani brushed her dark brown bangs behind her left ear as she smiled. “As much as I enjoy debating the philosophy of spellcraft, I’m sure that’s not why you’re here.”

Now it was Dancer’s turn to grin. “I’ve found him.”

*    *    *   *    *

The day following the assassination of the High Councilor had been a blur of meetings and briefings for Rjurik. So much so, that the veteran dwarf had not made it home or slept in the past day and a half. Nor had he had found the time to question Ronin. The monk had not seemed surprised to encounter the assassins. It was almost as if he had expected them. That was when he noticed it was quiet. Too quiet.

Rjurik shifted his gaze from the lukewarm cup of coffee to the young politician sitting at his desk. Rjurik tried his best to remember exactly what the official had said but could not. His brain was mush.

Rjurik shook his head. “That doesn’t matter right now.”

Silas jerked back and placed one hand on his chest. “The security of Asylum doesn’t matter right now?”

Rjurik was already tired of this pompous ass and decided it was time to teach him a thing or two. Thumping his stump on his desk for effect, he leaned forward slightly. “You weren’t talking about the city’s security but how this attack was going to affect the gold flowing into your coffers, no matter what words you were using. You will find that your
silver tongue doesn’t work too well on me.” Silas opened his mouth to respond but Rjurik silenced him with a question. “Where were you yesterday morning?”

Silas was taken aback by the subject change. “Why? What does that matter?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I was at home having breakfast with my wife.”

Rjurik nodded and glanced down at a scroll on his desk. “And where were you last night during the attack?”

Silas was still confused but answered smoothly, “I was at home in bed with my wife.”

Rjurik shook his head. “That’s a lie. You were in bed, just not at home and definitely not with your wife. You were at Lady Jayne’s House of Pleasure on Canal Street until past the fourth bell.”

Silas’ face drained of all color. “What? Why are you spying on me?”

Rjurik leaned back in his chair. “That is not the point I was trying to make but since you asked I’ll enlighten you. I was not spying on you, well not only you. Every elected official is under constant watch from my men. If they are within the walls of the city, someone is watching them. Mostly we just watch since the politician haven’t asked or needed our protection…yet. I doubt that last night’s assassination will be an isolated event. To my mind, every politician is a target. I plan on being ready before the next attack and have already doubled the guards.”

Silas was livid but Rjurik ignored his discomfort and continued. “But that was not the point I was trying to make by my questions. The fact is that you have slept and eaten several times in the last day and a half.” Rjurik tapped his stump on the half-eaten
bowl of stew on his desk. “This is all I have had in that same amount of time and nor have I slept. Therefore, as of right now I’m heading home to my wife and son and taking the rest of the day off. I suggest you return home or to Lady Jayne’s or to the casino, I personally don’t care. But I would suggest that you seriously contemplate your future dealings with me.”

Silas Silvertongue opened and closed his mouth several times but no words came out. Turning around, he stormed out of the dwarf’s office and almost ran over Rupert, the surly dwarf’s assistant.

Rupert was a young lad of questionable origins. Rjurik had caught him trying to cut his purse strings his first day in office. Instead of throwing him in chains or severing one hand, the traditional punishment for thievery, Rjurik had put him to work. First as an informant, then as an assistant who collected information from other informants. Within the first month of office, Rjurik had confiscated an old abandoned warehouse down near the docks. Officially, the warehouse was used for training purpose for the city’s militia but in reality, it became a safe haven for any and all street urchins, the discarded children of Asylum. He and Aleena made sure that the children had something to eat and a place to stay. But more than that, it gave the children hope and kept them away from more of the sinister options for their future.

As Rupert cleared away the remnants of the Captain’s dinner, he cleared his throat. “Pardon me sir, but why did you tell him that?”

“Tell him what?”

“That you have men watching all politicians.”

Rjurik grinned. “I don’t like useless people. Silas has never worked an honest day’s labor in his entire life. He has used people and his gift of gab to get what he wants. Now, I have him worried that the Guard is watching him and it might just keep him honest.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“It has been my experience that people in his position are always working an angle. They do not do anything that will not benefit them in the end. Period. No matter what he says, in the end, he is only out for his own welfare.”

Rupert furrowed his brow. “But he seems so nice. And he is very good to the Street Rats.”

Rjurik grimaced at the nickname the lost children of Asylum had adopted. “Nothing is free.”

Rupert shook his head. “I don’t follow.”

Rjurik was too tired to continue the debate and stood up. “Another time, I’m heading home.”

“Good night sir.”

Rjurik started to correct him but sir was better than master, which is what he had called him for the first two years. Rupert was very tight-lipped about his early years but judging from the scars on his back and his mannerisms, Rjurik surmised that he had been a slave for at least a few years. Where, when and how he escaped Rjurik did not know. He hoped that one day the young lad would open up about that time in his life but not today.

Rjurik gathered up his ever-present shield and headed home….finally.

*    *    *   *    *

As soon as he walked into the Inn of Quiet
Repose, Anasazi knew that something was wrong. There was the faintest odor in the air. It was acrid and seared his nose hairs. He recognized it as the residue of a powerful spell and it was enough to put the ancient shaman on high alert. However, everything seemed normal. The Inn was actually full. They always had a variety of patrons from the poorest sailor to the richest noble. Everyone was welcome in the Inn of Quiet Repose. He could see that Aleena was behind the bar, all smiles. The reason quickly became apparent when he spied Rjurik standing right beside her, serving drinks and laughing. Oddly enough, there was a young man in grey robes that he was unfamiliar with running tables. He was bald and moved with sublime grace, even while carrying an armful of trays.