by Jason Jones
Holding his blade deep inside his enemy, the Nadderi felt victory in the sliding of steaming steel out of his vanquished foe. He twisted at the last moment, then tore Shiver free. Kendari kicked Lavress in the wound with his boot heel, redoubling the pain and sending him toppling down the stone steps, landing in a fetal curl of anguish, weapons falling from his fingers. He gripped his longblades tight, beginning his walk down to put the weapons through Lavress’ chest as he lay helpless. His wood elf opponent lay in paralyzed agony, unable to defend himself, ripe for the kill.
He raised his longsword, leaning over Lavress, “Not even….”
His words stopped as pain shot through his abdomen, an arrow from the grove that pierced through his chain and clothing and protruded out the other side of him. The Nadderi assassin stepped back, feeling pain rip through his body, closing his eyes, then opening them to see the limp form of the satyr across the grove, bow in hand, staring back at him.
Lavress held his bleeding and burning wound, and guided by the light of the moons, he staggered to a stand and stumbled toward the closing temple stairs. He picked up the falcata and dagger, then Lavress fell to his knees as blood pumped over his hand. Up again, he forced himself forward, gritting through pain and dying weakness. Dragging his weapons across the grass, Lavress sheathed his dagger, and grabbed the satyr, trying to remain standing. He knew Kendari would follow. Being driven by what he knew was approaching, he turned sideways, the opening barely a large fissure in stone, his body scraping along the rock edges as he and Bedesh tumbled down the steps into the green light and music of the temple of the Whitemoon. He drug Bedesh through the tight finish to the flat underground, nearly losing him as the mystical doorway stairs finally closed in.
They reached the cool earthen floor, the satyr with eyes closed, unmoving, bow clutched in his hand. Lavress held his side, feeling weak from the wound and the fight, but tried to crawl further into the temple to get help. He could barely crawl as his torso bled on the ground. The music was still emanating from within, louder than before. Lavress got to his feet and stumbled through the door to the throne room of the princess of the fey. He heard the stone touch stone, saw the lights of green and gold flitter as the music stopped. The hunter fell to the ground, seeing all manner of beings of the temple come to his aid.
“Bedesh,” he pointed his finger toward the entrance to the now closed and sealed temple stairs, and then his body forced him into rest. “Help him…please…”
The smell of lilac and sage filled the air, mixed with rose and lavender. He heard prayers and felt warmth as ancient fey and forest tongues spoke, peace washed over him hearing the voice of Finwel-Dur in his mind, and then feeling her small hand touch his face. His eyes remained shut, the sleep that elves so seldom took came over him, and he welcomed it, for the first time in over a century, Lavress fell to dreams.
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The arrow lodged in his abdomen ached, a pain that he had not felt in centuries of killing and mastering his skills against any and all he met. Kendari sheathed his blades and gritted his teeth, still weary from the long battle with the wood elf hunter. Watching the faint glow of morning lighten the black to indigo in the west, he placed his hands on either side of the protruding projectile and snapped the tip off, then ripped the feathered end out from his abdomen.
“Aaarrghh!” Kendari stifled a scream as he fell to a knee, not thirty feet from the sacred closed entrance to the Whitemoon.
He tore some of his cloak, spitting on it, and shoved it in the small hole, then again on the other side. His anger kept him from screaming again, the sounds of the trolls close behind him distracting as well. The Nadderi concentrated, refreshing himself mentally, knowing that the satyr and the elven hunter were dying or dead inside the temple of the Whitemoon. The stone looked sealed from here, but surely the small army of trolls could rip it open before they did anything mystical inside. Kendari smiled at the thought of slicing apart the fey, a fairy of Seirena, perhaps some dryads as well. His pride burned him more than his tired body or any injury could have at not finishing them both. Not yet, anyway.
He walked down the steps, passing the dead hiroon in the cascading green and white moonlight of early morning. The shadows played off the trees, still whispering about him and his deeds in whatever language nature spoke in. Kendari drew Shiver in his right hand, the enchanted longsword in his left, holding it reverse, as he preferred. He heard no music, saw no magical glows around the stones or the grove, but felt the presence of something that did not want him here, assuring him that they still saw him as a threat.
The trolls came from his left and his right, on either side to keep pace with him. It had been some time since he was glad to see the foul green bastards, with their slimy and stringy black hair, black eyes glowing red, their claws clacking and fangs hissing in the night. They did not speak, merely gathered round him, their nine foot forms casting longer shadows on the cursed swordsman, making his fearsome green eyes and pale skin marked with the black swirls of the curse even more frightening.
“You are late, my slimy soldiers. I need that stone door there ripped open. I do not care how many of you it takes, nor how long, but open the door to that temple and we kill everything inside.” He stepped forward, past the hissing regime, nine in all. Kendari stepped right into a troll who had not moved.
“I would suggest moving out of my way, fiend. Now rip that door open or Shiver here will be forced to assist.” He twirled his heated blade toward the face of the stupid one and stepped around. Another stepped in his way, which he also stepped around, growing frustrated. He thought perhaps Salah-Cam had sent the idiots instead of the warriors from his supply of trolls.
A third time, a troll stepped in his way, this time placing his clawed hand on Kendari’s shoulder, holding him still from his march. It released its grip when the cursed elf turned, rage on his face. The rest moved in slowly around him with the howl of a wolf in the distance.
“Lordsss Salah-Cams iss with the Spidersss now, cursssed one. Sayss your nots needed anymore.” The trolls all hissed and laughed, staring down at the Nadderi swordsman. They moved and smiled, their black eyes shimmering red in the night, eager for something that had nothing to do with the temple.
“Is that so? He has joined the White Spider and he told you I was not needed anymore?” Kendari thought of the organization of assassins, how many of them he had killed in his years. They must have made quite a deal with the foul old wretch of a wizard, and having him around would only be a threat.
“Thatss sso, yesss. You have been mores trouble thanss you beens worth, he sayss. Your days iss over, elf.” The nine hideous trolls started their fever, their hissing and riling of each other into a furious rage of violent behavior.
Kendari eyed the nine of them, getting angry, and looking at his blades. His side ached, his shoulder burned, and his arms felt as if he had been fighting for days on end.
“And you intend on sending me away, then? Very well, tell Lord Cam I will leave him be, and we part ways here, my grotesque friends.” He started deep breathing, resting what he could, trying to remain perfectly calm.
“No, Kendari the cursssed, your lasts night be heres and now.” The massive hulking swampfiends took turns talking, turns trying to intimidate him. “Wees too have had enoughs of the hotss sword you calls Shiver. You burns uss too many timesss.”
“Just motivation. I did it because I care to see you do your very best in every endeavor.” Kendari was barely breathing now, yet smiling since he assumed the trolls did not even know what the word endeavor meant.
“Layss down your swords, and we kills you quickly, elf.” Fangs and claws started coming, reaching for him, taunting him, pushing him back and forth as they tried to get him to make a false move so they could tear him to pieces.
“You would have to tear them from my dead hands, filth.”
“Weess intend to.”
His tired body matched his tired mind,
and he realized his stares were getting him nowhere this time. He smiled, seeing himself in the sacred grove of the temple of the Whitemoon, nearly seven centuries old, and surrounded by frenzied trolls. Betrayed by the one he hated serving the most, one he had thought of killing at least ten times over the last few decades. Kendari of Stillwood faced death, the deadliest assassin, now being murdered by those that worked for him. He smiled again at the irony and lowered his head, staring at his enchanted steel weapons.
“Very well. Who dies first?”
“Youss do, Kendari.”
The trolls descended on the cursed swordsman they were sent to kill, fangs tore, claws ripped, and screeching hisses echoed in the sacred grove in the shadows of dawn.
Princes I:V
White Spider Underground
Valhirst
“My prince,” the young messenger awoke the man on the onyx throne under the city.
“Yes, what is it. Can you not tell I am resting?” Johnas Valhera was less than comfortable, having drifted off some hours ago waiting to hear news from the Queen Sapphire, the doppelganger wizard, or someone, anyone.
“Two things, your majesty. First, Gregore sends word through the warlock mirrors. His words were difficult to decipher without Miss Blackflame, but we managed with one of the less skilled wizards of the house. The creature says that he is closing on the Bronze Harpy and will have them before the port of Harlaheim. He, it, he, also warns that two royal flagships attempted to meet him and the Sapphire, and are headed to the Valhirst port. He is certain one is King Mikhail. He sent word also that the Sapphire took heavy attacks from the other royal ship and is marooned on an island between here and Harlaheim.” The young boy felt confident in giving at least some good news to the Prince, for he had heard of messengers and neonates in the White Spider not surviving some meetings with Johnas.
“Excellent. Poor Farrigus. Still, he will figure his way off the island on his own. We have bought off the Harlian navy officers, courtesy of our agents underneath. So they will not interfere with helping the Harpy until after the Altestani ship has her way with them and our agents there are ready and waiting to take the scroll, and some captives.” Up on his boot heels, the Prince of Valhirst paced once again.
“What else?”
“Second, my prince, Bryant, son of King Mikhail waits for you in the great hall of castle Valhera. He wishes to talk of your ship attacking his, and has been waiting some time, but no one wished to disturb you.” The kneeling young Chazzrynn man swallowed deeply, knowing he was the bearer of bad news, but he was optimistic that he would survive. He had heard the Prince had lost many agents in the last few weeks and he was hoping that perhaps he was truly needed.
“Does he? And the king is en route on the Persistence.” Johnas waved another guard over, pointing to his royal garments hanging on hooks by the double doors to the main entrance.
“Yes, my prince, most likely this morning, the ship is in sight. His majesty pursued the Altestani ship for some time to the east, but turned back, we heard.” He looked up, standing with the Prince now, and assisting him in covering his leather armor and black attire befitting an underworld lord. The red velvet robes, green sashes and fine gold jewels and humble gold crown made Johnas look like an entirely different person.
Johnas Valhera buckled his emerald blade, it’s humming persistently trying to get his attention, but he ignored it. He felt for a moment that this youth had done well, despite the ill timed and long overdue awakening. He paced forward, out of the doors that were opened for him, and stopped. The sword throbbed and vibrated again, urging its master to pay attention and kill the boy.
Still groggy, the prince turned and looked at him, staring at the young man. No, he thought, too early for blood. He would kill him later perhaps, but not now. He had to meet the young heir and rival, and put him in his place. Ignoring the enchanted weapon, the prince marched with grace, head held high, out of his secret passages and to the throne room of his castle above ground.
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Balric waited till the doors had shut, holding his stinging chest, wound still fresh from the sword cut of Johnas days earlier. The boy nodded, having been paid plenty by the Harlian spy, and he watched as the former captain of the guard snuck through the shadows toward the prince’s chambers, avoiding the eyes of the throne and the doppelganger guard at the main entrance. The northern swordsman had heard Vanessa was still here, having been injured at the docks, and was not about to let her rot away in this place. He snuck to the corridor, seeing no one, just as planned, only torchlight and shadow. He pulled the key from his belt, still holding the bandages to his chest under his shirt with his other hand. The door unlocked and Balric D’Vrelle went inside, shutting the door behind him and locking it.
Vanessa looked up from the bed, sweating from the doses of opium that had been forced upon her. Her vision cleared, the room was flickering and dark, and her pain was starting to awaken. Then she saw his face, rugged beard neatly trimmed and dark, tan skin full of care, his dark eyes watering and sad, and his curly black hair down his shoulders. He was crying, standing over her, his mouth moving, but she could not hear, the drugs and burns kept her body from functioning correctly in many ways. She reached to touch his lips, feeling his skin and the movements of her lover’s mouth. Vanessa was unsure if this was real or a dream, it was hard to tell what was reality in her state.
Balric tried to talk to her, but she was doped from opium, he could smell it and see it in her one eye that would open. His heart ripped from his wounded chest at the sight of her burns, her blackened skin, but his heart remained loyal. He picked her up, feeling the seeping of blood into his bandages as he lifted her from the bed and carried her to the door. He fiddled with the lock, trying not to drop his lover, realizing she could not walk on her own.
The door creaked open, and he staggered down to the prison corridor, passing the young man he had paid. Balric nodded, saying nothing, for if words escaped his lips, his air would rush out and he would not be able to continue. Blood ran now, down into his waist, and his legs felt weak. Down another dark twisting tunnel of the White Spider, the spy carried his injured woman to more stairs leading up. The door at the top was unguarded, as agreed, and unlocked. He pushed through, Vanessa moaning in pain at the light that spilled in from the outside. Down the side streets of Valhirst that led out from the servant entrances to the castle, heading for the docks, he stumbled, but would not let anything stop him from getting to port. The water was in sight, the smell of salt and sea breeze cracked a smile on his face.
“Halt! Make way for the king!” several voices shouted as men in heavy armor rounded the corner. With steel shields, blue capes, and plate, the royal guard marched in line, any and all stepping aside. Balric was barely able to hold Vanessa anymore, and placed his back to the wall, trying to cover her face with her hair as to not look suspicious.
“Almost there my love, almost there.” Balric sniffled, seeing the full extent of her disfiguring burns in the light of the outside world. “I am here, I have you, we are almost free.”
Mikhail strode angrily into his largest and most treacherous city, under the rule of his nephew Johnas. His men parted the people, some waving, some with flowers, most just stared the blank look of a people who lived in a city that they wished had honor and glory as it once did. He hated looking into the eyes of a saddened citizen, for he felt it reflected on his rule. He looked around, noticing children, women, Valhirst guards and merchants all watching him and kneeling, wondering what feud he would bring to their ruler this time. He saw a man, shaking, back against the wall with his head down, carrying a woman. Harlian by the dark curly hair and complexion, and the beautiful Caberran woman he carried looked to have burns of a severe nature.
“Stop men, to the left.” Mikhail marched up to the man, his fifty royal guards with him. He stopped a foot in front of the man, noticing blood on his side and red soaked bandages falling out from under his
shirt.
“Help this man.” The guards held him up, and lifted Vanessa from his arms, despite his feeble attempt to hold on to her. The king had had enough, this city, this prince, his own blood by marriage a generation past, had blood in the streets and a suffering populace while he played pomp and snob.
“Who are you, Harlian, and what has happened here?” the king spoke slowly, curious about who would be exiting Castle Valhera with such wounds and heading for the docks without seeking a physician or the churches first.
The spy thought long, for he knew the reach of Johnas Valhera. “I am Balric, a missionary priest from Harlaheim, and this is my wife, your highness. We were attacked by a rogue wizard near the castle, but the Prince’s men killed him. Dasius was his name I believe, yes, Dasius. We would wait for help from the church, but our ship leaves now, and we mustn’t miss it, your majesty.” He bowed the best he could, nearly falling over. His face being down helped with the lies, for he had heard the king was a good man and Balric had trouble lying to good men, he despised bringing himself dishonor. He looked at Vanessa, relieved he had gotten this far at least.
“Get these two to the Persistence, I insist. Find out what ship they leave upon, and tell it to stay anchor by order of the king. Have my physicians attend to them right away, Captain.” Mikhail marched forward, while the captain of his royal guard and four others escorted the couple safely to his ship.
“Thank you, your majesty.” Balric spoke it as he collapsed and was held up by two royal guards.
Mikhail raised his hand in acknowledgement, yet marched on to Johnas.
He thought of the man’s wound, most likely not from a wizard, and the lady’s burns looked tended to, while her husband's were fresh. Mikhail wondered what went on in this city. He had heard plenty, seen plenty, but then it prospered so well from trade and finance due to the efforts of Johnas that he could hardly see fault. If it weren’t for his gut feeling he would most likely turn a blind eye. Now he walked ahead to meet his son and nephew, and discuss the vessels that left from here in such poor fashion. The king planned on being less than courteous in that matter. Johnas would cough up answers, one way or the other.
