The Shadow's Ward

by Eric Angers

  Having killed the men he wrestled with, Jaerr looked back at Vastian, and Vastian surveyed the field from his vantage point. Bodies littered the ground just inside the wall as well as on the other side of the scaffold. Perhaps twenty men met their end protecting a man who had likely killed hundreds in his career. None of them was trained to deal with what was coming and it was unlikely he could have afforded the small army, not after building his fortress. He had counted on them dying. They were a distraction, a short delay. And now Jaerr was going to get to the entrance before him!

  Jaerr bull charged through the door at the base of the tower. Vastian started to shout for him to wait but cut himself off. It was futile, his partner was already through with no care for himself or the traps that might be within. Vastian leapt down each platform of the scaffolding in turn until his boots touched the ground, plumes of fine sand billowing into the air. He followed Jaerr into the darkness of the tower. It spiraled up and down and Vastian guessed their mark would be in the lower levels by now. Perhaps even escaping through an alternate tunnel. Soon the light from the open door faded and Vastian was blind to any traps that lay ahead. Though by now, Jaerr had tripped them all. He merely relied on his other senses and pushed on at a brisk walk, knives at hand.

  After a short time descending, Vastian guessed it was two levels beneath the surface, the staircase opened into a hallway leading west. There was light here, coming from rooms dug into either side of the hall. Shadows played on one wall opposite a door on the right. Human sized shadows. Vastian moved in silence, softening his steps but not his speed. He crept up to the door and peered inside. Jaerr stood, hands up, facing away and behind him, holding a crossbow at his back was another man. Vastian did not know if he were the mark with his back to the door as well, but in this situation it was not important. Jaerr was about to die. Vastian acted. A knife whirled through the air and cut the string on the crossbow. As the knife tumbled to the ground Vastian became the prey. The man whirled, dropping the bow, his arm catching Vastian’s arm mid throw, knocking his knife away. In the same motion he grabbed Vastian’s left wrist and twisted it up, pulling Vastian in at the same time. Clink. Clink. The knives hit the floor. In that split second, Vastian found himself wrapped up, held by the mark with his own knives pressed against his throat. Jaerr turned. His face dropped and his hands did too.

  “Really?”

  “Don’t move or he dies,” the mark said matter of factly.

  Vastian stayed silent, the more he moved the more his own knives cut into his skin. Jaerr spoke instead. “Kill him then. I’m not failing this contract.”

  “Very well.”

  Jaerr struck, arm lashing out like a viper, the ring he had worked off of his finger striking the mark on his forehead. It was just enough distraction for Vastian to break his hold. Spinning, Vastian regained control of his hands and buried the knives still held in his left hand into the mark’s throat. Blood gurgled forth, warming his hand in thick streams with every heartbeat until finally the beating slowed and stopped.

  Chapter XVIII

  Norgaard

  Phelandir shone. The sun gifted its brilliance on the coast and city in a way that it never had in the North. The sea glistened blue and the white washed buildings nearly blinded. It was as if the world he lived in was drab and gray and for the first time he was seeing color. Phelandir was a wonderful place to Norgaard, so big and vibrant, life was everywhere.. everything was everywhere! The port was bustling and filled with ships as large, if not as extravagant, as Windrake. Deckhands and sailors and merchants and laborers and soldiers were practically swimming amongst each other. The uniforms were crisp and clean and as dark and blue as the sea. Even the deckhands kept themselves in good order here, not like the port at Asunder, and absolutely nothing here was like the docks in Sundsvall. Everything here was chiseled stone work, it seemed, although the main boardwalk was wooden planks and wider than two of the Windrake. It needed to be, and maybe wider; the flow of people was endless. It was more people than Norgaard had seen in one place, and may be more than he had ever seen in his life combined.

  The salty ocean scent had given way to such other magnificent aromas wafting from the hundreds, maybe thousands, of chimneys near and far from the docks. Such spices as Norgaard had never imagined. Norgaard had learned so much about the arts of stealth and blending and his time on Vastian’s ship had also done wonders for his agility and dexterity. So much so that he flowed easily with the crowds of the great city. His motions were graceful, yet they did not stand out. He bumped into others or avoided them, and always he kept his balance and never was he noticed. No one he had passed that day would have been able to describe him. He was a ghost in broad daylight.

  He returned to the manor arms full of bread and meat and cheese. Vastian was hungry and had sent all of his servants away to his country estate. Here in Phelandir, the manor would be empty for Norgaard and Vastian to train and fend for themselves. The manor was close to the heart of the city, among the rest of the nobility. It had high walls with dead ivy and thorn bushes atop them. A triangular courtyard large enough for a small contingent of militia to train lay in the back, while the front of the manor nearly butted up against the gate to the street. The width of a man ran between the house and wall here, and they rose three stories up, slick surfaces on either side.

  Vastian waited in the courtyard with an oddly painted pink practice sword in one hand and a very real rapier in the other. Norgaard placed his collection of food on a stone table on one end of the practice area and turned to face his master. The pink sword was already mid air on its way toward Norgaard. He reached out and caught it by the blade.

  “Now you don’t have a hand. Switch to your offhand. Never catch a sword by the blade. Defend yourself!” Vastian said and lunged.

  Norgaard put up his sword in shock and it cracked in two on the first blow. “How do you expect me to fight you with a stick?”

  “I don’t. I expect you to defend. And you did.” He answered and walked back to his starting position. He plucked yet another pink sword from a barrel that seemed full of the things then tossed it to Norgaard. He charged once again as his pupil caught it, this time by the handle.

  Norgaard desperately swung it up in defense and it shattered, littering the ground with splinters.

  “You may want to catch on before we run out of pink swords, my boy, I’d hate to have to get the purple ones repainted pink.” Vastian winked as he pulled out a third practice sword. “See, this is wood, mine is steel. Steel wins, right?”

  “Right.” replied Norgaard, who then caught the steel rapier when Vastian threw it his way.

  “Attack me.”

  He obeyed, running forward and striking overhead as Vastian had done to him. Vastian stepped back at a 45 degree angle and deflected the blow with a flick. He followed the stroke down, forcing Norgaard to follow through, only Vastian’s foot came up and then pressed down on the tip of the rapier, holding it in place. In that same instant he retracted the pink sword and brought it down on the flat of the steel blade. It bent and snapped and Norgaard continued forward, though he rolled and came to his feet on the other side.

  “You see? The weapon is not important, it is knowing how to use it. I promise not to break anymore of your pink swords if you promise to learn how to use them.”

  So the rest of the day they practiced. Many pink remnants lay on the ground, in their hair, and on their persons. Norgaard was slowly learning to parry, not block, with the weaker weapon, but by blow 3 or 4 he would forget and the wood snapped. As night fell and the two could no longer escape the chill of the air even while fighting so hard, they put down their weapons.

  “Tomorrow, my friend, you will run the city again, carrying your sword. Practice blending. The pink sword should make it harder. One more thing. You should observe the palace guard and learn their patterns.” Vastian said. They entered the manor and walked the halls together.

  “Master, tell me, what makes you the best?�
�� Norgaard asked.

  “Son, what makes me the best is that I know I’m not.” Vastian answered, then vanished into his room.

  Norgaard had so many questions about the man who was his master. This outlaw and murderer that had taken him in. He wasn’t sure if he could or should ask them. But he wanted to know more about his past. About surviving the craft, about killing. Norgaard didn’t want to kill, it was just the curiosity of it. What did it feel like? Was it hard? Had he killed kings? Why did he kill? And then there was the other question: Why did he suddenly need to be in Phelandir?

  Mornings were cool and crisp on the coastline, a welcome change from Sundsvall and Asunder for Norgaard. The chill didn’t bother him in the least, though he pulled his cloak around him and hunched slightly just as the rest of the people did. He sought the average, yet by so accurately becoming average he was anything but. It was so odd how the extraordinary often strived to be normal. Round and round the city he would go, learning every nook and crevice, every alley and ditch. He carefully avoided notice as he took in the palace guard schedules, even while the tip of a pink practice sword stuck out from under his dull brown cloak. Still, a week later, he carried the pink. Sword work was just so difficult, there was too much to know to truly be good. All he could hope to learn was enough to get himself in trouble.

  When he arrived that afternoon his master was waiting, this time without a sword in hand. Instead he had a set of three gleaming blades, roughly the size of his hand, and without handles. “Time for a break from the sword,” Vastian said, then put the beautiful throwing knives into a leather case, placing them on their round stone table. “You’ll earn those when you have mastered these.” He finished, drawing out three terribly dull, rusted lumps of iron. He grinned and dropped them into the dirt for Norgaard to retrieve.

  The blades were absolutely unserviceable. The edges were dull, the tips were barely pointed, they were too heavy, all different sizes, and dangerously rusted. The balance was off on each, but he flipped them in his hand one by one, and was still able to judge them accurately. Targets sat near the wall of the courtyard 20 yards away, set up by Vastian earlier, apparently. His fingers searched the first piece of iron, rolled it around and judged its character. This was a weapon for thieves, this was a weapon he could understand. You could keep your distance with these, they fit in your hands, concealable. Yes, this was much better than a sword. His body twitched and arm extended out pointed at the painted hay bale. Iron loosed and spun then stuck in the second ring. More quickly this time, his fingers researched his next weapon, then he twitched and lashed out again. This time the blade struck a painted wooden target near the center and stuck with a thuk. Vastian looked on, a brief nod showing his acceptance, though if he was surprised at all it did not show.

  The last target was a breastplate, a much more difficult thing to penetrate. Norgaard was not sure the remaining blade he held would even be able to do it. He knew that if he managed a kill shot on this target, he would be given his reward. Now listen to him, talking about rewards before he even struck the target. Just yesterday he was hopelessly practicing with a pink stick and hoping Vastian wouldn’t send him away. Just focus on the task at hand. Hand. So he searched the iron with his fingertips, feeling the tip, the balance, the weight and shape. Yes, this could do it, with just the right amount.. of.. FORCE! His entire body lunged into the throw, arm snaking out in front of him pointed at the heart of the armor. The blade spun, end over end, finally striking the armor with a quick dull clang. It fell to the ground, but not before having passed through the front half of the breastplate.

  Vastian nodded approval, uncrossed his arms and retrieved the new knife set. “I had not expected to give these to you for a few months. But you’ve earned them. It seems you are a natural.”

  “Thank you, master.” Norgaard said, taking the leather case with a slight bow.

  “You will practice with the iron one hour a day. Then you will practice with the steel after that for half an hour. Keep both sets in good order. Then practice with your sword, because you’re not done with that.” Vastian said, grinning. “Begin, I’ll be back before nightfall.”

  And his master was gone, walking out into the city streets. It wasn’t the first disappearance, and Norgaard knew it shouldn’t seem mysterious, but it did. The man should be allowed to go off on his own and not tell his student where he was off to. He should, and he did it in Asunder constantly. Why was Norgaard suddenly feeling like there was something bigger happening? His gut was shouting at him, telling him to investigate. Maybe it was just the training, Vastian was trying to teach him to be more aware of his surroundings. Hell, he strapped his new knives to his belt and left the pink practice sword on the ground. He did not need to give Vastian any advantage in spotting him.

  Chapter XIX

  Vastian

  Contractors. An assassin never got to meet his contractor, the one who knew his drop locations and was the middle man for the guild. Contractors received intel from spymasters, drafted contracts for negotiators to take to clients, then dropped the contract for the assassin. No assassin knew who they were, communication was always one way, unless you were a contractor, of course. The easiest way to find one, would be to find a spymaster or a negotiator. A spymaster was probably a harder target than the contractor, so that left the negotiator, relatively easy to find one, they typically came to you. The problem was, they were impossible to resist, so they said. At the very least, Vastian might find out why that was.

  Word was out that a young merchant was having troubles with one of the most influential men in the city, a shrewd and wealthy businessman and a prominent member of the Merchant’s guild. The young merchant had hinted that he was quite seriously considering having this guild member killed. This rumor had been going on for months, even before Vastian arrived in Phelandir. Vayn Saeleryon was willing to pay to solve his problem. And he was not even real. Vayn was just a concoction of Vastian’s, a pseudonym he used on occasion, and he was betting word would reach a spymaster, and then a contractor, and finally he would have his meeting with a negotiator.

  Every day since he arrived in Phelandir he would go to a smaller home he owned in the city. He had hired a few workers to set up a stand in the market center and to buy and sell goods for a time. He ran this side business somewhat successfully for the duration. That is to say it made money. Just not in any amount Vastian would notice, normally. And he waited. He did not know what he was looking for, but he waited just the same, going about his business as though it were real, never knowing when the negotiator would come, or even if one would come.

  There was a knock. Just one. And Vastian lifted his head from his paperwork, he took mental note of where his weapons were hidden around the home. He would have only one on his person, a simple utility knife, not out of place on the man he was portraying. He put on an annoyed expression for being interrupted at his work and stomped his way to the door, throwing it open. What stood in the door was a figure draped in white, his face shrouded in an opaque white cloth that presumably he could at least see out of. Vastian assumed it was a man, he assumed it was human, though it was rather tall and thin, perhaps seven feet. It did nothing, merely waited for his reaction. So this was the negotiator’s game. Silence, fear of what was not easily identifiable. He motioned for it to enter. The thing moved as though all of its joints were broken the wrong way, stuttering and jerky. It added to the creature’s mystique, and Vastian wondered what might be inside.

  It produced a parchment with what would be a contract written on it and placed it on his writing desk. It pointed silently. He closed and locked the door, sizing up the robed figure. It couldn’t be very strong, no matter what it was, there was simply not enough muscle mass. It probably relied on intimidation rather than weapons to get the job done. These tricks would not work on Vastian.

  “Negotiator,” he began, “you will tell me where the contractor is.” Then he waited. The thing made no movement, it only pointed to the co
ntract. “This is going to be a very one sided negotiation isn’t it?”

  The tall figure turned its head, this time the covering over the face was no longer white but an impenetrable black, and its arm remained pointing at the parchment on the desk. A simple costume change while he wasn’t looking, wouldn’t be hard for anyone to do.