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Ralnor
Dar Eherdir O' Lome
Fae O' Elum
The Assassins moon
-Sometimes, even a blunted one, will suffice-
Part III-A
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The sun was setting behind the red pyramid. A bright halo adorning its top and the palace the Winfields had built. Rida quieted down again, its streets emptying, some cleared from the rumble, others still blocked. Torches were lit, even lights to some of the more spared neighborhoods, but darkness reigned.
Oras Eye appeared on the sky, half-hidden. Nesande’s Moon looming large behind it, less than a quarter of it visible. Ralnor saw Mezera running stooped near the street leading to the palace gates, crossbow in hand. She reached the last building and climbed the half-destroyed north side getting inside. The boy standing next to him, munching on something, a serious look on his face.
“Don’t engage,” Ralnor advised him. “I want you staying on that roof, Toutatis.”
“What if someone comes near?” He asked, a man hidden inside a boy’s body.
“You let him through.”
“How do I warn you?”
“I gave you a nail,” Ralnor told him. “Hurl it down the street. Can you do that?”
Tot nodded, his hand on that small blade.
Ralnor watched him crossing the street for a moment, then walked to where Mezera was lurking. Checked to see, if she was easy to spot from the street and then retreated towards the Gates, the Cofols stationed there washing their faces from a water barrel and talking animatedly. Something about slaves and opportunities for a big coin day back home. Games and an easier life, forgetting that in order to win the war, they needed to cross the sea and fight the Issirs on Jelin. Kill the king, Ralnor advised them silently, or this will never end.
The Arachne at the center of the web, he thought closing his eyes.
The faceless silver mask appeared out of the dark, pale indigo iris’ dispassionate, returning his stare. Ralnor forced the image away and opened his eyes again, turned them towards the top of the pyramid, now lost in the dark. Nothing but a vague, but austere shape, the whole construct an ominous massive shadow over the repaired palace walls.
He stepped away from the men guarding the gates, danced into a shadow, up a broken wall, the old admiralty building half of what it used to be, climbed three stories high, swung from a beam protruding above the tiled part of the street and landed on the last floor. The rat heard the soft sound and turned intrigued, saw nothing and returned to feasting on the cat’s carcass.
The night predator dead from a small wound at the back of its neck. A very thin blade, or a long nail. An iron bolt even. He didn’t have time to decipher it. The rat turned its head again and froze, terror oozing out of its small body in waves, seeing Dar Eherdir looming over it, ashen eyes glowing in the dark. The assassin brought his index finger to his lips, smirked and then turned to walk away.
He climbed the internal corner facing the gates from the main street, where the walls met and the roof had collapsed. Reaching the top, lowered on a knee, burned some of Aelrindel’s incense and whispered in the old tongue.
Ann El’Hen…
Casting the Long Eye, the second main spell everyone learned to master the greater Gift of Sight. The balcony of the pyramid came to view immediately, the sorceress dressed in a long silk -fully covered in intricate silver details- blue dress, standing straight behind the marble rails, rich cobalt hair dancing in the soft night breeze.
> “What ugly thing lives in the dark?” A very young Aelrindel asked her mother, as if she was talking about him. The garden full of shadows, each ancient tree creating more of them. Every turn, a hiding spot.
>
> “Those that fear the light,” Edlenn had replied that warmth in her voice more prominent and touched her small upturned nose with a long finger.
>
> “Fiends!” She giggled, looking about to locate one. “Ogres! Hobgoblins!”
>
> “Now, now youngling,” Edlenn said, with a smile of her own and kneeled next to her. “There’s no such thing. Not since I was a little girl.”
>
> “They still live in the forest,” Aelrindel whispered conspiratorially, looking about them with glowing eyes. “Monsters.”
>
> “How do we make them go away?” The old sorceress asked.
>
> “We make light?”
>
> “What’s the easiest way to make something?” Edlenn asked patiently.
>
> “Transfer it. Open a road,” The little girl replied. “Through our bodies.”
>
> “How do we make ‘dead matter’ listen?”
>
> “We use words.”
>
> Edlenn nodded pleased. “The closest one’s state is to what we want created, the easier for the medium to make the transfer. The bigger the chance of success. The furthest, the harder it is. What does a sorceress fear the most, youngling?”
>
> “Turning into a monster,” Aelrindel had replied. “In the attempt.”
>
> Or angering the Gods, Ralnor thought.
Lights appeared at the top of the pyramid. Small, but many in number, always increasing. Torches and fire pits, oil lamps and every candle the servants had found during the day. Almost a thousand of little spots of light, coming out of openings, windows, and behind the witch standing on the balcony, overlooking the dark and gutted city of Rida. The palace shown, in a vulgar display, unharmed. The white marble shinning on top of the red iron-rich basalt of the pyramid.
The breeze turned into a wind, when Aelrindel -looking tiny compared to the massive building- opened her hands and closed her eyes. The wind soared through the empty streets, rapped at Dar Eherdir’s back, the guards watching from the gates, moving unsure on what was happening, but suddenly and as soon as it had appeared, the wind died.
The many lights on the top of the pyramid, flickered once and then went out, all at once. A small ball of pure white light, the size of a melon, jumped out of the Duke’s balcony and traveled towards the night sky. It rose slowly, without hurrying. Increasing in size the higher it went, shining brighter. The ball of light grew, the radiance astonishing to gawk at, as it ascended intent on reaching its kin, waiting on the dark heavens above.
It never did.
But such was its size and luminance at its highest point, both moons were eclipsed completely, for those precious few minutes. The phenomenon hotly disputed till this day. The people that had witnessed it going to their graves insisting that for a moment, the sun came out over the mourning Rida, in the middle of a hot summer evening.
And turned the night into day.
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Dar Eherdir kept an eye on the guards guffawing, or praying at the gates. Some even crying. It had taken him a moment, to get his sight back, as Aelrindel had overdone it, surprising even him. By the time he did, the guards distracted him enough to miss the figure that had appeared in the middle of the main street leading to the harbor. A hundred meters from the gates, the figure stood frozen staring at the now completely dark outline of the pyramid.
Dar Eherdir grunted in annoyance and made to move, but stopped as another figure came to stand next to the first. This one shorter, but dressed the same. A long black cloak covering their bodies. Behind them, three more lithe figures appeared. Similarly dressed, their dark cloaks shorter, their light leather armour matching, made into a shop, in a tiny place called Rosebush, by a girl that seemed determined to make him wish, she never got that promotion. Then again, even assassins die of old age, if they are human.
Some never make it that far.
Others like the ancient Dar Minue Mol, the First Servant of the Circle, went to the darn extreme, as if trying to one-up their old master.
“Thou art there, timeworn shadow?” Mol asked in archaic Imperial, his voice ringing down the empty street. A guard turned his head, but didn’t see anything alarming, so he spun around and went to check on what was happening at the gates. “Was that her?”
Dar Eherdir reached for his metallic crossbow, but stopped thinking it through. He needed to cut into the distance some, or draw them in. Mezera’s spot was at the smaller parallel street behind him and to the southeast.
“I could see her, thou know,” Mol continued. “Edlenn’s spawn was never very far, wasn’t she?”
Dar Eherdir cursed, jaw clenched and glanced back to the northwest, where Tot was loitering. Would they relocate? How much time was needed? The guards at the gates, eight per shift were heard murmuring, still not concerned with the assassins.
“Thou were familiar with her whereabouts, since the beginning,” Mol noted, his accent unheard by Dar Eherdir for many decades, but devoid of passion.
The members of the Guild started moving towards the dark sides of the street, still avoiding the illuminated by torches and the braziers’ part of the palace’s gates. Dar Eherdir hooked the crossbow under his left armpit again, where his armor’s harness had a spot for it and grimaced in frustration.
“I knew thou remained fixated on her,” Mol said. Dar Minue was going to say, whatever it was he wanted out of his chest, Dar Eherdir thought. “Old Nym knew it as well, is why he picked thee,” Mol shook his head, face hidden under the black hood. “Ah, this test thou failed. Once a street urchin gets a piece of bread tossed his way, it’ll follow thee around alike a dog. The bond nigh impossible to break.”
There was a large group coming from the pyramid, behind the walls, judging from the torches and the animated guards. Dar Eherdir had lost that last detail, as he jumped from the roof and landed in the middle of the street, with a slight bend of the knees, followed by a roll.
“There he is then,” Mol said still almost twenty meters away, face hidden under the black hood. Laebae started moving slowly to Ralnor’s left, distancing herself. Dar Eherdir stopped her, with a veiled warning.
“Greetings Yl. Sorry to mess up your ambush.”
“Ralnor,” she replied with a nod of her head. Her Imperial much more refined, than he remembered them. “Apologies for the bolt. Missed the heart.”
“It was a difficult shot,” Dar Eherdir yielded, in a courteous manner. “No shame in that.”
The other three assassins had plastered themselves on the buildings, not expecting his entrance. One of them had a crossbow in his hands, but kept it aimed at the street. Mol answering him the reason for it, with his next words.
Ralnor was more concerned about the Imperial Assassins anyway. It wasn’t a slight to the Guild he’d founded more than two centuries into the past. This was a matter of experience.
And the fact they had received the same brutal training, as he had.
“This is thy chance,” the First Servant had said, in his antiquated Imperial accent. “Stand aside, or finish the mission. Cut the cord Dar Eherdir.”
“Where is Dar Fenog? What became of Dar Draug? The Realm has changed, Mol. ”
“You shan't move me. Oras isn’t concerned with the minutiae of people.”
Oras isn’t the one giving orders.
“She fulfilled her part of the bargain,” Ralnor countered. “This is a dead Queen’s spite, for a war she lost.”
“Ah, that’s a lie,” Mol replied, lip-less mouth holding that permanent snarling smile on. “Thine Queen was betrayed Dar Eherdir.”
“Stories and words, put in songs by bards, who never witnessed anything and hid what they didn’t like.”
“No bards sing this song,” Mol said. “Her evil blinds thee still, or thou are too far gone, and thou stand now devoid of salvation.”
“How is this helping our people? Whatever is left? Everyone is important,” Dar Eherdir reminded him with a sigh and saw Dar Laebae, had her throwing knives out.
Persistent Imperial cunt.
“Edlenn’s drivel,” Mol spat. “She never was for the people, nor were thee. Our people still perish in Wetull, where thou have never returned. Same as she never did. There she is now, high on her tower, illuminating a city she destroyed. Am I to applaud, the witch’s spawn?”
“You’re wrong about Edlenn and you’re too harsh on Aelrindel. These are our enemies, Mol!”
The First Servant stood back, with a snort.
“These are her enemies, Dar Eherdir,” he hissed. “The Empire is gone and she had a hand in it that’s all I need to know. Her line needs to be rooted out,” Mol sighed, glanced at the illuminated gates and added a hint of remembrance in his tone. “I ate her heart in the end. Varg wanted to eat the brains, but not much was left. It was an indiscretion, Nym allowed. Ah, a sorceress’ flesh palates a tad spicy,” Dar Eherdir flinched and pulled back, his stare hardening.
“I won’t let you reach the palace,” he said simply and Dar Minue Mol countered, with a measured shrug.
“Didn’t expect thou would. But I don’t need to reach the palace. I can perceive her standing over yonder, by the bloody gates,” and that gnarly grimace, was unambiguously a smirk this time.
Don’t look.
Trust her not to fuck it up.
It’s a mummer’s trick!
Dar Eherdir glanced back, almost a hundred meters where the gates stood, saw Aelrindel still in that blue dress standing gracefully amidst the guards and cursed. He’d rolled to his right in the meantime, Dar Laebae’s throwing knife buzzing a foot from his head.
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Mol disappeared in a black cloud, Laebae did the same jumping in an alley, after sending another knife his way. The street flooded with the scent of burning incense. Dah Eherdir landed on a knee, used his right hand as lever to tumble towards the opening of the building, he’d jumped down from.
He somersaulted inside, landed in a cloud of dust and pulled the short grip-less knife out of his left shoulder, the wound smarting. The assassin run to the cracked wall next, found a brick half-out and stepped on it. A breath and he reached the first floor, pulled himself up, someone entering the building underneath him.
Dar Eherdir went towards the open window, went through and out the dark side alley again, landed next to a Silent Servant that had circled the building to cut him off, while his… her friend, rushed him from the front. The black-clad woman snapped back with a gasp, shortsword in hand lashing at him. He pushed it away, his palm on the flat of the blade and danced under her left arm already reaching for a short axe, she had on her back.
She hissed and then cried in shock, when he pushed a long nail through her left ear. Dar Eherdir held her from behind, right hand under her armpit, as her body locked up and then relaxed, warm blood soaking his sleeve.
“You are relieved, of your service,” he whispered, bringing her body to the wall. He left her head rest softly on it.
Then he was on the move again. A dash and he crossed the alley, another to cover the distance to the main street, now empty. He burned through seeds, to jump into a dancing shadow right at the corner, picking a spot across the larger street, to come out from.
A bolt struck the cracked wall above his head, when he did. It went in half its length, back-end angling up. A misdirection. Dar Eherdir jumped backwards, put a hand down, tumbled feet over head and rolled again the moment his feet touched the tiled surface. The blade whistled over him, the sound muffled when it caught his flapping cloak.
He twisted again lower part of torso and legs rising, left shoulder used as lever, the wound bothering him and bleeding. Swung a leg around caught the Silent Servant that had jumped him coming out of the alley, on the side of his head and snapped it back. The man cursed, half of it surprise Ralnor had spotted him, despite Ralnor’s attention drawn to dodge his friend’s bolt and half of it fear, for no one ever wanted to fight him in the open.
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Better to ambush Eherdir o’ Lome from afar, or absent that allow him to mercy kill you, the stories said. You don’t want him committed. The Master of Shades was unforgiving to those foolish enough to attempt it.
Nym had given him the secret name, even before Ralnor had entered the Circle, the youngest to ever attempt it and live. His ruthless colleagues used it to address him, while killers thrice his age respected his impressive list of skills and mounting number of victims. A hundred years later, everyone inside the Empire’s borders had given him another. Folk, Gish and Zilan christened what couldn’t be named, but was spilling out of the shadows.
Fae o’ Elum.
Spirit of the Twilight.
Life’s last light.
This name stuck, as it didn’t fade from memory, like his Servant name.
That is until the Empire was no more.
And then it faded away too.
Part III-B
The man’s back hit the tiles hard, just as Dar Eherdir was standing up. He stooped forward next and into the alley, left hand grabbing the Silent Servant by the elbow and dragging him violently after his shadow. Ralnor stepped in it and the Issir male, swung his curved sword at the darkness, finding empty air. He cursed and made to jump out and into the street again, but Dar Eherdir came out of another shade, this one right across from him, where a wall had created a pile of debris, a grown man’s height.
The assassin slashed at him diagonally, Ralnor blocked it with his steel Peleg, send the blade to bounce off the wall behind him and stabbed the knife Laebae had given him into his left knee. The Issir cursed in pain, tried to gut him with an iron hook, the shaft on it the length of half a spear. A bad weapon for a narrow alley. Dar Eherdir stepped back, glanced sideways to the main street, caught the Silent Servant with the crossbow crossing it in the open and sighed a little disappointed.
“Your pupil?” He probed, his tone judgmental. “You’re doing a poor job. Missing my leg going low…” Ralnor clicked his tongue, retreating towards the other end of the alley. The Issir tried to dislodge the blade from his knee, but failed with a groan, the blade slippery with his blood. “Forget the knee. Don’t let her come into the alley.”
“How… do you know, it’s a she?” The assassin hissed and reached for his satchel.
“I know my Guild,” Dar Eherdir replied. “You seem the type.”
He reached and got a long thin dagger out with his left hand. The assassin watching with ogling eyes, while slowly stumbling backwards towards the mouth of the alley, the light coming from it stronger.
“Where’s Faerith K’lael?” Ralnor asked taking a step forward, the female assassin stopping at the entrance of the alley crossbow raised, but hesitating as her master was standing in front of him, blocking her line of sight. Move aside fool, Ralnor thought, but the assassin opted to answer him instead too rattled to think clearly.
Hoping for salvation.
“Order came from Barlow,” the man answered, with a grimace. “The Imperials agreed to help. We thought we got lucky.”
In the old days…
Edlenn had sang to him when he was little. Her voice hauntingly beautiful, each word a refined hymn. Clear, but also chilling, like the shiver that run down his spine.
Creatures came out of the sea.
Looked like people, but such people no one had ever seen.
Robart Barlow had died in the winter of eighty two, more than seven years ago. The position left open, an oversight as he was trying to raise someone new to take the aging Fading Light’s place at the time.
Aelrindel’s chaotic plans had distracted him enough for a patient veiled adversary to act.
Moving another pawn into position.
Another Arachne sitting in the middle of a much bigger web.
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The Issir decided this was his chance and stooped right and to the side towards the alley’s wall. Dar Eherdir mirrored his dodge, as moving aside was a pretty poor advise, hurling his Peleg to the feverishly aiming female Servant. She had her mind so focused not to miss her partner’s move, looking for that elusive opening to nail him, the rotating axe-like weapon appeared in front of her face, like a mirage.
She baulked her head away at the last moment, her bolt flying towards the sky, the reaction very decent given the absence of prior warning. Since there was no mirage involved, or other magic shenanigans, the steel weapon lodged at her clavicle to the lung, a devastating blow that split and shattered the bone, paralyzed her right arm and send her sprawling on her back. Her pale Northern face painted red under the hood.
Dar Eherdir saw none of that, as he was moving with the male assassin, who heard the thud, flinched in panic and swung with that ridiculous weapon of his at the approaching Ralnor. Dar Eherdir made to block, remembered he’d threw the Peleg away and put a hand on the long shaft to stop it, the sharpened hook tearing the leather at his sides, drawing blood.
An almost lethal fuckup.
The man growled like a pig getting slaughtered, when he kicked that knee sporting the blade out, breaking it anew. He doubled over, that nasty hook weapon of his interfering with Ralnor’s killing blow. Dar Eherdir jumped away, breathed once deep, his right side bleeding as well and allowed his opponent to gather himself. The assassin stumbled on a ruined knee, the lower part of it holding on by muscle and skin and went down, planting his long shafted weapon on the paved-stones to stabilize himself.
Ralnor moved again the moment he did, a custom scimitar in hand and removed the hook problem once and for all. He sidestepped, to avoid the torrent of blood from the severed arm that hit the cobblestone and then kneed the Issir in the mouth, sending him on his back as well.
“Dammit!” He cursed next and stooping he dislodged a couple of teeth from his own knee, -hard nails digging in the bloody flesh- darn things going right through his leather pants and hurt like a slinger’s shot. Grinding his teeth, he made one step and punched his thin blade into the thrashing and screaming Issir’s pale green eye to the hilt.
I shouldn’t had gotten the weapon out so early, he admonished himself. Fighting with one hand, like an idiot. His face contorting more from fury, than pain, as he walked tenderly towards the withering away female. Her blue Northern eyes watching him with pure terror, as he kneeled grimacing over her, his hideous teeth clenched tight.
“What did he call you?” Dar Eherdir asked calmly.
You should have stayed away.
“Q’Oluil,” she gasped, tears rolling down her bloody face.
Dreamer in the old tongue.
“Ah. I like it. You dream of snow now, child,” he whispered soothingly and slashed her neck open, with his blade. The blood flowing freely, the light in her eyes fading, pupils filled with horror instead of snowed slopes and the alley turned silent again.
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“Are you going to fight me, Mol?” Dar Eherdir asked, stepping into the main street again. There was some light there, coming from the open ground before the palace gates, a hundred meters away, the small crowd of guards posted in front of them listening to the Elderborn engrossed, giving her version of the earlier phenomenon, but not much. Shadows coming from the destroyed buildings, the still standing walls and floors and their dark interior, adding to the encroaching night. The two moons not full on the sky, their peak coming at the end of the month, during the festival.
“Thou have a pupil lying in wait,” Mol’s voice rang and Dar Eherdir turned his head the other way, stepping nimbly to the side, his knee bothering him. His eyes searched the building where Mezera lurked, spotted the young woman at the base of a half collapsed wall, two stories high and exhaled, moving again to the side. Metal struck the street behind him and Ralnor flinched that way, run zig zagging towards another tall building, one side of it gone and the pile of rumble as big as a house.
The last and at the corner of the big road leading to the East Gates, part of it Reeves had used to escape. Toutatis waited there. Ralnor rushed the distance, reached the mound of debris, glanced behind him at the empty main street, and caught sight of Mol coming out of a dark corner crossbow in hands, very close to where he’d started. The First Servant raised his weapon and aimed, just as Dar Laebae, who probably got spooked by Toutatis distraction took her shot.
Several things happened almost at the same second.
Half way into that second, Dar Eherdir jumped into the dark shade pooling at the base of the building, right where the broken material had spilt out, burning through the witch’s incense. The whole corner of the building and its walls were missing. The first floor ceiling had completely collapsed internally, after the heavy fire ate at the wooden supports, the debris mound peak where it should have started. Above it, the second had more than half perilously daggling overhead, in two narrow parts still attached on the walls, like giant shelves. The interior black like Oras heart.
Dar Laebae’s bolt struck the paved street missing and being already on the move, she jumped from her spot on the north part of the top ceiling, eyes gleaming in the dark an exquisite emerald, flew four meters in half a second, across the large opening and landed on the opposing part another bolt slotted. She turned a second and some change in, aiming low and for the peak of the pile where Dar Eherdir would emerge, the shadows there dancing in the pale moonlight.
And that second was over.
No, you fool! Ralnor cursed as he burst out of his shadow, seeing Toutatis -not even four feet in height- detach himself from the darkest part of the adjoining wall, just as Dar Laebae a small smirk on her aged mouth lined up her kill shot. The boy took a determined step forward and stabbed with the dagger Ralnor had given him Dar Laebae’s left thigh. The assassin saw Dar Eherdir’s attention was not on her crossbow, smug smirk turning into a snarl and fired her shot blind and with one hand.
Body, head and left hand, reacting to the unseen threat instinctively.
Toutatis blade found flesh, cutting through thin black-whale leather pants, but the Zilan assassin pulled the leg away the wound superficial. Dar Laebae’s eyes grew, seeing her own sharp short blade cutting through air, her sneaky opponent barely above her waist. Toutatis pulled his hand back and stepped to the side, looking for a better angle and Yl’s returning steel knife missed most of his face. She got him above the left brow instead, imperial steel going through soft flesh like butter and despite him wincing away desperately, sliced his left eye in half spilling it out and shattered his zygomatic bone, peeling away most of his left cheek to the mouth.
Toutatis went down, the shock almost killing him on the spot, his face an unrecognizable grotesque mess. Laebae turned around sensing Ralnor step on the half-collapsed ceiling, dropping her crossbow in the process, right hand snapping to her satchel and the left hurling the bloody blade at him from point blank range. She expected a dodge to earn enough time to burn her way out of trouble, but Dar Eherdir took the blade in the chest, right through the lung, the knife exploding out of his back, the power behind the hurl monstrous.
He got her with the Peleg at the right forearm almost chopping it away outright. Yl screamed like a wraith blood gushing out, blocked his shortsword with a knee to the wrist almost breaking it, his fingers losing the grip and the weapon clanging down. Pulled back to avoid a chop on the face, gnarly teeth clenched and kicked him hard, right at his bleeding wound with the other leg. Dar Eherdir was hurled back and over the ledge and Yl reached with her left hand for her satchel again, the right spraying blood everywhere, daggling by skin and a bit of flesh.
Never assume your opponent will take care to land softy, instead of attacking you. Most times he will, but most times is not all times. Ralnor landed with his back on three large and crude pieces of cement, broken bricks and burned wood. All mixed up, half-melted and hard as stone.
Dar Laebae gurgled and stumbled back on shaky legs, the Peleg buried between her breasts. She spat blood and went down, coughed once, her hand reaching for the knives she favored on her leather shoulder-sheaths, but sighed deep instead and let it drop down lifeless.
Ralnor groaned, blood in his throat and pushed himself up. He reached, grabbed her left arm and pulled her down on the top of the pile, next to him. Turned her around, spat a fat blob of phlegm on her serene face and retrieved his throwing axe.
“Fucking Imperial cunt,” he hissed and groaning walked out of the destroyed building to find Mol.
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Dar Minue Mol spotted him first.
“Is Yl gone?” The First Servant asked, standing near a dark corner. A narrow alley meeting the main street there. A spatter of blood on his narrow face, lip-less mouth in a permanent snarl, or smile. No one was ever certain with him, Ralnor thought. “She never much liked thee. I reckon, the girl was right.”
“Never much liked her too,” Ralnor rustled, licking blood off his lips. They were about ten meters apart, but Mol had seen him first and allowed him to approach, himself keeping an alley full of shadows near, to make an escape. He would have expected him to use his crossbow, as he was a legendary marksman, when unseen, but he’d a small wound on his left shoulder, not bleeding. Mol had taken a potion, but it was slow to mend, the wound deep.
A bolt shot.
Ah, Mezera, Ralnor thought and glanced two houses behind the Imperial Assassin, where it was her spot. Mol caught his stare, probably grinned, but as previously mentioned, it was a difficult thing to discern. He was also standing between Dar Eherdir and the gates now. Aelrindel is taking her bloody time, he thought.
“She’s over yonder,” Mol hissed. “Near the door. Perhaps she lives still.”
Ralnor grimaced, but didn’t take the bait, his lung flooded with blood, more running down his back. He had to make this quick. Reaching back with his right hand Ralnor unsheathed his sword, the Imperial steel blade gleaming in the light coming from the gates and at last he saw Aelrindel appear.
Appear used loosely here.
At first he thought it a trick of the fading light and the colors, the white-painted cracked wall across from them, on the side of the main street breathing. Its surface reacting gently to the soft breeze coming from Yeriden. The blackened part of it turning into a more distinct shape slowly, the sorceress telling him it was time.
Lithoniela’s chuckle reached them from the palace’s gates next, Mol hearing it grimacing and reaching for his sword.
“This selfish creature thou serve,” the First Servant told him, the other hand in his satchel, as he retreated towards the dark and full of rich shadows alley. “She waits for thee to finish the job, or die Dar Eherdir. Still her dog thou are. But I will reach her, twenty humans, or a hundred, it matters naught. I shall finish what thou couldn’t.”
“Why not fight here?” Ralnor rustled, seeing him enter the alley.
“Thou have no more seeds to burn,” Mol explained patiently. “Since thou are crafty, I shall give myself the upper hand. This road isn’t dark enough for my likes. Thou might guess right.”
Ralnor sighed, gulped down a mouthful of blood and then chugged down a potion, the liquid burning down his throat and turning to acid in his stomach.
Mol’s laughter ringing down the street. “See, thou are crafty.”
You have no idea, Dar Eherdir thought and went after him.
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Mol came out of a shadow the moment he stepped in, slashed at him from the right and jumped into another right after. Ralnor blocked it, but didn’t attempt a return, rolling down the dark narrow corridor instead. He stopped next to a broken cart, the huge part of the wall that had destroyed it, half-barring the alley ten meters in.
The Imperial Assassin jumped out of another shadow, the blade hissing and slashed him across the chest, Ralnor jerking away, but losing part of his harness in the process. He didn’t move this time, the alley smelling of burning incense, no one better stocked than the First Servant.
Mol attacked again appearing behind him, but Dar Eherdir snapped his torso right hard, slapped the flat of the blade away, getting cut from wrist to elbow on the return. Ralnor sidestepped, sweat on his forehead, bleeding anew, his heart beating wild and parried the next attack to the side, sparks appearing like fireflies inside the dark alley, the only illumination coming from the main street.
But it was a meager light this, the gates too far away to provide anything more.
Then even that went away.
The moonlight didn’t reach this part of Rida, the corridor too narrow, debris and buildings still standing, blocking whatever light was there. The duel turned into an almost blind fight, sound and instinct the more important factor, until they both got used to it and the dark became a dull grey hue.
Mol dodged a slash to the face, made to jump into a shadow, realized Ralnor was slowing down, having been fighting for much longer than him and sidestepped to attack again. He feinted a left high cut, kicked a broken piece of cart, part of the wheel still attached to it and tripped Ralnor up.
He went down on a knee, Mol rushing him in half a second. The Imperial Assassin parried his blade away, kicked him in the chest, reopening the wound there and send him sprawling down.
“Tsk-tsk, see there?” Mol reproached him. “Thou slowed down, old shadow.”
Ralnor wiped his mouth and got up slowly.
“You never learned the Greater Gift of Stealth.”
Mol frowned, lip-less mouth crooking one way, jaw the other. A coupled of meters above their heads, a large perfect sphere of light appeared. Not as big as the one that had illuminated the whole of Rida earlier, but big enough to brighten up the small alley and hurt their eyes. The Imperial Assassin burned through his incense seeds with wild abandon, jerking back and away from him, but there was no shade left in the alley.
No dark to transfer through.
To make something, out of nothing, you need a sacrifice.
Dar Eherdir grunted, too hurt, tired and perhaps old, to take these kind of risks, but as Nym always said, you never let an opponent retreat and heal up, if there’s an option to finish him off.
“EZ NIGREIN,” Ralnor said in the old tongue, almost half his blood dissolving in his veins and his skin drying up. Mol snapped his head and stared at Ralnor with shocked dark-silver eyes.
“When did she…?” The Imperial Assassin tried to say, but Ralnor blinked out of existence and appeared right behind him. Mol tried to turn, or back away, failed to do both as he had a foot of blade through his sternum. The First Servant went down on his knees, the sword clattering away and the sphere of light above their heads, after blinking once, got snuffed away.
Ralnor turned the blade this way and that widening the wound, sawing through bones and internal organs and then grabbed an unresponsive, but still breathing Mol and shoved him against the wall of the now completely dark alley.
Mol spat blood mixed with saliva on his face with a snarl and Ralnor let it trickle down his cheek, his legs barely holding him upright.
“How?” The First servant hissed and Ralnor let him drop down, his back on the cracked wall. Ralnor kneeled next to him, his face more pale than Mol’s, as if he was the one dying.
“The first spell Aelrindel fully mastered,” Ralnor whispered talking slowly. He could sense the sorceress approaching the alley. “She had to. You see, she kept breaking her mother’s pets. Any pets really,” he cracked a smile at that. “So, in order to get away with it, the little girl learned to make things, to replace what she had broken. Little illusions that grew in time. Birds, a deer, a waterfall full of fish, a couple of cats that talked and people.”
Mol grunted, then coughed, blood on his exposed gnarly teeth.
“I felt her… an Elderborn. It was no illusion. Thou are lying.”
“How did she get down from the pyramid so soon? You’ve seen her up there as well,” Ralnor countered and Mol stood back, tried to push the blade out of his chest, but failed. He growled, started coughing hard and then glared at him for a moment. Then his face relaxed and nodded in understanding.
“Another?”
Ralnor returned his stare, all serious. “Another,” he had a thin long dagger in his hand now.
Mol started chuckling seeing his expression.
“One… month,” the Imperial Assassin rustled, a violent shudder running through him.
“For what?” Ralnor queried, stopping his coup de grace at the very last moment.
Dar Minue Mol run his bloody tongue over his teeth and snorted.
“For the bird… to reach Wetull.”
Reach Nym was meaning.
“So what? Nym knows I’m a problem. The old master is still going to come after her,” Dar Eherdir told him and Mol started gurgling again.
“Thou art a fool, Dar Eherdir,” he rustled, the words coming out with many pauses and increasing difficulty. “Dar Vranga… found an onyx Wyvern’s egg. He’ll make sure it survives, or die trying. It’ll hatch, it’ll grow… and thy plans… this Realm, the witch’s world… shall burn.”
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Aelrindel was waiting for him, when he came out, the sorceress cobalt hair blowing in the soft breeze. Her deific face flushed, the smile reaching her ears. The tight ranger’s pants and vest she wore, hugging her well-shaped form like a second skin.
The masqueraded witch struck a pose, a hand on her hip.
“They don’t have a clue. I just walked past them…” she gushed, but then saw he was injured and reached for a healing potion. Ralnor stopped her, raising a hand.
The left one. Darn thing was bleeding as well.
He was so tired, Ralnor feared he might collapse in the middle of the street at any time.
“Find the boy, do what you can to save him.”
“The boy?” Aelrindel gasped. “Are you serious?”
“Time is of the essence,” Ralnor grunted, at the end of his tether.
“Fine,” she yielded, rolling her eyes. “Hey, where are you going?”
Ralnor was already walking away from her and didn’t bother answering. He reached Mezera’s body less than a minute later. Next to the door, as Mol had told him. She’d probably rushed down to finish him off. It was an honest mistake. Got stabbed twice for it -Oras unforgiving in the bargain- kidneys, and lungs. Mol wanted her to live long enough to know no one will come to save her and suffer to her last breath.
Can we kill an Imperial assassin? She’d asked him sounding awed, when Ralnor had explained the plan to her. The girl who’d sold her father’s relic of a bow, to buy entry into the Servants Guild. Is that even possible?
Ah, sweet girl, Ralnor thought and closed her eyes slowly, clenching his jaw so hard, the skin cracked and bled.
You just helped me kill two of them.
And yes, everyone can fall to a well-sharpened blade.
Sometimes,
even a blunted one, will suffice.
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