A Tale of Twisted Cities Book 1: the Rise of Becket
Chapter I
A Kingdom falls, or does it?
It’s a warm winter’s night, though it had been an unusually warm winter. But, still the chilly dim blue light cast by the moon, it simply made the landscape laid out before me, seem to be covered by a layer of ghostly frost. I found a chill running through my body, a chill not of wind or temperature, but of sight. For some reason I find this scene of nature so unnerving, as I stare at my reflection, and through my reflection to the ghostly forest, covered by ghostly frost, I feel like an ill omen is staring me in the face. The worn lines tracing my face, the dark shoulder length hair, with a few remaining traces of the dated part in the center, the tired eyes, cold blue in color, seeming to stare back into mine. My train of thought is interrupted by footsteps, not the quiet steps of a servant, nor the mocking steps of nobility, but the metal steps of a knight.
“Becket… messenger Becket!” I hear as I turn on my heel, to confront the interloper stepping on my inner dialogue.
“Knight captain Mitchell, of the king’s personal guard. Why are you delivering notes from court? Not that I mind the opportunity to… chat with such a striking young woman such as yourself.”
Knight Captain Carron Mitchell, was the first woman to be knighted into the king’s royal guard, and also the first female knight captain of the aforementioned kings guard. Either accomplishment would be more than notable, but put both together and you have an individual more than merely exceptional. and seeing how she wears heavy chainmail & plate, it should silence complaints about women in the military. She isn’t as tall and stocky as you may expect, more slender and agile than you might think, though if you misjudge her form for one that lacks muscle, you’d be sorely mistaken, and I mean sorely. She stands about 5’ 8” tall, stunning green eyes, shimmering like emeralds in the dancing candlelight, fierce red hair, tied into a simple yet elegant ponytail, tied in that fashion only because it’s practical to her. Her facial features are soft and slightly narrow, almost elfish in nature. And the faded scar running under her right ear, & along her jaw line, down to her chin somehow completes her appearance. Those who see fiery red hair, also seem to assume she is fiery by nature. She was always calm, calculating, & methodical… I would go so far as to call her cunning, if that didn’t grant an air of underhanded nefariousness.
“Becket… stop daydreaming” my mental dialogue once again interrupted, this time by cold metal fingertips tapping my cheek. “sorry” I replied quickly, “it’s been a hard week’s travel, over open country no less, I’m just tired”
“that’s fitting” she said, “as I was saying… the result of your dispatch, King Christophe has called in his advisors, if there’s to be a reply, it likely won’t be till ‘morrow morning, at the earliest.” I interject “so, you’ve arranged for quarters in the barracks, and the rest of my gear is already waiting… can I have my sword back now? I feel kind of naked without it. I’ve been a royal messenger for this king’s court for what… 10 years now? And they still don’t trust me enough to leave me armed?”
“you’re lucky, nobody’s taken the throwing daggers you keep clipped to the back of your belt, covered so neatly with that cloak of yours, I’d say you’re deadlier to the king with those, as opposed to that Elven Blade you’re so fond of. How’d you wind up with a title like royal messenger to the king’s court?”
“it sounds so much better than: hi, I’m one of King Christophe Halladin’s personal spies, doesn’t it?” I exclaimed. “And why do you keep addressing me as messenger Becket? It’s been what 20 years now?”
“Because, it’s the proper procedure, and I’m all about being proper.” She slips her hands down to her belt, her left clutching the grip of her blade, ever so lightly. “And Dane, you should get yourself out of the leather cuirass, and chainmail, and get some sleep, or respectively… ask that maid behind you to help you strip.” I pull a small silver case out of my satchel, as I snap it open… “Dane, you still smoke those? They make you smell like a church. You’re the last person that should smell like a church” I approach a lit torch, fluttering slightly as a slight breeze passes by, and I stick the rolled cigarette between my lips, as the end of the tube touches the torches corona, and ignites. I take a deep drag, and release a pillowy plume of smoke. “It’s the myrrh incense I roll into my tobacco, I like the flavor. And why shouldn’t I smell like a church, I mean me specifically? Is it because you’re still a soldier, and I’m just a killer now?”
“For starters.” She says, defensively. “Well… night, then” is my final retort.
I find myself walking down a drafty cold hallway about 30 or so yards from my assigned quarters, the floor is covered with thick red rugs, the walls are lined sporadically with torches & tapestries, it’s reminiscent of a lightshow, and it’s just for me apparently. I eventually find myself wondering how often the tapestries catch fire. My musings are abruptly cut short. Muffled sounds in the distance catch my attention, followed by several unmistakable sounds, the song of steel piercing flesh, and a few muffled whimpers, nearly silenced in a stiff breeze.
“****…” I mouth, nearly under my breath. I brush my black cape aside with a quick motion, exposing my right side as well as a string of knives strapped to my back, by a belt of all things, and I grip a throwing knife cautiously, my index finger extended outward caressing the smooth leather sheath as I draw it, I feel the friction in my hand and within my finger tips, a metal edge being pulled against worn leather, an odd nostalgic feeling. I fear being revealed by the sound alone, as it’s now dead quiet. I study the blade I’ve just drawn, the handle slightly curved, extending into the dull edge of the blade, the blade itself, about 4 inches long, it has a single cutting edge, it’s folded high-grade steel, overlaid with silver, the guardless hilt is silver as well, the entire thing is coldly glistening in the ghostly blue moonlight.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps approaching from a distance, it’s mostly pitch black as several torches were snuffed by a breeze, just as the lives here were. A calm, steady rhythm… not leather, nor metal, but cloth… I cling to the shadows within my small nook, hugging the wall with my back, a handy crevice indeed. The newcomer passing by with no clue I’m within an arm’s reach, my instinct is to lash out, though my training & experience stays my hand. Watch & wait, know what you’re dealing with before you act, those words nearly ring hollow in my mind. He’s wearing common clothing, not a sign of embellishment, clothing that’s merely meant to cover, and keep one fairly warm. I see no armor aside from a steel cuirass, no thick leather gloves, and simple shoes. So much the better I find myself thinking, just a cuirass, easy kill. I hear a second set of footsteps, a lot closer, these steps also appear to be cloth. They inch closer, and closer, and stop, exposing another figure from the darkness. A figure dressed nearly identically to my other visitor, though his cuirass seems to be studded & boiled leather, there’s an emblem carved into the leather… a dragon, kind of rapped ‘round a kite shield.
The newcomer turns to his colleague, and asks in a smooth voice “do you smell that?” he sniffs the air… three times. “Smell what?” the rough voice replies. “it’s… it smells like a church… you know that churchy smell.” The curt reply “it’s called myrrh, someone was likely burning incense nearby.” “Then why do I only smell it here, in the hallway?” the conversation breaks abruptly as a third set of footsteps can be heard, footsteps that have that unmistakable crack of leather to them. They stop suddenly, I hear the squeak of leather boots turning on a hard surface, they continue, at a quicker pace heading in my direction, the steps stop just out of eyesight… the third newcomer is an older “gentleman”, and he speaks with a tone of authority “what are you doing just standing there? We have a timetable… so get moving”
They both nod in reply, the rougher one motions down the hall with a small head gesture, and they walk off quickly, vanishing into shadow, just out of view.
I breathe a short sigh of relief, three on one I can handle… I think to myself, though it would likely make racket, and if there’s fifty guys around, them odds I don’t like. I continue to think, what now, my room, follow the two lackeys, or the guy seemingly most likely to be putting up the bill for all this, well he’s likely well guarded most of the time, I might get the chance to revoke his breathing privileges, then again I’m not fond of my chances of getting out of here alive after that. I think… yet another mental dialogue interrupted, this time by the sound of blade upon blade, the telltale clang of combat, combat as opposed to slaughter. Block, parry & ricochet, steel on stone, block…
I’ve done enough thinking, time to start acting. I head towards the commotion, the torches, some are out, some aren’t, the flickering is grating on my nerves. I stick to the shadows, hug corners & walls. I see movement everywhere, though it’s just shadows playing tricks, however, the moment I ignore it… I’m dead, that is if my current luck holds. As that would be the one flicker I should have been watching for. I now hear heavy breathing, a woman grunting every few seconds and footwork, mostly cloth footwork, but the dominating feet are clad in metal.
As I round this final corner, I see Mitch, and three dead bodies pooling or starting to pool blood, and two more uninvited guests, still standing, all wearing common clothing, each with blade and cuirass, the hallmark of our visiting guests apparently. And it seems my two visitors from just before have found this sight too, and Mitch is a tad too distracted with her own remaining pair of interlopers to notice. I pull a second knife from my back, two blades wedged between the spaces of the fingers of my fisted right-hand; I don’t have much time…
My first strike, I let it fly, straight from my fingers, as I rotate the second blade along my fingertips, sliding it into a position where I can accurately throw it, the same position the first blade was in as a matter of fact… that first blade hits home. His head flies back sharply as my blade sinks into the back of his neck, likely nicking the spinal column. He drops pretty much instantly, spurting blood, not quite a waterfall, but still. As for the other, he’s stopped his charge, staring blankly at his comrade, he’s likely the younger one, as a vet would have moved by now, though now it’s too late… my second blade catches the left side of his chest, just barely missing the cuirass, I think I heard a metal on metal contact, as well as the hard hit with tissue. However that doesn’t matter, as my knife stuck his heart. Not as clean a hit, though I couldn’t judge if he’d react, so I went for the lethal body hit, as opposed to the neck or head. He falls to his knees, twists his head slightly toward me, he falls forward, dead.
Mitch is basically a whirling dervish, an odd sight from someone dressed in heavy armor. She wields a longsword with a two handed technique, without a shield or off-hand weapon. Her movements are flowing, and continuous, one into the next, embellished by hints of improvisation, though she doesn’t miss a beat. Her first opponent falls quickly to a flurry of slices, nearly too fast for the eye to catch. He nearly looks like a pile of cut meat on the ground. Now for contestant number two. Slice, dodge backwards, block, elbow with off-hand to the face, parry, followed finally with a lunge… that did it, her blade pierces his gut, right below his cuirass, she continues to plunge her sword deeper, to the hilt, his eyes roll back, head slumps forward, and she pushes him back off her blade with her knee, he falls flat, face up, arms outstretched, well… I guess he can make snow-angels now, to his heart’s content.
“Where’d they come from? Wait, where’d you come from?...” She asks, staring at the two bodies in front of me, each with a dagger sticking out of ‘em.
“Sorry, I figured I’d follow them a bit, I was hoping to find something interesting, though I’d settle for merely entertaining… I always liked watching you work.” I said smiling, and perhaps playing just a tad coy.
I stroll up to my first victim, he's still laying facedown, my blade sticking out of his neck looks like an icicle in the dark, I place my left hand on the back of his head, and grip the handle of my knife, a stiff yank and it comes clear, blood sprays off the knife in a small thin arc, and slightly gurgles out of the wound I just made bigger, I clean the blade off, using the end of his shirt, it’s not like it was silk or anything, I carefully place it back in its sheath. I move to my second victim, once more I use my left hand, for leverage, and once more the blade comes out, with little fan fare… “hmph, I figured as much, it made contact with the edge of the cuirass when it went in, struck metal at an odd angle. The blade is cracked; cracked deep… the core is exposed too, so it’s just scrap.” I explained.
She walks up to me quickly, placing her armored elbow against my sternum, and pins me against the wall, nearly crushing the breath out of me, she draws her blade across my throat, I feel the sting of its sharp edge against my skin…
“You show up here carrying a missive… and the very same night a hostile force infiltrates the grounds, murders my men, and the king… and you think I would be naïve enough to believe you had nothing to do with it?” She declares, eyes wide, frantic, with more than enough rage to spare.
“if this is… an interrogation… you’re crap at it…” I try to force the words out, gasping. “for a person… to talk… they need to… breathe.” She eases off a bit, but doesn’t withdraw her arm. I continue. “ok, better. Now look, I don’t know what’s going on here anymore than you.”
“Bullshit!” is her reply, she presses the blade harder into my neck, I feel the slight trickle of blood, though my head is still firmly planted on my shoulders.
I again continue. “Look, I’m too tired for this. If it makes you happy, then fine… I’m the guy, I planned this and set it in motion, now lob my head off if it pleases you, once I’m dead maybe I’ll finally get some rest.”
She pulls back her arm, and withdraws her sword from my throat. Though she takes a defensive stance, and brings her sword in low, prepared to strike if need be. I slowly rub the nick on my neck, it feels about as slight as a large paper cut. “Give me one good reason why I should trust you…” She asks.
“Think back, what was one of the first things I told you, way back when, when we first met? It was during that summer campaign. I’ll remind you. As a rule, I believe in coincidence, as sometimes things just happen, however, I still believe such coincidences should be treated with suspicion. So honestly, I can’t really think of a reason, everything I’ve done here could be a ruse to earn your trust, for some undisclosed reason or another. Though, since that’s not the case I can’t offer a reason to go through all that trouble.” i shrug my shoulder as I reply. She sheathes her sword, a simple gesture with no embellishment, it makes this soothing clink as the hilt hits the end of the scabbard.
“Oh, I was hoping I’d finally get some rest after all, I guess not though?” I tilt my head slightly and a slight smirk crosses my face.
“Shall we head to my room; I’d like to grab my sword if I can?” “Your sword should stay right where it is… Oh, you mean your actual sword, the elven one? Ok, that… we can do that.” She laughs, jokingly.
“h-i-l-a-r-i-o-u-s” is the only thing I can think to mutter, chuckling a little & shaking my head slightly as well. “Shall we go now?” I ask, making a somewhat half-handed sweeping gentlemanly gesture, in the direction of my quarters.
We start walking, there’s a kind of flimsy wooden door on the wall beside me, it’s cracked open slightly, a sliver of light is creeping out of it, it’s that chilly blue moonlight & there’s this swirling dust filled pattern lit by that sliver of light. “That’s the guard’s dining room there.” she points directly at the door we’re just passing. I cautiously push the door open, it creeks a bit, I hope there’s no one in earshot.
The scene is surreal, there’s a large glass window & drapes, and both wide open, just like most windows & doors. That damned cold blue-white or is it white-blue moonlight draping everything in sight. I guess if the winter estate was all closed off in this heat, we’d all melt. I say estate, as that’s what it’s called, but it’s a castle, not as large as some of the others, but still a castle, I guess it does make the place sound quaint or something. Well, anyway… there’s about a dozen royal guardsmen lounging about, some in chairs, a few seem to be eating & drinking at a table sitting on a bench, some have their feet stretched out on the floor, some have their feet propped on a table, a few have their arms crossed over their chest, while most have their arms hanging down at their sides. Some are in full chainmail & plate, some in the royal cloth uniforms, red & black stripes, the kings colors, though everything looks either black, white or varying shades of grey, thanks to this damned light, a few are wearing surcoats, some are clad in chainmail & leather, though all bear the kings crest, a falcon with wings outstretched. At first glance they look to be sleeping, and in a relaxed state, though after a few seconds it’s easy enough to tell they’re not breathing. I’ve seen scenes like this before, even caused a few myself.
I turn my head to Mitch, her mouth is hanging open slightly, draped in this cold blue light she somehow looks even more depressed, or perhaps merely looks depressing. I walk to the main table, there’s four soldiers sitting there, two seem to be drinking ale, or they were, the other two seem to have been in the middle of eating, sandwiches made from leftover cuts of meat and gravy, it seems. I sit at the edge of the table, between two guards placing my feet on the bench, basically sitting backwards. I examine the dead woman next to me, an archer judging by the leather & light chainmail. Though, the longbow & quiver didn’t hinder the identification either. Her skin is pale, very pale, even in this light… her eyes shut, head laying back, mouth half open, if her chest was moving, I’d say she was drunk and sleeping it off. I prod her shoulder, hard. She slides of the bench, sideways, and hits the floor with a dull thump, though she’s still in the exact same position she was sitting in, like I just toppled a statue. Mitch is looking at me like I’ve just gone crazy and I’m dancing around the room, in the nude. I walk over to the body I’ve just laid out on the floor, I nudge it slightly in the back with my boot, twice…
“Hey, show some ****** respect Dane.” She says angrily. “She… They, are far too fresh too be this stiff” I say, calmly, or perhaps coldly. “Likely a result of the poison used. I’m starting to not like this possibility, I mean more so.” I stated.
I walk back over to the table, there’s a tankard for the spot she was sitting, I grab it, and pop the top with my thumb. I sniff the contents, strong ale, and something else, something like mint, peppermint perhaps. I slosh the contents carefully in the container, and suddenly fling the contents along in a small arch against the wall. The ale splashes along the wall, and starts dripping down right away, though there is a “residue” that’s also dripping, dripping more slowly. Like maple syrup. I stare back into the bottom of the tankard, there’s a white film covering it.
“Winterglaze, it’s called Winter’s Glaze.” I say. “huh?” is her puzzled reply.
“It’s an alchemical toxin, or poison, more deadly than aconite, though slower acting. It has to move through the blood stream first, takes about an hour, the initial effects are euphoria and what resembles mild inebriation, as the subject appears to become more inebriated after a time, usually about another hour, they start to get lethargic, tired, at that point they fall unconscious, then die about 2 hours later, give or take. It’s not pungent, nor bitter unlike aconite… it’s not painful either, well, as far as one can know that is. When the compound is exposed to air, it begins to thicken so it needs to be used quickly unless you want to apply it to a weapon that is, but it will still dissolve into liquids, for a time. It will thicken and start to separate from whatever it’s suspended in, after a while. It’s called winterglaze because of the white powdery film it leaves behind, though it’s also called winterbreath ‘cause when it breaks down in the body it hardens the muscle tissue, kind of freezing the victim in place for a time.” I state
“Who uses this stuff?” she asks. “As far as I know, it takes a skilled alchemist to make, if they have the right equipment, and it’s not cheap… we use this stuff a bit… which is a fact i find troubling.”
“Is it a royal messenger special, this Winter’s Breath?” she asks. “You mean exclusive to us? Hardly, so it’s not conclusive. See those vats?” I point to a stack of wooden barrels in the corner, about seven in total, stacked in a triangle formation. “Those were being loaded into the keep when I arrived, and there were more. My guess, these thugs infiltrated the castle at that time with their cargo, as I’m fairly sure the wintersglaze was delivered in those. I suppose two or so could have been filled with a load of weapons and cuirasses, instead of tainted ale.” “How many people did you see loading vats, when you arrived?” she asks
“I saw twenty-four, though I couldn’t say how many there were in total, nor if they brought in more later, as there’s likely hidden entrances I’m unaware of. And I’d say we’re dealing with more than just twenty-four people, they could have been stacking the castle staff with their people too. And that’s really the only way I see this working, now that I’m actually thinking about it.”
I take one more look around, and see nothing of note, besides the corpses.
“How many men were stationed here?” I ask. “Around two-hundred & fifty, all royalguard, about forty knights, forty-one if you include me. I came down here to sound the alarm, though no one answered. How many would you say are left Becket?” I shake my head “if I had to guess… I’d say none at this point. We’d have seen or heard them, and I think I heard the last being put down in their sleep. Sorry, Mitch” “****… I guess this is my worst command, a total loss, and the king…” she trails off.
“We should keep moving, unless you want this to be the last thing we’re known for.” I wish I could have thought of something to say, anything at all, though all that came to mind was… nothing, just silence & crickets. We continue moving on our not so merry way, my quarters aren’t far.
Luckily, we didn’t run into anyone else up to this point, because even though Mitch can certainly move in heavy armor, it’s not quiet. We’re just outside my quarters, though, there’s someone in my room, old leather boots if I had to guess, judging by the sounds of his steps. I signal Mitch with my palm, hold... the meaning should be clear, even in this darkness. She slinks back slightly, finding a nice dark corner to slip into. Mister “authority”, he’s mumbling to himself, unaware that I can hear him, and suddenly my knife is at hand, hmph… I don’t even recall drawing it, reflex I guess. l glue myself to the wall, slithering like a snake to the entryway to my room. “Where the devil is Becket hiding… if I were a royal spy, where would I hide during this mess… wait, that’s right I am a royal spy, and that still doesn’t help me. He wouldn’t be far from this blade, so if it’s here, he should be too.” There’s that voice of authority again, and now that he’s closer I can hear him clearly, and his voice does sound familiar, though I’m having trouble placing it. I’m right by the door, taking peeks inside, when I feel I can risk it. There’s that damnable blue light still, it’s everywhere, even the lit candles in my room can’t drown it out. The room itself is fairly Spartan, though the furniture herein is of high quality, oak, lacquer, silver and gold, there’s a desk next to the window, with a silver platter, it’s well lit, there seems to be several sealed dispatches there, the type of dispatches I usually carry. The “gentleman” in my quarters is about as tall as I am, short gray hair, all I can see of his outfit is leather, leather cuirass, hood, pauldrons, greaves, and riding gloves & boots, reminds me of what I wear, except I usually wear more chainmail, though he could be wearing a suit of light-mail under it, if the leather is keeping it quiet, like my outfit does. Hard to tell for sure. In his hand, is a longsword, made of elfish steel, sometimes called skysteel, as it’s blue-ish silver in color, the blue light seems to make it glow bright white, like it’s been super heated, it has a “horseshoe” guard on the hilt, and the grip is black leather, with a sharp spike as a pummel. The blade itself is 22” in length, the fuller is 18” and the edges slope inward slightly in the midsection, and comes to a sharp point. That’s my blade, my longsword… he’s holding my sword… my sword. I think I’m going to have to replace the entire hilt as I’m not going to ever get that guy’s filth off it. “Damn-it Becket, I was simply going to kill you, now I'm going to make it hurt… where the hell are you?” He mutters once again.
I move quickly, I’m still behind him, I secure his chin/jaw by pinning it shut from underneath with my left fist, pulling his head back, and pulling him off balance, at the same time my right arms comes across his chest, pinning his right arm to his side. “I’m right here…” I mutter to myself, as he’s not going to live long enough to remember.
My right hand drives the blade of my knife just under his left armpit, there isn’t much resistance, though I drive that blade quite violently into his heart, there’s a sharp clanking sound as the elven blade hits the floor, my knife comes out easily enough, and I drive it back in for a second strike. He’s wiggling, and thrashing about, or trying to thrash about, and whimpering slightly as his life drifts by the fingers of my right hand. Once he stops moving, I remove my blade from his side, & I release my grip, he falls unceremoniously to the floor. All in all, it only lasts a few seconds, though it seems a bit longer. So, I was right… He wasn’t wearing chainmail, I think to myself. I stare at my knife, the blood appears black, thanks to that ghostly moonlight, the blackness very nearly covers the whole thing, my right hand is drenched in it as well, I wipe my blade off on the back of his cuirass, and sheath it, I proceed to wipe my glove off as well. I carefully grab my longsword, still glistening in the moonlight, not a scratch I think to myself. I slowly sheath my blade, as the hilt clicks against the edge of the scabbard I feel a touch of relief.
I hear metal footsteps behind me, approaching slowly & carefully, one by one. Mitch drops her head out from behind the door, the rest of her leaning against the front of the doorframe. “Dane, is this what you do these days?” she whispers.
“Only when things go this wrong, usually I’m not sent out to simply kill some poor bastard. Not unless there’s no time for finesse. I’m no angel, nor have I ever been, nor do have any sitting on my shoulders either… sometimes the best I can do is shake the demons off me.” is my reply. I nudge the body of my latest victim with my boot halfheartedly, and flip him over, his face is one of shock or surprise, and it’s a face I know well, too well. “Damn… you stupid… bastard… you ****** stupid bastard!” I can’t resist the urge, I kick him, his body, once, and hard. It’s a sickening sound, like punching raw meat, though I wouldn’t normally think it was all that sickening to puck a hunk of meat. The tip of my boot is covered in his blood, I see it clearly as I look down.
“You knew this ******?” she asks, stepping closer.
I nod “We called him Bishop… he was my first spymaster, he is to me as I am to you. A few years ago… when I went my way, and you stayed but traveled yours, he showed me the ropes, and made me who… No, what I am… today. When I stopped being Lieutenant Dane Hooper of the Northwood Rangers, he showed me how to be Becket. He was demoted though, and I was taken from my post in the eastern coast, and placed to the south under a new spymaster.” I move over towards the desk, lit with candlelight, thankfully the moonlight doesn’t shine here, I’m not sure I could handle it if it did. Once more I reach into my satchel, and again I pull out my silver case. “Dane… for **** sake, again?” Mitch asks as I pop the case open. I remove a cigarette, and lower my head to the desk, I slowly place the end near the candle’s dancing flame, once more the corona of the flame ignites it, I pull a long drag as I pull my head back, and release a massive plume of smoke, that oddly enough makes me smell like a church. “If I don’t get a chance to smoke soon, I’m going to drown myself in the moat before we go.” I state firmly, my free hand hanging onto my hip.
There are four dispatches sitting neatly on the engraved, oval shaped, silver platter on my desk, each sealed in red wax, bearing the personal seal for the king of FaeyFolken. I place the cigarette firmly between my lips, and I slowly & deliberately pick up each missive, one at a time, studying them as I do. I look towards captain Mitchell “These dispatches… could the king have written them?” I ask, already fearing the answer.
“No, he didn’t have time. He was too busy discussing the situation with his staff of advisors. And no one had a clear answer, so there wasn’t even a reason to write these.” She says.
I take a long drag, pondering for a moment, and I release the smoke from deep within my lungs. And it finally hits me “Wait, what situation… specifically, what was being discussed?” I ask.
“Don’t you know?” she replies, puzzled. “No, when I get these, they’re already sealed, I only know where to take them, and who to give them to.” I answer.
“These missives you bring here, they contain updates, collections of factual information & rumors, along with field reports. The stuff the southern operatives dig up, the stuff you dig up.” She states, even more puzzled. “You have to know some of this Becket, your name is listed several times within the reports themselves. I know ‘cause I was in the king’s presence when most of this was being discussed”
Now I’m puzzled, and physically scratching my head. “The only issues I know of are the occasional raids, from those nomadic trolls foraging in the southern wilderness, and the banditry going on around the city of Stoneanvil, in the far southeast. Neither of those issues requires that much thought.” I say.
“What about the unrest, the enraged nobles, the citizenry nearly at a state of rioting, the individuals fanning the flames on both sides, the list of names, the influx of arms…” I interrupt. “This is all news to me, I haven’t seen any signs of this, anywhere in the south…” Now Mitch interrupts me. “This is insane…” she mutters. I nod my head in agreement while taking and releasing a drag of my cigarette.
I place the messages back on the desk, one at a time, and they’re seated neatly one next to the other. I point to some odd markings on the envelopes, just above the seals. And I take another deep drag and release it. “Those markings, there, there, there, and there.” I say, pointing to each note one after the other. “The first group of markings tell me where to go, the second tells me which contact to hand these notes to. This first one here, it’s going to General Strauss’s aide, at the garrison in Loeden, I’ve delivered several missive there to him. This second one, give me a second…” I pull a small hand written leather-bound booklet out of my satchel. “Let’s see here… hmm…” I flip through several pages, and I run my finger down a small list of locations. “Bennen…” I flip through more pages, and once again my finger slips through a list. “ah, here… the quarry near the town of Bennen, an operative named Fisher. Note number three, oh, easy… that’s the capital Khitaan, the chancellor’s office, in the castle fortress. And this last one… um.” I flip through my tiny book, then again more slowly. “uh, this last letter… I don’t have a location for this marking, nor an identity on the recipient. Damn.”
“Dane, what does that mean? The fact this note is written on in your code, but you don’t know the location, or contact?” she asks.
“There are a few possibilities that come to mind. First, is that my directory is currently outdated, and I simply haven’t been updated yet. Second, this is a misprint, a lot less likely. Or third, this is meant for a location outside, way outside of my operating area, that I’ve had no cause to visit, nor would I be likely to.” I state.
“So, he has a directory like yours? Can’t we just use his?” she ponders out loud.
“I’m certain he does, I’m equally certain that he doesn’t have it on him. Operating procedures… When engaged in activities, remove all important artifacts, papers, etc… use previously arranged safe drop locations, to be cleaned up in the event of you’re death, capture, being overdue – by secondary operatives. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t search him, but quickly though, we’re running out of time here” I reply. I cut the strap on his satchel with a quick motion with my quickly drawn knife, Mitch takes it, and quickly flips it upside-down, spilling the contents all over the stone floor. I reach for a second dagger from my back, I hand it to Mitch, handle first. “Cut the bag into strips… carefully. We need to make sure he hasn’t hidden anything in the fabric… And we may need bandages.” I ask. She diligently slices the satchel into rough, yet oddly neat strips. As I comb over his person “Nothing.” She says. And I’ve stumbled upon a sealed missive, one that’s been opened. “These markings… This is the missive I was carrying when I arrived here. Why would Bishop be carrying that? Especially if it was fake?” I ponder, to myself as much as to Mitch. “Because it was fake perhaps?” she also starts pondering now. “Still doesn’t make much sense, though, perhaps we just don’t know enough, for this to start making sense just yet.” I say, mostly thinking out loud.
“What’s it say?” she asks. “I don’t know, not yet. This message isn’t decrypted yet. As it’s the original. In the field we use a different cipher, other than the missives sent by couriers like me. I know the cipher, though not well, as I never use it, I certainly can’t tackle this with a quick glance, it will take time.” I say.
I take a slow hardy drag off my cigarette this time, hold it for a sec, and let it out just as slowly. “Now I know why he had to kill me at least.” I say. “What? How’d you figure that? As I’m still a tad lost here.” She mutters.
I place the cigarette held in my left hand firmly in my mouth, it’s sticking slightly to my upper lip. I raise my right hand, the four missives arrayed like a hand of cards, I smack them into the palm of my left hand. “Someone’s painting a story here… and has been for some time… for it to be bought, I can’t be alive to contest the narrative.” I state firmly.
“Hold on a second… there were other operatives on that list. Are they…” she starts to ask, though I interrupt. “Dead, yep… or, they will be before we can do anything about it; that is unless they’re a part of this. This is a part of the job; hell this is the job, I knew the risks going in, they did too. And I’m still here… and alive… for the time being. Who knows, perhaps the rest of us get out of this too. I doubt it, though it would still be nice.”
“And you chose this? Willingly?” she asks, strangely confused, or perhaps sarcastically. I nod my head anyway “Uh-huh, yes, that’s about it. I do know I’m kind of crazy, always have been. But it’s the good kind of crazy. Unless you wish I wasn’t here. In which case you’d likely be dead by now… no?” “Good point.” She says in reply.
My cigarette is down to a stump, I squash it out on that platter, quite convincingly, and I find myself staring at the embers and smoke, it reminds me of something, only for a fleeting second, but I can’t quite recall it. I turn to Mitch.
“So, which move do we make now? Try to kill these pricks one at a time, and likely get overrun at some point, before we’re done? Or, do we slip out quietly, and try to do something about this mess? You’re the captain here… hell I don’t even have a rank anymore.” I say.
“I’m actually for the run around, and kill as any of them as we can plan myself… however, I’d rather not die as the worst captain in the royal guard’s history… so that kind of spoils my fun.” Mitch replies.
“So, save our necks today, so we can cut theirs tomorrow. I can work with that.” I reply. I walk back to the corpse now pooling blood on the floor, Mitch follows suit. I start gathering the items from his satchel, the various items Mitch dumped on the floor haphazardly. Just in case we missed something in our haste, Mitch does the same. “They likely have the overt entry and exit points guarded by now, as well as whatever covert access points they may have discovered, if they’ve been here the whole time, they likely know a lot of ‘em.” I note kind of depressingly.
“There’s one I’m fairly sure they don’t know about, there were always too many guardsmen around there, at least for someone to go poking around aimlessly. Captain of the royal guard, remember… it’s near the King’s council chambers.” she states. “That’s where this attack would have been most focused… though their targets there are dead already…” Now Mitch interrupts me. “And they’ve likely dispersed to go looking for whoever killed eight of their guys. And they might think it’s just you alone too.”
“Well, I’m sold… let’s go” I say.
We warily work our way around the castle, clinging to any nook & dark corner we can find, Mitch is being especially careful, what with her wearing a tin can & everything. Eventually we find our way to our destination. We’re perched along a flight of stairs, near the top. We’re camped in front of a large enclosed space. I get a whiff of smoke as I let my eyes adjust. I can see a small intricately carved dinner table… I think, or what’s left of it, a few smaller tables, one is still fairly intact, a few toppled chairs, also mostly intact, it seems that there are paintings or were paintings lining the walls, and now I see… nine bodies, mostly royal guard, and a fellow with what looks like a black silk robe, lined with gold or silver, lots of gold or silver jewelry, and one of those silly hats that rich people seem to like, though it’s no longer sitting on his head, he’s likely an advisor of some sort, or more likely a diplomat. The victims carry varying wounds, a few slit throats & a few deep gashes. There seems to be blood smeared sporadically along the walls, ruined a few portraits, as well as spilled all over the floor, I think I can make out the outline of a pair of heavy oak doors too. Though it’s still too dark to be sure what’s what. The room is nearly pitch black, no windows. What candles or torches were placed here, well, they aren’t here any longer. Mitch and I exchange glances.
“There…” Mitch whispers, pointing to a section of wall, wall adorned with a portrait, there seems to be two metal objects one on either side of it… candlestick holders? “Really, Mitch, really? Isn’t that practically a cliché?” I mumble quietly
“Well, it’s not my first choice, but I didn’t design the ****** place.” she whispers back.
I don’t see any hostiles, though I can’t see much of anything. The walls along the staircase limit my view, as does the darkness. “It looks clear…” I’m interrupted by footsteps. Now I hear a large mass of metal shifting, and a knight clad in heavy plate crosses my vision, not right in front us, but close enough for a half decent view of him, even in this darkness. A full suit of metal plate, box like helm and all, and a surcoat, and I can’t quite make out the markings, some floral pattern, & the final touch… some kind of heavy blade, a claymore perhaps, can’t tell much more, not in this darkness. Mitch turns to me and hits me with this look, I’ve seen this look before, it roughly means… you don’t really want to know what it means, honestly, you don’t. I turn to Mitch again, I place a single finger on my mouth, that meaning should also be clear. I watch and wait, there’s a lot of waiting in espionage apparently. I make the hand gesture of “wait right here”, she doesn’t like it, but she’d make too much noise, and she knows it. I get up as quickly and quietly as I can manage, and make a mad dash for the broken overturned dinner table, I go prone and slide under the tabletop, which isn’t actually on top anymore, I crawl to the other side of the tabletop, and I stop, cold. I don’t make a single motion, not even moving my chest to breathe, his quaking footsteps pass me by, he nearly steps on my head as a matter of fact. I quietly slip out from underneath the table, or the ruins of the table rather… I quietly stand, I’m directly behind him, inching ever so slightly towards him, he must sense something, as he’s stopped walking, and is slowly scanning the room with his eyes, luckily he must see far less than I because of that damned helm. I’m in reach now, seems like an eternity… finally I grab the front of his helm, as well as the back of his neck, I twist my hands in opposing directions quickly, rapidly twisting his head around to our left, there… I think, as the solid snap I’ve been waiting for sounds, it seems to echo throughout the room. I severed his spinal column at the neck. He goes limp, I manage to grab him before he drops, I give a small prayer for my quick reflexes. And I slowly drape him over the ground, face up, like a blanket or something. I take a quick sigh of relief, and wipe the sweat from my brow.
Mitch is walking towards me, she slugs me in the shoulder, hard. “It looks clear…” she states, sarcastically, that’s definitely sarcasm.
“It did look clear though, you can’t blame me for that.” I say, nursing my bruised shoulder.
We study my armored opponent lying on the ground; I guess they’re a lot less intimidating when they can’t move. The odd crest, it’s the same one the rest of these thugs are wearing, the surcoat is covered by a floral pattern, alternating light & dark petals, like one of those odd paintings that trick the eyes, and he seems to be wielding an Elven claymore, can’t see much more than the flowing guard and the metal grip, though the honor markings on his coat I can see clearly, and those I do know quite well, as does Mitch, he’s bearing the title of a Knight Crusader, whoever this guy is, he was good, apparently. As I draw my elven blade it rings slightly as it lightly vibrates in my hand, just for a second or two, as it clears my scabbard. I grab the front of his surcoat tugging at its bottom, I shear off a large section, a section that includes his crest and title.
“Why’d you do that Becket, with his surcoat? That’s a tad bit disrespectful, more than a tad actually.” she asks.
“More so than sneaking up behind him and breaking his neck, supposedly denying him an honorable death and a final combat?” I reply curtly, perhaps a tad too curtly. “Sorry, Mitch... That was… a tad bit sharper than I had intended. Though, if he was all that concerned about honor, in the first place, I doubt he’d be here now.” I state.
I sheath my blade quickly, and it makes that pleasing ring again just for a moment, as it comes to rest in the scabbard. I fold up the marked cloth neatly, and shove it into my satchel, there’s hardly any room left in there I notice.
“You’re not going to hang that somewhere, as some kind of sick trophy, or something… are you? She asks.
“Since when have I ever been sooo… Morbid? Or hell, I don’t even know what to call that. But, to answer your question… no, I’m not hanging it somewhere… to boast about how big my massively big ego is, or what-have-you. I need this to find out who these people are, who they may be connected to, who this guys here was, and above all, proof they were here.” I ramble on
“Let’s get going already. I had enough of rude guests for tonight. How ‘bout you Mitch?”
She walks up to the painting; it’s a portrait of King Christophe no less, in what appears to be gold plated armor. I’d think something sarcastic at this moment, though it’s not the right time for it, him being dead and all, I’m not so depraved as to make insulting thoughts about a king who just died here tonight, though I guess I kind of just did...
She turns to the first candlestick holder, the one on the left, she twists clockwise till it’s upside-down, then she turns to the candlestick located to the right, she twists that counterclockwise till it too, is upside-down. Now to the first one, she continues turning it clockwise until it’s right side up, now back to the right, and now she’s turning that one around the other way, clockwise, till it to is back to its proper upright position. There are some clicking noises, something that sounds like gears churning, suddenly the section of wall containing the painting is pushed back, and slides to the right behind or perhaps into the remaining wall section.
“Who designed this? What happens if someone needed a quicker getaway?” I ask, jokingly.
She simply shakes her head, and gestures towards the hole in the wall. I stick my head in there just to see… nothing, just a small space encased in stone, I look down, oh… a ladder. Hmm, didn’t see that coming.
“There’s a river that flows under the castle, it continues to travel aboveground, for a quite a few miles at least, when it clears the outer limits of the keep that is. There’s a small boat too.” She says.
We carefully clime down the ladder, it’s still pretty much pitch black, not much to see, unless you study green and brown mold, growing on stone brickwork. We come to a small wooden dock, with a small wooden boat moored to it, it seems someone carved a cove out and flooded it with water, unless the water was always here, I study the blackness of the water as Mitch flips a switch, I hear metal in the distance and clanking from the crawlspace we just came from, likely the passageway being resealed & perhaps a gate being opened up ahead, I see darkness fading off slightly, and the further my eyesight travels the brighter it seems to get, though everything that’s lit has that stupid blue hue from the damn blue moonlight. I help her climb carefully into the boat, if she goes overboard she’s never going to make it back into the boat, all that armor. Now she helps me as well. We sever the ropes tying the small boat to the docks, and i pull the paddles out from under some white fabric covering the aft section of this thing.
“So what do we do now… Now that we’ve escaped that deathtrap?” Mitch asks. “If this were part of some story being told, this is the scene where we start kissing passionately, though I’d rather go take a nap, myself… though, I’m not saying I’d mind, or anything, if that… other thing happened either. I say joking
Mitch simply smiles and nods, nooo.
And we’re on our merry way.
After a few minutes, ok, about one minute, I can’t seem to keep rowing, the fatigue is catching up with me I guess. I slink a little lower into the boat, kind of sprawled out over the floor. Mitch picks up the other oar as well as my slack, she either seems fine with it, or I’m going delusional, hard to say which. I close my eyes and start to drift off for a while.
*there’s nothing to see or hear for a little while, besides the swaying & creaking of the boat, the water kicking up against the hull, quite soothing and everythi…*
“What the…!” The words I manage to stumble out of my mouth, as I feel a slight explosion of wood flecks, seeming to wake me from my near slumber. I look towards the odd sensation in my arm, hmm, there’s an arrow sticking out of my shoulder, sitting out at a strange angle. There are a few other arrows scattered around the small wooden boat, a few more now floating next to it, about five or so are actually in it, those five have nearly identical odd angles, meaning they were arched to travel as far as possible, a firing technique used to extend the range of a bow, they must be firing at near maximum range judging by the angle. I must be in shock, or it’s the adrenalin, as I don’t feel any pain, even though an arrow has pierced my chainmail sleeve, and part of my arm. I break off the end of the arrow, and throw it overboard halfheartedly; i reach into my satchel & I pull the scraps of fabric Mitch made out of Bishop’s bag, I then draw one of my knives, using it to pry the chainmail apart with my good arm… after a few moments I’ve “cut” a simple slit through the arm of my sleeve, and i begin to dress the wound, leaving the arrowhead in. and only a single thought occurs to me now, winter’s breath.
Mitch is rowing hard, though she can let up as we’ve reached the apex of the currents within river, and the arrows are now falling far short. We are now more or less adrift along the currents of the river. And everything is encased in that damn light, that ghostly blue moonlight. It’s reflecting off the water, it’s in the boat, it’s cast over the green rolling hills, well if the grass was still there… Mitch finally drops the oars back into the boat and relaxes a bit
I’m thinking to myself now, this winter is in full swing, though it’s not punching at all, no snow, it’s not even all that cold, it’s actually kind of pleasant, or it would be if not for that arrow, the adrenalin must be wearing off a bit now, as I’m starting to feel trickles of pain rolling back. There’s about 3 years left in this winter, and that only means the nights are going to last for four days, and the days themselves only last for sixteen hours or so.
“You hit Mitch?” I ask. “I’m fine, though you don’t seem to be doing too good.” She says, mildly worried.
“Winter’s Breath!” I yell, or think I yell. Mitch apparently forgot it can be applied to weapons, such as arrowheads. Now… now, she seems worried, really worried.
“Well, I guess I might be getting that sleep I was dying for either way.” I say, only half joking. Mitch doesn’t seem amused, and she crosses her arms, and begins leaning backwards a tad more, against the corner of the boat. “Careful, you don’t want to fall off the end of the boat, and drown… do you?” I ask. “I might prefer that, as opposed to what’s coming.” She states sarcastically, everyone loves sarcasm apparently.
Chapter II
A Missive Never Sent.
I find myself slightly confused, ok… more than slightly. It’s daylight, I’m seeing daylight, the sun’s rays seeping through the tree-canopy, it’s daytime apparently. But… that’s impossible, as there’s at least two “days” worth of night left. I notice I’m still in a forest, though the trees aren’t right, this isn’t the grounds of the king’s estate anymore, this is somewhere else, though, it’s somewhere familiar. The ground is covered in snow, not frost but snow, and there’s this fog, or mist… it bobs around the plants, the plants that still poke up above the white sheet of snow, and the fallen logs peaking up out of it. That mist… it’s almost a slithering rug slowly moving to cover the blanket of snow, and my boots. I’m almost wearing my usual attire, I’m not wearing my cloak, though I do seem to have my old leather pauldrons, the one on my right, still bearing the emblem of a Lieutenant, the metal insignia I personally defaced, as out here the orcs target officers first, I figured that would help keep me alive, though I was wrong… as the orcs aren’t as dumb as I’d hoped, and the defaced emblem only told the orcs I was a more intelligent officer than usual, and a bigger threat, so eventually I stopped wearing them all together. I stare at my cuirass, the crest covering my heart fully visible, now that it’s no longer covered by a cloak. The two black steeds, or their busts in profile rather, crossing one another, the coat of arms sitting in the valley the two images create, a red and white checker pattern covering it, the words “Northwood Rangers” draped under the image in a ribbon. I hear voices in the distance, muffled, and drifting away from me, I start walking forward; carefully brushing branches out of my way… out here the trees still keep a lot of their leaves, even during winter. The voices get closer, and closer, though they remain just as muffled. I step into a clearing… and the voices clear as well, I step into a hastily assembled campsite. To the very scene I observed twenty some odd years ago, at the start of the so called “Summer Campaign”. There’s around thirty or so men and women collected around a campfire, wearing leather, chainmail, and cloth. Humans & elves, varying ages, some wearing hoods some not. There’s another officer strolling back and forth at the other end of the fire-pit, a colonel, seems to be addressing the men. He’s a bit short for an elf, I find myself thinking, blond hair in a crew-cut, slender facial features, green eyes, and a thin, well trimmed beard. Hmm, it took me a little time, though I’ve realized I must be asleep.
“These Orcs have put aside their tribal squabbles, and unified under a single banner… their warlords rally their troops with dreams of conquest, a conquest of the FaeyFolken kingdom… Glad you decided to finally join us Lieutenant” the colonel states in a calm tone as he turns to the newcomer, namely me.
I nod, and bow slightly to acknowledge my tardiness. The groups eyes briefly turn to me, then back to colonel Tanner, or is it Bannard, or whatever… And he continues.
“As I was saying, the royal army is forming at Crystal Lake, absorbing the garrison stationed at Silverlake Fortress. This army will be 20,000 strong, though it will take roughly one week to assemble, and at least 3 days to move into position, likely longer on both counts. The bulk of the Northwood contingent of rangers will join that group serving as a vanguard force; however, a small selection of rangers will assemble separately, this force here actually. Your group will arrive ahead of the main force, your role will be to gather intelligence, disrupt enemy communications, instigate hit and run attacks, and covertly eliminate enemy officers. Just prior to the main offensive, your unit will regroup for a final action, target their major encampments with slashing strikes, engaging the hostile main force until they are able to react, at which point your units will withdraw westward, pulling the enemy into the wrong direction, so the royal army can cut into their flank with their opening strike. Care to take it from here lieutenant, um…” the colonel gestures towards me with a quick wave of his hand, or two.
“Hooper, sir… boys, the colonel is telling us to basically annoy the Orcs to death for about two-to-three weeks. Fast hard strikes, make it hurt, then vanish like smoke in a stiff wind…” I turn away from my men for a moment or two, and face the officer. “With all due respect sir, if the force we’re up against is anything like the numbers I have in my head, we need at least 3 times our current number… Unless you don’t mind sending most of our families letters of condolence.” Is my response.
“Hooper… in a perfect, fair world you’d have those numbers, in fact there wouldn’t be fighting at all, though this world we live in isn’t perfect nor is it fair, if we deprive the royal army of anymore rangers, that would slow the deployment of the entire main force, this unit was assembled with the best troops the Northwood rangers have to offer. If the men here can’t accomplish this task, no one can.” Is his retort.
“Sir, I never said we wouldn’t get it done, I was implying most won’t live to see the conclusion… but… we’ll get it done, that I promise.” Is my final reply… as I’m suddenly awakened, by the sensation of our boat running aground I wonder?
I slowly open my eyes, it’s a tad blurry… and my vision begins to clear. I see Mitch staring at me with those picturesque green eyes.
“You’re finally up…” she asks “Huh, uh… yes…” is my groaning reply. I blink repeatedly, and rub my eyes.
“How are you feeling? You should be feeling it now… if you’re correct about the effects of the poison.”
“It’s hardly an exact estimate, the factors can vary from person to person. Though I feel like crap, so… no inebriation, nor feelings of ecstasy… so far so good, or perhaps so far not so feeling good. I’d say that’s better in our current… or, perhaps my current situation, I should say.” I state. I slowly rise, the fatigue fighting me.
“You were slumbering quite heavily back there, care to share? Don’t spare any naughty details…” she asks, chuckling slightly.
“twas little more than a month before we first met, maybe two. The start of the so called summer war… with the orcs” I stated. Not smiling at all, quite the opposite in fact. “We should get moving” I say, gesturing towards the shadowy tree-line, with my eyes.
As we climb out of the boat there’s a sobering splash as my feet windup in ankle deep water, great I think to myself, sarcastically. I pull the large white fabric out of the aft end of this tiny boat, hmm… there’s a lot of it here, and it’s thick too. Cotton maybe. The light in the distance shifts slightly as we pull whatever we can salvage from the boat, I look into the clear sky, the shimmering light, it’s dimming as clouds start to roll in, a flanking movement spreading out from behind the fortress we just left apparently, the castle slowly slips away while the clouds advance, thus holding back the ghostly moonlight, like a curtain being pulled back after a performance has ended.
“The beginning of the orcish campaign? Just before we met… you lost most of your men, I was among the replacements sent. ****, sorry Dane…” she says.
“As am i, and also not… at the same time. I was hailed as a hero because I carried a few of my men out of that mess, less than half… made some lifelong friends out of that. And there’s you… you’re pretty much my best friend, or the best friend I have left, we’ve been that way for the better part of twenty years now. The only way that mission wouldn’t have been a disaster is if it never took place, had I not been there… they say it’s likely no one would have made it back. Ten out of thirty is bad, but it’s far better than zero out of thirty.” I answer.
Mitch pulls an arrow from the hull of the boat, smoother than pulling a cork from a wine bottle, and a second arrow, she removes the arrow heads, the aforementioned action sounding of a twig snapping, and again. Next she strips the flags off the arrows, and carefully takes hold of my arm, and cautiously raps a few scraps of fabric around them and my arm, forming a splint. She ties the remaining scraps together, and places a sling round my neck and slowly puts my arm through it. “Your main arm is fine; though, your left arm is fairly fucked. So keep it where it is, unless you’re not that fond of it.” she states. “We might have needed those for more bandages… or I might” I say. “We have this nice cotton thing here for that, they’d make better bandages.” She replies.
I pickup my traveling kit, which is basically a backpack with a lot of junk in it, and sling it over my good shoulder. We make for the trees. There’s a slight breeze, it fades in and out, bearing a handful of tiny droplets as it passes.
“Dane…. There’s been something on my mind, I’ve never had the guts to ask… but, why’d you leave the army, for… this? I get why they wanted to scoop you up, but I never figured you for the sort to go for the spy graft?” she asks.
“They’d been after me for some time, even before the war, they were a bit more persistent after… but, in the end it was Bishop. He said basically that: If I did my job right, there wouldn’t be another winter war, or overland rebellion. Information is a weapon, a weapon that can silence dissent, conflict, and bloodshed… if one utilized cunning and fineness you needn’t even spend lives to make it so. An event like the one we just witnessed, it shouldn’t have happened. And besides, if there’s something I really don’t want to do, I have to do it, if only to spite myself, for as you well know, I’m an idiot.” I answer.
“That you are my old friend, that you are. You were always a sucker when duty comes into play” She mutters.
“We should keep heading north, the main road east, or should I say the only road out, well, it’s is likely a deathtrap. We might find a path through the mountains, though they’re thought to be impassable. We both know that things which people believe aren’t necessarily true.” I state.
We’ve been hiking north, winding our way through the dark & now damp forest. My boots seem to have started sinking into the muck with each step, the rain must have picked up a bit too, but it’s hard to tell under the circumstances. The fatigue, blood-loss & trauma are making it difficult to maintain a steady rhythm, or even walk a straight line. I’m also starting to have difficulties keeping up with Mitchell. It seems like we’ve been walking for days, though I’m well aware it’s only been two or three hours at most. Mitch turns around towards me, and is now walking backwards, at a bit slower of a pace.
“Becket… we really need to get you out of the rain. You need to keep that field-dressing dry, and we should deal with that wound properly, and do it quickly.” Mitch states.
“I’d like that… I really would. However, to treat this wound in my arm, we need a fire, and the time it would take to pitch a camp, and the likelihood someone sees the tents or the campfire… well, it would get us both killed, or rather it would get us killed that much more quickly. I’d say leave me, I’m slowing you down too much, but you need me as a witness, and also to help put the pieces together… for both you and the chancellor.” I reply.
As we’re walking… ok, Mitch is walking, I’m more like stumbling, we pass an odd hill, the south side, facing the castle, has a mound that climbs lazily upwards, until it drops steeply as it comes around to the north end, it’s covered in grass, dead leaves, moss & mud. Though the north-face shows exposed rock, with a nook carved out of it, the effect is an inviting crevice. “Hey, hold up a sec…” I say. Mitch turns about sharply. “What?” she asks.
“This rock here… what’s it look like to you?” I ask. “It looks like someone’s carved a nook out of this rock face. Ancient hunters building shelter from the elements perhaps?” She answers. “Or poachers more likely, as the forest hasn’t covered the exposed rock, and it’s set up so the opening is facing away from the keep, in the opposite direction.” I state. “Do you think our visitors made it, a hidey-hole to set camp and wait for orders?” she asks.
“No, I don’t think so. The tools that carved this would leave fresher marks if that were the case, unless they constructed this several years ago in preparation. And I see no signs of camping, or at least resent ones. This might make a nice little tiny hidden campsite if we fix it up a tad. We need to camouflage it too.” I reply.
We sit down in the rock crevice, and we begin to unpack the gear from my “camping” kit, I hand Mitch a selection of long, thin square metal bars, some with a sharpened end. “Here, fit these together like so…” i state, as I snap a few sections of square pipe together. It’s a bit more difficult as I’m using one hand, I’m pinning a shaft piece between my knees, to hold in place, as I take a single metal bar at a time, and locking the metal into place. They form a spear like object when placed together properly, but with a shorter shaft. It forms the metal frame of my tent, though we’re going to make a slightly different construct. “Take a piece of cloth and cover the dull end, and use the hilt of your blade to drive it into the ground, try to keep the height in line with the height of the rock, the cloth will help muffle the noise.” I continue to state. “Next take the remaining tent pegs and drive those into the ground as well, the two on the far end, drive them deeper into the ground, you’re trying to recreate the natural form of this rock with the pegs and the canvas from my tent, using it to cover the hole in the rock, thus making a tent like structure camouflaged as a bit of rock. And finally cover the canvas of our tent with mud, grass and leaves; it won’t be perfect, though it doesn’t have to be at night.” I grab my satchel and place it behind me, using it as a pillow as I slide backwards, carefully, I’m now lying on my back staring at the sky, or trying to, as it’s overcast and still raining.
“Dane, why are we heading to the capital? You mentioned the Chancellor… so we’re going to Khitaan? ” Mitch asks. As she is carefully hammering the metal spikes into the ground, like I asked her to.
“Yes. The king is dead, though he set things in motion, a course of action taken based on bad information, and we’re the only ones who know he’s dead, well the only ones not involved in his assassination. The conspirators can also still send messages posing as the king, to continue whatever they set in motion. The chancellor is the only one who can overrule the orders of a dead king, or the supposed orders of a dead king, at least until a new king or queen is officially proclaimed… I know, I know… it’s your call, though this is a good one, and I figured you’d go with it, but it’s your decision.” I reply.
“I get, I get it… we need to get the chancellor to announce the kings death publicly, so they can’t continue to use his fake orders, for whatever their purpose is. And to put a stop on what the king might have put into motion to begin with.” She says.
Mitchell continues to plant the spikes into the ground, she is very diligent, or careful I suppose. As she begins taping the final pole into place, she stops suddenly, and shoots me this look, an angry look if I had to guess. “You bastard… you don’t put anything to chance, when you take a dump, you have five exit-routes planned out in advance. This wasn’t merely dumb luck, You knew this was here, and you knew there was an exit this way…” I interrupt. “Yes, I knew. I carefully scout out any place i spend any length of time, I found this place years ago. And the alternate...” now Mitch interjects, as she continues tapping the final spike into place. “Then why didn’t you say that?”
“I’m a spy, I spend most of my time around people I literally can’t trust. When you get that used to lying, or simply never telling the whole truth, it becomes reflex. And I didn’t intend to lie; it just came out that way.” I reply.
She grabs the canvas from my travel bag, and starts to drape it over the metal spikes, “You’re an ass.” She states, dropping the end of canvas over the front of the opening, cloaking me in total darkness. I sit up slightly and reach for my satchel, I pull out my cigarette case… it’s somewhere around… there! I also search for my flint spark kit, I light yet another cigarette, as I take a draw the space lights up in an orange hue briefly & as I blow a small plume of smoke I state “I’ve always been an ass. Are you saying this is the first time you’ve noticed? And don’t forget to secure the canvas to the top of this rock with… more rocks, well smaller rocks.”
“Are you sure the chancellor isn’t involved, as of right now he’s the most powerful person in the entire kingdom?” Mitch asked through the wall of canvas. I take another long draw on my cigarette, and let the smoke fill my lungs, and once more my surroundings turn orange for a few spare seconds, then the blackness slinks back in along with my cold calculating thoughts, and I let go of the warm smoke, and it drifts before me in a puffy cloud, a slow moving puffy cloud. “I suppose it’s possible, though his newfound authority won’t last all that long, and if he tries to delay, or block the appointment… well, let’s just say I wouldn’t like to be him in that case. Unless he’s planning a military coup, though that wouldn’t fare all that much better in my opinion. It’s a hell of risk to take, and if this plays out exactly the right way, he only buys himself a small amount of time to be in charge. There are a lot of pegs to place, or hammer over the head, and a very short amount of time for him to do so, that is if he wants to retain power. Besides, Edward isn’t a gambler, in strategy, tactics, or coin… I just don’t see him being that reckless.”
“Edward??? You know the chancellor well enough to be on a first name basis?” she asks, rather stunned I guess. “Royal Messenger, remember… to help keep my cover intact, I do have to carry dispatches between courtiers, well… from time to time that is. I guess I do spend a lot of time among the king’s court, now that I’m actually thinking about it.” I reply.
“Just how much time do you spend actually spying, as it seems you spend most of your days socializing with nobles?” she chuckles a bit. “I’m always spying; as long as my eyes and ears are working so am I. Just what are you doing out there anyway?” I say.
“I’m trying to find some wood, tinder, and kindling... you know, for the fire. I can’t seem to find anything that’s dry.” She says.
“I doubt there’s a single dry log in this whole forest. At best you might find a few that are merely damp, not soaked through & through. Just bring what you have into the tent, the smaller bits might be easily dried out, as for the logs, that takes time. Regarding the smaller logs, you can use your knife to remove the damp parts you know.” I state.
“You’re just lucky that arrow’s gotten you out of doing the manual labor. Assuming it doesn’t eventually kill you.” She replies, carefully sliding along the edge of the rock, into the opening along the side of the tent. “Yeah, lucky… well, I wasn’t poisoned, that counts as lucky I suppose.” I state shrugging my shoulder, I’d shrug both, but with my bad arm and all, not a good idea.
I take a nice long draw on my cigarette, and once more our little tent glows orange for a moment, the glow briefly showering the space also seems to give Mitch a bit of a tan for a moment or two. I leave the cigarette hanging between my lips, as I remove the bedroll from my pack, it’s a thin little thing, designed to fit snugly in to my travel-bag, though I might as well be sitting on the bear ground, as my bedroll hardly lives up to its name. I begin to hand it to Mitch “Here, it’ll do you more good than me.” I say. She shakes her head “No, you hold on to it, you need to rest more than I do. And besides why would I want that flimsy thing when I have this…” she holds up the white cotton looking fabric from the boat, smiling contently. “Ah, never mind then… that does look far more comfortable then this sad looking thing.”
“We should change that dressing, it’s been a few hours, and it’s damp.” She states. “It’s only been two to three hours, though… I’ll admit it is damp. Ok, ok, fine… go for it” i say, shaking my head slightly, as she is staring at me in a rather unpleasant, disapproving manner. I carefully unsnap the chain holding my cloak, and slowly place it beside me, folding it with my only working hand. I begin to unstrap my belt of blades, and cuirass, though I’m shy one hand, so I’m having a bit of trouble. “Here, let me help you. Or you’ll be dead and buried by the time you finally manage to get it off. Sorry, bad joke… given the circumstances.” She insists. First she removes the sling holding my crippled arm. She carefully finishes the job with the straps and buckles, and removes my belt, the knife handles glimmer slightly, from the orange hue my cigarette is giving off, and Mitch carefully rolls it before setting it down. She then pulls the studded leather cuirass away. “You still wear that old thing? You must have been wearing it since the summer war?” She kind of mumbles out loud. “I may be a simple spy now, though in my mind… I’m still a Northwood Ranger, always have been… Huh, the summer campaign, called so by those who were there, everyone else knows it as the Winter War, or the Orcish Campaign. That always seemed a little strange to me.” now I seem to be mumbling out loud too. I take one final drag, and haphazardly squash it cold on the stone floor, once the embers finally die-out I release the smoke, I guess it was a pillowy plume, though it’s now total darkness were sitting in. “Um, Dane… now I can’t see what I’m doing.” She states casually.
There’s a metallic click as I open my silver case once more, and again a tube sits at the end of my lips, then the sparks fly off the flint, like fireworks in the dark. Finally the cigarette ignites, and the tent is dimly lit by orange once again. “I guess I shouldn’t put it out this time…” I state haphazardly. Taking and releasing a shallow drag. “Give me that.” She demands, taking my tube of flaming paper, and sticking it between her lips, smirking. Now, she starts to take a drag, though I guess the mix of tobacco & myrrh is a bit much, she starts coughing it back up for several seconds. “You… actually smoke… this stuff? How do you manage to stay conscious?” she asks, wheezing at first. “I’d go easy with that for your first few puffs, it’s not just the myrrh, the tobacco is harder than usual and imported…” I state. “Imported from where, the bottom of someone’s boots?” She replies, slowly pulling the chainmail over my head, and my red & brown shirt follows suit. Mitch is now beginning to unwrap the bandage on my left arm. “This isn’t going to feel pleasant.” She states. I grab one of my riding gloves, rolling it up into a gag with my good hand, and shove it between my teeth, as she finishes unrapping my arm. Mitch tosses the bloody rags haphazardly to the side, and begins folding a section of white cloth, it’s about the size of my hand, and she presses in onto the rupturing gash in my arm. If I had less self control I’d jump out of my skin, though I’m surprised I can muffle the sound of my painful grunt so effectively. “The arrowhead chipped bone Dane, that’s likely going to require an amputation, sooner rather than later…” Mitch says, rapping my arm back up. Now, she continues “The arrow entered the upper side of your shoulder, close to your arm… The arrowhead broke off and travelled down imbedding into the muscle, and hitting the bone in your upper arm. We really need to cauterize that wound, though we bought some time, because the smaller bits and pieces I’ve gathered outside are still too wet to catch fire.”
“Just what are those arrowheads made of? That shot came from just about the maximum range a bow can deliver, pierced the leather from my cuirass, then the chainmail, to windup that deep into my arm… that’s not normal.” I say, shaking my head. “Coal-Dust-Lacquer coating Elvish steel, you don’t see elven arrows like that anymore. The elves used to treat the steel that goes into their armor the same way. Makes for higher quality stock, also knocks up the price quite a bit.” She says, taking and releasing small puffs of smoke as she does so. “Pricey weapons, pricey equipment, pricey poisons, pricey people… whoever’s behind this has expensive tastes it appears.” I state, gesturing for my cigarette. She hands it back to me, and begins sorting the tinder for the fire. I begin to sort the twigs, and small branches. She starts to lay the tinder into the fire-pit, and I grab my flint kit, after placing the cigarette back between my lips. I hand Mitch the metal case, and she begins to let the sparks fly, as I’d have trouble with only using one hand… sparking a cigarette and a campfire are hardly the same thing. The sparks slowly ignite the tinder as Mitch is slowly blowing on the embers, and we begin placing the kinder strategically, at first. I look up at Mitch “Who uses arrowheads like that these days? They’re far too pricey for the king’s army, the royal guard, even the king’s personal bodyguard detachment… I can’t recall a force that stocks them, at least during times of peace.” I ask. “Don’t look at me, I wouldn’t know where to find a fletcher that would stock ‘em either.” She states, as we carefully nurse the flames, slowly placing a few of the larger logs to fuel the fire. The shadows around the tent seem to dance about a bit as the flames twitch, and the logs & twigs start to snap, and I’m beginning to remember a simpler, happier time… if only for a moment or two. I have a few images of my father taking me hunting along the coast, minus the crashing of the waves, though the rain outside the tent does seem to mimic the water droplets, from said crashing waves. He wasn’t a tall fellow, nor was he stocky; he did have a wide face, with soft features. He preferred a well trimmed & maintained beard & mustache, though his hairstyle could only be called short, unkept, and redish-brown. Simple hides fastened into clothing, and for not being big & stocky, he had a wallop of a laugh, meaning he could laugh so hard it felt like a punch in the gut to all who listened. I found I preferred using knives over a bow on such trips, it just felt more natural to me. My father never really got my preference, and I suppose neither did I in retrospect. I’ve never really been sentimental, at least about my past… I guess lonely campfires make me a bit nostalgic.
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Posté 05 février 2015 - 01:58
