Olympus RPG Blog

Auqui. Why did Magnifico have to reference the boy in this blasted tale of his? Laughter and joy exploded around him as the tiny crew of the Gleaming Endeavor clapped and cheered while the hunchback bard wove his saga of heroism and glory, but Gabriel was already slipping away into the shadows. Surely there was some place on this boat where he could hide himself away from the accusing whispers that even now burned in his ears…

Five Weeks Ago

One could not reach Whitehall Tower without intentionally seeking it out.

Situated in a fairly remote part of Wallace lands, it was nestled just inside the borders, where the mountains of the north ended and the Great Desert loomed. Politically, it was very likely a part of Tacitus territory, or perhaps even Ginnrel, but neither cared to claim it due to the difficulty required in traveling there. Decades earlier, a knight flush with gold had decided to erect a mighty fortress in this far distant location, no matter that his closest friends and allies alike urged him otherwise. Stonemasons, dwarven and human alike, gladly accepted his coin and construction of the castle began atop a rocky hill that was just short of being a small mountain. When the knight’s coin rand dry, only the bare essentials had been erected, which turned out to be the keep itself. There was no wall to stop besiegers, but in truth, the location itself held no strategic value whatsoever so such defensive fortifications were unnecessary.

The knight died penniless and alone – it was nigh on a year after his passing before anyone ventured to that lonely hall and learned of his death – and the Tower passed back into the hands of lords of Wallace. Four times in the last score of years it had been bequeathed upon knights, but all of them passed without heirs (or, in one instance, squandered their inheritance so thoroughly that the Lord was forced to strip him of his rank), and in that time, it became synonymous with loss.

Gabriel Auditore, knight-errant in the service of Lord Wallace, was the latest to be called its master.

When Malcolm gifted it to him, the lord did so knowing full well that it was exactly the kind of place Gabriel longed for. Difficult to find and far from the comforts of civilization, it would allow him to focus entirely upon his art, to deepen his mastery of the sword without having to concern himself with unexpected travelers or guests. There was game enough in the surrounding environs to live off and Lord Wallace believed his new knight wise enough to stock plentiful stores to keep from starving. Having witnessed Gabriel’s capability with a blade – indeed, he had learned a few things himself from the young blademaster – Malcolm even considered the possibility that, some day, would-be swordsmen might come to Whitehall Tower seeking personal instruction from a true master. The name itself seemed a good omen and if truthful, he would have admitted to enjoying the thought of dragon-marked warriors sworn to the service of his land.

What he had not factored was Auqui.

*

His entire body ached as he led Cometes up the rocky road leading to Whitehall, but Gabriel tried very hard to ignore the discomfort.

The air was crisp this early in the year, and he suddenly regretted turning down Rainald’s offer to stay for one more day. His old friend had been disappointed and perhaps a trifle confused, but Gabriel quickly diverted the big man’s attention by asking a leading question about the Northman’s encounter with the witches. Hildra had given her husband a strange look – it was equal parts amusement, disbelief, frustration and anger – and the two promptly fell to arguing in their native tongue which sounded like so much gibberish to him, thus allowing Gabriel to make good his escape and set off before noon. He hated lying to Rainald, but he had no plans to discuss Auqui and the Northman had never learned when to let things go.

So he fled. It was, he mused darkly, the thing he was most capable of doing.

With each step that brought him closer to Whitehall, the heavier the weight upon his shoulders seemed to be. Cometes nudged his trailing hand a few times and he patted his old friend affectionately. This was no place for an animal like him. There were few places for him to run or stretch his legs and, if it did not make him feel sick inside at the very thought, Gabriel would have turned the charger out to pasture years ago. The elves had once agreed to take the Cometes in, saying that he was clearly of elvish stock, and the day was soon coming where the horse simply could not live the life Gabriel asked of him.

They crested a slight hill and he paused, staring bleakly at Whitehall Tower as it squatted on that hilltop. Nothing had changed in the seven years since he’d left. A tiny part of him had almost wished the whole thing had crumbled away into dust – he’d be far happier camping atop its ruins than facing the memories waiting inside – but he was never so lucky. Even the limp cloth standard atop the tower itself still twisted in the wind, though harsh weather had stripped it threadbare and robbed it of color. Shaking his head, he glanced at Cometes.

“We could not be so fortunate, could we?” he asked wryly. The charger glanced at him, then at the tower, and finally at the long, uneven road that led to the hilltop before heavily blowing out his breath. Gabriel smiled. “I know,” he said softly.

They reached the almost-fortress several hours before dusk, though the surrounding peaks caused the sky to darken much quicker than normal. There was no snow on the ground even this close to winter, for which he was relieved, but still, the temperature was far from comfortable. After seeing to Cometes – the charger gave him a foul look once he was done and snapped Gabriel with his tail – he paced around the empty living quarters with a lantern. Echoes of the past chased him through each of the rooms – here, he’d admonished Auqui for slacking off with his lessons, there he’d had Kira for the first time, and over there … over there, Auqui had tried very, very hard to kill him. That was the breaking point, though he did not know it at the time. Instead, he’d foolishly believed that Auqui was simply being a child when he should have been a man.

He spent the hours before the sun completely vanished from the sky cleaning up the debris that was his home. Much of it was animal waste – in his absence, it seemed that more than a few of the local creatures had used Whitehall as nests or warrens – but there was also quite a bit of old detritus from before things fell apart that needed to be discarded. He only had a few weeks of supplies, but then, he’d never intended to stay long this time. By the time he was done, Gabriel was filthy and even more exhausted than before, but he knew sleep would not come easily, not here, not while the ghosts of his past continued to lurk in the shadows.

Despite the chill breeze, he took a seat in the center of the wide training circle, hugging his cloak tight, and wondered where he went wrong.

Morning found him in the same spot, though this time, he was stripped to the waist, barefoot and holding his father’s sword in one hand. Sunlight glittered off the speckled bands of color that were the two dragon-marks crawling up his forearms, though Gabriel was so accustomed to them now that he barely noticed. He walked through the first cycle of swordforms at half speed, reminding his muscles of what he wished of them. Once he was done, he would increase the pace and repeat the cycle, and then do so again. On good mornings, he would add a fourth or even a fifth cycle.

“Why are you holding me back?” Auqui’s voice chased him from the past. Gabriel frowned. Parting the Silk became Ribbon in the Air.

“You are holding yourself back, Student,” Gabriel murmured along with his memory self. It had been a common argument in those days – the boy was insistent that there was some secret technique Gabriel was not teaching him and seemed incapable of grasping that the truth was simply rooted in his lack of patience. Repetition and practice were what was needed, but Auqui did not want to wait. “You hear my instructions but you do not listen to them.” River of Light flowed into The Rose Unfolds. That was always a tricky transition.

“What does that even mean?” Anger was in Auqui’s so clear voice, anger and frustration. He was having difficulty moving to the next level of sword-mastery, which was understandable. Few swordsmen ever managed to do so – it had taken Gabriel nearly five years to pass that threshold himself – and, no matter that he was better with a blade than most men in Caithness, the boy wanted more. Patience was something he simply refused to comprehend. That was not the whole of it, of course. There was Kira and Auqui’s infatuation with her, despite the fact that she was nearly twice his age and warming Gabriel’s bed, and though Gabriel did not know it at the time, there were also Zabka’s treacherous whispers. “You speak to me in riddles when you should be teaching me!” Auqui snarled when Gabriel tried to urge patience again. The boy had attacked then, in fury, and without even trying to explain himself. They’d dueled numerous times before, though never before had one of them been intentionally trying to harm the other.

Watered Silk met Bundling Straw. Without realizing it, Gabriel refought the battle with his erstwhile apprentice, his feet automatically falling into the same places they had so very long ago. The Branch in the Storm knocked aside The Lion Springs. Auqui had been quick, quicker than any man with a sword that Gabriel had encountered in a decade and had he not realized his student was trying very hard to kill him, he would have been much pleased with the boy’s progress. Willow Embracing the Breeze met a flawless Black Pebbles on Snow. Gabriel recalled the anger that flickered across the void of cool serenity he’d floated in and, to his continuing shame, he remembered going on the offensive, intent on showing this boy how much he still had to learn. Rain in High Wind sent Auqui stumbling backward, Ribbon in the Air nearly killed him, and Snow in High Wind left bloody tears across his chest. The boy rallied – he attacked with a perfect sequence of The Wood Grouse Dances to River of Light, but as always, his impatience led him to ruin, and Gabriel slid away before countering with Soft Rain at Sunset. Blood splashed and Auqui screamed out in surprise and pain. He fell, dropping his sword as his hands automatically went to the vicious cut upon his face. Even then, Gabriel knew the boy would carry that scar to the end of his days.

“You are not ready, boy,” he’d hissed angrily.

“You are not ready,” he repeated in a hushed whisper, seven years later.

But there was no one there to listen.

Gabriel drew a deep breath, held it for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. He returned to the initial ready stance and began anew.

*

For three days, he labored alone, alternating between hours with the sword, practicing each sword form until his muscles ached, and returning his house to something vaguely resembling order. He raked out the small stable – for which Cometes gave him a powerful snort and a tail flick that was just shy of an actual attack – swept out all of the rooms, and even patched the roofs of all three buildings, a task he frankly loathed no matter how necessary it was.

Rainald found him there, on the third day, sweating and frustrated and aching at the strange physical contortions that had been necessary to reach certain spots on the roof. The big Northerner led his ugly horse into the courtyard and had just finished removing the saddle by the time Gabriel managed to climb down from the roof.

“You look miserable, my friend,” Rainald said with his booming laugh. He offered a skin of wine and Gabriel accepted it gratefully.

“I did not know you were coming,” he remarked once he’d slaked his thirst. Rainald grinned.

“You’ve seen my home,” the Northerner said, “so I thought I would do the same.” He glanced around. “Rather remote, is it not?” he asked with a frown.

“It suits me,” Gabriel replied simply, though they both knew that was a lie. He would not be able to stay here for very long. The wanderlust would kick in once more.

“You missed a runner from Wallace when you left,” Rainald said. He fumbled through his saddlebags for a folded parchment bearing the seal of Wallace and handed it over without bothering to look at it. Frowning, Gabriel studied it for a moment before glancing up. “Lord Malcolm’s wife calls for us,” the Northerner said. “I told the messenger boy that I would track you down and bring you with me.”

“You are confident of your skills, old friend,” Gabriel said with a wry smile as he tore open the parchment and scanned the contents. So, Malcolm needed help again. Was there no end to his foolery?

“You dance well enough, but one mighty blow …” Rainald make a noise as he drew his thumb across his neck. Gabriel shook his head and folded the missive up once more.

“To Wallace it is,” he murmured. It was just as well – the ghosts here were far from silent.

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.