Post by Shyl on Feb 25, 2009 0:00:01 GMT -5
myspace.com/rkayn... check my blog to read it from its source
With a last glance towards the ramparts that reared above him, Kerric lowered himself into the moat. The numbing cold of the still water bit hard, forcing his muscles to tense. As more of him disappeared beneath the surface, he found himself fighting to prevent his breathing from becoming ragged. Eventually all that was visible above water was a nest of black hair and the single gloved hand that held tightly onto the bank. After pausing to ensure that no one was watching, he drew his legs into a tuck and slowly pushed himself towards the wall thrusting up from the opposite bank.
In his chambers, Duke Aelweg stirred. As the nights drew in he found his dreams more disturbed, and sleep less appealing. Pulling aside the heavy covers, he gently swung his feet to the floor, and eased himself out of the bed, taking care not to disturb his wife. He let a smile slowly crease his lips. If his cries and tears at night had not woken her, she would hardly notice if he crept from their bed at night. With a last look at her white hair haloing the pillow, he padded across the rug, eased open the door and slipped into his drawing room. Once through, he made for the ochre cabinet beside the fireplace. He drew out a pewter goblet and the half empty carafe of Rholian wine he had rescued from the dinner table some hours earlier, and settled his ageing body down into a chair. After pouring himself a generous draft, he brought the goblet to his lips. He smiled - there were few problems that a warm fire and good wine could not solve.
Kerric hauled himself up out of the moat onto a small patch of earth that hung out into the water from the castle wall, covered in tufts of yellowing grass.
Cold water rushed to escape his clothes, and he fought to reduce the noise by slowing each movement before crouching with his back to the stone wall, his breath coming in short jagged bursts. His dark cotton clothes clung to his skin, and gusts of wind whipped hair into his face. It was a foul night to be outside, but despite his discomfort he knew that the wind and rain would be his greatest allies over the next few hours. Even the Rodeirian Guard were human, and on a night like this they would be loath to leave the warmth of their towers to patrol the exposed curtain wall.
Turning, Kerric now craned his neck to see the top of the wall, dimly silhouetted against the dark sky. It towered forty feet above him, seemingly stretching from horizon to horizon. As the decades had passed, Anlas had become a byword for defiance, its walls unbreachable, and its defenders indomitable. And the legend loomed above Kerric.
Kerric's eyes flicked over the wall through the gloom. Finally they found what they were looking for - his first two handholds, half an arm's length out of reach. With a deep breath he tensed his leg muscles and sprang, gloved hands scrabbling for the two-inch ledge. The fingers of his left hand found their target, and as gravity hauled him back downwards they caught his weight, jarring pain into his fingers and wrist. After another breath he swung his other arm a foot to the right and two feet up, grasping the crack in the cold stone he could not now see, but knew was there. Then he hauled himself further up the rough surface and found newer, higher holds for his hands. With practiced ease, he slotted the toes of his boots into the cracks his hands had been in just moments before. The whole movement from floor to ten feet in the air had taken brief seconds. And then he froze, flattened against the wall, weight held evenly by his hands and feet, and listened.
His breath soon returned to its normal pattern as he strained his ears for movement above. Only once did any noise rise above the low whistle of wind and soft thudding of rain on water, the muffled sound of leather boots striding along the walkway above, passing in and out of earshot without pausing.
Waiting until the sound of footsteps had long disappeared, Kerric edged his way to the top of the wall, and hung poised just below sight. Here he would wait. At two o'clock the watch would change, and any guards on the walls when the hour struck would move back to their tower to greet the new watchmen. It had been the same routine every night Kerric had watched their silhouettes from the village. In the time it would take them to change over, he could climb across the walkway and drop down into the castle beyond. But for now he would wait here, steeling his mind against the growing ache in his muscles. He prayed that the wait wouldn't be too long.
The first bell rang out from the courtyard beyond, and then the second, and still Kerric waited. He heard the door in the right hand tower slam shut. He waited for the second door to slam, from the tower to his left. It didn't, and the seconds passed by. His arms tensed. In all likelihood there were no guards above, but he had no way of being sure without climbing onto the wall itself.
Taking a deep breath, he hooked one and then the other of his hands onto the lip of the ramparts. With a single heave of his arms he brought his foot up to the top of the wall, keeping his body weight firmly forward. Bracing his leg, he pushed himself onto the walkway, landing in a low crouch ready to face the challenge of any guardsmen who stood waiting. A quick glance in both directions showed him that there were none, and he allowed himself to sink to the floor, anxious not to leave a silhouette against the skyline.
Staying low, Kerric crawled to the inside edge of the walkway and peered over. Stretched out before him lay the courtyard of Castle Anlas. For ten years none but the household of Duke Aelweg, and those charged with his protection, had seen inside it. Baron Deryth's siege had ended over eighteen months previous, but despite his victory Aelweg remained shut inside Anlas' walls. Inn house gossips throughout Rodeir said that the Baron had hired the Red Cord to do by stealth what he couldn't do by force, and that Aelweg hid himself away for fear of them, for fear of their assassin's knife. Whatever the truth, trade caravans and diplomatic parties were met by the Duke's emissary outside the castle gates, and even urgent repairs to the keep were carried out in secret.
Deep inside Anlas, Duke Aelweg stared rheumily at the dying embers of the fire. The cold night won out against his lethargy and he leant forward to place more kindling and another log on the fire. With a crackle the kindling caught, and a fountain of sparks danced up the chimney. A creak from the bedroom broke his reverie. His wife must have stirred in the night. Waiting for a minute, two minutes, until he was sure she asleep once more, he eased back into his chair and allowed his eyes to sag. His mind escaped to troubled dreams of times past.
The courtyard that stretched before Kerric was vast, although its furthest corners were hidden by darkness. Shadows clung to the outside walls, extending as far as the outside of the keep, where they lapped against a handful of braziers. The keep itself stood before him, nestled against the wall, a lone flag fluttering loosely at its pinnacle. Four braziers set into the walls dimly illuminated the dark stone, and cast an orange glow over the only ground floor entrance, an imposing oaken door at the summit of a short stone staircase. Outside the door stood a solitary guard, his dull red uniform and breastplate hidden beneath the wool-lined cloak that shielded him from the cold. The light from a torch set above the door lit up the cloud of his breath, before it disappeared into the dark stone of the stronghold.
Below him, Kerric could just make out the dark outline of a rooftop garden hidden between the keep and the wall; a small indulgence by the Duke for his wife.
With a start, Kerric heard the approach of voices from below. Three figures approached the base of the tower to his right, the central figure carrying a single torch, bathing them in a pale light that shimmered against the dulled steel of mail and faded tan of leather greaves.
"colder than it has a right to, if you ask me."
"It's these cloaks. Thinner than a beggar's wallet, they are. Mind you, I heard the seamstresses were making new winter ones with that wool that came in last week"
"Don't you believe it, Milford. That wool's going straight to the Duke for his new nightclothes, I can tell you ."
As the figures trudged closer, Kerric shrunk away from the edge of the walkway, hiding from the light. Eventually the trio stopped at the foot of the tower, and one of them knocked loudly on its door. Almost instantly the bolts were shot across and the door creaked open.
"No need to knock, we could hear you lot yakking a mile off." It was a different voice this time, deeper, gruffer.
"Maybe, but you're no man to preach about yakking, Hanton Blackman," the first voice answered, as its owner passed through the doorway. The retort was lost in the echoing stone of the tower, and the tramping of toughened leather boots against a hard floor. Soon, those noises, too, were silenced by the groan and slam of the heavy door being pulled to behind them.
The instant the door was shut Kerric spun himself around, turning to face away from the courtyard, and dropped his legs over the inside of the wall. Gently, he lowered himself down so that he clung onto the walkway by his hands, his feet swinging high above the barn roof. Then he let go. For a fraction of a second he felt the air rush by, then with a crunch his feet met resistance as he landed on the gravel below, his chest cracking into his knees as he cushioned the impact.
He found himself hemmed in by a rough branch, which scraped against him. Looking past the branch he could see a simple wooden door illuminated by a single torch, which caused shadows to dance throughout the small garden. As he shifted his weight from one foot to the other in the muddy soil, another twig snapped. Kerric grimaced and reached for his knife. If the garden had a guard, he could not have failed to hear Kerric's arrival. An assassin this close to the Duke would be killed on the spot.
Suddenly a woman's squeal broke the silence, followed by a rustle of leaves and a man's chuckle. Two people, thought Kerric, as more giggles broke the night's stillness. It would appear that there was a guard, but his attention could hardly be further from looking for assassins. Kerric smiled. He thought it a little cold to be entertaining a lady outside, but he had to credit the guard for his daring. If he were caught neglecting his duties in so flagrant a manner, his punishment would be harsh. For the man's sake, Kerric hoped the lady was worth the risk, for he could not have picked a worse night to abandon his watch.
Kerric untangled himself from the branch and edged his way cautiously through the garden to the door, wary not to alert the couple to his presence. The key was already half-turned in the lock to prevent anyone bursting in on the liaison from inside the keep, and Kerric gratefully flicked the latch back into position, opened the door, and slipped through.
The arrows rained down, thudding into the grass of the courtyard, breaking against the stone of the keep and walls. Finally the barrage paused for Baron Deryth's men to throw themselves at the walls once more, steel crashing against steel on the battlements.
Duke Aelweg watched from below, tears stinging their way down the worn paths of his cheeks. How could his cousin's love turn to hate so easily? Was all this carnage simply to destroy him, to gain new lands and power while the Regent was at war, and the King toothless.
Aelweg watched the men fall from the walls and the women cry out as the onslaught broke and withdrew. Then there was calm again, as both sides counted their losses, before the first crack as the catapult jolted back into life, the boulder flying toward the keep.
And he awoke. The goblet of wine lay fallen to the floor beside him. He stared at, oblivious to the red stain that expanded out into the rug below him. Forcing his mind to relax once more, he sunk back deeper into the chair.
On the far side of the door was a small landing, dimly illuminated by torchlight flickering up a stairwell in the corner of the room. Kerric softly headed down the staircase. He had only descended one floor when he heard voices from below. He froze, straining to discern whether the echoing conversation was drawing closer or moving away. He soon realized that it was drawing closer, and glanced at the door next to him. Beyond it lay the Great Hall and probably a couple of dozen serfs catching what sleep they could before dawn. To duck into that room would be risky, but . his train of thought stopped as he heard a noise from above. Could the guard in the garden be letting his lady back into the keep, or was it just the echoing hallways playing tricks on his senses? He couldn't be sure.
The voices drew louder, and Kerric knew he had to do something, anything, rather than be trapped in the stairwell. In a moment, his mind was made up, and he thrust out his hand for the door's heavy iron handle, and twisted it. The door swung open with barely a groan, allowing Kerric to softly slip through, and carefully shut the door behind him. He took a moment to scan the large room, his eyes quickly noting the sumptuous drapes hanging from every wall, and the mass of bodies strewn over the floor, hugging blankets around them against the night's chill. A large fire was burning down in the hearth, lending a soft glow to the stained wooden tables that were pushed against the walls. In the far corner a large wolfhound barked a warning to him, and a few pairs of angry human eyes glared up from the floor, before both canine and human settled back down.
A muffled voice from the far side of the door cut his examination short. In three short steps he found a wall and let himself relax down onto the floor. He curled into a ball and pulled a loose piece of sackcloth over him. For a while he would be just one body amongst many in the gloom. The door opened and a figure stepped through, the hardened leather of his soles resounding against the flagstones. Again, the wolfhound barked out a warning to the newcomer, but Kerric closed his eyes and forced himself to breath long, regular breaths. With a soft groan the door was pushed shut once more, and the footsteps made their way into the hall, ending abruptly a few yards forward of Kerric. Then, finally, the man lowered himself to the floor, his knees cracking as he did so.
Kerric would give the man time to drift off to sleep before he made his next move. But what would he do? He had heard two voices on the stairs, and yet only one person had entered the hall. Where was the other? Had he quietly retreated back down the stairwell or was he still stood on the stair outside the Great Hall? There was no way to tell. It would be a peculiar place to station a guard, but Kerric's instincts had served him well enough in the past. He would not be heading back out that door.
Now Aelweg stood on the ramparts, awaiting the next onslaught. For the first time in eight years he felt victory could yet be his. The daily assault on Anlas' walls had stopped some years previous, to be replaced by the slow torture of siege. And soon that torture had subsided to a daily routine of hunger and mourning.
Every day the game continued: to break the siege, to get food in, or to get scouts out. But now, the end was near. He had word that the Regent's campaign in Carthan was over, and that the army was returning home. Home to Anlas.
Kerric flicked his eyes around the hall. There was another door on the far side of the room, to the left of the dais on which the Duke took his meals. When planning his route through the keep, Kerric had decided against using that door simply because he would have to pass through the Great Hall in order to reach it. But now, with a guard stood outside the other exit, his options were limited.
As he lay there, Kerric counted out ten minutes. That should give anyone roused by his entrance enough time to return to sleep. Soon all that he could hear was the labored breathing of a score or more servants, and the soft crackle of the fire. Slowly Kerric drew the sackcloth back and pulled himself to his feet. His muscles had appreciated the rest and quietly complained at their new exertions.
In its corner the wolfhound's ears pricked up at his movement, but it paid little further attention as Kerric snuck his way through the bodies to the door. It would be locked, of course, but Kerric had already dropped his fingers to the pouch that hung from his belt, loosening the cord that tied it shut. He pulled out three long metallic instruments - the tools of a previous life - the ratchet, lever and pick.
On reaching the door, Kerric noiselessly slid the pick into the keyhole, and smiled. It was a simple latch. With a quick flick of his wrist he turned the lock mechanism ninety degrees to the left. The bolt slid into place without a sound, as his other hand reached up to the handle. Within five seconds he stood on the other side of a locked door.
As he had expected, he found himself in a stairwell, at the top of which lay the Duke's apartments. In all probability there would be a guard at the top, and this was one guard that could not be avoided by stealth.
Kerric thought for a moment. The spiral staircase would allow him to get to within a few feet of the guard without being seen, but if the guard could raise the alarm before Kerric could silence him, he would probably be able to count his life expectancy in minutes. As he thought, he moved his hand back to the pouch hanging from his belt, to return his tools to their home and remove a small package wrapped in brown paper and sealed with wax. Silently, he broke the seal and unwrapped the paper, revealing three small darts each tipped with a sticky brown liquid. Taking one of the darts, he reached inside his tunic, drew out the wooden tube and pushed the dart softly in the end.
Then, he edged his way up the stairs. Tensing his leg muscles, he moved up a single stair a time, pausing with each step to focus his eyes on the new portion of stairwell being revealed in front of him. After the fourteenth step a heavy boot moved firmly into view. Without hesitation, he leant around the corner, brought the tube to his lips and blew. The dart flew to its target, dark tip glistening in the torchlight.
Kerric did not wait to see the result. He launched himself forward and upward, taking three stairs at a time, his hand pulling his dagger from its sheath. Above him, the guard made as if to shout, but the cry caught in his throat, his muscles no longer his to control. The dart hung limply from his neck, its brown poison instantly entering his bloodstream, paralyzing him.
By the time Kerric reached the top of the stairs, he knew he would not need his dagger, and returned it to its scabbard. The Veronian seed oil had done its work. The guard stood ramrod-straight, his eyes staring blankly ahead, his concentration centered on continuing to draw slow, feeble wheezes of breath. Taking care not to make any noise, Kerric moved the stiff body to a position where it wouldn't fall down the stairwell.
Kerric knew it was now a race against time to reach his target before the guard's body was discovered. A quick glance at the door showed him that there were two locks. He was instinctively reaching for his tools when he noticed three keys hanging from a loop in the guard's belt.
He unhooked the keys and straightened himself to face the door once more. Picking a random key, he pushed it into the hole. It fitted, and with a turn the bolt slid back into place. It took two more tries to unlock the second lock. Twisting the handle and opening the door, he slipped inside and pushed it shut behind him.
Aelweg stirred restlessly in the chair, his head still heavy with sleep.
The battle was won. Peace! There would be peace. But the voice in his ear was telling of assassins. The Red Cord! Deryth would have his vengeance as the Red Cord found him and killed him. A single strike of the dagger to the heart.
The first thing Kerric noticed was the warmth. A castle in midwinter was rarely warm, but this room was. The two chimneys from the great hall and the kitchens below flanked the room, and another fireplace had been set into the wall, its logs crackling against the night.
His eyes went immediately to the bedchamber's door. In two strides he was beside it and lifting the latch. The door uttered a soft creak as Kerric opened it and peered in.
Only one figure lay in the bed, its long hair betraying its identity. Could the Duke be spending the night elsewhere? Or was he awake, hidden by the shadows, watching the intruder in his room? Kerric cast his eyes around the bare bedchamber, before he slipped back out to the drawing room. The chair stood in front of him, its high back hiding its occupant.
Kerric crept to behind the chair, his feet making no sound as they glided across the rug. Below the crackle of the fire his ears caught the short ragged breaths of an old man sleeping. As he circled around he could see the worn features of Duke Aelweg, just as they were in the portraits that hung throughout Rodir.
With a last glance around the room, Kerric drew the dagger from its scabbard, the soft leather relinquishing hold of the steel without a sound. As Kerric raised the dagger, he paused. The Duke's head had stopped moving, the moans had subsided, and the eyes started to open.
And Kerric plunged the dagger into his target.
The Duke's dream was painful.
Assassins! He would fight, of course, but they would kill him. A dagger in the heart! Anlas would have no Duke, and Deryth would have his revenge. But where could he go to be safe, to keep his wife safe? He couldn't leave the castle, for he would be ambushed, killed. So there he must stay. Anlaas could not be stormed.
But was Anlas safe from the Red Cord? No. Nowhere was safe. Unless . unless he could hire someone to make Anlas safe . to test his security . someone who knew how assassins worked. Someone he could trust .
"Kerric!" said the Duke, eyes wide open, head shot forward.
The knife quivered in the chair, inches from Aelweg's heart.
"Your Grace" said Kerrick, kneeling before his master. "I have come to report."
Aelweg glanced around frantically, his mind struggling to take in the scene before him. Finally they fell to Kerric kneeling before him, arms outstretched with open hands faced upwards in supplication.
At Aelweg's uncertain nod, Kerric continued.
"It is as you suspected. Your guards grow lazy in this time of peace. The changes of the watch on the outer walls are predictable, and your guards unobservant. Those you have guarding your keep are more interested in following their raw lust than protecting their lord. Even your personal guard can be caught unawares."
Slowly, Aelweg's mind began to clear, and his hand moved to the dagger still sticking out from the chair. With a tug he pulled it out and held it up before him. The oak tree emblem of Anlas embossed in its hilt blinked in the firelight.
"And if a Red Cord took the same route into the castle that you did?"
Kerric's voice was clear. "Your Grace, you would be dead." He paused. "If I may be so bold as to make some suggestions."
Aelweg sighed and slumped back into his chair.
"Tomorrow, Kerric, tomorrow. I am an old man. Your dramatic entrance has disturbed my rest, and it will take time to get back to sleep. Tomorrow we will discuss what to do, but now . now I must get some sleep." Even as he spoke, the Duke's eyes started to hang heavy once more.
"Your Grace, I am not tired. Perhaps I could make a start tonight?"
"No, Kerric. Tomorrow."
And so Kerric withdrew, his eyes cast down in the face of nobility, his head filled with plans to ensure the safety of his Duke.
Plans that would wait until the morning.
As they spoke, outside the castle walls a dark, solitary figure crouched low. With a last glance towards at his surroundings, he lowered himself into the moat. Soon all that could be seen was his hand as it clung to the bank, and the single dagger that was strapped to his forearm, a red cord tied tightly to its hilt.
With a last glance towards the ramparts that reared above him, Kerric lowered himself into the moat. The numbing cold of the still water bit hard, forcing his muscles to tense. As more of him disappeared beneath the surface, he found himself fighting to prevent his breathing from becoming ragged. Eventually all that was visible above water was a nest of black hair and the single gloved hand that held tightly onto the bank. After pausing to ensure that no one was watching, he drew his legs into a tuck and slowly pushed himself towards the wall thrusting up from the opposite bank.
In his chambers, Duke Aelweg stirred. As the nights drew in he found his dreams more disturbed, and sleep less appealing. Pulling aside the heavy covers, he gently swung his feet to the floor, and eased himself out of the bed, taking care not to disturb his wife. He let a smile slowly crease his lips. If his cries and tears at night had not woken her, she would hardly notice if he crept from their bed at night. With a last look at her white hair haloing the pillow, he padded across the rug, eased open the door and slipped into his drawing room. Once through, he made for the ochre cabinet beside the fireplace. He drew out a pewter goblet and the half empty carafe of Rholian wine he had rescued from the dinner table some hours earlier, and settled his ageing body down into a chair. After pouring himself a generous draft, he brought the goblet to his lips. He smiled - there were few problems that a warm fire and good wine could not solve.
Kerric hauled himself up out of the moat onto a small patch of earth that hung out into the water from the castle wall, covered in tufts of yellowing grass.
Cold water rushed to escape his clothes, and he fought to reduce the noise by slowing each movement before crouching with his back to the stone wall, his breath coming in short jagged bursts. His dark cotton clothes clung to his skin, and gusts of wind whipped hair into his face. It was a foul night to be outside, but despite his discomfort he knew that the wind and rain would be his greatest allies over the next few hours. Even the Rodeirian Guard were human, and on a night like this they would be loath to leave the warmth of their towers to patrol the exposed curtain wall.
Turning, Kerric now craned his neck to see the top of the wall, dimly silhouetted against the dark sky. It towered forty feet above him, seemingly stretching from horizon to horizon. As the decades had passed, Anlas had become a byword for defiance, its walls unbreachable, and its defenders indomitable. And the legend loomed above Kerric.
Kerric's eyes flicked over the wall through the gloom. Finally they found what they were looking for - his first two handholds, half an arm's length out of reach. With a deep breath he tensed his leg muscles and sprang, gloved hands scrabbling for the two-inch ledge. The fingers of his left hand found their target, and as gravity hauled him back downwards they caught his weight, jarring pain into his fingers and wrist. After another breath he swung his other arm a foot to the right and two feet up, grasping the crack in the cold stone he could not now see, but knew was there. Then he hauled himself further up the rough surface and found newer, higher holds for his hands. With practiced ease, he slotted the toes of his boots into the cracks his hands had been in just moments before. The whole movement from floor to ten feet in the air had taken brief seconds. And then he froze, flattened against the wall, weight held evenly by his hands and feet, and listened.
His breath soon returned to its normal pattern as he strained his ears for movement above. Only once did any noise rise above the low whistle of wind and soft thudding of rain on water, the muffled sound of leather boots striding along the walkway above, passing in and out of earshot without pausing.
Waiting until the sound of footsteps had long disappeared, Kerric edged his way to the top of the wall, and hung poised just below sight. Here he would wait. At two o'clock the watch would change, and any guards on the walls when the hour struck would move back to their tower to greet the new watchmen. It had been the same routine every night Kerric had watched their silhouettes from the village. In the time it would take them to change over, he could climb across the walkway and drop down into the castle beyond. But for now he would wait here, steeling his mind against the growing ache in his muscles. He prayed that the wait wouldn't be too long.
The first bell rang out from the courtyard beyond, and then the second, and still Kerric waited. He heard the door in the right hand tower slam shut. He waited for the second door to slam, from the tower to his left. It didn't, and the seconds passed by. His arms tensed. In all likelihood there were no guards above, but he had no way of being sure without climbing onto the wall itself.
Taking a deep breath, he hooked one and then the other of his hands onto the lip of the ramparts. With a single heave of his arms he brought his foot up to the top of the wall, keeping his body weight firmly forward. Bracing his leg, he pushed himself onto the walkway, landing in a low crouch ready to face the challenge of any guardsmen who stood waiting. A quick glance in both directions showed him that there were none, and he allowed himself to sink to the floor, anxious not to leave a silhouette against the skyline.
Staying low, Kerric crawled to the inside edge of the walkway and peered over. Stretched out before him lay the courtyard of Castle Anlas. For ten years none but the household of Duke Aelweg, and those charged with his protection, had seen inside it. Baron Deryth's siege had ended over eighteen months previous, but despite his victory Aelweg remained shut inside Anlas' walls. Inn house gossips throughout Rodeir said that the Baron had hired the Red Cord to do by stealth what he couldn't do by force, and that Aelweg hid himself away for fear of them, for fear of their assassin's knife. Whatever the truth, trade caravans and diplomatic parties were met by the Duke's emissary outside the castle gates, and even urgent repairs to the keep were carried out in secret.
Deep inside Anlas, Duke Aelweg stared rheumily at the dying embers of the fire. The cold night won out against his lethargy and he leant forward to place more kindling and another log on the fire. With a crackle the kindling caught, and a fountain of sparks danced up the chimney. A creak from the bedroom broke his reverie. His wife must have stirred in the night. Waiting for a minute, two minutes, until he was sure she asleep once more, he eased back into his chair and allowed his eyes to sag. His mind escaped to troubled dreams of times past.
The courtyard that stretched before Kerric was vast, although its furthest corners were hidden by darkness. Shadows clung to the outside walls, extending as far as the outside of the keep, where they lapped against a handful of braziers. The keep itself stood before him, nestled against the wall, a lone flag fluttering loosely at its pinnacle. Four braziers set into the walls dimly illuminated the dark stone, and cast an orange glow over the only ground floor entrance, an imposing oaken door at the summit of a short stone staircase. Outside the door stood a solitary guard, his dull red uniform and breastplate hidden beneath the wool-lined cloak that shielded him from the cold. The light from a torch set above the door lit up the cloud of his breath, before it disappeared into the dark stone of the stronghold.
Below him, Kerric could just make out the dark outline of a rooftop garden hidden between the keep and the wall; a small indulgence by the Duke for his wife.
With a start, Kerric heard the approach of voices from below. Three figures approached the base of the tower to his right, the central figure carrying a single torch, bathing them in a pale light that shimmered against the dulled steel of mail and faded tan of leather greaves.
"colder than it has a right to, if you ask me."
"It's these cloaks. Thinner than a beggar's wallet, they are. Mind you, I heard the seamstresses were making new winter ones with that wool that came in last week"
"Don't you believe it, Milford. That wool's going straight to the Duke for his new nightclothes, I can tell you ."
As the figures trudged closer, Kerric shrunk away from the edge of the walkway, hiding from the light. Eventually the trio stopped at the foot of the tower, and one of them knocked loudly on its door. Almost instantly the bolts were shot across and the door creaked open.
"No need to knock, we could hear you lot yakking a mile off." It was a different voice this time, deeper, gruffer.
"Maybe, but you're no man to preach about yakking, Hanton Blackman," the first voice answered, as its owner passed through the doorway. The retort was lost in the echoing stone of the tower, and the tramping of toughened leather boots against a hard floor. Soon, those noises, too, were silenced by the groan and slam of the heavy door being pulled to behind them.
The instant the door was shut Kerric spun himself around, turning to face away from the courtyard, and dropped his legs over the inside of the wall. Gently, he lowered himself down so that he clung onto the walkway by his hands, his feet swinging high above the barn roof. Then he let go. For a fraction of a second he felt the air rush by, then with a crunch his feet met resistance as he landed on the gravel below, his chest cracking into his knees as he cushioned the impact.
He found himself hemmed in by a rough branch, which scraped against him. Looking past the branch he could see a simple wooden door illuminated by a single torch, which caused shadows to dance throughout the small garden. As he shifted his weight from one foot to the other in the muddy soil, another twig snapped. Kerric grimaced and reached for his knife. If the garden had a guard, he could not have failed to hear Kerric's arrival. An assassin this close to the Duke would be killed on the spot.
Suddenly a woman's squeal broke the silence, followed by a rustle of leaves and a man's chuckle. Two people, thought Kerric, as more giggles broke the night's stillness. It would appear that there was a guard, but his attention could hardly be further from looking for assassins. Kerric smiled. He thought it a little cold to be entertaining a lady outside, but he had to credit the guard for his daring. If he were caught neglecting his duties in so flagrant a manner, his punishment would be harsh. For the man's sake, Kerric hoped the lady was worth the risk, for he could not have picked a worse night to abandon his watch.
Kerric untangled himself from the branch and edged his way cautiously through the garden to the door, wary not to alert the couple to his presence. The key was already half-turned in the lock to prevent anyone bursting in on the liaison from inside the keep, and Kerric gratefully flicked the latch back into position, opened the door, and slipped through.
The arrows rained down, thudding into the grass of the courtyard, breaking against the stone of the keep and walls. Finally the barrage paused for Baron Deryth's men to throw themselves at the walls once more, steel crashing against steel on the battlements.
Duke Aelweg watched from below, tears stinging their way down the worn paths of his cheeks. How could his cousin's love turn to hate so easily? Was all this carnage simply to destroy him, to gain new lands and power while the Regent was at war, and the King toothless.
Aelweg watched the men fall from the walls and the women cry out as the onslaught broke and withdrew. Then there was calm again, as both sides counted their losses, before the first crack as the catapult jolted back into life, the boulder flying toward the keep.
And he awoke. The goblet of wine lay fallen to the floor beside him. He stared at, oblivious to the red stain that expanded out into the rug below him. Forcing his mind to relax once more, he sunk back deeper into the chair.
On the far side of the door was a small landing, dimly illuminated by torchlight flickering up a stairwell in the corner of the room. Kerric softly headed down the staircase. He had only descended one floor when he heard voices from below. He froze, straining to discern whether the echoing conversation was drawing closer or moving away. He soon realized that it was drawing closer, and glanced at the door next to him. Beyond it lay the Great Hall and probably a couple of dozen serfs catching what sleep they could before dawn. To duck into that room would be risky, but . his train of thought stopped as he heard a noise from above. Could the guard in the garden be letting his lady back into the keep, or was it just the echoing hallways playing tricks on his senses? He couldn't be sure.
The voices drew louder, and Kerric knew he had to do something, anything, rather than be trapped in the stairwell. In a moment, his mind was made up, and he thrust out his hand for the door's heavy iron handle, and twisted it. The door swung open with barely a groan, allowing Kerric to softly slip through, and carefully shut the door behind him. He took a moment to scan the large room, his eyes quickly noting the sumptuous drapes hanging from every wall, and the mass of bodies strewn over the floor, hugging blankets around them against the night's chill. A large fire was burning down in the hearth, lending a soft glow to the stained wooden tables that were pushed against the walls. In the far corner a large wolfhound barked a warning to him, and a few pairs of angry human eyes glared up from the floor, before both canine and human settled back down.
A muffled voice from the far side of the door cut his examination short. In three short steps he found a wall and let himself relax down onto the floor. He curled into a ball and pulled a loose piece of sackcloth over him. For a while he would be just one body amongst many in the gloom. The door opened and a figure stepped through, the hardened leather of his soles resounding against the flagstones. Again, the wolfhound barked out a warning to the newcomer, but Kerric closed his eyes and forced himself to breath long, regular breaths. With a soft groan the door was pushed shut once more, and the footsteps made their way into the hall, ending abruptly a few yards forward of Kerric. Then, finally, the man lowered himself to the floor, his knees cracking as he did so.
Kerric would give the man time to drift off to sleep before he made his next move. But what would he do? He had heard two voices on the stairs, and yet only one person had entered the hall. Where was the other? Had he quietly retreated back down the stairwell or was he still stood on the stair outside the Great Hall? There was no way to tell. It would be a peculiar place to station a guard, but Kerric's instincts had served him well enough in the past. He would not be heading back out that door.
Now Aelweg stood on the ramparts, awaiting the next onslaught. For the first time in eight years he felt victory could yet be his. The daily assault on Anlas' walls had stopped some years previous, to be replaced by the slow torture of siege. And soon that torture had subsided to a daily routine of hunger and mourning.
Every day the game continued: to break the siege, to get food in, or to get scouts out. But now, the end was near. He had word that the Regent's campaign in Carthan was over, and that the army was returning home. Home to Anlas.
Kerric flicked his eyes around the hall. There was another door on the far side of the room, to the left of the dais on which the Duke took his meals. When planning his route through the keep, Kerric had decided against using that door simply because he would have to pass through the Great Hall in order to reach it. But now, with a guard stood outside the other exit, his options were limited.
As he lay there, Kerric counted out ten minutes. That should give anyone roused by his entrance enough time to return to sleep. Soon all that he could hear was the labored breathing of a score or more servants, and the soft crackle of the fire. Slowly Kerric drew the sackcloth back and pulled himself to his feet. His muscles had appreciated the rest and quietly complained at their new exertions.
In its corner the wolfhound's ears pricked up at his movement, but it paid little further attention as Kerric snuck his way through the bodies to the door. It would be locked, of course, but Kerric had already dropped his fingers to the pouch that hung from his belt, loosening the cord that tied it shut. He pulled out three long metallic instruments - the tools of a previous life - the ratchet, lever and pick.
On reaching the door, Kerric noiselessly slid the pick into the keyhole, and smiled. It was a simple latch. With a quick flick of his wrist he turned the lock mechanism ninety degrees to the left. The bolt slid into place without a sound, as his other hand reached up to the handle. Within five seconds he stood on the other side of a locked door.
As he had expected, he found himself in a stairwell, at the top of which lay the Duke's apartments. In all probability there would be a guard at the top, and this was one guard that could not be avoided by stealth.
Kerric thought for a moment. The spiral staircase would allow him to get to within a few feet of the guard without being seen, but if the guard could raise the alarm before Kerric could silence him, he would probably be able to count his life expectancy in minutes. As he thought, he moved his hand back to the pouch hanging from his belt, to return his tools to their home and remove a small package wrapped in brown paper and sealed with wax. Silently, he broke the seal and unwrapped the paper, revealing three small darts each tipped with a sticky brown liquid. Taking one of the darts, he reached inside his tunic, drew out the wooden tube and pushed the dart softly in the end.
Then, he edged his way up the stairs. Tensing his leg muscles, he moved up a single stair a time, pausing with each step to focus his eyes on the new portion of stairwell being revealed in front of him. After the fourteenth step a heavy boot moved firmly into view. Without hesitation, he leant around the corner, brought the tube to his lips and blew. The dart flew to its target, dark tip glistening in the torchlight.
Kerric did not wait to see the result. He launched himself forward and upward, taking three stairs at a time, his hand pulling his dagger from its sheath. Above him, the guard made as if to shout, but the cry caught in his throat, his muscles no longer his to control. The dart hung limply from his neck, its brown poison instantly entering his bloodstream, paralyzing him.
By the time Kerric reached the top of the stairs, he knew he would not need his dagger, and returned it to its scabbard. The Veronian seed oil had done its work. The guard stood ramrod-straight, his eyes staring blankly ahead, his concentration centered on continuing to draw slow, feeble wheezes of breath. Taking care not to make any noise, Kerric moved the stiff body to a position where it wouldn't fall down the stairwell.
Kerric knew it was now a race against time to reach his target before the guard's body was discovered. A quick glance at the door showed him that there were two locks. He was instinctively reaching for his tools when he noticed three keys hanging from a loop in the guard's belt.
He unhooked the keys and straightened himself to face the door once more. Picking a random key, he pushed it into the hole. It fitted, and with a turn the bolt slid back into place. It took two more tries to unlock the second lock. Twisting the handle and opening the door, he slipped inside and pushed it shut behind him.
Aelweg stirred restlessly in the chair, his head still heavy with sleep.
The battle was won. Peace! There would be peace. But the voice in his ear was telling of assassins. The Red Cord! Deryth would have his vengeance as the Red Cord found him and killed him. A single strike of the dagger to the heart.
The first thing Kerric noticed was the warmth. A castle in midwinter was rarely warm, but this room was. The two chimneys from the great hall and the kitchens below flanked the room, and another fireplace had been set into the wall, its logs crackling against the night.
His eyes went immediately to the bedchamber's door. In two strides he was beside it and lifting the latch. The door uttered a soft creak as Kerric opened it and peered in.
Only one figure lay in the bed, its long hair betraying its identity. Could the Duke be spending the night elsewhere? Or was he awake, hidden by the shadows, watching the intruder in his room? Kerric cast his eyes around the bare bedchamber, before he slipped back out to the drawing room. The chair stood in front of him, its high back hiding its occupant.
Kerric crept to behind the chair, his feet making no sound as they glided across the rug. Below the crackle of the fire his ears caught the short ragged breaths of an old man sleeping. As he circled around he could see the worn features of Duke Aelweg, just as they were in the portraits that hung throughout Rodir.
With a last glance around the room, Kerric drew the dagger from its scabbard, the soft leather relinquishing hold of the steel without a sound. As Kerric raised the dagger, he paused. The Duke's head had stopped moving, the moans had subsided, and the eyes started to open.
And Kerric plunged the dagger into his target.
The Duke's dream was painful.
Assassins! He would fight, of course, but they would kill him. A dagger in the heart! Anlas would have no Duke, and Deryth would have his revenge. But where could he go to be safe, to keep his wife safe? He couldn't leave the castle, for he would be ambushed, killed. So there he must stay. Anlaas could not be stormed.
But was Anlas safe from the Red Cord? No. Nowhere was safe. Unless . unless he could hire someone to make Anlas safe . to test his security . someone who knew how assassins worked. Someone he could trust .
"Kerric!" said the Duke, eyes wide open, head shot forward.
The knife quivered in the chair, inches from Aelweg's heart.
"Your Grace" said Kerrick, kneeling before his master. "I have come to report."
Aelweg glanced around frantically, his mind struggling to take in the scene before him. Finally they fell to Kerric kneeling before him, arms outstretched with open hands faced upwards in supplication.
At Aelweg's uncertain nod, Kerric continued.
"It is as you suspected. Your guards grow lazy in this time of peace. The changes of the watch on the outer walls are predictable, and your guards unobservant. Those you have guarding your keep are more interested in following their raw lust than protecting their lord. Even your personal guard can be caught unawares."
Slowly, Aelweg's mind began to clear, and his hand moved to the dagger still sticking out from the chair. With a tug he pulled it out and held it up before him. The oak tree emblem of Anlas embossed in its hilt blinked in the firelight.
"And if a Red Cord took the same route into the castle that you did?"
Kerric's voice was clear. "Your Grace, you would be dead." He paused. "If I may be so bold as to make some suggestions."
Aelweg sighed and slumped back into his chair.
"Tomorrow, Kerric, tomorrow. I am an old man. Your dramatic entrance has disturbed my rest, and it will take time to get back to sleep. Tomorrow we will discuss what to do, but now . now I must get some sleep." Even as he spoke, the Duke's eyes started to hang heavy once more.
"Your Grace, I am not tired. Perhaps I could make a start tonight?"
"No, Kerric. Tomorrow."
And so Kerric withdrew, his eyes cast down in the face of nobility, his head filled with plans to ensure the safety of his Duke.
Plans that would wait until the morning.
As they spoke, outside the castle walls a dark, solitary figure crouched low. With a last glance towards at his surroundings, he lowered himself into the moat. Soon all that could be seen was his hand as it clung to the bank, and the single dagger that was strapped to his forearm, a red cord tied tightly to its hilt.