A Gilded Cage
Voltare stood, undisputedly, as the capital of the modern world: a hub of commercial enterprise and trade, as well as the seat of the royal family of the kingdom of Mizzaro. The city’s bounds spread some twenty-five kilometres in size, from the great lake Centura in the west to the crystal waters of the Arbatuan Ocean in the east. It was home to almost half a million souls altogether: beggars, farmers, smiths, sailors, merchants, scholars, artists, guardsmen, knights – people from all walks of life called the bustling city their home.
The centrepiece of the city was the royal palace. The Palace of Mizzaro stood as a testament to the architectural and engineering prowess of the empire: a towering behemoth built almost entirely of smoothly carved amethyst. Not only were the exterior walls constructed with bricks of the stone, but so was each turret, watchtower, rampart and battlement. Even the rooftops themselves were set with specially crafted tiles made from the stone. The only things not constructed from the precious stone were the windows of the keep itself, but even these had been stained to match the building material. The deep purple hue, flecked at random by small white impurities, gave the palace an ethereal and sinister presence. It was like a night sky that stood in the dead centre of the city. It was built on a large hill so that the rest of the city had the appearance of falling away from it. It was protected by three exterior walls, built from the same amethyst stone as the palace they confined, with each being progressively larger and more heavily fortified as it expanded outward. The palace was home to the Mizzarosi royal family, the ruling family of the Kingdom of Mizzaro for as long as there had been recorded history.
The rest of the Voltare spreads outwards from the Palace like ripples on a pond’s surface. The waterfront district stood to the northeast: home of the merchant companies, craft guilds, smithies and the like, as well as all manner of tavern, brothel and den of thieves. It was the busiest and most bustling of the city’s districts, a veritable melting pot of culture and trade. If the palace was the city’s heart, the waterfront was the brain, constantly working to keep the rest of the city prosperous. The cramped, cobbled streets and densely packed, highly stacked buildings (nothing less than triple stories, never more than five) gave the place a claustrophobic and menacing atmosphere as if the streets themselves were holding you hostage in its grimy, greasy arms. A large concentration of the city’s population lived in the district, packed like crabs in a basket in flats above every shopfront. Those who lived and worked in the district swore that they loved it, but the crime rate told a different story.
The eastern portion just below to the waterfront was nicknamed the military district, although officially it was not known as such. Voltare’s standing army of some fifty-thousand strong made its home in the area, but it also served to house the headquarters of the city watch and the naval shipyard. The Port of Mizzaro also stood in this district, with all cargo and visitors being screened thoroughly before being allowed entry into the city proper.
The university district stood to the south of the palace, home of the largest campus in the known world. Scholars from all lands and all walks of life came to the city in the pursuit of knowledge, science and philosophy, with the Great Library of Voltare being the gem of the University. The University boasted several symposiums wherein the preeminent scholars, teachers and philosophers of the time gathered and held their debates and lectures. The university also boasted a robust athletics programme, with several gymnasiums being present on the campus, as well the country’s largest sports stadium.
To the north of the Palace, on the same plateau, stood the Temple of Galielylë: the patron god of the city. Galielylë was the Mizzarosi god of wisdom, wealth and warfare, but also of magic. The temple served as the holiest building of the god’s cult, as well as the home of the High Priestess. A great marble statue of the god’s likeness stood near as tall as the Palace itself but did not dare to rival it. It was believed by some sects that Galielylë himself lived in the edifice and stood ever watchful atop his majestic winged steed over the city. Stark naked, with stern hawk eyes and his unmistakable imperial sword, raised high in the air, the god was a fierce image: a display of power and prestige that radiated both hope and fear into all who gazed upon it.
West of the Palace were the residential areas where the rest of the city lived, including those who attended the university. The district was also home to the theatre and various other artisan workshops and the like. The district was built with a clear divide of the rich and the poor. The richest residents, minor nobles and highly regarded artisans lived closest to the palace on a raised plateau called the Pavilion, which separated it from the rest of the buildings beneath by an ornate and elaborate staircase. The residents of this section of the district even had direct access to the Palace grounds and gardens. The remainder of the district sprawled out below this rich plateau, growing more decrepit and less prosperous the further the houses and buildings fell from the Palace’s shadow. Everything below the Pavilion was simply known as the Bastion by its residents. The river Voltare that gave the city its namesake ran on the outskirts of the Bastion and served to separate the city inhabitants from the farmlands that populated the western bank.
Today, however, the city was ablaze and in ruins as it faced opposition as it had not seen in centuries. Mizzarosi military and city watchmen clashed with an unknown invading force in the streets of the waterfront district, while civilians tried to outrun the fighting. Those caught in the crossfire were shown no mercy by the invaders. This type of warfare was not unheard of. The Kingdoms were in a constant state of turbulence by their very nature. The Mizzarosi army did their damndest to quell the fires and keep the enemy forces locked in the waterfront, but they were fighting a losing battle. The invaders were well-organised, well-armed, and most of all, they had the element of surprise on their side.
The invasion had begun a scant two hours ago, beginning with a small splinter group holding the port and waterfront hostage while ships had sailed into the Dragoon Bay from an unknown hiding place in the shadowy crevasses that littered the waterside edge of the Dragoon mountain range to the north. The mountain range served as a natural fortification for the city from ground forces trying to enter the city from the north, particularly from the neighbouring Kingdom of Bustavia. Only the range and a thin strip of the Arbatuan Ocean separated the two Kingdoms, and they had been squabbling over borders for decades. The invading force did not appear Bustavian, but it was possible they were mercenaries meant to press an attack on the city without instigating a full-out war between the two nations. The fighting had spilt out from the waterfront quickly as the invaders had made a push for the Palace, and the worst of the battle was currently taking place right on the King’s doorstep.
Right at that moment, a young man stalked the richly-adorned and elaborately decorated halls of the great amethyst dreadnought itself, making his way down the labyrinthine corridors that led to the king’s throne room. Portraits of the entire linage of Mizzaro’s royal family, dating back as far as history could remember, lined the walls of these halls and were lit by light blue crystal lights underneath each. The eyes in the portraits seemed to follow him as he strode the amethyst-marble floors. Besides the paintings, suits of armour stood as silent defenders at regular intervals, occasionally interrupted by the odd bookcase, reading nook or lounging chair and table set, but these did not have eyes to unnerve the travellers walking past them now.
The young man brushed his shoulder-length, silky black hair out of his eyes, tying it up in a neat ponytail as he walked so it wouldn’t get in his way. His dark, piercing eyes darted back and forth nervously to every one of the multitudes of doors that lined the hall as he drew closer to the throne room. He couldn’t help but fiddle absent-mindedly with the chain around his neck which held the Mizzarosi coat-of-arms – a shield that held a purple heart topped with a small crown in its centre - tracing his finger along the name engraved on the back. A gift from his father. All that was going through his head at this time were thoughts of the upcoming fight. Outside, the sounds of the raging battle could be heard; the screams, cries, and clanging and booming of steel and cannon-fire echoing throughout the entire city. The invaders meant to storm the Palace and end this as quickly as they possibly could, for they were not prepared or equipped for an extended siege.
Two other men accompanied the young man down the ornate corridors. They wore long black cloaks that scraped the floor and identical uniforms of a black, leathery material that seemed to have a glossy sheen to it. The men walked together until the party came to an ostentatious staircase that led up to upper levels of the palace and the living quarters of the royal family. The two other men looked to their leader, who simply nodded once, then separated from him.
The young man looked down the corridor to the distant door behind which his destination stood. He absent-mindedly stroked the hilt of the sword sheathed on his hip, concealed underneath a long black cloak. He took a step toward his destination but then hesitated. He bobbed his shoulders up and down in place, feeling the weight of his cloak on his shoulders. He tossed the cloak itself aside, leaving it on the staircase, as it would only slow him down and hamper his reflexes. The young man breathed deeply before striding down the remainder of the hall. No matter how fast his breathing became, how much his heart beat against his ribcage and threatened to spring forth from his chest, how much he wanted to cease moving altogether, he did not stop until he stood in front of the grand double doors of the throne room.
The doors themselves stood almost four metres tall and a combined two metres wide. The entire history of the Mizzarosi royal family had been engraved along both the outside frame of the doors as well as on the doors themselves. It was a heritage that stretched back to the time of mythology. The catch was that nobody could read the history unless they were specifically taught how. It was written in the ancient tongue of the first settlers of the land, a language that was now long-dead and only known to the royal family themselves. The kings and queens of the Mizzarosi lineage would have to personally teach their young princes and princesses how to read the strange script. It was said that the very first true king of Mizzaro, a contemporary of Galielylë himself supposedly, had started the tradition after taking the lands from its native inhabitants to preserve the secrets of the royal lineage so that none may know how to replace them. If the lineage should die, the Kingdom was to fall with it. Nobody knew this king’s name anymore – he was referred to only as the Golden Dragon in the historical cycle of the Kingdom - but all knew the legend of the throne room doors.
The young man could not help but take a moment to admire it. The grandiose story, whether true or not, had always appealed greatly to him. Soon he would be adding to it himself, he was sure. One way or another.
He pushed open the doors and stepped inside. The throne room was lit by the same crystal light that bathed the portraits lining the walk up to the room – this time emanating from massive golden braziers that were placed at regular intervals throughout the entire room. The king himself stood in front of his golden throne. It was exponentially too large for a man to sit in comfortably, and indeed it dwarfed the king as he stood beside it, getting suited up to join the fight against the invading army that threatened his Kingdom. He had already donned his plate-mail armour and was just about to take his helmet from the armourer at his side when the young man walked in.
The massive hall fell quiet. The king’s war table had been laid out just below the steps that led up to the throne itself. The great oaken table, triangular and larger than life itself, was strewn with papers, arms and pieces of armour. In the centre lay a giant detailed map of the city. Warrior statuettes made from the same wood as the table were being utilized to indicate the positions of troops and enemies on it. Seven men stood around the table: the king’s council. They had been arguing amongst themselves just a moment ago, but all were silent now.
The king broke the silence.
‘Ah, I am afraid I haven’t the time to speak with you right now,’ said King Mizzaro, looking at the young man with a wry smile. His old, scarred face told the story of a thousand fierce battles, his bald head carrying a long, dark scar that stretched from his crown to his forehead, and then all the way down across his left eye, ending only in the mane of his thick, white beard. ‘There are foreign invaders baying at the palace doors and I am on my way to deal with them as a king should: with much bloodshed and judicial slaughter. I know you must still be wary from your recent travels, so I will not hold it against you if you do not intend to join me in this fight. I do, however, need you to find my damned spymaster, Lord Romeo, and see if he has uncovered who is behind this fool-hardy assault.’
The king preparing to take the battlefield himself might have seemed abnormal or irresponsible in any other Kingdom, but King Mizzaro was renowned for being a fierce warrior first and foremost. He had not been the eldest born to his father, the previous king, and so he had never been formally tutored in the ways of politics. Instead, he had joined the military and made a name for himself there. He would have by now commanded his generals, as well as the dukes and other noblemen of the Pavilion, to gather their private forces and rally for a counterattack against the invaders.
‘Ah, but I do intend to fight,’ said the young man. He strode confidently across the purple velvet carpet of the throne room, his footsteps still echoing dully in the spacious chamber as he made his way closer to centre. He stopped just short of the oaken war table. He had been looking at the king this entire time, his eyes never leaving the man. It was as if everyone else in the room were invisible to him. Inconsequential.
‘I have a new blade and I intend to wet it with blood this day,’ he continued. As he spoke, he pulled said blade from the scabbard at his hip and raised it for the king to see.
The king looked on in wonder at the young man’s sword. It was a magnificent longsword, exceptionally thin and finely crafted - like the swords preferred by the soldiers of Sevet, which were light and easier to handle - but was curved ever so slightly at the tip and had a jagged edge running along about half of the blade, from the handle upwards, like tiny, metal teeth. The sword itself was made from some kind of strange black metal that reflected no light, and the hilt was inset with various precious gems. The blade was also decorated with an inscription that flared bright if the sword was held up just so towards a light, but the language was foreign and the king could not understand what it said.
‘What manner of blade do you hold there?’ asked the king. ‘I have never seen anything like it.’
‘I would think not. This sword is one of a kind. I found it on my recent trip to the Drachmas Plains, just outside of Camar,’ replied the young man, gazing fondly at the sword. The jewels reflected in his eyes gave them a strange blue hue.
‘That is a fine blade. I am certain you will take many lives with it this day.’
‘Oh, no, I intend to slay only one person with this blade. The only one will have the honour of seeing this sword struck through their chest before they die.’
‘Oh, is that so? That seems a particularly optimistic way to fight a war. Who do you intend to kill?’
‘You,’ hissed the prince.
The king barely had time to react before the prince drew one of the new Bustavian-manufactured lead-shot pistols out of a hidden holster behind his back and fired one of the small metal rounds straight into the head of the king’s armourer before the man even had time to gasp in shock. The prince looked at the pistol in his hand in awe, the barrel still smoking lightly.
‘I picked this up in Bustavia,’ he said, showing off the pistol to his stunned father. It had a single long, thin barrel and a rotating chamber which housed the lead bullets. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever fired it, however, as the bullets are hard to come by. Their craftsmen really are the best in manufacturing ingenious methods of killing people. This particular piece holds up to six bullets! Can you imagine? Six cannon shots right in the palm of your hand.’
His father was not impressed, however, and he drew his claymore from its place beside his gilded throne. ‘What are you doing, you insolent child?’ he asked as he stepped out in front of his throne, almost as if to protect the seat itself. ‘What is the meaning of this? Are you behind the invaders laying siege to my city?’
The prince dropped the pistol to his side and raised his sword, pointing it squarely at his father. He walked forward and deftly leapt onto the war table, scattering statuettes as he did so. The men around the table had backed away from it by now, all of them still silent as they watched the drama unfold in front of them. ‘As a matter of fact, I am. They are nothing more than a band of Namarian mercenaries that I picked up on the way home.’
The prince began pacing slowly back and forth across the table. It was best not to give his father a stationary target. The king eyed him menacing from the throne, claymore firmly in hand. The prince needed something to spur him on. ‘They are merely a diversion for the soldiers. I knew a surprise attack on the capital would incur your wrath and spur you to deploy the full strength of your army if only to make a show of force. I did not, however, expect you to let Voltare bleed for as long as it has.’
The king started walking cautiously down the steps towards the prince.
‘Alas!’ The prince exclaimed, his eyes never straying from his father as the juggernaut drew closer and closer. ‘Now I am going to kill you and blame your death - and the deaths of the queen and your new child - on some invaders who just so happened to get into the poorly defended palace. Then I will ascend the throne.’
‘Why? If you were to wait but a few years, you would have become king without having to murder your very family. This is despicable!’
‘This is what is necessary,’ hissed the prince, the venom in his words evident to all who heard them. ‘I do what is best for this Kingdom. You are nothing but a foolish old man who has reigned for far too long because nobody has the gall to oppose you. Killing my drug-addled stepmother and a contender for my rightful crown is just a necessary precaution.’
‘What do you mean? Be reasonable! This is not the answer!’
‘I have considered many possibilities and, in fact, this is the only answer.’
‘You would slay your own family just for power? Just to depose me?’
‘Oh, no, I’m not slaying my family. I will only be guilty of the regicide. Or is it patricide? Either way, it is a guilt I can live with.’
‘But my queen and child..?’
‘Already being taken care of. They are no longer your concern.’
‘This is madness! Why now?!’
The prince turned away from his father’s gaze for a split second before turning back to meet it defiantly, ‘I owe you no explanations. This is what has to be done!’
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‘If you stop this idiocy at once and call off this plot that you have concocted before it is too late, I will not retaliate against you. I will grant you forgiveness and forget this treason ever happened! That is my word as king. As your father.’
‘I’m sorry, Father, but you do not expect me to believe you? It’s too late to negotiate.’
‘Then I have no choice but to kill you,’ concluded the king softly.
The king came forward swiftly, closing the gap between him and his son in a heartbeat. The prince barely had time to react before the king swung his sword. The heavy claymore blade of the king whistled through the air, crashing down on the table with the force of a juggernaut. The table was cleaved almost cleanly in two by the blow, but the prince tried to use this opportunity to get in a strike of his own and jumped down from the table with a thrust of his own. The king parried this wild counterattack easily with the hilt of his claymore. The momentum of the failed attack sent the young prince sprawling across the floor. He scrambled quickly to his feet before his father could cleave him with another swing of the giant claymore. The prince stumbled backwards hastily away from the table to the more open area in front of it. The king pursued and took another slash at him that turned into a surprise thrust mid-swing. The prince tried to riposte the king’s blade as fast as he could, but he was not quite fast enough and the blade opened up his black shirt and nicked his chest, letting loose a few drops of blood. The king was, for a split second, caught off balance by the riposte, however, and the younger man quickly took advantage of the opening. He hit the king with a thrust of his own, and his sword collided with the king’s heavy plate armour.
There was a sudden burst of light and the king fell to the ground as if he had been struck over the head with a hammer. The king’s armour had melted and was still smoking in the spot where the prince’s blade had struck. The king cried out in pain as the melting metal seared through his chainmail undershirt and burnt his chest. He stared at the wound in shock and pain. The prince grinned and stepped forward to thrust his blade into his father’s chest, but the king lashed out with his foot, catching him in the ankle and forcing him to the ground too. The king took advantage of this to pull a small knife out from his belt. He clambered to his hands and knees hastily and stabbed his son in the leg while the young man was trying to back-peddle away. The prince cried out in pain and pulled the knife out from his leg, letting it clatter to the ground.
The king had used this little piece of foul play as a diversion so that he could get back to his feet. He bore down on his son and swung his blade downwards heavily. If the claymore had connected with any part of the prince’s body, it would have cut clean through, but the young man managed to roll to the side just in time and the blade struck nothing but ground, sending splinters of chipped marble into the air.
The prince stumbled to his feet and brought his sword up to block his father’s next strike. The king was a fearsome fighter, to say the least. He was an exceptionally skilled swordsman and he was relentless in his assault. The prince was beginning to doubt his skill and cursed his foolish pride and arrogance for challenging his father to a head-on fight. He could hear the cheers of the king’s council egging their royal leader on jubilantly, yet none of the spineless men dared step into the fray themselves.
The king slashed downwards violently, pushing right through his son’s block, and forcing the claymore down into the prince’s right shoulder. The prince cried out in pain and wrenched himself free by pushing the claymore out with his sword. He stumbled backwards to get his bearings and just barely managed to block another fierce strike from his father. The fight was becoming decidedly one-sided and the prince was now starting to feel the full sting of his father’s trickery. His leg was starting to give away beneath him as he lost more blood and he knew that he couldn’t do anything about it. Soon he was going to falter and that would be the end of his life. He had to come up with a plan and quickly.
He blocked another strike and then decided that to die valiantly in combat with his father was no way to die at all. He had to win this fight, no matter what it took, pride be damned. He dropped back and dodged to one side as his father thrust his sword out before him. The prince grabbed the blade of his father’s sword and winced as it bit into the flesh of his hand. But his grip did not fail and he tucked an arm underneath the blade and twisted it violently away from his father. He managed to wrench the blade from the king’s grasp despite the biting pain of the blade slicing into his arm and side and threw the blade to the ground. His father was quick to recover and he reached for a small axe that he wore on his belt in case of exactly such a situation. He brought the axe out and was just about to cleave his son limb from limb when he noticed the prince’s pistol pointed directly at his head.
The king stopped his assault short and let his hands fall to his sides in defeat. ‘Well then, what are you waiting for? Kill me!’ he spat as he glared at the barrel of his son’s gun and his son’s face behind it.
The prince dropped the barrel of his gun a few inches and pulled the trigger, hitting his father in the shoulder. The king dropped his axe and the prince stepped forward and fired two more shots into his father’s breastplate. One penetrated the tough plate-mail, and the other went through the same wound that the melted armour had caused earlier. The king dropped to his knees in agony as the white-hot pain shot through his chest. He could barely breathe and he knew his lung must have been punctured by the bullets. Coughing up blood, the king gazed down at the gently smoking holes in his armour in despair.
The prince walked over to his father and wasted no further time with quips or threats. He just raised his sword and swung with all his might at the king’s exposed neck. His blade sliced clean through the flesh, sinew and bone connecting the king’s head to his neck as if it were nothing but butter.
The prince allowed himself a satisfied smile as he walked over to the throne and sank into it, exhausted. He put his feet up and surveyed the room before him. The slumped bodies of the king and the armourer stained the carpet, but the prince did not mind. His now crimson-stained sword clattered to the ground beside the throne as the prince sighed heavily. He touched the wound on his shoulder and observed the blood on his fingers curiously. It was serious, but he would live. He threw back his head and burst out laughing, the sound echoing hollowly around the throne room.
Trembling, one of the king’s council stepped forward and shouted, ‘This is regicide! You will never get away with this, Ciaran!’
The prince looked up in surprise. He had almost completely forgotten about the council members. He sighed, drew his pistol leisurely and shot the dissenter through the back of the head as the man tried to turn and flee from the sight of the prince’s gun.
‘Anybody else cares to object?’
The remaining six council members looked at the carnage around them with terror. They then looked at each other, all unsure of what exactly their next move should be. As one they came to a wordless consensus.
‘The king is dead. Long live the king.’
*
The two men who had accompanied the prince were at the same time ascending the north-eastern spiral staircase, which leads up to the royal family’s private living quarters. The entire keep was unnaturally still, just as the prince had said it would be. They had already strolled right past all the guards when they had entered the place with the prince, after all. After ascending three flights of stairs they finally reached the landing that opened up to the eastern wing of the Palace. It was locked off securely, with only the king himself, immediate family, and a handful of trusted valets given keys to open it even in the most peaceful of circumstances. Luckily for the two men, they had just such a key. Wordlessly, they opened to heavy door and entered the wing.
The right-hand side of the wing was made almost entirely of thick stained glass through which the men could see the fighting happening out in the city. The fires had already spread from the port and throughout the waterfront district. There was a commotion by the first exterior defence wall of the palace already as the invaders had broken out of the waterfront and driven the Mizzarosi forces back to the centre of the city. The Namarians were proving to be the most efficient choice for this invasion.
They were a warlike and barbaric sea-faring people who made their living as mercenaries and pirates, so it was understandable that they would be good at their trade. Their lands were across the Arbatuan Ocean to the south-east of Mizzaro, but these were nothing more than a series of inter-connected islands and archipelagos. Each island had its own laws, customs and tribes, which meant that the nation itself had never been united into a single Kingdom like the other continents. Excluding the land of Zeshan that shared a landmass with the Kingdom of Sevet, it was the only so-called “free nation” in the known world. The islands were constantly at war with each other, as well as every other nation, and Namarians were known to terrorize travellers not only on the Arbatuan, but also the Alkaic, which lay westward of their homelands, and the Galagas, which lay to the east. Coastal towns lived in constant fear of Namarian raiding parties, and they were a persistent thorn in the sides of almost every nation, except for the aforementioned Sevet because the Kingdom lay so far to the north of Zeshan that the raiders did not even see a point to venture there. If the Namarians were ever to unite they would have the single largest fleet in the world. It was good for everyone then that they were too busy fighting themselves to realize this.
The two assassins paused only briefly to admire the chaos before setting forth with their task. They made their way towards the king’s bedroom itself, ignoring all the side doors that led off to various libraries, studies, private dining quarters and the like. Each room was as lavishly decorated and furnished as the lower levels of the palace, and none of them had any doors so they were easy to spy into for roaming guardsmen as the men made their way down the corridor. Luckily, there were none.
The men came to the end of the first hallway and peeked quietly around the corner that led to the king’s private quarters. It was the only room on the wing that had a large oak door and was flanked by two bodyguards. The king had obviously not wanted anything to happen to his wife and new-born child during the fighting that had broken out outside the palace. But these bodyguards were just soldiers in the king’s army. Well-trained and dangerous, to be sure, but no match for an assassin.
The two men looked at each wordlessly. One of the men, who had a face like a serrated blade, took a coin out of a pocket inside of his cloak and looked to the other man, whose face was not serrated. The second man simply nodded. The first man flipped the coin into the air and caught it deftly, clasping it, hidden, onto the top of his hand.
‘Tails,’ said the second man. It was.
The first man sighed and took up a position on the edge of the wall so that his back was against it and he could swing out into the bend of the corridor quickly. He thought of going about it silently for a moment, but he decided it would be more fun to do things the hard way. The battle raging outside would mask the screams of these two hapless soldiers, and, if his colleague did not hesitate in his mission, the people inside the bed-chamber would not be doing anything about it either.
He moved out of the cover of the corner, swinging his crossbow from a shoulder strap underneath his cloak in one deft movement as he did. The soldiers noticed him immediately. They were already itching to be in the fray outside, so when they saw the strange man walking towards them with a weapon in hand, they saw a threat from the invaders on the royal family’s lives.
‘Stop right there,’ said the first soldier, drawing his sword as he did. The soldier next to him pulled a bow off his back and notched an arrow.
The assassin kept on walking as if he hadn’t heard or seen the two soldiers.
The first soldier eyed the stranger warily, then nodded to his partner. The archer let loose an arrow and it struck the stranger square in the chest, piercing his heart and killing him instantly.
Or at least, that’s what should have happened.
Instead, the arrow hit the assassin on his light-weight obsidian chest plate and rebounded off harmlessly. The assassin took this shot as an invitation to the fight, so he raised his crossbow and put a bolt in the shoulder of the archer. The bolt caused the archer to drop his bow, but he went for a little dagger on his hip to replace it.
The swordsman came rushing forward and swung his sword in a wide arc. The assassin casually batted the swordsman’s blow aside with an obsidian gauntlet that he wore on his left hand. The gauntlet deflected the sword’s blade away as if it were nothing more than a pesky fly. The swordsman stumbled back a step and the assassin’s concealed dagger flashed in the light as it came up from beneath his cloak and opened up the man’s throat. The swordsman fell to the ground, clutching his throat and spluttering as blood flowed from his wound and covered the ground. He died after a few seconds, choking on his own blood as the archer looked on in shock.
At that same instant, another black shape rounded the corner, sprinting up the corridor in a blur, passing by the first assassin and heading straight for the remaining soldier. The archer shook his head to clear the image of his dead comrade on the ground and rushed with a vicious roar towards the second assassin with his dagger out before him. He raised the dagger upwards as the assassin barrelled towards him and him towards it. As the assassin drew within cutting distance, the man unexpectedly dropped onto his knees and used his momentum to sail cleanly under and past the archer and his blade.
Stunned, the archer whirled around in befuddlement and tried to find the assassin, who was at this point already on his feet and at the oak door. The first assassin had also closed the gap at the same time as all of this was occurring, and he reached out to grab the archer. The archer reacted instantly, out of fear and instinct, spinning around and swiping madly with his dagger. The first assassin brought his gauntlet up to block the blade, but as it rebounded off the archer let it go and then caught it again deftly in his off-hand.
He brought the dagger upwards in a long slash and the assassin was caught by surprise. The little dagger opened up his barely outstretched hand, splattering the floor with thick globules of his blood. The archer used this to his advantage and thrust viciously downwards, cutting the assassin’s face open across his cheek, the dagger cutting deep into the assassin’s flesh from left ear to chin. The assassin wretched away with an inhuman shriek of pain, and, as he backed away from the archer, managed to throw his own dagger from under his cloak, hiding the sneak attack expertly in the distraction of his unnecessary movement. The dagger sunk into the archer’s leg, causing him to momentarily drop to one knee in pain.
The assassin regained his footing in a flash and ran forward. He grabbed the archer’s weapon-hand as the man raised it to defend himself. He then twisted his body into the other man so that his back was against him, and in the same motion raised the man’s arm, dropped down to one knee, and brought his hapless victim’s arm down sharply onto his shoulder. There was the sickening crunch of the archer’s arm breaking and the man dropped his weapon with a cry of pain and fear as he dropped down to his knees. The assassin grabbed the dagger off the ground and, without turning around, sunk it right into the archer’s stomach just as the man tried to stand back up. He then wrenched the blade sideways, opening the man’s abdomen wide. Blood flowed freely from his wound, painting the marble floors of the hallway. The archer tried to push his attacker off, but he was already becoming too weak and slow from his wounds. The assassin simply wrenched the blade out, turned around, and then kicked the archer savagely in the chest to cut any further attacks short. The archer crumpled onto the ground in a heavy pile.
He cried out in pain as he tried to keep his innards from spilling out of the wound across his stomach. ‘Please, just kill me now! Don’t let me die like this! Give me an honourable death, one warrior to another.’
‘I think not,’ said the assassin in a voice like drying paint. He stepped over the archer casually.
Ignoring the man’s pleas for mercy, he walked up to the chamber doors and stopped in front of it. The archer screamed for help and tried feebly to crawl across the floor, but he too eventually fell silent. In the meantime, the assassin touched his cheek and was amazed by how much blood was there. The wound hurt and he could tell it was a deep one. There would be another scar for sure.
He ripped a piece of his cloak off, bunched it up in a loose ball, and held it tightly to his face in an effort to stem the bleeding until he could get a medic’s help. It was neither elegant nor pretty, but it would do until he could get it properly stitched up.
*
The second assassin had entered the bedchambers while the fight was still ongoing in the hallway. He pushed the gilded door open silently, pulling out his dagger as he crept into the room. He moved like a ghost in the shadows, keeping well away from the curtained bed that stood in the centre of the room. As he moved further along the wall, he noticed someone lying still in the bed, asleep despite the commotion. He glanced at the bedside table and saw a medicine bowl with crushed green herbs lying in a small pool of unidentifiable liquid. The queen must have drugged herself into slumber. He sighed soundlessly. This would be too easy. He moved towards the bed making little less noise than a cat and positioned himself beside the queen.
The king had had an unfortunate bit of luck with his first wife, the mother of his eldest son, the prince. She had been kidnapped by the crown prince of Bustavia to be ransomed back for land, but the king was not known for his mercy – nor his negotiation skills - and he had personally hunted the prince down like a fox. The hunt had lasted months and culminated in a final bloody conflict outside the prince’s keep in Bustavia which had ended with an unnamed Bustavian soldier killing the queen and the king slaying the prince in retaliation. Despite his anger and grief, the king of Bustavia had offered King Mizzaro the hand of the young princess, his daughter, in order to quell the situation and prevent a war.
She was a beauty like no other, famed the world over and lusted after by every young, hot-blooded prince as well as every lecherous king. She was petite and frail, a quality that betrayed her lineage. The Bustavian royal family famously held the Aurelian bloodline and were said to be the last descendants of an ancient people that had long since been wiped from existence. The bloodline carried with it peculiar genetic traits, such as silver hair and purple eyes, as well as delicate features. For this, the Aurelians had been mythologized to be descendants of the moon. The Bustavian royal family carried these traits, but none so fully as this queen. Her luscious silver hair fell around her gently breathing form in tender tresses, and, even in the dim light of the king’s bed-chamber, she possessed this strange radiance about her, a certain glow to her visage. It was as if she were not merely human, but rather some strange, ethereal creature straight out of a children’s fairy tale. Her sheer white nightdress, which clung to her form with a heavy sweat that was probably the result of the medication, left little to the imagination as the assassin examined her thin form and delicate features in reverent silence. It almost seemed a shame to him to have to kill something so beautiful.
‘I’m sorry milady,’ he whispered as he brushed a streak of her white hair from her face. He could have easily slit her throat and leave her be, but nobody deserved to die choking on their own blood while they slept. He put the knife back into his belt and looked around the room for a kinder weapon. He eventually took up one of the many pillows that surrounded the woman. He fluffed it up gently and covered the woman’s face with it. She was all too peaceful in her drug-induced stupor, not even waking up as she died with barely a whisper. The assassin held the pillow in place for a good while, even after her body had gone unnaturally limp and her breast had seized its rhythm. He took the pillow off her face and placed it back in its original position. He took a second to stare at her peaceful form and closed eyes. To anybody who investigated the queen’s untimely death later, it would seem like the woman had died uneventfully in her sleep, perhaps from an overdose of medication.
The assassin’s job was not yet finished, however. He turned with a sigh to the gilded crib that lay in a corner of the bedchamber. The child inside was no more than a year old. It had been born while Ciaran had been travelling the world as a diplomatic envoy so the news of the king’s new child had shocked him deeply when he had arrived back home. Ciaran had wanted it gone immediately, and had escalated the timeline of his coup because of its existence.
As the assassin approached the crib, he was shocked to see that the babe was wide awake. It had not cried or made a single noise in all this time, and even as the assassin drew nearer, it did nothing but stare up at him. The baby had its mother’s otherworldly eyes and the assassin could not help but feel that it knew what was transpiring. There was something about that gaze. An intelligence that it should not yet possess. A soul that was older than the body that contained it. The assassin met its gaze and could not look away. He and the child stared at each other for a long while before he became aware of someone standing behind him.
He turned to see his colleague, still clutching the bloody rag to his face.
‘Well?’ the man asked mirthlessly.
‘The queen is gone. She was already in a drug-induced stupor. I simply granted her a deeper sleep,’ he replied. He turned back to the baby in its crib. It still had not made a sound. His hand reached for his dagger on his belt but he did not yet draw it.
‘And the child?’
‘Still asleep,’ he lied.
‘End it and let us be gone from this place. The prince should be finished in the throne room by now as well, but he may still need us.’
‘Yes…’ But the Queen-slayer hesitated.
The wounded assassin had already turned away to leave the chambers.
‘Lance?’
The wounded assassin stopped at the sound of his name. He turned back to his colleague, whose back was still towards him. ‘What is it?’
‘I am sorry, but I cannot kill this defenceless babe.’
In the whirlwind of his black cloak, the Queen-slayer spun around before Lance could even register what the man had just said, throwing his dagger with unnerving accuracy straight into the unarmoured part of Lance’s abdomen. The blade pierced the other man just below the obsidian chest plate and the man’s ribcage, sinking all the way to the hilt. Lance drew a painful, laboured breath of surprise and in that same breath, his colleague had already made it across the room to the large bay windows of the bedroom, carrying the now screaming royal baby under his arm.
Lance spat out a curse of blood and vehemence as his colleague leapt straight into the window at full sprint and broke through it in a shower of purple glass. Lance ran as fast as he could towards the window and collapsed into the window seat, looking over the edge of the sill. He saw nothing but the shards of glass on the lawn below and heard nothing but the sounds of battle.
‘CARMEL!’ was all that he managed to scream into the wind before his curse was whisked away over the burning city and mingled with the screams of the dying.