MITCHELL – MARAGON’S TOWER, NEAR GARET, KLYDOR
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4TH CARLISHAE, EARLY SPRING 845 PBM
The dark shape of Maragon's Tower gradually came into view through the trees of the Kilrati Woods. As Mitchell rode into the small clearing that surrounded the tower he could not help but marvel at the wonder that had created it. The tower was made of solid greystone and in the dying light it appeared black as the coming night. In the twilight no features could be seen to break the bleak expense of stone that stretched 40 feet straight up.
‘That is no trick of the light. Even in broad daylight no windows or doors can be seen. Maragon makes it clear even to those who manage to find his tower; he does not wish visitors.’
The night air was getting cool. Mitchell pulled his cloak tight around him as he moved towards the tower wall. In smooth precise motions that came from years of practice he went through the magickal incantations and uttered the magical password. As the spell completed he moved towards the 'door', stepping through what appeared to be a stone wall, and passing unharmed into the bottom level of the tower.
The interiors were minimalist: a worn-out woolen rug lay at the foot of a stone staircase, accompanied by a simple wooden clothes rack. Mitchell slid his pack to the ground and removed his traveling cloak, placing it on the rack, before slowly winding his way up the stairway to the second level of the tower.
‘I am tired. Sore from riding all day back to town, and now from the walk from town back to the tower. My legs ache and long for bed. Perhaps I should heat myself a bath.’
Mitchell balanced the relaxing feel of the bath versus the effort both physically and magically to fill the bath and then heat the water.
‘I am too tired. Perhaps in the morning.’
Arriving at the top, a seemingly fragile wooden door awaited him. Mitchell knew, however, that this door was as secure as any fortress gate. Extracting a small key from his tunic, he unlocked the door, revealing a lavish hallway.
Rich red carpets adorned the floor, while gold-framed paintings graced the walls. A rug, markedly superior to its counterpart below, lay at the entrance. This rug's golden-yellow hue and sturdy texture were telltale signs of its origin: a metamandu. For a start its colour was a metallic, silvery colour, and if one actually touched it, there was a metallic feel to its fur too, giving it strength far greater than that of a bear or wolf.
The other obvious note was that it was well worn.
‘Metamandu. A rare creature, that looks like a slightly larger badger, but with a maw like a wolf. It’s primary diet is metal, and each metamandu’s hide is unique, taking on the hues of the metal it eats and becoming more metallic the older it gets. A powerful adversary when angered, particularly to knights or anyone else carrying a large amount of metal.’
‘This hide is likely worth a lot of money, but Maragon uses it as a simple entrance rug these days. Says it will always make me feel welcome and safe when I enter the tower. That gesture says a lot about the man, and his attempt to be my defacto father. Maragon has little care for money apart from what he needs to maintain the tower or fund the Saranti Seven.’
‘I have always loved that rug.’
It was just one of the interesting wares scattered throughout the tower from one of Maragon's many adventures. The hallway contained four doorways, each holding finely crafted solid timber doors, and at the opposite end was another cut stone stairway that continued the ascent upwards. Two of the doors stood open, revealing a lounge and a kitchen. The former was spotless, just as Mitchell left it. The latter, however, was in disarray, with food unpacked from the shelves and left all over the tables and benches, and cupboards left agape.
‘That is not how I left it. Maragon, what have you been up to?’
Seeking answers, he moved into the kitchen. Nearly the whole pantry had been unpacked and left on the table, with only the top two shelves left unscathed. Although not unusual for Maragon to virtually destroy the place in his absence, this was certainly not what Mitchell had anticipated. What he found almost as confusing was the way the lounge appeared to be untouched. Mitchell investigated both rooms.
‘I could swear to Faylen that nobody has used that lounge since I left. So Maragon returned while I was gone, ransacked the kitchen for supplies, then left again without even stopping to use the lounge at all. Given his favourite thing is an evening pipe of some exotic flavour while sitting in his lounge chair, this does not bode well.’
In an effort to get some answers to his rapidly growing list of questions, he moved to the closed door that led to Maragon's private quarters. He knocked loudly on the door and waited for the several seconds it usually took Maragon to answer - the old man was not prone to hurrying when he was involved in something - but after almost a minute he realised that his mentor was not being slow; he was not there.
He opened the door cautiously, a mix of anxiety and relief washing over him when he confirmed his earlier suspicion: Maragon wasn’t there. Barging in on his mentor during a critical phase of his work would have resulted in stern words and a range of unpleasant tasks to do as punishment.
The big solid bed that occupied most of the room was unmade and some of the blankets were scattered randomly around the floor. Dread bubbled within Mitchell, concerns for Maragon's wellbeing surfacing.
‘Could someone have breached the tower?’ The thought seemed ludicrous. Maragon exuded an aura of absolute control, and the tower always felt like an impregnable sanctuary.
‘But the look of the room could certainly be explained by a struggle, and the pantry could be from someone looking for something.’
Such a vulnerability was unsettling; Maragon's tower had always been a bastion of safety.
‘As much he tries to shield me from it, there is no denying Maragon has extremely powerful enemies. What if he is not powerful enough to always come out on top? Maybe he was caught unawares. A warrior/mage as formidable as Maragon is still vulnerable if caught unawares. Even if only very briefly.’
With fast, smooth strides he moved towards the stairway to the upper levels and bounded up them. The third level was the tier where all of Mitchell's training had gone on, and he knew the layout better than he knew his own bedroom. He opened the door with a crash and continued down the hallway. This level only had two doorways in the mid-point of each hallway wall, and another set of stairs to the top-level.
‘Library and research laboratory. Unlikely he is engrossed in a good book. An accident in the laboratory is possible. Let’s start there.’
The lab door stood ajar, and Mitchell braced himself for what lay inside. To his surprise, order reigned. The benches that dominated one side of the room were clear and organised, with all the potions and chemicals neatly stacked on their racks in various flasks and vials. The alchemy tools were all in their correct place, and were all clean and unused. Along the walls of the room were shelves that contained the tomes of knowledge that Maragon's research and experiments were based on.
Mitchell’s attention was drawn to the priceless books on the shelves here.
‘Some of those books are in languages that are very old. Older than Klydor. In some cases older than Micronia, and hence the invention of Micronian, the original human language that is still the dominant trade language amongst humans and those that trade with them.
These books, and many more like them in the library, were how Mitchell had learned the languages of magick; Elven, Archeron and even a little Moresh.
‘Some of these books are now illegible without the aid of magic, as the writing is so old that there are no practitioners alive to translate it.’
On the room's other side, remnants of a fire lay — ash, charred wood, and scattered splinters. Mitchell wasn't alarmed; Maragon's fiery experiments often ended with some furniture's demise.
‘The perils of being furniture in a house owned by a mage favouring fire and lightning magick I suppose.’
Still confused by all that had happened he moved quickly down the stairs and towards his own room. Without hesitation he flung the door open and strode in, afraid he might find complete chaos. The room was in perfect condition. The only object not as he had left it was the small piece of paper placed on his desk in the corner.
A note?!
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He quickly moved to the desk. When Mitchell got close enough to see Maragon's signature he felt an immediate sense of relief. He read the note intently.
‘I had to leave quickly. Please clean up the mess in the kitchen and tidy up my room. Don’t touch anything otherwise. Keep things in order until I return. Practice your Summoning spells and summoning circles. But don’t summon anything living. We don’t want a repeat of last time.’
Succinct and to the point. Maragon has probably disappeared on one of his grand crusades with his enigmatic companions, the Saranti Seven. I have met them all, and in fact most have helped in my training at various points, but it feels to me like Maragon holds them all together. I think he is their leader, and likely the most powerful of them.’
‘I wonder if that is just my bias, as I imagine other children have for their fathers. He insists I never call him father, or even think of him as such. He says emotional attachments could make it harder for me to make the correct decision at some critical point in the future. I do not think that has worked very well.’
Not for the first time Mitchell’s mind began to try and solve the puzzle that was the Saranti Seven.
‘I wonder if the rest of the Seven collect strange artifacts from the past? I know Brother Turin does. I bet Javelin does too.’
‘I wonder if they all live in secluded towers like this one? I doubt it. Samtha almost certainly likes people too much for that.’
But as with all the other times, he did not have the answers to do anything other than guess.
‘As usual the note makes no mention of when he might return. Or provide an apology for making the mess. Based on previous examples, it could be months before I see him again. I wonder if I will get a caretaker show-up to look after me and carry on my training again. Please let it be Samtha. And please not Brother Turin. I guess I just hope it is someone. I do not like being on my own for long.’
“Welcome home,” he sighed aloud.
VASTUK – HOUSE TIRILANI, MASCHERATA, DRASAK
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7TH CARLISHAE, EARLY SPRING 845 PBM
Vastuk the Deceiver sat in silence as two representatives from Clan Capellan entered the opulent waiting room. Rich floorings and imposing drapes filled the space, with touches of gold leaf reflecting the room's splendour — the best his family's finances could manage. Yet, in Vastuk's eyes, it wasn't enough. Other noble houses outshone his, a reality he couldn't accept. He believed House Tirilani, and by extension, he himself, deserved unparalleled grandeur.
But it is still not enough. This house pales in comparison to that of some of the other noble houses. And that simply will not do. House Tirilani deserves nothing but the best. We deserve nothing but the best. Our house has no peer, as we have no peer.
As the two masked figures approached, one took the offered seat and made himself comfortable. He then reached up and began to remove his mask. The gesture would likely have helped put Vastuk at east, except that the second figure, a leaner feminine figure, remained standing. Even with her hands behind her back, she seemed ready and poised to strike.
“Can I offer you a drink, or some refreshments?” Vastuk waved his hand at a generous buffet of meats and fruits that had been laid on the table beside them, as well as several jugs of wine, juice and water.
“Juice will suffice. It would be inappropriate to drink alcohol while working,” replied the seated man, reiterating a reasonably common part of the Assassin’s code.
He placed the cloth wrappings that had been his mask to his side, revealing a stern looking face, clean shaven, with very short hair that was little more than dark coloured stubble, and a face that was perhaps in its late thirties.
Is that the same voice from the meeting within the Hall of Assassins? We cannot be sure, but surely with a task as important as this, it makes sense to assign only their best. This could be as influential for their Clan as it is for us.
As he poured the juice, he motioned towards the second figure, who with a simple shake of her head declined.
“You have additional information for me?” Vastuk asked, handing over the glass of juice, and then a few seconds later a black card with a stylised ninja mask on it which he had retrieved from the folds of his robe. The seated figure took the card and passed it over his shoulder to his standing companion. She studied the card for a few seconds, before signalling her acceptance with a simple nod.
“The King has received some kind of warning of your plan.”
Vastuk’s heart almost stopped.
What does that mean? Will the King’s Guards be storming the grounds any moment. Does this end with Vastuk’s house aflame and our family dead all around us. Surely we have a greater destiny than this?
The Capellans showed no response to Vastuk’s pained reaction, but he thought they both enjoyed watching him squirm.
“But what about your code?” he asked, trying to regain his composure.
If this is all coming apart, it is not our fault. One of these damn assassins broke the code.
“We do not believe it has been broken. Had the King been informed of your plan directly then would you not be dead already?”
Vastuk pondered it for a few seconds before nodding.
“The King has sent his children into hiding. We are still gathering more information but it would seem certain they will be living under assumed identities,” informed the assassin.
“Do you know where they are going?” Vastuk asked, his mind already looking for ways to turn this to his advantage. “They could be much easier targets if they are on open roads. It should also be easier to conceal what happened to them, no? Poor victims of a goblin raid on their caravan. Something of that nature.”
“Do not concern yourself with the killing, Vastuk. The King’s daughter will be dead soon enough, and if not, then we will kill the son. In either event the message will be sent shortly. We are here to confirm one thing. Are we authorised to continue with the killing even if it must take place in another empire?”
Vastuk considered the implications of the question. It could create additional challenges if that nation then takes issue with the killing. It could reflect poorly on them to have a member of the Drasak Royal family killed in their nation, and now we have two powerful foes. But how often has an outsider ever caught a Drasak Assassin. The risk seems small. And where is the most likely hiding place for these children? I suspect the King will still hide them within Drasak itself, just somewhere he thinks them hidden.
But if they are to be sent outside, then his long term allies in Cthrag Merlo would be the most likely destination. That militant society would indeed take issue with an assassination. Their overblown sense of honour is paramount, and they would be greatly offended on two levels; the dishonourable nature of assassination itself; and they would likely take it as a personal affront that she was assassinated in their lands.
But they also take fewer precautions, as they are not as familiar with this kind of thing as other nations. If they wish to kill someone it would be an honour duel, standing in a Circle of Equals. To them deceit and assassination are so dishonourable as to be almost unheard of.
The risks are worth it.
“You have authorisation.”
“This may increase the costs. Our agents may be operating for much longer in foreign countries. Do we have an operational limit, or is your house willing to cover the additional costs regardless?” the assassin asked.
This operation already stretches my family’s finances. To run out of funds before the task is done would ruin us with no compensation. But if I pull out now, then we have incurred great risk for no reward.
“House Tirilani always honours it’s debts.”
With a simple nod, the seated figure carefully replaced the wrap around his face and head, and then both figures turned and left the building, fading into the night as silently as they had appeared.
KELL – WHITE LAKE, KESTREL LANDS, INDIANA MOUNTAINS
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7TH CARLISHAE, EARLY SPRING 845 PBM
"We must be ready to defend ourselves if the Antori attack!" a fervent voice rang out amidst the hubbub of the tribal meeting. The villagers were arranged in rough rows, their backs to him, while facing the five elders seated prominently at the gathering's front. Ka’Took recounted the northern encounter, detailing the assault and how they had killed three Antori in self-defence. However, to Kell's disappointment, the meeting was not progressing favourably; the elders appeared sceptical of the urgency for action.
"We have spoken with Gandyrlak. He assured us of peace between the Kestrels and Antori. His word is steadfast. No Antori war captain would defy Gandyrlak," said Hantoxx 'the Brave', the tribe's eldest and most influential figure. As a revered Kestrel legend, his words would likely sway many present.
“But my eyes do not lie! They were Antori that attacked us,” Ka-Took insisted.
“Perhaps your hatred of the Antori coloured your view, and you misinterpreted their actions as an attack,” suggested Kateri, the most influential female on the elder council. “Your past actions against the Antori is the main reason you are not sitting on this council.”
Kell struggled to not interject on his father’s behalf. Although this did confirm a suspicion he long harboured on why his father was not on the elder council. Ka-Took however, remained calm.
“While I understand the concern my past may cause here,” Ka-Took began, gesturing in a placating manner, “I would hope the council still trusts my judgement enough to recognise when an arrow is fired at one of my sons.”
“Perhaps your son did something to make them think they were about to be attacked,” supposed Elsu Windstalker, another member of the council, and Kell knew, a long time rival of his father. “Perhaps you had wandered onto their lands by mistake.”
Kell bristled at this affront. It was he who had been targeted first, having only hailed the Indians to prevent any unintentional hostilities. And the idea his father had gotten lost and wandered onto Antori land by mistake was laughable to anyone who knew of Ka-Took, which certainly included Elsu.
Ka-Took remained standing quietly and did not respond to Elsu’s comments.
“We recognise your concern, but the attack must have been a misunderstanding. Gandyrlak must hold his word to honour his ancestors. As must we. We will instruct our hunting parties to be cautious and enact village sentries at night. But no harm is to come to any Antori on Kestrel lands unless you are defending yourself.”
At the mention of the ancestors the whole crowd began to show agreement through their body language. Ka-Took knew well enough not to push the topic once the council had decided something. With a simple nod of his head he conceded and sat down. Beside him he could feel Kell seething with frustration, but with a calming hand stopped his son from embarrassing himself by doing anything that might disrespect council law.
“Leave it be!” His words were calm and slow but Kell caught the steel edge to them and forced himself to relax. “We will go and get proof. We will see if Gandyrlak holds his word or not.”
“But that will mean going into Antori land and...,”
“Not here. We will talk about it later, son. Quiet while the elders talk.”
Kell silenced himself but the words of the elders became no more clear or audible to him as his head buzzed with thoughts and emotions.
I have never never travelled deep into Antori land before. None who have speak well of the place. Evil spirits and strange monsters live there. How does a mortal fight things such as that with mere arrow or axe?
I want to be a Brave. To prove myself to the tribe. And I wish to bring honour to the ancestors. But I feel an unfamiliar feeling growing inside me. I suspect this is fear, gnawing at my insides and sapping my strength and my resolve. May the Ancestors help me overcome this.