Fogle Eric - Forge of the Gods 01 - The Last Knight (V1.0)

by 5kops

  "Do you know what this place is, Var Surestrike?" a deep, bitter voice echoed from the shadows of the room.

  It surprised him that someone had been waiting for him to enter. Out of the corner of his eye, Var watched as a dark mist spilled into the room and began to roll towards him. With the solid movements of a killer, Var took a step back and held his ground, his face a stern mask of concentration.

  There is nothing to worry about, he told himself. I have seen this before, another cheap illusion used to control my actions.

  "Do not look so alarmed, assassin. If I wished you dead, you would have been a corpse upon passing through my magical wards." The sinister voice chuckled.

  "I have come to collect my bounty!" Var said.

  "Do not presume you are owed anything!"

  The shadows parted and a tall man stepped swiftly toward him. Var was quick; years of training allowed him to circumvent the deadly blows of those he chased. In that moment, Var's reflexes saved his life, as a steel gauntlet snaked out of the robes and grazed his head, stunning him mo­mentarily. His senses picked out another blow speeding towards his chest but blurred vision made it hard to react. Var used his tactical knowledge to assess the fact that there was no way to dodge such a strike, so he prepared his body to receive it.

  The blow was intense.

  Though it caught him full in the chest and threw him across the room, Var absorbed the impact with another grunt, tucked his shoulder, and rolled into a crouching position. Not understanding what had provoked the at­tack, he instinctively unsheathed a pair shortswords. He then prepared to kill his employer, telling himself that he would need to be fast; the man was obviously channeling magic to hit him with such force.

  With litde concern for his life, Var stepped towards the man, his usual steely demeanor as a death dealer intact. He had never killed a sorcerer be­fore; it was something he had always hoped to stay away from, as the magic-inclined tended to have powerful allies. But this was something that could not be avoided.

  "You are fortunate that the Master has spared you, assassin!" the voice gloated. "I would have killed a lesser man for the pleasure of murdering the weak! However, you have earned yourself a second chance."

  "And you have earned yourself death," Var said through clenched teeth.

  "Ah, the assassin is unafraid," the man said, pulling a longsword that Var recognized as Bre'Dmorian. However, the man did not advance but circled Var in a defensive stance.

  This is no Bre'Dmorian, he thought, lashing out with several quick blows, testing his opponent. Although he had killed several of the holy men, he knew that they were not associated with such evil as this.

  "You are not interested in a second contract?" the man asked as he par­ried the blows, feinting, looking for a weakness.

  "Why would I accept the offer of a man who tried to kill me?" Var spat.

  The man only laughed at the question and assumed a more offensive posture, striking out in several different combinations. Var felt a surge of dread run through his body and knew that the man was toying with him. He had faced many challengers, lawful and unlawful, and in all that time none were such self-assured foes.

  "The Master will not allow me to kill you! At least . . . not yet," the man stepped back and lowered the tip of his weapon to the ground, showing parlay. "Because you are so resourceful, he is willing to give you another opportunity' to prove yourself. However, his kindness does have bounda­ries, should you not be willing to listen."

  Var hesitated. Though he wished to kill the man for striking him, he was at a crossroads. On one hand, there was no doubt that he would die if he did not at least listen. On the other, he really wanted to bath in this man's blood. For even' assassin there came a time when life no longer held mean­ing and a man no longer feared death. Was he at that point?

  "I can see the hatred in your eyes, assassin," the man stated, letting his guard down, inviting a killing blow. "You are trying to decide if you wish to die tonight or listen to my proposition. If it makes a difference, I would rather eradicate your kind from the face of Arsgoth, but the Master still has a use for you."

  "What is in it for me?" Var asked, stalling for time as he decided which road he wished to travel.

  "There is the chance that you will be allowed to live, of course," the shadowed man responded. "Not to mention the Master will double his of­fer; two thousand gold crowns, which should be enough for one of your kind to retire into luxury."

  "And if I take this job, what is there to keep you from killing me later?" Var asked.

  "Oh, I promise you that I will come for you myself when this is all done, Var," the man sneered, his hood pulling back just enough to show an aged face and glowing black eyes.

  Var considered the words. The shrouded man had just admitted that he would eventually come to kill him. However, if Var chose patience, he would be granted a once in a lifetime opportunity—to use this extra time to seek out the man's identity and take the offensive. Var knew that if the robed figure was a Bre'Dmorian Knight, he would be easy to track down. If not, well, how many men carried around such a sword? With much resolve, Var took a few steps back, sheathed both shortswords, and offered his hands in submissive gesture.

  "I see you have chosen life," the man stepped forward, sliding his sword back into its intricate scabbard. "That is good. Now, let us begin with busi­ness. You were asked to kill King Roderick II, the Sentinel of Arsgoth, with efficiently. However, the Master had not expected you to be so careless."

  "What are you talking about?" Var asked incredulously. "The king died in confusion! No one could have known it was linked to your agenda."

  "It is not the death of the king that has given us this new opportunity," the man drawled with a half chuckle, his dark eyes flaring. "You are a pro­fessional and I trust that you left no trace. What does concern him is the fact that a royal courier beat you back to the city. Because of your lack of haste, the Master has been forced to improvise, speeding things along by many years and in some cases, ruining his plans altogether!"

  "I was forced to kill another messenger to make sure the proper infor­mation was being relayed to the capital. I could not be seen leaving the city after the King of Arsgoth was murdered ... at least not so close to my arri­val," Var said. Nowhere in his contract had it been declared that upon completion, he was to return with all haste back to the Aresleigh. "You are lucky that the Master knows all, Var," the man said, "and that our plans will be carried out regardless. The death of King Roderick is only the beginning to a fitting end to this age."

  Var contemplated a quick death at the hands of the man when a revela­tion hit him: Whatever the reason, my employer still needs me.

  "What plans?" Var finally asked.

  "It is about time you asked," the man said, pulling a sealed parchment from the folds of his cloak and holding it out to the assassin. "We both know you have other means to enter and exit each city within the kingdom. That should make your next mark easy prey."

  "Who is it this time?" Var asked, reaching for the document.

  "I told you that our plans our in motion. However, they need a push in the right direction," the man explained. "The Master wishes to usurp the power in Arsgoth for his own. To do this, the most powerful noble houses must be driven into a series of events that will start a war."

  "The Duke of Aresleigh, then . . .?" Var tapped his chin.

  "No. The name of your mark, manner in which he needs to die, and the exact route which he will travel, are in the letter. We do not wish anyone so powerful killed this time. Your target is a royal courier who will be leaving Aresleigh at dawn. His death will pull the thread that unravels the entire realm, as the nobility- will turn on each other like wolves. It will also place our Bre'Dmorian friends in a very precarious situation."

  "How do you plan on accomplishing all of that off of a meaningless courier's death?" Var scowled.

  "We will indict Duke Valimont with these false documents, which order the messenger'
s death," the robed man said, holding out another sealed document bearing the official seal of Thames. "No one, and I mean no one, can know who is responsible until they find these documents . . . which you will plant."

  Do I really want to start a civil war? Var asked himself. Although he was a killer and often played into the political scheming of the nobility, this was a different scenario.

  "With the evidence pointing at the Duke Thames and the rumors you planted in Natalinople about his involvement in the murder of the king, the rest of the realm will have no choice but to unite against him," the man continued. "The result will allow the Master to destroy one of the houses that stand in his way."

  "So I am to kill a man, a lowly courier of no importance, and begin civil war?" Var asked with a suspicious gleam. This was sounding worse by the minute.

  Ignoring the question, the man continued. "I have secured you a Bre'Dmorian assistant, one who will be traveling with the courier towards Natalinople. You will make contact with him somewhere to the north and set up the proper place of death." the man retreated into the shadows. "One more thing, assassin," the robed figure paused. "After you have done the deed, I want you to kill the Bre'Dmorian traitor."

  As the man began to vanish, Var heard a menacing laugh. "We will be watching you, Var . . ."

  ****

  Areck followed Elyana through the crowd, wondering what questions he should ask. Although he could charge her with the impersonation of a Cleric of Gabriel, it was not the crime he was interested in. He was more interested in who she was and why she gave off such a powerful divine presence.

  Why is another faith's clergy wandering around the Academy unescorted? And why is she pretending to be a Hospitaler? he asked himself thoughtfully, concluding that it was her regal demeanor, rather than her beauty, that attracted him. What if I become tongue-tied in her presence? 1 Ie told himself that sexual attraction was beneath him, hoping to push such thoughts from his mind. It did not work.

  As Elyana strode imperiously towards the courier, Areck attempted to judge her attitude, which reminded him of their first meeting. If she really was a noblewoman, she would be feeling an angry impatience, a common attitude of nobles who dealt with subordinates.

  Pulling back a chair for Elyana, Areck waited for the woman to sit be­fore he looked around the room and took a seat.

  "Nice to see you brought back a serving wench," Arawnn said, an ap­praising look in his eye. "Yet I am a bit saddened by the fact neither of you are earning ale!"

  Areck almost fell off his stool at the comment, and Elyana stiffed and turned red. In other circumstances, he might have reprimanded Arawnn for the lack of etiquette, but amazingly, Arawnn's insult had shaken Elyana. However, Areck knew the key to this conversation would be in keeping her off guard and stopping her from gaining a foothold of power in the ex­change. It was an ancient strategy used by many scholars when debating.

  "Why you imperious, self-inflated . . ." she stammered incredulously. "How dare you presume to call me a serving wench?" She poked a finger in Arawnn's chest, almost cursing in indignation.

  "I think what Lady Elyana is trying to say is that she is not in the wench­ing profession." Areck could not help but chuckle at his friend being prod­ded by the beautiful, and very angry, woman. Even funnier was the fact that Arawnn looked off guard himself, glancing about to make sure no body­guards were coming to toss him out of the tavern.

  Areck was about to say something when he noticed Arawnn wink at him. He saw the man mouth, "You can thank me later."

  Areck nearly choked at the realization. His friend was using a ploy! The man had purposefully insulted Elyana to get a reaction out of her, removing any possibility that she might dominate the conversation. By all means, Areck needed to make a mental note conceding that, if nothing else, his royal friend knew this style of woman.

  Elyana scowled. "And I meant every—"

  Arawnn cut her off. "I meant no offense, Lady Elyana, I was merely noting that beauty such as yours usually merits a job where men can admire you ... I mean, it" Arawnn made a slight mock bow as a sign of apology.

  Areck saw Elyana's mouth tighten. He knew another verbal assault was coming, as her eyes began to blaze. However, she took a deep breath and lowered her gaze, chagrined. 'You know how to raise a lady's blood, sir," she said stiffly. "My advice is that you add thinking before speaking to your repertoire! That way you might avoid noble ladies and their dangerous paths."

  Arawnn broke into a good-hearted laugh, put his arm around the young squire, and smiled at Elyana. "This is the man you need to stay around if you need any thinking, my beautiful lady," Arawnn said. "It just occurred to me that the two of you have been interrupted by me for long enough. Do you have any particular taste, my lady?"

  "Do I what?" Elyana stood up.

  "I was talking about ale," Arawnn chuckled. "Since Areck did not bring us back any, I was planning to talk to that tasty young morsel over there," Arawnn said, gazed at his serving maid, who winked at him once then went back to business, "and procure us some wine."

  Elyana considered her response, and then smugly picked several of the most expensive wines in house, settling on a fifty year vintage of apple wine from northern Almassia.

  Arawnn shrugged and sauntered his way past several friendly serving maids until he finally reached his chosen lady. He put his arm around her and moved towards the barkeep; whispering quips that made her giggle and nod her head.

  "You have expensive tastes, my lady," Areck commented, watching his friend move gracefully across the floor, wench in hand. He wondered if the man noticed the barkeep's angry glare at the loss of his beautiful serving girl.

  Areck's concern was short lived. Arawnn pulled a fat money pouch from his jacket and tossed it on the table. The barkeep's frustration evapo­rated and was replaced with a greedy gleam. The serving girl looked at the pouch with an open mouth then reared back and punched the courier in the arm, making Arawnn grimace in mock pain.

  Areck found it odd that the women stopped with a single punch—and instead of true anger, she looked as if she had gained a curious respect for the courier. Then again, the server now knew that Arawnn was wealthy, a thing that most men tried to hide.

  "Well, he deserves it. Did you see the way he was looking at me?" Ely­ana said with distaste, watching the courier rub his arm, causing the serving girl to give him a more personal rub.

  "How does a Bre'Dmorian squire fall in with such vermin?" she contin­ued with a shudder as she watched Arawnn pinch the girl's bottom.

  "I have not 'fallen in' with anyone," Areck exclaimed, cheerfully noting the disdain on Elyana's face. He decided that this was as good of time as any to breach the main subject, and with little preamble, began. "Why is it that you impersonate one of the Hospitalers?" he asked, noticing her stiffen at the unexpected question.

  "I am here on personal business that serves a higher power." Elyana ex­plained that she had been given visions to seek out elder lore regarding the knighthood. She also explained that her quest required the utmost privacy.

  "So you were sent to infiltrate us by a false religion?" Areck asked in­credulously. It explained why she was permeating such divine power.

  "I was sent for reasons you could not understand," she said.

  "That does not answer my question."

  She smiled back at him, lightly tapping her painted nails on the table. "You did not ask for a complicated explanation of my history. The question was, 'Why am I impersonating one of Lord Gabriel's Clerics?"'

  She is trying to manipulate me, he thought, trying to get me to leave this path of questioning.

  Areck changed tactics.

  "Are you a noble of Arsgoth?" he asked, smelling possible dissent within a kingdom that was heading towards conflict.

  "Actually I am a noble, but the exact definition is a matter of interpreta­tion," she responded with a sigh, once again dodging the question.

  Areck spent the better part of an hour asking vari
ous questions about her heritage, lineage, and background. He was about to ask what her reason was for being in the city when Arawnn cheerfully slapped him on the back and set down a dull black bottle of Almassian wine. Areck decided to use the alcohol to his advantage—he had already downed some beer for Arawnn's sake; why not use the wine to loosen Elyana's tongue?

  Areck had never before been allowed to imbibe any quantity of alcohol, but he reasoned was that he had trained all his life and the rigorous lifestyle would allow his body a fair tolerance to the poison. He had to admit he had been outmaneuvered, but the wine might slow her quick mind enough for Areck to get his questions answered.

  "It is about time you brought us some wine, heathen," Elyana ex­claimed, goading Arawnn back into another round of insults.

  Areck let the two verbally duel for several minutes, intervening only when Arawnn started to look worse for wear.

  "Arawnn, if you are quite done giving Lady Elyana the opportunity to dismantle your ancestry, I would appreciate some more time alone ... so that we may continue speaking of private matters," Areck said, trying to hide his amusement.

  Nodding his head in defeat, Arawnn offered his arm to his young com­panion, who, as they staggered off, grabbed it with a gleeful look. It was obvious that the royal courier had seen many drinks whilst winning over his companion at the bar.

  "At least the buffoon has a quick mind," Elyana pointed out, watching Arawnn slam several silver coins in front of the barkeep and buy a round of ale for everyone in the vicinity, bringing cheers from those at the bar. "That one's future is uncertain," she whispered to herself.

  "Excuse me?" Areck asked with a frown.

  "I was just saying that you have asked me several questions and I still know nothing about you," she said, pouring wine for them both. "Your actions are surrounded by uncertainty."

  "We are not here to discuss me," he rubbed his chin warily, taking the proffered glass of wine and letting his prior thought fade.

  She only smiled, took a deep swallow of her wine, and proceeded to ask about his heritage, seeking details about his past. Had Areck not found Ely-ana so overwhelming, he might have noticed that both of her hands had slipped under the table and with deft movements she wove the intricate hand gestures of an arcane spell.