Court of Assassins: The Ranger Archives Volume 1, page 10
Upon attaining her new position, the Mother had her eyes removed, a ceremony traditionally performed in silence as a sign of strength and endurance. Mothers and Fathers live out the rest of their days in a heightened sense, lending to the belief that one must have been an Arakesh for decades before being capable of enduring this aspect of the title.
A historical reminder of this occurred in the year 219 of the Third Age, when an initiate succeeded in killing the sitting Mother of the time. It is noted in the records that the initiate went mad before their 20th year of life.
The Night Codex, Know Whom You Serve, Page 2.
Master Obadiah, 391 of the Third Age.
To Nasta Nal-Aket, the world and its inhabitants were an open book. To the Father, body language was just that, a language. The human body was always broadcasting the thoughts and feelings of the mind, be it in the twitch of fine muscles around the eyes or the dilation of the pores of the skin.
And there was so much more beneath the surface that betrayed secrets. It was all there for Nasta to interpret, including the functions of his own body. He could hear his heart beating and even feel the hairs in his nose and ears growing day by day. His heightened senses knew no rest.
While every Arakesh in Nightfall slept in the light, the Father lived in permanent darkness, his mind an abyss. Like every Mother and Father before him, he was only able to find rest in meditation, a state in which he could pull back from the constant input. Still, he heard the hurried steps beyond The Cradle’s walls.
The owner of those feet was young, fourteen perhaps. His body felt abound with energy, his muscles coiled in tight cords, ready to be honed for the service of Nightfall. The boy was stopped mid run, a wall of experienced assassins standing in his way. Had Nasta any eyes to open they certainly would have done so with a snap. The eldest assassin took a length of string from the younger hands and ran a sensitive finger over the knots, reading the coded message as he did. He then dismissed the boy with a flick of two fingers, a common gesture of Master Krain’s.
Nasta, fully roused from his meditation, pivoted away from the altar to Ibilis and rose to his feet without need of his hands. He was standing in front of the main doors by the time Master Krain entered The Cradle, his proximity putting the other assassin instantly on edge.
“Father,” he greeted more loudly than was necessary.
“Master Krain,” Nasta replied evenly.
Master Krain held the string up. “Word from Dunwich,” he said, an unfortunate smirk creeping up one side of his face.
“Yet it remains in your hands instead of mine,” Nasta pointed out.
Krain bowed his head by way of a stiff apology and offered the knotted string. Nasta accepted it and turned his back on the master while his finger and thumb interpreted the knots. The message had come a long way and been held by two men prior to the boy Krain had taken it from. Nasta could smell both the northman who had journeyed south with it and the man who had accepted the report in Calmardra and brought it out into the desert.
It was the message itself, however, that brought the Father to a halt. Well done, boy, Nasta thought. You made your choice. Now I only hope you have the will to fight for it.
As he read it a second and even a third time, The Cradle began to steadily fill with the other masters who had heard Krain’s words. Of course they had gathered, Nasta thought. Had it been any other put to the test the masters would have left it to the Father to handle, but Asher was another matter altogether. Even Alidyr entered behind them, his interest piqued.
“Ill news?” Master Bantara enquired, her voice sounding nearly as ancient as the stone around them.
Nasta half turned and lazily gestured at the gathered masters. “You are already aware of the facts, Master Krain…”
With no lack of satisfaction, Krain addressed his peers. “We have word from trusted contacts in Dunwich,” he began, enjoying his tale. “Two weeks ago, the son of Lord Borvyn was assassinated in his bed. His sister, Esabelle, yet lives.”
“Asher and Jorgan have failed?” Master Bantara questioned incredulously.
“The task was Asher’s alone,” Master Eckard reminded.
“Jorgan is dead,” Krain announced, silencing the chamber. “His body is in the custody of the town’s watchmen.”
“One of the targets lives and Jorgan is dead?” Master Vor-Kana echoed, the vertebrae in his long spine lining up quite neatly as he straightened his back. “How could this have come to be?”
“The northmen are good fighters all,” Master Eckard remarked, “but none compare to Jorgan.”
True as it was, Nasta would have expected nothing else from the inquisitor, for he had imparted much of himself to Jorgan over the course of his training.
Krain held up a finger. “Jorgan did not suffer the blade of a northman. The report is quite specific. The girl claims to have witnessed his death… at the hands of Asher.” The master paused for dramatic effect, allowing his words to sink in. “There are a great number of eyewitness reports that state Asher then fled the scene and the town itself.”
“He spared the girl?” Master Vor-Kana questioned, cupping his trimmed goatee.
“This is most disturbing, Father,” Master Bantara voiced. “We are talking about a rogue Arakesh - an accomplished one at that. Asher poses a great threat to Nightfall.”
Nasta detected no animosity towards Asher or himself, her tone and reasoning born of good sense.
“A threat that could easily have been averted,” Master Krain stirred, “by one who knew Asher so well.”
Nasta maintained complete control of his mind and body, presenting the masters with an unnervingly calm figure. There was blood in the water. Now, more than ever, it was important to appear the predator. In truth, he would have been disappointed if Krain missed the opportunity to strike. And he wasn’t saying anything the other masters weren’t already thinking.
“Why would Asher betray us?” Master Bantara questioned rightly, steering away from any accusations. “He has served the order well since his trials.”
Krain waved her logic away. “What he possessed in skill he lacked in the mind. Asher was riddled with weakness from his first day. He should never have been brought here.”
The second strike was twice the blow of the first, his words a direct attack on the Father. Still, Nasta continued to slowly run his finger and thumb over the knots in the string, his mind cast adrift. Krain had made no mention of it, but there was a curious detail in the report that stood out to Nasta. It seemed Asher had fled the manor and then the town under the duress of a manhunt that ended on the frozen lake. Besides the fact that Asher had been so clumsy as to be seen leaving anywhere, there were no further casualties after slaying Jorgan. Of all the soldiers who confronted him, Asher had killed none of them.
Curious…
“Our traditions are quite clear on the matter,” Krain continued, eager to get a rise out of the Father. “Asher has betrayed the order. He has killed one of our own. He has allowed a target to live. He has brought Nightfall into the light. He must be placed in—”
“You do not exact our traditions, Master Krain.” Nasta’s tone was even, if firm. Now he had the masters’ full attention. If his reaction to Asher’s betrayal was anything but swift and decisive, they would all turn on him.
“How are we to deal with the matter, Father?” Master Eckard asked, eager to have one of his most accomplished students avenged.
Nasta took in all that there was to glean from those before him. All were poised, ready to receive his word and cast their judgement on his decision. All except for Alidyr, who appeared wholly exasperated with the affair. How many times, Nasta wondered, had the ancient one borne witness to an event identical to this one? History must surely be seen to repeat itself in the eyes of an immortal.
“As of this moment,” Nasta declared, “Asher is placed in the court of assassins.” He instantly detected an array of changes in Krain’s manner that spoke of his deep irritation. Had Krain suggested it first, the Father would have been made to appear all the weaker, his judgement seen to be impaired.
“The court hasn’t been enacted since I was a boy in these halls,” Nasta continued, “but I know our traditions well,” he added pointedly. “Asher has killed a brother of the order, allowed a target to live, exposed Nightfall, and he has not returned to face the consequences of his rash actions. He shall be set upon by an Arakesh for every sin.”
“Four?” Krain concluded in disbelief. “Besides his skill, Asher poses too high a threat to leave it to four. We should send ten at least. Asher knows too much of our ways,” he continued to argue. “He cannot be allowed to live.”
“Our traditions are quite clear on the matter,” Nasta said, echoing Krain’s own words. “They bend for no one. Asher shall face an assassin for every tenet broken. Now, we the masters of these hallowed halls, must choose our Arakesh.”
Master Vor-Kana clasped his fingers behind his back. “Uthork. He is of The Ice Vales; the hunt was in his blood long before his time in Nightfall.”
Master Bantara tapped the bulbous top of her cane. “Melekish. He is well versed in the art of deception. I believe he could walk right up to Asher and he wouldn’t suspect a thing.” Master Eckard was nodding approvingly, agreeing with his fellow master’s choice.
Nasta disagreed with both, but he didn’t protest.
“Ro Dosarn,” came the whisper of an elf, his tone as bored as his demeanour.
“I sent Ro to Ameeraska three days past,” Nasta informed. “Choose another.”
Alidyr took a breath, though it did nothing to invigorate him. “Demry,” he said, choosing the only woman who had been in Asher’s training cohort.
Nasta accepted the elf’s choice of Arakesh, and it was a good one at that. Of all the assassins available to them, those from Asher’s cohort knew him best and often enacted similar, if not identical tactics. There were also only three still alive from that particular cohort.
Master Krain had been rubbing his finger and thumb together since the Father had enacted the court, clearly indecisive about who among his allies was best equipped to kill Asher.
“Borman,” Krain put forth as the final assassin. “He will rectify this mistake.”
The Father knew of Borman, a brute of an Arakesh who had been in Krain’s pocket since his early teens. Nasta had never liked him, his frame larger than average - not a quality best served in an assassin that needed to blend in where required.
“No,” Nasta said evenly, confident issuing commands without the need of a firm tone.
Krain’s facial muscles creased into a scowl. “No? Borman is the only one among the court who will actually see the task done.”
“Must I repeat myself?” There was an edge to Nasta’s voice now, speaking of his irritation.
“You have someone else in mind, Father?” Master Vor-Kana queried.
“I do,” was all Nasta offered.
“What of the target?” Master Bantara questioned, content to leave the Father’s private thoughts to himself. “Two lives were paid for. Two lives must be taken.”
Nasta regarded Master Bantara. “I leave it to your judgement on who to assign.”
Master Bantara bowed her head. “I have someone already in mind, Father. I believe Rendal has executed a mission such as this twice already.”
“Very good,” Nasta replied with hardly any interest.
“Who is your choice, Father?” Krain pressed, his intractable demeanour growing all the more tiresome.
Nasta answered to none of them, but he was presented with an opportunity to detach himself from Asher and, at the same time, reduce Krain’s remarks to hot air. “Have you ever played a game of Gallant, Master Krain?”
It was not the response Krain was expecting, slowing his time to answer. “Not in many years, Father, I must admit.”
“Every deck contains one wild card,” Nasta explained. “The inexperienced player will keep this close, believing it can elevate their hand. Of course, in the long game, it rarely counts for much. No, the wild card is to be played against your opponent, putting them off balance and thus forcing them to change their tactics part way through the game. This need to change can be a mistake, one that often leads to miscalculation and ultimate failure.”
Master Bantara pursed her lips. “Do you have a wild card to add to our deck, Father?”
“I do,” he replied, before informing them of his decision. Their responses were mixed, though none - not even Krain - offered protest.
Nasta returned the coded string to Krain and strode past them all, making for the doors. Initiates and Arakesh alike pressed themselves flat to the walls as the Father weaved his way through the labyrinth. He didn’t stop until he was inside Master Eckard’s chamber, a place even a witless fool could have found had they followed their nose.
It had the smell of a person’s insides, a raw and individual odour that assaulted the senses. Fiery braziers illuminated the chamber from all four corners, though the Father was only aware of their heat. Ignoring the dirty implements that lined the walls, Nasta’s bare feet crossed the floor slick with blood and stood before the room’s only other occupant.
Everic’s head tilted just enough for the northman to spy Nasta between two matted strands of blood-soaked hair. Listening intently to his breathing, the Father was sure the young man had suffered no broken bones. Good, he thought. His skin, however, was another matter altogether. The damage done to him was irreparable, the flesh fated to scar in horrible ways. The question was, how much of the assassin remained inside such a broken shell?
“We are alone,” Nasta told him. “You may utter the word I gave you.”
Everic twitched and the leather straps around his wrists squeaked. He opened his mouth, tearing open a wound that had yet to properly seal, and fresh blood spilled over his lips. The northman winced at the pain before licking the blood and swallowing.
His voice was a rasp after so much screaming. “Help…”
There it was, the secret he had been given. He was only allowed to speak it in Nasta’s presence and Nasta’s presence alone. To the Father’s knowledge, Everic had suffered the worst Master Eckard had at his disposal and never did he utter the secret word.
“Your two months are up,” Nasta said, though Everic was in too much pain to smile. “You have the iron will of an Arakesh,” he complimented. “I would even go so far as to say you have the makings of a Father in you.”
Everic pushed through his pain. “I live… to serve… Nightfall.”
“You have proven yourself worthy of a second chance,” Nasta went on. “A rare thing in this world and even rarer in these halls. The five trials should be all that awaits you beyond this chamber. But I would have you attain the title of Arakesh with only one.”
Everic’s brow furrowed and a new line of blood ran down the ragged edges of his mutilated nose. “One… trial?”
“One trial,” the Father echoed. “One target.”
“Who?” Everic rasped.
Nasta raised his chin. “Asher,” he announced.
At last, Everic smiled.
Chapter 9
Follow the Money
Ensuring the death of your target or opponent is essential and, in some cases, you will have little time to do so. A quick death is attainable if you know where to strike (see below for anatomical diagram).
You need only target one of the major arteries - these are large passages in the body that carry a critical volume of blood. Severing one of these arteries can result in unconsciousness in as little as 30 seconds and death in minutes. Just try not to slip afterwards.
The Night Codex, Knowledge is Power, Page 60.
Master Gaelish, 334 of the Third Age.
After weeks of defying the north’s freezing hospitality and feeling quite dead on his feet, Asher finally looked upon the city of Skystead. Once home to the elves, before their exodus nearly a thousand years ago, the ancient city curved around the southern shore of The King’s Lake. Namdhor, the capital city in this part of the world, rose from the ground and shared the shore in the north-east, a glimmering speck on Skystead’s horizon.
In the passing millennium, humanity had moved in and claimed Skystead as their own. Now, the crescent city was an overlapping mixture of elven and human architecture, boasting the elegant spires and arching halls of the immortals, and the squat and bulky dwellings of the northmen. Most of these enjoyed the lakeside view, its flat surface gleaming in the midday sun.
To Asher, it was a warren of opportunities, as were most bustling cities in the eyes of an assassin. Though, right now, he was finding it hard to think of anything but food. The paltry supplies he had rationed from the saddlebags had run out two days past; even the horse he had stolen was flagging. To that end, he relieved the animal of its saddlebags and slapped its rump, sending it towards the city alone. Someone would adopt the mount and make coin in the process no doubt.
The only thing Asher kept was the travelling cloak the previous rider had stuffed into one of the bags. While on the outskirts of the farmland, shielded within a copse of trees, the assassin inverted the scabbards on his back so that the hilts crossed over his hips rather than jutted over his shoulders. The travelling cloak, a voluminous piece of grey fabric, concealed much of his tough leathers and weapons. He tucked most of his folded bow into one of the saddlebags and slung the whole thing over the shoulder that hadn’t recently received the cold edge of Jorgan’s blade. The quiver of arrows he clipped to his belt, from where the black fletchings poked out of the cloak. At a passing glance, people would likely believe he was a hunter of some description and leave him to his business.
Crossing what remained of the land, Asher stepped off The Selk Road and passed between the two enormous statues that marked the entrance to Skystead, each a hooded elf in need of repair. The city quickly rose up around him, blocking the view of both the lake and the mountains that surrounded the western landscape.
