by Eric Angers
The Shadow’s Ward
By
Eric Angers
Prologue
Shuffling footsteps echoed at odd intervals through the empty granite lined hallways. A man in fine silks, with only a small wet spot down the front stumbled toward a pair of idle guards, his slurred singing unintelligible to all but himself. It was a night of celebration in the palace and this drunken reveler was the third or fourth to wander down what was an off limits area. Two guards stood watch at the outer entrance of an iron-gated vault that joined perpendicular to the main hall. They were garbed in their polished ceremonial armor, animal heads molded into the plate shoulders, gold plated clasps and buckles on supple leather straps. It was completely impractical, but everyone had to look their best, even those who were on duty. Especially those on duty. The young gentleman ambling down their hallway seemed to have gotten lost on his way out of or into the privy; easy to do in the palace’s maze-like passageways. The two men paid him little mind, opting to wait and see if the fool would realize his mistake and turn round as others had upon catching sight of the armored men. The tink tink tapping of a plated boot signaled at least one guard’s impatience at having to deal with the nuisance but still they waited. Only when the inebriated gentleman was no more than an arm’s reach away, only then did they turn to warn him away. They were not well-trained guards.
Without a word, the seemingly drunk man looked up, a very sober look in his eyes and there was time only for their jaws to drop before the assassin’s blades struck home in the very wide open flesh at their necks. Fancy silk neckerchiefs took the place of full steel gorget’s on the ceremonial armor, leaving them vulnerable to a precise hand.
Perhaps a minute passed as the assassin worked, laying the men facing one another, swords drawn and stuck in the other. He tossed silver pieces and a set of dice about them before moving on down the hallway. He ignored the iron gate his victims had guarded. He was not here for riches.
He ran, stepping so softly that even at great speed he was as audible as falling snow. Down the hallway, winding left then right again, into an unguarded and unoccupied study. Any men normally tasked to watch this room would have had the night off or been reassigned to the ballrooms. The window in the study opened to a ledge outside just wide enough for him to stand on his toes while facing the wall, his back to the open air and a drop higher up than he could safely land. His feet were sure, flexible shoes allowed his toes to curl over the edge for grip. The intruder moved with fluid grace from window to window, certain to sneak a glance within before crossing each opening. Up one level where the handholds allowed. Then across 3 more, much larger windows, all locked, even this high up. Finally he stopped at one and worked silently with his tools, listening for the telltale ‘click.’ There.
The window opened to a sprawling room, decorated in silks, fine tapestries and rugs with intricate scenes woven into them. The host of the ball the assassin infiltrated had turned in early - it was a particular pattern of late - and he lay sleeping in his mountain of a bed, mouth agape as he snored comfortably.
The assassin became formless, slipping in with the shadows, stirring not even dust, and not a sound was made that might be heard by even a trained ear. He appeared once again at the side of the bed, an unstoppered vial of clear liquid in his hands…
Whistling a tune, a merry drunken old fool skipped down the corridors of the palace, stepping over the bodies of two guards who had killed one another over a disagreement while playing at dice. Upon re-entering the ballroom he found a tray featuring thin stemmed glasses of wine. He liberated two of them and allowed himself to be swallowed up by the press of jubilant socialites.
Chapter I.
Norgaard
Harsh winds skewered their way through the fibers of Norgaard’s numerous woolen layers, sharp and cold as if icicles themselves were battering him. His pained grimace was lost beneath a crusted beard of frost. He had not smiled even once in the miles since he left his home at the northern edge of the continent. It was not exactly a journey born of pleasure and even Norgaard’s customary optimism had been dashed by his current situation. He had traveled in the frigid northern winters before. Often it was without his father’s knowledge, but he knew what to expect, how to dress, what to pack. Yet he still awoke shivering, nestled into the tangled roots of a stout oak set far away from the road. The last embers of his fire had long since turned to ash, not that it had done him much good sleeping exposed to the elements as he was. It was still dark, but the faint light of dawn teased through the silhouettes of the trees to the east. That meant the coldest part of the day was upon him and he needed to be up and moving to keep his blood warm.
The cold was not what had dampened his spirits, though it was not helping. Days had passed since he was banished from the fishing village of Sundsvall. The disappointment held deep in his father’s eyes was still fresh in his mind. Even though Elgaard would not spare a glance at his son, Norgaard saw it all the same while his father stood with arms folded in front of the mayor. Norgaard himself was bound, neck held in the stocks at the center of the village while everyone gathered for the commotion. The dry splintered wood pinched and irritated, and it held so tightly there was no amount of shuffling or squirming that offered any relief. The Mayor was in a rage, an eruption of visible breath accompanying every shout. He accused and condemned Norgaard for what he had done, and Norgaard was still unsure if he had even done it. His father did not object, he said nothing, neither did the townspeople. Nor did Norgaard, for that matter. While he was not certain that what had happened was his fault, there was no denying he had been at the scene immediately before it happened.
Norgaard had been in the mayor’s barn, searching through it for something, anything valuable he might take without having to go into the house. It was supposed to be harmless, just a way to prove to himself that he was capable of stealing from the mayor without any help. There was a lamp he took from a workbench, lit it to better see as he searched around. When he found nothing of value, he was certain he extinguished it before sneaking back out. Still, the fire that consumed both the barn and the mayor’s home, started there in the barn. He dared not deny his presence. At first he thought to feign innocence, but Anders had seen him, and when the smoke cleared, his once best friend had sold him out to the Mayor.
It played over and over again in his mind, the events that led to him being there, chained up in the center of the village, a crowd of people around sneering and cursing his name. He knew he had hurt his friend, but there was something else much worse than hurt showing on Anders’ face. It was the look Anders normally reserved for most others. Hate.
No one had ever given Anders a chance in life, and Norgaard saw it every day. It affected the boy deeply, but his only friend, Norgaard, balanced him. Mostly. The two had been friends from a very young age. Some of Norgaard’s earliest memories were of the two of them getting into trouble being in places they should not be. For as many times as Anders got him into trouble, Norgaard had kept them out of it, but just as often, Norgaard’s sardonic wit had given Anders just what he wanted: a fight. The pair had earned their share of bruises, and dealing out plenty more, all while they robbed much of the town of their minor trinkets, all in the name of fun. But it was Norgaard who felt the end coming. It was he who decided to end their partnership, their friendship. And it was he who, without his partner, made a dire mistake.
There was nothing to be done but survive and move on. It was not his first choice, but it was the path laid out before him. The young man checked his map and compass then his surroundings. He was still on the right path, straight to Asunder, one of the largest cities in the Northlands. Likely the only place you could even call a city. Another few days and he would be strol
ling through the gates, with not a thing to his name but the clothes on his back.
What was he doing, he thought, how was he supposed to get by on his own? He knew nothing else in his life but the monotonous daily survival of the people at the northernmost village in the world. He could always fall back on locksmithing, but he was not so much good at the smithing part as he was defeating the smith. That skill was his father’s greatest gift, the man had taught him everything he knew and Norgaard picked up on most of it rather well. Getting in, however, was Norgaard’s specialty. Defeating the mechanism was part he paid the most attention to, as it applied more directly to his extracurricular activities. Unlocking locks for his father that villagers had lost or broken their keys to. Creating the locks themselves, was best left to Elgaard, who had the mind for creation. Norgaard only now wished he had paid closer attention to that, and less to subversion.
Should his locksmithing skills fail to land him an apprentice’s position, the prospect of finding a job in some warehouse or on the docks making next to nothing while he saved to buy his own boat to start fishing was not exactly appealing. Or maybe he could resort to his true skill of picking locks and simply take what he needed. Just take a few things here and there, enough to get by, not get greedy. It was what he knew from his childhood with Anders and no one would be stupid enough to be thieving this far north this time of year. Cold weather made for slow fingers, and that thought drew Norgaard back to the present.
The bitter cold numbed his extremities and maybe his mind was getting numb, too, if he was considering thievery a good way to make a living. Lack of viable job skills aside, his most pressing concern was the miles ahead, and the weather which could turn deadly in a moment.
Chapter II.
Norgaard
A young man blew in from the cold through the heavy wooden door of the Creeping Dragon. His clothes creaked, crusted with ice and snow. He ignored the heckles from the patrons about letting in the cold as his shoulders fell limply and he trudged to the long oakwood bar. An old lanky man stood behind it, quietly fetching the drink orders of his patrons and casually dodging their abuse in the form of hurled insults and occasionally bits of dried meat or roasted nuts.
“The privy, sir?” Norgaard asked the balding bartender, who pointed to the side before returning to his business. Norgaard had no need to relieve himself, he simply had not yet thought of how to purchase a room for the night. He fingered the small leather pouch tied to his belt; barely two bits to clink together. Locking himself in the privy he once again weighed his options. As a locksmith’s son, he had plenty of practice picking locks and the thought of burglary crossed his mind. But that would be risky, and carried a heavy penalty. However, pinching, if he were caught, was not as serious an offense. It could not be that hard, he thought, with his nimble fingers from picking locks. At least, after they warmed up a bit.
He left the privy and stood off to the side looking out for potential marks. The room was large, maybe fifty feet across and forty wide. Long tables with benches were positioned in the middle and small round tables with two or three chairs lined the walls. The cold and snow drove most of the city’s populace to the taverns, and it showed. Nearly every seat was taken and more patrons stood in groups talking and laughing with one another. Most were drunk, some were on their way, and a few were even passed out. A man in a worn green hood stood up from his seat at one of the large tables and stumbled to the bar. Hunched over from age or sickness or both, he fell into a large barbarian of a man. Wine glass held up to the bartender he did not even apologize; that seemed an odd choice for a bar like this: wine, Norgaard thought. He would not be the target, though, it would be the man he’d bumped into, so drunk he had not even noticed.
After some time had passed Norgaard readied his fingers, stretching them out, before he approached the bar as if he were about to order a drink. He came within arm’s length of his mark and stopped, pretending to drop something. As he picked up the imaginary object he stood and stumbled, bumping the drunkard at the bar. His hand slid carefully toward the man’s pocket before it was stopped, clutched by another; an iron grip squeezed and held him fast. The green hooded old man leaned over to him and said, “You trying to get yourself killed, boy?” Norgaard just looked up, stunned. “Meet me outside in five minutes, after you get yourself a drink.”
The green hooded man let his wrist fall and stumbled his way out of the bar, singing the song of the quarrymen at the top of his lungs. This coaxed the whole rest of the room to join in. Norgaard’s hand now held a silver coin, slipped there by the old man. He had not even felt it. His cheeks were hot, his heart racing. He had been caught in the act and let go. The least he could do was do as he was told and get a drink. Placing the coin down on the bar, he asked for ale and told the bartender to keep the change. He rubbed his wrist where the hooded man held him. Palming the sweat from his forehead, he considered whether he should go meet the hooded old man. On one hand, the stranger had caught him in the middle of a crime, and could even be a guardsman. On the other, he had stopped him before he actually did it, and had given him a coin. He was either giving him a last drink before throwing him in a cell or trying to stop him from making a mistake.
Looking down at his wooden tankard, he started as he realized it was already empty. The taste of ale clung to his lips as proof he had downed the whole thing while he was deciding what to do about the old man. Leaving the tankard behind, he chose to see just why the man stopped him, consequences be damned.
The cold night air struck him like a charging bull and he pulled his cloak tighter about him. Initially, he did not see the man who had given him the coin and left a bruise on his wrist, but when his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a very much upright middle aged gentleman with closely cropped and spiked blonde hair standing in a nearby alley, green cloak open and hood hanging on his back. The bitter chill did not seem to affect him at all, and the cleanliness and cut of his clothes beneath the cloak did not at all reflect what he had seen back in the Creeping Dragon. Something compelled Norgaard to go to him, rather than turn the other direction and run; maybe because he was sure this man was perfectly capable of catching up to him.
“I thought you might duck out the back.” the man said as Norgaard approached. “You made the right choice this time, but you nearly got yourself killed in there.”
Norgaard looked at the ground, knowing he probably would have been caught but said, “I thought the penalty for pickpocketing was a day in the stocks and a fine.”
The stranger chuckled at that. “Sure is. Do you really think those fellas in there would have bothered calling the guards for a runt like you?”
Of course they would not, he thought. “Well.. thanks then, for the coin, and for the rescue. I owe you but I’ve nothing to pay. I can just be on my way and if I see you I will try to repay the favor.” The boy turned as if to go, but the man’s voice stopped him.
“Hang on. You can repay me right now. Repay an aging man with conversation and by coming with me out of the cold,” he said, and strolled away down the alley, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tensing, finally appearing to feel the air.
Norgaard watched him go at first but followed, jogging to catch up. They stopped at a small one room shack in the middle of the next street, a fire still burning the last log in the fireplace inside. A lone chair, crooked and unstable, sat by an empty table on one wall while an iron lockbox against the other completed the decor of the lonely little home. It did not even have a bed, just some dusty straw in a pile in one corner.
“Nice place,” Norgaard quipped. “Have many friends over?” he said looking at the lack of even one other chair to sit in.
“Ah, yes it is quaint isn’t it? Welcome to my chateau!” the man said spreading his arms wide gesturing to his sad little room. “It may not appear as much to you, young man, but I would wager it is more than you can claim at this point in your life, is it not?”
At that, Norgaard found himself staring at h
is own shoes, shamed. “I didn’t mean..”
“Of course you didn’t. I take no offense, my boy, have a seat.” He pulled the chair out and it squeaked as Norgaard sat in it. The other man let himself fall into his pile of straw and he stared at Norgaard.
Was this stranger going to say something else? Ask something? Norgaard thought. How was he supposed to engage him in conversation if he didn’t have anything to say? “So, what is it you wanted to talk about?”
“Ah, so you haven’t gone to sleep in my most comfortable chair. I want to talk about you, what you’re doing here, why you’re trying to steal a man’s hard earned drinking money. So go on, explain.” The older man put his hands behind his head as he leaned back against the bare wall.
Norgaard sighed and explained how he had been banished from his hometown, careful not to give the name, and of his journey with nothing but the clothes on his back in the middle of the harsh winter to get to Asunder. “I just needed the money to get a room for the night. I swear I was going to get an honest job in the morning. I won’t do it again.”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to stop, boy. I just wanted to know why. For me, I do it because the barbarians are wasting their money on piss, so I take a bit from two or three of them and put it to good use on fine wine. I find it’s a much better use of their money. In fact, that coin I gave you was the one I lifted from the very mark you were trying to pick. That’s why you’d have been caught, there was nothing to find.” the older man replied.
