Court of Assassins: The Ranger Archives Volume 1, page 2
Everic raised a hand and rubbed his fingers and thumb together, his senses so attuned to the world that he could actually feel objects as if they were within his reach. “There’s something up her sleeve,” he assessed quietly. “The bark of an oak tree. No… A willow. It’s slender, no wider than her finger. And…” The northman’s expression soured.
“Dirt,” Asher finished. “It’s the Demetrium in the core of her wand - it tastes like mud. The exterior wood can mask it if you don’t know what you’re looking for.”
Despite his calm appearance, Everic’s increased heart rate betrayed his concern. “A mage,” he uttered.
Though the intricacies of the magic world were never taught in the halls of Nightfall, every assassin was well versed in its devastating capabilities. In a situation such as this, the mage was to be considered a real threat, an obstacle that could interfere with the kill. To Asher there were two paths that now led to the success of their mission: kill the mage first or kill the target without being detected. The latter was the obvious and easier choice in his mind, but Everic didn’t see all as he did.
“How does a mage end up among sellswords?” the younger man enquired absently.
“Not every student of Korkanath winds up as a court mage to some king,” Asher explained. “The smart ones put their magic to better use.”
Everic briefly pursed his lips. “I’d say this mage should have chosen a different line of work.”
“Don’t get on the other end of her wand,” Asher advised dryly. “Magic is loud and bright, and neither is good for you.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to interfere in the trial,” Everic remarked with a clipped tone.
Asher suppressed his exasperated sigh. “The target is yours to kill however you see fit. But a true Arakesh is never seen and never heard. We do not fail and we leave nothing but shadows in our wake. If you die out there, I will be expected to dispose of your body before it can be found. So-don’t-involve-the-mage,” he added as a matter of fact.
Before either could say any more, their senses were flooded with the arrival of something new: heavy footsteps from the east, flattening the fresh powder on the road. Experience on his side, Asher was able to make sense of the information in a second and knew that eight people were approaching the church, their formation tight enough to suggest they were together.
A few more seconds of listening to his senses and Asher knew so much more about this new group, enough to make him swear under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” Everic asked.
“Graycoats,” Asher said gruffly.
Everic’s heart rate quickened all the more. “You’re sure?” There was an edge of excitement in his voice now - the promise of a real fight.
A low growl rumbled from Asher’s throat, speaking of his growing impatience. “Your life expectancy is short if you can’t tell a Graycoat from a sellsword.”
The northman’s expression pinched in a moment of anger. “They each carry a sword of identical weight and length,” he began, in an attempt to prove himself. “The steel is clean, their blades regularly cared for. The same applies to the bows and quivers on their backs - identical and even made from the same wood. Their coats are a strong leather and long; I can hear them flapping about their ankles, though they’re fastened tight around their chests. They walk with a warrior’s confidence. They smell like horses,” he added with disdain.
“They’ve ridden far to get here,” Asher concluded, having already picked up the individual scents of their mounts.
“There are two females and six males,” Everic continued. “Their ages vary. The youngest is barely a man, sixteen perhaps; the oldest fifty. Judging by the bones crunching in his left knee and the depth of his impression in the snow, I’d say he favours the right.”
“Their ages are irrelevant,” Asher told him. “Their training is rigorous and West Fellion takes them in as young as Nightfall does. As far as you’re concerned, Graycoats are your equal in the field.”
Though he didn’t need to, Everic turned to face Asher. “The Father would have you whipped for that opinion.”
No he wouldn’t, Asher thought, words he knew well to keep to himself. “The Father hasn’t left Nightfall in a very long time,” he said instead. “The Graycoats have changed. To the rest of Illian, the Arakesh are more myth than real. The Graycoats know better. They consider us their sworn enemies.”
Everic chewed over Asher’s words. “Well what are they doing in Wood Vale?”
“Why are there eight of them?” Asher questioned, offering up a more interesting query. “Graycoats patrol the realm in pairs, not groups. Something’s brought them together.”
The assassins waited and observed from their high perch.
The last of the congregation moved aside for the Graycoats while, in the face of a potential threat, the sellswords finally gave themselves away and reached for their concealed weapons. The hooded mage subtly flexed her fingers, however, and the mercenaries refrained from drawing their swords.
“High Priest Valyn, I am Marik Sal-Nareen,” one of the male Graycoats began, his distant voice crystal clear in Asher’s ears. He also recognised the man’s accent, placing his origins to that of either Karath or Ameeraska, in the southern Arid Lands.
Valyn looked the group of warriors over. No explanation was required as to who they were or where they had come from, their signature coats more than enough for anyone to identify them. “I always have time for any who carry the honour of West Fellion,” he replied. “Might I ask what business you have in Wood Vale?”
“And how you came to know the high priest’s name,” the mage cut in, standing directly beside her client now.
Marik looked at the mage before casting a cursory glance over the sellswords. “I don’t answer to the likes of mercenaries,” he simply announced, the derision audible in his voice. “We have been sent at the behest of the Lord Marshal of West Fellion,” he continued, talking directly to Valyn. “We have received word from our sector house in Grey Stone. We believe an attempt is going to be made on your life.” Again, the Graycoat surveyed the six mercenaries. “Clearly you are in possession of the same knowledge.”
“I am,” the high priest said. “And, as you can see, I have taken precautions.”
“They won’t be enough,” Marik told him flatly. “I know what hunts you.”
As a sense of dread began to rise up in Valyn, the all too familiar scent of fear reached Asher. It was intoxicating to one trained in the art of death. Asher felt the pull of it, pressing him to advance and display his superiority. Instead, he clenched his fists and took a long steadying breath, calling on his years of discipline.
“To the hells with this lot,” one of the sellswords snapped.
The mage flexed her fingers again and the loudmouth was immediately silenced. “What is it you believe we should so fear?”
Marik paused. “Our source in Grey Stone indicates the Arakesh are involved.”
The high priest raised a greying eyebrow. “You have travelled a long way to warn me of naught but myth and legend.”
“Nightfall is no myth,” one of the female Graycoats interjected, her tone grave.
“And we aren’t here to warn you, High Priest,” Marik added. “We’re here to protect you.”
“No,” the mage disagreed. “That’s what we’re here for.” She turned to Valyn. “The Graycoats are here to use you. You’re nothing but bait to them.”
The high priest looked Marik in the eyes, perhaps expecting the man to rebuke the mage’s accusation, but the Graycoat remained a sentinel in the snow. “Be that as it may,” Valyn accepted, “I will not shun the extra swords on my side. What do you need?”
“Access to the lodge house,” Marik answered.
Valyn responded with a short bow of the head. “Granted. I was about to retire anyway. You can follow us.”
As the now larger group departed the church, Asher removed his blindfold and blinked hard to rid himself of the disorientation that accompanied the transition. He looked on the sellswords and Graycoats with his own eyes, an uneasy feeling settling over him.
“Well this just became interesting,” Everic commented, a hungry smirk pulling at one side of his face. The young assassin then made to stalk the group, moving towards the adjacent rooftop.
“Where are you going?” Asher demanded.
Still blindfolded, Everic half turned around. “To eliminate my target,” he said.
Asher frowned. “The target is surrounded by eight Graycoats and six sellswords, one of whom is a mage.”
“You’re saying I should abandon the kill?” the northman argued.
“Nightfall never abandons a kill,” Asher replied firmly, the words practically etched into his bones. “I’m saying you should wait. A few more days and the priest won’t be able to afford the continued protection of the sellswords and the Graycoats will grow bored and leave.”
“That might be how you would do it, old man, but I am done waiting. I will get in and out without notice and with the priest’s blood on my blade.” With that vow, Everic continued towards the western edge of the building.
Asher raised his arm and opened his hand in the northman’s direction. He need not speak while Everic was blindfolded, his senses more than aware of Asher’s actions. The young assassin sighed and quietly returned to his superior’s side before removing his red blindfold and dropping it into his waiting hand.
“I was like you once,” Asher offered, halting Everic on his way back to the edge. “And I have the scars to prove it.”
The northman met Asher’s gaze, though he was clearly too young and foolhardy to understand wisdom when he heard it. Instead, he leapt from the roof and disappeared into the night. Asher rested his head back against the stone and exhaled a cloud of hot air. This was going to be a long night, he knew.
Replacing his own blindfold over his eyes, the Nightseye elixir, that had been coursing through his veins since he was nine years old, came to life once more. From his seated position, he detected Everic two buildings over, his fingers and toes finding every groove in the sheer wall. Deciding that it would be prudent if he was closer, Asher found his feet and hurried after the northman, his own path taking him along a different set of rooftops.
His advanced senses allowed him to hone his centre of gravity and navigate every nook and cranny of Wood Vale. All the while, his mind pieced together the movements of both Everic and the target, each closing in on the church’s lodge house.
Arriving in the western district, Asher jumped the gaps between the buildings in a bid to put some distance between himself and the raucous tavern that sat on the corner. With the lodge house between them, he could focus all the better on Everic’s attempt.
The high priest’s dwelling was, in fact, home to several members of the faith, though Valyn occupied the largest chamber at the top of the four-storey building.
The breeze swept over Asher, bringing with it the odour of unwashed sellswords. Besides their old sweat and general filth, he could smell the curdling breath of two as they patrolled the outer walkway on the third floor. Above and below them were identical wooden walkways that wrapped around the entire lodge house, the highest of which granted a regular view of the sunset over Wood Vale’s western district.
Tonight, however, the light was gone and the dark left to reign.
Everic’s timing was perfect. He sprang from the closest rooftop and fell through the air without a sound. As a Graycoat entered the lodge house on the ground floor, the northman came down and found a hold on the railing of the second-tier walkway. To Asher, it was a deafening infiltration but, to those patrolling nearby, all they heard was the creaking door before it shut.
The young assassin continued to hang by his fingers, waiting. He was right to do so as both a Graycoat and a sellsword passed each other. The two men were so occupied in flashing the other a disparaging grimace that they missed Everic’s gripping fingers down by their feet.
The subtlest shift in his muscles led Asher to believe that the northman was about to propel himself onto the walkway and challenge them. He was relieved to find that Everic was simply bracing himself to climb up onto the railing and jump up to the next tier.
Asher flinched as he detected the creases that formed in the Graycoat’s leather coat - he was turning around. If he saw Everic ascending the walkways all hell would break loose. Asher tensed, ready to intervene but, thankfully, the northman cleared the next railing up before the Graycoat could see his feet disappear onto the third-tier walkway.
Moving along the southern side of the lodge house, Everic kept his body close to the wall, his sight fixed on the corner up ahead.
“Check your surroundings,” Asher muttered to himself.
The young assassin was so used to relying on the Nightseye elixir that he was forgetting to check the path behind him. Had he spared a moment to look back, he might have noticed one of the doors opening. Asher already knew there was a sellsword on the other side, an unlit pipe gripped between his lips. As the wood creaked, Everic realised he wasn’t alone. Almost at the next corner, he had only to rush ahead and he would avoid detection.
But he didn’t.
Soaking in the instincts of a killer, the northman freed one of the slender daggers from his belt and hurled it at the mercenary. His aim true, the steel sank deep into the man’s head and dropped him dead. Asher tasted the blood spoiling the air and sighed with disappointment. Though Everic was permitted to kill anyone who put themselves between him and the target, he should never be so loud about it. And the large body hitting the walkway was, indeed, loud.
Above and below, Asher noted two Graycoats and a sellsword had stopped moving, alerted to the sound. One of the Graycoats climbed the interior staircase and began making her way towards the fallen body. She entered the room and discovered the open door that led onto the walkway. She would have seen the sellsword’s corpse had Everic not backtracked and dragged it out of sight. What he couldn’t hide, however, was the dark blood staining the wood.
The Graycoat moved closer to investigate. A seasoned warrior, she approached the curious stain with a steady heart rate and measured breaths. Her sword was slowly drawn from its scabbard and the tip pointed at the doorway. Though she made cautious steps, Asher heard the bones clicking in her feet and the floorboards taking her weight.
As the Graycoat stepped onto the threshold, her suspicion was realised. The sight of the blood set her heart racing with anticipation. That was, inevitably, until Everic stopped it forever. The northman had remained concealed beside the door, waiting for his moment to strike. His dagger pierced her chest and the force of his attack sent them both into the darkened room beyond. Adhering to his training this time, Everic caught her body before it fell and lowered her without a sound. He then quickly recovered the dead sellsword and concealed them in the empty room.
The other Graycoat who had been alerted to Everic’s first kill appeared on the highest walkway and looked over the northern edge. A short sharp whistle caught the attention of his remaining comrades on the ground, bringing them inside. Within seconds, seven Graycoats and five sellswords were inside the lodge house with Everic.
It was all going wrong.
Instinctively, Asher retrieved the folded bow from his back and thumbed the small lever to unfurl it. The intricate mechanics rotated and the weapon snapped to life, pulling the bow string taut and ready to receive an arrow. His fingers hesitated as they felt for the projectile resting in the quiver. He wasn’t supposed to intervene - this was Everic’s trial. He stayed his hand, for now.
Instead, Asher shifted his focus from Everic’s infiltration to the top floor, where the mage was quietly arguing with Marik Sal-Nareen. “You aren’t needed here,” the mage disputed with some posturing. “Whoever this assassin is, we can handle them.”
Marik turned to gesture at the other Graycoat standing at the end of the hallway. “You see that boy? Galfrey! How old are you?”
The young Graycoat didn’t hesitate to answer his superior. “Seventeen, Brother Marik.”
Marik returned his attention to the mage. “That seventeen year old boy has more skill than all of your sellswords put together, and he is the least-skilled of us all. So you see, mercenary, it is you who is not needed here.”
As the mage abandoned her post, leaving Marik outside the target’s door, Asher turned away from their petty argument and listened for Everic. The northman had the perfect opportunity to sneak past a pair of sellswords who were checking every room, but he wasn’t moving. The assassin was positioned in the shadows above them, his limbs braced against the wooden beams. He was going to kill again.
“Fool,” Asher whispered to himself.
Only when the two sellswords were beneath him did Everic reveal himself. Before his feet were forced to take his full weight, the northman’s twin short-swords were freed from the scabbards on his back. The hour-glass blades, identical to the pair on Asher’s back, were the finest steel coming out of Karath - home to the world’s greatest sword makers. In the right hands they were instruments fit for Death itself. Everic, however, was only an emissary of that dark entity.
He pivoted one way then the next, his short-swords flashing steel in a rotating pattern. Those exquisite edges sliced through mail, leather, and finally flesh. The blood of both sellswords was splattered up the walls, three of their major arteries exposed to air. Their deaths went unheard by all but Asher, who perceived their last ragged breaths from across the street. That still left three sellswords and seven Graycoats to deal with, and two of the latter were quickly making their way up to Everic.
“Get a move on,” Asher urged frustratedly.
But without complete darkness, the Nightseye elixir in Everic’s veins remained dormant, leaving him with all the senses of an ordinary man. He moved slowly and cautiously down the hall, unaware that he was about to be flanked by a pair of Graycoats.
Asher had to wonder at what point the mission was utterly compromised beyond repair. Did he step in now? Or did he give the northman the benefit of the doubt and wait to see if he recovered? Everic was certainly less-experienced than Asher, but he had already proven himself more than competent in the art of delivering death.
