Lord Soth (2 page)

Three moons might well have been in the sky, but only two dared
show their faces. Lunitari glowed a dark shade of red while Solinari shone a bright white, leaving the dark moon Nuitari to be hidden by the night.

Lunitari and Solinari hung over the dark rippling waters of the northern sea like a pair of watchful eyes, shining crimson and white light down onto the sleeping port city of Kalaman, and casting spiderlike shadows across its dim, quiet streets.

A dark figure moved swiftly through the shadows. His movements were strong and sure, like those of a nobleman, but his dress was an ill-fitting patchwork of worn and tattered garments, suggesting the man was no more noble than a petty thief or common rogue.

Whatever the man’s class, he moved quietly from shadow to shadow, avoiding the light as much as he shunned the open spaces between the scattered homes and shops.

When he reached the open mouth of a darkened alley, he stepped into its blackness and paused for a moment to
catch his breath. As he stood there, he felt for the weapons hidden beneath his cloak, making sure everything was in place. He’d have only one chance to complete his task and he knew failure would not be tolerated.

After he had rested and his breathing had slowed, he ventured deeper into the alley’s uncertain darkness.

After a short walk, he came upon the open back door of a popular tavern—The Rose and Thistle. From inside, the faint sound of laughter and song echoed into the alley while flickering firelight blazed through the half-open doorway like rays from the midday sun.

The dark figure stopped and strained to hear the people singing merrily inside, all the while making sure to keep his distance from the warm light emanating from within.

Next to the door, on the side closest to him, one of the tavern’s more inebriated patrons—a dwarf—was propped up against the back wall of the establishment, no doubt sleeping off the effects of an over-indulgence of its finest ale. The dwarf was sleeping so peacefully it seemed a shame to wake him, but there was no time for such polite considerations.

Not tonight.

So without further hesitation the shadowy figure reared back and gave the dwarf a hard kick in the upper thigh.

“Ow!” exclaimed the dwarf, then muttered sleepily, “I assure you sir, I had no idea she was the daughter of a—”

So the dwarf was a scoundrel as well as a drunkard! He gave the dwarf another hard kick, this time causing the dwarf’s ale-soaked eyes to flutter open. After taking a moment to wipe the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, the dwarf looked up at the dark, hooded figure standing over him.… And gasped in fear. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a young man, a
bard
”—he said the word as if it were a bad thing—“by the name of Argol Birdsong. Is it true that he performs in this tavern on occasion?”

“Now,” the dwarf said casually, foolishly thinking he held a position of power over the dark figure standing before him. “Who wants to know?”

The hooded man stepped on the dwarf’s foot then, pressing down hard with the heel of his boot. “I’m not interested in, nor do I have the time for dwarven games. Is he here or not?” He turned his boot to emphasize the point.

“Ow!” the dwarf cried, then quickly nodded. “Y-yes, he’s here, he’s here,” he said. “In fact, that’s him singing now.”

The dark man held his breath for a moment and listened. He could just make out the sound of some ballad coming from inside the tavern. Satisfied, he lifted his boot from the dwarf’s foot and fished inside his pouch for some coins.

“Go inside and tell Argol Birdsong there’s an old friend waiting for him out in the alley.” He dropped a few coins onto the dwarf’s lap. “Then remain inside until you’ve drunk your fill … and then some.”

The dwarf immediately stopped rubbing his aching foot and picked up the scattered coins. “Yes sir!” he said, jumping to his feet and limping back inside the tavern.

When the dwarf was gone, the dark figure looked up and down the alley then retreated into the safety of the shadows. There, he waited for the singing inside to come to an end. When the tavern was filled with the soft mumble of drunken voices carrying on in contented conversation, he tensed his body and listened for the sound of approaching footsteps.

When the sound came moments later, he drew back his cloak and took hold of the heavy dwarven warhammer that had been hanging from a loop on his belt.

“Hello?” called Argol Birdsong in a melodic voice. “Is someone here?” The bard paused a moment, then smiled broadly. “Aristal, my love? Are you here waiting for me?”

The man in the shadows took a moment to examine the features of the bard. Yes, the singer certainly bore the family resemblance that he had been told to look for. He stepped forward, partway into the light, but his face remained obscured by the folds of his hood.

“Who are you?” asked the bard, his voice no longer so birdlike and perhaps just a little bit frightened.

The stranger ignored the question and asked one of his
own. “Are you Argol Birdsong?”

“Yes, but—”

The man’s next word died in his throat as the warhammer suddenly appeared, glinting at the top of its arc for a brief moment before slamming down onto the bard’s head.

Once …

Twice …

Three times …

The bard’s body slumped forward, then crumpled lifelessly, thudding heavily onto the alley floor.

And then all that could be heard was the rustle of a cloak and the fading click of boots as they hurried out of the alley.

Into the night.

The assassin ran quickly through the streets of Kalaman, staying away from the main roads and always remaining close to the protective cover of shadows. After running for several blocks, he slowed his pace and added a slight stumble to his gait to suggest that he’d spent most of the night sampling ale and wine of dubious merit.

When he reached the livery stable housing his horse, he tipped the stableman handsomely and was quickly on his way, riding fast enough to appear as if he were headed somewhere, but not so fast as to appear as if he were running away from something.

Outside of the city’s limits, he hastened his horse’s pace to a trot and then to a full gallop. He continued riding hard and fast for several minutes until he came upon a sharp bend in the Vingaard River.

The water was as black as the darkest night, even in the middle of the day. It was also deep as a well, as much as a hundred feet or more at its center.

It was the perfect place to make something vanish.

Remaining on his horse, the assassin moved to the edges of the southern river bank and opened his cloak. He
unfastened the blood-stained warhammer from his belt and swung it wildly over his head by the leather thong tied to the end of its handle. After several quick rotations, he let go of the thong, flinging the hammer out over the water. The weapon whistled slightly as it twirled and sliced through the air, then made a faint splash as it broke the water’s surface midway between the two banks.

The hammer remained on top of the water for a moment, reflecting a sliver of moonlight as the hammerhead turned for the bottom, and then it was gone.

Without a second glance, he turned from the river, kicked at his horse’s ribs and was soon riding hard once more, heading west.

One more stop. One more task, and this night would be over.

As the moons slowly arced overhead, he came upon a small hamlet on the western outskirts of Kalaman called Villand. When he began to recognize the outlines of individual homes and cottages, he dismounted from his now heaving horse and gave it a hard slap on its haunches. The startled horse reared back and leaped forward. After two frantic strides it slowed to a more comfortable pace that would see it return to its home in a day or two.

Now alone in the village, the assassin again moved stealthily through winding streets, clinging to the cover afforded by the rough-hewn buildings and scattered trees. When he was near what felt like the center of the village he took a map from his inside cloak pocket and unfurled it beneath Solinari’s generous moonlight.

Several of the bigger homes and shops were detailed on the map and after recognizing two of them, he was better able to orient himself and learn of his position within the village. If he wasn’t mistaken, his destination was just four houses down the street on the left.

He clenched the map in his left hand and quietly counted off the houses as he passed.

When he arrived at the small unassuming cottage, he
checked the front door for a sign. It was there. A double loop connected at its center.

He checked the sign with the one scribbled next to the note on the map. It was the same double loop. The sign of Mishakal—a benevolent goddess known as the Healing Hand—had brought him here to this home. Except, unlike Mishakal, the assassin wasn’t here to heal.

With the careful and deft hand of a thief, the assassin picked the lock on the door and eased it open, praying that the owner of the house had been particular about keeping his hinges well oiled. Fortunately he had been, and the door swung quietly open and closed. In seconds he was inside, moving about the house in utter silence.

The first room he checked was just off the kitchen. As promised by the notes written on the map in his hand, it was empty. He moved through the larger room in the center of the house and came upon another smaller room. This had to be the bedroom he was looking for.

It was separated from the adjoining room by a simple white sheet hung in the doorway. With a gentle hand, the assassin pulled the sheet aside and stepped into the room.

The window set in the outside wall was bare and moonlight bathed the room with a soft, incandescent glow, as if the light of Mishakal herself were shining down on the room’s sole occupant.

He moved closer to the bed for a better look.

There was a half-elven female lying there. She was attractive for a half-elf. In fact, she was attractive by any standard of measure.

As with the bard, there could be no mistaking this woman’s identity. She was indeed the one he sought. Her name was Alsin Felgaard, and she was a milkmaid working on one of the many farms that surrounded Villand.

He moved still closer, then recoiled slightly. Even though he knew what to expect, the features of the half-elf’s face were strikingly similar to those of Argol Birdsong. In fact, if the creature lying on the bed hadn’t been half-elven, he
would have sworn that they were full brother and sister.

The assassin pondered that thought for a moment, then did his best to dismiss it from his mind. His task was not to think, only to do as he’d been told. If he thought about it for too long, his loyalty might waver, and he couldn’t afford to have that happen.

If it ever did, he’d be a dead man.

After taking a deep breath to calm himself, he drew back his cloak once more. This time he removed the battle-axe from where it hung on his belt and gripped it firmly in both of his gloved hands.

Slowly, he raised the axe over his head.…

And hesitated.

The half-elf was far too young and beautiful a flower to be cut down so early in what would be a long, long life.

He inhaled a ragged breath, his shaking hands causing the battle-axe to tremble. He let a shiver run its course, then closed his eyes and let out a sigh. As he slowly reopened them, he shook his head.

He’d foolishly allowed himself to think again.

He took another breath, this time making sure his mind and body were hardened by resolve to complete his mission, a resolve stronger and colder than any steel could ever be.

This wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed, he told himself. Nor would it be the last.

He raised the battle-axe over his head again, and quickly brought it down with a mighty stroke, cutting through the body of the sleeping maiden and splintering the hard wooden boards of the bed she lay upon.

Her eyes opened in horror, but no sound escaped her lips.

If she’d been lucky, she hadn’t suffered.

The assassin turned from the ruined and bloodied corpse, and left the house as quietly as he’d entered.