Chapter Ten: Assassins from Shanaar
Tranith Argan: Book 1
The flashback to Felanar’s childhood training and visit to the elves is done. Now we pick up right after Chapter Two: Dragon Attack. But instead of continuing the action in Brindledown, let us pay a visit to the land of Shanaar to see what happened after that dragon attack.
The ancient crow, its black feathers dulled by dirt and grime and smoke particles, and its right leg maimed by an accident so long ago that the crow could no longer recall it, shifted its weight uneasily. With jerky movements of its head it scanned the horizon with a look of distrust. Its old, dull eyes glanced over a decayed city that stretched away from the base of a mountain. The city was dark under an overcast sky, full of smoke that rose from a myriad of fires powering the engines of production. Building after building sat crumbling and decaying along the winding streets. The inhabitants of this morose place shuffled from one desolate location to another, keeping their heads down as if lacking any reason to raise them. It was late afternoon, yet it might as well have been twilight for the pall that hung over the region.
Satisfied that all was normal, the crow screeched and began to flap its wings. Taking flight awkwardly, it wheeled to the north, up the side of the mountain. It flew over sickly brooks, patches of wasted earth, and stunted trees and vegetation. Further north, the soil became rocky and barren, and small fissures appeared in the ground.
The bird reached a wall standing wide and high, stretching in an enormous semicircle around the exposed face of the mountain and then back into its side. Unlike the city, the wall was well maintained apart from some crumbling along the edges. It was such a thick wall, however, that it would sustain much crumbling before losing its usefulness. Not only was it thick, the wall was massively tall, and from the ground looked more like a mountain than a wall. From its summit it plunged straight down to the ground far below. The wall was ancient, built generations ago.
The crow flew onward above this wall and over some rocky, empty ground further up the mountainside; then a second wall, even more massive, and a third wall that dwarfed the other two. The crow flew on to what was protected by the walls: a castle.
The edifice seemed less a castle than a baroque monstrosity. It looked as if it had grown on the side of the mountain rather than been designed. From a foundation that rose up from the earth appeared turrets and gatehouses and battlements. Sections rose out of the main structure and went in different directions, built wildly this way or that and gave rise to further offshoots and higher towers. Some battlements formed the base of new battlements and towers and walls from which sprang even more additions. Some of the towers had connecting walkways built toward other sections until the whole building took on the appearance of an interconnected mass designed by an architect gone mad.
Towering above the walls that were designed to protect it, the building was made of the same dark rock. Plants and fungus had long ago taken hold and overgrown some of the isolated, far-flung sections of the structures. A few towers had fallen into neglect and tumbled down onto other sections where they lay, crumbling in decay. In the midst of the chaos, however, was one central section that showed a semblance of maintenance, an area of order in the surrounding shambles. It was to the peak of that section the crow flew.
Reaching the highest tower above the uppermost battlement upon the furthest part of this central section, the crow slowly circled around and landed on the ledge of a window carved into the rock of the wall. Far, far below lay the city, now tiny in the distance. The bird turned and peered into the gloom of the inner room, lit only by torches on opposing walls. It was the throne room of the castle. A throne sat on one side of the large room forty feet from the entranceway. No other features could be found within the stone room, other than a door leading to a balcony that overlooked the city, and a long animal-skin rug stretching out from the entranceway to the throne.
Seated on the throne was a man wrapped in a dark cloak covering his body and head and out of which his face peered, but in the dim light, no distinct features could be made out. The torches occasionally flickered brightly and a hint of the face would momentarily come into view and then grow dark again. In those moments of illumination, a glint from his eyes could be seen, but not much else. The man could have been a statue, he sat so motionless on the throne. The only sounds in the room were the scratching of the crow’s feet on the window ledge and the crackling of the torches.
Then a faint sound was heard deep from within the bowels of the castle, possibly the slamming of a massive door from far below. Then silence again. Soon a faint sound of footsteps on the stairs was heard, slowly growing in volume. The rhythm was constant because few landings disturbed the climbers, just step after step after step in a long uninterrupted climb. Occasionally the sounds stopped, as if the climbers were catching their breath, until the sound began again, always growing louder. Soon the shuffling of feet on stone was heard and the climbing sounds grew louder still. At the entranceway, they stopped. Then the great throne room door shuddered open with a great creaking sound.
Light spilled in from outside the throne room as guards with torches entered. Dressed in uniforms adorned with a stylized dragon breathing fire and crushing a foe underfoot, they had dull metal helmets on their heads and carried long wooden spears with metal tips. They bowed low before the throne.
Behind them stood two men dressed in black garments and leather boots. Both were slender with dark hair. One was a good head taller than the other. The shorter man had a scar running down his left cheek. In contrast to the controlled demeanor of the guards, these men were anxious and alert. They approached the throne with deference and bowed nervously, staying about ten feet away. The flames of the torches flickered against the wall as they waited and the crow squawked softly. The man on the throne did not move. His eyes did not shift nor did he in any way acknowledge the presence of these two men, who shifted back and forth on their feet as they waited nervously. Finally, the occupant of the throne spoke, his voice emanating from deep within his cloak and spreading through the room with a marvelous resonance.
“Leave us!”
The guards, to whom this was addressed, quickly backed out of the room and closed the heavy door behind them with a clang and a shudder. The two men in black glanced at each other and then back at the dark shape before them, who now raised his head slightly and peered at the men with dark, intense eyes. Again his voice rumbled forth, deep and harsh:
“There is a job I require of you.”
Both men bowed again and the taller one responded, “Give the word and it shall be done, my lord.”
“Will it?” replied the voice. “So I have been promised before and yet see no results. Even now I have not achieved my goals.” He paused and the echoes in the room died down. “Now I entrust to you what has been failed by others. See to it that you do not fail or you will suffer their fate!”
The men bowed a third time, more nervously than ever.
“I require your skills as assassins. There is one who is an enemy and must die. You must tell no one of this, you must ask for no help, you must not get caught. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, my lord. We hear you and obey with willing hearts.”
“See to it that you do obey, for I will not tolerate failure on this mission. As to whom you are to kill, I have no name to give. I do not know it and if I could I would not know of such a man. I know a location and a description. You will have to identify this man, find him, and kill him. Listen carefully. You are to travel to Lake Brindle and the towns surrounding it. There is a family there, with three children, the boys now grown and their younger sister now a young woman. Fishermen by trade. Sons have brown hair, the girl’s with gold. This is all I know. Find this family. Kill them. Do you understand your assignment?”
The short man looked at the taller one who responded, “Yes, my lord, we will find this family and do as you bid. It will be done.” He pressed his right fist to his chest and bowed low again.
“The guards will give you gold. Tell them nothing of your assignment. Tell no one. Bring back news to me, and to me alone. You must not fail!” The last statement was spoken with such harshness that both men quiver.
“Go!”
The men turned around, walked toward the door, and opened it. Going through the entranceway they wheeled around and bowed again and then the door closed with a low clang. Silence once again settled over the room. For a long time nothing disturbed the silence until the crow flew in and landed at the feet of the man on the throne. It looked up expectantly at the man with its dull black eyes. The man looked down at the bird for a moment and then spoke to it.
“Yes, my friend, you did well to bring me the news, even if the news was bad.”
The crow squawked in response.
“Do not worry, my loyal one. This time the deed will be accomplished at last and we will be free of that threat forever.” A rumble of laughter emanated from the throne while the crow hopped back up to the window ledge. Peering out for a moment, it then flew off below with lazy beats of its wings, leaving the sound of laughter behind.
The assassins climbed back down the vast set of stairs. Finally reaching a landing far below at the bottom, the short man huffed, “Curse these stairs! What need does a man have of being so high above everything? He sees enemies everywhere, I tell you.”
The tall man gave him a sharp look and hissed, “Hold your talk! We’re not the only spies he has employed and it wouldn’t do to have your words repeated in his ear, would it? Keep walking. I hate this castle and the sooner we take our leave of it the better.”
Down they went until they finally reached the main level and the path to an exit. It was night as they walked through the massive metal door and out into the cold air. Horses were given to them by servants from the stables and they rode these horses down the twisting mountain path toward the three defensive walls below. Upon reaching the third and last wall they were stopped by the guard of the gate.
“State your business. Why should the gate be opened? I’ve heard of no one who is to cross through the gates tonight.”
The guard who challenged them was fierce-looking, tall and powerful, his features shaded by his helmet. He also wore the insignia of the crushing dragon on his leather armor, and in his hand he held a mace. Behind him stood two more guards, and another half dozen were standing by the gate. All looked at the assassins with distrust, clearly suspicious of anyone being allowed to leave the confines of the castle grounds.
“Our business is our own, but it comes from Him. Open the gates if you value your neck.”
The chief guard suspiciously eyed the tall assassin who spoke. He glanced down at their horses and said with a glint in his eye, “These are official horses, but who’s to say you didn’t steal them in your attempt to escape the dungeons, hmm? Maybe you’re desperate criminals and I’ll be rewarded for preventing your escape, hmm?”
The short assassin spoke up now with indignation. “Or maybe you’re too stupid to realize when you are interfering with your master’s business. Since when do criminals escape the dungeon? Think what you are saying, you fool! Now open the gate and let us go about our business.”
The guard backed up a half step, the glint in his eye gone. Perhaps he realized the truth of the words that no one had ever escaped the dungeon. At any rate, his little attempt at providing some sport for his men was too dangerous to continue, so he gave the motion to open the gate and stepped away.
“Off you go, then. Be gone with you!” The gates creaked slowly opened, and the horsemen rode on. Behind them, as the gates closed again, the guards made rude gestures in their direction and began laughing among themselves. The gates closed with a clang, which reverberated into the night, slowly dying away until the only sound was the clip-clop of the horse’s hoofs.
The city lay further down the mountain, but the horsemen took a mountain path that wound around to the west. They were traveling the mountain path toward the coastal city of Issk. Shanaar was a large island that lay across the Straits of Arenar north of the land of Arenar. The island had a frozen wasteland in its north, and forests and swamps in its south. The Black Mountains lay in the center of the island. In the center of the mountain range lay the city and castle of Shaabak. The horsemen rode down these mountains via paths toward the coast, their destination.
On through the night they made their way through the passes, and by mid-morning they had reached the city of Issk on the coast. Not quite as dreary a city as Shaabak, Issk had the advantage of being by the sea. The engines of production here produced the smoke that the prevailing winds carried into the mountains. Despite this, Issk was not an attractive place. No attempt was made to maintain the houses and buildings, and the people of the city had that same downward glance as they shuffled along their way.
The horsemen dismounted at the docks and used some of their gold to hire a ship. Early in the afternoon they set sail in a small boat with a crew of two. Their objective was to sail south, skirting the Straits of Arenar, and then along the coastline bordering the Straits of Doom. Despite a favorable wind, it took them three days to traverse the distance to the entrance of the tributary to Lake Brindle. There, on the coast above the tributary’s entrance, the two assassins left the boat which immediately turned and began the trip back to Shanaar.
Two more days of travel, this time on foot, finally brought the men to Brookhollow. They knew their target lived somewhere in the region around Lake Brindle, and they were hoping to gather enough information from the villagers to find their man. Both men were tired as they entered the Hound & Hare on Brookhollow’s main road. As the door behind them closed, several of the regulars looked at the newcomers with a mixture of interest and suspicion. Most soon went back to their drinks and conversation, but a few kept an eye on these strangers.
The men sat down at a table by the roaring fire, trying to get the chill out of their clothes. It was late autumn, and there was frost in the air, but inside the cheery main room it was warm and dry. The men ordered a meal and ale, removed their cloaks, and looked around the room. Observing they were still the objects of curiosity by some, the tall man decided to take the initiative.
“Fine place this is, especially when the night air has a chill.” He directed a smile at an old farmer at the table next to theirs, who was one of those eyeing the newcomers suspiciously. The farmer appeared to relax as he smiled back.
“Aye, that it is, that it is. A bit of ale too doesn’t hurt at the same time either, or so I’ve always said.”
Short Man raised the mug he had in front of him and said, “Indeed, and a good saying it is!” He took a long draught of the ale and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. The smile he had put on his face to appear friendly now deepened into a real one as the taste of the beer satisfied him.
“Whereabouts you traveling from?” asked another local man across the room.
Tall Man replied, “We’re down from Riverton. Ever been there?”
“No, never left Brookhollow,” was the response. “Never saw much point in it, if you know what I mean. Got everything you need right here, and nothing better in Upton or Middleton or even Brindledown.”
“What do you mean ‘even’ Brindledown?” asked a young man sitting by the fire with a mug in his hand. “’Even’ Brookhollow, is more like it, I say.” As he downed some more beer, cries of “Hear! Hear!” went up around the room.
“What brings you so far south?” The old farmer next to the assassins looked at them inquisitively. No one would travel such a distance unless they had a compelling reason.
“My brother and I,” began the tall man waving his hand toward the short man, “we’re looking up a distant branch of our family. It was the dying wish of our mother that we look up this family, and we’ve always been told they live around Lake Brindle.”
“From Riverton, you say?” said the old farmer, as the others looked on in interest. “I know of no families that came down from Riverton.”
The short man spoke up. “It was several generations ago, mind you. Before our lifetimes, you understand.”
“Aye, I suppose it’s possible,” said the farmer thoughtfully, “though it’s nothing I’ve heard of, I’ll say that much.”
“It’s worth investigating, or so our mother thought.” The tall man looked around the room as he continued spinning his tale. “We’ve been asking around this region for clues to their existence. No one knew the name of our old relative, until we met up with an elderly gentleman near Upton. He claimed to know the name from his childhood. Said there was an old man by that name who lived around Lake Brindle. Said he had a daughter, and the daughter had a son. We thought this son might be a relation, though the old man couldn’t remember his name. Just that he was married with three children of his own. A fisherman in these parts.”
The young man by the fire, having had quite a bit to drink by now, laughed long and loud at this. “No name and no description other than a fishing family in these parts! That will narrow your search, for a certainty.” He chuckled to himself and had another drink.
“Oh, we have a description. The old man couldn’t think of the name, but he knew what they looked like. Said it was a middle-aged man of dark hair with a wife who has blonde hair. Three children, all grown now, two boys and a girl. Girl with hair of gold, boys with dark hair. Oldest boy married. That was all he knew, but it should give us a good start.”
“Aye, that’s a start at that,” said the old farmer as he tried to think of families that fit the description.
The man across the room said, “What about Terman and his family. That fits, don’t it?”
“No, Terman’s wife has red hair.” The young man by the fire stared at the man across the room. “Besides, they’ve got four children, not three.”
“Ah, so they do,” said the man as he turned his attention back to his roast beef.
The locals began arguing among themselves as to who this could possibly be. As they did, the innkeeper came a little closer. He had been listening with interest, but not due to the subject. He had been one of those who had looked at the strangers suspiciously, and his look had not changed. Finally the short assassin caught his glance and waved at him in a friendly manner. The innkeeper didn’t change expression but crept closer, still staring hard at the two men. He now spoke up, addressing a man sitting in the corner who had also been watching the two men.
“Hey, Feld, what do you think of this story?”
The room quieted down as everyone turned to Feld sitting in the corner. He was a middle-aged man, dressed in work clothes. He turned to the innkeeper and responded, “I don’t make much of it, that’s what I say. It doesn’t add up.”
“Aye, Feld, that’s what I’ve been thinking. Something’s fishy here, and that’s no joke. Here we have two men traveling from Riverton, or so they say. Yet where are their horses? The stable boy hasn’t seen a horse, and I’ve asked. Did these men walk from Riverton?”
The locals turned back to the two men who looked a bit uncomfortable under the glare of the suspicious innkeeper and the locals. The tall man was about to explain their lack of horses when Feld spoke up again from the corner, drawing attention to himself again.
“It’s not the lack of horses that’s been bothering me. It’s the lack of voices, if you catch my meaning. I know Riverton accents and them’s not it. I’ll tell you what kind of accent they do have, though. It’s western, and no mistake.”
Everyone in the room wheeled back to glare again at the strangers, their suspicions having been suddenly confirmed. The young man by the fire stood up and shouted, “Spies! I knew it all along. Westerner spies and no mistake.” His face was flushed from the fire and the beer, and his voice quivered with emotion.
It wasn’t often that a Westerner would make his way to eastern lands, but any who did so traveled a great distance and with great effort. They either crossed the Elven Plain and lived, which would make them desperate enough, or they sailed around Dragon Island and Elaria, and that was a great distance. If these two men were Westerners, there was no good reason for their presence here. Those who were not suspicious before now became so. Those who had been suspicious from the start now turned hostile.
The two travelers stood up, and the tall man spoke to the crowd as they put their cloaks back on. “We've no quarrel with you good people. Evidently drink has caused some to mistake accents, and in the morning we’ll all laugh at this. But for now my brother and I will travel on. It seems no one here knows of our distant family, so we’ll find someone who does. Good night to you all.”
They walked to the front door and out into the night. They hadn’t made it far down the street, though, when the door reopened and a crowd of men stepped out to follow. Seeing that the travelers were going on foot, and not on horseback, confirmed what the innkeeper had said. There were few present who were qualified to confirm the story of the accents, but Feld’s word was good enough for them. The two assassins looked behind them nervously and spoke hurriedly to each other as they quickly walked toward the edge of town.
“Couldn’t you disguise your voice better?” asked the tall spy.
“Me? You did most of the talking in there and look at the good it did us,” responded the short man with a hiss.
“Never mind, that crowd is growing. Quick, let’s cut through this forest.” The two men left the path and slipped into the thicket of trees that lined the road. Seeing this, the crowd of townspeople began running after them and entered the trees shortly behind. At this the assassins gave up any pretenses and began to flee through the trees. There were too many to stand and fight, so flight was their only option. It was no use, however, for the townsfolk knew the woods far better than the strangers did and so they made better time.
Brookhollow folk were gentle by nature, but when aroused they would stand up to anything. The commotion caught the attention of others in the village, and the innkeeper had raised the general alarm that spies were present. Soon more men were on the chase, and some had circled around to the north to enter the wood from the far side and meet the fleeing men in the middle.
Running hard, the short man said, “Curse your plan! Look at us, hunted like dogs. I say we stand and fight. Let’s give them a taste of our business and see if they have the stomach for it!”
The tall man responded witheringly, “Stand and fight? Fight two dozen men? We can’t handle that many, and more are probably on the way. It wouldn’t be so bad if we were killed in the process. Get a few back as we go down, I say, but we can’t take the chance. If we aren’t killed, we risk our mission being found out. Or at least raising an alarm through this whole region. Won’t Vélakk be pleased when that happens.”
Huffing and puffing as he ran, the short man responded, “Capture us? Simple farmers don’t know about interrogation. They’ll fight us, is all. I say we show a little blood and see if they back down.”
“Maybe they don’t know about interrogation, but Vélakk does, or have you forgotten? I’m telling you, word is going to get back to him that we raised the alarm. No matter what happens now, our life is worth nothing. Even if we accomplish our mission, he told us to keep it quiet. We’re worse than dead already.”
Both men stopped and took in great gulps of air. They had heard voices ahead of them now, as the other group of townsfolk had gone around ahead and were now closing in on them. With voices in front and voices behind, in a strange wood, the men were trapped. Worse than that was the knowledge of what lay ahead of them in the dungeons of Shaabak when word of this mission’s failure reached their master.
“Then let’s fight to the death here and now.” Short Man had a wild look in his eyes as he said this, still gulping in air.
Tall Man gave him a deadly look. “I told you, we can’t take the chance. Do you want to wait in some Low Man cell while word gets back to Him? You think his hand is too short to pluck us from some local cell? His finger stretches even this far, and it will give him great pleasure to grab us by our necks and drag us back to his dungeons. I, for one, don’t intend to face that place. I’ve heard the stories. I’d rather die here.”
The voices were getting very loud now, and the end of the chase was fast approaching. The short man instinctively drew his sword, which gleamed in the moonlight that filtered through the trees. As he stood there, holding aloft his weapon and waiting to carry out his plan to fight, the tall man also drew his sword. With a swift motion he sunk it deep into the short man’s back, causing him to cry out in alarm and arch his back and then slowly sink to the ground. The tall man removed his sword and laid it on the ground. The voices were now on top of them and footsteps were crashing all around them. He pulled a vial from a pocket in his cloak, removed the cork, and swallowed the contents. As the townsfolk crowded around the two men, they were just in time to see the tall man stumble to his knees as the poison took effect. He then pitched forward and landed on top of the short man’s legs. The assassins were dead.