Prologue

Betrayal

Balde gasped, flailing his arms to keep himself from toppling over the edge as he skidded to a halt, breathing heavily. He managed not to fall. Barely.

A great chasm stretched out before him, but he could not see the far side. It looked as if there was no far side… No! There was always a far side, unless one faced an ocean. Then there was no far side.

Problem was though, Balde was facing an ocean.

The water was a fall of about twenty feet away, still and silent as a pond, though Balde knew it was an ocean. Who didn’t? Perhaps, if he were another person, he would stop and make a plan. But no, if he used his head, he wouldn’t be Balde.

Oh, what do I do? What do I do?

He looked frantically around the cavern, eying its seamless walls. Stalagmites grew on parts of it, especially closer towards the ocean. He looked up, his heart thundering as it had never thundered before. He took the immeasurably high ceiling in, feeling himself drown in the sheer size of the place he was in. To say it disconcerted him would be an understatement. No, with the endless natural underground hall and underground ocean, he felt lightheaded. Were he to jump over the edge of the cliff, he would fly. Of course. How could there ever be any doubt about that? He was so light! He prepared to leap.

Suddenly, he reentered into reality with a bump, and he yelped, falling backward, his heart in his throat. He landed on his back, the wind driven out of him in a hasty gasp. This was bad, worse than anything he had ever faced.

A rustle.

Balde froze.

Movement.

Balde could not stifle a scream. Covering himself in his arms, he ran headfirst into a wall where thick plants grew.

What…? He had to gasp as the stalagmites gave way to a small corridor of sorts. Not stopping to admire his great fortune, he pressed on, running like he never had.

There was a sound like flesh tearing. Balde looked back and his heart stopped for a second. There his pursuer was, closing in, his beard dark as the Evernight, and his eyes darker, betraying a grim, single-minded purpose.

Uh-oh.

Balde shouted, “No!” He bolted away from his attacker, desperate to get as many extra breaths of life as he could before—

With a snarl, his enemy tacked him, slamming his head into the ground. Balde cried out, tasting the metallic taste of blood and seeing stars.

The man wrenched his head to the side, roughly grabbing his jaw and landing a sound punch on his nose, and pain shot up in his face. Balde felt tears slide down his cheeks, or was it blood?

Probably both.

Balde tried to free himself, but his enemy said in hiss, “No… You have evaded me for too long… You betrayed me, now you will face the consequences.”

“No – I –”

But the man would have none of it. Screaming, he smashed his forehead into Balde’s.

The man then raised two fingers, his index and middle, and smirked at Balde. To his horror, Balde saw his fingers zooming closer. Too soon they were too close, but they did not stop.

A blood-curdling scream rang through the caves. The man removed his slimy fingers from Balde’s eye socket. Perhaps he would have grimaced at their condition, but he was too intent on continuing with what Balde knew he felt was long overdue punishment.

“What do you want?” Balde cried. “What purpose will my death serve to you…?” Unable to contain himself, he let out a pitiable wail.

The man slapped him hard, forcing him to spit blood.

“Satisfaction,” the man said. “Is there a bigger reason?”

Balde screwed his face up in pain, whimpering. He was sure that was not the only reason, but why did the man have to tell it to poor Balde? Still, Balde would have thought he may have had the decency to show him some respect before he butchered him.

The man grabbed Balde’s hair, smashing his head into the ground another time, drenching him in pain. Balde suddenly had the image of himself lying between a hammer and an anvil. He could not see around him, but he knew he must be lying in a pool of blood. He knew nothing would deter this man from murder. This was a game for him. This was art, and he was an artist. He had stolen from whomever he wished, raped more women than anyone could count, and murdered anyone who dared to stand in his way. Poor Balde was nothing to him, less than the meanest insect than he squashed with his foot.

The man stood up, kicking Balde in the fork of the legs. Balde howled in agony. Suddenly, he felt himself being dragged by the ankle, back to where they had come from. Only now, in what he knew were a few moments of respite, did he notice the numerous scratches scattered around his body, courtesy of the plants he had run through. Not a stalagmite, he realized, something else. Something sinister.

They stopped when the man exited them, hindering Balde’s body as they were. The man halted, snarled, and wrenched Balde through them. Feeling hundreds of little spikes puncture his skin, Balde let out an ear-piercing scream, wondering how many he would make before his ordeal was over for good.

Or for bad, he never knew.

The man slammed Balde down flat on the floor, landing a sharp kick in his ribs. Balde did not scream again; there was no breath left in him to. The man took his ankle again and began to drag him, even rougher than before, though Balde had privately believed that impossible.

The man moved agonizingly slowly once they neared the shore, but he did not go to the spot Balde had stopped at. Rather, he went around the cave, dragging a barely protesting Balde down a steep slope. He dragged Balde to a place where the floor was littered with rocks, some huge boulders and others smaller than Balde could have seen, even if he were in a better situation. These were the worst, grinding against his scratches.

“Aaarrgghh!” he screamed as his head slammed painfully against one of the larger ones, busting that myth, and he saw stars again. His enemy took no notice, ploughing on as if naught happened. Once they reached the water, the man stopped. Absently, Balde noticed that they were level with it now.

The man grabbed Balde’s head, drawing him to it so that Balde felt the water in his hair. For a moment he felt content just lying there. The water, it… felt good, though he was almost too scared to form that thought.

The man kneeled down next to him..

“Please…” Blade managed weakly, “Sayfal, please… Do not…” before a fit of coughs overtook him.

“No, Balde,” Sayfal said quietly. “I have stomached betrayal for the last time.” And he spat in his face.

Sayfal grabbed Balde’s head again, and before the latter knew what was happening, dipped it into the water.

Fear gripped Balde’s heart like never before. All around him was water, and the vice-like grip on his head would not let him surface. Surely, this was the end. It had to be. Nothing could be worse than water flowing freely around inside his head.

Just as he was beginning to lose consciousness, he was yanked out of the water and slammed against the ground, where he lay spluttering. He was vaguely aware of his body writhing in pain and humiliation, though he could not comprehend that in the slightest. He could barely form a thought.

A boot slammed into his nose. He could not even manage a scream as his nose broke, crunching under Sayfal’s foot. Sayfal kneeled down again, spitting in his face.

Then he dipped his head into the water once more.

Balde did not know how many times he went through this. All he knew that he was spat in the face, dunked into the ocean until he thought he was going to die, then pulled out again. How he had hoped to live his life! How was it now that he did not even have it left in him to feel bitter about it all.

At long last, after slamming him against the ground, Sayfal stomped him once in the chest with all his might. Balde barely registered the pain.

Blurrily, he saw Sayfal’s head come closer. He sensed some movement, before his chest was cut open, and he felt a hand wrap around something inside his ribs. Despite not being able to manage it before, he screamed, giving his worst scream yet; worse, indeed, than any he had ever made in his entire life. Fear gripped his heart, but then he realized the cold fingers belonged to Sayfal. His last scream was silent as Sayfal wrenched his heart out. Darkness enveloped him, and he knew no more.

2: Chapter 1: The First Step

Chapter 1

The First Step

Two years earlier;

Sayfal tugged at his blue scarf – not the one he usually wore — shifting in his hiding place, feeling one of his legs starting to fall asleep. He had been sitting in the same place for the past five hours; amidst a group of barrels at the mouth of an alleyway and leaning against the wall of an abandoned inn, hidden securely. It was the ideal place to wait during a task such as his, but every now and then he would shift his position in irritation. He had screwed his face up, his eyes barely open as the summer sun shone down mercilessly on his skin. He could hardly breathe, stuffed in the ugly red cloak he had stolen earlier as he was. He hated it. He felt it was better suited as a rug.

He sat up straighter as a nearly naked man walked past, leading a donkey. He sighed. Still not him. He relaxed back down, feeling sour. He had been scanning the same cobblestone road for all the time he’d been there, watching peasants stroll blissfully by without a sign of his target.

Curse them…

He had no idea when nobles woke up. It was the crown prince’s homecoming festival from a six-month long war against the northern pirates. No noble or rich merchant in the city could miss it. Sayfal supposed they would be up and about a bit earlier than usual, but so far he had been disappointed. Since dawn, the only people who had walked by his hiding place were poor people not worth sparing a glance towards – all their life’s savings wouldn’t pay for an hour with the district’s cheapest whore.

The road he waited on stemmed from a low-ranking noble’s house, hardly deserving of being called a palace: a ‘second viscount’ of some vague standing. Lord Tiarn Perdent was not important enough to warrant any land, but, as a noble, he was still held in awe by the peasants in the district, which was the city’s poorest. He’d been made a noble for having done the king some favor. He or his father, Sayfal neither knew not cared. If the rumors were anything to go by, Lord Tiarn Perdent enjoyed this. Though he was not important enough to be mentioned much outside the district, there were certain situations in which any noble would attract everybody’s attention.

Sayfal knew that a noble of any rank could never, ever miss the prince’s return. His plan had been made in haste, so he had neglected to find out the exact time the event would begin.

He clenched his fists.

This road was the most well-maintained in the district, and Lord Tiarn could not afford to miss any opportunity to impress his nonexistent importance upon the people. He enjoyed attention, the rumors had gotten this right – they had a knack for getting things they shouldn’t right. Still, Tiarn Perdent would not go to the castle by any other road.

Sayfal licked his lips. All the worse for him, and all the better for Sayfal.

The clap of a horseshoe over the cobblestone told Sayfal that his wait was over. Pompous fool; announcing his arrival like that. Seriously, a mouse would have more sense not to walk into the jaws of a cat. Lips twisting in grim humor, Sayfal grabbed the rim of a barrel. As soon as he saw the movement from behind the curve in the road, he pushed it with moderate strength, rolling it in front of the coming carriage. Gathering the sun-red cloak in his hands with a grimace of disgust, he hurried to the back of the abandoned inn, peering from around the corner.

Trumpets blew, followed by the sounds of boots being stomped against the ground. Sayfal could not contain a smirk as a guard in golden armor bearing a halberd walked into the alleyway, looking curiously around. Silent as a shadow, Sayfal picked a pebble up from the floor.

He froze as a beggar emerged from behind a copse of trees on his other side. He drew his hood close around his face, obscuring it completely. His hand drifted casually toward the dagger hanging from his belt. The beggar seemed not to notice, but hurried away and out of sight rather hastily, stumbling on his way.

Sayfal turned his attention to the guard, who had turned to leave.

No, you don’t.

He rolled the pebble out into the alley.

The guard spun around. He cocked his head as he noticed the rolling pebble, regarding it warily. His eyes, the only part of his face that was visible through the helm, narrowed in suspicion. He approached it and brushed it with the butt of his halberd.

Nothing happened.

He kicked it.

For a moment he stood there. Not a whisper rose.

“Who’s there?” he called.

Silence.

Muttering a curse, he moved deeper into the alley.

Sayfal was waiting. With the slightest of rustles, he yanked the guard’s arm. The guard’s exclamation was quickly stifled as Sayfal slit his throat.

 

***

 

Adjusting the bracers, Sayfal exited the alley. As he had expected, the armor felt awkward. It was more for show than any actual purpose. The carpet – the cloak – along with the scarf, was stuffed comfortably between his back and the dead guard’s shield.

The carriage had three other guards, all with their helms covering their faces. They held their halberds with stiff backs. Sayfal took his place at the front-left corner of the carriage and kicked the ground. He saluted when a sallow head stuck out from the carriage’s window.

“Look smart there, man!” the mustached Lord Tiarn chided. “What was it?”

“Nothing, m’Lord!” declared Sayfal in his best imitation of the guard's voice, hoping it was not an overexaggerated manner, with an elaborate salute. “All clear, m’Lord!”

Pretending to look suspicious, the noble looked around, then curtly nodded once and, apparently unable to hide a delighted smile tugged at his lips for some strange reason, slipped his head back into the carriage. Sayfal sneered under the stifling cover of his helm.

The guard to Sayfal’s right sniggered, looking at the man behind him as if sharing a joke with him. Mercenaries! he thought with a sinking feeling. Mercenaries would never salute. He had to conceal a groan. This meant that the others definitely knew he was an imposter.

Suddenly, he had to smirk in dark satisfaction. Of course, if that indeed was true, and the mercenaries hadn’t acted, his task would be so much easier.

He stared ahead as the carriage driver whipped the bay horse. The animal started moving reluctantly. It was clear the steed was cheap. Underbred, underfed and probably old. Sayfal sneered. Everything about Lord Tiarn was substandard, from his guards to his horse.

They were moving at a slow pace. Of course. Tiarn Perdent would want to show his fancy carriage off. Not that it was fancy. It was just that it was the only one in the district. Still, the pace suited Sayfal. What he aimed to do had to be done before they left the district or the ramifications may be too dire for him to face just yet.

Inconspicuously, he slipped his hand into the mail shirt of the awkward armor, pulling out a small pouch with the barest of tinkles. The sound, however, was not missed by anyone.

The mercenaries stiffened and the carriage driver’s eyes widened. Sayfal regarded the four men with a hard gaze pregnant with significance.

He raised the pouch. “Your silence…” He shook the pouch, making it rattle. The driver inhaled sharply.

He tossed it to the man to his right, who caught it in apparent confusion, though it was hard to tell with the visor. “Divide it among yourselves.”

Turning, he entered the carriage.

 

***

 

Lord Tiarn Perdent stared as he entered, his mouth somewhat open. “What is it, soldier?”

Sayfal merely smiled and seated himself next to him, perhaps closer than was normal. He looked at him. “Nothing, Lord Perdent, I just thought that it ought to be more… ah, convenient… if someone were to sit with you… And safer, too,” he said, dropping his exaggerated accent.

Perdent furrowed his brow in genuine confusion. He looked into Sayfal’s eyes and appeared to blanch. He swallowed before saying with far less certainty than before, “Ah—Yes. I mean – Of course, how stupid of me not to think of it earlier!” He laughed shakily.

“Yes, my Lord, simply… careless,” he hissed.

Taking a deep breath, Perdent tried to appear unconcerned, looking out the window in front of them. The carriage had two of those; one on each of the two longer walls, so one in front of them and one behind. Perdent sat on one of the benches with Sayfal pressing into him.

Sayfal watched the noble out of the corner of his eye. Though Perdent was trying his best to appear relaxed, Sayfal didn’t think it took much to notice the man’s obvious discomfort. The frequent jerks of the head and the wary looks thrown his way only served to widen Sayfal’s smile.

The window in front of them had its curtain open, and Sayfal saw the city move steadily by. There was not much time until they left the district. He had to act now.

“Do you know the legend of the Imposter Assassin?” he asked, looming over Perdent.

It seemed that Perdant could not resist gulping. “The Imposter Assassin?”

Sayfal nodded gravely. “Oh, yes,” he said grimly, with significance. “Oh, yes, yes, yes… It is said on this very road an early Lunyd morning, much like right now, that a lone nobleman was butchered in cold blood.”

“O — Oh?”

“Oh, yes. He thought he had been traveling in the company of his loyal soldiers, not realizing that one of them had been replaced by a masquerade. Of course, the nobleman wasn’t really very important. No land or influence, see, so he was not spared any city guards. He had to resort to mercenary protection. Of course, fortune soldiers and not like true soldiers. The lure of money is what drives them, you see. In any case, the imposter, who was actually a deadly assassin, knew the ways of the mercenaries well, and so he had plans. He bought their silence. With that, he entered upon the noble he was supposedly escorting and sat next to him, close. Much too close.”

He shifted closer to Perdant, almost crushing the unfortunate man against the wall. “Like this, see?” he said, holding out his hands palms up.

Comprehension seemed to be dawning on Perdant. Seeing the beads of perspiration on his forehead, Sayfal had to hide a smirk. He could see that his hands were rather shaky. “What are you insinuating, guard?” Perdant demanded with a brave attempt at severity.

Sayfal allowed himself a small grin. “You see, my Lord, I have been thinking. Your position seems quite misfortunate. Oh, yes. I was just thinking. If one of your guards were to get… inspired by the tale of the Imposter Assassin, the loss, though quite sad, would scarcely be noticed.”

“I – I am afraid I do not understand your meaning, soldier. Speak plainly!”

Sayfal’s smirk grew. “Very well, Lord Tiarn Perdant, I shall. You see, you having the audacity to keep us mortals out there in the sun is very saddening. The heat this time of the year is scorching. Sunburns, you know. Sunburns! What is more painful in the world? The nobles do not appreciate what we do for them, but ordinary folk like you and me can relate, and any pretending to be among the divinities would remember their origin. I would like to relieve all of us of our burden. It would be much better if we just went to our homes. You know, in the eyes of the people and stuff. I’m sure the king would not begrudge us one guest.”

The nobleman began to plead.

 

***

 

Daros grumbled in annoyance. The imposter was taking too long. Daros wished he’d just get over with whatever he was doing. Poor noble. Daros felt terrible for laughing at him now.

Tial was dead, that much was plain. Daros did not really mind much, Tial had been new to their group, joining merely a month ago on a similar escort mission. He did feel a slight twinge of regret, though. Though somewhat overeager, Tial had been a good addition. He was younger than they, and his cheer was quite a relief from the strict, terse demeanors of the other three battle-hardened mercenaries, including himself. He had also been a skilled swordsman.

Daros sighed.

He prided himself on being an honorable man. All three of them did. If they accepted money for a job, they would see it done. He had had every intention of seeing Tiarn Perdent safely. Perdent had been right in hiring them. The man may not have anything, but he had a good ear for rumors.

However, Daros was hard-pressed for money. He had made a mistake of marrying a farm girl in his youth. As he soon found out, a wife was not easy to support. Daros supposed he should have left her a long time ago, perhaps sold her; it would not have been unusual, but his fickle heart would never even form the thought of hurting her. So he was now stuck with a woman from a decent family he had to provide for. On top of that, he was hopelessly in love with her, so he would never accept anything less than his best for her.

These days, he’d take money from almost anywhere he could. The imposter could steal what he wished from the noble, he had paid well. Still, it was no easier on his conscience. Perdant had trusted them.

Daros shook his head.

Suddenly, a scream split the air, coming from inside the carriage. His heart skipping, Daros fumbled for a moment, delayed by the halberd in his hands. He swore in frustration at Perdent’s ignorant insistence that true guards carried halberds. He dropped it, flinging it away from himself to give himself freedom of movement and drew his sword, pivoting sharply around.

The carriage driver started violently, stumbling in his haste to leap off the carriage and falling face first onto the cobblestone road with an, “Oomph!”

Cursing, Daros rushed to the back of the carriage, seeing his partners drawing their swords as well. He moved to the door, but before he could so much as extend his hand, it snapped open and the imposter bolted out of it. He was wrapped in a red wool floor-length cloak he had not had earlier, leaving only a portion of his armor uncovered on his chest, smothered in blood. His helm fell to the ground, rolling out of the carriage, but a thick blue scarf was wrapped tightly around his head, leaving only his dark eyes visible. He ran off away from them, his boots leaving a trail of blood behind.

“Don’t let him escape!” Daros shouted. “Or it’ll be trouble for all of us!”

“You took the money!” said one of the other two mercenaries, Tamuz.

Daros swore at him, then said, “I had no idea he’d kill him! I thought he was a thief.”

At a breakneck speed, he leapt after the thief – no, after the murderer, in a rush, but succeeded only in stumbling because of the uneven weight of the armor.

“Don’t go after him!” Reydis, the third mercenary, said. “Dang it! You want to get involved in this, man?”

There was too much truth in that to ignore, Daros thought as he straightened.

“They’ll have our necks,” the carriage driver moaned.

Resigned to the inevitable, Daros saw two old women carrying bags of wheat emerge from an alleyway. Spotting the blood, they let out shrill screams, drawing the attention of every single person in a half-mile radius around them. Like wildfire, the news spread. Second Viscount Tiarn Perdant had been murdered two miles away from his palace in the Retto District.

Under the watchful eye of his three mercenary guards.

 

***

 

It was pandemonium. The people of the Retto District were poor and simple people who did not understand the subtle workings of the court. They made no distinction between a ‘Second Viscount,’ an earl, or, indeed, a duke. All they knew was that the nice nobleman who listened to their problems and offered his solutions was now slaughtered like game, his chest cut open.

It seemed everybody had something to say. Different people had different opinions. One man would tell anybody who stood still long enough to hear of how he had spent the first ten years of his life as the Second Viscount’s adopted son, before he had generously decided that he had invaded upon the lord’s hospitality for too long. The fact that the man was seventy, at least thirty years older than the Second Viscount, seemed to bother nobody. Or it could be that nobody listened to him in the chaos.

The people who had truly known Lord Tiarn Perdent, however, said that, although vain in his self-importance, the noble had really cared about the people of his district, despite the fact that he had had no obligation to them.

The happenings of the Retto District were of no concern to the rest of the city, which of course celebrated the prince’s homecoming with expected enthusiasm.

The local guard office sent soldiers to investigate the nobleman’s death. News was slow at first, but soon everyone knew that the Second Viscount was being escorted by hired mercenary guards. The details were vague, but the mercenaries admitted to accepting money from a man they did not recognize but thought a thief. Eventually, the four men were deemed innocent and free to go. One of them, who had been saying, “I am no mercenary! I am a carriage driver,” to everyone, quickly quieted after hearing there would be no punishment, and the mercenaries went on their way.

There was much speculation among the people as to who had committed the murder. The district rang with murmurs. Though there was no solid evidence, everyone’s attention seemed diverted towards the new thieves’ guild in the area; who were the weakest faction in the city and eager to assert their imaginary power before everyone they could, the Crimson Knights.

 

***

 

Satisfied by the success, Sayfal stepped away from the commotion. He had discarded the armor, but he was still wearing the red cloak and the blue scarf. That was essential.

He was focused, knowing he could not afford to let the small victory distract him. Only the first phase of his plan was done, but at least he was not so pressed for time as he had been before.

He rounded a corner, climbing a broken wooden table beside a house to get to the top. He kicked the wall, grabbing the roof’s edge. At the sight of his bloody hands he grimaced.

He pushed himself onto the roof, scurrying to a house three roofs away. Behind it was a thick copse of trees. The peasants hung their clotheslines here, but the canopy was too dense for them to see anything between the leaves.

With practiced grace born only of years of experience, Sayfal leapt away from the roof, kicking the edge with all his power. Even so, he barely caught onto the branch he had been aiming at. With the expected, “Oomph!” his chest collided with it, but he managed to hold on. He pulled himself up, vaguely remembering there had once been a time his muscles would have bulged from such an effort.

He situated himself so that he was obscured, but could still see the goings-on quite clearly. Almost everyone from the district had gathered around the scene, many women sobbing into rags. Two soldiers, mounted on steeds, had come from the guard office. They moved among the people with elegance, brandishing their rapiers, inspiring rippling waves of apprehension through the crowd. Sayfal could see the people gathered around four men; the three mercenaries and the carriage driver. The guards were circling them while the carriage driver waved his arms frantically over his head.

Sayfal smirked. He felt that he had done a good job. Not only had he managed to get away with the kill, he had also successfully framed the other men. He was not sure he could have done that had they been soldiers; escape would certainly have been harder. No, he was glad that they had been mercenaries. It had been an unexpected revelation, though in hindsight, it should not have been so surprising, considering Tiarn Perdent.

He sighed. He’d have to stay here a long time, until the chaos settled.

It was almost sunset when the area of the death finally cleared. Sayfal had been slightly bemused to see the guards waving the mercenaries and the carriage driver away, who had then disappeared into the ground with expertise that impressed even him. Now that the dust was settling, it was time to move on.

He soundlessly dropped down from the tree. By now, he was sure, news of his description would be rampant around the district.

Carefully avoiding the people, he left the circle of houses between which the trees were, taking care to step lightly. The dying sun cast a red glow upon the city, coating everything with a layer of blood. Soon the night would dress the day. The night was Sayfal’s time. It was when he could go anywhere. The freedom the night gave him could be compared only to swimming in deep water, when he could fly, unrestrained, in whichever direction he wished.

Taking care not to step outside the small Retto District, he went out to a road where a small bunch of people were dealing with merchandise. Though the street was mostly empty, here and there he saw men closing their shops down, packing whatever meager goods the riff-raff of the accursed district could afford. Regarding them all with a sneer of contempt, Sayfal made no effort to conceal himself as he crossed the road, flaunting his red cloak.

Just inside an alley that was half concealed by a tall – taller than Sayfal – wooden fence, a young man and woman – not much older, Sayfal guessed, that himself – stood talking to each other. The man handed the woman an emerald pendant. The girl shrieked, throwing her arms around him and kissing him passionately. Sayfal’s lip curled in disgust.

His attention, mostly, though, was drawn to the pendant. Where did this insect get such an expensive item…? It had probably been his life’s savings. The silver necklace, and the emerald hanging from it, must have cost a fortune. He smirked, seeing the perfect opportunity.

He drew a dagger, walking smoothly over to the couple. They turned to him, their faces betraying shock. The man spotted the dagger in Sayfal’s hand, his eyes widening in fright as he subconsciously pushed the girl behind him.

“Why don’t I make this clear in the beginning,” said Sayfal, “you give me the pendant, and some time with her, and I will let you live.”

The man took a deep breath, then threw his chest out. “How about you leave us and go back?” he said with bravery Sayfal knew he did not feel. The girl watched the exchange with fear shining in her eyes.

Foolish man. Did he think he could ever stand in Sayfal’s way? Did he not know that Sayfal had just gotten away with killing a noble? A noble! Still, his courage was commendable. Not all courage, per se, but in some instances, Sayfal just had to take a pause and admire someone’s recklessness. It made his work easier.

The man was betraying his ignorance far too spectacularly for Sayfal’s liking. The world had a way. It would teach everyone. It did teach everyone.

He smirked. These insects were better dead anyway. Their recklessness and idealism had no place in a world such as this. They would build a structure of illusionary hope up only to find it had no foundation as it came crashing down on them. By the time the realization would come, it’d be too late. They were fools. He was doing the lot of them a favor.

He pulled his scarf down so they could see his expression. The sun had fallen, so he was confident his face would not be remembered. “Well, I did warn you,” he said shrugging.

The girl let out a scream that stabbed his ears, ringing through the night, imbued with utter, complete terror, not missed, Sayfal was sure, by anyone in the district, as he drove his dagger into the man’s chest. Looking at her expression, he could not contain his laughter. He raised his eyebrows, cocking his head slightly as she stood frozen. Suddenly, her lover stiffened, and his head fell on Sayfal’s shoulder. Snorting with mirth at her indignation, Sayfal withdrew the dagger.

He looked at the sobbing girl in derision. “I did warn him,” he repeated. Suddenly, her face conveyed such fear than Sayfal could almost taste it. He reveled in it – not in fear itself, but the knowledge that his plan was going perfectly.

Dropping the bloody dagger, he slammed his shoulder into the girl. She gasped in shock as he pinned her trembling and shaking body against the wall, choking her with his hand. He simpered. How naïve… Can she really be surprised? Doesn’t this sort of thing happen often enough? Reaching a hand to her neck, he tore her dress open. She screamed again, the sound quickly muffled as he smashed his mouth into hers.

“It’s him!” came a man’s shout from behind him. It was perfect, though these castrates’ simplicity never ceased to amaze him. Did they not know what he could do? What strength was there to be had from numbers, when they evidently did not deter him?! Though he expected nothing more, he could not help with feel lightly let down. Did they not respect him even a bit?

Giving the illusion of haste, he withdrew, smirking at the topless girl. He pulled the scarf back on his face. Not even bothering to take the pendant with the self-righteous fools at his heels, he ran away, disappearing behind a corner and away. The men’s shouts followed him, but he knew they never could.

 

***

 

Rat twirled his finger around the dagger’s diamond pommel. He was sure he had heard something.

The sound came again.

A shudder ran slowly down his spine, like a drop of icy water making its way down his back. Rat sucked in a deep breath, his eyes jumping to each corner of the mud street. He looked around in apprehension and anticipation so dark the night seemed to positively glow in comparison. He could feel goose bumps on his arms, little hairs standing erect.

He glanced at Mace. The big man stood frozen, his fear almost palpable. Rat hissed slightly, trying to draw his attention, not daring to let his voice get carried away by the slight breeze that unsettled the otherwise uncomfortably still night.

For a moment the other man did not move, staring ahead with narrowed eyes. His heart thumping, Rat waited patiently, before Mace looked at him.

Rat cocked his head hesitantly, feeling as if sharp movements would give them away. The big man inclined his head.

Rat’s mouth tightened in a grimace, before he nodded; a markedly fleeting gesture. Mace shook his head.

Rat sighed.

They moved forward, navigating through the night with thitherto unprecedented stealth, born not, as Rat was well aware, of a desire to succeed, but of a desire to breathe a couple more days. At this rate, though, it seemed a very distinct impossibility.

As their search continued, a possibility started taking shape in Rat’s heart. Perhaps, if they did not find their target, they could leave, and perhaps One-Arm would accept that excuse. Not, of course, that they would make an excuse, but if the opportunity presented itself — well, they were trying their best, even if their best may not be as good as it had used to be, or it may have been at other times.

He could not, however, ignore the gut feeling gnawing at him. If the rumors were correct – and if you were part of the underground you knew which were and which weren’t, and so did Rat – then they were in for a very rough time.

They stopped just shy of a dark alleyway illuminated only by two lamps, one burning weakly closer to them and another far away, both hanging by walls. There was no need for any confirmation this time, something had definitely rustled.

Suddenly, Mace pointed to something in the distance. “That him, you think?”

Feeling as if a bucket of ice had been poured over him, Rat inhaled sharply again. He squinted blindly in the darkness for a moment, before noticing something causing flickering shadows in the shy lamplight.

Dread settled between his shoulders. Heart thundering louder than clouds in a storm, he scrutinized the figure. He frowned at the telltale red cloak, and the blue scarf around the figure’s head.

“Yea, ‘a’s him, jus’ like the reports said!” Mace insisted.

Rat nodded slowly, trying to ignore his feeling that something was very, very wrong. “You reckon?”

“Mos’ definitely.”

They looked at each other, a look of grim understanding – and resignation – passing between them, for they had to deal with this man of all people, who could assassinate a noble then have the audacity to commit a murder, and attempt thievery and rape the very same day! The red-cloaked man was flaunting how very, deeply messed up he was. Rat shuddered again. Who knew what they were in for?

Gathering up all the courage he could muster – which, given the circumstances, was uncharacteristically – or perhaps characteristically, Rat couldn’t know – low. Rat almost groaned. He was not a coward, yet he was beginning to think himself one. How the audacious assassin could manage to lower his self-esteem from that far away remained a mystery to him – a mystery he was not sure he wanted to investigate.

As the assassin drew closer, Rat began to feel his heart a tornado in his chest. He doubted any blacksmith had ever hammered an anvil that hard. He tried to collect his breath, but it would just escape him. He attempted to breathe through his nose, but failed at that as well. He just dropped any image of confidence he may have been maintaining.

Agonizing slow, the assassin finally walked into the second lamp’s light, Rat and Mace walking towards him to meet him. Easy does it… Just walk up to him and request a meeting. You can be polite, now, Rat. What was it that your grandmother always used to say? Urgh… Dropping all pretense, Rat chanced a fearful glance into the assassin’s now illuminated face.

A toothless old man with a wispy white beard. Rat blinked. Something was very, very, very wrong. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the man closely, but he seemed to be what he looked like – a wizened, wrinkly old man.

The whole world, including the seductive breeze of death, stopped all of a sudden. Cold metal dug into his throat, not puncturing the skin, but driven in hard enough to make it a pain to breathe.

Slower than the old man – who watched them still – had walked, Rat turned his head to the right. For a moment he thought two disconnected arms were pressing knives to his and Mace’s throats, before he realized it was one man. A man dressed so dark, that the night, and Rat’s apprehension and anticipation, seemed to pale in comparison. His cloak was elegant, looking more expensive than anything Rat has ever seen, smooth as silk. Maybe it was silk, but he couldn’t tell. A scarf also stuck out from inside the hood; not, as Rat could see in the meager firelight, blue, but a washed-out shade of gray, torn and jagged at the edges.

“I believe, men,” whispered the man, and until the moment he spoke, Rat knew he had had no idea what true fear was, “the one you are looking for… is me.”

 

***

 

Rat and Mace grabbed Sayfal roughly under the arms, pulling him none-too-gently over the wildly varying ground in the Retto District. Sayfal was as tall as Rat, but Mace was much shorter, so he was in a deeply uncomfortable situation, especially with his legs dragging behind him. His knees would probably be rubbed raw.

They led him to past a well far away from where he had met them and onto a road, hurrying in haste. The location of their guild’s hideout would be well-hidden, Sayfal knew that. There were far more powerful guilds in the city, and though there was no other guild in the district, the others may still consider their work insolent. Sayfal expected the men to take him away from buildings, perhaps into the woods.

They did walk towards the woods. They were now in a mud road; most roads in the Retto District were mud. To the left a distance ahead of them was a small barren and rocky hill, roughly the size of five Retto houses across, and no taller than three storeys. The men quickened their pace when it came into view.

The short fat half-wit stumbled. Sayfal cursed as the simpleton dropped him, falling on the dirt. Sayfal threw his arm out to break the fall.

Quickly, his spindly companion tightened his grip around Sayfal, giving Mace the time to gather himself. Sayfal growled. Mace straightened and resumed his position.

“You fool,” Sayfal hissed.

Hastily, Rat and Mace started walking again.

Sayfal raised an eyebrow in surprise when they turned to a building outside of which was a cold forge, protected against the elements from three sides by walls and half a roof. The side facing the road had no wall. He knew they were far from professionals, but this was laughable. Was their guild based in the middle of the city?

Sayfal gave a grim chuckle when he noticed – the back wall of the smithy touched the hill. The roof did not disappear into it, but the building was built against it. Nothing else was built that close. Of course, the street did have more buildings, but all of them were at least a few meters away from it, save this one. Sayfal had to shake his head disbelievingly.

They dragged Sayfal to a door in the wall behind the forge. While Rat secured him in his arms, Mace went forward and pushed the door open, revealing a mostly empty room with dusty carpets and a single, broken wood table. Once inside, it took Sayfal’s eyes some seconds to adjust to the dark.

Mace fumbled in the darkness blindly for a moment, running his hands over the far side wall. Sayfal cocked his head, intrigued as Mace’s hands found something. He pushed it – a dull maroon curtain, Sayfal saw – out of the way, revealing a doorless doorway, opening up to a steep set of stairs, its walls lined with brightly burning lamps. They were close to each other so no more than three men could walk abreast.

Rat shoved Sayfal forward. Sayfal would have fallen down the stairs – his hands were bound – had it not been for Mace, who caught him with a grunt. Rat walked in front, while Mace took the rear, pushing Sayfal forward.

About ten feet below, they met a set of doors. On each side of the doors there were lamps, also burning bright. Mace handed Sayfal to Rat and stepped forth, raising a hand and knocking on the door.

For a moment, nothing happened. Sayfal wondered why nobody answered, before he realized it was probably for dramatic effect. With a loud screech, the doors opened, revealing a small man who, unlike Rat and Mace, had a sword strapped around his waist. Upon seeing them, he froze with a frown.

“Sneak,” said Rat.

“Ah, greetings, Rat. To you too, Mace. You found him then?” he asked.

Rat nodded. “Yes. We were fortunate enough to catch him unawares.”

The small man nodded enthusiastically as he stepped aside to allow them into the room. Mace went first. Rat pushed Sayfal onto his feet, but Sayfal stumbled, grabbing onto him with his tied hands. Together, the two of them fell on Sneak, taking him down with them. Over the men’s curses, Sayfal heard a rustle. Satisfied, he straightened, and walked into the cavern.

The chamber was huge, larger than an inn, but it had a low ceiling. Its walls, too, were lined with lamps, lighting the whole place up. To the left stood a young brunette girl with long, messy hair, a few years younger, Sayfal guessed, than himself. She was dressed in what might once have been a plain dress, but now was nothing more than rags. A ways behind her stood a bearded man, his hands resting on a rusty, plain greatsword that looked like it was much too old to cut even butter.

At the very end of a room stood a tall, heavyset man. He had brutish arms lined with a pattern of scars. His hair was long, reaching his shoulders, and his beard was short and unkempt. He was dressed in leather painted dark red, and his boots were black. Upon his back was slung a bastard sword – steel, by the looks of it. The leader of the Crimson Knights thieves guild.

Still muttering oaths under his breath, Rat straightened, brushing the dust off his garments. He grabbed Sayfal’s neck and shoved him forward again, to the center of the chamber. He pushed him down to his knees.

Sayfal could not contain himself. He knew something very important had to be accomplished, but he could not stop himself from saying, “Why is your name One-Arm when you have both arms?”

One-Arm smirked mockingly. “Can you find me a name more intimidating than One-Arm?”

Sayfal blinked. He could not believe he had gone through such a long day to get to this man. He felt insulted. This man had chosen the most conspicuous location possible for a hideout, and his name was a lie, used simply because it sounded good. Sayfal almost felt it would have been better just to stand in the center of the district and shout One-Arm’s name out, demanding an audience. At least he would not have had to wear the awkward carpet-cloak then.

One-Arm was not done. His smile grew and his lips parted, showing dark, yellow teeth as he recited;

“Of the ruddiest blood-red hue in sight,

“Fearless and ever ready to fight;

“Powerful and frightening his might,

“One-Arm, leader of the Crimson Knights,

“My very name inspires fear into the hearts of my enemies,” he said importantly. He is more pompous than Tiarn Perdent. “Is he the one?” he said to Rat.

Rat said obediently, “Yes, One-Arm.”

“How come you are not wearing your cloak? Lost it, did you?”

“I… took it off,” Sayfal said.

“I see. You took it off… Well, you see, you have been doing certain things that have the potential to taint the name of the Crimson Knights. This is impertinent. This cannot and will not be allowed. You killed a nobleman in our district, and people are sure to trace it erroneously back to us. I’ll let you in on a secret. You see, our position is, unfortunately, quite precarious. We are a relatively new guild in the area —” This man may be worth nothing, but he knows how to make an understatement. “—and we are not yet the most powerful.” No way! “If someone were to start assassinating people in our district, why, we would be compromised.” How did you evem get people to join you? “This cannot happen, that is essential. You see —”

“Now would be a good time!” Sayfal said pointedly. One of the oil lamps behind One-Arm shattered. There were so many that it did not make a difference in the light, but the sound was jarring.

One-Arm whirled around, his hand flying to his sword. He let out a gasp as a purple-cloaked figure emerged from behind an ornate urn in the corner. Sayfal smirked.

Sayfal looked over his shoulder to see Sneak gaping, looking like the worst possible thing had happened. The girl backed into the wall with her hands covering her face. The bearded man lifted his sword over his head.

He had to act.

Sayfal growled, pulling his hands apart. The ropes around his wrists snapped. The girl watched with wide eyes. Sayfal wrenched a knife out of his belt and hurled it at the bearded man. The man howled, falling onto one knee as the blade embedded itself in his thigh. His hands flew to the wound, blood oozing through his fingers.

Sayfal turned his attention back to One-Arm. The Crimson Knight, disengaging his sword from his adversary’s, stepped back and drove it through the other man’s chest. Sayfal swore quietly. The man had been a hired mercenary from outside the Retto District, and he had not come cheap. Sayfal had hired him for a month. Losing him was an immense shame and disappointment.

He wasted no time taking advantage of One-Arm’s momentary distraction. He rushed to the raised platform, drawing two foot-long knives as he did so. One-Arm barely had time to spin around and betray a glimmer of fear before Sayfal stabbed him in the gut. One-Arm froze, coughing blood. Before he could fall, Sayfal pulled the daggers out and stepped aside.

As One-Arm’s body made its way to the floor, a wave seemingly passed through the room. The bearded man, just having extracted Sayfal’s throwing knife from his wound, stared, his hands stemming the blood flow. The girl seemed unaware of her surroundings, watching only One-Arm and Sayfal, a new reverence etched on her face for the latter. Rat and Mace watched with guarded expressions. Sneak’s mouth hung open, his eyes practically radiating sorrow.

Then the moment passed, and One-Arm’s body hit the floor. Grimacing at the blood on them, Sayfal sheathed the daggers, not sparing the Crimson Knights another glance. He knelt beside the fallen mercenary, delving into his pockets with sharp movements. When he found the money he had paid him, he pulled it out and counted the coins. Satisfied that it was the full amount, he pocketed it. At least I got the money back.

He turned around and looked at the inhabitants of the room. He smirked.

He jumped down from the platform and walked to them, inspecting each of them in turn. When he stopped by Mace, he nodded in acknowledgement, and Rat too. The others he only inspected.

“The Crimson Knights,” he said, halting in the middle of the chamber where they could all see him clearly. “What a pathetic name.” He stopped, frowning, considering. “Most of you have no idea what just happened. No matter, it is easily remedied. I will explain.

“My name is Sayfal, and I am the one who killed the Second Viscount Tiarn Perdent earlier today. I am also the one, as you all rightly guessed, who killed the commoner later and gave the impression that I wanted to rape his woman. You see, when an amateur thieves guild emerges in this netherworld of a city, it draws attention. Sparks rumors. I have a good ear for them.

“One-Arm was known to be strong, but not the brightest, though exactly how much of an idiot he was surprised me.” He smirked. “I knew he was brash and impulsive, and prone to acting in panic. I was happy to cause some of it. But how to go about it? So, I killed the Second Viscount. The death of a nobleman in this district caused uproar. In the confusion…” Sayfal’s voice was low, barely above a whisper now, and his pace was slow. “…One-Arm panicked. The easiest place to link the noble’s death to was your guild. Your… eagerness to prove yourselves was no secret, and the simpletons outside saw the clumsy red cloak I had donned for the occasion as a connection to the Crimson Knights.” He pronounced the name with scorn he did not try to conceal. “So your two-armed leader – One-Arm – sent Rat and Mace after me, effectively leading me here.”

Mace nodded. “Brillian’. One-Arm acted exac’ly as you expected – an’ wan’ed – him to.”

Sayfal continued. “I set a trap for Rat and Mace and they walked right into it. They were afraid, rightly so, I might add, just like the rest of you too so obviously are. I could have killed them, but they offered me their willing aid.”

“I was convicted,” Rat said. “The guards in the district were looking for me, my Lord. I had no way of escaping them. The other guilds would not have me, saying I did not qualify as a potential member, One-Arm was the only person to offer me a place in his guild. I desperately needed protection, but I knew he was a terrible leader.”

Sayfal nodded.

“My – my Lord…” the girl said hesitantly, her voice soft, as if expecting to be rebuked. She flinched for a moment after drawing Sayfal’s attention, but when she saw he did not move, but merely regarded her coolly, she continued uncertainly, her cheeks flushed red. Sayfal raised an eyebrow, noticing the stir a ways below his gut.. “My Lord… Why did you kill One-Arm?”

“Hm.” Sayfal saw no reason to lie. “I am taking control of the underground.”

None of them spoke, but the question, ‘why?’ was heavy in the air.

“Because –” he began, but a strange hesitance crept over him, and he closed it, changing tack. “Because I aim to take over the city. I aim to be king,” he said instead. “Your guild was the first step.”

“So, you are our leader now, Lord Sayfal?” Rat asked.

Sayfal regarded him for a moment. “Lord Sayfal is nice,” he said finally, “but Grand Master is proper. Yes, I lead you now. We are not the Crimson Knights – you no longer, and I never have been. We are the Salriens, and I am the Grand Master Salrien.”

Silence followed his speech. Sayfal could see that they were all still coming to terms with the implications of all that he had said. The revelation that he wanted to take over the city – literally – was almost unfathomable. The underground had more influence than many nobles, but no one had ever attempted to openly conquer the city from the inside. He was different from the usual riff-raff; he knew this, and he could see they were beginning to see it too. He looked at each of their transfixed faces with a satisfied smirk.

“Now… Where did One-Arm use to sleep?” he asked them, looking Rat and Mace. Rat pointed to a tunnel his right and Sayfal’s left.

“There is only one door there,” Rat said.

Sayfal followed the direction. The natural corridor was mostly flat and less than half the main chamber’s width long. Sayfal saw the door on his left and pushed it open.

The bedchamber was lit by a lamp as well, sitting on a clumsy nightstand. A straw bed was to his right with a blanket draped over it, while across from him was a wardrobe. He would look through this later. Most of One-Arm’s clothes would not fit him – he was leaner than One-Arm had been, but perhaps he could salvage some cloaks from it. In any case, one last matter needed to be dealt with before he went to bed.

Exiting from the corridor, he saw the bearded man sitting at a table with Sneak bandaging his wound. Rat and Mace were deep in comfortable conversation while the petite girl still stood against the wall, frowning in worry for some reason.

“Get rid of One-Arm’s body, somewhere out of sight. I don’t want the fact that he is no more to be confirmed. The four of you – Rat, Mace, Sneak, and the one I wounded – will trade watches during the night. And you, girl,” he pointed to her and she started, looking up at him with big, apprehensive eyes, “will come with me.”

It seemed Sneak could not contain himself any longer. “You can’t take Vitaliah!” he blurted. Sayfal turned to him, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “You can’t!” He gestured towards the girl, who looked at Sayfal fearfully. “She’s One-Arm’s niece, and he’s always guarded her! No one of us was allowed to touch her! In all her years, she’s never been deflowered! You can’t take her with you now!”

Sayfal looked coldly at him, letting him know that he had just erred colossally – and irredeemably. he walked calmly up to him, not looking away from his eyes. “Good. I’ve not seen a virgin in years.”

Without the slightest change in expression, Sayfal stepped around him and kicked him behind the knee. In a small moment, he slipped a knife out and slit Sneak’s throat, who fell on the ground with a thud.

“Does anybody else have a problem with the way I run things around here?” he said coolly, but he knew the challenge in his voice could not have been plainer. Nobody objected. “Good.” He was liking this new situation.

He turned to Vitaliah and took her wrist, leading her to what had once been One-Arm’s chamber. She followed shyly, with her head bowed. He pushed her roughly into the room before him. The rest would hear her all night, but he did not care.

Sweeping one last glance around the chamber, his gaze stopped at Mace and Rat. The two men nodded smartly. Satisfied, Sayfal followed Vitaliah inside.