Some Dark Design

"How is my cousin in Valithra?"

I look up into black, glinting eyes. It is my client.
"He wishes you well."
Satisfied with the simple identification he slips into the chair opposite. A goatee sharpens
and darkens his features. Handsome, yet cruel, no doubt.
His eyes run over my face, then tighten.
"You’re a woman."
"Is that a problem?"
"He’s a monster. He can crush a man's skull."
"I don't plan on letting him get that close."
I wait while he deliberates. Around us The King’s Head hums, the rough and tumble of
its clientele an effective cover. The inn, on the outskirts of the city of Eslatarr, was my client’s
choice. A half pint of watery wheat beer sits between us.
“You can't miss the mad bastard." Venom cuts his words. "He's drunk much of the time
and beats those around him. He sleeps little, wanders the hallways like some halfwit, raving
about Amulon's demon touch and Dunihki conspirators. I should have called in the Konlar, but
they are out of favor right now." He smiles without warmth.
"He'll not be difficult to find then." My levity is lost on the man.
"Do not touch the Princess," he growls, emphasizing each word. "Do not let her see you.
She’s,” he hesitates, “she’s not well." I'm surprised by his concern, the momentary softening.
My client pushes a small bag across the table. His hands are hard and strong, like his
features.
"Half now, half later. Fail me and I'll hunt you down and hand you to my men to enjoy."
I raise an eyebrow.
"I never fail. If I don't get the other half, I'll hunt you down. Make no mistake."
He looks at me, a flicker of respect and satisfaction in his eyes. He pushes his chair back
abruptly.
"It will be here for you." He nods curtly. "Good evening."
He strides from the room, tall and arrogant, and vanishes into the night.

The wagon lurches into Allukore, the capital of the Principality of Borada. I leap off the
moment we are through the gates. The long journey from Eslatarr through the Kingdom of
Eslebi has stiffened my limbs. Fortunately, the waters of The Gadameir Strait, separating Eslebi
from Borada, were forgiving; I have no seafarer's blood in me.
Allukore bustles. Hawkers and peddlers thrust their wares as animals scurry the rutted
ways. The harsh smell of cooking cabbage and steaming excrement lingers unpleasantly. A
leering rabble lounges outside the alehouses.

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 But I do not see the everydayness of Allukore. I see the city's compactness, with
dwellings rising high above its streets, bringing a welcome early dark. I see the height of its
walls, the layout of its keep and streets, its complement of warriors.
I pace the city, taking in every detail. Before the gate to the keep I slow. Guards lounge
in the shade of the gatehouse. I scan the walls and see no patrols. The Castellan is failing in his
duties, I muse.
The weather is propitious. Clouds scud the skies, accumulating for a conveniently
overcast night. Better to act sooner than later.
I eat a small dinner in a bustling inn, The Square Wheel. The owner has a sense of
humor, obviously, and a wandering eye. He appraises me, taking in my dark short hair, light
green eyes - my Elven heritage. My garments do not reveal my lithe figure – better to not attract
attention. Yet, he tries to engage me in conversation. Small talk can be dangerous and he admits
defeat. Wise move: many a fool has anticipated enjoying my pleasures only to end up gutted
instead. Literally.
At the next table, a local merchant explains the politics of Borada to a colleague from
Laladen. It is not hard to listen in, their conversation increasingly indiscrete with flowing wine.
Their discussion lends context to my task.
Borada sits strategically between the Southern and Northern Kingdoms of Breminor. To
the South, chaos and the taint of pestilence as Amulon squeezes the lands in its leprous grip. To
the North, the old states, time and again a reluctant bastion against any incursion from the south.
In between Borada, traditionally dependent on its Southern neighbor Dunihk, but looking
northwards.
Seems the Prince and Lord of Borada, Obasi Vanuvi, my quarry, risks his borders through
wooing the Northerners more than the Dunihki to the South would wish. He warns counselors to
the Northern Kings of impending invasion from the South, but none will take him seriously. His
noisy advice, whether wise or not, is discredited by his well-known madness – his presence in the
polished courts of the North an embarrassment. Yet, the merchant says there is truth to the
Prince's apparent paranoia. Refugees from Dunihk speak of murderous hordes making their way
North.
And there is more, the merchant whispers. Some believe the Prince’s brother, my client,
is in the pay of the Dunihk court. Unknown warriors on fearsome mounts have been seen on the
Borada-Dunihk border; the merchant believes they await my client's command.
And what of the Princess, the other asks. There is no heir, for they say that she is barren;
and none have seen her in some months.
My thoughts wander. No doubt these ugly politics have to do with my client's motivation
for hiring me. With the Prince gone, and no heir, my client would rule. Borada is a linchpin
territory. A pliant Borada would give the invading Kaddori and their Dunihki collaborators
access to the Sea of Tala, the Sea of Rings, the North and the emperor's throne. Unsettling, no
doubt, to those who are paid to worry about such things. Unsettling to the unheeded counselors
who scurry around Erleth XVIII, that pathetic excuse of a man who masquerades as Emperor of
Breminor.
But these things do not worry me much. Times of chaos and strife are good for my
profession.
Now that I have met my client though, I would wager that if I slit both brothers' throats
Borada would be a better place.
But, he has paid me well.

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 Behind me the merchants' conversation ends abruptly, a disagreement over the price of
goods bringing the evening to a close.
Outside, the Crimson Moon is mostly obscured. The time is right.
By the inner walls I apply a darkening paste to my face and hands. I kneel and touch the
symbols around my neck. I call upon the Gods Roe and Sattath to look over me and guide my
blades. I wait for the moon to cast its light elsewhere and climb.
The wall welcomes me as my fingers and toes find their way, molding to the roughly
hewn stone. Cool and thrilling, the wall lets me scale its side without mishap, scampering faster
as the moon threatens. Then I listen, stuck limpet like to the wall, for the monotonous tread of
the guard. But there is none. I swing over the parapet and flatten myself against the walkway.
All is quiet.
I wait for the clouds to cover the moon again and drop to the keep's grounds.
Across the gravel and grass I speed, and then I am in the safety of shadow again, among
the smaller buildings of the inner ward.
I hear voices ahead and wait. I judge them gone and turn the corner. Mistake. I step into
three guards – they are as surprised to see me as I them. They are lighting up some cheap weed,
its potent acridity assailing me.
"Goddamn!" One of them utters. And they lunge for me.
My blade slicks through the throat of the first.
Then I am hit with a shield and stagger.
They pin my arms and wrestle the blade away. They peer at me, their sickly onion breath
gagging me.
"Lon's breath, it's a girl!" One of them growls, his eyes widening in astonishment.
Their gaze switches between their fallen comrade and me. Then back to me. One runs
his dark tongue over his lips in anticipation.
"Let's have some fun,"
One of the guards starts fumbling with his clothing. The other knocks me to the
cobblestones.
My strength surges back as I slip my other blade from my boot.
One grabs me by my tunic and tries to push me to my knees.
"Never had me a thief before!"
"Never will!" I hiss as I spring and I drive my blade up through his lower jaw slamming
his teeth together. He’s dead before he falls.
The other guard curses angrily and knocks me sideways with an armored fist. The walls
spin. Warmth seeps among my hair.
I roll and flip back on my feet. I crouch before him, a grin forming on my blackened
features as he reaches about him for his mace. He looks up and I see a flicker of fear in his eyes.
I leap, the whistling mace adding impetus. He scrabbles backwards as the pointed steelhead
crushes the side of his face, a scream silenced as his head spins away from me.
I step into a dark corner, the shadows embracing me. I control my breathing. All is still.
In the distance I hear a hacking cough, then silence.
I had been careless. Stupid. Stupid. I must move quickly before the dead guards are
discovered. Speed is of the essence.
In the distance, an arc of torchlight lights the entrance to the keep. Overhead, the
battlements are clear. I slip from the shadows to retrieve my blades, then cross the ward and slide
up to a welcoming buttress.

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 The double door to the keep is ajar. The warmth and stench of bodies and feasting flows
out and over me. I hear a breathy giggling from within.
A quick scan reveals a half-lit hall after a long night of revelry. A serving wench is riding
someone – all I see is a tankard slopping beer to the rhythm of her bouncing white ass. Reluctant
embers linger in the great hearth. Two hunting dogs look me over with little interest, then return
to the carcass before them, their gluttony consuming them. The lords and ladies of the land are
out cold on the tabletops.
At the head table is my client. His jet-black hair and goatee are shiny with grease; his
face, ruddied with drink, is half buried in the overflowing bosom of his neighbor. Some alibi.
I slip across the stone and up the stairs to the next floor.
There's a roar of satisfaction behind me. It brings a fleeting smile to my lips.
The first floor is utilitarian. I hear laughing and the roll of dice on a tabletop.
Suddenly the tramp of chain in leather on stone. The clicking of steel on steel. I swing
up and into the dark above the doorway. Guards pass beneath me, their conical helmets winking
in the torchlight.
There's more laughing and the scraping of chairs as they noisily join the game.
From above I hear distant voices, shouting, and the slamming of a door.
I pad the next floor. I run my hand along the tapestries. They are of heavy wool, tasseled
and expensive.
Again there is shouting – a male voice from behind the door to my right. Flailing fists or
boots against furniture. My client’s brother – my quarry? Then heavy purposeful footsteps
approach from within. I turn and quickly try the opposite door. It opens to my touch.
I pass through an antechamber to a bedroom. A subtle perfume envelops me. A single
candle burns on a dresser. A form without shape sits on the edge of the bed. It is a four-poster,
cloth hangings casting awkward shadows. I brush against a bell-pull. It tinkles delicately. I
freeze.
"Go away."
The Princess thinks me one of her ladies in waiting.
She is pretty, with cascading blond hair. Yet there are tears in her eyes – unhappiness
burdens her.
She stands to brush her hair; her robes fall about her revealing her stretched belly – she is
with child.
She is with child!
So there is an heir.
But whose child? The mad Prince's? Or the handsome scheming brother’s? The dark
intent of my client’s eyes shivers me. There is more to this than just brotherly love. My client’s
concern about the Princess haunts me. I could hazard a guess about the child’s father, but then
what does it matter? Either way, I pity its lot.
A large, stinking body lumbers by me.
The Prince has come to see his betrothed. Drink no doubt emboldening a brutal mix of
lust and madness.
"How dare you keep it from me!" He roars. “Show me!”
Gods! Has he not known that she is with child? I am witness to a very awkward moment
in the House of Vanuvi.
Fear freezes the lady's face as a massive fist is raised. Her hand holding the brush,
paralyzed.

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 "I’m away and this is what happens? Whose is it?" The Prince screams at her.
"Yours, yours,” she whispers.
"Say it louder!"
"Yours, my lord."
"No!"
The Prince takes her the shoulders, his huge misshapen hands mercilessly bending her
slight figure.
There is a brief silence as he peers at her, as if seeing her for the first time. A moment of
clarity brings an extraordinary sadness to his features. Her eyes soften in return.
"Gods, that it was," he groans.
"Basi, please…." She uses his first name. A moment of hope?
He is slowly shaking his head. “We have not lain together for many moons….”
Then his eyes widen. "It’s the beast’s seed, isn’t it.”
The Princess shrinks away, mouthing a terrified NO.
And the madness is back, sanity fleeing in a roar of crazed comprehension.
“It is the beast’s seed! You’ve brought Amulon into our house!" The veins jut on his
face as it twists in madness. "The Gods help me! Help me!" And he reaches for the dagger at
his side.
“No!” the Princess screams as she tries to push past his vast bulk.
The Prince spins the Princess facedown into the bed, her girth obscured, the hairbrush
caught in her hair. For a moment his hand rests on the hilt of his blade. Then, laughing in
anticipation, he jerks her robes aside, lust overcoming all.
As the Prince throws off his mantle I slip behind his bulk. The candle casts my shadow
into the recesses of the room. I raise my beautiful slim blade lovingly - its ruby pommel glowers
murderously. The Prince's eyes bulge as the blade slicks through his bull neck, but a grunt
escaping his fat spitty lips. His arms fall to his side. He sways.
I break his body’s fall to the bed and then swiftly step away. Steaming blood seeps into
the bedding.
The shadows welcome me again.
In the doorway I turn. The Princess has not moved, her heaving torso shows her sobbing
relief. She thinks her lord to have collapsed in some drunken stupor.
The Princess and Lady of Borada has less to worry about now – perhaps.
As I pad the tapestried hall I wonder what sequence of events I might have set in motion.
Will my client's dark design aid those who would see the spread of Amulon? Have I in some
manner delivered Borada into the hands of those who would bring Breminor to its knees? A chill
runs my spine.
But enough of this - the gold pieces and the comfort of the North beckon.
And I am gone.

***

Some Dark Design by Matthew Shears 5