A Story of my Makers

[Smokestorm]

Notes: This is a solo. This story uses Fallien as it's backdrop, but through creative interpretation. This is my spin on the land, my vision of what my character would find there. Call it lazy or creative, I have done little to no research on what the land is "Officially" like, as this is meant to be my personal version of it.

A Story of my Makers

[ Dramatis personae ]
[ Zachary Snow ]

Chapter One:
Raja'Aini Rites

"Everything that we see is a shadow,
cast by that which we do not see."
Martin Luther King, Jr.

The sun burned down through the clear sky, remorselessly beating the deserts of Fallien with smothering heat. Waves of distortion rose from the dunes, bending and warping the distant landscape behind them. As far as they could see in any direction, there was nothing. Nothing except the sands. Falling in deep valleys and rising to crests, the arid winds carrying sheets of it from the heights to spray against their backs. It was everywhere, as unrelenting as the stifling heat. The air was hard to breathe, and felt as heavy as water as it filled the lungs.

Sweat dripped from his matted hair where it lay soaked against his skull. The robes of the sandwalkers felt like nothing but extra weight upon his tired body. He knew that without them, he'd have died long ago. They held the moisture in, protected him against the sun's fire. Without them he'd desiccate and die, his mind as twisted by the heat as the distant horizon. And still, he wanted nothing more than to cast them off and feel the wind as it rolled across his damp skin. Master Renaud had warned him of that desire, however. And so he locked away his discomfort, his fear, and his weariness within the box set deep in his mind among the other darknesses. That box was so gracefully labeled, "Weakness, do not open."

His Master walked ahead of him, his body hidden in the same robes that Zachary wore, but his posture was straighter, his steps far more certain. It would take more than a Desert to lay Renaud de'Mortalis low. Age had done nothing to harm the Master Assassin, had only caressed him gently. Wisdom and perfection of form, embodied in a man as strong as stone and half again as unyielding. Zachary doubted that he would ever find Renaud's strength.

The wind rose in a howl as they started up another rise. He could feel the grit smashing against his back, dislodged and turned into a weapon by the furious drafts. He sank ankle-deep with each heavy step. His eyes squinted against the brightness, despite the shield of fabric that hung low over his eyes. The sand was everywhere. He wondered what would happen if he'd removed his lungs and turned them upside down; a morbid certainty in his mind said that sand would spill from it like a broken hourglass. He refused himself the luxury of a smile as he followed; no energy could be wasted here if he wanted to live. And he did; he liked living.

His heart pounded a steady rhythm as he trudged across the gritty golden banks, his mind wandering invariably from one topic to another in a vain attempt to ignore the heat. His eyes swept the desert, always moving, always watching. Fallien was known for its danger and inhospitality. Days had passed, the hairs on his neck standing on end. The Sense hadn't left him since he'd arrived here, buzzing in the back of his mind and warning of threat and ill intent. Zachary would have written it off as his nerves, had Renaud not mentioned it the night before as they sat beneath the stars and shivered against the frigid wind.

Ahead, Master Renaud had stopped and lifted his hand. Zachary froze in place, his eyes scanning the land and sky. There was nothing of note, nothing out of the ordinary. The sky was a cheery blue, the sun a burning disk of yellow. The sands were as they'd ever been, washed out and orange. The wind carried no new scent, only the musty smell of his own sweat and body odor. He'd been baking within the robe for days; he smelled positively ripe. Beneath the fabric, his hands had wrapped around the daggers at his waist. He had not yet achieved the fearlessness of the Assassins, who held comfort and reassurance in their own hands and feet. The young man's only assurance was his weapons. That would change with time and experience, he knew. But still, he slid the weapons from their sheathes.

He bent his knees as he'd been taught, relaxing his body into the fighting stance most suited to wielding daggers. The left was held in a standard grip, the twelve inch blade facing up to the sky but angled diagonally. The right was held reversed, the deadly edge emerging from the bottom of his fist and held behind his back. He waited in silence, his eyes searching the landscape with vigilance.

The sand at his feet exploded. A screech filled the air, ringing through his ears as he tumbled down the slope in a heap. He regained his footing in time to see the creature flying over his head in an arc. From beneath, it resembled a spider, but scaled and flesh toned. The mouth was agape and shining with jagged, serrated teeth, made to tear meat. It's mouth shut as it fell, the piercing wail ending at it slammed face first into the ground. And then it was gone. Nothing remained except for a dent in the sand, which was quickly filled by the wind.

Zachary looked up to Renaud. The man stood perfectly still, his stance exactly as it had been before his apprentice had been knocked from the slope. The boy wondered for a minute if something had happened to the Master Assassin, a paralytic toxin maybe. But even as the thought came into his mind, the man blurred into movement. The man dropped into a spinning crouch, glints of silver flashing out from his hands. The ground beyond Renaud erupted in four columns, Flesh Spiders flying outward as one. Their arms were spread wide, their mouths ajar and shrilling. Two of them dropped instantly, their faces caving in around the throwing knives Master Renaud had loosed as he spun. The last two sailed over the Assassin's head, angling down at the boy below. The boy's knives gleamed with the sunlight as they passed, one screeched and went down, it's insides spilling through the air. The other spider's teeth took a chunk from Zachary's shoulder as it flashed by and vanished into the dune.

Zachary didn't cry out, but fell into a crouching position. The dagger tumbled from his right hand as it clamped down on the wound. His left knee dug into the sand. Blood was already draining between his fingers and splashing down around him. The pain was extraordinary and felt as if a ball of lightning was nestled in his skin, sending jolts down through his arm and chest. His teeth gritted against the throbbing, his left hand balled into a fist as it rested on the ground.

The slope behind him ruptured, a torrent of grit washing over his back. His ears were raped once more by the preternatural keening of the creature as it dove in for the kill. A sparkle of silver passed beside his head, and the ear ringing scream choked out behind him. A lock of white hair fell to lay in the blood beside his hand. Master Renaud's aim was perfect. Another man's throw would have buried the knife in the boy's head instead of the creature. A haircut was a small price to pay for his life. Zachary climbed painfully to his feet, swaying under the heat and blood loss.

He looked around at the carnage, the bodies, the blood. Had he faced this alone, he would be dead now.

"I'm sorry, Master Renaud. I failed."

The Master Assassin had come down the slope, quick but steady strides keeping him balanced. He stopped in front of Zachary, his hand rising to pull ripped cloth from the wound. His eyes examined the gory mess critically, his brow drawn down into a scowl.

"Shut up, kid. An Apprentice your age should be proud to have killed one, and you see it as a failure? Sit down and lean on me, boy."

Zachary did as he was told, letting his shoulder fall against his kneeling Master's chest as the man began digging vials from one of the pouches at his waist. The apprentice gathered his daggers up with his right hand, returning them to his sheathes as Renaud pulled the cork stopper from an ampule filled with dark purple liquid. The world was starting to spin slowly, and gravity seemed stronger than the boy remembered. The pain in his shoulder had eased to a distant, dull ache.

"Sleep, Zachary. I will be there when you wake." Renaud said, his hand tipping the glass vial. A double drip of amethyst glittered in the bright light as it fell into the ripped skin, unnaturally vivid to his failing mind. He was unconscious before the Master had replaced the cork.

Renaud de'Mortalis tore strips of cloth from his own desert cloak and began to wrap the wound. The boy would sleep for days. The Mind Numbing poison would see to that as it slowed his blood flow. When the bandage was tied tightly, the square knot evenly dispersing pressure over the messy, exposed meat, he gathered his apprentice up in his arms. He stood and began to walk.

Behind him, the sun was turning crimson as it sank toward the horizon. The dry air howled as it filled the sand dunes and crested the rises. A trail of sweat and blood followed them through the desert.

[Smokestorm]

Dreams wracked his unconscious mind as his body leaked blood into the desert.

There was nothing. Nothing but darkness and silence. The faint echo of dripping water reverberated through the still air, reminding him of his parched throat. How many days had it been since he'd been given water? How many days more would it be before he was forced, once again, to ingest his own urine just to survive? Hunger gnawed at his stomach, an ache neverending. He remembered what it had been like to see, to drink fresh water, to eat. He remembered the wind on his face, the sight of the stars above him. These were the memories that kept him alive through the empty monotony of what his life had become. Memories... simple things, but powerful. And without his eyes to cloud his mind, he could remember them perfectly.

He sat in the corner of the lightless cell, his knees drawn up to his chest. He rested his chin on his arms, his hands on his shoulders. His clothing was little more than rags now, his hair a long, matted mess that hung around his head like a beggar's dreadlocked mane. In the absence of sight, his other senses had grown stronger. Three cells down, a boy his age wept quietly. He was one of Zachary's companions now, a fellow Mortalis recruit. He never spoke, only cried. He had arrived sometime after Zachary.

Further down was the Rager. That one would periodically shatter the silence with a deep roar, wordless shouts of anger and hatred as he shook the cell bars. He had been quiet for weeks now, but Zachary knew he was still there, still alive. He could hear him breathing, could hear his heart beating.

There was another, further down. She was silent, like Zachary. Never wasting the energy to scream or cry. Every so often, he'd hear a short rucus from her cell. He assumed that it was the sound of her catching, or trying to catch, a rat, as he had done before. Despite these three other prison mates, none of them had tried to speak. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the silence, so deep that when it was broken it felt like a giant metal gong being struck inside your head. That was probably why the rager had gone silent. Or maybe they never spoke simply because this place had done as much to break their spirit as it had for Zachary. Why speak? What would it change? Noise came and went, but the darkness remained.

This was the way of the Mortalis. Imprisonment during youth, to show you what you were endure if you were ever captured. You would rot in a cell, deep beneath the earth. Suffering would be your only friend as your body withered and died, as your mind broke under the weight of loss.

A sound broke the silence, a deep grating that made his heart cheer and his stomach flutter. The rager shouted, but this time in happiness. The weeper went quiet. And as one, the four children looked up. The ceilings were drawing back from their cages. It was too high to climb to freedom, but that wasn't what had given them hope. Rain began to pour in. The darkness brightened, barely perceptible, but enough to cause pain. Zachary closed his eyes against the light, but loved the rain.

[Smokestorm]

"He will wake soon, but his arm will be tender for a few days."

"I understand. What do you wish in payment?" Master Renaud's voice asked.

Silence, and then... "The Raja'Aini require no payment to mend the flesh of a child."

Master Renaud gave a dry chuckle. "I think he would take offense to being called a child."

"And that is why I know he is one. Only the young take offense to being called young." The second man replied.

"Truth. And wisdom. Would that someone called me young. I think I'd fall in love with them." Renaud said.

"An Assassin feeling love? Now I've heard everything."

Renaud gave a quiet humph of laughter, and brushed white hair back from the sleeping boy's face. "It happens more often than you'd think."

"Love was ever your weakness, Renaud." The Raja'Aini smiled through his graying beard as he stood, his white robes swaying with the movement. His face was long, his skin dark. The turban that wrapped around his head nearly brushed the roof of the sandstone building. "Call for me when he wakes. I will see to his needs and examine his wound."

Renaud nodded, and the man left.

The Master Assassin took the seat vacated by the Healer, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He was Rashefellian in lineage, short and fair skinned. Like most of his blood he had fiery red hair and steel-gray eyes, as well as freckles that stretched across the bridge of his nose and the back of his hands. His hair was cut short and shot with gray, his facial hair trimmed into a neat goatee. As strong as he was, he looked old as he leaned over the sleeping boy.

In comparison, Zachary laid on the cot covered in a thin woolen blanket. His face was youthful, blank of the pain that had twisted it during the daylong trek through the desert sands between where he had fallen and Tal'Ahkmet's outskirts. His white hair and pale face were still stained red along his left side, where his own blood had sprayed out from the wound. He was no taller than five and a half feet, weighed no more than eight stone, if that. Physically, his body was perfect for the job of an Assassin. Short, no distinctive features, a hair color easy to dye, a weight that let him move fast when the situation called for it. No, Renaud's misgivings had never centered around the boy's physical body. Nor even his mindset. That was exactly what it needed to be as well.

He simply didn't like the life he was teaching to the boy. Any philosopher could tell you that killing someone changed you. But to know the extent of that change required you to do it. To feel it first hand. Killing a Flesh Spider or a wolf was one thing. To snuff the life from a thinking, loving person with a personality and a soul was something else altogether. It added up, each death, until it felt like a mountain that would inevitably break you beneath it's constant pressure. But how could he explain that to a child? How could he tell Zachary, 'Your entire life has been damned since the first day we found you, and your soul will be damned as soon as you fulfill your purpose.'?

Renaud sighed, standing up and moving the chair closer to the bedside. He was getting too old for this. He had never asked these questions, or felt these burdens when he was young. In the first decade of his training, a hundred lives had ended at the tip of his dagger or by the prick of his poisoned dart. Why should it matter now?

As he looked down, he realized Zachary's eyes had opened. They were cloudy, unfocused. It would be hours yet before the affects wore off, and until it passed, the boy would be slow; slow to think, slow to move, and slow to understand. That was why the Mind Numbing poison was so valuable. Particularly against those with magic. Casting a spell was difficult when simple math was beyond your grasp and your tongue slurred every word.

"Ibn," Renaud called quietly. "The boy is awake."

The Raja'Aini knelt beside the bed and began to unwrap the bandages he had placed over the wound, slowly revealing smooth and unblemished skin. The only oddity was the pureness of it, a spot in the center of his shoulder where his tan ceased and perfectly pale skin ran in a rough edged circle. Renaud stood, and looked down at the boy. In time, Zachary would be a Master Assassin. He would be a force to be reckoned with, a man able to kill dozens without being seen or breaking stride. But for now, he was just a boy. And he was Renaud's apprentice.

"How do you feel, Zach?" The assassin asked.

"Je vous dois ma vie." The boy replied, groggily.

Renaud laughed, his tension easing. Even with the poison flowing through him, the boy's mind was still sharp.

"You owe me nothing, boy. I am your Master, it is my job."

"I was wounded. I might have died." Zachary replied in an even voice.

"And when you have healed, you will be punished. A good Assassin knows when to retreat. That is where you failed, not because you didn't kill the other as well. You should have fallen back to my side." Renaud said. He noticed Zachary glance at the Raja'Aini when he'd said the word 'Assassin.' "This is my friend Ibn. He is Raja'Aini. He is also our contact for the Mission."

Zachary nodded respectfully toward the man, and was returned the same gesture. The dark-skinned man lifted his hand and passed it over the boy's heart, chanting softly in a strange tongue. The boy listened, but turned to look at Renaud when he failed to identify the language. The Master only shook his head. Few could understand it unless they had been born into it. Ibn noticed the exchange, and spoke to Zachary when he had finished his whispering.

"It was a prayer. An ancient chant to bless the body and give swift recovery, little blade." His accent was thick, but easily deciphered. Zachary had been taught to speak in many accents during his training.

Ibn stood and looked at Renaud. "He will heal, and retain full use of the arm."

"Thank you." Renaud said, bowing his head in appreciation.

"There is no need to thank me. Doing the work of the Raja'Aini is enough reward to me. Come, we must discuss your Mission. If you wish to bring the boy, you will have to carry him. The rites of the Raja drain the body of strength, and he didn't have much to spare."

[Smokestorm]

"Set him down there." Ibn said, waving a hand at the largest cushion on the floor. It was a deep red fabric, silk by the look, with golden trim. Ornate designs scrawled across the surface in intricate and beautiful scrollwork. Renaud started to lower the boy to it, but stopped to look toward the Raja'Aini.

"This is a Fallien Marriage design." He said as he looked at it.

The man had his back turned to them, and was opening jars at a nearby table. He spoke over his shoulder as the ceramic containers clattered lightly.

"I do not believe my wife, rest her soul, would care if an injured child sat upon our Marital cushion were she still alive." He said. He turned back toward them, carrying a silver platter bearing a teapot and three goblets. They were made of blue glass, thick and solid. He sat the tray down near the center of the circle of seating pillows, and gestured toward Zachary. "Please do not be so rigid, Renaud. At least not while a weary and injured child hangs in your arms."

Renaud nodded and bent down to rest Zachary on the cushion, then took a seat on a green one nearby. He seemed troubled, and the tone of his voice reflected it.

"I was not aware that you had married." Renaud seemed uncomfortable. "Or that she had died."

"You have been a hard man to contact, these last few years. It would seem that the Mortalis doesn't wish it's Assassins to have friends."

He sat on his knees, and leaned forward to place his forehead against the ground. Renaud followed the Raja'Aini's lead, and both of them said a few words that the boy couldn't make out before straightening. Ibn looked toward the boy and smiled.

"I see he does not know our ways."

"No. This is the first time he has come here, and Mortalis honors the wishes of the Raja'Aini. We do not teach our students of your ways." Renaud replied.

"It is not a matter of secrecy, you see." Ibn said as he poured from the teapot into the goblets. "It is a matter of accuracy. Your people do not hold our beliefs in their hearts, and so they are unable to teach it as we can. Learning is much easier than unlearning. Were you to teach your young the Raja'Aini ways incorrectly, it would complicate matters."

"Of course." Renaud said, placing a hand on Zachary's shoulder. It was a well timed gesture, for Zachary had started feeling uncomfortable. Though it obviously wasn't his fault, he felt as if he lacked crucial knowledge to understanding this situation. Ibn took notice.

"I must admit," He said, passing the first goblet to Zachary. "I am rather surprised to see that you've finally taken an Apprentice. Though I'm not surprised to see your affection for him."

Zachary smelled the liquid in the glass before taking a cautious swallow. It was some kind of sweetened tea, and had a fruit taste to it that the boy didn't recognize. It was enjoyable enough, however, and surprisingly cold.

Renaud accepted the glass passed to him, and took a short drink before speaking. "Members of Mortalis are allowed to train their Apprentices as they wish. Others might not agree with my beliefs, but they don't need to. I can't expect the boy to listen and learn if he doesn't respect me."

Ibn nodded. "A wise method."

"And I finally felt ready to teach. It is a large responsibility, and one I'd never felt particularly inclined to accept. But the last decade has made me aware that I need someone to watch my back." The Assassin said. After a few seconds of thought, Renaud went on. "It is more than that, though. The boy has traveled with me for three years now, day and night. If you can keep company with a child for so long without growing attached, then I would name you inhuman."

"Ah, this is true as well. I am beginning to understand." The Raja'Aini stood and moved toward a nearby chest. He pulled a hemp rope necklace out from beneath his robes, a wrought iron key danging from the it. He turned the key, and the lock clicked loudly as it dropped from the latch. From the trunk, he pulled a rolled up piece of parchment wrapped around the center by a black ribbon. It was still as perfectly round as it had been when sealed, showing that it had been treated with reverence. Ibn returned to his cushion, and passed the scroll to Master Renaud.

Renaud examined the seal on the ribbon, then pulled his dagger to cut the knot from the parchment. While he unrolled it and began studying it, Ibn spoke.

"Your mark is Marcel Axelandre de'Travoin. He is the Warden of L'enfer Rocheux now."

Renaud jerked his head up from the parchment. His face held open surprise. "Marcel? The Hell Rock?"

"Yes. It would seem he has changed since we knew him." Ibn said, his voice reserved.

Renaud looked aghast, but quickly smoothed his expression.

"No one has ever escaped from that Prison alive, let alone penetrated it." Renaud said.

"That is what they say. I am not sure who you have offended to be given this mission, but I do know that it is necessary. Marcel has... fallen. I don't think you would recognize him anymore. He has become a twisted thing, and you could not ask for a more sadistic Warden." The Raja'Aini said.

"A Warden. His prisoners are rapists and murderers. Why should anyone care what he does to them?" Renaud asked, the first hints of anger beginning to show. Zachary watched quietly, observing as he'd been taught.

"Because his charges are no longer required to be guilty. His men walk the streets, doing as they please. An offense as simple as not bowing as they pass has become enough to be imprisoned." Ibn answered.

"And Tal'Ahkmet allows this? Where is the King? Why has he not stopped this?" Renaud asked.

"The King's hands are bound. The niece of de'Travoin has been engaged to the King's own son. If he moved against L'enfer Rocheux, he would shame his future daughter-in-law and by extension his son." The Raja'Aini said.

"So I am to take myself and my apprentice into extreme danger because the King doesn't want to shit where he eats?" Renaud asked.

"I would say you are to go into extreme danger to free the people of Tal'Ahkmet from the terror that rapes and tortures without cause." Ibn remarked mildly. "And beside that point, I did not assign you this mission old friend. Had I been the one to choose, I wouldn't have put you in this danger... or heartache."

Renaud cooled visibly, though the tension in his posture remained. "I know. I apologize."

"Under the sight of God, I do not blame you for your anger. There is nothing to forgive." Ibn gave Renaud a tight smile.

Renaud nodded, and then stood. "If you will stay with the boy, I will return tonight." He turned and headed for the door to the house.

"You go to collect information?" Ibn asked.

"Yes. I won't charge blindly into this." Renaud replied. As if he ever entered a battle without preparation.

"Good luck my friend, and may the God watch over you."

[Smokestorm]

Zachary remained behind, unable to help Renaud in any meaningful way. Between his healing wound and the thorough fatigue brought on by whatever the Raja'Aini had done, he wasn't even able to stand. The weariness had only set in so far as his body, however. His mind had rested for long enough, dreamt dreams he didn't wish to recall. He tried to push the memories away, but they avoided his feeble attempts. Darkness, silence.

"You look troubled boy." Ibn said, as he returned to sit beside Zachary. He had retrieved a plate of dried meat from another jar in his small kitchen. He held the plate out until the boy took it.

Zachary set on the food instantly, his ravenous hunger finally making itself known. He hadn't realized how strong it was. The meat was cut into small chunks, probably horseflesh, knowing the eating habits of the Fallien people. He didn't care; he'd eaten far worse things. After a few minutes, he remembered what Ibn had said.

"Should I not be worried? This Prison you and Master Renaud spoke about... it sounds dangerous." Zachary pointed out.

"Ah, the L'enfer Rocheux. Hellrock. You know nothing of it?" Ibn asked.

"No." Zachary replied, continuing his food-rampage.

"Hellrock sits upon a natural outcropping. The walls of the Prison are built at the edge of a thousand yard drop, where the sands give way to stone desert. There is only one way in, through a gate built across a bridge of land so narrow only three men can walk abreast. The walls are fifteen yards tall, and two yards thick. It is said that the stone of L'enfer Rocheux is so black that it drinks in the sunlight. It is a cursed place, the very walls and floor echoing grief and pain. I entered it once to administer care to an aging prisoner of note. From the first step beyond that gate, it felt as if all life and love were being sucked from my heart." Ibn's face had gone empty of emotion at the memory. His voice had dropped to a whisper, as if he still felt the ghosts from L'enfer even here. "And this was before the Lord de'Travoin took the Hellrock for his own. Now, it is said that the screams of his victims echo endlessly through the canyons as his foul men rape, beat, maim and kill without pity or remorse. I am told that the Lord Warden has stopped reporting the dead to the King, and that he merely has the bodies thrown from the walls."

Zachary looked down at his food, and rested the plate gently on the floor. His appetite had disappeared.

"And if that were the worst of the darkness plaguing Tal'Ahkmet right now, I would be grateful." Ibn said.

The boy looked at him questioningly. "What could be worse than L'enfer?"

"The days are growing dark here, little blade. Something is just... wrong. More and more, I hear that the dead no longer rest easy in their graves. It started some months back, before the Lord de'Travoin took the Hellrock. The reports were slow at first. People catching glimpses of pale light through the corners of their eyes. It grew from there. Now, the dead are said to walk the streets freely at night, when the mists come."

"Mists? In the desert?" It sounded preposterous to the boy.

"Yes. We've never had them before, here in Tal'Ahkmet. I had to consult books imported from across the Sea. A collection of essays from a scholar in Corone gave me the answer."

"And you believe these tales?" Zachary asked.

Ibn chuckled. "In a world full of magic, the thought of spirits makes you skeptical? Yes, I believe them. And tonight, I will have the answers to my questions."

Zachary tilted his head. "How?"

"The Rites of the Raja'Aini can do more than heal the sick. Tonight, when Master Renaud returns, I will know."

"You intend to ask Master Renaud for help with these ghosts?" Zachary asked.

"No. The ghosts of Tal'Ahkmet are Raja'Aini business. Your business lies with the L'enfer Rocheux. But until Master Renaud returns, someone must keep you company."

[Smokestorm]

The sun had set and the cold night had crept in on Tal'Ahkmet. The stars above glimmered brightly, the half-moon shedding a weak light over the world of sand and stone below. The winds were blunted by the nearby buildings, though the occasional gust still made its way through to rustle his hair or disturb the fabric of his Mortalis robes. The sounds of the night were different from other cities. Where another might be full of barking dogs and drunken jubilation, there was only silence here. Ibn stood beside him, the Raja'Aini looking out into the darkness with a concerned look on his face.

"We should not be out here, little blade." He said, his eyes searching through the shadows.

"You didn't have to follow me." Zachary said.

They stood outside Ibn's home in the peasants district of the city. All of the structures around them were squat and square, built of sandstone. They were all the same drab yellow, the colors washed out by the heat of the desert sun. Many of the houses had ritualistic markings painted on the doors or outer walls, embellished crucifixes or entwined scrollwork reminiscent of Ibn's Marital Cushion.

"Keep your eyes open, Zachary. The spirits walk the nights of Tal'Ahkmet." The Raja'Aini turned and made his way back inside.

Zachary watched him go, his mind working the puzzle over in it's depths. Why would the dead rise again just to walk the streets and terrorize the living? Surely there had to be a greater purpose. Assuming, of course, that it really was happening and wasn't just a hoax orchestrated by the bored youths of the city. No ghostly specters seemed to be haunting Tal'Ahkmet tonight, anyways. Zachary shook his head and backed away from the house a few steps.

With a running start, the ascent was made easy. His boots hit the stone wall, carrying him upward, one, two full steps before gravity began pulling at him. His right hand grabbed hold of a protruding ridge in the wall. He pulled his weight upward, reaching out with his left arm. The stiffness in his shoulder was uncomfortable and difficult to work through, as if he wore a thick wrap of leather around the joint. There was no pain, just... awkwardness. His left hand closed on the roof's edge, and he pulled himself up into a crouch.

He found himself staring into the empty sockets of a skull.

Shrouded in a cloak as dark as the shadows on a moonless night, the figure was hunched down in a stance that mirrored Zachary's. All that showed was the head, the skull. Zachary sat frozen for a minute, emotionless. The shock drove everything else from his mind. And then the figure was moving, it's right arm flashing out. A shimmer of light fell across a silver blade as it arced toward the boy's throat.

Zachary threw himself into a forward roll, passing beside the Skull-figure's left side. He felt the hand skim his back and start to twist. By that time, the apprentice was mostly in the clear. Still, the razor edge of the blade bit a shallow line down the back of the boy's left thigh.

Twisting as he came up, the boy grabbed the figure around the shoulders with his left arm. A flex of the muscles in his right arm brought the Assassin's hallmark weapon into play. The twelve inch blade deployed, sliding out of the underside of the silver gauntlet with a faint hiss as he drove his fist toward the figure's back. But then the figure disappeared in a cloud of darkness streaked with purple smoke, and Zachary was stumbling forward. He caught himself before falling, his eyes searching for the figure. A rush of the Sense filled his mind, the hair on his arms and neck standing. He dove to the side as three knives streaked passed him. He twisted in the dive, rolling across his shoulder and coming up in a crouch. And then he was encased in black and purple smoke, his sense of direction warping as gravity pulled at him from every direction. The Rift felt like a void.

He sprung forward from the cloud, and emerged ten yards from where he had crouched on the roof. Shadow stepping was one of the first things he'd been taught by Master Renaud, and was an invaluable tool to an Assassin. The figure stood facing him, its black gloved hands clapping appreciatively. The shadows around it faded, the illusion of the skull washing away in the wind like dust. Master Renaud was smiling.

"Your skills grow daily. You will make a fine Assassin, Snow."

Zachary felt his pride inflating from the praise, but tried to dismiss it. There were more important things to consider right now. Still, the compliment felt good.

"Did you learn anything?" Zachary asked.

"Yes. Ibn's words were true. de'Travoin must die." Renaud's face relaxed into an expressionless mask as he crossed his arms over his chest. He wore the standard clothing of his rank in the Mortalis order, an overcoat of dark grey fabric that reached his ankles, covering smoke colored leather armor. "The only question is how we deal with the Hellrock."

[Smokestorm]

Renaud sat on the roof, his posture restful and introspective as he thought. It was one of those rare moments of rest, when he didn't need to be constantly vigilant. Zachary stood at the edge of the building, starlight outlining his small form as he gazed out at the depths of the night. The boy's posture was different from Renaud's, tight and rigid. The young always had something to prove. His voice was small in the darkness when he spoke, but his words were clear and his tone certain.

"There is danger here. The sense is making my skin crawl."

The Master Assassin smiled as he turned his eyes up to the stars.

"Danger surrounds us here. These are dark days for Fallien and Tal'Ahkmet. Look up and tell me what you see." Renaud replied.

Zachary looked up, his eyes searching the sky. He glanced back to Renaud uncertainly. The Master stood and moved to stand behind the boy, then pointed skyward.

"The Reaper is clear tonight, and free from the cell. You know what that means?" Renaud asked.

Zachary racked his brain for the old myths of Rashefell. "It means the Reaper has come to reclaim lost or escaped souls, and the world will tremble under the weight of his footsteps."

The master Assassin nodded as he glanced out at the empty streets of the city.

"So you believe the rumors? That the dead rise again?" Zachary's scorn was evident in his tone of voice.

"Use your mind, boy. Think. Look out at the streets and tell me what you see."

Zachary did so, then glanced back at Renaud. "I see no spirits."

"What else do you see?"

He saw buildings. Paved roads. Darkened windows, closed shutters. He shrugged uncomfortably. "I see nothing."

"Where are the dogs? What of the merchants that should be moving merchandise to restock their stores for the coming morning? Have you seen even a single thief or footpad? What about the homeless beggars, where are they? What about the City Watch?" Renaud asked.

Zachary frowned and swept his eyes over the streets again. It was the same as before. No movement, few sounds. There were no people, no dogs, nothing living to be seen in those streets. Every window with shutters was closed, those without darkened as if something had been moved in front of them. And now the boy began to really see. The patterns painted on the walls and doors, the crucifixes and holy symbols near every entrance to every building. The city was... empty. A ghost-town.

"Ah, now you start to see it. What I've seen since we arrived. And it's not even just during the night. During the days, the people move quickly about their business and do not stop long to chat even with friends and family. Their eyes are furtive, and look to the ground below them. Their postures rigid, with sunk in shoulders. They are afraid."

"Just because they are afraid doesn't mean there is a reason for them to be." Zachary remarked, though his voice was uncertain now. "Superstition has that effect on people everywhere the world over."

"So it does. But then why are the stars agreeing with the fools, and why is your Sense buzzing?" Renaud asked.

Zachary couldn't answer that question, so he remained silent as he looked out across the sea of buildings and sand. As much as he wanted to hold fast to the belief that nothing was happening here except a prank, the boy knew better. Every sign pointed toward something more, and the Sense never lied. Ignoring it or Master Renaud would be beyond stupid. It would be a grievous error. The boy turned to look at his Master.

"Are you saying we should do something about it? Master Ibn said that the ghosts of Tal'Ahkmet is only the Raja'Aini's business."

"He is quite right. Interfering with these people's ancestors... it isn't our place."

"What about this Marcel, Master? You know him?" Zachary asked.

"That, boy, is a story for another day." Renaud looked both sad and angry, and the apprentice chose not to push the topic.

"So what are we going to do?" Zachary asked.

"We will do exactly as we've been commanded to. We will infiltrate the Rocheux, kill the mark, and return to Corone." Renaud replied.

Zachary was silent as he continued staring out into the empty night, his eyes rising to look at the Reaper Constellation. Both Ibn and Renaud had said that Dark Days were coming for Fallien, but what exactly did it mean? What was the extent of the coming darkness? If the dead rising was only the first event, what terrors would the future hold? He shivered then, a cold thing that crawled down his spine like an insect. Best not to think on it. As soon as they completed their mission, they'd return to Corone and leave this cursed, sand blasted land behind.

"So how do we get into the Rocheux?" Zachary asked.

"That's the easy part. We let ourselves get caught."

[Smokestorm]

There were four, all of them long and slender. Made of Flexsteel, a metal used frequently by the Mortalis order, the needles were the length of a finger. Zachary's stomach turned at the sight of them, knowing what must come next. He had endured a great deal of pain before, but some things still made him nauseous. He picked one up and held it above the candle's flame. It began to heat as it shimmered in the fire, throwing silver light against the roof of the small room he'd been given. The metal didn't glow with heat, nor distort or smoke. Few materials were so resilient. The heat would serve three purposes, to minimize the blood loss, to sterilize, and after they fused to the skin, would keep the needles from slipping out.

He pulled it away from the fire, and hesitated for a moment. Only a moment, yet it felt like an eternity. Candlelight glared down the length of the needle, it's cold hue belying the heat that radiated from it. And then he began to drive it through.

The skin of his left forearm gave way easily before the point, blood oozing out despite the cauterizing heat and leaking down on to the table below. He gritted his teeth against the pain, driving the needle ever deeper into the meat. Not through, but along, where it would hide beneath his flesh. It was halfway there, but his face was growing red. He'd forgotten to breathe, and forcing the exhale now felt so much harder than it had been moments ago, the inhale somehow amplifying the fire in his arm.

Sweat beaded on his brow now. The candle seemed to be putting off much more heat than it had before. Numbness had begun seeping out from where the needle was slowly burrowing into him, an awkward feeling- or non-feeling as it were- that spread gooseflesh along his neck and back. The sweat dripped down, ran into his eye. And as the salt stung, the boy squeezed his eyes tight and pushed down hard and fast. The needle slid the rest of the way in, only the very tip was left out as he let go. Zachary sucked in a breath, fighting the overpowering wave of sickness that rose in him, but failing.

He grabbed the bucket just in time as his stomach emptied, burning a path up through his throat and leaving a horrid taste in his mouth as it splattered the inside of the metal bowl. Master Renaud had left it in the room, and had said only that Zachary would need it before he was done. The boy understood now, as a second round of vomit came and went into it. He sat still for a moment, trying to regulate his breathing. The air was so thick, it felt as if it was smothering him. Sweat dripped from his white hair, splashing down to mix with the blood that swamped the tabletop.

"Zachary, are you well?" Ibn's voice called from the outside of the closed door. Renaud had warned him against entering until Zachary gave permission.

"I'm," he started, but faltered and went silent as another wave of nausea rose. His throat tightened, but it passed quickly. "I'm fine."

Ibn made no response, but the Sense faded as the Raja'Aini moved away from the door.

The next needle was both easier and harder. Steeled against the pain, he pushed it in beside the first, and much faster this time. But with twice the punctures, more blood came. The coppery smell hung heavy in the suffocatingly warm air, cloying and sickly sweet. Again, he showered the metal pail with half digested food. And now that smell began to waft throughout the room as well. His only comfort was that soon, there would be nothing left to disgorge.

His mind tried to help him, speaking to him of the necessity of this, telling him that the pain would pass and he would heal. But even that was a mental dodge, his mind occupying itself. This was preferable to what was coming. Dungeons. Prison, a cell small enough to touch opposite walls at the same time. Darkness, silence. He'd been there before, had lived a life locked down and empty. How long would he be forced to forget himself and wait for his Master's signal? How long would he huddle in the shadows, wishing for the sky?

When the task was finally finished, and all four needles were buried beneath his skin, he looked around the room in a daze. Lightheaded and sleepy from bloodloss, the room seemed so different than he remembered it. Wooden racks held folded cloth, decorative rugs hung randomly against walls, bright thread illustrating scenery or events. He recognized one now, and wondered why he hadn't realized it before. Knights fought on a field of blood, weapons clashing as the sky was rent by blasts of lightning and gouts of fire, dragons diving and clawing each other in the clouded skies. The War of the Tap. The original illustration had been burned into his memory when he'd studied ancient history.

Other tapestries depicted happier events, and one in particular held his gaze. A woman in a deep red robes stood in front of a man in white, a turban covering his head, while another man in black stood behind and between them. The woman and man in white held hands, staring at each other while pink blossoms fell around them. It was obviously a rendition of a marriage, stylized and beautiful, yet true to life. Even from a profile depiction, Zachary recognized Ibn.

It was the slow sound of dripping that brought him back to reality. His eyes sought the source and found his arm, mutilated and raw. He knew the wounds weren't that bad, that they only looked that way because of the smeared blood. Assassins from Mortalis did things like this frequently, though the results were usually less drastic. The problem was a simple one... he was using the wrong equipment. The needles were hollowpoint, made to deliver poisons to targets rather than serve as lockpicks. They left his inside exposed to the outside. It was a perfect conduit for his blood to shed through. But it was all he had. With any luck, he would survive the infections he was sure to get from it.

He looked down at the table, looked at his blood as it pooled on the surface. His mind was still fogged, but regaining strength as the bleeding slowed. The smell of vomit was the primary force behind his stomach's discontent now, and he stood on shaking legs to walk the pail to the window. The contents slurped as they left the bucket and sprayed across the ground outside. He began to pull it back inside, thought better of it, and dropped it out the window. The metal made a loud series of bangs as it hit the ground and rolled. Zachary ignored it, turned to blow out the candle, then left the room as quickly as he could on wobbly legs and ill stomach.

[Smokestorm]

Ibn grabbed Zachary's left wrist as he left the room. The jolt of pain paralyzed him for a short moment, and that was likely all that kept the boy from reacting violently to the unexpected contact. Trained from birth to strike quickly and to think later, the moment gave his mind time to process, and time to realize that it was only Ibn. Though judging by the irate look on his face, this was a different Ibn than he had known so far. Zachary resisted the urge to strangle the man with his own turban as the Raja'Aini shook his injured arm at Renaud.

"This is barbaric! He is only a child!" Ibn's accent was much thicker now, a sign of his anger.

"He does only what is necessary, Ibn, as I do. We don't judge you or your ways, don't judge us." Renaud's eyes were hard, his posture stiff. Though he defended the necessity, he obviously didn't like it either. His eyes stared only at Ibn and Zachary's faces, completely avoiding the arm.

"Necessary? These are hollow needles. He will be fighting infection within the next two days, let alone when he reaches the Hellrock. Prisons are filthy. That one is a cesspit. I can't believe you are taking him in there in the first place, let alone in this way." Ibn was still gesticulating wildly with Zachary's arm. The boy would have thought it funny, had it not hurt so fucking much. He pulled his arm free and held it protectively with his right hand. The Raja'Aini looked down, his eyes shifting from horror and anger to guilt when he realized what he'd been doing and saw the look of pain on the apprentice's face. "Aye. I'm sorry. It seems we often do harm when motivated only by concern and a desire to help."

Renaud sighed and rubbed his beard with his right hand. His left arm was perched on the table, palm upward. The amount of blood on him was considerably less than was on Zachary. "Yes... the road to hell is paved with good intentions. He does only what he must. We both must go in to be certain of success. Elsewise I wouldn't risk him."

Ibn nodded to Renaud, though he looked older somehow. He steered Zachary to a seat on the same cushion he had before, and bent to examine his injured arm.

"He has never done this before, has he?" Ibn asked.

Irritated at being talked over as if he wasn't there, it was Zachary that replied. "No, I haven't."

Ibn glanced up at him before looking back down. "He nicked the Radial Artery."

"I can tell. It looks like someone slaughtered a baby lamb on his lap." Renaud remarked casually.

Zachary's face was growing red, and his mood dropping like a stone. He tried to pull his arm away, but Ibn pulled it back. The pressure caused a lance of pain that made the boy relent in the struggle. He clenched his teeth silently.

"No need for that." Ibn said, then gestured at Zachary's red cheeks. "Or that."

He pulled a packet from a pouch at his waist beneath his white robes, and removed a small piece of charcoal from it. With deft movements, he began drawing odd symbols on the boy's arm after clearing each spot of blood. The markings looked archaic, some smooth and organic others sharp and unnatural, though they all flowed together seamlessly.

"When I was just a boy, studying the Raja'Aini Rites with my Master, I was tasked with communicating with a recently deceased spirit to identify the murderer." Ibn said. He turned to look at Renaud, and nodded his head toward a shelf. The Master Assassin stood and moved toward it, hovering his hand above random items until Ibn nodded. He picked the item up and showed it to Zachary. It was a doll made of straw and twine, faceless and the size of his hand.

"That is called a Nhakkimu. It is a Focus object used in Raja'Aini Rites that deal with specific people. An object of the person in question is attached to it, to form a connection. I used one when I healed you of the Flesh Spider's bite. The lock of hair Renaud cut off during the fight is what bound it to you, infact. Anyways, I made it perfectly, connected it to the deceased perfectly, but made one small error during the Ritual." Ibn's fingers were moving across the charcoal runes on Zachary's arm now, but he wasn't paying attention. The story was almost mesmerizing. The dark-skinned man had a way with words that kept your focus.

"In our ancestral language, the words for 'Bind' and 'Speak' are very close. As I was still learning that language, it was an easy mistake to make. Instead of communicating with the spirit, I bound it into the Nhakkimu. Before I could rectify the mistake, the poor thing realized what it had become, screamed in horror and ran. Somewhere in this world, as we speak, there is a human soul tied to a straw doll. One mistake, and I stole their eternal slumber and replaced it with a macabre existence." Ibn lifted Zachary's arm. Now completely clean of blood, only four bumps remained on his otherwise smooth skin. It was as if he had never pushed the needles in... aside from the fact that they were now embedded in his skin. The boy touched his arm, and was pleasantly surprised to find no pain, only a residual soreness that was barely noticeable.

"Thank you." He told Ibn.

"Don't thank me yet. When you have to remove those... it will hurt. It will hurt badly. You will have to cut them free, and the heat will have seared them to your skin." Ibn replied.

Zachary nodded. He would cross that bridge when he came to it.

"Master Ibn?" The Apprentice asked.

"Yes?"

"I saw the tapestry in the room. That was your wife, wasn't it?" Zachary asked.

"Zachary." Renaud said, a hint of warning in his voice.

Ibn smiled as he shook his head at Renaud. "He does not know our ways. He meant no offense. The curiosity of a child is strong."

The apprentice looked between them, confused. How had he given offense? It was just a simple question.

"Asking a man about his past is considered a sign of distrust among the Raja'Aini, Zachary." Ibn said. "It is an ability gained only with great time and strong bonds of blood or friendship."

"Oh. My apologies, Master Ibn." Zachary replied. It was an odd concept to the boy, but he'd heard of things far more strange. Like how the ancient Natives of Corone had hung woven, beaded circles above their beds to catch and filter nightmares out of the air before they reached their sleeping minds. Of course, those same people seemed to believe that an intricate dance could bring rains. But hell, the dead seemed to be rising from tombs to walk through the streets of Tal'Ahkmet. Maybe there was some small truths to the absurdities after all.

"But to answer your question, yes, that was my Wife. Her name was Abla'Almas. It means 'Perfect Diamond' in our ancestral tongue. And she was. She was perfect in every way. Until the Plague came." Ibn's face was an expressionless mask. "She withered and died in this very house. I stayed with her to the end, trying as hard as I could. But even the Rites sometimes fail."

That sparked a memory in the boy, and he risked another question.

"Master Ibn, did the Rites give you your answers last night?" Zachary asked.

Ibn was silent for a moment, his face troubled. "No, child. The spirits are silent, and the future is clouded. They would say only one thing. 'The Reaper walks again.'"

[Smokestorm]

"It isn't our place, or our concern. Stay focused on our mission." Renaud said.

They walked side by side down the street, both of them dressed in once white robes, now stained the color of sand. They were without weapons or equipment of any kind, their instruments left behind in the care of Master Ibn. Today was the day they would descend into the depths of the Hellrock. As usual, Zachary was trying to redirect the focus of his wandering thoughts. The crisis of the Reaper and the walking spirits was at the top of his mind today.

"Why is our mission more important? The myths are clear that when the Reaper walks, death and war follow him." The apprentice stated.

The streets were mostly clear, despite the risen sun. The wind blew, but offered no shelter from the heat. It was arid and dry, irritating the skin where it touched through the fabric of their clothing. The few people that walked the cracked stone roads looked down or away from them as they passed and were shy with insecurity, shrunken in on themselves as if trying to occupy as little space as possible. Many of them wore holy symbols around their necks, some dyed into their garments. Others whispered quiet prayers as they went. The fear was palpable, almost as tangible as the overbearing warmth of the desert city.

"It isn't. Our mission isn't as important as whatever is happening to the ghosts of Tal'Ahkmet. But there is nothing we can do about that. We make the dead, not rest them." Renaud replied, though he looked troubled. Zachary decided to let the topic rest.

The buildings around them changed subtly as they came nearer to the edge of the poor district. The signs of poverty began to recede, replaced by more extravagant structures and homes. The washed out earthen colors gave way to more lively tones of green and blue. Paint was an expensive thing in Fallien, cool tones especially. A single pail of it probably cost more than most of the homes in the poor district of town. But there was an even greater change that only became evident the further they went. The air itself was growing more temperate, colder.

The feeling of constant, slow suffocation was easing from his tight chest. The Sense was buzzing in the back of his mind like a fly trapped between a window's glass and a curtain, speaking of magic near him. He looked around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Instead of searching for something he didn't have the knowledge to spot, he looked to his side at Master Renaud. The man took note of his questioning glance and gestured softly. The boy looked where his master had indicated. It took only a moment for him to find it. Painted on the side of a building amid the religious scripture, blending almost flawlessly, was a Raja'Aini rune.

"The Rites?" Zachary asked.

Renaud nodded. "An extravagance paid for by the rich and denied to the poor. A main source of the Raja'Aini Temple's income. Peasants and foreigners are not generally allowed this deep in the heart of the city. It won't be long before we are apprehended by Marcel's guards and taken to the Hellrock."

A flutter of fear twisted through Zachary's guts, but he steeled himself against it. What did it matter that he would sacrifice days or weeks in darkness and silence? At the end, he would emerge from the depths and leave this cursed land with Renaud. He would survive, as he always had before. And if he didn't, what was there to worry about then? Nothing lasted forever, even the shadows would give way to dawn. Besides, he'd been imprisoned before. It wouldn't be a new experience.

The sun had moved further into the sky when it finally happened. A column of guards moved from a side alley to halt them, fanning out in a blockade formation atop their horses. Their silver armor gleamed in the light of the sun, the runes engraved on the breastplates shimmering with an unnatural radiance. All of them wore stylized masks reminiscent of animals, boars and bears, lions and lynx, spiders and serpents. Their weapons were finely crafted, all of them made from a blue metal Zachary recognized as Prevalida. Something was wrong. His Sense spiked to a level that induced a paralyzing terror, gushing adrenaline into his body.

Sudden noise and movement drew his attention to the rooftops, where lines of common soldiers were rising above the waist high ledges to aim crossbows down on the two Assassins from every angle. Behind them, more of the masked soldiers had barricaded every road and alley that they could have used for retreat.

A man moved out from behind the line of masked soldiers, his clothing an instant give away. His armor was Prevalida, fitted to his thin body perfectly over smoke gray undercloth. Two swords crossed at his back, their hilts stylized in the likeness of angels reaching to the sky. His face was hard and cold, lined with age and displaying an emptiness of emotion. His hair was a deep brown, his eyes dark. His posture was impossibly straight, his bearing overpowering.

While Zachary still stood frozen, Master Renaud was blurring into movement. A cloud of purple and black smoke rose around him, and he disappeared. At the same time a masked soldier near the Lord de'Travoin fell from his horse, his neck twisted at a grotesque angle. The sheathes at the corpse's back were empty, their swords appropriated by the Master Assassin. He was standing on the dancing horse's saddle now, holding perfect balance as he leapt, his swords aiming at the Lord of the Hellrock's heart. There was a flash of dark green light behind Renaud, and what sounded like a thunderclap echoed through the air.

Renaud flew backward, the swords falling from his hands as he tumbled to the ground halfway between Zachary and the Lord Marcel. Another horse rode out from behind the wall of masked soldiers, and upon it sat Master Ibn. His clothing was different now, matched the reds and blacks of the soldiers all around him. His face was sad but resolved, his hand outstretched and glowing. Zachary watched in horror as an Eagle-masked warrior dropped to the ground and moved to stand above Renaud. He drew a dagger from his waist, and knelt to wrap his hand in the Assassin's hair. Renaud was dragged up to his knees, his eyes full of pain.

"I suggest you finish it quick, Lord. He is strong, and he is fighting me." Ibn said. The light around his hand was pulsing now.

"Did you really think you could kill the Lord of Hellrock, Renaud? I knew you were coming here before you did. Mortalis sold you out. Tell me where it is." Marcel's voice was cold.

"Why, Ibn?" Renaud asked. He ignored Marcel completely, his gaze locked on the Raja'Aini.

"My wife is not dead, old friend. She is in the Hellrock with Marcel's knife at her throat." Ibn said, then looked away.

Marcel's cold eyes studied Renaud. "Very well then. I know you well enough to know that you will not bend or break. But your apprentice will. Goodbye now, Renaud." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

The knife bit deep, blood spraying out across the sand and stone of the street. Zachary's shout of rage and misery was uncontrolled as he bolted toward the soldier. The air around him grew thick as Ibn's hand glowed again, and the guard turned away from Renaud's falling body to grab the apprentice around the throat and lift him into the air. The boy began to struggle, his face turning red as the guard's grip choked him. Behind the guard, Lord Marcel looked toward Ibn.

"If your guard crushes his throat, he will be unable to speak." The Raja'Aini said.

"Very well. Bind him and throw him on a horse." Marcel started to turn his horse away. The guard dropped Zachary to the ground, where the boy grabbed his throat protectively and began heaving.

"Wait, there is one other thing." Ibn lifted his hand, and it pulsed white. A tortured cry of pain burst from the boy's throat as the four needles ripped through the skin of his arm and flew off into the Raja'Aini's hand. Marcel looked at them critically as Zachary's blood began to drip down into the sandy street.

"Clever Assassin." He turned to one of the masked Soldiers, a Hyena. "Burn the body. I want no surprises."