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

by David Pauly

  Smiling, Ferox said, 'We can offer more aid than you might think. In addition to provisions, you will be able to exchange messages securely with those in the City. Information from our sources in the City will also come to you by discreet means. You shall always have an Elven messenger within a half day's ride if you need anything—food, drink, information, or even companionship. We can and will provide all these things to you so secretly that even Lord Mergin himself will not suspect a thing.'

  'This is indeed a generous offer, my Lord,' said Daerahil. 'But you will forgive a soldier for speaking bluntly, I trust. What do you want in return?'

  'Your good will is sufficient for our purposes, but if there comes a time when we need your help, we would ask that you give it willingly and with all of your power,' said Ferox.

  'Power,' muttered Daerahil darkly. 'The only power I currently have is to oversee the garrison at Ianus Malus and patrol the evil road from gate to ruin to the smoldering pits of the fountain and back, waiting for the excavation expedition.'

  'That is true now, Lord,' said Ferox, 'but we believe you will be returned to your former rank at the end of your exile and that you may eventually wield more power than you think.'

  Suspicions rose in Daerahil's mind at this last remark, but before he could voice them, Ferox stated, 'We had nothing to do with the ghastly attack upon your brother, for we do not wish any Man ill, but if those that tried succeed in the future, then indeed you will have power, Lord Daerahil.'

  Nodding his head, Daerahil stated, 'I love my brother, though that feeling is somewhat diminished since he failed to save me from this predicament. Still, I want nothing to befall him on my or anyone else's account. I will settle his debt with me in my own time.'

  'Of course,' stated Ferox, 'but your love for your father is gone, or so we suspect—and rightly so after the terrible way he treated you.'

  Burning with remembered shame, Daerahil looked into Ferox's face and saw only sincerity there. After Felorad's warning, he did not dare to use his powers. 'Yes, you are correct. There is no love left between my father and me, but he is King and I must do his bidding. If there is nothing else, Lord, I should be getting back to the Crossroads before any more of Mergin's vile creatures come stalking me.'

  'There is one last thing, something of delicacy that I wanted to discuss with you,' said Ferox.

  'Now we have finally come to it,' thought Daerahil.

  At a gesture from Ferox, Felorad removed a small leather purse from his cloak and pulled open the drawstrings. Reaching his fingers within the pouch, Felorad handed a small glass phial to Ferox that glowed with a dark ruby light.

  'This is gurth sogan,' said Ferox, 'an extremely powerful yet painless poison. It takes effect in less than a minute, and mortals and immortals alike are then free from the bounds of Nostraterra. We have never given this to mortals, as it is a final release for Elves that have grown too weary of the pain of this world.'

  'Why show it to me? I am not in need of it,' asked a perplexed Daerahil.

  'Lord, we have heard of the exile of your female friend and of her current condition,' said Ferox. 'If you like, we can make certain that she receives this phial and knows of its properties. The choice to use it or not will be hers to make.'

  Stunned by the depth of information the Elves had in their possession and feeling the black, raging grief well up within him again, it took all of Daerahil's will power to hold himself in check. Thinking for a moment of how much he missed Hala, he hoped she could survive and be with him again. But he knew that it was likely she would not survive her captivity in Shardan, and, if she did, she would not be the same Hala he loved.

  'Thank you, Prince Ferox. I would be grateful if she were given a chance to escape her captivity.' Bowing his head in acceptance, Daerahil rose to his feet. Ferox did likewise, and the two exchanged the Elven parting ritual of grasping each other's forearms for a moment while bowing slightly. Sealing this bargain with its unknown price made Daerahil uneasy, but he needed every ally no matter their actual motives. Daerahil then exited the tent, where he found Hardacil waiting. The two men mounted their horses and, conducted by an escort of Elves, began traveling back to the road and the Crossroads.

  As they neared the encampment, Felorad handed Daerahil a small bag with the contents of Daerahil's disguise: bits of makeup and perfume so the ruse would succeed.

  'You may tarry here, Lord, for another few hours,' said Felorad. 'Sleep if you like, or drink the wine we have brought with us, but you cannot return to the Crossroads until well after midnight.'

  'Why stop here rather than at the encampment?' asked Daerahil.

  'Because, Lord, the Shadows may have moved or been joined by others. This is as far as we can go without some risk of being seen. When our scouts report that the way back is clear, you will be informed that it is safe to proceed.'

  Daerahil dismounted and accepted a glass of wine from one of the Elves.

  As he sipped, Hardacil led him several paces away, where the Elves were not likely to overhear them, bent close, and whispered, 'Lord, what do they want for their help?'

  'I have no idea, but right now I don't care; I need all the help that there is. I will give Ferox whatever he wants in the future, within reason, of course. We must be wary, that much is plain. It is clear that Ferox wishes to curry favor with me, but I can only guess it relates to the internal politics of the Elves. All we can do, unless and until we get any specific information casting suspicion on Ferox, is to take him at his word. But once our exile is over, we will be able ask deeper questions and pay for better information. The alternative would be to offend our only ally at this point by refusing his help, in which case we will have no one to aid us in the future.'

  Two miles away a Shadow turned his attention back to the Encampment waiting for Daerahil to return as his primary mission was to watch and report what and where the former Prince went on his way to Ianus Malus. He was quite concerned at the absence of their leader, but his orders were clear: remain with his comrade south of the Elven encampment and wait until his leader returned. When Daerahil left the encampment then they were to rendezvous with their leader and follow Daerahil reporting to the Shadow that remained behind at the Crossroads. His leader was going to infiltrate the Elven encampment keeping Daerahil and his friend under close surveillance. What could have delayed his leader he could not fathom, for there were no warriors besides their instructors from Hagar that could defeat them at their own game. If his leader did not turn up by tomorrow, then presuming he could gain permission from the sub-leader at the Crossroads, he would look for his leader while his comrade continued to look after Daerahil. Perhaps reinforcements could be dispatched from Titania, or from their secret training site above the Pale Crags.

  The Shadow recalled their home training camp with bittersweet memories, sweet for the glory to serve Eldora, and the ferocious loyalty that comrades would always show to one another. There was a great strength in knowing that while you would willingly die for your leader and for your comrades, they were equally willing to die for you. All that ultimately mattered was your absolute loyalty and devotion to the Over-commander of the Shadows, his commander, Lord Mergin, and above all, Creon, King of Eldora, leader of the Northmen. Even the Hagarian instructors, while deserving of loyalty from their students, knew and reinforced this linear pathway of obedience.

  The bitterness was because of tremendous sacrifice, ten years of personal hardship, brutal exhausting training under constant duress; pushing many candidates beyond their breaking point to an untimely death. Not one in ten of recruited candidates completed their training to become Shadows. The initial selection process was performed at a restricted, but not secret, camp in the fens of the swamps where the river Aphon spread out for tens of miles south and west of the City. First all candidates had to prove their pure blood of Northern origin prior to consideration for training. Many young men spent much of their meager fortunes having researchers examine their lineage back into anci
ent times. While the blood of Kozak, if diluted enough, would not bar them from training, any taint of Southern blood, or significant amounts of the blood of the lesser men of Nostraterra was sufficient to keep them as simple men. Regardless, Shadows by their very nature were meant to be few in number. Less than two hundred were active at any given time, not counting the instructors within the program and those Shadows permanently assigned to other Kingdoms or realms.

  Their initial teachers were senior Shadows, who put all the recruits who could prove their purity through an intensive year-long initial program of strengthening, conditioning and fighting techniques. At the end of the year, roughly five in ten were sent back to their former lives, having ultimately failed to become the raw material that was necessary for formal training. Those who remained were taken into the wilderness that still existed in Nostraterra to learn how to survive both off and with the land. Climbing the slopes of the Never Summer Range and the Icy Mountains, traversing the plains of Hagar, navigating the trackless meres of the Miasmatic Swamps, and finally, surviving upon the open sea south and west of the Delta. This training lasted two full years, and the survivors usually amounted to two or three of the original ten. A final evaluation was held by their teachers, weeding out the last few weak candidates, who were not sufficient to warrant the last years of training.

  The remaining candidates were then taken to the secret training facility in the Encircling Mountains above the Pale Crags. Prior to departing they were told they would either emerge as Shadows or shades, and they must make this ultimate commitment before they left to train. Each candidate was interviewed at length by the instructors individually to see if he had the requisite level of commitment prior to leaving for the hidden camp. Once there the candidates met the Hagarian nomads, who were in charge of all senior training. What their actual name might be in their own tongue was unknown, and only Shadows in their last year of training were taught the rudiments of the Hagarian language.

  The first year of the seven that awaited them was completely unlike their prior training. There was regular training to keep them at the physical and mental level they had acquired in their first three years, but they were taught nothing new. Instead, they spent the first year as servants to senior students and the instructors, not allowed to question any orders. The Shadow recalled the day his best friend from his early years had objected to remaining on duty cleaning latrines for a third straight day when other students had been on duty for only one. With a sad smile, the short, powerful teacher drew his sword from its scabbard on his left hip, in a blinding hissing arc, severing the student’s head from his body. It took less than a minute for the headless body to stop bleeding and twitching, and the instructor gestured for two other students to pick up the remains and deposit them high upon the shoulders of the mountains so that the scavenger birds might pick the bones clean and the very existence of the candidate be forgotten. The two students dispatched to this task were shaken by the sight of so many other bones of so many other students that had been laid to rest there. Unfortunately, one of these students decided to try and sneak away from the training camp that night and the next day the carrion birds were again descending to that high plateau.

  As the years went by, the students learned the arts of Hagarian fighting, stealth, and concealment, the ability to perform tasks that the student would have thought impossible only months before he learned them. Overall, there was the constant tension of the fear of failure. Students steadily disappeared as they failed to complete the tasks set before them. You never knew if you had failed until it was too late; one morning there was just one more empty chair at breakfast and you knew that someone that you had trained with, slept next to, eaten many meals with, and gotten drunk with on the rare nights you were allowed to relax, had perished at the hands of the very teachers you were supposed to respect.

  Finally, the Shadow reflected, came the day you had waited for ten years, the day you were given the tattoo under your left armpit that identified you as a Shadow and given the mottled clothing that allowed you to blend into many different environments without appearing obvious. You were then given your orders by your instructor to report to a specific troop of Shadows, where you would follow orders without question during your apprenticeship and slowly acquire additional skills that were individually suited to each particular man. The Shadow knew he had been chosen for this night’s assignment for his exceptional ability in concealment, an art that few excelled to his level. Returning from his musings, he saw that Daerahil had exited through the south gate of the encampment and was proceeding back to the Crossroads. Following at a discreet distance, the Shadow saw nothing unusual and watched Daerahil enter the Crossroads. Slipping quietly behind Daerahil’s party the Shadow climbed a remote part of the walls and seeing Daerahil enter into his quarters dared to go and sleep in a nearby hay loft prior for a few hours before coordinating with his fellow Shadow.

  #

  Early the next day, having safely returned to the Crossroads shortly after midnight, Daerahil led his men out on the final leg of their journey. Nodding wearily in the saddle, he did not reprimand his men for their smirks and whisperings at the cause they believed lay behind his obvious fatigue.

  'Better to let rumor convict me of my usual transgressions,' he thought.

  The clouds hung sullen and dark, coming from the west. After nuncheon, rain came in fits and starts, with distant thunder rumbling in the river valley. Gusty winds portended the arrival of even worse weather, and Daerahil called a halt, ordering tents to be erected for protection. The horses were corralled under the trees, their saddles removed as they were allowed to graze the lush underbrush that supplemented their fodder.

  As the afternoon drew on, the rain fell harder, pooling in the gaps between the great paving stones of the road. Feeling as dispirited as his men, Daerahil ordered them to pitch camp for the night and prepare the cooking fires. The sergeant relayed his orders, and the soldiers, while grumbling customarily, went about their routine, happy not to march farther that day.

  Daerahil was sipping Frostfields ale and looking out grimly from the flap of his tent when a sudden crack of thunder and a blinding flash lit up the dark afternoon. Twenty yards away, a tall ash tree, struck by lightning, was set ablaze. A screaming whinny came from the horses, and six bolted back down the road to the west, while three ran down the road ahead. Cursing, Daerahil ordered the guardsmen who were in charge of the horses to go after them. Twelve men rapidly saddled up at his command, eight of them heading west and the remaining four to the east.

  An hour later, as the rain ended, the guardsmen who had headed west returned with the missing horses. After receiving their admonishment from Daerahil, they secured the horses and returned to the warmth of the fires.

  Shortly thereafter, Hardacil said, 'Lord, where are the men that you sent east? Unless the horses ran all the way to the black gate, they should have been back by now.'

  'Indeed,' said Daerahil. 'Well, there's nothing for it—we had better go and look for them. Assemble ten men as a guard detail. Hopefully we will be back before nightfall.'

  'I suspect the men we seek have just volunteered to take over the latrine work and kitchen detail for the next month,' Hardacil said sardonically.

  'No,' said Daerahil. 'A month is too short. I think at least six weeks will be required to teach them not to tarry and force their captain to ride out into this damp.'

  Daerahil bent his gaze eastward as he and his guards began to search for the missing soldiers. A golden haze lay upon the road. Soft tendrils of mist gathered and drifted along the ground, as only the faintest breath of breeze was present. It seemed peaceful and tranquil, the woods of Ackerlea lush and hale along the ancient stonework of the road.

  Today, Daerahil felt the age-old compulsion to travel upon its unyielding surface more than most days, but there was something new that had not appeared before now. A subtle reverberation of power rang along its periphery, hinting of a terrible darkness, a hu
nger that could not be sated, but only placated. Daerahil tried to put this off as an echo of the dark land of Plaga Erebus imbuing its horror on the present, but a visceral part of his mind refused to dismiss the sensation quite so easily. Instead, dark thoughts intruded from his past, particularly those of his father humiliating him repeatedly as a child fighting against his active will for supremacy, and only after an effort was he able to shake them off with his mental powers and focus on the task at hand.

  'Do you sense anything unusual about this stretch of road, Hardacil?' Daerahil asked softly, not wanting to spook the rest of the men.

  Hardacil started as if he had been on the verge of sleep. "No, Lord—only I do feel strangely tired, as if the mist through which we are riding has drained my energy. And there is something else . . . I don't know quite how to put it. A vague sense of a dread uneasy, I suppose you could say.'

  'You are not usually one for lyrical turns of phrase,' joked Daerahil. 'Whence comes this?'

  'I do not know, Lord. The words seemed to form themselves in my mind, almost as if someone were speaking them for me. Indeed,' Hardacil added reflectively, 'it feels as if another nightmare waits to encroach upon the day.'

  'Now I know there is something truly out of place here,' said Daerahil with genuine anxiety, 'when you recite poetry for the first time in your life.'

  'Yes, Lord,' said Hardacil with a grim smile. 'Let us ride carefully.'

  Daerahil and his men cantered eastward. The only sounds were the dripping of moisture from the trees of Ackerlea, the measured ringing of the horses' hooves on the stones of the road, and the occasional whistle of a soldier to his mount. After twenty minutes or so, Daerahil heard the sounds of hoof beats from the road ahead, and the missing horses came into view, along with the four horses of the guardsmen sent to retrieve them. But of the guardsmen themselves, there was no sign.

  'Bare your weapons,' said Daerahil. 'It would seem there is trouble ahead.'