The Fourth Age Shadow Wars: Assassins (The Fourth Age: Shadow Wars Book 1)

by David Pauly

  Though Creon had immediately dispatched search parties, no sign had ever been discovered of the Shadows or the Shardan raiders who had supposedly killed them.

  The unavenged death of Blordar still filled Creon with rage, and now that rage fastened onto the memory of Daerahil's behavior in the Council meeting.

  Pausing for several moments, Creon took the unusual step of hand-writing a small piece of parchment, before rolling it into scroll. Handing it to Alfrahil, Creon said 'Now go and tell your brother of his new restrictions after his deplorable behavior here today.'

  #

  Daerahil sat sipping an exquisite glass of wine and admiring the décor from his private booth on the second floor of the Dusty Cloak. The windows were deep set crystal clear glass, free from bubbles, found in only the most expensive windows. Gentle bars of light shone into the interior of the tavern, covered with sawdust and ground nut shells on the lower level. A set of spiral stairs, with a sturdy porter armed with a large club, was set back against the far wall, leading to a loft accessible only by those who possessed an expensive membership.

  The lower level was an excellent tavern that catered to foreign travelers, adventurous locals with money to spend, and soldiers who had served under Daerahil, who were able to eat and drink at a discount. Wide arrays of exotic dishes were available, from the plafs of the steppes of far Azhar to the fish stews of the river delta, to the curries of Shardan. Crisp, cold beer from Frostfields was offered along with good wine. The walls were simple white plaster over dark stones, with dark wooden beams forming the ceiling. Straw-filled tapestries had been placed between the beams to reduce the noise of the occupants. Wooden benches set with large tables filled most of the room, with some small round tables and wooden chairs for smaller groups of guests.

  Many of the patrons were soldiers, either active or retired veterans. They showed the bronze disc that had their name and service number on it, and they enjoyed a hefty discount. Daerahil respected the men who had served under his command far too much to profit from them, and during the winter months he even funded free food kitchens in the lower end of the Sixteenth district that served a simple fish stew with root vegetables and coarse bread to those soldiers and their families who had great need. Here in the tavern, there was one caveat: while officers and common soldiers were equally welcome, they had to leave rank outside the doors. Here a grizzled old corporal could rub elbows with a senior commander, and neither was publicly allowed to think anything of it. If officers did not like this custom, they were welcome to take their business elsewhere. Common soldiers needed a place to simply be men, just as much as their betters did, and the Dusty Cloak was such a place.

  On the second level, however, it was an entirely different experience. A sophisticated private restaurant, the finest in Titania, served those who were allowed to drink and dine exclusively at Daerahil's discretion. Two excellent chefs, one Shardan, the other Eldoran, served exquisite food perfectly prepared to the fortunate. Many of the finest wines in all Nostraterra, from the sparkling wine of Chilton to the rich yet subtle wines of the North Vale, were served here. Robust wines from Shardan and triply refined spirits of Dorian from the sugar fields of the river delta were also on the list. The décor was significantly different from below. Private booths filled the three walls of the level, with sliding doors to ensure privacy. An expansive bar staffed with at least three servers provided seats for those who wanted to simply eat and drink without concern over their privacy. Other servers were discreetly arranged about the room.

  #

  Alfrahil arrived at the Dusty Cloak some hours later. As soon as he strode in, the manager asked after Alfrahil's needs with fawning obsequiousness. The prince ordered a bottle of Dwarven ale, which the manager imperiously instructed a server to bring without delay.

  'I take it my brother is in his usual booth?' Alfrahil asked.

  'Allow me to conduct you,' the manager said with a slight bow.

  'I'll surprise him,' Alfrahil said. 'Just have that ale sent up.'

  With that, he climbed the stairs, whose guard bowed and made way for him, and slid the door to Daerahil's booth open.

  His brother, seated at a table facing the door, said nothing but raised his glass in greeting.

  'You are very trusting,' Alfrahil commented. 'How did you know I was not an assassin?'

  Daerahil laughed. 'Brother, no one walks like you in this world.' And he put his palms on the table and beat out a stumbling, shambling staccato. 'I recognized your steps as you climbed the stairs.'

  Alfrahil felt himself blush. 'Is that really how I walk?'

  'Perhaps I exaggerate slightly. Sit down and drink with me.'

  Alfrahil slid the door closed and sat across from his brother in a luxurious leather chair. 'Well, brother, you certainly have done it this time.'

  'Indeed? What happened at the Council after I left?'

  Handing Daerahil Creon's scroll, Alfrahil said 'Our father was quite beside himself with anger. He has fined you five hundred gold pieces and revoked your annual leave this year, compelling you to remain on duty until you have redressed the grievance that you have caused. Furthermore, he has ordered that you are not to leave your inspection from the Out-Walls to return to the City until your reports have been reviewed and approved. You could be stuck there in the outer barracks for quite some time.'

  'It is nothing that I did not expect,' said Daerahil with a shrug. 'At least I had the satisfaction of humiliating that vile serpent Mergin.'

  'That you did,' said Alfrahil, 'but you and I both know that he is not going away. You might as well call a truce in your dealings with him before he can find another way to undermine you again.'

  Daerahil's face moved into a darker shade of red, and Alfrahil knew that his brother was on the verge of another outburst.

  'Peace, brother,' said Alfrahil. 'I do not disagree with your feelings, but you must learn to be more circumspect in your actions.'

  'You do disagree with some of my feelings, brother. We disagree on how to end the rebellion and bring home our soldiers from abroad. You would have a series of fortifications built along the borders of Eldora and Shardan and keep our troops in Shardan only in large groups to suppress the most visible elements of the rebellion. You also do not approve of the sovereignty of the Shardan Trade Confederation.'

  'Yes,' said Alfrahil. 'I believe that your methods, while effective, give too much power away to the rebels and would allow the rebellion to infiltrate all of Shardan and spread into Azhar and even into South Eldora. Clearly your ideas of governance have already permeated the Trading cities, emboldening them enough to revolt against us here in Eldora. Additionally, there is no guarantee that the rebels in your pacified provinces or the Traders in their cities would not use their newfound wealth to continue the struggle to overthrow Eldora's rule.'

  Daerahil leaned forward, eager to rehearse this argument yet again. 'I believe that the only way is to let Shardan rebuild itself from the ground up and establish warlords loyal to trade and to Eldora for supplying such trade. The people in the Trade Confederation are citizens not just of Eldora, but men from Kozak, Chilton, and other distant towns. Why, even a few Dwarves have moved there, renouncing their allegiance to the Bastion and helping set up the new alliance. There is little to be done to stop the Traders. We must forge commercial and then political alliances with them so that our northern borders are fortified with a strong buffer from any incursion from the South.'

  'On this as on many issues, we must agree to disagree,' said Alfrahil. 'But I had hoped that we could agree at least on the necessity of creating a true Shardan front.'

  'Front? What front?' snorted Daerahil derisively. 'Think of the history of our occupation and tell me how we can create a front with the situation as it currently is.'

  A knock at the door silenced their argument.

  'Enter,' called Daerahil.

  The manager bowed himself in, carrying a platter bearing another glass of wine for Daerahil and a t
ankard of Dwarven ale for Alfrahil. He set this down on the table and inquired if he might bring anything else.

  Daerahil waved him away. 'Just keep bringing the drinks. Oh, and some cheese and bread.'

  The manager smiled and bowed himself out. Daerahil rose as if to follow him. 'Where are you going?' asked Alfrahil, surprised.

  'Nature calls, brother,' said Daerahil, and he slipped past Alfrahil and out of the room.

  Alone, Alfrahil sipped his Dwarven ale and brooded on the history of the Shardan rebellion. After the fall of Magnar, fighting had continued for nearly sixty years before the signing of the Great Treaty. In that treaty, the supremacy of the Lords of the West and North was acknowledged by all of Shardan, with local Lords given dominion in their own lands. A new charter was created, forging the Lords of Shardan into a new confederation, with the Lords being allowed one year to choose a king amongst them and to have their king send formal ambassadors to Eldora and to Kozak.

  The Lords had fought and died for their chance to be king, and only after many had perished in brief but savage military encounters or individual combat challenges was a King of Shardan chosen. That king was Karnag: a clever politician from an ancient Shardan family, he was the least offensive choice among other, more powerful warlords. While he had some autonomy, he could scarcely call his capital city of Harath his own, failing to bring stability to a country that desperately needed it. Still, he had maintained the peace for many years as Shardan had begun to rebuild itself with waterways and roads, farms and fields.

  Fifty two years ago, a minor but noisy noble, Lord Gronthin, had fomented rebellion against Eldora and Kozak, declaring war against the foreign invaders. Gronthin had been ordered to Harath to explain himself to King Karban, son of Karnag, his Council, and the ambassadors of Kozak and Eldora.

  He had come peacefully, with only a small guard, and was brought before the Council of Shardan Lords and King Karban seated at their ornate wooden table. Karban demanded an explanation, and Gronthin had repented, recanting his desire for war, saying, 'I do not know from where or why these thoughts came to me unbidden.'

  Approaching the throne, he bowed and accepted King Karban's pardon, but rising, a great flush came over his face, his eyes rolled briefly back into his head, and he had to grip his knees for support. Suddenly he turned and screamed, 'Shardan will be free!' and plunged a small poisoned knife secreted in his sleeve into Karban's chest. Simultaneously, one of his guards hurled a similar blade into the throat of the Eldoran ambassador. Gronthin was wrestled down by the other guards and Lords as his entire guard detail was cut down.

  King Karban and the Eldoran ambassador began to twitch and foam at the mouth, their faces mottling into terrible colors; their lives vanished even as healers from Eldora and Shardan burst into the room. When they died, so did the peace of Eldora. Civil war broke out within days; nobles slaying one another again, with each Lord occupying his own small demesne, refusing to agree about Karban's successor, united only in their hatred of Eldora and Kozak.

  At his trial, Gronthin said he remembered nothing of the assassination, but only derisive laughter and jeers had come from the witnesses to the murders and he was swiftly convicted and sentenced to a horrible death in the desert wastes.

  Alfrahil vividly remembered the tale of the terrible blue figure that had appeared during Gronthin's excruciation, slaying all the men immediately standing around the condemned man, save his father. Creon, drawing his sword, Caelestus, had entered into the circle of power put forth by the creature but was expelled a few moments later. Lightning flickered over his body as he lay unconscious on the ground, his sword dark and discolored. The King regained consciousness the following morning but would not speak of what he had endured.

  Sunrise brought a unique spectacle to the King's eyes: a perfect, black circle two hundred yards across burned into the desert sands. There was no trace of Gronthin, but the bodies of the guards lay upon a large piece of stone made from the newly fused sands of the desert, covered in unknown characters. The bodies of the men were hideously disfigured with runes and symbols no one could decipher. The odor of corruption and death made the survivors retch and heave. The guardsmen from Shardan tried to throw sand and place stones to cover the dead, but the grains flew into the air when they were a few feet from the bodies, and the stones hurtled backward, injuring some of the men in the process.

  Eventually the King and the representatives from Eldora and Kozak left, the guardsmen of Shardan muttering under their breath at what they had seen. The bodies continued to decompose under the Shardan sun, adorning the odd stone sculpture with their bleached bones. No one, not even the wise men of Eldora or the scholars of the Great Elves, could explain what had happened there. Only the legends of Shardan provided an answer, no matter how improbable it might be.

  Rumors of blue devils that could melt the earth and air; transforming men and animals into hideous shapes, were ancient legend in Shardan. Now these mythical devils were held responsible for the conflagration that had struck this small corner of the desert. The tale grew in the retelling, and even today, as Alfrahil well know, there were rumors of horrible deaths and mysterious disappearances of the soldiers who patrolled the farthest reaches of Shardan, Hagar, and Azhar.

  Creon refused to ever voice his opinion about what had happened, forbidding the topic of the 'Blue Vesper,' as the creature had come to be known, in his presence. The King was deeply affected by his experience, and it colored everything that he did and said regarding the South from that day forward.

  Gronthin's presumed rescue from Creon inflamed the rebellion; nearly overnight, secret societies sprang up with 'Shardan shall be free' as their rallying cry. Few Shardans, however, would exchange peace for war, despite the promise of independence, and the movement initially had little popular support.

  Enraged over the death of his ambassador, Creon declared martial law in Shardan, summoning the army of Eldora and requesting aid from Kozak. Three months passed before the allied army, a hundred thousand strong, could assemble and mass along the Shardan border. During that time, the diplomatic corps of Eldora and Shardan accomplished a miracle, despite the petty Shardan Lords who squabbled and fought over the succession to the Shardan Kingship.

  A nephew of Karban, Barnag, was declared King of Shardan and escorted to the palace with great fanfare as war was averted. Barnag's first proclamation pronounced peace. The Lords of the far southern province of Parnin, home to Gronthin, would be offered up as hostages along with half of their goods to Eldora as recompense for Eldora's loss. This traditional manner historically settled great disputes in Shardan, and Creon's closest foreign advisors had counseled him to accept these terms. The Eldoran army would stay on alert, patrolling the Shardan border but not violating their territory.

  Creon then made a fateful decision, confounding his advisors then and Alfrahil even today. The King rejected the terms, insisting upon the occupation of the principle cities of Shardan and demanding that the eldest sons of each Shardan Lord serve as hostages in Eldora. If any soldier of Eldora or Kozak died, these sons, even those of loyal Shardan lords, would be put to death. These terms were very harsh, harsher than any imposed upon Shardan since the days of Eldora's original primacy in Nostraterra.

  The insistence upon occupation proved to be the stone that began an avalanche of rebellion that Eldora, Kozak, and even the Shardan Lords loyal to Eldora could not stem. The intended hostages fled into hiding as rebellion swept through Shardan, inflaming the countryside and moving swiftly into the cities, where the allied army sustained severe losses. Eventually, the Lords of Shardan began to return some semblance of order to Shardan, and the soldiers of Eldora patrolled the roads between the provinces, as the rebellion now returned to the countryside, whence it had begun.

  The cost to the soldiers and the people of Shardan had been tremendous, and even today, hundreds of soldiers were killed while chasing rebels and over a thousand a year were injured, some so severely they could not ret
urn to war. While the Lords of Shardan all publicly decried the rebellion and ostensibly aided Eldora and Kozak in their quest for pacification, there were few, in or out of Shardan, who believed in their sincerity. The controversy over the occupation had stormed through Creon's Council chambers and briefly out into the streets of Titania. A report that over a hundred wounded soldiers on their way home to Eldora had been captured and tortured, their mutilated corpses disfigured and desecrated in the foulest ways, ended the debate in Eldora, as the offices of the army were flooded with young volunteers.

  It was at this moment that Alfrahil, sitting with his back to the closed door of Daerahil's private booth, was surprised by the sudden icy feel of a blade at his throat. He froze, not daring to move, not daring to breathe.

  The keen edge lingered a moment, then lifted, accompanied by the laughter of Daerahil. 'You see, brother, some of us do not advertise our approach with the footsteps of a drunken ox!'

  Alfrahil flushed but bit back his angry retort.

  Daerahil took his former seat, still grinning. 'Look at you, so lost in a daydream that even facing the door you did not see me enter. A prince of Eldora cannot let his guard down. Not these days. What if I had been a Shardan assassin?'

  Alfrahil sighed and took a sip of his Dwarven ale. 'I have been thinking of that,' he said. 'Nearly sixty years has passed since the start of the rebellion, and little has changed. The war still rages on and on, and there is no end in sight.'

  'I agree, brother, but you and I disagree as to how best to end the killing. Father will not listen to either of us, despite our personal experiences there.'

  Daerahil had served with the army for over forty years, while Alfrahil had barely served for one. Daerahil had countless wounds, while Alfrahil had only seen combat once during his only disastrous mission leading a company of men in Shardan, his skin had never been pierced by a weapon. Alfrahil had little practical experience to draw upon, relying upon his military advisors to give him a sense of the war and the people of Shardan. Alfrahil's limited experience gave him only a shallow insight into the Shardans. He thought them an endless source of struggles and violence, a foreign people who were truly too different to ever conform to the ways of Eldora. Still, he had no intrinsic dislike of Shardan or its peoples, and he privately hoped for another treaty that would bring the army home and end the war.