Court of Assassins: The Ranger Archives Volume 1, page 1
Court of Assassins
THE RANGER ARCHIVES: VOLUME ONE
PHILIP C. QUAINTRELL
Also by Philip C. Quaintrell
THE ECHOES SAGA: (9 Book Series)
1. Rise of the Ranger
2. Empire of Dirt
3. Relic of the Gods
4. The Fall of Neverdark
5. Kingdom of Bones
6. Age of the King
7. The Knights of Erador
8. Last of the Dragorn
9. A Clash of Fates
THE RANGER ARCHIVES: (3 Book Series)
1. Court of Assassins
THE TERRAN CYCLE: (4 Book Series)
1. Intrinsic
2. Tempest
3. Heretic
4. Legacy
For Ian, whose super power is listening to all of my ideas… even the stupid ones.
Dramatis Personae
Alidyr Yalathanil
Elf/Master of Nightfall
Artem Gorinson
Ranger
Asher
Assassin of Nightfall/Ranger
Bail
Blacksmith
Borvyn Murell
Lord of Dunwich
Dunkan
Ranger
Davin Mendal
Ranger
Demry
Assassin of Nightfall
Eckard
Master of Inquisition in Nightfall
Everic
Assassin of Nightfall
Geron Thorbear
Ranger
Hanaghan
Alchemist
Jorgan
Assassin of Nightfall
Kalantha
Ranger
Kalben Tarn
Lord of Skystead/Leader of the Ironsworn
Krain
Master of Nightfall
Melekish
Assassin of Nightfall
Nasta Nal-Aket
Father of Nightfall
Rendal
Assassin of Nightfall
Ro Dosarn
Assassin of Nightfall
Roland Vask
Ranger
Royce Mendal
Ranger
Uthork
Assassin of Nightfall
Contents
1. Killing Strangers
2. Half-Remembered Dream
3. Judgement
4. The Nature of Monsters
5. A Cold Greeting
6. Switch
7. Old Well
8. Traditions
9. Follow the Money
10. Into the Light
11. Man on Vala
12. End of the Road
13. A Twist of Fate
14. Grey Stone
15. A Life Saved
16. The Ranch
17. Gear Up
18. A Tale of the Past
19. On the Job
20. Hunting Monsters
21. Scudder Hell
22. The Fine Print
23. Onwards and, Unfortunately, Upwards
24. A Family Matter
25. A Life of Choice
26. A Dark Dawn
27. Hogstead
28. A Giant Problem
29. Passing Through
30. Back in the Fight
31. Pragmatic
32. I am Ranger
33. Death Incarnate
34. A Serpent from the Deep
35. Full Circle
36. Loose Ends
37. Free to Run
38. Finishing It
Author Page
Author Notes
Appendices
Chapter 1
Killing Strangers
It is easy to kill a man. Men have been killing each other since the dawning of the First Age. It is said, however, that living with it can be difficult, a weight upon one’s conscience.
So say the weak.
Your conditioning begins here, in the embrace of Nightfall. This conditioning will allow you to shed the weaknesses that plague the ordinary.
You will fight this training, ’tis only natural. But know this: you will either be broken down and built back up into something worthy of the name Arakesh, or you will be broken down and the pieces discarded.
The Night Codex, Introduction, Page 1.
Master Ingrit, 332 of the Third Age.
The quiet of winter’s early dark was cut by the ringing of a single church bell. It carried across Wood Vale, signalling the end of the service in which many had given thanks to Atilan, the king of the gods. Under a cold moon, hundreds filed out of the imposing church and dispersed into the street as they met the biting chill.
They did so under the watchful gaze of a predator, a creature bred to stalk the world of man and kill with both efficiency and discretion. Though this creature looked like them, walked among them, and even talked their many languages, this creature could not be described as a man. For how could a lion ever be described as a lamb?
Perched on a roof across the street, his hardened leathers blending in to the dark stone of Wood Vale’s architecture, Asher scanned the flock, his blue eyes focused on the church’s main doors.
Most were wrapped in cloaks, furs draped over their shoulders, and with heads bowed against the howling wind. But one, bound by the traditions of his ancient order, walked out of the church in flowing robes of dark maroon. He was a high priest of Atilan, a position that gave him religious power over the entire town; even the governing lord would bend to his suggestions and requests.
Despite the hubbub below and the blasting winds that swept over Wood Vale’s rooftops, the world drew in on itself, becoming so quiet that only two things existed for Asher - his heart, a steady drum beat that murmured in his chest, and his target.
That’s all the priest was: a target.
“This should be easy.”
The voice came from the shadows beside him, its timbre and words reminding Asher that he was in the company of a younger and less-experienced assassin. Foolishly, he edged forward to join Asher by the lip, his movement unnecessary given their vantage.
“Stop moving,” Asher instructed, his voice gruff from disuse.
Everic heeded his superior’s words and froze, mimicking the gothic statues either side of them.
“Welcome to the shadows,” Asher said, the phrase raising an eyebrow on Everic’s angular face. “Those are the first words every recruit hears upon entering the halls of Nightfall,” Asher reminded him. “They are said to you for a reason.”
Everic failed to conceal his irritation before adjusting his position in the darkness. Asher gave the young assassin a fleeting glance - all that was required to take the measure of him. They hadn’t travelled to Wood Vale together, nor would they be leaving together, offering Asher a limited time to assess the man. But assess him he would.
He guessed Everic - a northman by his accent - to be ten years his junior, perhaps more, with only twenty or so winters behind him. He had killed for Nightfall already, and several times at that, but always accompanied by the critical eye of a more experienced assassin like Asher.
Upon their first meeting, Asher had been struck by the beauty of the man. His sandy blond hair curled in waves to his shoulders and his blue eyes, a shade lighter than Asher’s, were piercing. They were also memorable, which Asher disapproved of. An assassin of Nightfall needed to blend in to every crowd at a moment’s notice: something one with princely attributes could never do. Asher knew, though, that there would be times when his appearance opened doors while others would be forced to use more extreme measures.
It was what lay beneath his looks that truly irked Asher. Everic carried with him an arrogant undertone he had yet to earn. The pitiful lives he had taken up to now had emboldened him. Asher remembered that feeling: invincibility. It only lasted until everything went sideways.
“Never underestimate your target,” he said, continuing Everic’s dark education.
“What is there to overestimate?” the younger man countered, feeling a length of red string between his finger and thumb. “High Priest Valyn…” Everic was shaking his head. “He’s just a man of the cloth. His skin will break as easily as everyone else’s.”
Asher whipped his head around to lay eyes on the string. He had seen hundreds just like it during his career, every one dotted with knots in the secret tactile code of Nightfall. There were always two names, the target and the patron, and their last known locations.
“Eat it.” Asher spoke those two words with a clarity and an edge that informed Everic that he wasn’t being hyperbolic.
The young assassin hesitated, his state of mind caught somewhere between righteous anger and embarrassment. Still, he used a small knife to cut the string into pieces and swallowed every bit without protest.
“That should never have left Nightfall,” Asher scorned. “Commit it to memory next time.”
“As you say,” Everic muttered. “But I’m not wrong,” he continued, his arrogance showing through again. “He’s just a priest.”
“He’s a well-guarded priest,” Asher corrected, watching Valyn shake various hands of his congregation.
Everic frowned. “I only see two guards of the faith,” he observed, gesturing to the pair of lightly armoured men standing off to the side, each carrying a small club.
“Look again,” Asher instructed.
Everic narrowed his gaze at the church doors, his frustr ation showing. “Why are we using our eyes?” he questioned, reaching for the red strip of cloth on his belt.
Asher pulled back from the edge, sinking deeper into the shadows, and gripped Everic’s wrist in the same movement. “If you need that you aren’t fit to call yourself an Arakesh,” he stated, using the elven word for assassin, the name by which the legend of Nightfall had grown. He released Everic’s wrist, satisfied that he was going to leave the blindfold where it was for now. “Look again,” he repeated. “There is more to our target than you believe.”
Creeping back to the lip of the roof, the assassins located their target once more and renewed their assessment. They had been observing Valyn for three days, from dawn till dusk, and then into the night until he was in a deep slumber. Everic’s eyes darted from face to face, desperately trying to see what was all too obvious to Asher.
Everic’s face dropped. “There are five men who do not belong to this congregation,” he finally declared.
“Explain.”
Everic tilted his head. “They are alone.”
“So are others,” Asher pointed out, teasing the details out of the young assassin.
“They carry themselves differently,” Everic went on. “Like soldiers. Their cloaks are concealing weapons.”
“And what else?” Asher enquired.
Everic paused. “They’re assessing the crowd, just like us.”
“Correct. But there are six of them.” Asher jutted his chin in the priest’s direction. “The cleric standing behind the target.”
Everic took a moment to observe the diminutive figure hooded and robed in navy blue. “We have been watching the high priest since we arrived - that’s his assistant. He’s older than the target.”
Asher was shaking his head, disappointed. “The real assistant was left at the lodge house. That cleric is part of Valyn’s personal protection.”
Everic scowled at the bold assessment. “How could you know that?”
Asher turned on him. “The better question is, how could you not?” After noting his barbed words had sunk in, he continued. “The cleric you see before us is shorter than the one we’ve seen serving the high priest. Observe their height relative to those around them.”
Everic squinted, but when the revelation hit him he quickly moved past it. “Since when did high priests surround themselves with sellswords?”
“They don’t,” Asher replied. “And the church won’t be paying for them either. Their pockets are being lined with Valyn’s own coin.”
Everic turned to Asher in light of another revelation. “He knows we’re coming,” he concluded.
“You saw the other name,” Asher remarked.
Everic ran his tongue along his gums, no doubt clearing what was left of the string. “It was another high priest, from Grey Stone.”
“They’re clearly vying for a higher position within their order,” Asher reasoned. “Valyn is expecting an attempt on his life. The sellswords must have arrived this evening.”
Everic shrugged at the mounting odds, his body lacking the scars that would have made him think twice. “It makes no difference. Six sellswords, two guards of the faith, and four more back at the lodge house - they are no match for two Arakesh.”
“They do not face two Arakesh,” Asher pointed out, his gaze never straying from the target. “This is your trial, northman. Should I be required to assist you, the Father will never grant you the title of Arakesh. It would be better to die here today than face the alternative,” he opined.
A flash of uncertainty crossed Everic’s expression before he quashed it. “That priest is already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Asher reached for the red blindfold looped around his belt. “We shall see.” He proceeded to cover his eyes with the strip of cloth and tie it into a knot at the back of his head. Without a single spark of light pressing against his eyelids, his vision was cast into true darkness and, with it, a luminous world was born around him.
He sat back, away from the edge, as he no longer required his eyes to see. His every sense was enhanced magnitudes beyond even that of the fabled elves. By touch and pressure alone, he could feel the density of the icy stone beneath his fingertips. Its every imperfection stood out to Asher like words on a page. He could also feel the blood cooling under his skin where he brushed the snow.
After running the edge of his tongue over his bottom lip, Asher was able to taste the very air, sampling the acrid sweat of both Everic and the crowd below. There was a note of sweet spice from the incense that had been burning inside the church, something he wouldn’t normally have been capable of tasting even if he was standing next to it.
His intensified sense of smell increased the clarity of it all, adding individual scents from the numerous people departing the church. Through their sweat and breath he knew what they had eaten over the last day, who among them had recently bathed, and even discern those who lay with each other.
Aiding his mind to build a three-dimensional image of the surroundings, Asher’s hearing intensified to such heights that he could hear Everic’s heart beating in his chest. Having long learned to hone his focus under such conditions, Asher moved past the distracting sounds of his companion and turned his attention to the crowd below.
Hundreds of voices bombarded him, some coming from inside the adjacent buildings. Again, he blocked out everything he didn’t need. The multitude of voices slowly died away, taking with them the sounds of shuffling feet, the crunching of snow, and the billowing fabric caught in the wind.
Steel. He could hear it lightly knocking against belt buckles. He could taste the mineral in the air. He could smell the sweat-soaked hilts and the debris that marred the blades. Every sellsword was armed with a well-used blade among other weapons. That informed Asher of their experience and thus informed him of the best approach to the target. He doubted, however, that Everic would come to that same conclusion.
Asher didn’t need his eyes to know that the younger man had similarly donned his red blindfold. “Learn what you can,” he remarked. “But you will not be permitted to hunt in this manner. The trial demands it.”
Everic made no comment on that fact, though Asher heard his jaw clench and his teeth come firmly together. He obviously didn’t agree, but tradition was tradition and Asher was there for the sole purpose of upholding it.
“Tell me more about the cleric,” Asher demanded, his senses having already revealed all the secrets of the so-called assistant.
Everic was quick to respond, a display of disciplined command where his heightened senses were concerned. “He is a she,” he said, with just the slightest hint of surprise in his voice. “Early forties. She’s hungry - hasn’t eaten since this morning. Surprisingly few weapons,” he added softly, his mind unravelling the sellsword. “A small dagger at the base of her back.” Everic paused, double-checking his tastebuds. “There’s rabbit hair on the blade - she only uses the dagger for preparing food,” he reasoned.
“What else?” Asher pressed.
