Elizabeth Haydon - The Assassin King

“Manwyn, the Present will be veiled,” the Seer whispered, staring into the sun. “No more will you see me when you search the skies of the Future— farewell, sister.” Something black broke within the Emperor Presumptive. He seized the brittle woman by the back of her neck and arm and, without thinking twice, hurled the ancient prophetess out the window of the parapet, past the courtyard and into the chasm below. Her scream followed her down by a split second, frightening the roosting swallows that had perched in the hollows of the castle’s stone, sending them fluttering skyward in a great white and gray rush. Talquist rose to his feet shakily, his control returning, and stood at the window, staring down into the all-but-bottomless crevasse. He looked for any sign of the mythic woman, listened for any sound that portended the survival of one of the three daughters of Fate, but heard nothing save the whine of the wind racing through the canyon, bringing dust in great scattering swirls to the stones of the courtyard. He contemplated the loss to the lore of the world that he had just delivered. “I had always heard that Time flies,” he said. “Oh, well.” Boot steps thundered up the steps. Talquist turned idly to see his chamber guards, followed a moment later by his puffing chamberlain, appear at the top of the stairs. “Are—are you all right, m’lord?” the chamberlain inquired between breaths. “Never better,” Talquist said. He looked out the window into the depths of the chasm once more. “The commander of the imperial army is awaiting your pleasure in your antechamber, m’lord. He says you summoned him, but that I was not to disturb you if you were not ready for him.”

“Send him in.” The chamberlain hesitated. “Are you certain, m’lord? He is happy to wait if his presence is an imposition. Commander Fhremus doesn’t wish to interrupt your work.” Talquist smiled. “Not at all,” he said as he headed for the stairs. “He’s interrupting nothing; I was just killing Time.”

Far across the continent, on the other side of the Krevensfield Plain, deep within her smoldering temple of splashing fountains and decaying tapestries, the Seer of the Future ceased wailing. For more than five months she had been keening without ceasing, howling away in her insanity. The pilgrims who occasionally had sought her advice had long stopped coming to her great carved door; no gold coins had been dropped in the offering box. Even the guards had left, being unable to bear the nightmarish sound any longer. Now, with the murder she had foreseen accomplished, her sister’s very existence forgotten, the clouds within her mind dissipated. Manwyn sat slowly up on the swinging platform above the deep well in her temple; her gaze returned to the heavens painted on the dome above her. And softly began to sing to herself a song of madness once again.

The commander of the raiding party of the Second Mountain Guard reined his horse quietly to a halt, signaling for the other soldiers to fall in behind him. The remainder of the cohort took shelter along the far side of the great wall that encircled Haguefort, the only sound the occasional snorting of the animals in the cold air. The commander nodded to Mardel, one of his spryer lieutenants, to dismount and draw near for instructions. The young soldier complied, tossing his reins to another, and came forward. The commander leaned over and spoke softly. “Slip over the wall and open the gate for us. We will ride the wall where it is unguarded and then cross to the far entrance. Take your time. You know the rest.” Mardel nodded, saluted, and jogged silently to the wall. Upon approaching it he could see that the commander had chosen an opportune spot; although the wall had guard towers every twenty feet or so, this side appeared to be largely unguarded. He waited in the shadows, nonetheless, until he was satisfied that no one atop the wall could see him. After a few moments, when no sign of a guard appeared at all, he quickly crossed to the wall and felt around for handholds.

Atop the wall were metal spikes, but Mardel had been trained for just such a purpose. He scaled the wail quickly, then slid between two of the spikes with ease, then crouched low and dropped down to the ground within, rolling to absorb the shock of the twelve-foot fall, ending up on his feet. He glanced around and saw nothing but thick shadows within the walled field. He clung to the wall, staying low in case there was anyone on the keep balcony in the distance, but the lights of the small castle were low; probably the entire house had retired for the evening.

It only took a few moments to traverse most of the inner field. Mardel could hear soft sounds without, noises that would not have been detected had he not known that the remainder of the cohort was traveling at approximately the same speed outside the ramparts. His heart pounded with excitement as he passed a low two-story building that their reconnaissance had described as the Cymrian Museum that the keep’s previous lord, a famous historian, had maintained. The gate was almost within reach. Mardel glanced one last time at the balconies and windows in the distance and, seeing no one on or near them, made for the gate. A ringing sound, followed by a hum, rent the air, followed a split second later by pulsing waves of blue light. Mardel turned around slowly. Behind him in the shadows, almost within arm’s reach, was the dark figure of a man silhouetted by the blazing light of the sword in his hand. That sword had a blade that ran in blue ripples from tang to tip, waves of what appeared to be water flowing hypnotically down the shaft, appearing to fall away into nothingness. The shadow was crowned with hair of shiny red-gold, metallic in its sheen like burnished copper. That, and two blazing blue eyes in the middle of the face, was the only part of the man not cloaked in darkness. “Oh, let me guess—you were sent in to open the gate, am I right?” The voice issuing forth from the shadow sounded almost bored, as if annoyance was too great an expenditure of effort. Mardel stood stock still. Before his eyes, the tip of the watery blue sword was at bis neck. “Again, you were sent to open the gate? Answer, or I will cut your throat.”

“Yes,” whispered Mardel. The dark figure lowered the weapon. “There’s a much closer one near the main entrance. Would have saved you a lot of running.” Mardel swallowed but said nothing. Of the entire cohort of the Second Mountain Guard, he was the least experienced, though he had been in military service to the crown almost half his short life. While he had partaken in bloody raids and served in some unsavory situations, he had never been surprised on a raid before, especially by someone who blended into the darkness without detection. “How many?” The man sheathed his blade, dousing the light and returning the inner field to shadow again. “Fifty men,” Mardel lied. The hidden man snorted. “Only fifty?” He rolled his eyes, the blue irises gleaming in the white scleras, and gestured toward the wall with utter contempt. “Open the gate.” A metallic clanking could be heard in the near distance behind the man. “Want assistance?” a curt voice called. The first man shook his head, the light of the keep’s bonfire catching the red-gold of his hair. “Only if you are bored, Uncle. This fellow claims to be opening the gate for fifty men, though it’s actually twenty-seven.”

An even ruder snort issued forth from the near distance.

“Only fifty? Open the gate and let them in. I should be done moving my bowels by then.” The blue eyes sighted on Mardel again. “You are dressed in the colors of my regiment,” the shadowy man said slowly, his tone less bored and more threatening. “You imbeciles have broached my lands, lands that stand under a flag of peace, disguised in my regalia, and come to my home in the night, threatening my family, and you only claim to have brought fifty men? I am insulted.” Sensing the futility of effort and the danger of waiting, Mardel drew his sword. Before he could level it the glowing blue blade had seemed to leap forth from its scabbard and dragged itself in one clean slash across his throat. Mardel fell to the ground, bleeding bis life onto the snowy grass. Ashe sheathed his sword and strode to the gate. He took hold of the ropes of the portcullis and raised it slowly in the dark. “Come,” he whispered in the tongue of Sorbold. “The house is asleep.” The commander heard and nodded assent, signaled to the remains of the cohort, which quietly rode through the gate. The gate was shut quickly behind them. Even before the cohort had had a chance to regroup, the blue glowing sword was slashing the bindings of the two closest saddles, as the shadow wielding it pummeled the falling riders with the hilt. A shriek ripped past them and three more riders fell, pierced by crossbow bolts that came out of the darkness.