by ich du
As he charged on Bauer was relieved that he was still followed by his men, they were obeying their orders and not stopping to engage the enemy. He ducked beneath a low branch and, as his head came up again, he almost stopped dead. Up ahead, tied to the branches and bows of trees were the freshly tortured bodies of his captured men. The soldiers behind him gasped, some crying out in anguish, but Bauer was not about to stop. Without breaking a step he continued through the woodland charnel house.
They ran for a mile or more, Bauer occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was still being followed, until eventually he found himself leaving the corpse-strewn wood. In front was a thick mist but it was open ground. Sokh could not be far away!
'Gorag, kas'at naza!' The words pealed from the mist ahead. Bauer stopped, holding up an arm to halt his men. An archer stopped at Bauer's shoulder, straining forward, his eyes trying desperately to penetrate the grey wall. With a hiss, a black-shafted arrow shot from the fog, embedding itself in the archers throat. He fell forward without a sound.
Ahead, the mist suddenly swirled and lifted. From beneath his visor, Bauer could see two ranks of warriors; dark sentinels from his deepest nightmares. At the front was their massive chieftain, one horn missing from his huge helmet. With his armour and the bearskin that adorned his shoulders he was at least seven feet tall and almost as wide.
'Greg'oz karas'nak,' he bellowed and his warriors began to spread themselves wide, blocking Bauer's escape route.
He was suddenly overcome. Everything Metzger had said suddenly made sense. Better to die with sword in hand than cowering in fear.
Bauer ran forward, straight at the massive warrior. His first strike was clumsy but powerful, aimed straight at the chieftain's head. With a lazy swipe of his arm the Northman's own sword swept up to parry. Before Bauer could bring his weapon about, Archaon's captain had countered, easily swinging his sword back and landing a stinging blow against Bauer's head.
The sallet spun off into the mist as Bauer crashed to the ground. He was dazed, his sword lying on the grass several feet away, blood seeping from his ears. The chieftain towered above him, raising his sword. Bauer stared up defiantly, ready to take the final blow.
Slowly, the chieftain lowered his weapon. Bauer could hear his men behind, shuffling, uncertain of what to do.
Reaching up with one massive, mailed fist the chieftain gripped the single horn of his helmet and lifted it from his head. He stared down at Bauer with a single, piercing blue eye.
Bauer recognised it immediately. It was not the same face he had seen in the tavern those long years ago, it was now infinitely more corrupted, but the eye was unmistakable.
Slowly a smile spread across the chieftain's twisted face. He held out his hand to Bauer, mouth opening as though to speak.
The misty air was cut by a bellow of rage as Metzger charged forward, greatsword raised. The chieftain had just enough time to hoist his own sword before the blow fell. Their weapons clashed and became locked together as Imperial general and Chaos chieftain stared at each other over crossed blades.
Metzger suddenly swung his greatsword around, twisting his opponent's weapon from his grip and sending it spinning away. The chieftain swiftly grabbed the blade of the sword with one hand and Metzger's wrist with the other. Metzger in turn grabbed his blade and pushed it forward towards the chieftain's head. They wrestled for several perilous seconds, their men watching spellbound. Slowly the blade drew closer to the chieftain's face as Metzger began to win their contest of strength.
A sudden smile spread on the twisted face, the single blue eye brightening. The chieftain opened his mouth wide and bit down on the blade. As his yellow teeth gnashed against the solid, Middenland steel, the blade began to buckle. Corrosive blood poured from the chieftain's gums, causing the blade to hiss and melt.
Growling like a wounded animal, Metzger wrenched the damaged greatsword aside, pulling the chieftain over. Both fell to the ground and Bauer, still dazed, could only watch as they wrestled like two starving bears, fighting over rotten scraps.
In turn, each seemed to take the edge over the other - pounding, biting and clawing - until eventually Metzger was on top of the huge warrior, one arm and one knee pinned his adversary to the ground. Without hesitating he smashed his armoured fist into the grinning face. Again and again the fist flew down, smashing teeth and bone and pulping the shining blue eye. Metzger was like a smith at the anvil, hammering his enemy's head into mush.
When there was nothing left to hit, Metzger stood, panting from the exertion.
The remaining Chaos warriors, seeing their leader bested, looked at one another uncertainly. Several brandished their weapons threateningly while others took a pace backwards. A pistolier suddenly raised his weapon and fired, his round immediately joined by a volley of arrows and burning shot. Faced by such a sudden onslaught the warriors began to flee, retreating into the dense mist.
Bauer managed to rise to his feet and approach the general who was staring at the body at his feet.
'General?' said Bauer, reaching out a hand towards Metzger's shoulder.
The general turned before Bauer could touch him and took a purposeful step forward. 'Traitor!' he hissed, smashing his gore-encrusted fist into his captain's face.
Bauer was unconscious before he hit the ground.
THE OAK'S THICK branch groaned in protest against the rope tied to it. In turn, the rope seemed to creak in complaint about the body that hung below. Bauer, swinging gently in the breeze, did not complain - his tongue was too swollen in his head and his last gasping breath was long gone.
One of the pistoliers approached warily, glancing about him, unsure of whether the invaders would spring from the trees at any moment.
'General?' he said quietly, 'are we to leave now?'
General Metzger stared upwards, sorrow tainting his wrinkled brow.
'Yes,' he replied. 'We should not tarry here.'
'Was it really necessary to hang the captain?' asked the soldier, instantly regretting his candid question.
Metzger looked down at the handgunner, sorrow still marking his face.
'Should I so obviously show truck with the followers of the Ruinous Powers, I would expect the same mercy.' He clapped the pistolier on the shoulder, the flame returning to his eyes. 'Now come. Sokh is at least a day away and there are still enemies abroad.'
As they set off eastwards the pistolier took one last look towards Bauer's swinging body. Silently, he prayed to Shallya that the northern daemons never showed him any mercy.
PERFECT ASSASSIN
by Nick Kyme
RANNICK WITHDREW HIS rapier from the quivering body of Frenzini Lucrenzza with satisfying ease. As he wiped the long, slender blade upon the merchant's silken shirts, which bulged from his swollen girth, his prey looked on pleadingly with dying eyes.
Within the merchant's inner sanctum, a cluttered but opulent domicile awash with a faint veneer of burnished gold, Rannick allowed himself a smile. He was the finest assassin in all of Luccini, even Tilea, and Frenzini had learnt that to his cost. What were all his trappings and gilt possessions worth now? Nothing. Everything was dust in the end. Prestige, that was what mattered.
'To your health,' Rannick said mockingly, raising a gilded goblet to his lips from which, only moments before, Frenzini had been supping. Taking a careful sip and savouring the wonderful taste, he regarded the merchant's dying befuddlement with cold, unemotional eyes.
'It's not me,' he stated, and brought down his blade.
SLIPPING THROUGH THE merchant's mansion house like a shadow, Rannick made a silent escape. His alias, the Living Shade, was well founded, for he moved as if he were a part of the murky dark that crept through the windows.
Two bodies lay ahead; Rannick had passed them on the way in. Their thick metal armour bore no crest or insignia; they were mercenaries, well armed, trained killers. Now they grew cold in a dead merchant's trophy corridor, the stark marble stained with blood that welled from their eyes,
ears and mouths. The tiny darts protruding from their soft necks bore a deadly and agonizing poison. Fast-acting, they didn't even have time to scream.
The guards were gone, a forgotten memory as Rannick sped on. The corridor was long, designed to impress guests and traders with its opulence. All manner of superb finery from numerous far-flung continents sped past in an blur. It would have been easy to stop, even slow momentarily, and grasp a small trinket to augment the fee. But it went against the code, the doctrine by which all assassins live.
Assassins' Code #32: Always agree your fee beforehand and never waver from it. Unexpected 'difficulties' can arise from padding...
OUT INTO THE GROUNDS and a thick frost crunched underfoot, a white veil overlayed the luxuriant vista of marblesque towers and finely wrought garden fountains. In the chill silence of a Tilean winter night, a gong sounded.
Frenzini had been discovered.
The peal of the bell rang out a resonant warning; the sound clung to Rannick's ear drums as he slipped through the night.
Great arboreal structures depicting griffons, pegasi and other fabulous beasts loomed high and menacing in the midnight gloom. Dusted with white powder they took on an eldritch quality against the pale moon as Rannick darted through them. At the end of a gravel path and secreted within a frost tinged bush Rannick found the rope and grapple he had hidden there for his escape.
Booted feet tramped heavily over stone walkways beyond and above him, and shouts carried loudly through the windless night.
Rannick shut away the noise. Low and stealthy, his lithe, muscled body blended with the night. He glanced back to check on his pursuers.
A band of three had gathered, two with swords, a third with a crossbow. They stood upon a high balcony, lost in confusion, impotent with undisguised fear of the dark. It had come alive and slipped into their masters impregnable fortress with silent menace and left him dead.
The grapple found purchase almost silently. Rannick tested the strength of the hold and scaled the wall to the stone walkway above.
He surprised a guard who patrolled above. The guard fumbled with a half-drawn sword as the dark apparition slipped past him. He tried to choke a warning as the assassin slipped over the wall and into the gloom below, before he realised his throat had been slit.
WITHIN THE LABYRINTHINE streets, alleys and forgotten plazas of Luccini, Rannick made good his escape.
He was pleased. Frenzini's retirement had unfolded as planned. The commotion, when combined with the sheer audacity of the attack would send shivers down the spines of his employer's rivals.
A mercantile war was being waged, more like a state of perpetual conflict given Tilea's fractious nature, and the Living Shade was a ready tool for one of the most powerful merchant houses staking its claim.
Rannick negotiated vast twisting pathways, shrouded in sibilant, crawling shadows.
He came to a dead end, stark in the wan glow of silver moonlight. He stepped forward and shed the darkness. It was here that Rannick found what he was looking for.
A set of crates and fire-baked urns, rich tan turned sickly pink in the light, sat against the alley walls. They cunningly obscured a small door sunk deep into terracotta. A world lay beyond, subterranean and sworn into death-threatened secrecy. A clandestine knock: three raps, a pause, two more and then a sixth and the Living Shade was admitted into the dark where his fee awaited.
A LONG, DANK corridor stretched before him, the entry guard evaporating into the blackness, as Rannick padded quickly down stone steps.
A hundred broad steps and a flame flared at the end of the tunnel. Rannick stepped through the light into a vast and impressive hall, the Assassins' Guild, an organisation more valuable than the very throne of Tilea itself.
'Rannick!' a voice cried from a vast throng of cloaked and mysterious figures, weaponsmiths, poison makers, engineers and more. Here men and dwarfs convened in a hive of subdued and secretive activity that bustled below the few remaining steps to the hall.
Rannick keenly picked out his man and for the first time that night, drew back his hood.
Deep brown eyes flashed bright in the firelight as he pushed back a swathe of dark, luxuriant hair from his tanned and well-defined face. Rannick paused a moment, allowing his man to come to him, privately basking in the imagined glory of his own countenance.
Not only was he the best, he was the most handsome as well.
'Rannick.' the man repeated, slightly out of breath. He was short, a mere dwarf compared to Rannick's own impressive stature, and advanced in years. A balding pate held obvious traces of grey around the temples and above the ears. Remy was his accountant.
'Frenzini has been retired.' Rannick stated coldly with a hint of suave, self-confidence. He strode down the steps, regarding his colleagues imperiously, removing his black gloves and slapping them, without looking, into Remy's outstretched hands.
'Excellent.' Remy acknowledged, skipping a little to keep pace. 'I will have the gold in your treasury by the morning,' he assured him.
'See that it is.' Rannick ordered, striding through the mass, 'You have my next contract.' It was more of a statement than a question.
'We need to talk about something first.' Remy warned tentatively.
'Business first, Remy.'
'Yes but...'
'Business.' Rannick turned and fixed Remy with an icy stare. 'I didn't attain the mantle of best assassin in all of Luccini by being distracted by details.'
'No, sir.' Remy conceded, a little uneasily. A speech was coming.
'I have retired public figures, merchant leaders, politicians, warlords and barons. I have travelled beyond these shores, fought in the mercenary legions of Lorenzo Lupo, slain the orc chieftain Grushult Bonesneer and even had an audience with the arch-poison mistress Lucrezzia Belladonna herself, have I not?'
Assassins' Code #62: Never extol the virtues of your own skill and undertakings. Weakness can be derived from such knowledge, particularly when said plaudits are embellished or false.
'Indeed sir, my humble apologies.'
Satisfied, Rannick continued. There was a large board ahead, set at the very back of the voluminous hall. It was adorned with all manner of contracts, wanted posters and death notices. Each had an artists impression of the mark or the deceased as well as a scribed report as to the contract's status.
'Busy night.' Rannick remarked sarcastically to a thinning, bespectacled man working from sketches within a wooden partition. He glared daggers before returning to his furious scribblings.
Rannick knew him. He was Callini Faust, known simply as 'The Artist'. He killed his victims with a sharpened quill filled with poison ink before drawing their dead bodies with their own blood off the murder weapon. If business was slow he worked a sideline as a contract artist.
'He's been scribing for the past four nights.' Remy told him.
'Four?' Rannick turned again. 'What of the regular employers?'
Assassins' Code #2: In Tilea, somebody always wants somebody else dead.
'That's what I need to talk to you about sir.' Subconsciously Remy recoiled, awaiting the backlash.
Rannick's eyes narrowed. He bid Remy to go on.
'The regular contracts.' he said, faltering, swallowing back his fear, 'have all been retired.'
'All of them? Even Manlect the Obese, Merchant Prince of Sartosa!'
'Even Manlect.'
'That was my contract,' Rannick muttered. 'I only stole the plans to the manor house last night!'
'The assassin climbed to Manlect's roof, bored two tiny holes through the slats. Through the first he espied Manlect asleep on his back as is necessary for a man of such generous girth,' Remy explained. 'Through the second bore hole he extended a length of fine twine, almost invisible to the naked eye as it was dark. He trickled a potent concoction of poison, black lotus I believe, into Manlect's snoring mouth. He was dead by morning, physicians were baffled.'
'Not without cunning,' Rannick admitted quietly, makin
g a mental note to burn the manor house plans and crush the ashes underfoot. Rannick smiled as he imagined the head of his usurper crushed beneath his boot instead.
Assassins' Code #6: If something goes wrong always destroy all evidence of a transaction. Any monies exchanged are fair trade for compensation.
'What about the tax-collector, Demitri Vallenheim? He's been on my books for weeks,' Rannick asked, turning back to find Demitri's contract on the board.
'Him too.'
A mask of controlled fury swept across Rannick's face.
'It is the work of one man,' Remy told him.
'One man,' he stated with frightening calm.
At least twenty new contracts had been posted over the last month; it was a busy time in the assassination business. Each and every one had been daubed over with red ink, the word 'retired' emblazoned over their portraits.
'Who?' Rannick uttered deeply.
'He's new, been in the city for six months. He's been improving his tally since he arrived.' 'Name.'
'I only know his alias. No one has ever seen him. He sends street urchins with wax-sealed envelopes to collect his contracts.'
'And the alias?'
'The Black Crowe.'
'What is his standing?'
Remy waited nervously, unwilling to answer.
Rannick turned to him with rage in his eyes. 'His standing?' he repeated.
'It rivals your own, sir.' he admitted in a choked whisper.
Rannick swept his gaze across the hall to another wooden board where a rat-faced man on a rope and pulley chiselled a name near the top.
'The Black Crowe.' Rannick read with disbelief, his own name only one place above. It was a large, prestigious record of an assassin's achievements. Rannick had always luxuriated in his own supremacy, his retirements always inexplicably higher than his nearest rival. Now he shared that honour with another.
For a moment Rannick was speechless.
'I tried to warn you sir.' Remy blathered.
