The Rook headed for one of his many hideouts. He maintained small retreats in all of the kingdom’s major cities as well as some of the larger towns. They were always simple and unobtrusive dwellings, ranging from an abandoned building, a small room above a local shop, to a modest home where he paid someone to keep it clean and maintained.
This particular bolthole was a single room atop a cobblers shop. The Rook employed an accountant to pay the rent for a year at a time to ensure the room was always there for his use. The assassin scaled the wall of the cobbler’s shop, lifted the latch on the shutters, and slid a slim blade under the bottom of the window.
He pulled what appeared to be an ice pick from a pocket of his robes and pressed the tip firmly through the eyelet of a thin cable that ran through a pulley and was looped around the trigger of a crossbow mounted right behind the painted glass window. Having successfully disarmed his intrusion deterrent device, he lifted the window open and gracefully crawled inside the small dark room.
Had he not immobilized the trip wire, the crossbow bolt would have taken him in the gut where the lethal poison that coated the tip would ensure a swift but excruciatingly painful death.
The Rook did not bother lighting the lamp he knew was sitting on the small table, his vision was excellent even in the dark. He could tell that someone had been in and kept the room clean just by the smell. The assassin stepped over to the bed, which was turned regularly and the sheets washed at least monthly even though no one had slept in the bed for nearly six months, removed his boots and travel-stained clothing, and crawled into bed.
The Rook woke in the morning just long enough to send the cobbler’s son to fetch his horse or get someone else to do it. He did not wake again until after the sun set. The assassin slipped out the window and traveled the rooftops as much as possible. He soon hid within the shadow of the castle wall studying the guards and patrol times.
They are sloppy. So many years of peace have eroded their discipline, the Rook thought as he watched the third patrol pass over his head with a regularity by which you could mark the time.
They should stagger their patrols, ensuring that they do not establish a pattern as they are doing now. The Rook pushed his disciplined thinking out of his mind. Their mistakes made his job that much easier. He despised easy, but little had challenged him in a very long time.
The Rook slipped over the wall and ran along the causeway in a crouch, appearing as little more than a shadow cast by a cloud passing in front of the moon. Once he neared the castle proper, he climbed down the inside of the wall and darted into the shadows of the west side of the castle exterior. Another few minutes, and he was inside the castle itself.
This was the most dangerous part. There were far fewer places to hide if someone was coming, and if he were forced to kill someone the body would be found much quicker than if he took someone outside. Fortunately, he had his magic to help conceal him and silence anyone who accidentally came upon him. There were spells that would cause people not to notice him even when in plain sight. It was not invisibility, such magic was extremely rare, but he could camouflage himself very effectively.
The assassin moved quickly but cautiously down the passageway, darting from shadow to shadow. Most of the oil lamps that normally would have illuminated the halls more thoroughly were extinguished to save the precious oil, leaving only enough burning to allow the servants and guards to navigate safely.
The Rook pressed himself behind an ornamental suit of full plate armor conveniently tucked in a nook in the wall. A few seconds later, a guard and a commonly dressed woman walked by him. The woman, obviously a servant of some sort, had her arm wrapped through the arm of the guard and giggled at the tryst they were likely sneaking off to have. He waited until he could no longer hear them before sliding out of his hiding place and climbing the stairs near the end of the hall.
It was a large castle and finding the correct room in a short amount of time was often the hardest part. Many inexperienced assassins not only failed to kill their mark, they have been captured and summarily executed simply because they were unable to find the right room before someone caught sight of them.
The Rook knew the best way to find a king or a duke’s bedchamber was to find the door with the guards standing outside it. They may as well post a large sign indicating that the ruler was beyond the door. Guards were next to useless against a trained assassin and a complete mockery for one with the Rook’s skills.
The Rook finally found the guarded doors but that did not help him with finding the chamberlain. It could take him hours to find the man’s room and he did not feel up to searching the entire castle floor by floor and room by room. He wished he had a day to scour the inside of the castle and find where the chamberlain’s rooms were, but he simply did not have the time. The contract stated tonight and tonight was when both men would die.
The assassin quickly formulated a plan, actually, he just instituted one of the dozen plans he had already devised in the several days of travel it took to get here. He never did a job without having several plans of action already well thought out.
The Rook slipped silently into a nearby room and quietly closed the door behind him. His phosphorescent blue eyes took in the contents of the room. He saw a beautifully hand-carved rocking horse and a large set of toy soldiers atop a table. In the bed in the other room, he found the sleeping form of a child, likely the duke’s heir. He was surprised that Ulric had not wanted the son killed as well, but perhaps having him live to ascend to power was part of his plan.
It was unimportant, he had only entered the room so he could climb out of the window and follow the wall around to the duke’s chambers. The Rook crossed the room, opened the window and shutters, and climbed out, closing the minor barriers behind him. Thanks to his magical gloves and boots, it was no problem for him to sidestep all the way to the duke’s window without a ledge or have any fear of falling.
It took only a minute for him to reach the outside of Duke William’s chambers. The window and shutters were even open to let the cool spring breeze blow its refreshing air into the normally stuffy rooms. The assassin stealthily crept across the room and came upon William’s sleeping form. There was only one shape in the bed, his wife having died giving birth to the boy in the other room three years ago.
The Rook pulled the thick-bladed, curved knife from its sheath and stood over the sleeping Duke. He gently reached down with his free hand and touched the Duke’s thigh. The Rook preferred his victim to see his killer before he killed them. That way wherever he went in the afterlife his reputation would precede him.
“Wh— who is it?” William asked as his eyes focused on the shining blue orbs hovering over him. “G—!” was the only sound he made before the knife flashed down and pierced his heart.
The Rook withdrew his blade and cleaned it on the blanket before sheathing it. He slipped a small, formfitting satchel from his back and assembled the light crossbow that it held. He quickly tightened the bolt that held the bow to the wooden body with the small wrench stored in the stock.
He then withdrew a bolt of his own design. The head was overly large and contained two spring mechanisms. A larger spring ratcheted as he twisted it like a windup clockwork toy and a second spring that held two blades out at the end. The assassin pressed the blades in where they stayed seated with a small click.
The Rook set the crossbow on at the foot of the bed, pulled his blade once more, and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the door handle and pictured the guards in his mind, taking special note of their height and separation. He held the knife by the handle so that the back of the blade pressed against his forearm and pointed towards his elbow.
With one last deep breath, as if he were diving into water, he jerked the door open and quickly stepped through. Almost with a dancer’s grace, he brought the razor-sharp blade across the throat of the guard to his right, instantly severing the jugular vein.
The Rook pirouetted on his lef
t foot and brought the blade across the left-hand guard’s carotid artery so fast that he was back in the room before either guard hit the floor. He crossed the room, cleaned his blade on the blanket once more, and retrieved his crossbow. He then went back to the open door where the rapidly pooling blood slowly spread across the hall. The Rook then did something few if any assassins have ever done—he called the guards.
“Assassin in the duke’s chamber, murder!” the Rook shouted.
The Rook then climbed back out of the window with the crossbow strapped across his back and closed the shutters behind him. He hung just outside the window, one hand stuck to the top stonework and both feet braced against the ledge so he could just see through the slats of the shutters.
He was barely in position by the time the sounds of booted feet echoed up the stairs and down the hall coming towards the duke’s chambers. The Rook could just barely see movement through the closed shutters but he had no problem hearing the curses of the guards as they came upon the slain corpses.
“Check on the Duke!” One of the guards shouted.
“He’s dead, the duke has been slain!” came the shouted report a moment later.
“Someone go fetch the chamberlain, now!”
A solitary set of footsteps receded down the hall as the other guards searched the Duke’s suite of rooms. The guards lit oil lamps to shed some light on the area as they searched the chambers. A few minutes later, the assassin heard more footsteps approaching.
“Lord Chamberlain, I fear the duke has been slain,” one of the guards reported.
“Has anyone checked on the boy yet?” the chamberlain asked.
A pair of guards scrambled down the hall and burst into the heir’s room. The Rook swung the shutters open and aimed his crossbow at the man dressed in night robes.
“Chamberlain!” the assassin shouted and pulled the trigger the moment the man turned towards him.
The instant the bolt struck the chamberlain in the chest two things happened. First, the impact released the catch holding the two small blades nearly flush with the shaft. Secondly, the impact released the catch holding the tightly wound spring causing the oversized steel head to spin rapidly. The spinning head caused enormous damage as the blades spun inside the chest cavity, shredding the heart and lungs.
The guards reacted quickly and charged with swords drawn and halberds leveled. The Rook turned to the side to avoid being impaled on the halberd’s spear tip. The assassin dropped the crossbow, letting it hang across his back by a strap, grabbed the thrusting halberd by the shaft just below the axe head, and pulled. The guard gripped his weapon tightly thinking that the assassin was trying to disarm him. Instead, the Rook pulled the man and his weapon right out of the window and sent them both crashing to the ground sixty feet below.
A flick of his wrist sent a throwing dagger tumbling across the room and embedded it in the other guard’s throat. The Rook scrambled up the wall, ran across the castle’s roof, and climbed down the far side in less than five minutes. He scaled the inner wall and crouched at the top as guards charged him from both directions. The assassin lunged at the closer of the two guards and buried his knife to the hilt just below the man’s ribs.
He spun the dying guard around and shoved him into the second guard as he charged with his sword raised. The attacking guard tried to dodge his comrade’s body but was clipped by the dead weight and thrown off balance. The assassin thrust his blade in the remaining guard’s side and dropped over the outside of the wall, vanishing in an instant.
The Rook sprinted through the city as shouts and whistles alerted the watch to an intruder. The assassin reached the western outer wall a few minutes later and clambered up and over in a just a few seconds. It took him about ten minutes to find his horse that he had arranged to be picketed a short ways from where he crossed the wall. The Rook mounted up and rode away swiftly into the night.
Now, little wizard, your stay of execution has been lifted, the Rook thought to himself as rode for North Haven.
The Rook pushed his horse hard but not nearly as hard as he had in order to get to Brightridge. There was no hurry other than his own need to complete a job for which he had been paid. The delay at Brightridge was unavoidable, but it still grated on his sense of professionalism nonetheless.
Beware, little wizard, death rides for you now, the assassin thought as he rode through the night.
CHAPTER 13
Large tables had been brought into the audience hall around which sat the lords and nobles of Brightridge. Heated debates had been ongoing for the last few hours following the Duke’s murder and the only thing they had accomplished thus far was to infuriate one another beyond reason.
“I still say that I am the best choice to act as regent. I can trace my family tree back to the very founding of Valaria,” Lord Ashworth proclaimed.
“Bah, your family tree has root rot and beetle infestation!” Lord Ellington accused.
“You are one to talk. Your family tree has so few branches it could be used as a ships mast without even needing a trimming!” Lord Dandrich fired back.
“What we need is a man with experience and none here can claim nearly as much as I,” the venerable Lord Malcolm insisted.
“Oh, that is what we need. A regent so old he cannot even climb the stairs to the dais,” Lord Farnsworth snidely commented.
A lascivious grin spread across the old lord’s wrinkled face. “I had no trouble climbing your mother, the dais should pose no difficulty,” Lord Malcolm cackled along with several others at the table.
“Keep your lies to yourself, old man,” Lord Farnsworth demanded. “We all know my mother is far too old for your tastes.”
“My daughter is too old for his tastes!” Lord Kendrick added.
“And the wrong gender!” Lord Whitfield bellowed causing all but Lord Malcolm to burst into laughter.
Lord Malcolm’s face burned red with rage but he wisely remained silent. A chicken leg suddenly flew across the table and struck Lord Kendrick in the chest.
“Who dares to throw a piece of fowl at me?” Lord Kendrick demanded in his nasally voice.
“I would say someone who was unable to reach the mashed potatoes,” Lord Farnsworth replied.
“The next man who dares pelt me with food had best be prepared to answer the insult with steel!” Lord Kendrick stood up and threatened, gripping the hilt of his rapier.
A rain of food went flying from all directions with demands for him to sit down.
“Now this is just childish!” Lord Kendrick whined but sat down all the same.
“Gentlemen, please. While we sit here hurling insults and food, large groups of bandits are pillaging our lands! A group of bandits sacked Langdon’s Crossing just before winter. We thought it a random raid by desperate men but they have raided other towns and now I hear tell there is another even larger group out of Sumara looting and killing their way towards us right now!”
“How big?”
“Some say three or four hundred, others are saying nearly a thousand.”
“Peasants are always exaggerating. There are probably less than a hundred. Even if there were several hundred raiders, it is not enough to lay siege to a city the size of Brightridge.”
“They won’t have to lay siege. If we don’t do something the people are going to revolt!”
“The people are already revolting.”
“Oh that’s a nice attitude to have for someone wanting to claim regency.”
“Don’t act so high and mighty with me, I know you think the same way.”
“Thinking something and coming out and saying it, are two completely different things.”
“What difference would that be?”
“A dagger in the back while you are sleeping.”
“It did nothing to save William did it?”
“Maybe we should write Jarvin.”
“What for?”
“For him to send troops to destroy these ruffians, that’s what we pay t
axes for isn’t it?”
“We have our own troops. That is why the peasants pay taxes to us!”
“But only the Duke or his regent can deploy them, which is why we are here bickering!”
“Fine, we shall address the king. Someone wake up Malcolm.”
Out on the walls, General Robert Quayburn, commander of Brightridge’s military forces, watched the black curls of smoke spiraling high into the sky not far off in the distance.
“Damn it all to the abyss!” General Quayburn shouted. “While those fools argue over the spoils of the duke’s death, these marauders are burning down the entire countryside!”
“What are we to do, sir? Without orders from the Duke, his seneschal, or regent we are forbidden to take action on our own,” a nervous but equally angry sergeant replied.
Another column of smoke rose into the sky to mix with the several others already darkening the horizon.
“Blast it! That does it. Round up my soldiers, Sergeant, and send the Captain of the Watch to me,” General Quayburn ordered.
“But, sir, you will be charged with treason!” warned the sergeant.
“I would rather hang than stand by and watch these cowards destroy the lands I was sworn to protect. None of the men volunteered. I ordered them to march and I will take full responsibility.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant saluted with a smile and ran to follow the General’s orders.
Within minutes, the Captain of the Watch stood next to General Quayburn as Brightridge’s army formed up at the city’s main gate.
“Captain, I am leading my men to drive off this looting scum. I recommend you double the watch and issue every longbow and crossbow you have. Man the mangonels and catapults in case the enemy forces are larger than we were led to believe and try to take the city.”
“I will, General. Good luck and good hunting,” the watch captain replied, clasping wrists with General Quayburn.
General Quayburn jogged down the steps that ran up to the top of the wall and mounted his steed at the head of his army.
The Sorcerer's Legacy (The Sorcerer's Path) Page 25
