Olympus RPG Blog

He walked from the inn, leaving behind dead or dying men, and did not look back. Those who survived would long remember the man with the dragon-marks upon his arms.

Five Years Ago.

Cold air froze his very breath.

Each step was a chore, a minor agony that required absolute concentration lest his steps find slick ice frozen over by the incessant snow and sleet that fell from the dark sky. Wind battered at him, trying very hard to push him from the narrow steps carved into the wall. At any other time, Gabriel might have considered pausing to admire the strange architecture – there was nothing else like it in all of Megalos, though if rumor spoke true, this … Fortress of Tears had been wrought by men not of Megalos many, many years ago.

The freezing rain had long since cooled his rage to a dull simmer – it was so very hard to hate a man he could not find or see when the elements hurled ice and snow at him nonstop – but it was not completely gone. He doubted it would ever be gone, even when he finally located that bastard Zabka and sent him screaming to hell. Still, Gabriel was thankful for this climb as it reminded him of a teaching he’d long since forgotten: rage was best managed when cold. The heat of passion was dangerous, deadly, foolish…

He staggered up the steps, gripping his cloak tight with his left hand while his right was wrapped around the hilt of his sheathed sword so tightly that it felt frozen solid. Up and up he went, fighting against God’s wrath and hating Him the entire time. Where was the merciful savior that Mendel had often spoke of? Where was the Lamb who brought peace to all of mankind as was promised? All Gabriel had seen in his life was betrayal and hate, death and murder and blood. God was not merciful, it seemed, but rather malicious, cruel and petty. A tyrant in Heaven who stared down upon his work with contempt.

The steps ended abruptly before a massive set of double wooden doors that bore the elaborate sigils Gabriel recognized from the gauntlets bequeathed upon him by Master Gaius in the hours before sickness finally took the man. Gabriel had promised to seek out the other masters, to prove himself in their eyes and earn the dragon mark that was his by skill at arms, but there had not been the time after the war ended. Auqui’s training was too important, and then there was Kira and her laughing eyes which drew him in, and his duties to Wallace, and so very many excuses …

With barely a sound, the doors opened upon his touch and Gabriel stepped through over the threshold, grimacing at the wall of heat that slammed into him like a physical force. He suddenly felt every ache in his body, every strain, every cut or slice or bruise. And dear God, he was tired. Nine days had passed since he set out on this fool’s expedition, nine days of bitterly cold snow and only an irritated warhorse for company. Cometes was still below, cut loose to wander in the valley that this fortress overlooked, and Gabriel had no doubts that the charger would likely be more fortunate than he in terms of survival.

“You come bearing the gauntlets of one of our brothers,” a voice announced. The speaker glided forward, dark eyes over a well-trimmed beard shot through with gray, but Gabriel could see the grace in the man’s step. A sheathed sword was at the man’s side, though the cloak hanging from the master’s shoulders concealed much of it from sight. “How did you come by them?”

“Master Gaius bequeathed them to me,” Gabriel said through clenched teeth. His body trembled with fatigue and cold, but he pushed them both away, concentrated on the teachings of his father. There was a flame in his mind and he pushed everything – fear, anger, exhaustion, rage, hunger – into that tiny fire. All that was left was him. “In the Otherland, the Huallapan world where we waged bloody constraint,” he continued. He was aware of how his body still shook and shivered, but right now, none of that mattered.

“He died, then.” The master glanced to one of the many shadows moving around him – they were other men, Gabriel realized, though dressed in cloaks that drank in darkness – and scowled. “I remember him. I would have thought him better than to have fallen thus.”

“He died of plague,” Gabriel said. “No weapon could touch him so the god of death sent disease.”

“And now you come to us.” The master studied him but gave no sign of what he thought. “Much time has passed since that war yet you choose now to seek us out, Gabriel of House Auditore.” He nodded when Gabriel tensed. “Yes, we know of you. We have eyes who watch those who might prove worthy of the dragon mark.”

“If you’ve watched me,” Gabriel replied flatly, “then you know why I have not come before.”

“We do.” The master paused, then in a smooth, practiced motion, drew his sword. It was a long blade, with only a single edge and slightly curved. Memory tickled his mind – the elves bore swords much like this and he recalled wearing a body once that used such a blade – but his instincts had already taken over. His own blade whispered free of its scabbard. “I see you are not entirely incapable,” the master said with a very slight nod. He glided forward.

And they began to dance.

At first, Gabriel stayed defensive – The Falling Leaf turned aside Lightning of Three Prongs, The Branch in the Storm deflected Arc of the Moon – but still, the old man came. Familiar steps brought his muscles back to life and Gabriel went on the offensive, suddenly wanting this mummer’s farce to be done with. Courtier Taps His Fan turned into Bundling Straw. Attacking a would-be student at the threshold? Parting the Silk blocked Plucking the Low-Hanging Apple. Where was the logic in this? Cutting the Wind flowed into Kissing the Adder.

“Enough!” A new voice caused them both to pause and another man with cold eyes and silver hair appeared, throwing back his hood of shadow as she stepped forward. “He nearly killed you, Marcus.”

“He came close with that last strike, yes.” The first man had backed away out of striking distance and was eyeing Gabriel with a bit more respect. “The blade is smaller than I am accustomed to but faster. I did not think the forms could so easily be adapted to a rapier.”

“I’ve had plenty of practice,” Gabriel replied carefully. At no time did he relax his guard and the two old men studied him for a moment longer before nodding their approval.

“We shall test you, then,” the second man said.

*

Calling them tests was not the correct word..

The following day, after Gabriel had been granted permission to sleep and eat and recover from the nightmare climb, he faced another of the students with live blades in hand. They were stripped to the waist and he had to reacquaint himself with the lack of weight riding on his shoulders without the elven corselet he’d worn for so many years now. To his surprise, the apprentice came at him with blood in his eyes, so intent on killing him that Gabriel had automatically fallen into old habits, and in seconds, the boy was at his feet, a yard of steel thrust through his heart. Gabriel tried to stauch the bleeding, tried to save the poor fool’s life, but the strike had been too perfectly placed and he could do nothing but watch as the lad sank into oblivion.

None of the masters seemed to care.

The cold rage that swam in his belly began warming up once more as Gabriel found himself pitted against more would-be blademasters, each lethal in their own right and each as solely intent on his death as he was in not giving it to them. He faced them in ones and twos, earning new scars as the better trained of them came closer and closer to leaving him bloody on the ground. The venue also changed – there was the Room of Whispers, which was so loud that one had to rely on senses other than hearing to survive, and the Vault of Fire, where steam from underground baths reduced visibility to non-existent. The Nine Sisters was an arena with ten different kinds of traps and snares – why it was the Nine Sisters, Gabriel never learned – and there, he found himself in the midst of a grand melee with twenty other warriors. Most did not survive the traps, and the handful of ones that did were especially lethal, but Gabriel emerged victorious.

And still, his anger grew.

He could not understand the wisdom in such tests. Each of these warriors were capable in their own ways, skilled and brave and deadly, yet these masters hurled them at each other as if they were toys or gladiators. There was no training being done here! It was only madness. Madness and death. By the end of the second week, Gabriel had lost count of how many men he had seen die, most on the tip of his sword, and when he interacted with the masters, he made no attempt to hide his contempt for them.

“You are well skilled,” the first master told him as the third week began.

“Because I had training,” Gabriel replied in a voice so cold it could freeze fire. He realized that he hated this man, hated him and all of his brothers who played at being masters when in fact, they were simply murderers who wielded weapons of flesh and bone. His fury must have been written on his face because the master gave him an ugly smile.

“You think us monsters for how we teach,” he guessed.

“You’re not teaching,” Gabriel said in response. “And I am done with this madness,” he hissed.

“There is but one challenge remaining,” the old man said as Gabriel began to turn. “You must best an actual dragon mark.”

“You,” Gabriel said automatically. He narrowed his eyes. “I would face you.”

“And you will die,” the master said. He was smiling, though, and an eager, malicious light burned in his eyes. “The House of Sorrows,” he said. “One hour.”

*

The House of Sorrows was as sorely misnamed as the other locations in the fortress. There was no actual ‘house’ involved that Gabriel could see. Instead, it was simply an open platform jutting out from the fortress like a wide lip exposed to the elements. The surface was slick with snow and ice, though some parts of the stone hummed with unseen heat, never freezing even in the coldest of nights. There was only one way to leave, a narrow stairway that led straight down to the valley below.

When the master stepped onto the platform, Gabriel was unsurprised to see the man wearing a light mail hauberk that left his arms free. Wind caught his fur-lined cloak and it flared out, revealing that the older man wore thick boots and pants. He smiled and nodded his approval.

Because Gabriel had donned his own armor.

They exchanged no pleasantries beyond that single nod, instead baring steel and beginning their final dance. The old man struck hard and fast – Two Hares Leaping – but Gabriel was already sliding away, his own counterattack – Watered Silk – nearly taking his foe’s head. They exchanged a handful of strikes and counterstrikes, dancing back and forth over the ice and heated snow. Gabriel sank deeper into concentration. The Falling Leaf became The River Undercuts the Bank. The Kingfisher Circles the Pond batted away Arc of the Moon. Black Pebbles on Snow send ringlets of armor flying into the snow. The old master’s amused and contemptuous expression vanished, only to be replaced by one of fury and of intense concentration. Blood flew.

And still, they danced.

Finally, Gabriel saw it. His opponent was at least as fast as he was and had a hand or so more reach with that straight sword, but each of his forms was … in a word, they were too perfect. There was no spontaneity in his motions, no variation whatsoever. This man had practiced his forms so often that they had become rote, static, unyielding. Mentally, Gabriel nodded.

In mid-strike, he shifted his attack. The Boar Rushes Downhill abruptly became a reverse form of The Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose, flickering up to carve a blood furrow across the old man’s face. The master grimaced, almost but not quite staggering back, and Gabriel caught his riposte with a one-handed parry – The Grapevine Twines – while his other hand, his free hand, flashed for the elven dagger sheathed at the small of his back. The motion was never intended to be more than a distraction and it worked marvelously – the old master’s eyes shifted slightly and his weight shifted, as he prepared to defend against a thrown weapon that was never going to come. The Mongoose Takes a Viper came from his blind side. Gabriel felt his father’s sword punch through the hauberk and pierce vital organs.

With a gasp, the master stumbled. His sword fell from nerveless fingers and he had just enough time to look up as Gabriel flowed into The Thistledown Floats on the Whirlwind. The spinning strike sliced through the man’s neck and a geyser of blood gushed out.

“Memento mori,” Gabriel whispered as the master tried desperately to stem the crimson flood. Their eyes met.

A moment later, the older man was gone.

Gabriel knelt quietly in the snow, his sword still gripped lightly and ready for action should an ambush occur. He watched as the man died, making sure that no one came out to save his life. When he was satisfied that the old monster was gone, he started to rise.

And it was then that the man’s blood moved.

It flowed like quicksilver, crawling across the snow to merge together into a steaming pool of red. Gabriel blinked in surprise before flicking his father’s sword to rid it of the tiny droplets that clung tenaciously to the steel. He felt something on his arm and glanced up, noting in shock that the dead man’s blood had crawled down the length of the sword. It easily seeped through his glove, and then sank onto his flesh, burning like acid. Pain screamed through his arm, agony unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and he overbalanced, his free hand landing squarely in the snow as he tried to keep from falling over. Too late, he realized how close his hand was to the pool.

It was like the flesh under the skin of his arms had caught on fire. He couldn’t smell anything burning, but the pain … dear God, the pain! A scream began building in his throat but the agony pulsing from his arms was so intense his entire body seized up. He felt his body hit the wet snow as his muscles twitched and spasmed. Breathing was impossible.

When the pain passed, he opened his eyes and stared at the overcast sky that was once more spitting snow at him. His flesh felt too tight, too constrained, and he lifted both arms up, nothing instantly the unmistakable dragon marks. They glittered brightly underneath his skin – the red wasn’t tattoos, he realized with horror – but apart from that, he felt no different. Pushing himself to his feet, he gave the corpse one last glance before looking up. The other masters were watching through the windows of the fortress, their hoods thrown and their marked arms held aloft. Despite the great distance, Gabriel could tell that they approve. He gave them all a disgusted glower before sliding his toe underneath the rapier and flipping it up so he could catch it. Without a word, he walked toward the narrow staircase leading down.

He never looked back.

So, Malcolm was in danger and once again needed their aid. It was not the first time that he had undertaken mad tasks in that man’s name. Gabriel leaned back in his seat and remembered…

Ten Years Earlier

He reached Carrick Town just before dusk.

The castle loomed large from where it was nestled on the hilltop, dominating the skyline and casting an ominous if vaguely protective shadow over the town, and Gabriel studied it for a long moment before flicking Cometes’ reins. With an annoyed exhalation, the charger started forward, though thankfully at a nice sedate pace instead of his usual breakneck speed. There were a few liveried guards patrolling the streets of Carrick Town and Cometes received more than a couple second looks, but none of them moved to stop his entrance.

By the time he reached an appropriate inn, Gabriel had identified at least three different skulkers shadowing him. One was clearly just a thief, but the other two were operating more like scouts, which he took to mean that they were Silver Hand operatives. So … his arrival had been noted. That would make things easier. Or more difficult, depending upon their true allegiances.

He flicked the stableboy a silver penny and offered a few warnings about the charger’s temperament, before carrying his gear into the inn. From the sign outside, Gabriel took the inn to be the Silver Pony, which he figured was close enough to White Horse to satisfy Cometes’ strangely picky tastes. He wasn’t sure how the horse could tell – or how it was even smart enough to care – but somehow, any time he did not pick a suitable inn, the charger would throw a fit and be altogether unreasonable. Once, he’d kicked down every stall and caused such a ruckus that the innkeeper threw them both out, and all because the inn had been named the Black Ox or Dark Cow or something. Damned horse. Clearly, this craziness was the elves’ fault.

The innkeeper was fat, which was a good sign, and Gabriel did not even bother trying to pretend he was a wealthy if bored nobleman. Instead, he simply ordered a room, handed over the requisite silver, and retreated to wait. If the Silver Hand were as competent as rumor said, he would not be alone for long.

“My lord?” The voice that appeared at his door long minutes later was an unfamiliar one – it did not sound anything like the innkeeper or any of his servants – and Gabriel smiled. They were faster than he expected. His door creaked as it opened, revealing a commonly-dressed young man whose eyes glittered with intelligence. He took in Gabriel’s stance at the far wall and how casually he stood, and all hints of deception fell away. The young man straightened and offered a nod. When he spoke, his voice was firmer and more confident. “You know who I represent?”

“I have my suspicions,” Gabriel replied. “I am merely a messenger,” he added. “No harm is intended toward your charge.”

“It matters not,” the man replied. He narrowed his eyes. “You are Wallace’s man,” he began, his expression turning into something almost alien. Their eyes met.

And without warning, both struck at the same time.

The agent’s hand flashed up, a deadly-looking knife in hand, but Gabriel was faster. He drew his rapier in a smooth, practiced maneuver and slid forward with deceptive speed. Mongoose Takes a Viper came automatically – he feinted hard, then radically altered the direction of his thrust the moment his foe moved to defend. The blade sank home, piercing the Silver Hand agent’s chest with lethal results; the man had just enough time to gasp in surprise before the pain set in. He staggered back, trying to draw breath to cry out an alarm, but Gabriel flowed forward again. Kissing the Viper sliced through the agent’s torso and then punctured his other lung. The man crumpled, unable to maintain his tenuous grip on consciousness, and Gabriel froze in place, his body poised to fall into any number of forms. He heard nothing apart from the normal sounds of an inn, though, and relaxed fractionally. Grabbing the unconscious and critically wounded man, he dragged him into his room, kicking the dropped knife deeper in as well. There was not much he could do about the blood in the hallway – fortunately, there was very little of it thanks to his precisely placed thrusts, but anyone looking would certainly notice – so he pushed his door closed and turned his attention back to the man on his floor.

As he feared, the agent’s back bore the unmistakable signs of a Controller, though the Vasar itself was not present. From the newness of the wounds, though, the loss of the creature was relatively recent, which was troubling. The Chalice and that wishing spell was weeks ago, and if he had to wager a guess as to when these injuries had occurred, he would say days. The knife also was an issue; at a glance, he could tell that it was poison-tipped. Gabriel exhaled in frustration. He had hoped this would not be the way he had to do this.

No one observed his departure from the inn and he ghosted into the shadows between two large structures. It had been a long time since he’d visited Carrick Town, but Caithness men were almost as resistant to change as elves, so he found the building he was looking for soonenough. There were four guards visible, and another three in places of concealment. Gabriel smiled and chose boldness over caution.

“You’re far from home, stranger,” one of the guards said as he drew near. This man was pretending to be a stablehand for the inn that bore no sign or plaque.

“That I am,” Gabriel agreed. “I am seeking the Brotherhood,” he said simply. When the man drew breath to speak, likely to insist that there was no such thing in Carrick Town, Gabriel spoke again. “I bear a missive for the king from Lord Wallace and mistrust the Hand to deliver it.” The guard’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click and Gabriel smiled. “I can wait as your superiors are consulted.”

It took no time at all for another man to be summoned and, at a glance, Gabriel knew he was standing before one of the Brotherhood’s guild-masters. The newcomer was stout without being fat, and his right hand was gone. He bore the scars of a failed hanging upon his neck and one of his eyes had long ago been clawed out. Gabriel gave him a nod of greeting while instinctively falling into Cat Crosses the Courtyard to maximize his sense of alertness reaction time. It was a dangerous choice – those unfamiliar with the forms might perceive it as an arrogant saunter – but the one-eyed man grunted in recognition of the implied compliment.

“I don’t know you,” the man said flatly. “Why should me and mine help?” Gabriel gave him a smirk.

“For gold, of course.” With his left hand, he withdrew one of the small pouches Lord Wallace had given him and tossed it to the guild-master. The guard Gabriel had spoken to first reacted with surprising speed – his hand flashed out, snatching the purse out of the air before it could reach his master – and the one-eyed man barely blinked.

“We can get gold at any time,” he said. His eye flickered over Gabriel. “You are dragon-mark or near enough,” he added, which caused each of the guards present to tense, “but even you cannot kill us all should we decide to take the rest of your gold.”

“Not an hour ago,” Gabriel said by way of reply, “I slew a man of the Silver Hand.” That caused nearly even more consternation and even the one-eyed man’s poise faltered briefly. “He had marks on his back that came from a Controller.”

“The bugs,” someone murmured. The men shifted with discomfort but Gabriel did not take his eyes off the guild-master. The one-eyed man studied him for a long moment before finally nodding.

“What do you need?” he asked.

**

For three days, Gabriel watched the king.

With the Brotherhood’s assistance, he gained entrance to Carrick Castle without detection. There were more than enough servants and guardsmen in the keep for him to adopt a disguise, but instead, Gabriel located the great hall and managed to secure himself in the highest rafters, concealed by shadows and distance, where he observed the goings-on within the king’s court. By the end of the first day, he no longer trusted Lord Wallace’s oft-stated opinion on Conall VI – the king was no would-be tyrant or even a ruthless schemer, but rather a foolish romantic who had idealized views on the nature of his position. He was charming if a little dense at times, who was both a hard-worker and an overzealous manager of all things, even when things would run more smoothly without his interference. He also appeared to prefer beer over wine, but Gabriel wouldn’t hold that against him, not since Rainald did the same.

By day two, he had identified the currents within the court from simple observation. The captain of the guard, for example, loathed the exchequer, who was involved in an almost overt struggle for dominance with Archbishop Siccius in regards to influence with the king. Two of the lordlings inside Conall’s inner circle were contemplating treason, while a third was manipulating them both in what appeared to be a calculated attempt to gain further power for himself. The king was not completely oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around him, though he paid less attention to them than he did to the baroness of Durham whom Gabriel found more handsome than attractive.

On the third day, there was an assassination attempt.

The would-be murderers were the two lordlings Gabriel had observed skulking in the periphery of the court, and they had managed to secret a handful of men-at-arms into positions throughout the great hall. When they struck, they found both the king and his knights ready for them, and no mercy was to be found. Conall, it turned out, was not entirely incompetent with a blade, though he was as married to the sword and board style as Rainald was. The assassins were dealt with and then, just as quietly disposed of.

In the chaos, while all eyes were distracted, Gabriel made his move.

He made his stealthy descent from the rafters quickly, dropping the last few feet soundlessly and then darting toward an open servant’s door partially hidden from sight by tricky arrangement of banners and furniture. If his calculations were correct, this hallway would lead directly to the king’s quarters, which were currently empty. The sound of footsteps warned him of an approaching servant, but the walls here were smooth so there were no nooks or crannies to lurk in. He glanced up – the ceiling was high – and then used the narrow walls to scramble up. It was an awkward position – he was pushing against the walls with his legs and his arms to keep from falling, and if anyone looked up, he was terribly exposed – but the rushing servants seemed to pay him no mind at they hurried about their tasks.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, though he was rather surprised at how directly the great hall connected to the king’s room. Did Conall use this to secret in lovers? Or perhaps to sneak out from time to time? Gabriel half-smiled at the mental image of that ox of a man dressed like a commoner and trying to blend in with the smallfolk.

To his great surprise, the little door leading to the king’s suite was not even locked. Pulling it open slowly, Gabriel verified there were no surprises waiting and then crept in. He glanced around quickly – there were the usual adornments on the walls, but the number of books and scrolls surprised him – and located an unobtrusive corner where he could wait. Before he settled in, though, checked the two large windows, and then ensured an emergency escape route was prepared should this go ill. It would not do to be captured here.

Nearly an hour passed before he heard the noises of men approaching. Gathering his cloak around him, Gabriel arranged himself in his little nook and concentrated. The instant someone pushed at the door, he murmured a soft word in Elven, triggering the magics built into the wondrous cloak. It did not make him invisible – which was unfortunate; he would like to be invisible some day, just to see what it felt like – but through some arcane means he did not comprehend, it made men’s eyes look past him.

“Yes, I understand your concerns,” Conall was saying as he entered his suite. A pale, skinny man with big eyes and an even bigger nose followed him. “If this assassin is in Carrick Town as you say, I have faith that your agents will ferret him out.”

“He slew one of my best men, Highness,” the other man said sourly. “And then, he escaped from the inn without my watchers seeing how.”

“Then they were not very good watchers, were they?” The king smiled as he tossed his heavy cloak toward a chair. “I will not close Carrick Town because you cannot find a single man.” The pale man frowned.

“And if he means you harm, Majesty?” he asked doggedly. Gabriel smiled – there was no better moment, he suspected.

“He does not,” he announced as he mentally dismissed the magics of the cloak. As he expected, both the king and the pale man jumped in surprise, though the spymaster reacted more quickly, instantly baring a knife and placing himself between the king and Gabriel. “I come bearing a missive from Lord Wallace,” Gabriel announced as he held the folded letter forward with his left hand, ensuring that the seal was present. “No harm is intended toward you, Majesty.”

“You are a bold one,” Conall said with something like a chuckle. He dropped a hand on the spymaster’s shoulder and nodded toward the table that was between them. “You killed one of my Hands.”

“He attacked me with a poisoned knife,” Gabriel replied as he placed the letter onto the indicated table. “I defended myself from a fool.” He glanced to the spymaster. “If that man was your best,” he remarked wryly, “then you are in dire straits, my lord.”

“Bold, brash and arrogant.” The king pursed his lips. “I see no hammer, nor bow, nor hunchback. The brother would not act thus, so you must be the one they call Gabriel.”

“The assassin,” the spymaster hissed angrily.

“I am named thus,” Gabriel replied, directing his words to the king while seeming to pay no attention at all to the spymaster. He flashed a smile. “You are well informed, Highness.”

“Wallace’s activities are a matter of some importance to me,” Conall said, “and those he surrounds himself are as well.” He glanced at the packet. “You know the contents of this letter?” he asked. Gabriel nodded.

“I was present when it was dictated, Highness.”

“Then speak plainly Wallace’s words. I have no patience for flowery speech in matters of state.” Gabriel smiled. He knew it was wrong – Wallace had knighted him, which made the man his liege lord – but he found himself liking this king.

“He wishes to march against the Vasar in their places of power,” Gabriel said, “but he does not alone possess the might to do so. Thus, he would treat with your highness to form a Caithness expedition to punish these creatures for the damage they have done to this kingdom.”

“Where and when?”

“Harkwood,” Gabriel replied. “Ten days time. The elves of Sylvilara have already pledged to march with us should we come to terms.”

“Majesty,” the spymaster began, but Conall waved it off. He was silent for a long moment before finally grunting.

“Inform Wallace that we shall send an envoy to treat with him under a banner of truce.” Gabriel bowed his head slightly. The king half-turned toward the main door. “You would be well advised to make your escape,” he said as he pulled it open. “Guards!” The spymaster’s smile was malicious, but Gabriel paid it no mind as he sprang toward the already prepared window. He threw it open with a quick gesture before flinging himself out. The rope line was waiting and he slid down the length of the tower, friction rapidly heating up his gloves. He felt the rope quiver – it would be the spymaster, cutting it free – but he was already away. Letting the line go, he dropped the last bit of distance, landing lightly atop the square roof that likely housed the castle chapel. Rolling to kill his momentum, Gabriel sprang up and sprinted toward the edge. He jumped, using the wall of the castle as a springboard to extend the breadth of his leap. As he landed upon another rooftop, he could hear the armcry being raised and flashed another grin – by God, he had forgotten how much fun this could be!

A small host of guards thought to cut him off as he scrambled down to the outlying building that looked out over the lake, but they were too slow, too encumbered to do more than watch as he tumbled over them and sprinted forward. The building’s lip drew near and without hesitation, Gabriel threw himself over. He knifed into the river below long moments later and, with powerful strokes, reached a small fishing boat moored a hundred yards away. The boatman eyed him as he clambered up.

“You’re late,” the smuggler mumbled darkly. He glanced toward the castle where even now, chaos was reigning, and scowled. “And if I knew you’d be raising such a hue and cry, I’d have charged you double.” Gabriel laughed.

“Get me to my horse before the sun is gone, good sir,” he said, “and I shall pay you that double.” He leaned back and smiled.

Today had been a good day.

On the day of his father’s funeral, a day that he should have been in deep mourning, Marcus, the new lord of Shambray, instead chose to visit the city’s baths.

It was more than simply a minor slight aimed at his late and frankly unlamented father. In a very large way, this was him celebrating the old monster’s demise in a way he’d never been allowed to before. When he was alive, Sergius had flat out forbade young Marcus from visiting these houses of ill repute, ostensibly for the damage they would do to his reputation, no matter that he himself was a regular visitor. In fact, Sergius’ last wife had once been an attendant at the largest of the bathhouses – to his continued discomfort, Marcus had recognized her for he too had tasted her charms during one of his illicit visits in his more rebellious youth, though thankfully, she had not seemed to recall his face. Of course, it had not been his face that she’d been focused on in those days…

So here he was, striding boldly into the largest of the bathhouses with a cocky smile and a spring in his step, no longer cowed into submission by a man more than capable of having his only son beaten and abused for refusing to obey. It was a good day. Sergius was dead, Marcus himself was now the new lord, and finally, he could direct his attention toward repairing the damage wrought by his father’s foolish and utterly senseless war against the archbishop. The man that now held that rank also was new, having replaced the late Nikolai when that archbishop passed under mysterious circumstances Marcus still suspected his father of being involved in, but thus far, this … Zabka had stirred from his fortified monastery deep within Serrun only rarely (and even then, only when surrounded by a wall of steel.) There were rumors about this man, of course, whispers that stated this archbishop was scarred or a provincial sort out of faraway Caithness or even – and this was Marcus’ very favorite – not even a man, but rather a diabolical goblin raised high by the Church but no one paid them any more attention than they had paid the nonsense Sergius whispered about the late Archbishop Nikolai.

Waving off his guard, Marcus slipped into the exclusive bath normally reserved only for the wealthiest of citizens and pushed the door closed. A dozen feet across, the room itself was dominated by the bath which was sunk into the floor. Diaphanous white sheets hung down from the ceiling, acting as curtains designed to hide the less than appealing walls or to conceal the movements of the staff. An open roof window let warm sunlight in, as well as the less appealing smells of the city, which was why there were so many scented candles scattered around on the wall and hidden behind the curtains. Shaking his head, Marcus slipped out of his clothes and stepped toward the steaming bath.

In that moment, the walls moved.

There were six of the would-be murderers, all dressed in white, including swaths of cloth concealing their faces, and bore bared blades. They advanced on silent feet, their eyes hard, and Marcus froze in sudden, shocked surprise. His eyes darted quickly toward the door – it was too far away! – and then, he cast around for something, anything he could use for a weapon. He drew breath to cry out for his guards.

Cloaked in silence, a seventh figure, also garbed in white, dropped through the open roof window, landing briefly in a crouch behind the rearmost of the assassins. Marcus saw a flash of steel as the newcomer drew a slender blade.

And then, men began dying.

It was over almost before it even began and later, when Marcus had time to think about it, he still wasn’t entirely sure what happened. He saw two of the assassins crumple almost instantly, and then, the man in white flowed toward a third man who reacted with blatant surprise at his appearance. The would-be murderer made a wild swing which the newcomer evaded easily, even as two more of the assassins sprang toward him. For a moment, Marcus couldn’t see what was happening – there was too much movement, too much cloth blocking his line of sight – but a third man toppled, crimson spurting from bloody wounds, and then a fourth. The newcomer twirled through the curtains, before his thin blade flashed again. With a gurgle of surprise, a fifth man dropped to his knees, his hands automatically going to his stomach where he frantically tried to hold in guts.

Which left only one of the assassins. He made a frantic thrust, but the newcomer caught the man’s blade and then made a sharp twist of his own weapon, tearing the assassin’s sword free. It struck the stone floor with a clang, but the man in white hooked his foot under the blade and somehow flipped it up into the air before snatching it with his free hand. Marcus stared in disbelief – was that even possible? – and it just as clearly caught the assassin by surprise as well. Under the swaths of cloth, his eyes widened.

And then, the man in white thrust the newly captured sword into the assassin’s chest.

The would-be murderer gasped and looked down at the yard of steel in his chest before dropping to his knees. He coughed once before he slid sideways into the water. The man in white held onto his captured sword and it came free, blood dripping down its blade. He half-turned toward Marcus and then leisurely tossed the blade toward him, hilt first. The action caught Marcus by surprise, but he was not completely rooted in place and managed to snatch the slow-moving weapon out of the air before it could hit the ground. He looked back at the man in white who was already backing away into the curtains. With his now free hand, the stranger lifted one finger to where his lips should have been – Marcus could see nothing but smooth leather under the man’s hood – and then nodded toward the door. Marcus glanced toward it, just as his guard captain stormed through the doorway, his own weapon bared.

“My lord!” Claudius exclaimed, his eyes wide as he took in the corpses scattered around the bath. Behind him, Marcus could see the bath-owner and the other two guards, all staring with open shock. “Are you … are you well, my lord?”

“I am,” Marcus said with an ease he did not actually feel. He glanced in the direction of the man in white, but saw nothing. “But I fear this bath may need a good scrubbing.” He flashed a smile at the bath-owner as he toed one of the corpses over. “If you would be so good to bring me my clothes,” he said, “I believe that I shall return to the keep.” He strode forward, casually tossing the bloody sword aside. It struck the stone floor with a loud clatter.

Only Claudius noticed how his arm shook.

-/\-

Under the suspicious eyes of his guard captain, Marcus fled to his quarters deep within the keep almost the very instant they arrived.

His hands trembled nonstop as the delayed effects of the would-be murderers set in. Never before had he realized how close Death was for him. Oh, he knew about the Empire’s predilection for assassins – this year, poison was once more back in fashion; last year, it had been death by whores – but until now, it had never really struck home how tenuous his position was. He was not even twenty, by God!

Once the shaking fit passed, his mind sprang back into activity. Who could be responsible for such an attack? His father had possessed few allies and those that did were too weak to make such a strike. Of the lesser Houses, none would fare well should he fall – one of his first acts as lord of Shambray had been to take steps to ensure their fortunes were tied to his success. No one won if he fell this early. It simply did not make sense. Unless … unless …

“’Twas a near thing today,” a soft voice stated. For the second time today, Marcus froze in shock. His head snapped around to the origin of the voice and found the hooded man in white standing there, directly in front of a small open door. The man should not have even known about that escape tunnel – as far as Marcus knew, his father had the men who constructed it put to death, and then had the guards responsible murdered. He swallowed the fear pounding in his throat.

“It was,” he said in a voice that sounded much calmer than he felt. “I have you to thank, sir,” he added. He took an extra moment to study the figure standing there, still unsure about how to proceed. This close, he realized the man was not entirely dressed in white – there was quite a bit of red as well, and silver glinted underneath the stranger’s clothes. A featureless mask of hardened leather or white wood covered the man’s lower face. Embossed bracers protected the man’s arms and upon them, Marcus could make out stylized dragons that instantly caused him to inhale sharply in recognition. Only one kind of man would dare wear such symbols in Megalos.

Blademaster.

“Those men were the archbishop’s,” the hooded stranger stated. The curious mask the man wore prevented identification, but his words were strangely accented, as if he were foreign or at least long out of use at using the Emperor’s Tongue. Marcus frowned.

“That makes little sense,” he declared. “I have no disagreement with him.”

“He sees you as weak,” the stranger replied, “an impediment toward his rule.” The man tilted his head slightly. “Your father died because Zabka wished to avoid his predecessor’s fate.” Barely contained fury leaked into the stranger’s voice when he spoke the archbishop’s name. “You are an unknown quantity, my lord,” he said, “so he struck first in the chance that you are your father’s son.”

“And what is your role in this, Hooded Man?” Marcus demanded. “I am no fool. No one places themselves in the danger you have without expectation of payment.” He glowered. “Is it gold you want? Gems?”

“Neither.” The man in white shifted very slightly. “I desire greatly to … treat with the archbishop and repay him for injuries he dealt me.”

“Then do so,” Marcus snapped, lingering fear loosening his tongue. “You had little difficulty stealing into here. The archbishop’s home-“

“Is magically warded against me,” the stranger interrupted. “Zabka is no fool either. He has surrounded himself by cultists and worshippers of darkness who play at serving the Lord while profaning the Church with their every utterance.” The man’s head shifted slightly away from them.

Without warning, the door to his chambers flew open and Claudius sprang through it, his sword bared and his shield ready. He took two rapid steps to place himself between Marcus and the man in white and, from his body language, Marcus thought his old instructor meant to attack. Acting on instinct, he reached out with one hand and gripped the captain’s shoulder, anchoring him in place.

The man in white did not move even a step.

“My lord!” Claudius began, but Marcus held firm.

“Stay your blade,” he ordered. “This man saved my life today.” Claudius opened his mouth to speak again, but Marcus continued, this time directing his words toward the hooded man once more. “You would not have risked capture or death to come here if you had no purpose. Speak it plainly.”

“The streets of Serrun are rampant with murder and violence,” the man in white said. “Much of it can be traced to Zabka and those he surrounds himself with.” Marcus felt Claudius stiffen in surprise – he too had expressed similar beliefs ever since the new archbishop arrived to take office so many months ago – but wisely, the captain held his tongue. “With your permission, I will seek out and find the pit where these snakes hide.”

“And then?”

“I shall be merciless.” There was no rage or fury or even the hint of concern in the man’s voice, only a cold confidence that chilled Marcus to his very core. At the same time, though, a sliver of excitement filled his belly. This stranger had killed six men in a handful of seconds without making a sound or taking even a scratch. Yes, his actions would no doubt cause the streets of Serrun to run red with blood, but they were already soaked in it. If by another handful of deaths order could be established, then was that not a worthy goal?

He nodded.

And without a sound, the hooded man backed away, pulling the tunnel door closed behind him. Instantly, Claudius darted forward, securing the small hatch from the outside and shoving one of Marcus’ heavier chairs against it. He then turned baleful eyes toward Marcus.

“What in God’s name have you gotten yourself into, my lord?” he asked.

“The higher one ascends,” Marcus replied wryly, “the more treacherous the footing, it seems.” He nodded toward the open door of his quarters and Claudius quickly stomped toward it, pushing it closed. “You knew I did not kill those men in the bath today,” he said simply.

“I did,” Claudius answered. “You are a competent enough bladesman, my lord, but that is beyond you, I fear.” He frowned in the direction of the escape tunnel. “But a man wearing dragon-marks?” he said. “That I can believe.” Shaking his head, he glanced back at Marcus. “This will end in much bloodshed, my lord,” he said. “A great number of men will die because of the decision you made this day.”

“Death comes for all of us,” Marcus said calmly. “If they are meant to live, then God will grant them shelter. And if not…” He shrugged.

-/\-

The first body appeared the very next day.

Though the man claimed to be a butcher, everyone in Serrun knew that his true trade was murder and the discovery of his corpse, propped up just outside the monastery gate caused such a commotion that Marcus was forced to take publicly note of it. With Claudius at his side and a selected group of guardsmen, he inspected the body – there were no signs of torture or abuse, and the killing blow was so precisely placed that he nearly overlooked the thin crease in the dead man’s shirt – before pronouncing before the populace that his militia would investigate.

Another body turned up that same evening, this time of a defrocked priest who had been cast out of the clergy by the late Nikolai for buggery and other unnatural acts, but somehow clawed his way back into the monastery’s good graces since the new archbishop came to power. Again, the body was found resting against the wall of the fortified monastery and again, no one knew how it had come to be placed there. The whispers began almost at once.

Over the next week, a half dozen more bodies appeared, always arrayed against the monastery’s walls and always of decidedly dark reputation. There were the two brothers believed to have been the false butcher’s enforcers, the whore who had murdered four girls and stolen their babies only to suffocate the infants when they did not stop crying, the innkeeper who half the city believed to be responsible for a dozen missing children, and both of the wealthy noblemen who openly bragged about how they had stalked and murdered a trio of prostitutes. Even in the keep, so far from the common people, Marcus could feel the sudden shift in temperament of his city. His guards watched everyone more carefully now, the cooks and servants were trying very, very hard to avoid being noticed, and even his priest was a bit more reticent than normal.

And then, the sightings began.

No one was quite sure who was the first to see the Hooded Man, but word of his appearance spread like wildfire and soon, he was frequently noticed near the bodies, almost as if he were encouraging reprisal attempts or allowing himself to be observed. One of the more violent gangs that operated mostly out of the small harbor let it be known that they would find this hooded man and tear him apart.

Instead, he sought them out first.

And they died. All of them.

As spring turned to summer, the bodies continued to appear and even the nobility were not safe. Nine of the minor Houses lost scions to their lines and it would not be until later, when things settled somewhat, that the dark deeds of these men and women came to light. One was a molester of little children, another buggered sheep, yet another trafficked in the dark arts, but they all had one thing in common: they’d visited the archbishop and the monastery to seek false absolution before returning to their wicked ways.

Rumors and innuendo filled the city, and soon, the smallfolk of Serrun whispered that the angel of death had been summoned to the city to root out corruption and cleanse the Evil that stained their home. Churches that had fallen into disrepair thanks to the archbishop’s repeatedly stated preferences found their congregations swelling once more and His Grace’s favored locales were abandoned en masse lest one be accused of having ties to him. Nine priests of varying ranks, all with close ties to Archbishop Zabka, were found dead, most by their own hand. The poorer deacons who had been pushed aside when Nikolai passed found themselves suddenly thrust into positions of surprising authority. Most clung to their principles and refused to abuse their newfound power. Two did not.

And the Angel of Death, the Hooded Man, the dragon-marked man in white visited them as well.

Throughout the long, bloody summer, as the death toll continued to climb and the bodies kept appearing, Marcus’ conscience warred with his desire for order. He lost five advisers in those weeks, men he would later discover to have been spying on him for the archbishop, as well as his favorite courtesan, but he took no action to curtail the Hooded Man apart from a token effort to hunt the man down with his guards – that effort paid dividends as well, however, as pursuit of the man in white allowed his men to uncover a small coven of demon worshippers which they very promptly put to the sword. Because he alone of the great Houses in Serrun was left alone by this mysterious man in white, the people of the city began looking to him as their rightful lord instead of the archbishop. He wisely swallowed his instinctive desire to begin issuing orders and directives – it was well known that power corrupted and he had no desire at all for the Angel of Death to visit him.

Claudius never once spoke against him or revealed the knowledge he possessed about the Hooded Man, not even when Marcus, in a purely political move, ordered his guardsmen and militia to abandon Serrun’s tradition colors of gold and green in favor of white and red. The smallfolk cheered the decision – to them, Lord Marcus was officially declaring himself the Angel of Death’s ally and the more superstitious (and unlearned) of them hoped this would spare them from his wrath. That this action would allow the Hooded Man to operate even more freely throughout the city never once entered Marcus’ mind.

Or so he claimed.

Autumn crept by and the archbishop’s power structure shrank even further. The number of monks found outside the monastery grew – most were discovered long after the Angel of Death visited them, but a small few went directly to Lord Marcus and threw themselves upon his mercy, speaking tales of horror and darkness from within the confines of the archbishop’s tiny fortress.

And then, the night before the tradition Harvest Festival, everything changed.

-/\-

Word came to Marcus as he was reclining in his bath – men, both guards and shopkeepers alike, had observed the Angel of Death enter the monastery just after dusk. The end times were nigh, the fearful moaned. Judgement had come to Serrun. Marcus ignored their superstitious nonsense and looked at Claudius.

“Assemble the militia,” he ordered. “And bring me my armor.”

He rode out of the keep at the head of his small force of soldiers and, to his surprise, found the streets thick with people. All of them – all of them – were wearing cloaks of white and Marcus tried hard not to adjust his own ermine-trimmed garment. His men had eagerly donned surcoats of argent and crimson, and even without looking back at them, he could tell they were marching in perfect unison. Fear was in the air.

Once at the gates of the monastery, he reigned his horse in and allowed the militia to form around him. The sounds of the city were strangely muted, as if all of Serrun was holding its breath in anticipation for what came next. Claudius gave him a wry look hidden mostly behind the old man’s helmet that almost conveyed a question without words. What now?

“We shall advance in mass,” Lord Marcus bellowed. “Up spears!” The clatter of weapons being raised echoed hollowly over the quiet streets. “Forward!”

They were greeted with only more silence as they spilled into the monastery’s courtyard. Here and there, they found bodies of fallen monks – there were not as many as Marcus feared to find, and those he did see were invariably near weapons. Some small few even still clutched to their blades, even in death. Fires were already beginning to spread from the larger building to the smaller – there was very little chance of it spilling out into the city proper, not with this great wall enclosing the entirety of the monastery, but Marcus gave orders for his men to begin spreading out and containing the flames as best as they could nonetheless. He cast around for some explanation for what had happened, but found none.

“Look!” one of his soldiers exclaimed, pointing up to the roof of the great monastery. Marcus’ head snapped around and, for a moment only, he saw a figure in white standing there, surrounded by smoke and fire.

And then, the Angel of Death, the Hooded Man, the dragon-marked man in white was gone from sight.

“Get those fires out!” Marcus roared. He glanced once more toward the roof of the monastery and then put it out of his mind. There was work to do. In the ashes, they would find hints of devil worship and darker sorcery, signs of genuine faith suborned and corrupted into something else. The archbishop’s body was never found – some believed he was taken by the fire, others were certain he had been dragged down to hell by the Angel of Death. A very small but fearful minority whispered that Zabka had escaped, and had fled to distant lands, always looking over his shoulder and knowing that the Hooded Man was hot on his trail.

On days when he was feeling very low, Marcus wondered if he had chosen the correct path. Upon discovering the idols of darkness, he had given orders to raze the monastery and salt the earth – it greatly angered the Church for a time and he came perilously close to excommunication, but in the end, the Holy Order of St. Michael Olybrius sided with his decision and the Abbot of Evrow himself, Father Jobert, spoke before the Curia in his defense. For his part, Marcus chose not to say more than what he had to – he left out conveniently damning information, such as the Hooded Man’s vambraces that identified him as a blademaster, and refused to speculate on the possibility that the man responsible for so much death was anything other than a mortal being, driven to terrible lengths by hate and fury. Serrun had survived the onslaught, though, and for him, that was truly all that mattered.

But still, he could not help but to wonder about who the man was, why he hated Zabka so, and whether justice had indeed been done.

-/\-

The watered-down ale did little to wash the travel dust from his mouth, but Gabriel Auditore swallowed it nonetheless as he glanced around.

Were he honest with himself, he would have said the tiny roadside tavern was barely a step up from sleeping in the woods, but God help him, he was tired of rocks for mattresses and he wanted a real bed. And a bath. That even before a bed. Hunger was hardly an issue, though he would not turn down something hot and filling. As this was Caithness, he had doubts about the taste, but he’d eaten far worse over the years.

The door to the tavern slammed open and a swaggering fool of a man strode in, pausing briefly to actually preen in full sight of the tavern inhabitants. His clothes were of an exquisite cut and fashionable, but the sword at his side had more jewels on the hilt than most brothels this side of the Blackwoods and Gabriel doubted it had ever been drawn in anger. Even the man’s mustaches were oiled and tapered to a razor point. Gabriel felt his lip curl up in a disgusted sneer. Nobles. Feh.

“Have you naught but pig-swill?” the dandy asked of the tavern keeper, a highborn Megalan accent slurring his voice into something barely comprehensible. He peeled off his leather gloves and idly handed them to a hulking brute of a man who Gabriel suspected was there solely to keep this peacock from getting killed. Shaking his head, he tuned the fool out and turned back to his inner reflection.

By his calculations, he could reach Wallace in four or five days. Less if he pushed, but Cometes was getting old and though the charger could still outrun the wind, Gabriel always felt bad when he pushed his loyal horse that hard. So … Wallace in five days, a visit to Rainald and perhaps Dane, and then on to Tredroy. If the rumors were true and Zabka had survived to go there, the Gabriel meant to find the bastard and introduce him to a world of pain the man could not possibly imagine.

“You there, peasant.” The dandy loomed over him, posturing once more. Gabriel had never completely lost track of the man – one of the first lessons he’d learned when he sought out the Masters was how to keep track of all potential threats, even when he was not actively paying attention to them – but until now, he’d not given the little man-child his full attention. When he looked up, Gabriel noticed instantly how the nobleman’s guard tensed. He almost smiled – at least one of them knew better than to poke at a sleeping bear. “I desire that seat. Move along.” The dandy gestured, as if he fully expected to be obeyed.

So Gabriel did nothing.

He stared hard at the fop standing there, calculating the nineteen … no, twenty different ways he could kill or incapacitate the little fool from their respective positions. The guard at the nobleman’s side shifted and Gabriel left his eyes jump to that man. He took in a dozen little things instantly – the way he stood indicated a weak right knee; the man’s weight and posture implied strength but little speed; the hauberk was of poor quality and loose on the left side; the noble had positioned himself in his guard’s way, which would give Gabriel two, maybe even three extra seconds to react – and was gratified at how quickly the man’s body language transformed from aggressive to worried. And now, for the coup de grace.

With deceptive calm, Gabriel lifted his tankard to his lips, allowing his sleeve to fall open. He was not wearing the vambraces at the moment, so the tattoo was easily observed. The guard’s eyes flickered to it and all color fled from his face.

“My lord,” he murmured softly. At the tone, the dandy finally took note of his minder’s caution. He glanced up, then back at Gabriel. He started to frown but saw the dragon-mark. Comprehension flared in his eyes – slowly, but it was there – and he forced a smile on his face.

“I have changed my mind,” he announced, as if it was not knowledge about impending death that drove him. “I do not wish to tarry here after all.” A moment later, they were gone, scurrying out the door with such speed that they brought to mind whipped curs. Less than a moment later, though, a new man entered, this one wide with muscle and scowling in the direction of the fleeing men. Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up as the newcomer glanced around and then grinned brightly when his eyes fell upon him.

“Gabe!” Rainald North-Hammer bellowed, his voice shaking the rafters of the tavern. He stomped across the floor and thrust out his hand in greeting. Tentatively, Gabriel reached for it and suddenly found himself drawn into a bone-crushing embrace. “My friend!” the barbarian exclaimed loudly. He pushed Gabriel back and half turned toward the tavern-keeper. “Ale!” he ordered. “And I don’t want that weak horse-piss you serve normally!”

“You are far from home,” Gabriel commented once his old friend had dragged a chair to the table.

“A long story,” Rainald replied, “for another time.” Gabriel nodded. “What about you?” Rainald asked. “How did you get here?”

“A long story,” Gabriel repeated, “for another time.” The North-Hammer laughed loudly – there was not much he did quietly as Gabriel recalled – and grabbed his flagon.

“To long stories!” he exclaimed. They drank and the big man almost immediately launched into an unlikely tale about how he recently encountered three improbably attractive witches who needed the assistance of a strong man who knew no fear. There was a bit more gray in his hair, but some things, it seemed did not change.

Gabriel wondered why that pleased him.