The Rook finally found the guarded doors, but that did not help him with finding the chamberlain. It could take him hours to find the man’s room, and he did not feel up to searching the entire castle floor by floor and room by room. He wished he had a day to scour the inside of the castle and find where the chamberlain’s rooms were, but he simply did not have the time. The contract stated tonight, so tonight was when both men would die.
The assassin quickly formulated a plan, actually, he just instituted one of the dozen strategies he had already devised in the several days of travel it took to get here. He never did a job without having several plans of action already well thought out.
The Rook slipped into a nearby room and quietly closed the door behind him. His phosphorescent blue eyes took in the contents of the room. He saw a beautifully hand-carved rocking horse and a large set of toy soldiers atop a table. In the bed in the other room, he found the sleeping form of a child, likely the Duke’s heir. He was surprised that Ulric had not wanted the son killed as well, but perhaps having him live to ascend to power was part of his plan.
It was unimportant, he had only entered the room so he could climb out of the window and follow the wall around to the Duke’s chambers. The Rook crossed the room, opened the window and shutters, and climbed out, closing the minor barriers behind him. Thanks to his magical gloves and boots, it was no problem for him to sidestep all the way to the Duke’s window without a ledge or have any fear of falling.
It took only a minute for him to reach the outside of Duke William’s chambers. The window and shutters were even open to let the cool spring breeze blow its refreshing air into the normally stuffy rooms. The assassin crept across the room and came upon William’s sleeping form. There was only one shape in the bed, his wife having died giving birth to the boy in the other room three years ago.
The Rook pulled the thick-bladed, curved knife from its sheath and stood over the sleeping Duke. He gently reached down with his free hand and touched the Duke’s thigh. The Rook preferred his victim to see his killer before he executed them. That way, wherever he went in the afterlife, his reputation would precede him.
“Wh—who is it?” William asked as his eyes tried to focus on the shining blue orbs hovering over him. “G—!” was the only sound he made before the knife flashed down and pierced his heart.
The Rook withdrew his blade and cleaned it on the blanket before sheathing it. He slipped a small, formfitting satchel from his back and assembled the light crossbow that it held. He tightened the bolt securing the bow to the wooden body with the small wrench stored in the stock.
He then withdrew a bolt of his own design. The head was overly large and contained two spring mechanisms. A larger spring ratcheted as he twisted it like a windup clockwork toy and a second spring held two blades out at the end. The assassin pressed the blades in where they stayed seated with a small click.
The Rook set the crossbow at the foot of the bed, pulled his blade once more, and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the door handle and pictured the guards in his mind, taking special note of their height and separation. He held the knife by the handle so that the back of the blade pressed against his forearm and pointed toward his elbow.
With one last deep breath, as if he were diving into water, he jerked the door open and stepped through. Almost with a dancer’s grace, he brought the razor-sharp blade across the throat of the guard to his right, instantly severing the jugular vein.
The Rook pirouetted on his left foot and brought the blade across the left-hand guard’s carotid artery so fast that he was back in the room before either guard hit the floor. He crossed the room, cleaned his blade on the blanket once more, and retrieved his crossbow. He then went back to the open door where the rapidly pooling blood spread across the hall. The Rook then did something few if any assassins have ever done—he called the guards.
“Assassin in the Duke’s chamber, murder!” the Rook shouted.
The Rook then climbed back out of the window with the crossbow strapped across his back and closed the shutters behind him. He hung just outside the window, one hand stuck to the top stonework and both feet braced against the ledge so he could just see through the slats of the shutters.
He was barely in position by the time the sounds of booted feet echoed up the stairs and down the hall coming toward the Duke’s chambers. The Rook could just barely see movement through the closed shutters, but he had no problem hearing the curses of the guards when they came upon the slain corpses.
“Check on the Duke!” One of the guards shouted.
“He’s dead, the Duke has been slain!” came the shouted report a moment later.
“Someone go fetch the chamberlain, now!”
A solitary set of footsteps receded down the hall as the other guards searched the Duke’s suite of rooms. The soldiers lit oil lamps to shed some light on the area as they searched the chambers. A few minutes later, the assassin heard more footsteps approaching.
“Lord Chamberlain, I fear the Duke has been slain,” one of the guards reported.
“Has anyone checked on the boy yet?” the chamberlain asked.
A pair of guards scrambled down the hall and burst into the heir’s room. The Rook swung the shutters open and aimed his crossbow at the man dressed in night robes.
“Chamberlain!” the assassin shouted and pulled the trigger the moment the man turned toward him.
The instant the bolt struck the chamberlain in the chest two things happened. First, the impact released the catch holding the two small blades nearly flush with the shaft. Secondly, the impact released the catch holding the tightly wound spring causing the oversized steel head to spin rapidly. The rotating head caused enormous damage as the blades spun inside the chest cavity, shredding the heart and lungs.
The guards reacted quickly and charged with swords drawn and halberds leveled. The Rook turned to the side to avoid being impaled on the halberd’s spear tip. The assassin dropped the crossbow, letting it hang across his back by a strap, grabbed the thrusting halberd by the shaft just below the axe head, and pulled. The guard gripped his weapon tightly thinking that the assassin was trying to disarm him. Instead, the Rook pulled the man and his weapon right out of the window and sent them both crashing to the ground sixty feet below.
A flick of his wrist sent a throwing dagger tumbling across the room and embedded it in the other guard’s throat. The Rook scrambled up the wall, ran across the castle’s roof, and climbed down the far side in less than five minutes. He scaled the inner wall and crouched at the top as guards charged him from both directions. The assassin lunged at the closer of the two guards and buried his knife to the hilt just below the man’s ribs.
He spun the dying man around and shoved him into the second guard as he charged with his sword raised. The attacking guard tried to dodge his comrade’s body but was clipped by the dead weight and thrown off balance. The assassin thrust his blade in the remaining guard’s side and dropped over the outside of the wall, vanishing in an instant.
The Rook sprinted through the city as shouts and whistles alerted the watch to an intruder. The assassin reached the western outer wall a few minutes later and clambered up and over in a just a few seconds. It took him about ten minutes to find his horse that he had arranged to be picketed a short ways from where he crossed the wall. The Rook mounted up and rode away into the night.
Now, little wizard, your stay of execution has been lifted, the Rook thought to himself as galloped for North Haven.
The Rook pushed his horse hard but not nearly as hard as he had in order to get to Brightridge. There was no hurry other than his own need to complete a job for which he had been paid. The delay at Brightridge was unavoidable, but it still grated on his sense of professionalism nonetheless.
Beware, little wizard, death rides for you now.
CHAPTER 14
The lords and nobles of Brightridge sat around the large tables brought into the audience hall to facilitate the eme
rgency meeting. Heated debates had been ongoing for the last few hours following the Duke’s murder, and the only thing they had accomplished thus far was infuriating one another beyond reason.
“I still say that I am the best choice to act as regent. I can trace my family tree back to the very founding of Valeria,” Lord Ashworth proclaimed.
“Bah, your family tree has root rot and beetle infestation!” Lord Ellington accused.
“You are one to talk. Your family tree has so few branches it could be used as a ships mast without even needing a trimming!” Lord Dandrich fired back.
“What we need is a man with experience, and none here can claim nearly as much as I,” the venerable Lord Malcolm insisted.
“Oh, that is what we need, a regent so old he cannot even climb the stairs to the dais,” Lord Farnsworth snidely commented.
A lascivious grin spread across the old lord’s wrinkled face. “I had no trouble climbing your mother, the dais should pose no difficulty.”
“Keep your lies to yourself, old man,” Lord Farnsworth demanded. “We all know my mother is far too old for your tastes.”
“My daughter is too old for his tastes!” Lord Kendrick added.
“And the wrong gender!” Lord Whitfield bellowed causing all but Lord Malcolm to burst into laughter.
Lord Malcolm’s face burned red with rage, but he wisely remained silent. A chicken leg suddenly flew across the table and struck Lord Kendrick in the chest.
“Who dares to throw a piece of fowl at me?” Lord Kendrick demanded in his nasally voice.
“I would say someone who was unable to reach the mashed potatoes,” Lord Farnsworth replied.
“The next man who dares pelt me with food had best be prepared to answer the insult with steel!” Lord Kendrick stood up and threatened, gripping the hilt of his rapier.
A rain of food went flying from all directions with demands for him to sit down.
“Now this is just childish!” Lord Kendrick whined but sat down all the same.
“Gentlemen, please. While we sit here hurling insults and food, large groups of bandits are pillaging our lands! A group of bandits sacked Langdon’s Crossing just before winter. We thought it a random raid by desperate men, but they have raided other towns, and now I hear tell there is an even larger group out of Sumara looting and killing their way toward us right now!”
“How big?”
“Some say three or four hundred, others are saying nearly a thousand.”
“Peasants are always exaggerating. There are probably less than a hundred. Even if there were several hundred raiders, it is not enough to lay siege to a city the size of Brightridge.”
“They won’t have to lay siege. If we don’t do something, the people are going to revolt!”
“The people are already revolting.”
“Oh, that’s a nice attitude to have for someone wanting to claim regency.”
“Don’t act so high and mighty with me. I know you think the same way.”
“Thinking something and coming out and saying it is two completely different things.”
“What difference would that be?”
“A dagger in the back while you are sleeping.”
“It did nothing to save William did it?”
“Maybe we should write Jarvin.”
“What for?”
“For him to send troops to destroy these ruffians, that’s what we pay taxes for isn’t it?”
“We have our own troops. That is why the peasants pay taxes to us!”
“But only the Duke or his regent can deploy them, which is why we are here bickering!”
“Fine, we shall address the King. Someone wake up Malcolm.”
Out on the walls, General Robert Quayburn, commander of Brightridge’s military forces, watched the black curls of smoke spiraling high into the sky not far off in the distance.
“Damn it all to the abyss!” General Quayburn shouted. “While those fools argue over the spoils of the Duke’s death, these marauders are burning down the entire countryside!”
“What are we to do, sir? Without orders, we are forbidden to take action,” a nervous but equally angry sergeant replied.
Another column of smoke rose into the sky to mix with the several others already darkening the horizon.
“Blast it! That does it. Round up my soldiers, Sergeant, and send the Captain of the Watch to me.”
“But, sir, you will be charged with treason!”
“I would rather hang than stand by and watch these cowards destroy the lands I am sworn to protect. None of the men volunteered. I ordered them to march and I will take full responsibility.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant saluted with a smile and ran to follow the General’s orders.
Within minutes, the Captain of the Watch stood next to General Quayburn as Brightridge’s army formed up at the city’s main gate.
“Captain, I am leading my men to drive off this looting scum. I recommend you double the watch and issue every longbow and crossbow you have. Man the mangonels and catapults in case the enemy forces are larger than we were led to believe and try to take the city.”
“I will, General. Good luck and good hunting,” the watch captain replied, clasping wrists with General Quayburn.
General Quayburn jogged down the steps that ran up to the top of the wall and mounted his steed at the head of his army.
“Forward, march!” the General shouted as he waved his sword over his head then pointed in the direction of travel with it.
The army of Brightridge, numbering three hundred cavalry, one hundred archers, and seven hundred infantry composed of pikemen, spearmen, and swordsmen marched out of the gates to the rousing cheers of the populace.
The General set a speedy pace but not punishing. These were professional soldiers, and although they marched with swift determination, General Quayburn knew they likely would not be marching long. Only three hours out from the city, his scouts returned with the first sightings of the enemy.
“Sir, we counted over one hundred mounted raiders three miles ahead. The farming village looks to have been completely sacked, and the raiders are busy looting homes.”
General Quayburn’s jaw muscles trembled as he clenched his teeth. “Captain, tell the men to prepare for battle. We will face the enemy within the hour.”
As they neared the plundered village, a scout returned with another update. “Sir, it appears that the raiders are mounting up and preparing to move on.”
“I will not allow them to simply flee the field. Captain, order the cavalry on line. I will personally lead the charge.”
It took only a minute for the cavalry to form up on their commander. With one last look behind him, the General ordered his men to charge while his infantry and archers continued to march toward the impending battle.
The charging horses ate up the half mile of open road that cut through the sparsely forested, low-rolling hills laying between General Quayburn’s forces and the detestable raiders. The hundred or so raiders saw the significantly larger cavalry come racing around the bend between a pair of low hills. If the mercenaries were surprised to see the large force bearing down on them with hate and bloodlust in their eyes they did not show it. With several departing rude gestures, the outnumbered enemy put spurs to their mounts and fled.
“Do not let them get away!” General Quayburn shouted over the thundering hooves of the horses and gave chase.
General Quayburn’s foot soldiers continued their steady march forward, though they significantly lagged behind the mounted men. None of the seven hundred soldiers saw the enemy waiting for them until they assembled atop the low hills between which the footmen were now marching. Ulric’s archers stood atop one hilltop, raining down swarm after swarm of killing arrows just before his cavalry charged over the opposing hill and systematically destroyed the hapless infantry.
It took only seconds for the five hundred mounted raiders and traitors to slam into the nearly defenseless flank of Brig
htridge’s infantry. Brightridge’s pikemen were too far out of position to be the least bit effective. The archers were able to loose a few sporadic shots, but they were completely unorganized and had little effect.
The slaughter lasted less than thirty minutes. Men tried to break and flee, but they were either slain by the archers or ridden down by horsemen. Not one man was allowed to survive to report the raiders’ unexpected help.
Meanwhile, General Quayburn continued his pursuit of the fleeing invaders, intent on not allowing them to escape. Kayne’s decoys were slowly leading their pursuers in a large circuitous route back to the site of the slaughter of the General’s footmen. The fleeing mercenaries wheeled about and faced their pursuers just before the site of the massacre.
“The cowards have finally got tired of running!” General Quayburn shouted and pulled his broadsword from its sheath.
The swath that the road cut through the hills was narrow, negating some of Quayburn’s numerical advantage, but the hills were not overly steep and his men were still able to fan out. Intent upon slaying the raiders, no one saw the bodies littering the road just beyond the waiting mercenaries until it was too late. Once again, the cavalry hidden just over the hill broke cover and charged down the slope to strike and envelop the enemy’s flank as arrows pelted them in a deadly hail.
General Quayburn knew he had made an enormous tactical error. Confident in his numerical superiority, he had failed to send out wide-sweeping pickets to watch over his flanks for just such a trap. He knew his men were lost, but he would sell his and their lives dearly. With a shout of rage, he swung his broadsword with fervor, slaying any bandit that came within reach of his blade.
His ears picked up the shouts of his men and saw several hundred footmen flying Duke Ulric’s colors coming over the opposing hill. With renewed hope, his men cheered the sight of the unexpected reinforcements. Those cheers soon became cries of death and disbelief as their own countrymen cut into their right flank. With both his flanks and front destroyed, General Quayburn ordered his surviving men to try to break out the way they had come.
The Sorcerer's Path Box Set: Book 1-4 Page 93
