Darkness Rising 1: Chained

by Ross Kitson

  ***

  Eight hours later and two hundred miles to the east the contrast to the silence of the crypt could not have been greater. The north Thetorian town of Silverton was in a riotous mood as the Spring Festival began in earnest. Thousands of lanterns twinkled in the streets of the mining town, lighting the hordes of revellers. The din of the drunk mixed with the pipes and horns of the street musicians.

  The Silver Hills rose sharply above the town, a sombre brow frowning at the merriment. The eight thin towers of Baron Exiki’s castle could be seen on the horizon, lit by the blue light of the waning Aquatonian moon. The castle was a parody of a baron whose obesity was legendary and who only infrequently deigned to honour his chief town with his corpulent presence.

  Droves of entertainers would nonetheless migrate the eight miles to the castle to seek a fraction of his wealth, a product of the rich iron, silver, and even gold mines that populated the hills to the north.

  Like a corpse would attract flies, the rich excesses of nobles compelled those with an eye for exploitation and money to Silverton and the merchant Kurgin Goldersen was no exception.

  The dark figure who eased past the revellers that evening contemplated all this and more. He gravitated to the shadows, much of the time the only hint of his presence being his shaven head. He paused at a well in the square, observing eight drunken miners whose coarse songs were making a gaggle of girls blush and giggle.

  Goldersen’s buildings ran along a lane two streets removed from the main road south out of Silverton. The seven buildings were a mixture of heights and sizes. The shuttered windows were barred, giving some clue as to the fact they were used for the storage of Goldersen’s vast stocks; not that any fool would seek to steal from a man whose influence ran from the world of commerce to the world of crime as smoothly as a river runs to the sea.

  Yet the price for crime was that your opponents don’t play by the rules, considered the black clad man. He slipped into an alleyway then leapt to grab a handhold on the irregular stone of the building. He scuttled like a spider up the wall then pulled himself onto the slope of the one storey roof. A twinge came into his left elbow from an old wound, the memento from a card game gone wrong four years ago.

  He bounded across the rooftops, leaping with ease from one to the next and landing with barely a sound. The clamour from the streets would allow him a large margin for error but he was a professional: this was his vocation, this was business.

  He spotted the first guard as he peered over the edge of the two story roof he lay on. The guard was a big man, armoured in a chainmail hauberk and holding a spear. He stood alone at the edge of a small courtyard between three buildings. The dark man loosened a rope, threaded it through the eaves with a loop and then carefully lowered it.

  The noose slipped around the guard’s neck and the dark man rolled from the roof and dropped. The guard shot upwards with a splutter, his legs kicking spasmodically. The dark man landed and then held tightly onto the rope, his left foot neatly catching the shaft of the spear as it toppled, before easing it to the ground. Within a minute the jerking on the rope stopped and with some effort the black garbed man lowered the dead guard to the ground. He rolled him quickly behind a collection of six barrels.

  The guard had left a crossbow propped against the wall which the dark killer procured. Then he slowly opened the door and entered.

  There was a small hallway beyond which then opened into a large warehouse, some two stories high and thirty feet by fifty feet across. The interior was a maze of barrels, sacks, chests and crates, stacked into columns, like a temple to commerce. Sounds of laughter drifted along the avenues between the containers. Light was scanty, provided by a few smouldering lanterns. This suited him perfectly.

  The two guards at the door at the far end of the warehouse were chatting as he crept around the corner, discussing the finer points of the cathouse they were to attend later that night. Had he been a kinder man the idea that their last thought may be of such carnal pleasures may have given him some joy. But he had never been accused of kindness, even by the few he had ever called friend.

  The first guard died silently as the crossbow bolt transfixed his head to the wall; the second managed a gasp as the dark man was upon him, slicing his blade across the guard’s neck. He crumpled to the floor with a grisly gurgle.

  Wiping his blade on the cloth of the guard’s trousers the dark figure pushed open the door into the next room. It was a small chamber, with a door on the far side and dark mahogany furniture cluttering its interior. Its sole occupant was a short bearded man dressed in a crimson silk shirt and black silk trousers. His stumpy digits glittered with gold and jewels. He rooted through a pile of papers on his desk. He glanced in irritation at the interruption.

  “Who in the Pale’s name are you?” Goldersen asked, his beady eyes glancing at his possible escape routes.

  The dark man smiled, the pale scar on his face creasing. “But a thespian, treading the boards of the intricate saga of this life. A player. But a professional player, at that.”

  “Your visit surprises me then. I have only a ten-year old claret from the nether regions of Feldor to offer you.”

  “Your hospitality is not in question, sir. Sadly I refrain from drinking whilst I work, though it would please me immensely if you indulge yourself.”

  Goldersen shrugged and poured a goblet of the blood red liquid.

  “Surely you mock me with talk of theatricals?”

  The dark man stepped forwards, his cold eyes fixing Goldersen’s.

  “Indeed not, sir. I have long subscribed to the philosophy that we merely act on the whims and designs of the many gods that direct us through this mortal charade. One day our scene may be as doting husband or furious father, yet on another we may stand alone in the tranquility of a soliloquy, contemplating the purpose of our allotted time. For you I understand the higher purpose has been that of gold and as many men before you and after you, your desires have clashed with those far more devious.”

  Goldersen was shaking as he sipped. “We are all slave to the seductive touch of wealth, for all it is a mistress. Do not pretend you do it for another purpose, assassin. I will triple what they are paying you.”

  “Your final scene should perhaps be better spent recounting words that shall live beyond you, a condensation of a lifetime’s wisdom. Instead you bow out to misguided attempts to divert the inevitable. The long rest comes to all, merchant, and for you it is now. There is no honour amongst thieves, it is said, but there is a code amongst brothers of the Silent Knife.”

  “Then tell me who? Who sent you so I may damn them with my last breath?”

  “That is a far greater swan song! That’s the spirit! ‘I damn them as I die.’ That would be a great line. A touch of panache. A bit of venom. Sadly I’m not at liberty to reveal my guild’s client, but you could narrow it down to one of perhaps twenty given your many indiscretions over the years. One of your six sons, greedy for their inheritance? Your grasping wife? Another merchant, eager for your stock? Perhaps the king, bored at court with the parade of powdered wigs and wanting the metallic smell of blood on his hands? Who can be sure? All have roles and all will have their own grand exit.”

  “You sadist,” Goldersen said and flung the goblet at the assassin. He bolted for the door, his feet slipping on the stone flags. With a sigh the dark man drew back his arm and threw his knife. It struck with a thud into Goldersen’s spine; he floundered and then fell against the door.

  The assassin strode forward as Goldersen lay twitching on the floor. He retrieved the goblet and filled it with wine then sipped with a surprising daintiness as he bent over the dying figure. He placed one gloved hand over Goldersen’s mouth, his strong fingers sealing the airway. Goldersen feebly scrabbled at the arm as the assassin looked into the fading light of his eyes.

  “I know, I know. I don’t drink on the job. Yet it is festival night and the zenith of spring is upon us, the chill stroke of winter but a fa
ded memory. No, don’t fret, kind sir, there is no dint in the armour of my legendary professionalism. For, to be fair, the job’s over. Please realise it was nothing personal. It was just business.”

  A mist had begun to form in the street when, five minutes later, he emerged in a differing garb. Gone were the dark clothes and in their stead the brighter outfit of a circus man. He patted revellers on their backs, all smiles and laughs, entertaining passing girls with his dexterity and juggling.

  Life was a charade indeed.