by Jason Jones
“Evening.”
Kendari lunged from behind the statue of Saint Tarumin, his heated blade piercing through the leather protections and flesh of the first Chazzrynn man to charge him. The assassin stifled his scream, turning red around the eyes, feeling heat and metal through his ribs. He backed up, holding the wound and lunging with his saber in return. Parrying easily, the cursed elf then spun round, raising his stance as he turned, and cut across the neck with his reverse held left hand blade. As the man fell to his knees silently, the second killer sprang over his body in full rush and pressed his quick attacks with the dagger and saber. Kendari backed up, deflecting cleanly and accurately. Having this man outmatched, the swordsman let him in close, too close for the long blades he had trained with for centuries. Or so he wished his victims to believe.
The assassin directed his attacks in past the reach of Kendari’s edges and went for the kill. First the dagger cut across toward the elf's neck and he presented his forearm, the bracer blocking the attack like straw against stone. The saber of the man cut down, then turned up toward his upper flank, the other bracer stopping the cut inches away. The man was overextended in reach, his blades stopped short by armguards that should have given to injury, then he felt the two cuts across his belly.
Kendari crouched back after his two lightning cross-cuts and pointed Shiver, straight armed, toward his enemy, not sure if he was falling or continuing a lunge in hopes of victory. The latter proved true, the assassin not giving up easily and before he was aware of the feint of retreat, he impaled himself onto a scorching blade. His arms limp as death came, flesh sizzling, the last vision of closing eyes was a pale faced elf, marked from a curse, smiling with the green eyes of the devil himself.
“Not even close,”was the last whisper of noise he heard.
Kendari looked through their belongings quickly, searching for a sign or symbol or an order of some sort, knowing he was unveiled and there were more on the way for sure. Frantic almost, he began to strip the armor off one of the deceased men knowing that they had been trained well and therefore either had allegiance to someone, or were very expensive to hire.
“Shalokahn perhaps, or does Vallakazz train assassins now? Could be from that incident in Caberra, no, that was half a century past.” Kendari spoke to the bleeding corpse, gaining no response, wondering how many more he could expect.
“Ahhh, damn it all.” The back shoulder blade, behind the heart of the first hunter, revealed a brand that left a terrible white scar. Puffy, fresh and scabbed at parts, a true branding iron mark the size of Kendari’s open hand. It was a spider.
He stood up, not smiling in the least, looking in disbelief at the downward facing ivory arachnid with eight legs outstretched that branded the dead man's back.
“The White Spider. So they want me dead? Give my warm regards to Johnas Valhera then.”
The Nadderi elf moved through the courtyard of statues, trees, and hedges, finding shadows under the grand temple alcoves in which to immerse himself. His mind racing, centuries had passed since he was in this tight of a position and he noted his back was literally against a wall. More figures in shadows, every direction he looked, he could point them out, the way they moved, the way they looked around but blended in. Across the courtyard in the streets, on rooftops, and coming and going in the blackness of night, there were more than twenty. It seemed a celebration was occurring this night, giving the streets far too much activity, allowing twenty or more assassins to go most unseen to the untrained eye.
Kendari knew the White Spider was centralized in Valhirst and that its webs were wide spanning and deep. It was the most feared organization in Agara, with nests in every kingdom, even ties to the occasional Altestan magistrate that ruled over occupied territories here in the southern continent. From illicit goods, to piracy, to kidnapping, and of course, assassinations on every level of political scheme, the White Spider was sought after by many a killer and criminal. They would be on any mission in great number, and employed other creatures, wizards, and poisons. That was the rumor, that was the fear, and Kendari hoped that he was not the reason they were here. His mind tried to conclude that he must have crossed some territory or stepped in on a job in progress, and that his appearance or reputation was recognized by accidental passing.
Most likely to the elf, a few brave members had simply tried to make an example, or carve their name into him for credit with the guild. Unless, he thought, Johnas and he were looking for the same things, and in that case, the cursed swordsman knew this would be a long night indeed.
“I sincerely hope you are not behind this, Salah.” Kendari whispered to the sky, knowing he was often followed and tracked through that green gas-filled ball of his foul employer.
Princes I:I
Castle Valhera
City of Valhirst
Chazzrynn
“Of course my king, I will see to the matter quite rapidly. I, too, tire of trolls haunting the lands to the south and hindering the tradeways. The people need not feel the necessity for heavily armed protection to travel the kingdom. Luckily, trolls are much less organized and proud than the ogre hordes you must contend with in the west.” The Prince of Valhirst looked to the night sky, wondering behind his smile and etiquette, why the highest nobility of Chazzrynn came so late.
“Flattery is not needed here. Just see the task done, nephew.”
“I shall, your highness, I shall. If, when the trolls are dealt with here in the east, you are in need of more men, please do not hesitate in your request for some of Valhirst’s finest.” Speaking eloquently, answering perfectly, and offering his allegiance to his old uncle, Johnas Valhera walked side by side with King Mikhail Salganat in the adorned passages of Valhera Castle. Young Prince Bryant was in step behind them, listening intently, as most teenage nobles do as their future becomes more apparent.
“Do not concern yourself with the troubles that have crawled out from Teirinshire and Arouland, Prince of Valhirst. Southwind and Elcram have grown and improved over the last decade and the ogre are scattered into tribes that will never gather like those once held by the ogre king, Avegarne. The plague assured us of that, and Lord T’Vellon continues that assurance today.” The aging King spoke solemnly, still uncertain if the son of his late brother understood the matter at hand, or was merely speaking to his ear.
He noticed that Johnas was living well, not that he should not be as the Prince of Valhirst, the largest city in Chazzrynn and the merchant capital of the south. His nephew had always had a strong taste in finery, from his velvet red robes, to golden hilted weapons, and emerald studded jewelry. Johnas was fit and healthy, presentable at court, and well spoken. Too well spoken for Mikhail’s tastes and his resemblance to his late sister by marriage was apparent in looks and in word. In his long blond hair, clean shaven face, and his pointy nose, the old king saw little of the men of his family in Johnas.
“Your arrival is surprising. How did the meeting with Richmond the Second of Harlaheim fare for Chazzrynn? Old resentments buried with the son of our once enemy, I would suppose?”
“Likely the most tedious and droll of meetings I have had with foreign nobility, nephew. Nothing to speak of.”
Mikhail had wished for his nephew to join him in battles, leading men, creating a greater Chazzrynn. Yet this one had always been far too comfortable in the safety of his throne and his great halls of the castle to be bothered with much more than issuing orders for others to fight and die. The king walked slowly, trying to remind himself that his nephew simply was not the charging and fearless noble soldier that the Valhera family line had been previously. He had been raised by his mother, and kept in the castle far too much as a child, especially after his brother had died many years past. Mikhail noted the swinging blade from his hip, engraved, bejeweled, a golden saber, one that had not a scratch to it at all. He shook his head.
“Bishops and counselors from Addisonia and Silverbridge stewing the pot toward Willborne again, uncle?”
Mikhail thought for a moment, his armor plates clanking as he walked, of his late uncle, Caddail. He was told by his father, the thirty ninth king of Chazzrynn, that he was a spitting image of his uncle Caddail Valhera, Prince of Valhirst. His uncle, this one’s grandfather by marriage and little blood, had fought bravely alongside his late father, King Mulvain, in the Caberran war decades ago when Mikhail was but a prince himself. Harlaheim and Chazzrynn had united forces against the expanding Caberran fleet when he was young, and he lost his father and uncle in that war. That was when Salganat, Valhera, Lazlette, and Unarvin were united as one in Chazzrynn, long ago.
“How fares the trade in winter? I noticed the taxes were high once more, must be a lot of activity. Odd, for such a cold time of year.”
“Every year we grow, every winter, more ships. Having the direct line to Harlaheim is advantageous.” Johnas smiled, knowing Mikhail was holding back, his son, Bryant, was barely containing his wishes to speak on something else. He saw it all over their faces. “And, Harlaheim is not at war with Caberra, and thus they prosper, and thus they trade. Which does well for Chazzrynn.”
“Very true.”
Mikhail thought of war, old wars, the Caberran war. It was hard, this peacetime. The southern kingdoms had risen victorious, and Caberra stopped its advance, withdrawing to the north for fear of an opportunistic Shalokahn that would not hesitate to move on the injured kingdom. In his reign as king, Mikhail had fought against Harlaheim, as Richmond the First demanded payment for the old allegience. When Mikhail spoke of Mulvain Salganat and Caddail Valhera, great heroes that died for the allied victory, Richmond had spat on the ground and cursed their names. That started the second war, a simple insult, and then ten thousand lives and nine years later, it ended. The men were still sung of on the day of their deaths, two brothers, great leaders, a day of victory, and this son of Valhera had done little to live up to that kind of ruler. With a heavy sigh and a run of fingers through a gray and black beard as he walked, Mikhail tried to see the best in his nephew.
“Besides the trolls, Mikhail, why the unexpected visit, if you don’t mind the inquiry?” Johnas, despite being fifteen years younger at forty one seasons, could tell without effort that an unannounced arrival from the king was not for troll raids along south and eastern trade routes in winter. The look in the ever-glaring eyes of Prince Bryant was enough to resign that information to the obvious. There was something serious at hand.
“Willborne. I heard you were sending men and gold to Katrina of Willborne, actually.” The king paused, waiting for the response from Johnas. Eyeing back and forth, he looked for any men that might be trailing them, as years had taught him that Johnas had spies everywhere. He heard the tensing of his only living son, Bryant, surely more on guard than he was at the moment.
“Preposterous. Why would I send men and such to the dying cause of a rebellious noble lady that has nothing of value? For one, it is treason, also, I have no men nor gold to spare, even if I wished my head on a chop-block for helping an unallied noble build her kingdom. Your information is defacing to me at best, Mikhail. I would most enjoy talking to the citizen responsible for the spread of such unfathomed fictions.”
“It was Jeffers, brother to Captain Ellaird, your missing Captain. Jeffers says you had the captain take men to Willborne and then tried to have him killed, to cover your trail.” The king stopped, turned to his nephew, looking him dead in the eye. Mikhail was waiting for hesitation, for a tremble, for a stutter, anything that could put truth to the accusation to which he had little real proof at all.
Johnas turned as well, meeting the gaze of the King of Chazzrynn, placing his hand on the black falcon emblem on the steel breastplate of Mikhail’s armor.
“My king, Captain Ellaird ran off with a whore from Willborne, ran off and deserted to Harlaheim with her. He is a drunk, and a terrible husband. I sent men to bring him back and have him imprisoned for desertion. The men did not get there in time, but with the history of this particular whore, Velvet Ribbera, she would usually return in a few months when the coin was gone and the liquor too. I left my men, just a small brigade, outside Willborne to await his return. He will most likely be foolish enough to follow the little slut after he wakes up empty pursed and alone. Simple strategy, my lord, nothing worth noting to you until finished, if even then.”
“And Captain Ellaird, has he returned or been brought in?”
“Unfortunately, no. Neither he, nor the paid gutter wench at his side, have turned up.”
“And the men?”
“Here in Valhirst my king. I need them here. However, I left scouts and an ambassador from the ranks of my court to handle tracking him down and seeing justice done. And this, Jeffers? When may I meet with this false accuser face to face, my lord?” Johnas was showing signs of anger at this point. His face flush, his demeanor and tone steady with a rising voice full of arrogance and frustration.
“He is dead. Poisoned from coated dagger wounds that my priests could not heal in time. His last words were as I just unveiled, prince.” Mikhail still breathed in and out despite weariness from his long journey and standing for hours now in his adorned suit of decorated plate.
“Gambling debt most evidently, my king. Jeffers had a few vices to run from, some that were worth the chase I have heard. Well, I assure you, the statements of the dead gambler, his drunken brother, and whore lover, are completely false. My records and barrack inspections are available to thee, should you require. This bothers me, Mikhail. May I retire to the hall and rest? You and the young Prince are welcome to stay, of course.”
“No Johnas, I have pressing matters at court in Loucas, and Bryant here has a tourney to partake in with several of the King’s knights. Five and thirty competing this time, and some from Harlaheim, Caberra, Armondeen, and Shanador. I have two days hard ride ahead, so just some supplies. Bill to the winter taxes for me if you would.”
“Of course my lord, safe journey. And fare well in the tourney, young Bryant.” Johnas bowed deeply, once to each of the Salganat men in front of him, and turned back down the corridor, headed for his great hall.
“Father, you know he is lying, why not do more to corner him? The allegations from the other men that went to Willborne, even our own men’s reports? For why do you delay in ridding us of this dubious and sniveling criminal of a Prince?” Bryant, young and with barely chicken scratch for a beard, was full of righteousness and quick justice. His hand still gripping the hilt of his broadsword under the leather and chain gauntlet, the heir to Chazzrynn was hoping for the order to arrest.
“Not yet son, not yet. We now know where he stands and how far his story reads. Now he must alter it and make it real. Back it up, if you will. So we must watch his men, his comings and goings, and we wait. He will cover his tracks, and we will find them. Remember, Jeffers stated allegiances with Altestan, Harlaheim, and Shalokahn as well, and we kept those to ourselves.”
“So why do we not take action, with all that we know?”
“That is what he will expect. Now we wait to see what he does next. We do not go to Loucas, we wait to catch the birds he will send to the north. We inspect caravan, traveler, and every ship leaving Valhirst to the north, and we will catch our pigeons. Land travel is too rough in winter, so it will be by ship. We shall stop every one of them. Once his contacts are cut, we will move in and take out the middle of the corruption with living testimony on our side. You will see, son. Be patient.” The two walked again.
“You are the king, father, you can---“
“I know who I am, and I know my title. What we do not know is solid evidence.”
“I have had plenty of men that will step forth---“
“Plenty came to you with these fictions of spider brands, stories of shapechanging demons, and more. I know
. When they vanish, where is your proof, son?”
“Hard to have proof when every man with a story on Johnas Valhera goes missing or ends up dead, father.”
“That is why we are here.”
Several armored men converged to walk with them from the courtyard and corridors of Valhera Castle, Mikhail’s men. All in the ancient royal blue décor of cape and cloth trimmed with gold and etched with the falcons of Chazzrynn. The King and the Royal Prince walked straight to the horses, prepared to wait outside the city by the coast of the Carisian Sea and the Bori Mountains to capture the eyes of and ears of Johnas Valhera, whoever they may be.
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Johnas walked briskly through the outer stone corridors of castle Valhera, servants that had been hidden within draperies and alcoves following in line behind him. No one spoke a word, no one dared. His velvet robes flung off his shoulders by his own frustrated hands were caught before they reached the floor by the young men in tow. His decorative saber and jewelry, gaudy yet valuable, tossed over the shoulder, one by one, his pace never slowing. Not one piece of finery hit the ground, not one ring or necklace, or emerald bracelet. Johnas stretched his hands out for the servants to take off his white blouse, which two did, stepping up their pace to take it quickly and gently from the outstretched arms of their master as he rushed below.
The Prince turned left, then an immediate right, down the center of the great hall where several more of his staff were waiting in line. His leather armor, golden bracers adorned with emeralds the size and shape of eyes, and all black leather garb was readied for him. Now reaching for his blade from the blond man behind him, Johnas walked through the humongous red curtain next to his throne, into a passageway without light. Snapping his fingers, rows of torches, on either side of this seemingly endless tunnel illuminated with magical flame. He drew his shortsword, kris style with a wavy blade, enchanted by his former wizard to be ever-sharp, never dulling, and able to cut through the thickest of steel. The pommel had an emerald with a black growth or imperfection in the stone, resembling a black eye. That stone, a family heirloom, was the most important part of the weapon. The prince knew no one was contemplating his demise, not anywhere nearby at least, for the emerald would vibrate gently should his death be upon the mind of anyone close.
