The Shadow's Ward

by Eric Angers

  They had come to him in the night, held a knife to his throat with enough pressure to split his skin. His blood ran across the blade. He knew then that his life was over, and in a sense it was. A new life began the next day.

  Suran Aldar was a minor noble in Kador, out in the country, and Vastian’s first contract. The contract given to him by the Harbinger did not specify who paid for it, but according to the background information included within, he was having squabbles with another neighboring lord. It was not hard to do the math. Aside from that, it described Suran as an overbearing prick, somewhat incompetent at running his estates, and because of this, he had developed a temper. Wages for his workers were unfair if not the worst, and he had taken to hitting his wife on occasion. Should he die, the estate would pass to her, as they had no children, and she would be free to marry her secret love interest: the very competent, kinder, gentler lord who Suran was having difficulties with. After reading the remainder of the report, it was no longer so clear who hired the assassins; the wife had even more potential. But that truth was neither here nor there for Vastian and the Dead Men, and he would go take his first sanctioned kill with pride.

  He remembered his pulse racing on his way to the manor. People had seen him, riding along the road to get as close as he dared before sneaking in. Worry creased his forehead and sweat slicked his hands on the reins but he ignored that. He recalled as if it was yesterday the way the soft ground pressed in as he walked over it after the day of rain in the woods outside the manor, leaving footprints he could not be bothered to hide. They were of no concern, no one here would mourn this lord’s passing. Guards, unarmored, sat around the main entrances busying themselves with sleep. Not a threat. The guild he now belonged to had a code, kill the contract, spare the rest. Where possible. He would let them live, their deaths would serve no purpose today.

  Climbing the side of the manor house was no problem for an experienced thief like Vastian. There were plenty of hand and foot holds due to the partial stone and wood construction. A window on the second story allowed him entry, with not even a latch to stop him. Darkness filled the hallway and no guards roamed the inside; this lord felt safe here and valued his privacy while in his ‘castle.’ All Vastian had to do was remain silent, search out the master bedroom, and go to work with his blades. Vastian stiffened, eyes wide, as Suran, the contract, stepped into the hallway. His heart pumped seeing the contract coming up from stairwell leading down into the rest of the manor. Most of his features were obscured in the darkness of the second floor hallway, but the man held a sword in one hand casually. This lord liked to practice his forms before turning in for the night.

  It was only a momentary lapse but Vastian let the man gain three strides toward him before he found the wherewithal to react. “Thief!” Suran shouted as he raised his blade. It was obvious to Vastian the lord’s practice was not paying off, easily slipping in underneath Suran’s very high guard. Vastian struck like a viper with his knives, slashing across the lord’s belly and darting past him. Suran had swung too late but muscle memory from at least one of his practiced forms kicked in. He followed through with the initial stroke and the sword lashed out behind him in the direction Vastian had gone, his feet pivoting in place to follow his opponent’s motion. That lengthy sword blade struck home against the young assassin’s back before Vastian spun and caught it with his knives. He threw the blade aside in a smooth motion and moved in, thrusting both knives up and in. Blood bubbled out of the wounds in slow rhythm with the contract’s labored breaths, Vastian close enough to feel them on his face. The blood spattered onto his hands as the contract breathed in, choking now, suffocating on the very liquid that allowed him to live. The sword clanged on the ground. Vastian stared into the man’s eyes as he faded, they were full of fear, regret, anger, but no understanding. The man thought a thief had come, and by chance he had found him and fought him and lost.

  “You die today because you are unfit for living. You die because the world will benefit from your passing. We deem it so.” he said, unbidden. He did not know where the words came from, but something within him could not let the man die without the truth. Acceptance filled the mark’s eyes as he closed them. Vastian mercifully pulled his knives from Suran’s lungs, cut his throat and lept from the window he had entered through.

  His new guild approved of his kill, and accepted him into their fold. Many more contracts would follow. He never saw the men who had first contacted him ever again.

  He reached the safe house and had been staring at it for a moment, unsure of how long. There were good memories from those days, he had learned not only about killing, but about life and its meaning or lack thereof. The coded message with the kill order was back in his hands; he was sure he had put it away. There was no harm in looking at it once more, maybe it had some bit of information he had missed, not that he was keen to follow up on it. It was signed, ‘Q,’ a Harbinger for the Dead Men. Most of the Harbingers used a simple letter as identification and stayed hidden and unknown even to the assassins who fell under their influence. The contract itself was the surprise. Vastian could not believe he had missed it before, the named party was Sevirs Falsender, leader of the Stalkers mercenaries. He did not need to request the full contract to know this was a foolish move for the guild. There was no benefit to Sevirs’ death. Another would step in to lead them and they would be just as effective as they were. The only beneficiary would be the one who took his place, and no one in the Stalkers would stoop to those levels. This came from inside the Dead Men. This kill was aimed at someone. Whoever Q was, he was either being set up or setting someone up. And if the kill order made it to Vastian’s drops, it was very possible he was on the list to be set up. Not this time. He quickly set the letter ablaze in his safehouse fireplace. Perhaps Jaerr was right, something was going on in the guild of assassins. But it simply was not Vastian’s concern any longer.

  Chapter V.

  Norgaard

  In the bitter cold when neither of them could feel their fingers, they practiced outside; in the snow, they practiced pinching; during the day, they practiced stealth. It all seemed so contradictory, like he was setting Norgaard up for failure. It was impossible to traverse a city unseen in broad daylight. Harder still to pick a man’s pocket who was expecting it. He had yet to see Vastian display any of these skills, nor had they put them into real practice. By the end of the third week, Norgaard had had enough.

  That morning, he followed Vastian out on his daily walk around the city, staying out of sight at first to see what his master did every day while he left Norgaard to slave over the safe house, cleaning up after the old drunk. Following at a good distance he kept objects between himself and his prey, a fruit stand here, a water barrel, other people, buildings, whatever he came across, all with a natural posture as if he were meant to be there. Vastian was impossibly paranoid. Though Norgaard was certain no one else noticed his odd behavior, he checked his flanks and rear regularly. It made him hard to follow, but not impossible. He stopped often, chatting with the locals, mostly the poor working class, and he carried himself with a nearly imperceptible swagger, stepping lightly but confidently on the cobbled market square. Aside from the stops and pleasant conversation with shop owners, he took the time to sit and eat a sweet pastry on a bench just outside the main market. Then his wanderings took him into a ramshackle rundown section of the city where he visited with homeless beggars who all seemed to smile in recognition. His meandering took him up to the cliffside noble’s section of the city where he stopped for no one, but bumped into a snob of a man dressed in silks then talked his way out of a fight.

  When they finally circled back to the market, Norgaard approached him, careful to come from the direction of their shack. “Master, I finished cleaning early, I thought we could talk, maybe over some food?”

  Vastian was not surprised, or if he was he did not show it, when he turned to see his student walking behind him. He stopped and replied, “Alright, say what you hav
e to say, we can grab a meat pie from Aelgra, they’re the best in the city.”

  “Ok,” Norgaard followed along as his master led him to a little stall built into a wooden building with a wide tin smoke stack protruding from its roof, puffing gray smoke into the air. He spoke as they walked, “I’ve been thinking, I’ve learned a lot and I think it’s time we put it into practice. You know, do a real job. You need a bigger place, anyway, we could start saving up for it.”

  Vastian stopped in front of Aelgra’s market stall, ordering two meat pies before he replied. The hearty woman with her red hair held up in a single shoulder length braid smiled back and ducked into her shop ostensibly to make their pies fresh. “Very well, boy, if you think you’re ready. You start today.” He procured a piece of paper from a pocket in his shirt and handed it to Norgaard. Norgaard stared, mouth hanging open as if about to speak again. Instead he slowly took the note and unfolded it. On it, a rough map of one part of the city was drawn. He recognized it as the noble’s quarter, the same area where Vastian had avoided the fight earlier in the day. There was an ‘x’ drawn on one of the houses. “You go there sometime today. The owner is out of town and his servants have seen fit to take the day off. There is a chest in the master bedchamber, small enough to conceal and carry, bring it back to me.”

  Norgaard opened his mouth as if to resist and realized he was being given what he wanted. Aelgra returned and held out two steaming hot meat pies, a rich brown gravy dripping from the corner of one of them. Certainly she had returned too quickly for the pies to have been made from scratch. But they were crisp and hot. They were served in a wide plate with a low lip to keep anything dropped from ever hitting the ground. After thanking Aelgra all he could say in response to his master was, “I’ll get it done.”

  “Of course you will,” Vastian replied, “and I’ll find some wine, all this walking around has sobered me up.”

  It was enough to remind Norgaard of his grievances. He gathered himself and said, “You drink too much.”

  Vastian shifted, turning slightly away to look out over the market. “I’m not drinking enough. What would you know about it?”

  Norgaard did not know how to approach a matter as serious as this with his master, all he knew was that if he was a legitimate thief then his ability to train him would be better if he were sober. “I just think maybe the training would be easier if you weren’t… drunk.”

  Vastian whirled around and Norgaard felt a blow coming. But it did not. His master stopped short, his clenched jaw suddenly relaxed. “You aren’t ready for me to stop drinking. Do your part, I’ll do mine.” He dropped his head only an inch before getting up and disappearing into the market crowds.

  Norgaard stayed there to think and finish his food. It was pretty good; Vastian was right about Aelgra’s pies. Whatever it was his master was going through, Norgaard lacked the understanding and ability to help or change it. Maybe the man was hurting from something, maybe he was just a bitter old man taking advantage of him. For the moment, Norgaard chose to continue down the path. Give the man time. He casually strolled back out to climb the hillside to the Noble’s quarter.

  The manor was modestly sized for a noble’s home in Asunder. In actuality, Norgaard guessed that it would be called a quaint cottage, but if it were in his home town of Sundsvall, it would be fit for the mayor. And the view, not even at the top of the cliffs, but it overlooked the Asunder harbor to the south and the bank on the other side. It would cost a small fortune to live up here. Vastian had claimed no one would be inside, but he would not count on it, just in case someone returned for any reason. The avenue that led to its front door was trafficked by a few people every so often at no particular interval. There were no other entrances but there was an alley that ran behind all of the homes here. The place where servants and other undesirable workers removed waste of all kinds and brought in supplies. That would be trafficked as well, but by the type of folk who would pay him no mind as long as he looked the part. That also meant that while there was no doorway to break into, there was likely another opening that servants used to move goods in and out.

  Norgaard pulled his jacket closed and buttoned it, then smoothed it down brushing off any dirt and dust as best he could. It would be passable enough. The alley was deeply rutted dirt, in stark contrast to the cobbled avenue. It would have been thick mud in late winter and spring, not an easy place to traverse for the working class. He scoffed at the opulence of the nobles, they cared nothing for those that made their lives easy, only to keep them from their sight so they were never reminded of the human cost. He passed a sanitation worker and nodded to him. He was lugging a wheeled cart with refuse from the homes in the area, his face covered in a stained cloth. He did not look up. Norgaard shook his head and approached the marked house. There was a bare spot on the ground underneath an overhang, and on looking up, Norgaard noticed a boarded up opening. It was clearly meant to be opened only from the inside, but the vertical support beams outside were all he needed. He looked over his shoulders before jumping up holding himself between two beams with just his feet. From there he tested the boards to see if they were loose. They slid one way, toward the inside of the room until there was room for Norgaard to climb in.

  Inside, he panned his eyes over the interior, mainly looking for people or signs of activity. Only dust moved, stirred by Norgaard’s own actions. He moved like a cat, slinking low and quietly stalking through the residence. Everything was laid out neatly, organized, almost unlived in. The furnishings were simple yet of a sturdy well-made construction and in the darkness it seemed somewhat well appointed. Paintings on the walls, vases, glass cases with various trinkets within. None of them were his target.

  Sticking to shadows and corners he picked his way carefully to the stairs on the other end of the main room. As he reached one corner, into the darkness there, he felt something. His skin tickled, then seemed as though it was pulling away from his hand, drawn by some unseen source. He ripped his arm back, cradling it close to his body once more and stared for a moment. After he collected himself he proceeded to the stairs with almost no caution and the feeling did not return.

  The second floor contained a hallway and three rooms, one of which taking up the majority of the floor. It would hold what he was looking for. He tried the door. Locked. Norgaard grinned reaching into an internal pocket. Locks were a trifle, even the difficult ones. And this one would take no time at click. Got it. Thwift! What was- He lunged sideways, his body taking on that pulling feeling he felt in that corner on the first floor. It was over in an instant and he saw the darts sticking out of the door he was in front of a moment ago. He reached to the door knob, standing well clear, and swung it open. When nothing else happened he entered, stalking once again, wary, like someone who had nearly been killed by a poison dart trap. He smirked at himself, sneaking to the canopy bed. As described, there was a lockbox underneath. He was careful to inspect the area this time and finding no traps he retrieved it. He froze. Nothing happened. He chuckled to himself and made his exit. As he hit the dirt once more he found his mind wandering back to that odd sensation he had felt. Had he felt it twice? When he triggered the trap, or was that just adrenaline? It had to have been his nerves, being his first real job and the danger he had been in.

  Chapter VI.

  Vastian

  There was only so much resistance his student would stand for. The boy wanted so much to begin really using his talents, and Vastian had to admit to himself, he was ready. The naive bumpkin showed up into his life wind blown, frozen, and desperate, with a few meager skills and wagon loads of potential was changed. Over the past month he had honed those meager skills into razor sharp blades of stealth, nimble fingers, and lock picking. These were the basis for all of Vastian’s own thievery skills, though they were not the only ones. But, whether or not he wanted to admit it, his student was ready to take the next steps.

  No one had done this for Vastian while he was learning the craft. Instead, Vasti
an made his own mistakes, developed his own tried and true methods, and when he went to the Guild of Thieves, he already knew what they sought to teach him. In fact, he knew more than they, and kept it to himself, allowing him to become one of the greatest thieves to walk the new world, in his own estimation. At times he had wished someone was there to show him the way, it would have saved some scars and run ins with the law, but he learned from it and he would not rob Norgaard of that chance.

  After Norgaard proved himself on the first job, robbing Vastian’s own estate in Asunder, he started looking for real jobs that might help the boy in his training. It wasn’t hard for a skilled observationist like Vastian; you never had to look far to find overly wealthy people flaunting their money or status or both unnecessarily. A full job would typically involve research, observation, tracking, stealth and perhaps lockpicking, but he would handle the first three for his student and allow him to experience just the parts relevant to his current training.

  He had started him out easy, tasking him to go out and steal dinner, but only from those merchants he had researched and found were unfair with their prices or wages. Then he moved him onto simple break-ins at locations Vastian had personally investigated beforehand, planting something for Norgaard to bring back. None of the residences were occupied. Once he was satisfied with his protege’s progress, and had time enough to research some real targets, Vastian set Norgaard loose. Vastian had, in essence, just become the Guild for his student, contracting him to bring in goods.