by James Somers
The High Priest paused here for effect; leveling his gaze upon each of us to be sure he had our undivided attention.
“I am dividing you into two teams,” he continued. “Rachel and Rebecca, naturally paired, have been chosen to carry out the assassination of the rebel, Varen, who has long acted as Ezekiah’s right-hand man.”
Immediately, I noticed Rachel’s eyes dart in my direction, then back to the High Priest. “My lord,” she interjected, “perhaps our special skills and vast experience would better serve the other target?”
Rachel was a bold one. She respected authority out of necessity more than desire. Rachel was well known for believing Rachel always knew best.
The High Priest gave her a wry grin, apparently expecting the warrior’s reaction to playing second fiddle. “Unfortunately for you that is not your decision to make,” he said. “Belial has personally laid out his desires for this mission and his desires will be followed to the letter.”
Any further debate had been silenced.
“Gwen and Agnes have been chosen to carry out the assassination of the prophet, Ezekiah,” he said. “We have reason to believe that something big is in planning within their organization. Whatever fiendish plot they mean to hatch must be stopped at once. The faith of millions may rest upon your shoulders, ladies. You have been given a great honor. Do not fail.”
I waited for Rachel to ask the obvious question, but she had been silenced once and apparently had no intentions of sticking her neck out again.
“My lord,” I asked. “Do you have plans for how each team should proceed?”
“Yes,” the High Priest said, “I have assigned a liaison who will contact you by tomorrow morning. You will meet with her to discuss each mission in detail. Naturally, each team only needs exact knowledge of their own mission, in case some of you happened to be captured. We wouldn’t want these devils torturing the information out of you. Besides, there are spies from the Resistance everywhere.”
With that, the High Priest rose from his chair. “Are there any further questions?”
Our eyes paused upon one another, and then flew back to attention. As wraith dancers this was what we had been trained to do—kill with impunity. As dispensers of the Serpent Kings’ justice, in all places under their rule, we carried out our duties without pity or remorse. At least, that was our training. I had found over my few years of actual service dispensing justice that it was not always so cut and dry a matter to deal with.
Still, the opportunity to kill the man who had perpetrated these heinous attacks upon our city—upon Zora—seemed too good to be true. Obviously, Belial had heard the secret prayer of my heart and granted me the opportunity to exact justice in his name; to have vengeance wrought upon our enemy by my own hand.
ROUNDTABLE
Varen suppressed his displeasure as he mounted the final steps leading onto the open courtyard before the castle entrance. Ezekiah still allowed children to play before his fortress. The prophet seemed so unthreatened way up here on Thorn Mountain. “Makes me sick,” Varen mumbled under his breath. Only Nordin had heard him. The older man gave him a nudge in reply.
Ezekiah’s guards had been waiting for them at the lower camp where most travelers to Thorn Mountain remained overnight. A dozen warriors had escorted Varen and his men all the way to the castle. They didn’t appear particularly formidable to Varen, but he wasn’t here to push his luck. He had presented no threat, nor did he intend to.
The guards led Varen and his men to the main gate. All activity, except the smallest children in the courtyard, had ceased in order to watch the curious procession pass by. When they stopped at the gate, Varen looked for a familiar face, but didn’t find any. The man keeping guard here was evidently someone who had joined Ezekiah after he had left Thorn Mountain. A few of their escorts looked vaguely familiar, but no one spoke to him.
They passed through and were escorted down the entry corridor. Everything remained as it had been when Varen was a resident. The familiarity did not bring fond feelings for him. He remembered only his disappointment with Ezekiah’s pacifist policies.
When he had come to believe the prophet’s preaching about the Serpent Kings, Varen had been fascinated with the man. But after years of serving with him, the luster had faded. Varen grew increasingly angry about what the dragons were doing to the people, rather than any sacrilege against Elithias.
Perhaps there really was a creator out there somewhere. If so, Varen was very disappointed by the prospect. For years now, he had been disillusioned with the prophecies of Elithias’ return. All Varen worried about was how to free mankind from the dragons who had subjugated them through deception. Ezekiah had made it quite plain that he would not support open war against the dragons. Varen wanted nothing more.
They were not led far within the castle before the guards stopped before a set of wooden doors set into the stone wall. One of them knocked. Another guard from within opened to their group, looked them over, and let them all file inside. A large round wooden table dominated the chamber within. Ezekiah rose from his chair as Varen and his men entered. “Varen, I bid you and your men welcome,” he began. “I trust you did not have any difficulty along the way.”
Varen and his men began to fan out around the table, taking chairs as they found them in no particular order. Varen sat directly opposite Ezekiah with Nordin to his right. Ezekiah smiled, surveying their group. Varen knew the prophet was sizing them up.
“Nordin,” Ezekiah said, acknowledging the older warrior. “I should have known you would still be with Varen.”
Nordin gave Varen a sidelong glance before answering. “Is there some reason why I would not be?” he offered.
Ezekiah appeared taken a back for a moment. “I meant no insult,” he said. “I only meant to compliment your tenacity.”
“I realize that,” Nordin said, giving the prophet a wry grin.
Varen might have enjoyed Ezekiah’s awkward position, if he didn’t have important business to attend to. He and his men were following a tight schedule, even if he was the only one aware of it.
“Well,” Ezekiah managed, “enough with the small talk, eh? Varen I agreed to this meeting, but I’m not sure what we have to gain by it.” Ezekiah rubbed his stubbly chin. “I’m assuming you haven’t changed your position?”
Varen clasped his hands together on the tabletop, leaning forward. “If anything, I’m more adamant that we fight the dragons with everything we’ve got,” he said.
Ezekiah leveled his gaze upon Varen. “I’ve not changed my position either,” he said. “I follow the will of Elithias, and he’s given me no such instruction. To seek my own way would be disaster.”
Varen did not seem at all surprised by the prophet’s convictions. This was nothing new to hear. “I was hoping you might have come to feel some compassion for the people who are enslaved by these monsters.” Varen pressed his argument, even though winning was not the point. “Have you forgotten the slaves toiling their pathetic lives away in the mines of Urtah? What of them? They know nothing of the kingdom’s prosperity, nothing about anything except being born to hard labor and looking forward to death.” Varen’s anger rose with the pitch of his voice. These same issues were exactly the kind of thing that made him follow his own way apart from Ezekiah. The man just wouldn’t listen to reason, always deferring to the will of his god. Varen had once thought he believed in this savior as well, but with time he fell back on his earlier skepticism.
“You started everyone thinking about freedom from the dragons, but you refuse to step up and help them attain it,” Varen accused. “Who is the greater criminal in that equation, Ezekiah; the dragons who hid freedom from us, or you, dangling it like a carrot that can never be had?”
Throughout Varen’s rant, Ezekiah remained calm. This was the same argument revisited for the hundredth time. It was not that Varen did not have a point. He did, and Ezekiah could understand his feelings on the matter. Making it especially heartfelt was Varen’
s own background; a child brought up in the mines and rescued by Ezekiah and his men years ago. But he still could not pursue the matter of war without leadership from Elithias.
When Varen, fuming, finally paused, Ezekiah spoke. “Varen, it is as it always has been between us. I view the situation from faith in Elithias and his plan for the overthrow of the dragons. Shall I choose the reasoning of a man—as logical as it may seem—or that of Elithias?”
The room was still for a moment, almost awkwardly so.
Varen stared hard at the prophet. His anger had been genuine—some people never changed. However, Varen’s expectations of Ezekiah’s response had been dead on. Still, he wanted to allow enough time for the rest of his plan to work. Keep the man talking; anything to get the real job done—the real reason for even making this journey to Thorn Mountain.
Varen suddenly looked much worn. “I might have expected our differences to remain, Ezekiah,” he finally admitted. “The truth is that I did not expect you to join me.”
Ezekiah looked around at his men, not quite sure what to make of this sudden change in Varen’s mood.
“I don’t suppose we might impose ourselves upon you for a hot meal before we are off?” Varen asked. “Hunting was not as good as I might have hoped along the way.”
Ezekiah stood, smiling affectionately. “I’m sorry that you’ve come so far for nothing,” he said.
Varen rose from his chair, begging him off. “Please, I knew my chances before we came,” he said, seeming mollified. “I just felt it was at least important to try one last time. Nevertheless, we will continue our struggle, even without you. I hope you can understand.”
Ezekiah nodded. “I will not pester you with matters of faith you do not wish to hear. But I must admit that had liberty been given me by Elithias, I would gladly have fought side by side with you and your people.”
Varen grinned. “I appreciate that, even if it is not to be.”
Ezekiah looked around the room, finding one of his men. “Jacob, please inform the kitchen that our guests are ready, if they have finished preparations.”
Jacob, a young man, nodded before hurrying out of the chamber to be sure dinner would be ready for them.
Ezekiah gestured after him, toward the door. “Perhaps a tour of the castle for your men, before we eat?” he asked.
“Please,” Varen said, “lead on.”
ESPIONAGE
Dressed completely in black, Jillian prepared to enter the castle at Thorn Mountain. She had followed Varen’s party from the valley, giving them a good one hour head start. Only two of the company of guards waiting at Ezekiah’s base camp had remained there while the others escorted Varen and his men to the castle above. One of these had been hurled from a cliff; taken by surprise while relieving himself. The other man had been seated next to a thick slab of beef roasting over their fire inside the deep cave.
Jillian had casually walked in from the cold, wearing a gray wolf skin coat, with the hood pulled tight around her face, and matching leggings, which protected her from the weather while blending well with the snow-covered rocky terrain. The man had reacted instantly, loosing his sword while calling for his fellow guardsman. Following the usual inane questions—“who are you and where’s Talen?”—the guard had attempted a feeble attack.
Blocking the man’s sword arm at the wrist, Jillian had quickly disarmed him and tossed the weapon to the ground behind her. Staggering backward, the man had shaken the pain out of his wrist, and then came at her with a dagger. Jillian had easily allowed the dagger to pass by before using the Touch to shatter the bones in his forearm. He would have screamed out in pain had she not thrust two fingers under his chin, silencing any cries.
Barely able to gasp for air, the guard made one last futile attempt. Jillian triple kicked with the Touch, connecting in one fluid motion with his left thigh, left shoulder and left temple, shattering the bones there. Dead already, he collapsed in a heap to the cave floor. Jillian had been playing with the man. He never had a chance.
She had shed her gray wolf skins before entering the stairs and terraces taking her up the mountain. Stuffing them in a crevasse to retrieve for her return trip, she had made good time behind Varen’s party, carefully keeping just enough distance between them and her. Fortunately, there were no guards posted along the way—something that would have presented a higher level of difficulty, but still easily manageable. Jillian was glad to experience the thrill of action again. Her current position in Tarris presented far fewer opportunities than she might have hoped.
She waited another hour for darkness to fall before making her way finally to the courtyard lying before the wall with its iron portcullis. Jillian clung to the shadows, watching as parents gathered their children from play. The guard at the side door of the gate ferried them through rather than raising the gate itself. Still, more guards remained in the courtyard situated around fire pits scattered across its area.
Jillian mapped out the shadows in contrast to places where light was plentiful from the fires. Fortunately, the moon was obscured by relatively thick cloud cover. A snow storm appeared to be imminent. If so, this might help her flight once the deed was done.
With catlike grace, Jillian made her way from shadow to shadow, slipping easily by the guards, pausing here and there behind large stones that had never been cleared away, making her way around the perimeter to a place opposite the door guard. Here, she found climbing the wall a minor inconvenience.
In moments, she was up on top of the wall. A patrolling guard lazily made his way away from her. By the time he turned at the far end and started back, Jillian was already over the side and creeping toward the main entrance.
She found the main door unguarded, slowly opening it and slipping inside. The main corridor beyond carried distant voices to her, but when utilizing the Gifts of Transcendence she found no one nearby. By the gifts her hearing had been enhanced as well as her eyesight, sense of smell and touch.
The corridors within the castle were sparsely lit with lengthy patches of darkness sometimes lying between gas lamps—curious technology for those who were interested in such things. Jillian never had been. She had grown up learning how to kill a hundred different ways. This was her interest and her joy: the thrill of intrigue and battle.
At this late hour, most were either finishing their supper or settling in for the night. She paused by an open door, finding a group of men enjoying a hearty meal by the light of a roaring fire. Varen and Ezekiah were among the group. They never suspected anyone had been there watching them with disdain. No guards had been present to guard their company. Foolishly, they felt secure.
Let them, she thought.
A part of Jillian wanted to enter the room full of rebels and show them what an experienced wraith dancer could really do. But that wasn’t her purpose. Stealth was the key tonight.
Following the instructions she’d been given, Jillian moved swiftly, silently padding through the stone corridors until she found the room she’d been looking for. There was no one outside; not a soul standing guard over a room that contained the key to locating one of the greatest treasures in all the kingdom. She tried the door. It had been latched from the inside.
Jillian pressed against the door, allowing her heightened senses to guide her to the spot that gave the least to her pressure. The latch would be directly on the other side. She found it two thirds of the way up the door. Utilizing the Gifts of Transcendence, Jillian thumped the door in that exact spot as quickly and quietly as possible. She felt and heard the latch break through its mount on the door facing. The door itself barely moved, vibrating only slightly before she pressed her hands against it to still the wood.
No sooner had she entered the half-lit room than a guard emerged from the shadows. A sword flew to her throat, only she wasn’t there anymore. Instantly she evaded the man when her heightened senses felt his body heat and the movement of stagnant air in the room. Jillian appeared behind him. She used the Touch, striking
the base of his skull with such force that his brain stem was eviscerated within. A lifeless lump, the guard fell forward heavily to the animal skin rug upon the floor; the soft fur dulling the noise of his landing.
Jillian smiled down at the man through the black wrap hiding most of her face. She had almost been surprised. The thrill of almost being discovered provided an extra rush that left her feeling elated. “It will never be that easy,” she whispered to the dead man.
She turned to the room, finding few personal affects. Ezekiah didn’t keep much here where he slept. A writing desk with quill and ink, parchments with writing scrawled in lines across them and a rack next to the desk containing many rolled scrolls; likely holding the precepts and prophecies of his religion.
Jillian had heard the preachers spreading their message of life without the rule of the dragon gods before. A lot of empty promises and superstition, as far as she was concerned. Ezekiah could keep his unknown god.
She quickly found the bed around a stone wall partition and the particular wooden trunk she was looking for. An old padlock held the front of the lid secure. Jillian gauged the wood for a moment, and then used the gifts to increase her strength a little. She smashed down through the top of the arched wooden lid, shattering it.
A quick search of the trunk’s contents yielded a particular scroll encased within a silver tube. She removed the end-cap and slid the parchment out into her hand. Jillian unrolled the scroll and found what she had been hoping for: the exact location of a weapons cache unrivaled in the kingdom of the Serpent Kings.
Jillian secured the parchment again within the silver tube to protect it for its long journey to Tarris. She left Ezekiah’s room, shutting the door as securely as possible with its ruined lock and made her way back the way she had come. The return trip through the castle was only slightly more difficult, made so by several mothers and their children who were carrying blankets down the corridor where Jillian had to pass. She waited in the shadows, and then moved swiftly to the main door and out into the courtyard. Her trip back over the wall was as uneventful as it was the first time.
