Assassin's Quest

by Jon Kiln

  With his dagger, Rothar painfully worked to cut a scrap of material from his tunic. He then dabbed the cloth in the pool of blood forming beneath him, and held it out to the falcon.

  “Get Peregrin,” he said to the bird.

  The falcon plucked the cloth up in it’s beak and took off. Rothar watched the raptor fly gracefully over the Banewood before everything went black.

  ***

  Despite the pouring rain, a crowd had gathered in the city square. There was always a good turnout for executions, rain or shine. A large wooden platform had been erected. A single staircase led up to nothing but a crude wooden stand and a large basket. King Victar had sent young Rothar to assist the executioner. This was to be the beginning of his training.

  Rothar stood at the edge of the platform, holding the executioner’s spare sword. He scanned the faces in the crowd, recognizing many of them. Some were peasants that he knew from when he would sneak out to explore Witherington, others were nobility that he had seen and avoided on the castle grounds. He noticed that, without exception, the faces of the noblemen were taut with excitement or mocking sneers, while the peasantry, to a man, bore a countenance of sorrow and mourning.

  One by one, the condemned were made to climb the stairway and kneel before the executioner. The charges against the doomed were read aloud. They would be permitted a moment to say their last words, and then the executioner would lop off their heads. It was a grotesquely simple process.

  It had been a while since the last round of executions, and the list of condemned was long. After about every fourth beheading, Rothar would have to empty the large basket into a wagon behind the platform. It was a terrible task for anyone, let alone a boy so young, but Rothar had been told it was an honor, and he was lucky to be chosen.

  Rothar knew the truth, however. He was growing up, and his residency in Castle Staghorn, while always a source of whispers and stares from some of the nobility, was becoming more inappropriate. He had shown greater and greater skill in his war games with Heldar, and the castle guards had eventually taken an interest in him. After a time, though, the captain of the guard deemed Rothar too wild and remorseless to protect the King. Faced with the dilemma of what to do with him, Victar deemed that Rothar would train to be the next royal executioner, a fate that the King felt would serve as an outlet for Rothar’s deadly tastes, while still keeping him nearby and well fed.

  Dumping basket after basket of severed heads into the wagon, Rothar’s anger grew and grew. What the King and the captain of the guard did not understand was that he had no desire to watch peasants and paupers die for stealing bread. The fire in his soul was deadly, but it was righteous. The execution in the city square was merely a morbid entertainment for the bored nobility. Truly evil men lurked in every corner of the square, while good people died for the crime of being hungry.

  A feeble old man was led to the stand, barely able to walk on his own. Tears ran down the man’s face as he turned to face his family, all sobbing and dressed in black next to the platform. Asked for his last words, the man simply said, “Remember me well.”

  As the executioner raised his sword, Rothar heard him chuckle. It was more than he could bear.

  Gripping the spare sword with both hands, Rothar swung with all his might, severing the executioner’s leg just above the knee. The huge man roared and fell aside, his sword missing the whimpering old man by inches.

  There was a collective gasp from the large crowd. A woman screamed. The executioner continued to roar in pain. Rothar turned and leapt off the end of the platform, landing on the back of the horse that was harnessed to the wagon. Rothar kicked the horse in the sides and they lunged forward, parting the stunned crowd.

  Heads tumbled out of the back of the wagon as Rothar urged the horse out of the city square. He could see guards beginning to close in from the edge of the crowd, and one reached for the horse’s bridle. The horse whinnied and reared up, sending the guard sprawling backwards. At that same moment, the sky lit up with lightning and a magnificent crash of thunder shook the earth. People screamed and scattered as the sky let loose sheets of rain and hail.

  In all of the panic and confusion, Rothar rode the horse straight out of the city’s front gate. Stopping at the edge of the Banewood to free the horse of the carriage, which now contained only a few heads, young Rothar stroked the black beast’s mane.

  “You’re a fine horse, aren’t you?” Rothar said. “I’m going to call you Stormbringer.”

  Chapter 19

  A fire was crackling nearby, and something smelled good. Rothar hovered between consciousness and sleep, and tried to decide which way to go. Pain was everywhere, and falling back into the darkness would be a welcome reprieve. But there was something else at the edge of his memory, something that needed tending to.

  The children. Esme.

  Rothar struggled to wake up. He felt like he was swimming upwards through a thick muck. There was a murky light at the surface, but the progress was slow and suffocating. He heard a voice, distant at first and then surprisingly close. It was Peregrin’s voice. Something pushed down gently on his chest.

  Finally, Rothar managed to open his eyes. Two shiny black orbs regarded him from just inches away. The falcon was perched on his chest, staring at him intently. Looking past the bird, Rothar could see Peregrin sitting at the foot of the bed, singing softly and staring out of the tent flap into the hazy noonday light of the Banewood.

  Looking around, Rothar could tell without any doubt that he was in Peregrin’s tent. There were purple-banded arrows in a quiver on the floor, animal pelts hung from everything, and there was a small wooden idol of a half bird, half man deity.

  Rothar struggled to sit up. He grunted and the falcon opened it’s wings and flew to another corner of the tent, clearly annoyed at having it’s perch disturbed.

  Peregrin was by him immediately.

  “Lay back down, friend,” he told him. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You were nearly dead when I found you.”

  Rothar tried to protest but pain and weakness pushed him back down.

  “How long have I been here?” he asked.

  “Two and one-half days,” answered Peregrin.

  Rothar gave a short roar and was on his feet.

  “Now, now! What are you thinking?” scolded Peregrin.

  The room spun. Rothar felt as though the earth were being turned on it’s side and he staggered, reaching out for something to steady himself on. Finding nothing, he crashed to the floor.

  “You see, Rothar? You stubborn mule!” Peregrin said. “You are too weak to do anything now.”

  Rothar had risen to his knees and was fighting to regain his balance.

  Peregrin continued, “You need to stay still for a while, but I have things to tell you, so your mind can work while your body is recovering.”

  Rothar looked at his friend with curiosity. “What have you learned?”

  Peregrin helped Rothar back to the bed and made him lie down. He brought him water and some bread, then dolled out a steaming bowl of meat stew from the kettle over the fire. Rothar ate slowly but gratefully and listened to his friend talk.

  “After we spoke yesterday and you rode into the valley like a fool, one of our men returned from the King’s City and said that the place was all in chaos,” Peregrin began. “Three more children have gone missing, all girls.”

  Rothar closed his eyes and shook his head. “Whoever it is that is doing this, they are getting bolder - or more desperate.”

  “Indeed,” said Peregrin. “What’s more though, is that another child may have been taken as well, but the louse who came to take her got himself caught.”

  Rothar nearly sat up straight again. “Truly? Is it over that easily?”

  “I fear not,” Peregrin answered, shaking his head sadly. “The capture was made before the last child was snatched. It seems there is more than one kidnapper.”

  Closing his eyes, Rothar sank back against the bed, letting out a lo
ng breath. The situation was getting more complicated and here he was, laid up in the Banewood, unable to do a thing.

  “There is something you might be interested to know about the captured man,” Peregrin said.

  “Oh, there is a great amount I would like to know, and I will extract at least that much from him once I get to him,” Rothar growled.

  “I’ve no doubt you will, old friend,” chuckled Peregrin, without humor. “But what I mean to tell you is that the castle guards have managed to learn the man’s name - by use of their usual tactics I am sure.”

  Rothar looked up at Peregrin expectantly. “And what is it?”

  “The man is called Sleeth.”

  Rothar’s expression did not change. “Sleeth is dead.”

  “This one is not - at least not yet,” replied the huntsman.

  Pondering, Rothar asked, “A brother?”

  “Possibly,” said Peregrin. “I asked our men if anyone had ever had any dealings with any Sleeth. One said that they had sold some pelts a number of years ago to a Sleeth in Blackwater, but he was very old and quite mad indeed.”

  “Perhaps madness runs in the family,” said Rothar. “Take me to Blackwater.”

  “I’ll take you no where until you are well,” insisted Peregrin.

  “Very well, then,” Rothar said.

  With that he rose from the bed and stood up. He hesitated a long moment as the dizziness washed over him. Once the world around him slowed it’s spinning, he began to take slow and measured steps towards the tent flap.

  “You can’t head out like this, Rothar,” said Peregrin.

  Rothar said nothing, just continued his slow and agonizing walk out of the tent. Once outside, he whistled for Stormbringer.

  “He’s tied off by the stream,” Peregrin called after him.

  In the distance there was the sound of a tree limb breaking. A moment later Stormbringer cantered out of the forest, dragging the large limb behind him.

  Peregrin stared at the horse, dumbfounded. Stormbringer approached Rothar, who stood hunched forward in obvious pain. The horse knelt down and laid on it’s belly, Rothar stepped over his back and sat down in the saddle. The stallion stood back up.

  “Farwell, Peregrin,” said Rothar, weakly.

  The huntsman was shaking his head in disbelief. Finally, his shoulders dropped a little, and he sighed.

  “Wait here, I will go saddle my horse.”

  Chapter 20

  Blackwater sat on the edge of the sea in the northeast corner of the kingdom. Most of the inhabitants made a living by fishing deep holes in the floor of the Amethyst, just off the coast of Blackwater. Massive fish lived in the trenches, so large that one fish could often feed an entire village, or sink an entire fishing boat. The depth of the water, along with it’s deadly implications, gave the town it’s name.

  On the road to Blackwater, Peregrin led the way on his gray mare, Garnett, as Rothar followed behind and filled his companion in about the events that transpired in Rama. When he told of the way Taria released the Southland herd and helped him escape, Peregrin nearly laughed with glee.

  “Ah, Taria! She was always good with the horses!” he shouted. “You certainly owe her a favor, Rothar!”

  “I owe her more than that,” Rothar answered.

  Peregrin must have heard something in Rothar’s voice, for he slowed Garnett and fell back beside him.

  “You did the only thing you could do, Rothar,” he said. “And besides, if you had brought her out with you, who do you think would have taken that arrow, you or her?”

  Rothar had not thought about that. Taria would have been riding behind him coming through the valley. The arrow might likely have found her instead.

  “I’m going back, you know, when all of this is over,” he told Peregrin.

  “I know,” was all the huntsman said.

  “I am going to bring her out of the desert, and I need you to take her in.”

  Peregrin’s eyebrows rose at that. He clearly had not been expecting to be involved in such a way, but he made no protest.

  “Rothar, if you get her out of there, I will give you my word that she will be safe in the Banewood.”

  Nodding, Rothar said nothing, and the two men rode in silence for a while.

  “Speaking of that arrow, by the way, it was your own, wasn't it?” Peregrin asked.

  “It was,” Rothar answered. “I fired two arrows at rebels in the Valley of Mourning. Both found their mark, and both came back to me on my return trip.”

  Peregrin furrowed his brow. “That could be very bad news, and not just for you,” he said. “If the rebels are firing arrows like that, especially in the dark, then it means that at least one master warrior has joined their ranks. It may not be safe to cross the valley anymore, not even for us.”

  With all that had happened since last night, Rothar had not even thought about the implications of an archer in the valley. He hoped he had not brought more trouble upon the huntsmen.

  From time to time, Peregrin would lean out and pluck a leaf from a certain tree and put it in his mouth, chewing on it. When the leaf was sufficiently chewed he would spit it into his hand and drop back to Rothar and pull his friends bandage back to poke the substance into his wound. Rothar would grimace but make no sound, and each time Peregrin applied the odd salve, Rothar’s pain lessened.

  “Timber taught you well,” Rothar said.

  “How do you know I’m not just making this up as I go along?” Peregrin joked, smiling.

  “Because it’s working,” Rothar smiled back. “It always seemed like your father could heal anyone, given the right plants. The forest was his apothecary.”

  Peregrin’s voice was somber when he replied. “He couldn't heal himself, in the end… Nor could I.”

  Rothar frowned. Timber and Peregrin had been on a bear hunt, many years ago. The great hunter had downed a giant bear with one arrow, and it had fallen into a crevasse. Peregrin had volunteered to climb down into the gorge to tie a rope to the beast. As he was climbing back up the rocks, the bear revived and started climbing up behind him, quickly. Timber had thrown himself into the crevasse, knife in hand, and killed the beast once and for all, but not before receiving a mortal wound to the stomach.

  “You cannot blame yourself, old friend,” Rothar replied. “He was gravely injured. You did everything you could.”

  Peregrin’s eyes seemed to be looking at something very far away.

  “Not everything,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Rothar asked.

  It was a long time before Peregrin answered, and when he did, Rothar felt as though the huntsman were telling him a deeply kept secret, something that had not even been revealed to him in his years as a hunter himself.

  “Some of the old ones say that some of the most deadly plants also have restorative powers… but only if they are administered upon the dead… it is most likely a myth, but it is a myth I could have tested.”

  Immediately, Rothar thought about Brath, and how the giant’s eyes had seemed to flash open when Rothar removed his head from his lifeless body. Had he cleansed his blade of the Quietus? He could not recall. Rothar nearly told Peregrin of the experience, but stopped himself. There was no reason to give his friend more reason to believe that he had failed to save his father.

  ***

  Late in the day, a faint smell of rotting fish on the breeze told them that they were nearing Blackwater. Cresting a hill, the pair looked down into the seaside valley that held the dark little fishing village. Dozens of flat topped huts cluttered the seashore and a great many long wooden fishing boats bobbed at the waters edge, as well as out on the murky water.

  As Rothar and Peregrin looked out over the city and sea, they could hear a shout from out on the water. Squinting, they made out the shapes of several men struggling to pull up a net from the blackness of the sea. The fishermen took great fistfuls of netting in their hands and heaved and strained. The boat rocked back and forth more violen
tly the more they fought. Suddenly, the boat leaned hard to the starboard side and the men could be heard screaming wildly. All at once, there was a great splash, and the boat was gone, the water roiling and foaming in the place where it had been just a moment ago.

  Peregrin looked at Rothar. “If you ever feel that your profession is getting too perilous, consider yourself fortunate that you are not a Blackwater fisherman.”

  They rode into the village and Rothar tried to straighten himself in the saddle as best he could. It had occurred to him that he knew not who was watching them or who may be involved in this treachery anymore, and he did not want to appear weak.

  Peregrin woke a napping shopkeeper on the main street and asked of the whereabouts of Sleeth.

  “Which one?” asked the drowsy merchant.

  Peregrin looked at Rothar and shrugged.

  “The elder,” said Rothar.

  The shopkeeper chuckled. “Ah, it’s King Sleeth you seek, eh?” The way he said “King” made it evident that the elder Sleeth was a bit of a laughingstock in Blackwater.

  “He holds court in the big shack at the end of the beach, o’er that way,” the man pointed.

  The beach was littered with driftwood from sunken ships, scraps of fishing nets and the skeletons of massive fish. In one spot, Stormbringer and Garnett walked side by side between the sun bleached rib bones of some monstrous sea creature long dead. From this distance, the riders could see scores of floating crosses, bobbing across the surface of the water. Monuments to countless lost fishermen.

  At the far end of the beach they came to the domicile of the elder Sleeth. They knew they were at the right place, for no other structure was around. The ramshackle edifice was built of driftwood and surf smoothed stone, pieced together in a way that made it seem like a stiff wind would take the whole mess to the ground.

  Rothar and Peregrin dismounted and walked inside, blinking their eyes to adjust to the contrasting darkness. They found themselves in a small foyer, void of furnishings, with a large double door before them.