by S. C. Stokes
“This one jumped us as we searched the hold,” one said. “Came out of the dark like a cornered rat. Managed to kill two of our boys before we dragged him down.” Tristan needed only a glance to know the man was dead. Tristan counted at least four wounds, any one of which would have resulted in a swift death.
“Search his body,” he ordered. “We need to know where these Night Stalkers were headed. Anything we can find will help. And search the rest of the hold for good measure. Make sure there aren’t any others lurking about.”
Tristan turned and made his way back through the dark hold, searching for the stairs that would take him back to the deck. Without the lantern lights of the guardsmen, the hold was a labyrinth. Barrels, coils of rope and fishing tackle were strewn everywhere. Tristan moved more slowly now, feeling his way through the semi-darkness as he searched for any sign of other Night Stalkers and eventually found the stairs.
Reaching for the rail to steady himself, Tristan stopped dead at a particular sound. With the gentle lapping of the waves against the vessel’s hull it was difficult to know for sure. Tristan waited as he tried to discern the source of the noise. After a few moments he heard it again, this time more clearly.
A faint whimper could be heard, almost indistinguishable from the steady noise of the ocean.
Tristan followed the sound, searching for its origin. Back in the hold he began wading through the tangle of gear he had sought to avoid on his earlier passage. Blade in hand, he began to search through the debris. Any barrel that had not been sealed was hastily opened. The whimper came again, this time louder. Tristan could have sworn it was nearby.
Feeling his way toward the sound, he found a sturdy sea chest and eagerly threw open the lid. Disappointment filled the young King. The chest was empty save for a few personal effects. The whimper came again, this time almost underfoot. Exasperated, Tristan rifled through the personal effects again.
When the search again yielded nothing Tristan slammed the chest angrily.
A small startled yelp pierced the darkness. Tristan’s eyes searched for the source of the sound and settled on a large spool of rope that had been coiled and set in the hold. What should have been a tidy coil of rope had been undone, with the topmost length thrown casually into the center of the spool rather than coiled and fastened as one would normally expect.
Drawing out the loose length of rope, Tristan startled. Hiding in the cavity was a small child. With his hiding place revealed the boy looked up, fear evident on his dimly lit face. The child’s eyes settled on the sword in Tristan’s hand and he screamed. Realizing his folly, Tristan sheathed his sword and crouched down, bringing himself closer to the child’s height. “I’m not here to hurt you. We’ve come to help.” As he spoke Tristan reached out to reassure the young boy.
The gesture only served to scare the child further. The boy flailed as he struggled to keep Tristan at bay. Seeing his attempts to get through to the child were failing, Tristan gently batted aside his flailing arms and grabbed the child. The boy’s protests intensified but Tristan paid them no heed.
Scooping the child up, Tristan lifted him out of his hiding place and set him down on the deck. “I am not here to hurt you, Son. We’ve come to help. Do you know who I am?”
The questions seemed to surprise the child. He looked up at Tristan for a moment before shaking his head.
“I am Tristan Listar. You may not know my face, but you must have heard of me.”
The boy quieted and began to nod. Tristan continued: “I fought to help our people at the battle of Kings Court and I am here to help you now. What happened here?”
The boy wiped tears from his eyes and swallowed to clear his throat. “Those people . . . they came on board this morning. They offered the cap’n money to take them up the coast. So we did. Everything was fine until the captain heard the crying. The woman had been hiding the baby, and that made the cap’n all suspicious.”
“You are sure it was a baby?”
“Of course,” the boy responded. “It was crying and we ‘eard it. When the cap’n started askin’ questions they killed ‘im. They killed everyone. I ‘id down ‘ere where they couldn’t find me, but I ‘eard ‘em talkin’.”
“What did they say?”
“When they realized they didn’t have enough ‘ands to sail the ship a few of them took a launch and went ashore. They left two behind to try and find me ‘cause I had heard ‘em talking.”
“They left two behind? You’re sure of that?”
“Yes sir. I saw ‘em.”
As the realization struck him Tristan spun and shouted down the hold. “Captain, keep your eyes open, there is at least one more assassin on the ship.”
“They’re still alive?” the boy asked, his voice shrill as he dove back into his hiding place.
“One is—we found and killed the other already.”
“I’m not m-movin’ from here . . . t-till they‘re all dead,” the boy stammered.
“You can come with me, where you will be safe. Or you can take your chances down here in the dark where they might find you. If you are alone you will surely die.”
The boy glanced around the dark hold as he considered his options. “If I come with you then what?”
“We get you to safety and scour the ship for the surviving assassin,” the King answered.
“What’s an assassin?” the boy asked tentatively.
“Someone who kills people.”
“Oh,” the boy replied a little confused. “So you’re an assassin too, then?”
“No, Son. I’m a soldier. I don’t kill unless I have to.” Tristan knew his explanation was doing little to reassure the child. Changing tack he continued: “What’s your name, Son?”
“Callum, sir.”
“Well, Callum, stick with me, and I’ll keep you safe.” Tristan held out his left hand to the child.
Callum grasped eagerly for the young King’s outstretched hand and climbed out of the spool of rope. After setting the child gingerly on the deck Tristan whispered quietly, “I think we’ll both be safer if I have my sword in my hand, Callum.”
The boy nodded and Tristan drew his blade. “Just stay behind me, and I’ll lead the way.”
Callum fell in behind Tristan as he slowly made his way through the hold. Tristan studied his semi-dark surroundings as he moved, knowing that the remaining assassin could be lying in wait anywhere. Tristan could hear the King’s Guards tearing the hold apart searching for him. After the first struggle had broken out, reinforcements from above deck had joined the search below.
At the bottom of the stairs Tristan motioned for the lad to head up to the safety of the deck. The boy simply shook his head.
“The deck is crawling with King’s Guard. You’ll be safe,” Tristan insisted.
Reassured, Callum climbed the steep stairs, then Tristan guided the child across the deck towards the safety of the Rampant Royal, still firmly secured to the fishing vessel’s side.
With the steady hand of the King on his shoulder, Callum took a handful of steps before stopping so quickly Tristan bowled into him unintentionally. “What’s wrong, Callum?” Tristan asked quietly. When the boy didn’t respond, Tristan stepped around the child to see what was the matter.
Callum was rooted to the spot, his face white with fear. Tristan followed his gaze to the bodies of the three men he had been examining earlier. Scooping the child up, Tristan carried him across the deck toward the safety of his own ship. “I’m sorry, Callum—I didn’t think about the bodies.”
“It’s not that, sir,” Callum answered fretfully. “I’ve seen bodies before. It’s just that one in the pile there. He isn’t one of ours.”
A chill ran down Tristan’s spine as the reality of Callum’s words struck home. Tristan spun towards the pile of bodies he had been examining earlier, hoping the child was mistaken. . .
He was not. Where there was previously three bodies in a heap there now lay only two. The third man was now on his feet
, charging toward the King. He was very much alive, and eager to take advantage of the opportunity that had presented itself.
Tristan was only vaguely aware of a voice nearby as it raised the alarm. All his attention was focused on the assassin before him as he evaluated his choices. With Callum on his shoulder, fighting off the assassin would be impossible. Tristan quickly dropped the child to the deck and pushed him to safety while keeping his eye on his foe.
The man was almost upon him. His well-tanned complexion twisted into a grimace of hate. In one hand he wielded a kama, and in the other a short dagger. Out of time, and unable to move without exposing the child to harm, Tristan readied himself for the charge.
If the Night Stalker realized he was facing one of the finest swordsmen in Valaar, his crazed assault did not reflect it. Feigning a strike at the assassin’s chest, Tristan forced his foe onto the defensive. Tristan’s broadsword had greater reach, and the man had little choice but to raise his kama to block the strike—otherwise he would find the basket-hilted blade lodged in his chest.
Seeing the assassin’s response to his ploy, Tristan rolled his wrist and brought the blade down in a cool, calculated strike. The broadsword caught the assassin just above his left wrist. The severed hand, with the dagger still in it, fell uselessly to the deck. The assassin screamed and struck out with the kama. But seeing the slashing strike, Tristan ducked under the blade.
Tristan’s sweeping return strike took the assassin across his stomach. The Night Stalker was fading fast, earlier fatigued from the assault on the Palace and the attack on the fishing vessel. He had not anticipated a duel against so capable an opponent. The assassin had overextended and left himself exposed. With his left hand Tristan deftly grabbed the Night Stalker above his good wrist and yanked it, spinning the man around and pulling him off balance. With his adversary exposed, Tristan did not hesitate—he ran the Night Stalker through.
The assassin collapsed to the deck. Dead.
Anger welled up inside Tristan as he looked at the corpse at his feet.
These men took my son from me. Tristan thought, and before he could stop himself he lashed out, delivering a savage kick to the fallen Night Stalker.
Vaguely aware of the number of eyes focused on him, Tristan fought to regain his composure. “Transfer some crew from the corvette to pilot this vessel back to King’s Court. Ready the launches—we’re heading ashore. We must recover the Prince.”
The command shattered the silence that had descended over the ships as the King’s Guard hastened to carry out their liege’s wishes.
“What will happen to me, sir?” the tiny voice called out. “My father is dead and this ship is all I have ever known.”
In the commotion Tristan had forgotten the child. Crouching down, Tristan addressed the boy. “You’ll stay with us until we return to King’s Court. We’ll see to your safety and ensure you are provided for. I am sorry about your father, but right now I need to know—what else did you hear the attackers say?”
“They kept talking about a lady. They were heading north to meet her.”
“A lady in the north? You’re sure?” Tristan asked.
“That’s what they said. I ‘eard them say it.”
“It’s the best lead we’ve had so far. If they were willing to leave two of their own behind to silence you, it is safe to say there must be some truth to it.”
Callum didn’t know what to say. He just stood there mutely staring back at Tristan.
“Let me know when the launches are ready.” Tristan declared. “We are going ashore.”
Chapter 5
The plains of the Kairon, Sevalorn.
Grindelmere basked in the warmth of the sun as he led his people across the plains. For years beyond reckoning the Glaciadal had been exiled to the ice plains north of the Frosted Peaks, but now they had moved beyond.
With the fall of Apollos, the Adal had gone into hiding. Lesser races soon forgot or forsook the God whom they had once worshiped and, free of the yoke, they claimed their independence or flocked to join the folds of his usurping sons. These murderers had conspired to overthrow the government of heaven and shatter the cosmos into chaos and anarchy once more, all in the hope that they could gather enough of the shattered pieces to take his place.
Such disloyalty would not be considered by the Adal—they were the children of Apollos. Not by birth but by creation. By his own hand they had been fashioned and brought into being. Given life by their God, they stood apart from other beings.
The ignorant might believe the Adal to be human, but the Adal are to humans what a snowflake is to sleet. Where humans are rough and unrefined, the Adal are slender, lithe and graceful—perfection given form. The facial structure of the Adal eschews the heavy nature of man, instead favoring a sharper, more angular shape. Their beauty was further enhanced by their ears, which tapered to a fine point.
The Adal were free of the ailments that afflicted lesser beings. Having fashioned a race of acolytes, Apollos set about ensuring his supremacy. The Adal knew not sickness, nor would they become infirm with the passing of time—they were as ageless as the sun itself. Though subject to death by other means, the inevitable hand of time was stayed for the Adal.
As his faithful followers multiplied, Apollos taught them the arcane arts. They possessed a natural affinity for the mystical, and excelled as they studied at the feet of their god Apollos, the one whose feet had walked a thousand worlds. The man who, by the power of knowledge, rose above his peers and became a god. There could be no finer teacher, and the Adal had the luxury of many lifetimes to hone their art.
Then came the Fall.
Alphaeus and Mythos, the sons of Apollos, betrayed their own blood. In treachery they rose up against their father and sought both his life and his Kingdom. With Apollos vanquished, his sons bickered over their stolen inheritance, each gathering worlds to his cause in a bid to replace their father as the Supreme Being among the stars. The one thing both sons agreed upon concerned the Adal. As the most faithful of their father’s followers, the Adal had to go, for the Adal would not condone their treachery.
Thus the purge began. The sons and their followers attempted to cleanse the stars of every last trace of the Adal. Without the protective hand of Apollos, the refined beings were exposed—they were hunted down and slaughtered in droves.
As millions perished in the genocide, the Adal went into hiding. In the most desolate and inhospitable climes they could find, the Adal secluded themselves and used their arts to survive, all the while waiting for the enmity of lesser races to subside, or for their master to return. The heavens might have thought Apollos dead, but the Adal would not believe it.
So Grindelmere had led his people here to the world of Meldinar, where high in the mountains of Sevalorn they had found refuge. Amid the snow and sorrow they clung to life, desperate to survive. Grindelmere christened his tribe the Glaciadal, after their new arctic home. In time the stars and their inhabitants forgot the Adal and so the Glaciadal waited, biding their time.
With the passage of years, Grindelmere grew weary of watching his people struggle for life in the frozen ice fields. Slowly he formed a plan to lead his people out of the tundra and into the sun.
Grindelmere gathered the Eight, the ancient spellweavers who safeguarded both the Glaciadal and their lore. Using their knowledge of the arcane, the spellweavers froze the Elkhan, the mighty river that fed down into the lands below, providing water and life for the people of Sevalorn. The ensuing drought and famine had plunged the land into war, as rival Kingdoms fought over the scarce resources that remained.
The plan had surpassed Grindelmere’s wildest expectations. The barbarous beasts that had inhabited the plains to the south had been slaughtered. Where once thousands of the savage creatures had roamed the plains, now only a remnant remained. From the limited intelligence Grindelmere had been able to glean, the human Kingdoms had also suffered considerable losses.
Grindelmere had already bee
n preparing to move south with his people when he had seen the sign, the blazing star that burned brightly across the night sky. It was no mere comet or celestial accident. It was Apollos—the master had returned. He was sure of it, for he could feel the surety resonate through his entire being. The timing could not have been better—when Apollos sought for his faithful followers he would find the Adal anxiously awaiting his return.
The High King of the Glaciadal could see the dust plume on the horizon. It had grown in size over the last hour. Clearly the Kairon had grown curious to see who had ventured so far into their domain.
The Kairon were ferocious creatures. The lower half of the beast resembled that of a mighty warhorse, the torso humanoid in shape but dark as night and vastly more muscular. Rows of sharp teeth jutted out from the square jaw of the creature. A thick shaggy beard and mane completed the horrifying visage. Knowing the carnivorous nature of the massive beasts only added to the terror one felt in their presence. It is one thing to die, another to be devoured. If the nightmares of children were made manifest in the flesh, that manifestation would be the Kairon.
Even with his keen eyesight Grindelmere couldn’t tell at this distance how many of the creatures there were, but ultimately the number did not matter. One, one hundred, or one thousand—they would all perish. Your time is past—this land belongs to the Glaciadal now, Grindelmere thought to himself.
Turning in his saddle, Grindelmere called to his herald: “Haradae, organize our forces, bring our warriors to the fore. Gather our women and children together, and we will encircle them. They will be easier to protect that way. Then summon the Eight. We will need their aid.”
“Yes, my liege, at once,” the herald responded as he bowed and departed.
With the dust plume approaching, Grindelmere could feel his mount growing restive. “Easy, Morkalth,” Grindelmere soothed, running his hand through his steed’s fur. He had found the brown bear cub wandering alone among the ice drifts in the north, starving. Food was hard to come by in the Frosted Peaks. The cub would have perished alone.
