Post by Vorbote on Sept 9, 2010 11:06:36 GMT -6
You guys will be the first ones to read this. This is a collaboration between a friend and myself. The character 'Rhas' is my friends, while 'Seron' is mine.
The cold chill this night meant that the guards would stay in the guard house by the gate, only venturing out now and then to make it look like they were doing their duty, Rhas imagined that if the guards actually did what they were paid to do, he might find his ‘Tasks’ a little harder to accomplish than they usually were, however, it still wouldn’t prevent him from achieving his goal.
His goal tonight was a simple snatch and run, however, his snatch was a signet ring belonging to a Marquis, who had a personal vendetta against his contractor. The thing dissuaded Rhas from at first accepting this contract was not that he was being used as a tool in a war between nobles, but that he, an assassin of some repute, was being contracted to act as a common cat burglar.
So it came to be that Rhas found himself, high up on a wall above the gate of the Marquis M’naltan, hanging from a small loop anchor between two arrow slits, the gate below went unwatched, however open.
Rhas had ‘overheard’ that a shipment of fine wine was to be arriving today, however it would be late; due to a delay, otherwise,the portcullis would be lowered, and the heavy wood and iron doors would be closed.
The guards, as previously mentioned, were in the guardhouse, on the inside of the gate.
The fortress this Marquis occupied had been a critical stronghold in times of war, being a checkpoint for supply, and a viewpoint that from which, the entire valley below could be surveyed. In the distance, coming up from the valley, Rhas could see a dot of light, a lantern wavering, no doubt attached to the cart that carried the wine; that had been delayed. Rhas was most pleased in himself that the ‘delay’ that kept this merchant, had been a mix of luck, and quick thinking.
After hearing that the wine shipment was coming, Rhas had rushed ahead along the road to the Marquis’ stronghold, on the way, he had hoped to find the merchant and hide among the barrels of wine. Instead, Rhas found the merchant pulled over on the side of the road, his cart having hit a pothole in the road, and the rotted wood in its wheel had given out, leaving the merchant, with one wheel, and a splintered half wheel.
This is where Rhas’ quick thinking played a part; Rhas stopped to offer help to the merchant, in repairing his wagon, however, the merchant claimed that he would need tools and material he didn’t have, so he offered to pay Rhas to help, by delivering a message to the Marquis’ servants at the stronghold. Rhas had at first thought that this might hinder his plans, or perhaps he could have gained access by claiming to be the merchant’s apprentice. However, as soon as he had given the message he was turned away. Rhas had finally decided to conceal himself until nightfall, and when the merchant arrived late; sneak in while his load was being inspected.
What Rhas didn’t expect, was that the gate and portcullis be left open. It was only then that he remembered that a guard was to travel with the merchant, and had been sent out with the Marquis’ porter.
So, now we come back to Rhas, hanging from his precarious position on the castle wall, with the merchant caravan slowly coming into view up the narrow path to the stronghold.
As the caravan neared the gate, the guard traveling with them ordered them to stop, and the load was checked again, with the three guards from the gatehouse leaving their nice warm fire to attend the duties they were paid for.
Too easy. Thought Rhas, he didn’t like when things were too easy, however, Rhas knew how slack these hired goons could be.
Rhas dropped silently down, the ground softened by the moisture of the night, breaking his fall, and keeping his landing silent. Rhas checked behind him, just in case, making sure the guards were occupied with the load, the broadsword or two that he had rolled up in cloth and strapped to one of the barrels should have done it.
The gate of the stronghold was built between two sheer faces of rock, high up in the valley wall, this gap in the rock served as an alleyway between the front gate and the courtyard, it was small enough so that if a siege was successful in breaking in the doors and somehow destroying the heavy iron portcullis that the defending soldiers could charge a line of four horses straight into the attacking army. However, ‘the alley’ as the guards called it, had it’s walls stacked low with crates and barrels; mostly goods that had been taken as land rent from the sprawling farmland and village below, it was only enough to feed the Marquis, his retainers, and all that lived within the stronghold.
Rhas didn’t see why anyone could have any grudge or vendetta against this Marquis; he led his people well, he was fair to his subjects, and his guards behaved better than most guards Rhas had known.
Rhas stopped behind a cart of hey, next to the stables in the confined courtyard. He looked up at the towering exterior of the stronghold. The gate was watched by two guards, who were leaning idly on either side of the open doorway, talking attentively to each other, neither looked like they were likely to doze off any time soon, it looked like Rhas was going to have to gain entrance the old fashioned way. Rhas preferred it this way, sneaking in the front door by way of disguise was no fun, in his opinion, it also meant that if he had to murder someone, he would be a prime suspect, they knew he had gained access, although his identity remained secret still, however, if someone were murdered shortly after his entrance, it would seem suspicious. Rhas knew that he’d be better off if no one knew he was there in the first place, and it meant that he could bide his time in a hiding place until accusations could fly among others present, so that when the commotion took place, he had a diversion to his escape.
Rhas inspected the towering dark stone fortress. The fortress itself had been fashioned out of the very stone it was nestled amongst; it’s every brick having been chiseled out of the rock around it.
Above the entrance to the interior, a battlement stretched from rock wall to rock wall, this looked like something that could be advantageous to Rhas, as no guards patrolled it this night. Rhas inspected any way that he might gain access to these battlements, peering over the cart that hid his presence, to gain a better view of the courtyard from the ground up; Rhas noticed that the stables were built with its far wall, in direct contact with the fortress wall.
Rhas, keeping low, moved as silently as possible over to the near wall of the stable. Checking once again that the door guards were still talking, and unaware of Rhas’ skulking, he mounted a stepping of hay bails covered in a heavy canvas cover. Soon enough, Rhas was on the stable roof, and creeping along towards the fortress wall, keeping his footfalls gentle and quiet, so as not to spook the horses in their stalls below.
Reaching the battlements, Rhas made sure that the guards below hadn’t noticed him. Something tonight had made Rhas paranoid about these guards, they were slack, however, they didn’t comport themselves like the high and mighty guards from the cities. They took their job more lightly, and he hadn’t heard a single one complain about his position, his hours or his pay. It was strikingly odd.
Now at the wall below the battlements, Rhas pulled out a long hook, not being attached to any rope, it was not for grappling, it was a grappling tool, the moisture this high up above the valley made most of the outer walls extremely slippery, so using his hands to try and grab hold of arrow slits or the edges of merlons.
The hook had been simply fashioned out of a length of iron pole, about the width of a sword hilt, on the lower end of the iron pole had been bent away from the hook, then out to the side, as a handle. Rhas used the tool to hook into an arrow slit in the merlon above him as he jumped up, bracing his feet against the roughly hewn stone bricks, Rhas pushed himself up enough to get one leg up into the embrasure in the crenelations.
Safely upon the bartizan above the battlements, Rhas found the entrance he was looking for; a small door off to the right side, set into the main tower of the great fortress keep.
Once inside, all Rhas had to do was find the Marquis’ chamber, and acquire his signet ring…easier said than done for most, but Rhas wasn’t most.
Following what seemed like and endless maze of turns and winding passages, Rhas found himself back at the place he had started…which wasn’t good.
“For fucks sake…” Rhas murmured under his breath “where the fuck am I--”
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted “who are you?”
The curt voice was that of a young lady, golden blonde hair, falling in cascades of curls, her piercing blue eyes felt like they were gazing right into his soul, judging him. He was entranced by her—
“I said,” She said in a more stern tone “who are you!?”
“Oh, who, me?” Rhas said, first looking over his shoulder and then gesturing to himself.
“Yes, you!” she answered. She had now put one hand behind her back, Rhas guessed she was reaching for a knife or some such similar object “If you don’t explain yourself this instant-!”
Rhas threw his hands up and feigned and innocent expression “I-I am just a messenger, young lady,” he lied “I am here to see his lordship, the Marquis, I have an urgent message for him, although, I dare say this place is a maze, I seem to be lost, if you would but direct me…”
He let it hang, the young lady in his path was still wary, and wore a sour, if not distrustful expression. She jerked her head, gesturing for Rhas to follow, and he did.
Down a winding corridor Rhas was led forking in many places. No wonder I got lost…Rhas never did have very good directional instinct, he could read a map as well as the best, however, when it came to luck in choosing the right or left fork, and not knowing where he had to go, Rhas wasn’t blessed.
It seemed that some of the hallways and passages had been tunneled through the rock of the valley walls, the passages were a stable, comfortable temperature and it would be expected that when the night turned to day, and the air outside became hot, these passages would be cool.
They arrived at a door at the end of the passage, off to the left was a staircase, that wound up and to the right, obviously proceeding to whatever may be above the chamber beyond this door, at least, Rhas assumed it was a chamber, considering it wasn’t left open, not to mention the ornate nature of the door itself.
The young lady knocked. No reply. She knocked again, more urgently and harder than before.
“What business do you have with me at this late hour?” said a deep gruff voice from beyond the door.
“An urgent messenger for you.” The young lady replied.
“Send him in.”
The young lady opened the door, they both stepped inside. They entered a large circular chamber, a window set into the far side. It seemed that this was the lowest chamber of a large tower that protruded from the opposite side of the valley mountainous wall than the entrance, or in fact, the rest of the mountain stronghold. Rhas inspected the room, focusing more on its interior contents. To his right was a large four poster bed, to his left, a fireplace, that glowed orange with low flames and burning coals. On the far side from the door was a desk and high backed chair, it back towards the medium sized arch window, through which spilled a bluish silver moonlight.
Peering out into the moonlight, and surveying the stars was a rather large man, broad shouldered, with short, black, however graying hair. He wore robes of a dark green with thin silver trim, quite regal in comparison with the tight, thick material pants, gray hooded shirt, leather braces, and dark red and dirtied sash Rhas wore.
“Your message?” he said simply, Rhas already liked this man before he had met him, but something about him made him seem venerable and strong in person. This man seemed more like a warrior than a lord.
Turning to glance at the young lady standing behind him and glancing back, Rhas replied “For your ears only My Lord.”
“Wait outside please Jocelyn.” He said to Rhas’ guide.
“Yes father.” She replied, stepping out and closing the door.
The old mans features portrayed a life not of the pampered and pacified upper class, but that of the warrior class, that of a knight. A scar on the right side of his face was all that flawed his chiseled features; a wide strong jaw line, prominent cheekbones, a broad nose, that had obviously been broken, and a low, heavy brow.
“Now my good man,” he said wearily “your message?”
“You’ll find I’m not such a good man,” said Rhas shrugging, then casually pacing over to the fire place, to warm his hands “and sorry, but I carry no message.”
“Well then,” he said, proceeding to join Rhas by the fire “you must have some need to be in my presence, perhaps my council, my wealth, my life?”
“Hmm, well,” Rhas said, removing his fingerless leather gloves to better warm his hands “Your council does not interest me, I have lived my life by myself till now, and I’m still alive. Your wealth, well, I’m not really interested in jewels and the like, I need only food and blade, maybe a roof over my head every now and then. Your life…I am an assassin, but your life will not be mine to take, not tonight anyway.”
“Well,” he said, turning to face Rhas directly, hand son his hips and cocking his head “I know you didn’t use your skills to steal into my fortress and stand with me by my fireplace, did you now?”
“Of course not, my good man, and I know you’re a good man.” Rhas now turned to the Marquis “I came here for your ring, your signet ring that is.”
“And of what use could this ring be to you?” he queried, crossing his arms, and looking down his nose.
“Well,” Rhas sighed, turning back to the fire “you see, there’s the rather distasteful fellow; Barron De’Gert, Jarroal De’Gert, I believe you know him. Well, he hired me to get your ring, for what purpose I do not know, all I know is, I get paid, and that’s something that hasn’t happened in a while.”
“I see…” he said, scratching his stubbly chin “so not my life?”
“No, not your life” Rhas replied, shaking his head.
“Could you be reasoned with?” he said, turning his head to look at Rhas.
“Of course My Lord, I’m not a door.”
“Excellent,” the Marquis exclaimed, clapping his hands together “then shall we make a deal?”
“Ooooh,” said Rhas, squinting into the fire “I don’t see why not.”
“Then about your pay,” he said, returning to his desk and looking over some rolls of parchment “How much?”
“Marquis,” Rhas sighed “I have already been paid by our friend the Barron, you need not give me more and I can last a while on that.”
“I don’t like assuming the services of men without proper reward.”
“What about women?” Rhas grinned.
“That my friend is a subject, for a latter discussion.
“In that case, you can give me a room for the night, and you can feed me in the morning, otherwise you might find me bedding with your daughter, she seems lovely and warm, and by the gods its cold outside.”
“You’d have to be a damn sight more lucky or charming than any other man that has tried,” the Marquis smiled “she’ll cut your balls off, lad.”
“I look forward to it.” Rhas laughed.
“Jocelyn!” the Marquis called to his daughter in the hallway.
Jocelyn entered as the Marquis stood up, extending a hand for Rhas to shake. Rhas took it eagerly, and they exchanged a firm hand shake.
“I’ll see you in the morning then…” the Marquis said, leaving a pause, implying the question of Rhas’ name.
“It’s Rhas My Lord, Rhas Ang’Ver.” He answered
“Goodnight then, both of you.” The Marquis smiled.
“Oh,” Rhas paused, turning back to the Marquis “if you had worn a broad sword, it would have been more deterring.”
Rhas held up a dagger that he had pulled from the Marquis’ sleeve when they shook hands. He left the dagger on a small table, next to the door.
“Now who told you I was coming?” Rhas asked politely.
“I’ve had dealings with your…Friends before.” The Marquis grinned.
“Nothing escapes them…” Rhas sighed, turning and following the young Marquis’ daughter out of the room.
* * * *
The next morning found Rhas awake before most of the rest of the castle; he also found that his clothes had been washed in the night. Such trouble that the servants must have gone to made Rhas feel guilty, he knew how hard the work could be, and rarely took the work of the serving class for granted.
After clothing himself, Rhas left his room, and prayed that he could find the kitchen, so as he could procure some comestibles post haste. Rhas had not eaten much the previous night, having his bread and cheese interrupted by the news of the wine merchant at the valley village inn.
Rhas’ venture had been to no avail, he had ended up outside his room twice. Rhas heaved a great sigh, and rested his forehead against the heavy door of the room the Marquis had given to him for the night. To his left, a voice said.
“You’re up early,” it was Jocelyn, the Marquis’ daughter “but I suppose it bodes well for a servant to be awake before his masters.”
“Actually,” Rhas said, walking up to the young blonde, who now wore a thick red robe “I’m not really a servant.”
“Don’t get cocky with me servant,” she said, giving Rhas a look of disgust “Messengers are servants, no matter how you look at it. You’d do well to remember your place.”
“Like I said,” Rhas returned the look of disgust and added a hint of anger “I’m not a servant, I’m not a messenger either, I’m an assassin. I take lives so that I may keep my own. In fact I could take yours now, and be clear of this stronghold before anyone finds your body.”
The Marquis’ daughter kept her look of disgust, although her face seemed to lose some of it’s earlier color. Rhas stood a good foot taller then her, and was able to use his height, and not to mention, his lean yet muscular physique to intimidate the young noble.
“He’s right you know,” a voice from behind Rhas declared, it was the Marquis himself, he had his hands clasped behind his back, and wore a somber smile on his rugged and defined features “He’s one of the best, famous among the underworld of this nation. He’s known to most as Rhas Ang’Ver, but to his clan, and his comrades, he is ‘Reaper’, legendary assassin for the Sacred Skull, the clan of darkness that rules the underworld.”
“You do know too much,” Rhas sighed, turning to the Marquis “you know, My Lord, one day, I might just have to kill you because you know far too much about me.”
“Let us hope,” the Marquis said, spreading his arms “that at that time, I am old and frail, and have lived a good full long life.”
“Whatever,” Rhas sighed, he was tired of this friendly facade he had been putting on “You wanted to talk about a deal, what are the details?”
“Simply,” the Marquis replied, losing his smile “give this fake signet ring to De’Gert”
The Marquis held out what appeared to be his signet ring, however, it wasn’t his signet ring, Rhas knew this because the Marquis was still wearing it. Rhas inspected the fake ring, and could see no notable difference between the two.
“Done.” Rhas agreed.
“My Daughter shall escort you to the front gate.” The Marquis stated.
“To the door I came in by, would be more appropriate.” Rhas stated, the Marquis gave Rhas a querying look “Barron De’Gert probably has spies.”
Rhas was led down the passageways and back to the door out to the battlements. Rhas turned to face the young Marquis’ daughter. Now that he thought of it, the young lady couldn’t have been any younger than him, and she couldn’t have been any older than 19, Rhas being 18 at the time.
“Good day, My Lady.” Rhas said, inclining his head in a small bow and made for the door.
“I hope you fall and die.” She replied “Don’t you dare threaten my father again!”
“An observation, My Lady,” Rhas said, not turning from the door “your arrogance is unbecoming of a lady.”
“You’d best hold your tongue, assassin.” She snapped, and turning on her heal, disappeared down the passage.
Rhas opened the door onto the battlements, and stepped out. Keeping watch on the battlements was a guard in a simple mail coat and a tunic sporting the green and silver livery of the Marquis’ house. Turning to face Rhas, the guard put up a hand in acknowledgment, not at all surprised to see him.
Rhas made a quick move forward and his fist made impact on the guard’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Doubled over, Rhas struck the man on the back of the neck, sending him in to an unconscious state.
“Sorry,” Rhas apologized to the unconscious guard “But she really pisses me off.”
With stealth and speed, Rhas was over the battlements and onto the roof of the stable. Even though it was unnecessary, Rhas kept out of sight of the guards, all the way down to the village, on his way back to Barron De’Gert’s Estate, along from the next village.
Stars. That's the last thing Seron saw. Stars. And not the twinkling, enchanting and distant beauties of the skies. No, these were the kind that you see when you get knocked one. Seron let out a groan, and tried to rub his face. Well, that didn't work so well, see, he happened to be laying face first on the battlement he had been assigned to for that particular day. He rolled on to his back, and groaned again. Judging by the fact that no one was standing over him, the shift change hadn't come along yet, so that was good. He glanced skyward, checking the sun. Hadn't moved much. Also good. But what really wasn't good, was the pounding headache he had, and the dry coppery smell he had in his nose. The fall must have bloodied his nose. Upon checking the stones roughly where he'd fallen, yep, he'd bled a bit.
“Damn it all, who in the Nine was that asshole?” He asked to no one in particular. All the more reason why he jumped when someone spoke. “If you're speaking of the trash that hit you, his name was Rhas Ang'Ver,” The voice said, off to his left. Meanwhile, Seron tried to get to his feet. And failed. He ended up falling on his chain-mail armored ass. “Sernevas!” He cursed in his native tongue. Today had been going so well, why did it have to take such an unpleasant turn...? Seron looked to his left, then, and his eyes widened in shock. This time he got to his feet, only to kneel back down. “Forgive me, milady. To have spoken so in front of you is unacceptable, but I beseech you accept my apologies, at the very least.” Jocelyn sighed. “Rise, you apologies are not necessary. That cur is deserving of the foulest curse in all of the Hells,” Jocelyn intoned. The passion in her voice, the fire in her eyes, the way her fists clenched and the tiny breeze that kicked up tousling her hair a tad. Seron found a convenient falcon to watch, rather than stare at Jocelyn and make a fool of himself twice in one day. “Tell me what he has done to have angered you so, my lady,” Seron requested. Jocelyn shook her head. “Nothing you can do anything about,” That was when she faltered. She didn't know his name. “What is your name, any how?” She asked. “I, am Seron Rathor Alaran, Squire to the Knights of the Rose.” Seron bowed deeply, clenching his right hand and touching his knuckles to his forehead. “Why are you a guard here, then, Squire?” She asked, her tone a tad derisive for Seron's taste. He may be a Squire, and he may be 'below' her station, but that was merely because he had left his old life behind. Imagine, a Prince leaves his home to forge his own life on his own terms. The road had been long, and some times brutal, but at last, he had come across the Knights of the Rose, an order of Knights that have sworn an oath to an ancient code, known simply as “The Old Code”.
A knight is sworn to Valor,
His heart knows only Virtue,
His blade defends the Helpless,
His might upholds the Weak
His word speaks only Truth,
His wrath undoes the Wicked
That, was the Code that Seron had pledged his life to, all those years ago. Seven years, he had spent, training, and working. Forging a new life, a new path. Seron righted himself, and drew himself to his full height of six feet and six inches. Orienting himself so that his left side faced her, his right the rest of the battlement, right hand held behind his hip. He raised his left arm to shoulder level, pointed it toward her, his fist curling closed, save for his index finger. And with all the authority in the world, the older man said: “Judge not, lest ye be judged thyself, girl. Now begone, leave me to my duties, and to my thoughts, your majesty.” The last, said with the utmost sarcasm and venom uttered from his lips since his birth.
Jocelyn, who's cheeks had turned red with indignation looked into his eyes, and saw not just the eyes of a Squire. She saw the eyes of a King in the making. She saw in his face a warrior, proud, noble, and honorable. And in his body, a conqueror, willing to fight to the last, make hard decisions in battle, and sacrifice what must be sacrificed. She saw in him, the same qualities she saw in her father. Instead, she turned and left, shaking, and not knowing why.
Seron watched Jocelyn go, and sighed. He had just spoken rashly to the Marquis' daughter, who by all acknowledged rights, was his better. Well, nothing he could do now. He looked around, found his Halberd, and knelt to pick it up. His fingers encircled the ironwood haft familiarly, and he stood, bringing it up with him. He glanced around, and decided to run through his combat practices to clear his head, and pass the time. First, he held the Halberd in front of him in a balanced stance, then, he flowed into a slash, followed by a thrust.
From there, he stepped forward, pivoted around, spinning the weapon around at waist level and made a sweep for the feet of an unseen enemy. This, was followed by reversing the pole-arm and stabbing downward, the point at the end making a distinct ringing sound as it struck the stones and drew a spark. He'd lost himself to the flow of an imagined battle.
An enemy rushed at him, a sword raised over his head, and a medium round shield protecting his belly. An easy kill. Seron stepped forward, raised his halberd and righted it, striking at the attacker's raised arm and driving the honed blade straight into the bone. Now, he pulled the weapon free, stepped back and slammed the butt of the weapon into his foe's face, throwing him back and crushing his nose, as well as giving him a dental nightmare if he survives.
Well, he won't. Seron finishes the job by stepping forward and bringing the blade to bear once more, and then driving it into the downed enemies exposed neck, beheading him as the blade slips between his vertebrae easily. Now, he casts his gaze up, and sees another enemy charging him, this one with a hand-axe raised. Seron parries the blow his haft, smacks the man in the kidney with it, and then finished the deal with a chop to his neck.
“Oi! Seron!” These words bring him back to himself, and he blinks, shaking his head as he rights himself again. “You ah, okay there, boyo?” Tara, one of the other guards he serves with. Seron smiles in greeting. The woman has raven hair, and stunning eyes. One blue, one green. Her skin is just a shade paler than Seron's, which is lightly tanned from so much time in the sun. A beautiful woman, to be sure. With a warrior's spirit, and strength to match. “Aye, I am well, Tara.” She was also a mystery to him. She had never spoken of her past, nor asked of his, but one night they had spent several hours at an alehouse together, drinking and laughing. Telling tales of glorious battles, or conquests in bed. But never once, had they become intimate with each other.
Tara snorted. “Then what're ya doin' waving that steel-capped stick around like a madman for?” She asked pointedly. Seron paused, and sighed, wiping the dried blood from below his nose. “I'll tell you over a beer tonight,” He said, his tone and facial expression making it clear not to push the issue right then. Tara nodded. “Alright. I'll take you up on that later, but for now, time for lunch, or do you not have the stomach for it?” She asked, without a hint of sarcasm. The two had been close comrades since he had arrived at the fortress.
His stomach grumbled, and he decided food was good. “What've we got today? I do hope it isn't potato soup again. We've had that three times this week, and it's thinner and thinner with each day,” He groused. Tara laughed. “Sorry, friend, but it's worse.” Seron groaned, slumping some. “By the Frost, what is it, then?” Tara only laughed. “You big galoot, it's our last day on duty for the week, that means hand-pies!” Seron perked immediately. He loved hand-pies. A hand-held pie, filled with meat, cheese, and usually potatoes and carrots. “By the Dawn! That's what I needed to hear! Tara, you are a Goddess!” He clapped a hand to her shoulder, and gripped tightly. About as close as he got to embracing anyone. Tara laughed, and brought up the basket she'd carried their lunch in. “As long as I'm not -your- Goddess, I like the sound of that,” She quipped, and winked. Seron took the basket, and turned, motioning to the rest of the battlement behind him, which was about half of the left side. “Where shall we sit, then?” No benches, but the wall was their usual place to sit.
Tara shrugged, and pointed to a place about halfway between them and the tower. “That work?” Seron nodded, and headed to where she'd indicated. Tara followed, seating herself to his right, and about a foot away. He settled the basket between them and opened it, indicating for her to take her share first. She did so, without protest or complaint. Seron then took his own hand-pie ,and smelled it, his eyes closed. Today's was his favorite meat, but he didn't recognize the cheese. He bit into it, taking a moderate sized bite, and chewed it slowly, savoring the flavors, and appreciating each one. Cheddar cheese, judging by the flavor. He opened his eyes to verify. The cheese was white, but tasted like cheddar. White cheddar? Well, either way, it was delicious, the potatoes were smaller red potatoes rich with flavor, and the carrots were sweet. He smiled widely, deciding that his day had just gotten better.
Tara eyed him with a grin. “By the look on your face, you'd think I was givin' you a rub and tug there, boyo,” she teased. Seron blinked, looking at her. “Was that an offer?” Tara was momentarily speechless. “No! Gods no! Augh, Seron, get your mind outta the gutter, man!” And she thumped his shoulder lightly. He blinked, slightly confused. “If I offended, I apologize, Tara, that was not my intent. I merely meant to jest with you.” Tara grimaced and sighed. “Sorry. I'm just not used to you saying anything like that, I guess. Everyone else, yes, in fact I expect it, but not from you. You've always been a good friend to me, despite my sex and my appearance,” she said, giving him a smile.
“Tara, where I come from, sex has no bearing on whether or not two people can be friends. It is how they interact with each other that determines that. And you have been as unfaltering a friend as any I have ever had in all of my years,” his hand rested on her shoulder, and gave a gentle squeeze. She looked at him, her eyes meeting his. “Where do you come from, Seron?” She asked pointedly. He sighed, and cleared his throat. “North. Far north. A land of ice and snow, harsh, cold winters. With vibrant and beautiful summers. My homeland has very little in the way of spring or fall, perhaps a month or so, and then summer and winter, with their contrasting beauties. Up there, we raised hardy mountain goats, large sheep, buffalo, and while we often live close to nature, we are not savages, nor barbarians as the old tales foretell. Our dogs are large, more wolf than dog, and some people often befriend the native wild cats. Druids and Pathfinders are common. We've seen our share of Priests, and there is a spattering of temples to various deities.” He sighed, and shook his head, saying no more on the matter.
“You miss it,” She observed. “Yes. I do. But I cannot return, ever. I have no more place there, than I do in a guild of assassin's.” Tara smirked. “I don't know about that. You are highly talented with many different weapons. You'd make a fine assassin, if you chose to be one.” Seron chuckled. “Thank you, Tara. But now, it is your turn. Where do you come from?” Seron asked, is hand returning to his lap, and he took a bite of his meal.
Tara sighed. “I am from the south and east. There, women are objects. Tools. Toys. No place in life aside from a warm hole to stick your bobbin into. Women die young there. Usually committing suicide. Some are beaten to death when their master decides he wants to play and when the woman has decided she has had enough. Some live to be old women, and often have less place in life than they did before. Most of the old women sit and mend clothes, or teach younger women how to be 'proper' toys for the men. The land is harsh and dry, little vegetation. Most of our supplies come from trade caravans. Women are often sold as slaves, or traded into slavery for food, livestock, or the occasional sword from a far off land. The one who are sold off as slaves are counted as lucky among the women, for they have a chance to have a better life. A chance to eventually escape, or at least be treated well, rather than nothing but an object.”
Tara sighed, hanging her head and closing her eyes. Her hair had been kept short, and the short ponytail was too short to fall to one side. It stuck out behind her head like an accusing finger. “How did you escape such a life, Tara?” Seron asked, his voice gentle. He thought he understood her a little better, now. “I killed the man who owned me. With a horn that he used to drink from. Compared to the others, I was lucky, however. He was less abusive of me, but I was still an object. I was still nothing more than his play thing. I would not allow myself to live like that. I would either kill him, or perish in the attempt. When he lay dead before me, I knew I must escape. It is common for the women to not be allowed clothes until they are too old to be pleasant to look at. So, I had to take his. There, women and men are close to the same size, so it was not hard for me to wear his clothing. I simply pulled a cloak on, and waited until darkness fell. Then, I left, taking as much gold with me as I could carry. I set fire to the hut, and ran. By the time the village knew of the fire, it was far too late to save it. All they could do was put out the fire. I camped out on the opposite side of the village, waiting for the caravan to pass through the village and carry on. I waved them down, and explained myself to them. They let me join them until the next stop on their route. I worked, earning my keep by cooking, cleaning, tending the animals, or standing watch at night.”
“At the next place along the route, I left them as was agreed. I found a stable master who needed an extra pair of hands, and he let me work for him. We agreed upon a reduced wage, since I was sleeping in the barn and he was purchasing food for me. All in all, it was a good deal. He had a wife and child, and didn't look at me with any lust or lechery in mind. He was a good man, and I respected him much. As time went on, I began to explore the city more and more. I found the tavern district, and spent some time listening to the people talk. One day, a group of adventurer's came in. One was a proud warrior, clad head to foot in steel plates. The hilt of a sword poked over his right shoulder. Behind him came a woman in similar armor, a quiver of arrows at her hip and a bow slung over her shoulders. Behind them came a pair of little men in leathers, and lastly, a massive Orc in scales of steel and leather, a massive axe slung over his shoulder. The Orc towered over everyone in the room. Come to find out, he was a half-orc, but he was still a new sight for me. Everyone else seemed used to him.”
“I gathered that they had been here before on several accounts. They traveled far and wide, but always managed to return here at least once a year. Their armor and weapons occasionally changed, but they never lost or gained any members to their troupe.” Tara sighed, and smiled wistfully. “I approached them as they drank their brew that night. I asked the woman to take me under her wing, teach me her ways. I wanted a different life. I wanted to leave that place behind. I wanted to learn to depend on no one but my self.”
“In the end, after deliberating with the rest of the group, she accepted, but I was to pay her, and when she felt I had learned enough, I was to leave again. That night, she took me to the tanner, and had me fitted with leathers, so that I could learn to wear armor, but still be able to move. She asked me what weapon I wanted, and I said I wanted to learn the bow. She took me to the bow maker, and he had me try and catch several metal balls. The first one was so heavy that when I caught it, it still slammed into my chest and knocked be backward. The man sighed, and had her hand it back to him. He tossed it aside, and grabbed another, looked at me, hefted it, then tossed it aside. He grabbed a third, hefted it, then threw it to me.”
“I caught it, and managed to stay where I was, but it was quite the strain. It was lighter than the first, but still too heavy. He grumbled, and nodded to her. She took it, and the process was repeated. Finally, he shook his head, and looked at her. 'She is not strong enough for the big ones. Smaller ones, or crossbows. Build strength. Then try again.' The woman nodded. She turned to me, and put a hand on my shoulder.'As he said, you are not yet strong enough. So you must grow stronger. So, which would you rather? A crossbow, or a shot bow?' She asked me. I considered for a time, and then said: 'Crossbow. The heaviest I can carry.'”
“She gave me a heavy crossbow, and a belt quarrel for my ammunition. She taught me how to disassemble it, take care of it, and put it back together. She had me repeat this process until I could do it in ten minutes. Then, she was satisfied.” Tara smiles wistfully, nodding her head. “I told her I had to attend to something that night before we left the city. And before the stable closed, I told the stable master that I was leaving. I thanked him for everything, and when he asked where I was going, I told him I was going out into the world to find a new life. He smiled, and nodded, and then said to me: 'Live free, and die well.' I smiled at him, and embraced him tightly before I left.”
Tara smiles fondly, and sighs, leaning back. “The rest of the story is longer. But it led me here. I am here now, at this fortress, with a good group, a good leader, and a great friend.” She smiles again, looking at Seron, now. Seron smiles in return, and nods. “You have traveled far, and learned much, then. I am glad to have met you, Tara, and I must be honest with you. I am leaving here soon. My assignment to this fortress is coming to an end, and it is likely that I will be returning to the Knights of the Rose to be Knighted. I will be a Journeyman, then, and sent to wander, and test my abilities to their limits. When that happens, I will return. I want you to come with me as my companion at that time.”
Tara blinked, astounded by his request. A thousand thoughts ran through her head at the same moment, and she was rendered utterly speechless. Finally, composing herself, she answered. “If you still want my friendship, and my company when you return, then I will gladly join you. If not, then I will understand.”
Seron shook his head. “Nothing could change my mind. You are the truest friend I have ever had, and could ever want. I will return as fast as I am able, that I may take up a sword with you at my side sooner.” He said no more, then, and they finished their lunch in silence. When they had eaten, Seron returned to the barracks, and stripped off his chain-mail hauberk, doused himself in fresh water, and then pulled on a light pair of pants, a pair of boots, and a tunic. He belted his bastard sword on to his right hip, and headed up to the battlement, taking a tankard of water with him.
When he arrived, Tara was pacing from one side to the other, halfheartedly watching the battlement. Her back was to him, and his attire allowed him to approach silently. He stopped just out of arms reach, in case he really spooked her. “Dragon!” He yelled, and waited for her reaction. When she threw herself down close to the front of the wall, he started laughing. When she glared at him from the ground, he laughed harder. By the time she picked herself up, and straightened out her chain-mail, he had collected himself. He held out the tankard with a smile full of mirth. She snagged it, and took a long pull. “Asshole. Scared me shitless.” Seron sniggered. “All the more reason why it was funny.” Tara lightly thumped his shoulder, and laughed. “Okay, I guess it was funny after all.”
The remainder of the day passed uneventfully, and ended with the two comrades in an alehouse, Tara listening to Seron's story from earlier in the day.
Rhas was still in an unpleasant mood, as if he had gathered his bitterness and anger into a tiny ball, and placed it under his tongue, sucking on it like a candy that was unlikely to find an end.
The road to Barron De’Gert’s estate was short, only about 5 leagues, a day’s ride, however, Rhas owned no horse, nor could his clan provide one. Rhas was averse to stealing if he could avoid it, so stealing a horse was not in his nature. So, his only option was to walk or run.
It was jested around the clan hall and his local haunts in the city that Rhas was born running, he was the fastest of all the assassins in the clan, even among the five holy skulls, the top five assassins in the clan, and Rhas was number 5. Rhas enjoyed running, he always had, and his uncommon speed, agility and strength was what gave him an edge. Running was exhilarating for Rhas, he had once been able to keep up with a horse at a gallop, however, outpaced him at a dead run. Rhas was able to jump up onto the roof of most one story buildings in the city, of course, these buildings were reserved for the slums, the poor district; “The Nest”, and it’s inhabitants being the plague.
Rhas was nearing the Barron’s estate; he could see it off in the distance, the white sandstone spires rising up, with the conical brown tiled roves. It was a nice castle, in Rhas’ opinion, but it had been built for show, and not for war. This land had not seen war for an age, not since King Archeon had united the lands. War these days was in wealth, politics and the underground sting of robberies, street beatings, murders, and Rhas’ line of work; assassination.
As the castle grew closer, Rhas heaved a sigh, he disliked contact with people, and he was in a trying mood. He had gotten an earful from that noble girl, and he was likely to be getting one from the Barron, despite the fact that he carried out his task perfectly, no one had seen him, especially that guard on the battlements…unless you count the Marquis, his daughter, the cleaning maid, the cook and the wine merchant…well, maybe it wasn’t perfect, but he got the job done with the utmost speed and caution. Actually, fuck caution, Rhas didn’t give a dragon shit about most nobles, especially this one.
The guards at the gate halted Rhas, soon enough he had gained entry and was on his way to see the Barron. The halls of this castle were decoratively lined with tapestries and ornamental busts and paintings of various noble and influential figures. The Barron chose these figures specifically because it reminded him of his own arrogant self. The Barron had an excessive idea of his own self importance, and the manner in which he carried, dressed and comported himself, was the evidence.
Rhas was led into the Barron’s library, it was a large rectangular room, lined with towering shelves full of books, and each one seemed to have gathered a fair layer of dust. Rhas doubted that the Barron had read half of these books, and doubted even more that he ever would. Rhas knew scholars who would literally kill for a collection like this, and scholars weren’t the type to be going around killing for material gain.
“Largest library this side of the Academy,” the Barron said ad Rhas was showed into the room “Impressive, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t come here to admire your decorations,” Rhas said coldly, “I have the ring.”
The Barron seemed a little displeased with Rhas’ insult, however, he came and took the ring from Rhas, inspecting it closely.
“Are you positive it’s his?” the Barron asked, turning his eyes to Rhas.
Rhas simply replied with a simply clod stare, one of the greatest weapons in Rhas’ arsenal, when it came to dealing in non-violent confrontations or negotiations. The Barron’s response was to turn his eyes from Rhas immediately, and proceeded to stuff the ring into his pocket hurriedly.
“Yes, well,” said the Barron, sounding rather nervous, but trying to regain his earlier confidence “it all seems to be in order. Oh, one thing,” the Barron said, turning back to Rhas “might I purchase your services for some such similar task?”
Rhas looked around the library; the servant that had shown him in was not in the room with them. Rhas rushed forward and grabbed the folds of the robe Barron Jarroal De’Gert wore, and heaved him up off his feet and slammed him through a small rectangular table piled with books.
“I am an assassin!” Rhas snarled “I am not in the business of thievery!”
Rhas felt a pang of pity for the fat man, his face quivering under the hand Rhas had clenched it in, and his many chins wobbling. Rhas could hear a slight whimpering, and it enraged him.
“I ought to kill you,” Rhas said quietly “but I won’t. However, if you should call on the services of our clan again, it better be that you need someone dead, because next time, they will kill you! I can assure you, my family is not as forgiving as I.”
Rhas released the man, and stalked out of the room, a snarl still contorting his features.
* * * *
Rhas was back in the city by the next evening, having to camp out in the cold had put him in an increasingly sour mood. Crossing the threshold into the city via the south gate, that came directly into the markets, Rhas was home, he liked to stalk the markets, just to see if there was anything available, some trinket he might buy. Despite what you might think, Rhas liked to horde stuff, anything really, if he found it interesting, he would purchase it if he could.
Slipping in through a back street behind a permanent jeweler’s shop, Rhas headed deep into the winding alleys of the low mud brick houses that were known as “the nest”; a home for the poor, the beggars, thieves, and the general filth that those that “kept the order” on the city didn’t want hanging around for everyone to see.
Rhas made his way through the winding muddy lanes to an alley wider than the rest. Hanging from above a door a ways up from where Rhas had emerged hung a sign “The Bloodied Chalice” it read, and it had a chalice, naturally, overflowing with a sanguine liquid that could only be assumed to be blood.
Rhas entered the tavern. The room he stepped into was dark, the only light was that of the fire place that burned at one end of the room, opposite the bar, and the flickering candles that hung in the small rusty chandelier. The room was dull, it seemed humble, almost, for what it was; the meeting place of most of the vast array of informants, murderers and assassins that were family in, or associated with The Sacred Skull, the clan of assassins that operated within this kingdom, and sometimes over.
Rhas approached the bar, behind it was a small man, balding, lean, however muscular, with a cold, emotionless expression on his face, much like Rhas. This was the man that owned The Bloodied Chalice, and was an elder in the clan, a man who shared his experience and wisdom in the art with the younger members, who carried out the contracts.
“Evening,” said Rhas “anything new?” his tone that of annoyance and boredom. Being back in the city meant that Rhas was likely to be piled with menial tasks, until he could snatch up something bigger. Despite being one of the top five assassins in the clan, there weren’t enough big jobs these days to go around. The peace had grown, and the need for the Scared Skull to move was becoming less frequent.
“Evenin’ Rhas,” Replied the Chalice Master, as he was called “nothing new, I’d find something else quick, I hear there’s a pile menial tasks to rival the Rosie’s dung heap.”
‘a Rosie’ or ‘the Rosies’ was the common nick name for The Knights of the Rose or A Knight of the Rose.
“That doesn’t sound too inviting.” Rhas conceded, raising his eyebrows as he took a pull of ale from the tankard.
“Indeed,” sighed the barman “Life’s taking a turn from what it used to be.”
“You sound a little down Chal,” Rhas said, using the man’s nickname Chal, derived from Chalice Master “Something wrong?”
Chal sighed again, “Its Ellen,” he shook his head “she’s fallen for a merchant’s son she met in the markets.”
“That’s not so bad is it?” Rhas asked.
“I don’t mind her falling for an honest man, that’s not what gets me,” he said, looking into the half empty tankard he had poured for himself along with Rhas’ “it’s his reputation; he’s well known for his…indiscretions.”
“Ah,” Said Rhas awkwardly, taking another long pull from his tankard and looking around the bar. It was fairly empty, considering it was nearing happy hour, there were a few over in the corners, talking quietly in their two or three person groups “So, um, what are you planning to do about it?”
“Well,” said Chal “I was going to go and ‘pay him a visit’ in a matter of speaking.”
Rhas had an idea “Why don’t you let me do it?” Rhas suggested.
“Oh?” Chal replied, “Why you?”
“Honestly,” Rhas said, looking over his shoulder “That troll woman hasn’t returned yet it seems, and I don’t intend on being the only one here when she does.”
Chal laughed, but the laugh turned into a sigh “The life that lad leads is a good, honest, safe life. I’d like that for my girl, she didn’t deserve to be born into a life like this, the sweet thing, so, I beg of ya Rhas, don’t scare the lad off, for the death god’s sake, and Ellen’s.”
“I give you my word.” Said Rhas, raising his tankard, Chal raised his in return, and they drank the dregs in honor of their agreement.
Within the hour, Rhas set out for the markets, at this time of night, he could expect to find most of the merchants in the taverns, and most of their sons too. The one market tavern that was popular among young merchants and the youths of the trade district was ‘The River’s Bend’ it was called this not because it was near a river, but because it was right on the main street through the markets, that everyday saw crowds of people and long lines of horse drawn and hand carts, thus, leading to it’s name of ‘The River’.
Rhas would start at this tavern in his search for the merchant’s son. As Rhas entered the tavern, he noticed a distinct difference to The Bloodied Chalice, first off it was bright and well lit, many lanterns hung from the walls and the chandelier hanging from the roof had many glowing candles. Second, the crowd seemed jovial, rather than a wild, uncontrolled rabble in The Chalice.
As soon as the door closed behind Rhas, he room went totally silent and all the attention in the room was on him. Rhas just remembered he was wearing the same clothes as he had returned in, the clothes he wore when completing his contracts; the gray hooded shirt, with the hood pulled up, the black tight pants, the almost knee high black, gray clothed wrapped leather boots, and the dark red sash, through which hung a long, straight blade, slightly less broad than a broad sword, and not quite as long as a long sword, however, the black and red handle extended for two and a half hand lengths.
Rhas looked around the tavern; he didn’t see anyone matching the description of the young man that Chal had given him.
“Where can I find Marlen, the merchants son?” Rhas asked calmly, although adding a hint of roughness in his voice.
One rather intoxicated young man answered “Marl!” he exclaimed “I know ‘im! He just left with some wench with big jugs!”
“Know where he went?” Rhas asked, trying to remain calm at the vulgar reference to his childhood friend.
“Down the alley I think…” the man replied, although he seemed rather perplexed, as if not sure what he was talking about.
Rhas didn’t need to know more, the drunken man was probably right. He headed out of the tavern and looked around. Directly across from the tavern was a small dark alley, how convenient. Rhas headed across, as he approached, he heard laughter, of more than one male.
“…you hear that?” one laughed “No? No!? what a stuck up little bitch rat!”
“GET OFF ME!” a young girl shrieked.
“How about,” one said, his voice strained, he was obviously struggling against the girl “You show us what’s under that dirty little skirt of yours?”
“How about I have you killed!?” she struggled back. There were two young men trying to pin her to the wall, and lift her skirts, the third was sitting on some boxes against the opposite wall of the alley.
“Oi,” said one of the men, over his shoulder “come and help us Marl!”
The man looked over his shoulder again, but there was no one there.
“Where the blast is Marl!?” he said to the other youth.
“I don’t give a rat’s,” he said calmly in reply “more for us, eh?”
“Whatever.” Said the fist young man again “Now,” he continued, where were we - ”
He was cut off mid sentence by a loud thud; something had fallen from the roves of the market buildings into the alley. At the sight of it, the girl stopped struggling, looking both relieved, and a little surprised.
The young man holding the girl’s arms turned in shock, a look of horror crossing his face. He looked down at a corpse, the corpse of his friend Marlen. The young man had been stabbed both under the chin, and in the solar plexus. The killer had a ruthless efficiency; however, the young man didn’t know that.
Then, still in shock, both young men reeled back against the wall of the alley, as another figure dropped from above, however, this one landed on it’s feet, very much alive.
Rhas stood, facing this young man who had made his date with death when he dared to do wrong against a member of The Sacred Skull’s family. The only things visible on Rhas’ face were his teeth, bared in a snarl, his canines longer than the average man, and sharper. He stepped forward, raising one of his long knives over his head, reversed in his hand, ready to bring it down into the man’s neck, and down into his lungs and heart.
“W-Why!?” the young man before him pleaded “Why are you doing this to us!? We did you no wrong!”
“No wrong?” Rhas snarled “NO WRONG!? You attempted to rape this innocent girl! My family! THE FAMILY OF THE SACRED SKULL!” and with a roar, the blade came down, piercing the man’s neck, and striking his heart from above.
The other tried to escape, tried to run, he looked over his shoulder as he stumbled down the alley, but there was no one behind him, he muttered a prayer, and hunched over panting, one look behind him while hunched to make sure the killer was not following; nothing. The young man stood back up straight, ready to move on, the further away the better. However, as soon as he rose to a stand again, there was pain, so much pain, agonizing pain, like waves in a storm they washed over him, all coming from his stomach, he looked down, there was a blade, a long knife, held by a hand, as if the blade was a long punch dagger, it had pierced him in the upper abdomen, and had been dragged down to the lower. The young man looked back up, the killer stood before him his hood, shrouding his face, except for his eyes, in death, he would remember those eyes, and the judgment they brought down upon
his soul. In his final moments, the youth felt his hair tugged on, his head pulled back, and the same long knife, piercing the roof of his mouth and through his brain.
The next morning, the marketplace was not a place for happy trade and laughter it usually was, but a scene of horror. Three men, hung naked from a beam across the market square, written on them in their own blood, the words; RAPIST, LETCHER, FIEND. And carved into one mans chest, a simple skull.
Seron had volunteered to pick up Gurz' watch, as the man was sick with some illness. The healers were not tending him, yet, as it seemed only a very bad cold. He took to pacing the battlement, halberd resting on his shoulder. This day, he wore steel plate pauldrons, steel bracers, and steel greaves over his chain mail. A winged helmet adorned his head, obscuring his face from view, and a white tunic with a red rose crossed in front of a sword displayed his membership of the Knights of the Rose. The time was drawing near for his return to the Hall of the Rose, and his promotion to Journeyman Knight. Only five days left, if he counted correctly.
As he paced, a falcon swooped down to the barracks. Seron thought he spied a note attached to it's leg, but couldn't be certain. He gave a mental shrug, and continued pacing, looking around as he went. Oddly enough, it was fairly cool today, and his altitude did little to change that. He thanked his luck that he hadn't decided to don the additions to his armor on a hot day. He was on his way back across the battlement from where he'd been knocked flat by that damned assassin several days before, when he spied Tara coming up the stairs. “Hail, Tara, what brings you up here at this hour? 'Tis too early for lunch, if I track the time correctly,” he greeted.
Tara smiled. “Message for you, actually. I figured I'd deliver it instead of someone else. Captain Arlathos was considering making poor Gurz do it, but I volunteered.” Seron cocked an eye brow up, and approached her, removing his helmet so he could read and speak easier. “Oh? Did you read it, then?” He inquired.
“Nope. Saved that for you, boyo. It's for you anyhow, and does happen to bear the seal of the Knights. There's only one around here, and that happens to be you, unless you forgot.” Seron shrugged, and when she held out the scroll to him, he inspected the seal, broke it, and then began to read.
“Greetings,
As you know, your time at the fortress is coming to a close, and we have been reviewing your reports carefully. I have coordinated with your commander, and he has given you a flawless review. So, it is my pleasure to notify you that you have been accepted as an official Journeyman Knight of the Rose. Congratulations, you have earned it. In four days time, three riders will arrive. I will be among them. The other will be a squire, and he will be replacing you at the Fortress. The third will be a riderless horse, actually, and that horse shall be yours." TBC
The cold chill this night meant that the guards would stay in the guard house by the gate, only venturing out now and then to make it look like they were doing their duty, Rhas imagined that if the guards actually did what they were paid to do, he might find his ‘Tasks’ a little harder to accomplish than they usually were, however, it still wouldn’t prevent him from achieving his goal.
His goal tonight was a simple snatch and run, however, his snatch was a signet ring belonging to a Marquis, who had a personal vendetta against his contractor. The thing dissuaded Rhas from at first accepting this contract was not that he was being used as a tool in a war between nobles, but that he, an assassin of some repute, was being contracted to act as a common cat burglar.
So it came to be that Rhas found himself, high up on a wall above the gate of the Marquis M’naltan, hanging from a small loop anchor between two arrow slits, the gate below went unwatched, however open.
Rhas had ‘overheard’ that a shipment of fine wine was to be arriving today, however it would be late; due to a delay, otherwise,the portcullis would be lowered, and the heavy wood and iron doors would be closed.
The guards, as previously mentioned, were in the guardhouse, on the inside of the gate.
The fortress this Marquis occupied had been a critical stronghold in times of war, being a checkpoint for supply, and a viewpoint that from which, the entire valley below could be surveyed. In the distance, coming up from the valley, Rhas could see a dot of light, a lantern wavering, no doubt attached to the cart that carried the wine; that had been delayed. Rhas was most pleased in himself that the ‘delay’ that kept this merchant, had been a mix of luck, and quick thinking.
After hearing that the wine shipment was coming, Rhas had rushed ahead along the road to the Marquis’ stronghold, on the way, he had hoped to find the merchant and hide among the barrels of wine. Instead, Rhas found the merchant pulled over on the side of the road, his cart having hit a pothole in the road, and the rotted wood in its wheel had given out, leaving the merchant, with one wheel, and a splintered half wheel.
This is where Rhas’ quick thinking played a part; Rhas stopped to offer help to the merchant, in repairing his wagon, however, the merchant claimed that he would need tools and material he didn’t have, so he offered to pay Rhas to help, by delivering a message to the Marquis’ servants at the stronghold. Rhas had at first thought that this might hinder his plans, or perhaps he could have gained access by claiming to be the merchant’s apprentice. However, as soon as he had given the message he was turned away. Rhas had finally decided to conceal himself until nightfall, and when the merchant arrived late; sneak in while his load was being inspected.
What Rhas didn’t expect, was that the gate and portcullis be left open. It was only then that he remembered that a guard was to travel with the merchant, and had been sent out with the Marquis’ porter.
So, now we come back to Rhas, hanging from his precarious position on the castle wall, with the merchant caravan slowly coming into view up the narrow path to the stronghold.
As the caravan neared the gate, the guard traveling with them ordered them to stop, and the load was checked again, with the three guards from the gatehouse leaving their nice warm fire to attend the duties they were paid for.
Too easy. Thought Rhas, he didn’t like when things were too easy, however, Rhas knew how slack these hired goons could be.
Rhas dropped silently down, the ground softened by the moisture of the night, breaking his fall, and keeping his landing silent. Rhas checked behind him, just in case, making sure the guards were occupied with the load, the broadsword or two that he had rolled up in cloth and strapped to one of the barrels should have done it.
The gate of the stronghold was built between two sheer faces of rock, high up in the valley wall, this gap in the rock served as an alleyway between the front gate and the courtyard, it was small enough so that if a siege was successful in breaking in the doors and somehow destroying the heavy iron portcullis that the defending soldiers could charge a line of four horses straight into the attacking army. However, ‘the alley’ as the guards called it, had it’s walls stacked low with crates and barrels; mostly goods that had been taken as land rent from the sprawling farmland and village below, it was only enough to feed the Marquis, his retainers, and all that lived within the stronghold.
Rhas didn’t see why anyone could have any grudge or vendetta against this Marquis; he led his people well, he was fair to his subjects, and his guards behaved better than most guards Rhas had known.
Rhas stopped behind a cart of hey, next to the stables in the confined courtyard. He looked up at the towering exterior of the stronghold. The gate was watched by two guards, who were leaning idly on either side of the open doorway, talking attentively to each other, neither looked like they were likely to doze off any time soon, it looked like Rhas was going to have to gain entrance the old fashioned way. Rhas preferred it this way, sneaking in the front door by way of disguise was no fun, in his opinion, it also meant that if he had to murder someone, he would be a prime suspect, they knew he had gained access, although his identity remained secret still, however, if someone were murdered shortly after his entrance, it would seem suspicious. Rhas knew that he’d be better off if no one knew he was there in the first place, and it meant that he could bide his time in a hiding place until accusations could fly among others present, so that when the commotion took place, he had a diversion to his escape.
Rhas inspected the towering dark stone fortress. The fortress itself had been fashioned out of the very stone it was nestled amongst; it’s every brick having been chiseled out of the rock around it.
Above the entrance to the interior, a battlement stretched from rock wall to rock wall, this looked like something that could be advantageous to Rhas, as no guards patrolled it this night. Rhas inspected any way that he might gain access to these battlements, peering over the cart that hid his presence, to gain a better view of the courtyard from the ground up; Rhas noticed that the stables were built with its far wall, in direct contact with the fortress wall.
Rhas, keeping low, moved as silently as possible over to the near wall of the stable. Checking once again that the door guards were still talking, and unaware of Rhas’ skulking, he mounted a stepping of hay bails covered in a heavy canvas cover. Soon enough, Rhas was on the stable roof, and creeping along towards the fortress wall, keeping his footfalls gentle and quiet, so as not to spook the horses in their stalls below.
Reaching the battlements, Rhas made sure that the guards below hadn’t noticed him. Something tonight had made Rhas paranoid about these guards, they were slack, however, they didn’t comport themselves like the high and mighty guards from the cities. They took their job more lightly, and he hadn’t heard a single one complain about his position, his hours or his pay. It was strikingly odd.
Now at the wall below the battlements, Rhas pulled out a long hook, not being attached to any rope, it was not for grappling, it was a grappling tool, the moisture this high up above the valley made most of the outer walls extremely slippery, so using his hands to try and grab hold of arrow slits or the edges of merlons.
The hook had been simply fashioned out of a length of iron pole, about the width of a sword hilt, on the lower end of the iron pole had been bent away from the hook, then out to the side, as a handle. Rhas used the tool to hook into an arrow slit in the merlon above him as he jumped up, bracing his feet against the roughly hewn stone bricks, Rhas pushed himself up enough to get one leg up into the embrasure in the crenelations.
Safely upon the bartizan above the battlements, Rhas found the entrance he was looking for; a small door off to the right side, set into the main tower of the great fortress keep.
Once inside, all Rhas had to do was find the Marquis’ chamber, and acquire his signet ring…easier said than done for most, but Rhas wasn’t most.
Following what seemed like and endless maze of turns and winding passages, Rhas found himself back at the place he had started…which wasn’t good.
“For fucks sake…” Rhas murmured under his breath “where the fuck am I--”
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted “who are you?”
The curt voice was that of a young lady, golden blonde hair, falling in cascades of curls, her piercing blue eyes felt like they were gazing right into his soul, judging him. He was entranced by her—
“I said,” She said in a more stern tone “who are you!?”
“Oh, who, me?” Rhas said, first looking over his shoulder and then gesturing to himself.
“Yes, you!” she answered. She had now put one hand behind her back, Rhas guessed she was reaching for a knife or some such similar object “If you don’t explain yourself this instant-!”
Rhas threw his hands up and feigned and innocent expression “I-I am just a messenger, young lady,” he lied “I am here to see his lordship, the Marquis, I have an urgent message for him, although, I dare say this place is a maze, I seem to be lost, if you would but direct me…”
He let it hang, the young lady in his path was still wary, and wore a sour, if not distrustful expression. She jerked her head, gesturing for Rhas to follow, and he did.
Down a winding corridor Rhas was led forking in many places. No wonder I got lost…Rhas never did have very good directional instinct, he could read a map as well as the best, however, when it came to luck in choosing the right or left fork, and not knowing where he had to go, Rhas wasn’t blessed.
It seemed that some of the hallways and passages had been tunneled through the rock of the valley walls, the passages were a stable, comfortable temperature and it would be expected that when the night turned to day, and the air outside became hot, these passages would be cool.
They arrived at a door at the end of the passage, off to the left was a staircase, that wound up and to the right, obviously proceeding to whatever may be above the chamber beyond this door, at least, Rhas assumed it was a chamber, considering it wasn’t left open, not to mention the ornate nature of the door itself.
The young lady knocked. No reply. She knocked again, more urgently and harder than before.
“What business do you have with me at this late hour?” said a deep gruff voice from beyond the door.
“An urgent messenger for you.” The young lady replied.
“Send him in.”
The young lady opened the door, they both stepped inside. They entered a large circular chamber, a window set into the far side. It seemed that this was the lowest chamber of a large tower that protruded from the opposite side of the valley mountainous wall than the entrance, or in fact, the rest of the mountain stronghold. Rhas inspected the room, focusing more on its interior contents. To his right was a large four poster bed, to his left, a fireplace, that glowed orange with low flames and burning coals. On the far side from the door was a desk and high backed chair, it back towards the medium sized arch window, through which spilled a bluish silver moonlight.
Peering out into the moonlight, and surveying the stars was a rather large man, broad shouldered, with short, black, however graying hair. He wore robes of a dark green with thin silver trim, quite regal in comparison with the tight, thick material pants, gray hooded shirt, leather braces, and dark red and dirtied sash Rhas wore.
“Your message?” he said simply, Rhas already liked this man before he had met him, but something about him made him seem venerable and strong in person. This man seemed more like a warrior than a lord.
Turning to glance at the young lady standing behind him and glancing back, Rhas replied “For your ears only My Lord.”
“Wait outside please Jocelyn.” He said to Rhas’ guide.
“Yes father.” She replied, stepping out and closing the door.
The old mans features portrayed a life not of the pampered and pacified upper class, but that of the warrior class, that of a knight. A scar on the right side of his face was all that flawed his chiseled features; a wide strong jaw line, prominent cheekbones, a broad nose, that had obviously been broken, and a low, heavy brow.
“Now my good man,” he said wearily “your message?”
“You’ll find I’m not such a good man,” said Rhas shrugging, then casually pacing over to the fire place, to warm his hands “and sorry, but I carry no message.”
“Well then,” he said, proceeding to join Rhas by the fire “you must have some need to be in my presence, perhaps my council, my wealth, my life?”
“Hmm, well,” Rhas said, removing his fingerless leather gloves to better warm his hands “Your council does not interest me, I have lived my life by myself till now, and I’m still alive. Your wealth, well, I’m not really interested in jewels and the like, I need only food and blade, maybe a roof over my head every now and then. Your life…I am an assassin, but your life will not be mine to take, not tonight anyway.”
“Well,” he said, turning to face Rhas directly, hand son his hips and cocking his head “I know you didn’t use your skills to steal into my fortress and stand with me by my fireplace, did you now?”
“Of course not, my good man, and I know you’re a good man.” Rhas now turned to the Marquis “I came here for your ring, your signet ring that is.”
“And of what use could this ring be to you?” he queried, crossing his arms, and looking down his nose.
“Well,” Rhas sighed, turning back to the fire “you see, there’s the rather distasteful fellow; Barron De’Gert, Jarroal De’Gert, I believe you know him. Well, he hired me to get your ring, for what purpose I do not know, all I know is, I get paid, and that’s something that hasn’t happened in a while.”
“I see…” he said, scratching his stubbly chin “so not my life?”
“No, not your life” Rhas replied, shaking his head.
“Could you be reasoned with?” he said, turning his head to look at Rhas.
“Of course My Lord, I’m not a door.”
“Excellent,” the Marquis exclaimed, clapping his hands together “then shall we make a deal?”
“Ooooh,” said Rhas, squinting into the fire “I don’t see why not.”
“Then about your pay,” he said, returning to his desk and looking over some rolls of parchment “How much?”
“Marquis,” Rhas sighed “I have already been paid by our friend the Barron, you need not give me more and I can last a while on that.”
“I don’t like assuming the services of men without proper reward.”
“What about women?” Rhas grinned.
“That my friend is a subject, for a latter discussion.
“In that case, you can give me a room for the night, and you can feed me in the morning, otherwise you might find me bedding with your daughter, she seems lovely and warm, and by the gods its cold outside.”
“You’d have to be a damn sight more lucky or charming than any other man that has tried,” the Marquis smiled “she’ll cut your balls off, lad.”
“I look forward to it.” Rhas laughed.
“Jocelyn!” the Marquis called to his daughter in the hallway.
Jocelyn entered as the Marquis stood up, extending a hand for Rhas to shake. Rhas took it eagerly, and they exchanged a firm hand shake.
“I’ll see you in the morning then…” the Marquis said, leaving a pause, implying the question of Rhas’ name.
“It’s Rhas My Lord, Rhas Ang’Ver.” He answered
“Goodnight then, both of you.” The Marquis smiled.
“Oh,” Rhas paused, turning back to the Marquis “if you had worn a broad sword, it would have been more deterring.”
Rhas held up a dagger that he had pulled from the Marquis’ sleeve when they shook hands. He left the dagger on a small table, next to the door.
“Now who told you I was coming?” Rhas asked politely.
“I’ve had dealings with your…Friends before.” The Marquis grinned.
“Nothing escapes them…” Rhas sighed, turning and following the young Marquis’ daughter out of the room.
* * * *
The next morning found Rhas awake before most of the rest of the castle; he also found that his clothes had been washed in the night. Such trouble that the servants must have gone to made Rhas feel guilty, he knew how hard the work could be, and rarely took the work of the serving class for granted.
After clothing himself, Rhas left his room, and prayed that he could find the kitchen, so as he could procure some comestibles post haste. Rhas had not eaten much the previous night, having his bread and cheese interrupted by the news of the wine merchant at the valley village inn.
Rhas’ venture had been to no avail, he had ended up outside his room twice. Rhas heaved a great sigh, and rested his forehead against the heavy door of the room the Marquis had given to him for the night. To his left, a voice said.
“You’re up early,” it was Jocelyn, the Marquis’ daughter “but I suppose it bodes well for a servant to be awake before his masters.”
“Actually,” Rhas said, walking up to the young blonde, who now wore a thick red robe “I’m not really a servant.”
“Don’t get cocky with me servant,” she said, giving Rhas a look of disgust “Messengers are servants, no matter how you look at it. You’d do well to remember your place.”
“Like I said,” Rhas returned the look of disgust and added a hint of anger “I’m not a servant, I’m not a messenger either, I’m an assassin. I take lives so that I may keep my own. In fact I could take yours now, and be clear of this stronghold before anyone finds your body.”
The Marquis’ daughter kept her look of disgust, although her face seemed to lose some of it’s earlier color. Rhas stood a good foot taller then her, and was able to use his height, and not to mention, his lean yet muscular physique to intimidate the young noble.
“He’s right you know,” a voice from behind Rhas declared, it was the Marquis himself, he had his hands clasped behind his back, and wore a somber smile on his rugged and defined features “He’s one of the best, famous among the underworld of this nation. He’s known to most as Rhas Ang’Ver, but to his clan, and his comrades, he is ‘Reaper’, legendary assassin for the Sacred Skull, the clan of darkness that rules the underworld.”
“You do know too much,” Rhas sighed, turning to the Marquis “you know, My Lord, one day, I might just have to kill you because you know far too much about me.”
“Let us hope,” the Marquis said, spreading his arms “that at that time, I am old and frail, and have lived a good full long life.”
“Whatever,” Rhas sighed, he was tired of this friendly facade he had been putting on “You wanted to talk about a deal, what are the details?”
“Simply,” the Marquis replied, losing his smile “give this fake signet ring to De’Gert”
The Marquis held out what appeared to be his signet ring, however, it wasn’t his signet ring, Rhas knew this because the Marquis was still wearing it. Rhas inspected the fake ring, and could see no notable difference between the two.
“Done.” Rhas agreed.
“My Daughter shall escort you to the front gate.” The Marquis stated.
“To the door I came in by, would be more appropriate.” Rhas stated, the Marquis gave Rhas a querying look “Barron De’Gert probably has spies.”
Rhas was led down the passageways and back to the door out to the battlements. Rhas turned to face the young Marquis’ daughter. Now that he thought of it, the young lady couldn’t have been any younger than him, and she couldn’t have been any older than 19, Rhas being 18 at the time.
“Good day, My Lady.” Rhas said, inclining his head in a small bow and made for the door.
“I hope you fall and die.” She replied “Don’t you dare threaten my father again!”
“An observation, My Lady,” Rhas said, not turning from the door “your arrogance is unbecoming of a lady.”
“You’d best hold your tongue, assassin.” She snapped, and turning on her heal, disappeared down the passage.
Rhas opened the door onto the battlements, and stepped out. Keeping watch on the battlements was a guard in a simple mail coat and a tunic sporting the green and silver livery of the Marquis’ house. Turning to face Rhas, the guard put up a hand in acknowledgment, not at all surprised to see him.
Rhas made a quick move forward and his fist made impact on the guard’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Doubled over, Rhas struck the man on the back of the neck, sending him in to an unconscious state.
“Sorry,” Rhas apologized to the unconscious guard “But she really pisses me off.”
With stealth and speed, Rhas was over the battlements and onto the roof of the stable. Even though it was unnecessary, Rhas kept out of sight of the guards, all the way down to the village, on his way back to Barron De’Gert’s Estate, along from the next village.
Stars. That's the last thing Seron saw. Stars. And not the twinkling, enchanting and distant beauties of the skies. No, these were the kind that you see when you get knocked one. Seron let out a groan, and tried to rub his face. Well, that didn't work so well, see, he happened to be laying face first on the battlement he had been assigned to for that particular day. He rolled on to his back, and groaned again. Judging by the fact that no one was standing over him, the shift change hadn't come along yet, so that was good. He glanced skyward, checking the sun. Hadn't moved much. Also good. But what really wasn't good, was the pounding headache he had, and the dry coppery smell he had in his nose. The fall must have bloodied his nose. Upon checking the stones roughly where he'd fallen, yep, he'd bled a bit.
“Damn it all, who in the Nine was that asshole?” He asked to no one in particular. All the more reason why he jumped when someone spoke. “If you're speaking of the trash that hit you, his name was Rhas Ang'Ver,” The voice said, off to his left. Meanwhile, Seron tried to get to his feet. And failed. He ended up falling on his chain-mail armored ass. “Sernevas!” He cursed in his native tongue. Today had been going so well, why did it have to take such an unpleasant turn...? Seron looked to his left, then, and his eyes widened in shock. This time he got to his feet, only to kneel back down. “Forgive me, milady. To have spoken so in front of you is unacceptable, but I beseech you accept my apologies, at the very least.” Jocelyn sighed. “Rise, you apologies are not necessary. That cur is deserving of the foulest curse in all of the Hells,” Jocelyn intoned. The passion in her voice, the fire in her eyes, the way her fists clenched and the tiny breeze that kicked up tousling her hair a tad. Seron found a convenient falcon to watch, rather than stare at Jocelyn and make a fool of himself twice in one day. “Tell me what he has done to have angered you so, my lady,” Seron requested. Jocelyn shook her head. “Nothing you can do anything about,” That was when she faltered. She didn't know his name. “What is your name, any how?” She asked. “I, am Seron Rathor Alaran, Squire to the Knights of the Rose.” Seron bowed deeply, clenching his right hand and touching his knuckles to his forehead. “Why are you a guard here, then, Squire?” She asked, her tone a tad derisive for Seron's taste. He may be a Squire, and he may be 'below' her station, but that was merely because he had left his old life behind. Imagine, a Prince leaves his home to forge his own life on his own terms. The road had been long, and some times brutal, but at last, he had come across the Knights of the Rose, an order of Knights that have sworn an oath to an ancient code, known simply as “The Old Code”.
A knight is sworn to Valor,
His heart knows only Virtue,
His blade defends the Helpless,
His might upholds the Weak
His word speaks only Truth,
His wrath undoes the Wicked
That, was the Code that Seron had pledged his life to, all those years ago. Seven years, he had spent, training, and working. Forging a new life, a new path. Seron righted himself, and drew himself to his full height of six feet and six inches. Orienting himself so that his left side faced her, his right the rest of the battlement, right hand held behind his hip. He raised his left arm to shoulder level, pointed it toward her, his fist curling closed, save for his index finger. And with all the authority in the world, the older man said: “Judge not, lest ye be judged thyself, girl. Now begone, leave me to my duties, and to my thoughts, your majesty.” The last, said with the utmost sarcasm and venom uttered from his lips since his birth.
Jocelyn, who's cheeks had turned red with indignation looked into his eyes, and saw not just the eyes of a Squire. She saw the eyes of a King in the making. She saw in his face a warrior, proud, noble, and honorable. And in his body, a conqueror, willing to fight to the last, make hard decisions in battle, and sacrifice what must be sacrificed. She saw in him, the same qualities she saw in her father. Instead, she turned and left, shaking, and not knowing why.
Seron watched Jocelyn go, and sighed. He had just spoken rashly to the Marquis' daughter, who by all acknowledged rights, was his better. Well, nothing he could do now. He looked around, found his Halberd, and knelt to pick it up. His fingers encircled the ironwood haft familiarly, and he stood, bringing it up with him. He glanced around, and decided to run through his combat practices to clear his head, and pass the time. First, he held the Halberd in front of him in a balanced stance, then, he flowed into a slash, followed by a thrust.
From there, he stepped forward, pivoted around, spinning the weapon around at waist level and made a sweep for the feet of an unseen enemy. This, was followed by reversing the pole-arm and stabbing downward, the point at the end making a distinct ringing sound as it struck the stones and drew a spark. He'd lost himself to the flow of an imagined battle.
An enemy rushed at him, a sword raised over his head, and a medium round shield protecting his belly. An easy kill. Seron stepped forward, raised his halberd and righted it, striking at the attacker's raised arm and driving the honed blade straight into the bone. Now, he pulled the weapon free, stepped back and slammed the butt of the weapon into his foe's face, throwing him back and crushing his nose, as well as giving him a dental nightmare if he survives.
Well, he won't. Seron finishes the job by stepping forward and bringing the blade to bear once more, and then driving it into the downed enemies exposed neck, beheading him as the blade slips between his vertebrae easily. Now, he casts his gaze up, and sees another enemy charging him, this one with a hand-axe raised. Seron parries the blow his haft, smacks the man in the kidney with it, and then finished the deal with a chop to his neck.
“Oi! Seron!” These words bring him back to himself, and he blinks, shaking his head as he rights himself again. “You ah, okay there, boyo?” Tara, one of the other guards he serves with. Seron smiles in greeting. The woman has raven hair, and stunning eyes. One blue, one green. Her skin is just a shade paler than Seron's, which is lightly tanned from so much time in the sun. A beautiful woman, to be sure. With a warrior's spirit, and strength to match. “Aye, I am well, Tara.” She was also a mystery to him. She had never spoken of her past, nor asked of his, but one night they had spent several hours at an alehouse together, drinking and laughing. Telling tales of glorious battles, or conquests in bed. But never once, had they become intimate with each other.
Tara snorted. “Then what're ya doin' waving that steel-capped stick around like a madman for?” She asked pointedly. Seron paused, and sighed, wiping the dried blood from below his nose. “I'll tell you over a beer tonight,” He said, his tone and facial expression making it clear not to push the issue right then. Tara nodded. “Alright. I'll take you up on that later, but for now, time for lunch, or do you not have the stomach for it?” She asked, without a hint of sarcasm. The two had been close comrades since he had arrived at the fortress.
His stomach grumbled, and he decided food was good. “What've we got today? I do hope it isn't potato soup again. We've had that three times this week, and it's thinner and thinner with each day,” He groused. Tara laughed. “Sorry, friend, but it's worse.” Seron groaned, slumping some. “By the Frost, what is it, then?” Tara only laughed. “You big galoot, it's our last day on duty for the week, that means hand-pies!” Seron perked immediately. He loved hand-pies. A hand-held pie, filled with meat, cheese, and usually potatoes and carrots. “By the Dawn! That's what I needed to hear! Tara, you are a Goddess!” He clapped a hand to her shoulder, and gripped tightly. About as close as he got to embracing anyone. Tara laughed, and brought up the basket she'd carried their lunch in. “As long as I'm not -your- Goddess, I like the sound of that,” She quipped, and winked. Seron took the basket, and turned, motioning to the rest of the battlement behind him, which was about half of the left side. “Where shall we sit, then?” No benches, but the wall was their usual place to sit.
Tara shrugged, and pointed to a place about halfway between them and the tower. “That work?” Seron nodded, and headed to where she'd indicated. Tara followed, seating herself to his right, and about a foot away. He settled the basket between them and opened it, indicating for her to take her share first. She did so, without protest or complaint. Seron then took his own hand-pie ,and smelled it, his eyes closed. Today's was his favorite meat, but he didn't recognize the cheese. He bit into it, taking a moderate sized bite, and chewed it slowly, savoring the flavors, and appreciating each one. Cheddar cheese, judging by the flavor. He opened his eyes to verify. The cheese was white, but tasted like cheddar. White cheddar? Well, either way, it was delicious, the potatoes were smaller red potatoes rich with flavor, and the carrots were sweet. He smiled widely, deciding that his day had just gotten better.
Tara eyed him with a grin. “By the look on your face, you'd think I was givin' you a rub and tug there, boyo,” she teased. Seron blinked, looking at her. “Was that an offer?” Tara was momentarily speechless. “No! Gods no! Augh, Seron, get your mind outta the gutter, man!” And she thumped his shoulder lightly. He blinked, slightly confused. “If I offended, I apologize, Tara, that was not my intent. I merely meant to jest with you.” Tara grimaced and sighed. “Sorry. I'm just not used to you saying anything like that, I guess. Everyone else, yes, in fact I expect it, but not from you. You've always been a good friend to me, despite my sex and my appearance,” she said, giving him a smile.
“Tara, where I come from, sex has no bearing on whether or not two people can be friends. It is how they interact with each other that determines that. And you have been as unfaltering a friend as any I have ever had in all of my years,” his hand rested on her shoulder, and gave a gentle squeeze. She looked at him, her eyes meeting his. “Where do you come from, Seron?” She asked pointedly. He sighed, and cleared his throat. “North. Far north. A land of ice and snow, harsh, cold winters. With vibrant and beautiful summers. My homeland has very little in the way of spring or fall, perhaps a month or so, and then summer and winter, with their contrasting beauties. Up there, we raised hardy mountain goats, large sheep, buffalo, and while we often live close to nature, we are not savages, nor barbarians as the old tales foretell. Our dogs are large, more wolf than dog, and some people often befriend the native wild cats. Druids and Pathfinders are common. We've seen our share of Priests, and there is a spattering of temples to various deities.” He sighed, and shook his head, saying no more on the matter.
“You miss it,” She observed. “Yes. I do. But I cannot return, ever. I have no more place there, than I do in a guild of assassin's.” Tara smirked. “I don't know about that. You are highly talented with many different weapons. You'd make a fine assassin, if you chose to be one.” Seron chuckled. “Thank you, Tara. But now, it is your turn. Where do you come from?” Seron asked, is hand returning to his lap, and he took a bite of his meal.
Tara sighed. “I am from the south and east. There, women are objects. Tools. Toys. No place in life aside from a warm hole to stick your bobbin into. Women die young there. Usually committing suicide. Some are beaten to death when their master decides he wants to play and when the woman has decided she has had enough. Some live to be old women, and often have less place in life than they did before. Most of the old women sit and mend clothes, or teach younger women how to be 'proper' toys for the men. The land is harsh and dry, little vegetation. Most of our supplies come from trade caravans. Women are often sold as slaves, or traded into slavery for food, livestock, or the occasional sword from a far off land. The one who are sold off as slaves are counted as lucky among the women, for they have a chance to have a better life. A chance to eventually escape, or at least be treated well, rather than nothing but an object.”
Tara sighed, hanging her head and closing her eyes. Her hair had been kept short, and the short ponytail was too short to fall to one side. It stuck out behind her head like an accusing finger. “How did you escape such a life, Tara?” Seron asked, his voice gentle. He thought he understood her a little better, now. “I killed the man who owned me. With a horn that he used to drink from. Compared to the others, I was lucky, however. He was less abusive of me, but I was still an object. I was still nothing more than his play thing. I would not allow myself to live like that. I would either kill him, or perish in the attempt. When he lay dead before me, I knew I must escape. It is common for the women to not be allowed clothes until they are too old to be pleasant to look at. So, I had to take his. There, women and men are close to the same size, so it was not hard for me to wear his clothing. I simply pulled a cloak on, and waited until darkness fell. Then, I left, taking as much gold with me as I could carry. I set fire to the hut, and ran. By the time the village knew of the fire, it was far too late to save it. All they could do was put out the fire. I camped out on the opposite side of the village, waiting for the caravan to pass through the village and carry on. I waved them down, and explained myself to them. They let me join them until the next stop on their route. I worked, earning my keep by cooking, cleaning, tending the animals, or standing watch at night.”
“At the next place along the route, I left them as was agreed. I found a stable master who needed an extra pair of hands, and he let me work for him. We agreed upon a reduced wage, since I was sleeping in the barn and he was purchasing food for me. All in all, it was a good deal. He had a wife and child, and didn't look at me with any lust or lechery in mind. He was a good man, and I respected him much. As time went on, I began to explore the city more and more. I found the tavern district, and spent some time listening to the people talk. One day, a group of adventurer's came in. One was a proud warrior, clad head to foot in steel plates. The hilt of a sword poked over his right shoulder. Behind him came a woman in similar armor, a quiver of arrows at her hip and a bow slung over her shoulders. Behind them came a pair of little men in leathers, and lastly, a massive Orc in scales of steel and leather, a massive axe slung over his shoulder. The Orc towered over everyone in the room. Come to find out, he was a half-orc, but he was still a new sight for me. Everyone else seemed used to him.”
“I gathered that they had been here before on several accounts. They traveled far and wide, but always managed to return here at least once a year. Their armor and weapons occasionally changed, but they never lost or gained any members to their troupe.” Tara sighed, and smiled wistfully. “I approached them as they drank their brew that night. I asked the woman to take me under her wing, teach me her ways. I wanted a different life. I wanted to leave that place behind. I wanted to learn to depend on no one but my self.”
“In the end, after deliberating with the rest of the group, she accepted, but I was to pay her, and when she felt I had learned enough, I was to leave again. That night, she took me to the tanner, and had me fitted with leathers, so that I could learn to wear armor, but still be able to move. She asked me what weapon I wanted, and I said I wanted to learn the bow. She took me to the bow maker, and he had me try and catch several metal balls. The first one was so heavy that when I caught it, it still slammed into my chest and knocked be backward. The man sighed, and had her hand it back to him. He tossed it aside, and grabbed another, looked at me, hefted it, then tossed it aside. He grabbed a third, hefted it, then threw it to me.”
“I caught it, and managed to stay where I was, but it was quite the strain. It was lighter than the first, but still too heavy. He grumbled, and nodded to her. She took it, and the process was repeated. Finally, he shook his head, and looked at her. 'She is not strong enough for the big ones. Smaller ones, or crossbows. Build strength. Then try again.' The woman nodded. She turned to me, and put a hand on my shoulder.'As he said, you are not yet strong enough. So you must grow stronger. So, which would you rather? A crossbow, or a shot bow?' She asked me. I considered for a time, and then said: 'Crossbow. The heaviest I can carry.'”
“She gave me a heavy crossbow, and a belt quarrel for my ammunition. She taught me how to disassemble it, take care of it, and put it back together. She had me repeat this process until I could do it in ten minutes. Then, she was satisfied.” Tara smiles wistfully, nodding her head. “I told her I had to attend to something that night before we left the city. And before the stable closed, I told the stable master that I was leaving. I thanked him for everything, and when he asked where I was going, I told him I was going out into the world to find a new life. He smiled, and nodded, and then said to me: 'Live free, and die well.' I smiled at him, and embraced him tightly before I left.”
Tara smiles fondly, and sighs, leaning back. “The rest of the story is longer. But it led me here. I am here now, at this fortress, with a good group, a good leader, and a great friend.” She smiles again, looking at Seron, now. Seron smiles in return, and nods. “You have traveled far, and learned much, then. I am glad to have met you, Tara, and I must be honest with you. I am leaving here soon. My assignment to this fortress is coming to an end, and it is likely that I will be returning to the Knights of the Rose to be Knighted. I will be a Journeyman, then, and sent to wander, and test my abilities to their limits. When that happens, I will return. I want you to come with me as my companion at that time.”
Tara blinked, astounded by his request. A thousand thoughts ran through her head at the same moment, and she was rendered utterly speechless. Finally, composing herself, she answered. “If you still want my friendship, and my company when you return, then I will gladly join you. If not, then I will understand.”
Seron shook his head. “Nothing could change my mind. You are the truest friend I have ever had, and could ever want. I will return as fast as I am able, that I may take up a sword with you at my side sooner.” He said no more, then, and they finished their lunch in silence. When they had eaten, Seron returned to the barracks, and stripped off his chain-mail hauberk, doused himself in fresh water, and then pulled on a light pair of pants, a pair of boots, and a tunic. He belted his bastard sword on to his right hip, and headed up to the battlement, taking a tankard of water with him.
When he arrived, Tara was pacing from one side to the other, halfheartedly watching the battlement. Her back was to him, and his attire allowed him to approach silently. He stopped just out of arms reach, in case he really spooked her. “Dragon!” He yelled, and waited for her reaction. When she threw herself down close to the front of the wall, he started laughing. When she glared at him from the ground, he laughed harder. By the time she picked herself up, and straightened out her chain-mail, he had collected himself. He held out the tankard with a smile full of mirth. She snagged it, and took a long pull. “Asshole. Scared me shitless.” Seron sniggered. “All the more reason why it was funny.” Tara lightly thumped his shoulder, and laughed. “Okay, I guess it was funny after all.”
The remainder of the day passed uneventfully, and ended with the two comrades in an alehouse, Tara listening to Seron's story from earlier in the day.
Rhas was still in an unpleasant mood, as if he had gathered his bitterness and anger into a tiny ball, and placed it under his tongue, sucking on it like a candy that was unlikely to find an end.
The road to Barron De’Gert’s estate was short, only about 5 leagues, a day’s ride, however, Rhas owned no horse, nor could his clan provide one. Rhas was averse to stealing if he could avoid it, so stealing a horse was not in his nature. So, his only option was to walk or run.
It was jested around the clan hall and his local haunts in the city that Rhas was born running, he was the fastest of all the assassins in the clan, even among the five holy skulls, the top five assassins in the clan, and Rhas was number 5. Rhas enjoyed running, he always had, and his uncommon speed, agility and strength was what gave him an edge. Running was exhilarating for Rhas, he had once been able to keep up with a horse at a gallop, however, outpaced him at a dead run. Rhas was able to jump up onto the roof of most one story buildings in the city, of course, these buildings were reserved for the slums, the poor district; “The Nest”, and it’s inhabitants being the plague.
Rhas was nearing the Barron’s estate; he could see it off in the distance, the white sandstone spires rising up, with the conical brown tiled roves. It was a nice castle, in Rhas’ opinion, but it had been built for show, and not for war. This land had not seen war for an age, not since King Archeon had united the lands. War these days was in wealth, politics and the underground sting of robberies, street beatings, murders, and Rhas’ line of work; assassination.
As the castle grew closer, Rhas heaved a sigh, he disliked contact with people, and he was in a trying mood. He had gotten an earful from that noble girl, and he was likely to be getting one from the Barron, despite the fact that he carried out his task perfectly, no one had seen him, especially that guard on the battlements…unless you count the Marquis, his daughter, the cleaning maid, the cook and the wine merchant…well, maybe it wasn’t perfect, but he got the job done with the utmost speed and caution. Actually, fuck caution, Rhas didn’t give a dragon shit about most nobles, especially this one.
The guards at the gate halted Rhas, soon enough he had gained entry and was on his way to see the Barron. The halls of this castle were decoratively lined with tapestries and ornamental busts and paintings of various noble and influential figures. The Barron chose these figures specifically because it reminded him of his own arrogant self. The Barron had an excessive idea of his own self importance, and the manner in which he carried, dressed and comported himself, was the evidence.
Rhas was led into the Barron’s library, it was a large rectangular room, lined with towering shelves full of books, and each one seemed to have gathered a fair layer of dust. Rhas doubted that the Barron had read half of these books, and doubted even more that he ever would. Rhas knew scholars who would literally kill for a collection like this, and scholars weren’t the type to be going around killing for material gain.
“Largest library this side of the Academy,” the Barron said ad Rhas was showed into the room “Impressive, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t come here to admire your decorations,” Rhas said coldly, “I have the ring.”
The Barron seemed a little displeased with Rhas’ insult, however, he came and took the ring from Rhas, inspecting it closely.
“Are you positive it’s his?” the Barron asked, turning his eyes to Rhas.
Rhas simply replied with a simply clod stare, one of the greatest weapons in Rhas’ arsenal, when it came to dealing in non-violent confrontations or negotiations. The Barron’s response was to turn his eyes from Rhas immediately, and proceeded to stuff the ring into his pocket hurriedly.
“Yes, well,” said the Barron, sounding rather nervous, but trying to regain his earlier confidence “it all seems to be in order. Oh, one thing,” the Barron said, turning back to Rhas “might I purchase your services for some such similar task?”
Rhas looked around the library; the servant that had shown him in was not in the room with them. Rhas rushed forward and grabbed the folds of the robe Barron Jarroal De’Gert wore, and heaved him up off his feet and slammed him through a small rectangular table piled with books.
“I am an assassin!” Rhas snarled “I am not in the business of thievery!”
Rhas felt a pang of pity for the fat man, his face quivering under the hand Rhas had clenched it in, and his many chins wobbling. Rhas could hear a slight whimpering, and it enraged him.
“I ought to kill you,” Rhas said quietly “but I won’t. However, if you should call on the services of our clan again, it better be that you need someone dead, because next time, they will kill you! I can assure you, my family is not as forgiving as I.”
Rhas released the man, and stalked out of the room, a snarl still contorting his features.
* * * *
Rhas was back in the city by the next evening, having to camp out in the cold had put him in an increasingly sour mood. Crossing the threshold into the city via the south gate, that came directly into the markets, Rhas was home, he liked to stalk the markets, just to see if there was anything available, some trinket he might buy. Despite what you might think, Rhas liked to horde stuff, anything really, if he found it interesting, he would purchase it if he could.
Slipping in through a back street behind a permanent jeweler’s shop, Rhas headed deep into the winding alleys of the low mud brick houses that were known as “the nest”; a home for the poor, the beggars, thieves, and the general filth that those that “kept the order” on the city didn’t want hanging around for everyone to see.
Rhas made his way through the winding muddy lanes to an alley wider than the rest. Hanging from above a door a ways up from where Rhas had emerged hung a sign “The Bloodied Chalice” it read, and it had a chalice, naturally, overflowing with a sanguine liquid that could only be assumed to be blood.
Rhas entered the tavern. The room he stepped into was dark, the only light was that of the fire place that burned at one end of the room, opposite the bar, and the flickering candles that hung in the small rusty chandelier. The room was dull, it seemed humble, almost, for what it was; the meeting place of most of the vast array of informants, murderers and assassins that were family in, or associated with The Sacred Skull, the clan of assassins that operated within this kingdom, and sometimes over.
Rhas approached the bar, behind it was a small man, balding, lean, however muscular, with a cold, emotionless expression on his face, much like Rhas. This was the man that owned The Bloodied Chalice, and was an elder in the clan, a man who shared his experience and wisdom in the art with the younger members, who carried out the contracts.
“Evening,” said Rhas “anything new?” his tone that of annoyance and boredom. Being back in the city meant that Rhas was likely to be piled with menial tasks, until he could snatch up something bigger. Despite being one of the top five assassins in the clan, there weren’t enough big jobs these days to go around. The peace had grown, and the need for the Scared Skull to move was becoming less frequent.
“Evenin’ Rhas,” Replied the Chalice Master, as he was called “nothing new, I’d find something else quick, I hear there’s a pile menial tasks to rival the Rosie’s dung heap.”
‘a Rosie’ or ‘the Rosies’ was the common nick name for The Knights of the Rose or A Knight of the Rose.
“That doesn’t sound too inviting.” Rhas conceded, raising his eyebrows as he took a pull of ale from the tankard.
“Indeed,” sighed the barman “Life’s taking a turn from what it used to be.”
“You sound a little down Chal,” Rhas said, using the man’s nickname Chal, derived from Chalice Master “Something wrong?”
Chal sighed again, “Its Ellen,” he shook his head “she’s fallen for a merchant’s son she met in the markets.”
“That’s not so bad is it?” Rhas asked.
“I don’t mind her falling for an honest man, that’s not what gets me,” he said, looking into the half empty tankard he had poured for himself along with Rhas’ “it’s his reputation; he’s well known for his…indiscretions.”
“Ah,” Said Rhas awkwardly, taking another long pull from his tankard and looking around the bar. It was fairly empty, considering it was nearing happy hour, there were a few over in the corners, talking quietly in their two or three person groups “So, um, what are you planning to do about it?”
“Well,” said Chal “I was going to go and ‘pay him a visit’ in a matter of speaking.”
Rhas had an idea “Why don’t you let me do it?” Rhas suggested.
“Oh?” Chal replied, “Why you?”
“Honestly,” Rhas said, looking over his shoulder “That troll woman hasn’t returned yet it seems, and I don’t intend on being the only one here when she does.”
Chal laughed, but the laugh turned into a sigh “The life that lad leads is a good, honest, safe life. I’d like that for my girl, she didn’t deserve to be born into a life like this, the sweet thing, so, I beg of ya Rhas, don’t scare the lad off, for the death god’s sake, and Ellen’s.”
“I give you my word.” Said Rhas, raising his tankard, Chal raised his in return, and they drank the dregs in honor of their agreement.
Within the hour, Rhas set out for the markets, at this time of night, he could expect to find most of the merchants in the taverns, and most of their sons too. The one market tavern that was popular among young merchants and the youths of the trade district was ‘The River’s Bend’ it was called this not because it was near a river, but because it was right on the main street through the markets, that everyday saw crowds of people and long lines of horse drawn and hand carts, thus, leading to it’s name of ‘The River’.
Rhas would start at this tavern in his search for the merchant’s son. As Rhas entered the tavern, he noticed a distinct difference to The Bloodied Chalice, first off it was bright and well lit, many lanterns hung from the walls and the chandelier hanging from the roof had many glowing candles. Second, the crowd seemed jovial, rather than a wild, uncontrolled rabble in The Chalice.
As soon as the door closed behind Rhas, he room went totally silent and all the attention in the room was on him. Rhas just remembered he was wearing the same clothes as he had returned in, the clothes he wore when completing his contracts; the gray hooded shirt, with the hood pulled up, the black tight pants, the almost knee high black, gray clothed wrapped leather boots, and the dark red sash, through which hung a long, straight blade, slightly less broad than a broad sword, and not quite as long as a long sword, however, the black and red handle extended for two and a half hand lengths.
Rhas looked around the tavern; he didn’t see anyone matching the description of the young man that Chal had given him.
“Where can I find Marlen, the merchants son?” Rhas asked calmly, although adding a hint of roughness in his voice.
One rather intoxicated young man answered “Marl!” he exclaimed “I know ‘im! He just left with some wench with big jugs!”
“Know where he went?” Rhas asked, trying to remain calm at the vulgar reference to his childhood friend.
“Down the alley I think…” the man replied, although he seemed rather perplexed, as if not sure what he was talking about.
Rhas didn’t need to know more, the drunken man was probably right. He headed out of the tavern and looked around. Directly across from the tavern was a small dark alley, how convenient. Rhas headed across, as he approached, he heard laughter, of more than one male.
“…you hear that?” one laughed “No? No!? what a stuck up little bitch rat!”
“GET OFF ME!” a young girl shrieked.
“How about,” one said, his voice strained, he was obviously struggling against the girl “You show us what’s under that dirty little skirt of yours?”
“How about I have you killed!?” she struggled back. There were two young men trying to pin her to the wall, and lift her skirts, the third was sitting on some boxes against the opposite wall of the alley.
“Oi,” said one of the men, over his shoulder “come and help us Marl!”
The man looked over his shoulder again, but there was no one there.
“Where the blast is Marl!?” he said to the other youth.
“I don’t give a rat’s,” he said calmly in reply “more for us, eh?”
“Whatever.” Said the fist young man again “Now,” he continued, where were we - ”
He was cut off mid sentence by a loud thud; something had fallen from the roves of the market buildings into the alley. At the sight of it, the girl stopped struggling, looking both relieved, and a little surprised.
The young man holding the girl’s arms turned in shock, a look of horror crossing his face. He looked down at a corpse, the corpse of his friend Marlen. The young man had been stabbed both under the chin, and in the solar plexus. The killer had a ruthless efficiency; however, the young man didn’t know that.
Then, still in shock, both young men reeled back against the wall of the alley, as another figure dropped from above, however, this one landed on it’s feet, very much alive.
Rhas stood, facing this young man who had made his date with death when he dared to do wrong against a member of The Sacred Skull’s family. The only things visible on Rhas’ face were his teeth, bared in a snarl, his canines longer than the average man, and sharper. He stepped forward, raising one of his long knives over his head, reversed in his hand, ready to bring it down into the man’s neck, and down into his lungs and heart.
“W-Why!?” the young man before him pleaded “Why are you doing this to us!? We did you no wrong!”
“No wrong?” Rhas snarled “NO WRONG!? You attempted to rape this innocent girl! My family! THE FAMILY OF THE SACRED SKULL!” and with a roar, the blade came down, piercing the man’s neck, and striking his heart from above.
The other tried to escape, tried to run, he looked over his shoulder as he stumbled down the alley, but there was no one behind him, he muttered a prayer, and hunched over panting, one look behind him while hunched to make sure the killer was not following; nothing. The young man stood back up straight, ready to move on, the further away the better. However, as soon as he rose to a stand again, there was pain, so much pain, agonizing pain, like waves in a storm they washed over him, all coming from his stomach, he looked down, there was a blade, a long knife, held by a hand, as if the blade was a long punch dagger, it had pierced him in the upper abdomen, and had been dragged down to the lower. The young man looked back up, the killer stood before him his hood, shrouding his face, except for his eyes, in death, he would remember those eyes, and the judgment they brought down upon
his soul. In his final moments, the youth felt his hair tugged on, his head pulled back, and the same long knife, piercing the roof of his mouth and through his brain.
The next morning, the marketplace was not a place for happy trade and laughter it usually was, but a scene of horror. Three men, hung naked from a beam across the market square, written on them in their own blood, the words; RAPIST, LETCHER, FIEND. And carved into one mans chest, a simple skull.
Seron had volunteered to pick up Gurz' watch, as the man was sick with some illness. The healers were not tending him, yet, as it seemed only a very bad cold. He took to pacing the battlement, halberd resting on his shoulder. This day, he wore steel plate pauldrons, steel bracers, and steel greaves over his chain mail. A winged helmet adorned his head, obscuring his face from view, and a white tunic with a red rose crossed in front of a sword displayed his membership of the Knights of the Rose. The time was drawing near for his return to the Hall of the Rose, and his promotion to Journeyman Knight. Only five days left, if he counted correctly.
As he paced, a falcon swooped down to the barracks. Seron thought he spied a note attached to it's leg, but couldn't be certain. He gave a mental shrug, and continued pacing, looking around as he went. Oddly enough, it was fairly cool today, and his altitude did little to change that. He thanked his luck that he hadn't decided to don the additions to his armor on a hot day. He was on his way back across the battlement from where he'd been knocked flat by that damned assassin several days before, when he spied Tara coming up the stairs. “Hail, Tara, what brings you up here at this hour? 'Tis too early for lunch, if I track the time correctly,” he greeted.
Tara smiled. “Message for you, actually. I figured I'd deliver it instead of someone else. Captain Arlathos was considering making poor Gurz do it, but I volunteered.” Seron cocked an eye brow up, and approached her, removing his helmet so he could read and speak easier. “Oh? Did you read it, then?” He inquired.
“Nope. Saved that for you, boyo. It's for you anyhow, and does happen to bear the seal of the Knights. There's only one around here, and that happens to be you, unless you forgot.” Seron shrugged, and when she held out the scroll to him, he inspected the seal, broke it, and then began to read.
“Greetings,
As you know, your time at the fortress is coming to a close, and we have been reviewing your reports carefully. I have coordinated with your commander, and he has given you a flawless review. So, it is my pleasure to notify you that you have been accepted as an official Journeyman Knight of the Rose. Congratulations, you have earned it. In four days time, three riders will arrive. I will be among them. The other will be a squire, and he will be replacing you at the Fortress. The third will be a riderless horse, actually, and that horse shall be yours." TBC