by S. C. Stokes
“Murder for money—you are mistaken. I am no Night Stalker.”
“Don’t play with me, Shiona. Your minions are toying with the life of my only grandson. If the next words out of your mouth are not decidedly more useful I am going to move and allow my son to deal with you as he sees fit. I can promise your death will be of a far more permanent nature than mine was.”
“If I talk, they will find and kill me. You must know that,” Shiona pleaded.
“If you don’t talk, I will kill you now.” Tristan asserted. “Tell me what I wish to know and take your chances with the Night Stalkers. If you do as I say, death is a possibility. If you don’t it is a certainty. Take comfort in the knowledge that if your information is accurate, I will deal with your Night Stalker issue.”
“Deal with?” Shiona asked.
“When I find them, Shiona, they will all die. They sealed their fate when they took my son.”
“What of your mercy?” Shiona asked. “Velas and Fordham conspired against you and yet they live. Prisoners they might be, but they are still alive. What makes the Night Stalkers any different?”
“They took my son. For them, there is no mercy, only justice, and I am here to dispense it swiftly. Speak quickly or you will be the first to fall.” Tristan answered.
“Ok, Ok,” Shiona answered, raising both hands in submission. “I’m not a Night Stalker, but I know they’ve enjoyed the patronage of this house for as long as I’ve served the Mizumura.
“They use the Palace to supply their Guild. Food, steel, linen—it’s all delivered to the Palace. Once the shipments arrive and are checked they are moved to the Palace stores. The shipments then disappear, yet the supplies themselves are never used or seen again by the Palace staff. The Night Stalkers clearly have access to the storerooms. If you are looking for their whereabouts I would suggest you start there. For what it’s worth, I never liked that murderous wretch—the world will be a better place without her.”
“You speak of Hitomi?”
“Of course. Once the Night Stalkers got their claws into her she was never the same again.”
“When was that?” Tristan asked.
“When was what?”
“When did the Night Stalkers get a hold of her?” Tristan asked.
“As a child. Following her mother’s death Velas thought it would be wise for her to be able to defend herself. The Mizumura were acting as host to the parasitic Night Stalkers, so they made for a natural choice. Unfortunately, they taught her far more than martial skills. Before Velas knew what had happened she had been indoctrinated in their culture and ways. It seems the Night Stalkers saw her as an easy means of gaining more power over their host.”
“Don’t worry, Shiona. That influence will end today.”
“It ended long ago, Your Highness,” Shiona answered.
“I don’t understand. I thought you said she fell under their influence.”
“Indeed she did. Past tense. The same ruthless lust for power you saw in her in Belnair was present in her even as a child. In the years since she joined their Guild, she has steadily climbed the ranks. Now she isn’t a Night Stalker, she is the Night Stalker. She is their mistress. They act out her every whim and pleasure. In recent years they have become less mercenary and more malicious as they seek out revenge on those who have wronged her. Hence the attacks on your own house, my liege.”
“Those attacks end today, Shiona.”
“What are you going to do, Your Highness? They are numerous and deadly.”
“We will go down to the storeroom you spoke of, find the entrance to their lair, then we will enter and root out every vestige of their foul brotherhood. When the sun sets tonight there will be no trace of the Night Stalkers left on Valaar.”
“Take care, Your Highness—their means and resources have grown vast under the patronage of the Mizumura. It is not a patchy collection of assassins you face below but an army. Whatever you do, do not enter their den in ignorance. If you do, only death awaits. By all accounts your people love you—it would be a genuine shame if anything were to happen to you.”
“That's sweet, Shiona—I didn't know you cared,” quipped Tristan.
“Don't mistake my service here for being complicit with those murderous assassins. I serve here out of memory for the great men who once ruled this house. It was my duty to preserve their legacy. Unfortunately, after the death of his wife, Velas was a broken man, easily manipulated by his deceitful daughter. It is a shame that such a great house has come to so ignoble an end.”
“You are an interesting man, Shiona. Such a sense of duty is being wasted here. I would have you visit us in the capital. I am sure we could put your talents to use, provided the intelligence you have shared today leads us to those we seek.”
“You honor me, Your Highness. I did not expect such mercy from one so young, particularly one who has suffered as you have these past days. Travel swiftly and carefully, sire, for the Night Stalkers will know you come, and they will be waiting. She has set her trap, and she knows you will take her bait.”
“That may be so, but she has also seen me before, in Belnair and King's Court. I would think she would know better than to seek open conflict with me and my house. She saw how far I would go when I fought for my father's memory. If she expected anything less than the full weight of the Crown after her attack on the Palace, my wife, and my only son, then she has terribly misunderstood the measure of my resolve.
“You said I can find the entrance to their lair in the storerooms,” Tristan continued, remembering the task at hand. “Will you show me the way?”
“I will, Your Highness, but when I do I will require your protection, for the Night Stalkers will not abide my betrayal. If you fail I am a dead man.”
“If I fail, we all are. Lead the way.” Tristan insisted.
Chapter 27
King’s Court
Syrion and Kalifae emerged from the portal to a throne room in chaos. A contingent of King’s Guard were swiftly bearing down upon the shimmering gateway between worlds. Syrion raised both hands as he called to them: “Easy boys—it’s just me.”
“It’s not you they are worried about, Syrion,” a voice called from behind the advancing soldiers. It took a moment for Syrion to recognize Dariyen, the First Captain of King’s Court, in his battle attire. In his plate armor he blended seamlessly into the ranks of the King’s Guard.
“Ah, Dariyen. It’s good to see you again. Mind calling off your boys and explaining what’s going on?”
“You first. What is she doing here?” Dariyen demanded. “King’s Court wasn’t so long ago that I’ve forgotten the one responsible for so much death and misery.” He was being unusually hostile and Syrion was having a hard time believing that Kalifae’s presence was the sole contributing factor. The presence of so many King’s Guard in the throne room led him to believe there were other forces at work.
“Come now, Dariyen, she was acting under duress. More importantly, without her I wouldn’t be here at all—now cease this hostility and explain yourself at once.”
Syrion watched carefully as Dariyen’s gaze floated back and forth between Kalifae and himself. After a moment’s hesitation he responded: “At ease, men—return to your posts.”
Syrion nodded gratefully as the soldiers dispersed. “Would you mind explaining what is going on? Where is my brother?”
“Tristan has left the Palace. He is in Mizumura trying to rescue the Prince.”
“The Prince?” Syrion asked.
The confusion on his face must have been evident as Dariyen continued: “The Prince—Marius. You do know about the Prince, don’t you?”
Syrion’s mind raced. It had been well over a year since he had left King’s Court to aid the nations of Sevalorn against the encroaching Disciples of Mythos. For the first time Syrion wondered just how much had transpired in his absence.
“Linea gave birth to a son?” Syrion asked. “Wait. You said ‘rescue’—what happened to the
Prince?”
“You haven’t heard?” Darien asked in wonder. “Your own family and you don’t even know? What world have you been living in?”
“Not this one, obviously, but I have been wearing out my life trying to save it. Now, Dariyen, dispense with the lecture and tell me what is going on.”
The First Captain met the steely gaze of the Astarii and held it. The young man had always made him a little uncomfortable—perhaps it was the magic that unsettled him. Dariyen had witnessed the destruction the young man wrought. It was tremendous power for one so young to wield. As much respect as Dariyen had for the King, his brother Syrion was a different matter, one that bothered him more than he cared to admit.
Syrion was unyielding in his stare and Dariyen could tell that the mage was not in a mood to be trifled with. There was nothing to be gained by butting heads with the stubborn youth over the sorceress. I doubt I could even stop them if I wished to, Dariyen thought.
Seeing the futility Dariyen relaxed, his hand straying away from his sword for the first time since the pair had burst through the portal. He began to explain: “It began during the Midsummer’s Festival. The King was in attendance at the tournament when the Night Stalkers launched an attack on the Palace. It was a calculated strike while our defenses were spread thin. The Queen was gravely wounded and the Crown Prince was taken.”
“They took the Prince?” Syrion asked.
“Yes. Your bother believes the murderess Hitomi to be behind the attack. They are trying to use the Prince to force your brother to abdicate the throne.”
“Hitomi—you mean the wretch that tried to have him killed in Belnair?”
“One and the same.”
“I thought she was dead,” Syrion answered.
“We had hoped so, but it seemed she survived, and even without her lands and title she seems determined to bear out her grudge against your brother.”
“How is Linea coping?” Syrion asked with great concern.
“Physically she is recovering—Malus has seen to that. Emotionally she is devastated. She hasn’t left her chamber since the attack.”
“What is being done to recover the Prince?” Syrion asked.
“We’ve tracked the Night Stalkers to Mizumura, and the King is there along with your father and mother—they are seeking to recover your nephew and crush the Night Stalkers once and for all.”
“Mizumura, you said? It lies at the end of the western branch of the Eiengawa, correct?”
Dariyen nodded. “It does.”
“Very well. We will join my brother there. If Hitomi is truly behind this attack, she will rue the day she chose to crawl out from under her rock. I may have missed her in Belnair but she will not escape her fate again.”
“How do you plan to get to . . . ” Dariyen began.
Syrion ignored the First Captain. Raising both hands with a flourish he opened a portal in the center of the throne room and beckoned to Kalifae: “Are you coming?”
“Of course,” Kalifae replied as she followed Syrion through the open portal.
Dariyen shook his head in disbelief as the portal closed. Seeing many of the King’s Guard staring at the spectacle before them, Dariyen made a sweeping motion with his hand. “Back to your posts—there’s nothing to see here.” The soldiers startled and hastened to obey their captain’s command.
Satisfied that all was in order in the throne room, Dariyen set about inspecting the Palace’s outer defenses.
Chapter 28
Beneath the Riverhold
With the aid of his men and guided by Shiona, Tristan Listar tore apart the storerooms beneath the Riverhold. It didn't take long to uncover a false wall that had been concealed behind a series of large but empty crates in the corner of a chamber.
Tristan was exultant—at last his foe was within his grasp. Lying before him was the entrance to the Night Stalkers' lair—he could feel it in his bones. The tunnel was wide enough for only three or four men moving side by side, and tapered steeply downward, descending beneath the Riverhold and into the bowels of the Hikari mountain range of which it was a part.
Lining the walls of the tunnel were torches that were lit as the soldiers descended. Clearly the Night Stalkers were well organized. The passage showed signs of frequent use, the indentations on the stonework enough to convince Tristan that he had found the main thoroughfare leading into the underground hideout.
Signaling for his men to follow, Tristan charged into the tunnel. Marcus sprinted to catch his son before he descended too far into the depths.
“Tristan!” he called. “You must exercise caution. You have no idea what lies in store for you down there. We know Hitomi waits for you. Otherwise, why take your son at all? She has chosen the battleground. You must be careful about the manner in which you approach it.”
“They have my son,” Tristan replied with deep emotion. “Every moment he is in their possession the danger to his life grows. I am keenly aware that this is where Hitomi has laid her snare, and I can only hope that we are equal to the task and reach him in time. When the Night Stalkers realize the sheer weight of numbers we have brought to bear they will know their cause is hopeless. At that point they will kill my son. Even now he is at risk. If I can’t save him I will lose Linea also—her heart simply cannot take it. She has barely moved in the weeks since the attack. We must save my boy. He's everything to us, our whole world.”
“Be that as it may, Son, you are the King. This whole island rests on your shoulders, and you mustn't put the lives of your subjects—those who rely on you for their support—at risk.” Turning to the King’s Guard behind, Marcus appealed to their sense of duty. “Men of the Guard, will you cower behind your King, or will you be the shield that stands before him? Let the steel of your resolve protect him from harm.”
The front rank of the King’s Guard exchanged glances. Remembering that Marius had been taken on their watch, the King’s Guard were already anxious to salve their wounded pride and prove their worth. The King’s Guard surged downward into the tunnel, and not to be left behind, the King's Own pressed forward to take their places by his side.
After several ranks of men had disappeared further into the tunnel Tristan nodded to his father and continued himself. Together they descended, rank upon rank of men and steel, eager to visit justice upon the foe that had plagued them so long and claimed the lives of so many of their fellow soldiers. The companions lost in the bloodcurdling attack on the Palace were not soon forgotten.
The King’s Guard were a tremendously proud unit, the oldest fighting force in Valaar. Their heritage traced back to the unification wars when Kai Valaar had brought the island Kingdom under his banner. In an unbroken chain from that time they had served the throne—never on their watch had a member of the royal family been slain. The abduction of the Crown Prince Marius was a dishonor they intended to remedy—Heaven help the man or woman that stood in their way.
Down into the tunnels they descended, winding deeper and deeper, and soon the light from the storeroom above was no longer visible. Tristan wondered just how deep they had descended, but there was no way of knowing or measuring the distance. Abruptly the tunnel leveled out ahead of them and before them lay a stone wall with an oak door, the emblem of the Night Stalkers—two crossed kama—carved above it. Tristan doubted that any but the Night Stalkers themselves had stood where he now stood.
The King’s Guard moved toward the door and opened it without hesitation. The room beyond was far larger than any of the men had expected. It reminded Tristan of the Training Hall the Guild had fashioned beneath Belnair. The King’s Guard streamed into the chamber with Tristan in their midst and spotted two figures standing quietly in the path before them. The large chamber was as wide as it was deep, perhaps large enough to fit two hundred men standing at attention, and the space filled quickly as the King’s Guard and Tristan moved towards the shadowy figures at the end of the chamber.
Torches in more ornate brackets than those in the pa
ssage hung along the wall, but otherwise the room had no other adornments or furnishings.
As Tristan and his men approached the figures, they had the first glimpse of their foe. The two men before them stood dressed head to toe in the black robes of the Night Stalkers, the heraldry on their chest identifying them clearly—two crossed kama resting over the heart.
Both men were far older than Tristan had expected, both well over sixty, their long gray hair reaching to their shoulders.
More curious than their age was the fact that both men wore blindfolds tied neatly behind their heads.
As Tristan approached, the figure on the right raised his right hand, palm outward towards the approaching King as he stated firmly, “Halt—the halls of the dead are no place for the living. Why enter ye here?”
Tristan fought hard to keep the emotion from his voice. “I've come for my son, and if you wish to live you will stand aside. If you stand in my way you will fall before me.” The words of the invitation were hollow—Tristan had met their kind many times and knew they would fight to the death. After all he had suffered at their hands, part of him wanted to tear them apart, surrender or not.
The old man who had spoken tilted his head to the side as if considering Tristan's offer. After a moment he replied, “If your son has entered here, he is no longer your son. Only those who walk the path are permitted to leave. No others enter and none but our acolytes may leave.”
Tristan's indignation grew as his face reddened with rage. “I am the King of the Valaar. Last time I checked, this mountain, this land, and this entire island was my domain. I will go where I please and not be denied. Step aside or meet your death.”
The old man chuckled, “I met death long ago boy—she laughed as she cast me back into this world to do her bidding. Your threats mean little to me. I am a Master of Death, and the Master’s Three guard the path to her most holy temple. Should you wish to walk the path, you must pass through us or perish at our hand. Depart now, King of Valaar—there is nothing but death for you here.”
