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 (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23023-Zachary-Snow&p=185957&viewfull=1#post185957) ]

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."

[Smokestorm]

Chapter Two:
Into the Hellrock


"I have walked the path; the shadowed roads
that led to terror's breast. I have plumbed the depths of
Hatred's womb and scaled Destruction's crest."
-The Adept



He could have struggled, could have made it difficult for his captors to contain him. But instead, he was still, fear and despair held him silent and motionless. He prayed that it was only a trick, that Master Renaud had used an Illusion as he sometimes did and faked his own death. Or that he'd somehow lived and was waiting for the moment to strike and rescue his apprentice. But in his heart, he knew Renaud was gone. The Sense was smothering him in panic now. Surrounded by enemies and without allies. How could Ibn have done this?

He had been bound at the wrists, knees, and ankles before being thrown over the back of a horse facedown. The smell of the beast in the hot sun wasn't helping the feeling of suffocation. His left arm burned like fire, blood flowing down his fingers to drip freely into the sand.

His mind was working furiously to dredge up every random and unconnected thought it could, flooding his attention with complete tripe, all to keep the memory away. And still it was failing. Every few seconds, the boy's mind would snap back to the splash of blood that soaked the ground as the dagger opened Renaud's jugular. But maybe Renaud had survived. He'd lived through so many things in the years Zachary had known him. Things a normal person couldn't have. Clinging desperately to that thought, the boy closed his eyes and began to calm himself. The jostling of the horse, the feeling of asphyxiation, and the Sense pounding against his mind made it easier said than done.

Voices chatted merrily around him, muffled by grotesque silver masks. They spoke of victory, of the kill, of the captured boy. He tried to shut them out, seeking just an ounce of peace in a day that had gone horribly wrong and would haunt his memories and nightmares for the rest of his life. He cast his mind back to better days, easier days. Recollections bubbled to the surface; standing on the deck of the Corone Galleon Quicksilver with Renaud, practicing with their daggers, laughing together as they bantered and danced inside ribbons of flashing steel. He could almost feel the spray of the ocean on his face, could almost hear Renaud's comforting voice.

Time crawled forward, the boy's eyes shut tightly against the outside world. Tears leaked out between his eyelids, blood from his wounds, sweat from his pores. He needed to be calm, and prepare for what was coming. He was being marched into Hell, and he had to do more than survive until Renaud came to rescue him. He had to finish the mission. He would have to find a way to kill the emotionless monster that led the column of guards. He was wounded and scared, but he would not fail. He would kill Marcel Axelandre de'Travoin for the Mortalis. And Ibn, he would kill for free.

[Smokestorm]

The blows fell down on him, armored fists tearing skin and fracturing bone. On his hands and knees, Zachary ground his teeth in the futile effort to make no sound. He would not scream, he would not beg. He would not give them the satisfaction. He was Renaud's apprentice. He would be unbent, unbroken, unyielding. A crack filled the air, as loud as thunder. Lightning lanced through his ribs. Bloody mist rained to the bricks below him. He was flash frozen, held in place by muscles flexed into near petrification. The blinding pain eased a fraction, and the muscles went limp. He slid as he hit the ground. The whip had bitten deep, so deep that white bone showed through frayed and stained skin.

Lord Marcel sat across the room, watching as his guards brutalized the boy. Ibn stood at his side, but his gaze was turned away. He hadn't made eye contact with Renaud's apprentice since entering the Hellrock. Marcel stood and walked forward. His bootheels rung distinctly with each step, echoing from the dark stone walls. He stopped just short of the radius of blood, his hands clasped behind his back. His lavender eyes watched intently as Zachary rose to his hands and knees. To move was agony, pure misery. But he wouldn't give in. When Renaud returned, he would find his apprentice strong.

"Just tell me what I want to know, boy. I'll let you go if you do." Marcel said. His voice was even, his face emotionless. It was the cold eyes that told Zachary of the lie in his words.

Zachary inhaled deeply, or as deeply as he could. It felt as if his left lung had been punctured, or was filling with fluid. The heat had returned in full force here. Why waste money shielding a prison from the influence of the desert sun? His body was slicked with blood. His shirt, or the remnants of it, lay on the ground in tatters. His chest and back were bruised and mangled, the thatch pattern of the whip engraved in him.

He spat on the Lord's boot. There was some spit, but most of it was blood. Marcel stared at his shoes for a moment, his lip turned up in disgust. And then he walked back to his seat. Zachary's eyes went unfocused as a fist hit the back of his head and he fell forward. He expected more to follow, but was surprised. He looked up after a moment, and found Marcel holding his hand up to stall the guards.

"You are a complete tool, child. Your Mortalis masters point their fingers and off you go to murder someone in their sleep. Do you even realize how much Renaud has hidden from you?"

Zachary started to speak, but coughed up a glob of blood instead. He spat it out, cleared his throat and tried again.

"You are a murderer. You imprison innocent people, beat and rape them for fun. Why would I believe you over my Master?" The boy said, his voice barely holding together under the strain of his aching body.

Marcel looked to Ibn and let out an unconvincing guffaw of laughter. "Of all the things you could tell him, you told him that?"

"My Lord was unspecific about what I should tell them after they arrived." Ibn replied.

Marcel stared at the Raja'Aini for a moment, then shook his head and looked back to Zachary. "I find it sad that Renaud didn't even bother to tell you what you were risking your life for."

Zachary looked down, a shiver passing through his weak body. The heat was still pressing against him in waves, his blood still leaking to the rock below. The pain pulsed through him, a steady beat like musical drums being struck in his chest. He was confused, and he was scared. But he would be strong. Renaud would come for him.

Marcel studied the boy, his eyes empty and his posture revealing nothing. The hardness seemed to have gone out of him, but no warmth had taken it's place. He turned to speak to Ibn, the Raja'Aini still looking away.

"Take him to the Dark Block. Collar him, and do not heal him."

Ibn finally looked at the boy, and back to Marcel with horror. "He is dying, My Lord."

"I'm not going to break him with one hand while the other helps him stay strong. There is no time for that." Marcel scowled at Ibn, his tone cold. "You will do as I say, your wife will live, and the boy will come around. Now go."

Ibn looked like he wanted to say something, but he apparently thought better of it. The guard nearest Zachary knelt and picked the boy up roughly. They left the Warden's chamber together, Ibn leading the way while the guards followed. Away from the eyes of Marcel, the guard carrying him relaxed into a more comfortable and careful posture, but any comfort it would have given paled in the circumstances. The dark stone of L'enfer Rocheux was just as Ibn had told him, merciless, and seemed to press down on them as they walked. The light of the torches felt fragile, as if one solid gust of wind would snuff out the flames and leave them in shadow.

After what felt like days, they stopped in front of a heavy iron door. And as it was opened, the boy felt a stab of fear. There was no light beyond it. Just pure darkness and silence. He could feel... something. There was wrongness in this place. The Sense that had been buzzing in his head since the ambush suddenly changed in some indescribable way. It was like a candle's flame suddenly turning blue, or a steady note dropping an octave. It was just... different.

Ibn lifted his hand, and light rose around it. It was a pale radiance, somehow sickly in appearance. The skin of his hand turned a bright red, and shadows of his bones showed through as he lifted his arm to shed light over the cell block. Shadows flickered as they walked down the hallway, iron cages passing by each side... all of them empty. They were small things, dirty. Ibn stopped about halfway between the far wall and the door they'd entered through. He pointed at a cell, a cell no different from any of the others. One of the guards moved forward, his keys jingling as he unlocked it. The hinges wailed as the cell was pulled open, flakes of rust falling from the pitted metal.

The guard holding Zachary walked through the door, and lowered the boy to the floor. He retreated quickly, and followed the other guards as they left. Ibn, however, remained behind. He knelt in front of the apprentice, his hand falling on to Zachary's shoulder. The boy was too tired to fight the Raja'Aini away. His Sense flickered as magic poured into his body, and everything began to feel dryer.

"He said to not heal you, so I haven't. But it won't do any good if you bleed to death." Ibn said.

Zachary didn't bother to reply, only stared at the man. The Raja'Aini's eyes dropped, and he pulled a steel collar from his robes. Set into the front of the collar, an archaic Raja'Aini symbol was engraved around a single crystal. The man snapped it around the boy's neck, then left the cell. He turned, outside, and spoke again.

"I am sorry."

The cell closed, and the lock latched into place with a loud click that echoed from the empty walls. And as Ibn walked away with the torch, shadows and silence filled the cellblock behind him.

[Smokestorm]

Temperature became the only way to mark the passage of time. Insufferable heat and thirst marked the days, biting chill and hunger his only companions during the nights. Silence and Darkness were the extent of the world beyond the cold metal of his cell. There was no way to know how long he'd been here. His body contained the only clues; the hunger had become a natural feeling to him, the stone floor no longer cramped his back after he slept. Every so often, he would run his fingers over the iron bars just to hear the sound echo through the abyss. In that way he knew that he could still hear. The collar around his neck let him test his sight; every time he tried to Shadow step through the bars and to freedom, the crystal at the front would glow a faint white. But those tests became fewer as the days wore on. Every time he tried the collar would flash white hot, searing his neck and bringing agony.

His wounds remained open, though he was growing used to the pain. His body ached without end or respite. He could feel the beginning stages of infection setting in as his chaffed and lacerated skin grew tender and hot, his body slicked with sweat even after the sun had set and his prison had become frigid. His mind was starting to slip out of focus, random memories springing up to replay through his consciousness as if they were currently happening. During that endless night, many phantom Renauds came to rescue him. And every time he awoke to find his eyes dead and the cell still around him, he wept without sound.

As the days passed, he grew weaker. The hunger was an ever twisting knife in his gut, and the infection had turned his arm and back into a furnace of heat. The prison seemed to be spinning slowly, constantly. Trying to keep his balance was as difficult as seeing through the darkness.

The guards came every now and then, some bringing food and light, others with water and brutal beatings. Some came empty handed, seeking only the joys found in hurting him. One smelled of tobacco, and brought nothing but taunts. Another held blinding light in his hand and alcohol on his breath, and he pissed through the bars upon the shivering child. But there was one other guard, one who brought extra food and water. He was the only one the boy remembered clearly.

Swaying between the world of reality and fevered dreams, Zachary heard the door at the end of the hall creak open. Light poured through. To a normal man, it wouldn't have been enough to read by. To the boy, it seemed as if the sun itself had been dragged into the hallway. He was too weak to move, let alone shield his eyes. But the whimper of pain was enough, and the guard lowered the shutter on the oil lamp as he approached. Sounds swirled around Zachary's fogged mind, but made no sense. Until the cell door squealed open on it's rusted hinges. It was piercing, stabbing into his ears as it echoed through the chamber. It was then that the boy came full to reality.

As the guard knelt nearby, Zachary's brain cleared and his instincts came back into focus. The time to escape had come, his chance to be free. Gathering what strength he could, the boy exerted it all. His arm lifted two inches from the cold stone, then fell back down.

... Fuck.

The guard had noticed the movement, and seemed pleased by it. He lowered himself to a sitting position, and reached forward to slide his hands beneath the boy's neck and shoulders. He pulled carefully, lifting the limp body clear of his armor. When he eased Zachary back down, the boy's upper body rested on the guard's folded legs and lap. Zachary was confused, until the water dribbled into his parched mouth. And then he was spluttering, choking, and despite it all still trying to drink.

"Slowly. Slowly!" The guard's words were only a whisper in the silence, but plenty loud enough for the boy to hear. He tried again, but as the man had said, slower. The coughing subsided, his throat easing more with each sip.

"You have an infection."

The scathing comment that Zachary tried to reply with came out completely unintelligible. The sound reminded him of something a retarded baby might make while drooling.

"Hush. Speaking uses strength."

And then the pain came, as the guard began to rub at his wounds with a water soaked rag. It was a miserable torture and like many, inspired by kindness. The ache it left in his body wasn't as strong as others he'd known in his life, but it was amazingly potent. He endured it without fighting or complaint, well, if you didn't count the involuntary spasms of pain.

"Can you eat?" The guard asked. Zachary's face must have conveyed the nausea that rose in his stomach, because the guard put the crusted heel of bread back down on the plate. The guard rested his hand on Zachary's chest carefully. "I'm going to sit with you for awhile longer, and then I'm going to go get the Raja'Aini. If nothing is done, this infection will kill you."

And so in the flickering light of a shaded oil lamp, Zachary felt the first hint of sympathy and humanity in the L'enfer Rocheux.

[Smokestorm]

Fevered dreams constructed Zachary's reality, fading and intensifying from moment to moment. Memories rose and fell like ocean waves, lifting him up and dropping him to drown in their depths. He was lost to the current, pulled along like a puppet dancing to hidden strings.

Steel flashed in the moonlight, deadly edges seeking warm flesh in the cool night. They danced an intimate pattern around each other, matching each other move for move as only an Apprentice and his Master could. Years of training against each other and fighting side by side had melded their movements into perfect cohesion. It was like watching water flow against water. There was no winner, no loser. Only the dance.

Renaud came in high, his right dagger cutting down toward the crown of the boy's head. Zachary stepped into his Master's arms, twisting to smash his back to the older man's chest. He bent his left arm at the elbow at it rose, catching Renaud's descending forearm with his own. The Apprentice's right arm moved swift across his abdomen, catching his Master's left blade with his dagger. Locked front to back, the two lashed out at the same time. Zachary's head whipped backward to ram Renaud's throat as the Teacher's foot buckled the student's knee.

Zachary dropped, turned his stumbling momentum it a forward roll as Renaud staggered backward coughing. The boy twisted as he came up to his knees, facing Renaud. His Master's face disappeared behind a mask. He did this often to make the fights harder, so his target couldn't read intentions in his eyes. It was a harlequin mask this time, white and blue with exaggerated eyebrows and a smile that stretched up to the empty eye holes. It was one of the few that Zachary truly hated. He wasn't sure why, it was just disturbing.

Renaud came in again, but disappeared in a swirl of purple and black. Zachary had been expecting it. He dove forward into a roll, feeling the wind of his Master's strike wash over the back of his neck. But the boy had trickery of his own. He disappeared into a Shadow Step, and emerged ten yards above Renaud, already falling through the open air. Renaud looked every direction except the one that would have saved him. At the last minute he realized his mistake, but by then it was too late. As his head whipped upward, both of Zachary's boots came down on the man's shoulder. Bone snapped, a clearly audible crack echoing out through the night.

Amid Renaud's grunt of pain and the rush of victory, the Apprentice bent his knees and pushed away, somersaulting backward through the air to land in a crouch as his Master fell to one knee. Renaud's mask faded away and despite the pain, there was a smile on his lips. Renaud stood, disappearing into yet another cloud of purple and black smoke. When he reappeared an instant later in front of Zachary, his shoulder was properly aligned and uninjured. Shadow Step healing. That was a technique that the boy had yet to grasp.

"Good, good. You are going to be a fine assassin, Zachary." Renaud said as he moved to stand at the edge of the building's roof. It was a far fall off the side, but the Master seemed without worry even as the wind whipped his cloak over the side and sent ripples down it's length.

Zachary accepted the praise with a smile of pride.

"Do you understand why I did it, boy?" Renaud asked, looking out across the darkened city. Overhead, clouds were drifting on the breeze. The moon vanished behind one, and the world fell into a deeper darkness.

"Why you did what, Master?" Zachary asked. He wasn't confused, he was slowly growing used to the frequency of topic shifts. It was something Renaud did often.

"Let the thief live." Renaud replied.

The thief he spoke of was their last target, a man notoriously hard to find and even harder to catch. Renaud had taken the job, but backed down from the kill after meeting the mark face to face. Whatever words they'd exchanged had completely voided the Master Assassin's intent to kill and he'd returned to the Mortalis order empty handed, demanding the contract to be removed. As was often the case, the Masters of the Council deferred to Renaud's first hand experience and accepted his recommendation.

"No. Why did you, Master?" Zachary asked, coming to stand beside the older man. As he looked out over the dark city the moon slid from behind the clouds. Ghostly light fell across the Corone streets, casting silvery highlights along the narrow streets and framing the buildings. From time to time a figure would cross into the open below, the light turning them into a specter in the night.

"We kill. For money, for revenge, for honor. But we must never kill when we don't need to. The greatest Assassin is the one able to understand and show mercy when the situation calls for it."

Zachary listened, taking the words into his memory and his heart. He turned to reply to Renaud, but the Master Assassin lay on the rooftop. His body was still, and a black line stretched around his neck. An inky pool spread out below him. The boy fell to his knees, blood splashing up around him. It stained his clothing, soaked through to the skin below. His hands twisted in Renaud's shirt as he cried out, screaming the man's name. His heart ached, but his screaming did not bring life back to his father figure's eyes. His skin was burning now. His ears heard nothing as the sound faded out and the moon fell back behind the clouds. And then there was nothing. Nothing but darkness and silence.

But then the heat faded, and strength began to fill his limbs. The world returned to him.

[Smokestorm]

A chill was spreading into his body, easing the aches and chasing the pain away. Reality was being woven together again, the phantoms and splintered memories of his fevered dreams dispersing into the back of his mind. A dim light was shining against his closed eyelids, faint sounds prodding his consciousness. It was an odd feeling, like coming home after years away. Seeing the place you grew up, but feeling as misplaced there as you'd ever felt. Sweat was dripping from his hair as he opened his eyes. They were slow to focus.

The scent of rot and sickness hung heavily in the air, disgusting and sweet. The stone beneath him was warm, even though the air was cool. And in the flickering light of the oil lamp, Ibn's features looked both concerned and reserved. He was withdrawing his hand from the boy's chest. He understood what had happened then. He had been pulled away from his approaching death to suffer more at the Lord Marcel's hands. He wasn't surprised. He began to roll over, a fit of coughing wracking his lungs and throat with the movement. The Raja'Aini moved his hand toward the boy, but stopped short. It was probably a good thing too. Zachary's strength was returning, and his animosity had never left.

He crawled several paces, and turned toward them as he fell against the cell's bars into a sitting position. His spine popped at it straightened against the wall. His eyes were locked on Ibn, though the man refused to look back at him.

"Lord Marcel wishes to speak to you one last time. For your sake, I recommend you tell him whatever he wants to know." The Raja'Aini said as he stood and walked out of the cell.

There was silence then, and Zachary finally took the time to glance at the other occupant of his cell. It was the guard from his fragmented dreams. A great bushy beard streaked with gray and dark eyes, long hair tied back in a loose tail. He knew then that some of those dreams had been true. This was the one who had brought him extra food and water, the one that had sat with him when he was near death. And as good as his word, he had fetched Ibn to heal the boy. Zachary almost wished the guard had let him die instead. He said nothing as he pulled himself to his feet, using the cell wall for support.

The guard was beside him before the apprentice noticed him moving, and was sweeping him upward. His reactions were still dulled by the fading magic and infection, leaving him at the guard's mercy for the moment. But all he did was cradle the boy in his bear sized arms, and walk from the cage. The corridors were as lightless as before, though Ibn waited outside of the cellblock. He lifted his hand, and as before light poured out of it.

Zachary said nothing as they moved down the empty, dark corridors. The inside of L'enfer Rocheux was a labyrinthine maze of black rock. Windows were rare, and where they appeared they served only for arrow slits in case of an invasion. Torches were bracketed sporadically on the wall, never so close that their light overlapped, but spread far apart like beacons meant to lead you through the stone jungle.

They stopped all too soon, and the guard lowered Zachary to his feet before they made their way into the Lord Marcel's chamber. The man sat as he had last time, his blue armor shining over the smoke colored clothing, his chin resting lazily on his hand. Two guards stood on either side of the Lord's chair, their weapons reflecting even in the low light. He was speaking as soon as the boy stopped moving.

"I'm done playing games. Answer me now or you'll never get another chance. Where is Renaud's Legacy?" Marcel asked.

Zachary frowned, unsure he'd heard correctly. "His what?"

"Renaud's Legacy. A journal. Letters. Anything he may have left that would contain information." The Lord replied, his voice slow and clear as if he were speaking to a babe.

"I have no idea." Zachary said, his answer truthful.

"Last chance." Marcel warned.

"I'm telling the truth. I really don't know." The apprentice replied, his Sense warning him of impending danger.

Marcel's expression darkened. "Have it your way then." He turned his attention to the guards beside him. "He refuses to speak. Sew his mouth shut and leave him in the dungeons to die."

Zachary was stunned. He understood that these men were no friends to him, but he'd been telling the truth. Renaud had left nothing behind except his apprentice. Ibn stepped forward before the guards reached the boy.

"Wait. Let me." The Raja'Aini didn't wait for permission. His hand closed around the boy's throat, and magic surged into the apprentice's body. His throat suddenly felt hot and dry. Ibn's hand came away, and the man returned to stand beside Marcel.

Zachary opened his mouth, but no words came out. He tried again, as he had thousands of times before, but not even the slightest sound was made. His hands lifted to his neck, but there was nothing wrong. At least, nothing physical.

"There's no need for the thread. I have taken his voice. He will never speak again." Ibn said.

Marcel stared at him for a moment, his face empty. "You misunderstood my intent. Thank you for your attempt however. My desire was for him to die of hunger in a cell." He gestured to the guards, and they grabbed the boy by the shoulders. A third guard moved from the back of the room, producing a needle and thread from his belt. It wasn't the guard that had shown him sympathy.

His mouth was forced shut, and there was no sound as they started.

[Smokestorm]

The cell was dark and silent, as it ever was. The ache in his lips was slow to fade, and he kept his hands clasped tightly together in his lap. He'd learned that trying to alleviate the itching only led to a greater pain. As he sat there in the darkness, his hopes finally bled dry. He realized that Renaud was not coming. The terrible memory had washed over him hundreds of times since he'd entered this hell, each time tainted by the strong hope of a child's eyes. He had invented ways that the man could have survived, had convinced himself that it was some kind of trick. But here, at the last, he knew it wasn't. He knew that the red that had spilled across the ground was exactly what he'd refused to believe. It had simply been Renaud's blood as his throat was slit.

Zachary could feel the night around him, even if he couldn't see it through the darkness of his windowless cell. A chill had risen through the stone and metal around him. Where his back touched the rock wall, his skin had gone numb and his insides shivered. If there had been light, he'd have been able to see fog rising from his nose with each breath. The hunger gnawed at his stomach, the thirst crusting his throat. He wondered then how long it would take for him to die, and what he would find after he crossed from the world of the living. Surely he would go to no paradise everlasting. There was too much blood on his hands for that. His only regret would be that he couldn't take Ibn and Marcel with him.

The shadows were slowly parting now, a faint silvery pinprick growing and brightening. It was a tiny orb, the size of a pea, but as he watched fibers of light stretched out of it. Like living tendrils, they wrapped around themselves, tying knots far too intricate for human hands to replicate. It reminded the boy of light observed through rippling water, warping and flowing in ways he'd never seen before. He held his hand up to his eyes, shielding them from the piercing radiance as the thing took shape in front of him. But as the image became recognizable, his hand dropped to his lap.

He tried to speak, but his lips erupted into pain. He hadn't adjusted to his new reality yet, and a part of him wondered if he had returned to his fevered dreams. But as he thought that, the apparition shook it's head. Renaud looked just as he had in life, but younger. Much younger. Still, Zachary would recognize the man anywhere and at any time. It was then that he remembered Ibn's words, Renaud's words. The dead of Tal'Ahkmet walked the streets at night. His Master was truly dead then. The boy began to weep silently, his tears glittering in the silver light as they rolled down his cheeks.

He heard Renaud's voice then.

"Ibn has the answers. My heart is in my mind. I will be there when you wake."

And then he was gone, the specter rupturing like a smoke ring blown by a strong wind. The light vanished, and Zachary was left alone. But his confusion was driven from his mind as a sound echoed through the darkness, the sound of a key turning a lock. Light spilled into the chamber again, but it was a dim golden. It bobbed as the man walked, illuminating rusted metal cells and the pitted black stone of the Hellrock.

The guard that stopped in front of Zachary's cell was the same one that had stayed with him before, when he was dying from infection. That didn't surprise the boy too much. How this man got mixed up in this business was beyond him, but it was clear that his heart was too big to support the cold cruelties of his Lord. The man stopped in front of Zachary's cell, his face tight with anger and disgust.

"I should have acted sooner, but I honestly thought we had more time." The guard's voice was gruff as he opened his overcoat and began pulling objects out. Zachary recognized them. "Ibn is down the corridor from here, in a chamber along the right fork."

The guard's hands moved quickly, the door to the cell popped open. Zachary felt a rush of fear and joy. This couldn't be real. He was being released. But his astonishment only deepened when the guard tossed the objects to the ground in front of the boy. There were two gauntlets, both of them Hidden Blades. One was Zachary's, the other Renauds.

He picked up his Master's weapon carefully, reverently. The gauntlet was beautifully etched with a flowing design of roses and thorns, inlaid with gold along the edges. The inside was padded with soft leather, direwolf fur at the top and bottom to keep the ends from digging into flesh. The gauntlet was closed by hard leather straps with iron buckles at the side, made to be adjustable. He held it close to his chest, feeling both sorrow and happiness. After a few seconds, he looked toward the guard. Compelled to speak by the child's eyes, he faltered at first, but eventually found his voice.

"I was sent by the Mortalis to find out why Renaud left. Ibn explained what he could. There was never any mission here, Zachary. Whatever 'orders' Renaud received were false. This entire thing was a trap." The guard pushed the door open further and stepped back.

Zachary gestured at the man with his eyebrow raised.

"Me? No. Marcel killed your Master. This revenge belongs to you." The man said. His face was dark with rage. "I knew Renaud, Zachary. When you leave here, take Marcel's head with you."

[Smokestorm]

Chapter Three:
Karma


"Leaning over you here
Cold and catatonic,
I catch a brief reflection
Of what you could and might have been."

Zachary walked through the shadows, his white hair stained red by yesterday's blood, his lips sewn shut. His bare chest was littered with scars and bloodstains, his leggings torn and frayed. Two daggers hung at his waist, twelve inch blades wicked and waiting. The torchlight reflected from the gauntlets on his wrists, cast flickering shadows over his form as he moved. He was alone as he walked through the black halls of the Hellrock. The guard had disappeared after freeing the boy, and Zachary was fine with that. He had to do this alone. One last tribute to Renaud, one last act to show his love for the specter he felt nearby.

Be it fate or lucky happenstance, he came across no one as he followed the directions the guard had given him. When at last he found Ibn, conflicting emotions drove him. Murder, or mercy. Revenge or kindness. Either way, he would have his answers.

The man sat at a desk, his back to the open door. Candlelight flickered across the walls, books covering the desk. Two guards stood at either side of the entrance within, their demeanor relaxed but ready. Their purpose was obvious, to keep the Raja'Aini from fleeing Marcel's web.

Zachary walked through the doorway without a care, lifting both arms and flexing. On either wrist, the blades deployed from the gauntlets, punching easily through skin, muscle and bone. The guards dropped without a word, their armor sending loud, resounding crashes through the otherwise silent room. His eyes swept the chamber as he stepped over their bodies, and found only one person aside from Ibn. The woman was rising from a rickety cot, her right hand shackled to the wall. Her face was alarmed, but her lips pressed tightly together. The lack of a scream was probably what saved her, and kept the throwing knife from leaving the boy's hand. His arms dropped back to his sides as he waited. Ibn, by contrast, made no movement.

"You're sooner than I expected, Zachary." He said.

The knife still rested in the boy's hand, and his fingers itched with the desire to throw it. But for some reason, he couldn't shake the feeling of the woman's eyes on him. He recognized her easily enough, she looked just as elegant in person as she had on the Marriage Tapestry, despite her disheveled hair and the dark spots under her eyes. Her skin was dark and smooth, a small diamond affixed to her forehead by a thin silver chain in her dark hair. Her dress was simple, deep red silk cut in a style that mixed practicality with sensual design. As he waited just inside the doorway, the woman stood and moved as close to him as her chain permitted. The horror in her eyes as she glanced between him and her husband was almost comically over exaggerated..

"What have you done, Ibn?" Her accent was thicker than the Raja'Aini's.

He stood from his chair, carrying the candle with him as he approached Zachary. He spared a look to the side, to his horrified wife. Candlelight flickered over his face. "I protected you. It turned me into a monster, but I have no regrets." Ibn turned back to Zachary then. "I never wanted to hurt you. And I never wanted to hurt Renaud."

Ibn stopped dangerously close to the boy who was still debating rather or not to kill him. But fearlessly, the man reached up to Zachary's neck. As his hand's neared, the collar clicked open and fell from the boy's throat. He lifted his hand towards Zachary's mouth, but the boy caught his arm in a vice grip.

"You intend to keep your injuries? I guess there is no need to restore your voice then." Ibn turned away and moved back to his desk, speaking over his shoulder. "We have little time to waste anyways."

The woman spoke then, her voice still ringing with disgust and anger. "How will he eat then? You will just let him die?"

Ibn didn't turn as he rummaged through his desk. "Renaud, his Master, was able to heal while stepping through the Rift. I imagine a similar technique will give his body all the nutrition it requires. Zachary, here." Ibn called, pulling a folded paper out of the stack of books so recklessly that it nearly tore. With a snap of his wrists, it unfolded across the desk.

Zachary disintegrated in a cloud of black streaked with purple. The Rift was as violent as ever, but felt welcoming and warming after his long separation from it's embrace. As he passed through that non-world, he felt the shadows crawling across his skin, filling his pores. Even before he emerged next to Ibn, he knew the man had been right. The hunger had faded to a manageable level that left only the barest of desire burning. Ibn glanced at his face as he appeared, and smiled. Despite the stony expression, he had interpreted something in the boy's manner. Ibn was very intuitive, it seemed.

"It worked. He will live, Abla." Ibn glanced down at the paper, Zachary saw that it was a map, and tapped his right forefinger on a room. "This is where we are now. This is where your cell was." He tapped another room a short distance away. And finally, he tapped a third chamber, larger than either of the two previous. The Assassin knew what Ibn was going to say before he said it.

"This is Marcel's Chamber."

Zachary burned the lines and directions into memory, before looking up at Ibn. There were many questions left unanswered, but he would be unable to ask them. He wasn't bothered by that, though. He would learn all there was to know, eventually. He knew life would be harder now, handicapped by the inability to speak. But who would he speak to now that Renaud was gone? What purpose was there in speech when the only ears that could hear it didn't really care about your words? He had no use for it any longer. Ibn seemed to guess at his train of thought.

"We don't have time to answer all of your questions. All I can say right now is that Renaud was betrayed, and not just by Marcel. Marcel only set the trap, someone within your Order helped him lay the bait. And no, it was not I. As for why, Marcel seeks something your Master possessed. An artifact of great power. You must find Renaud's legacy, and before anyone else does. Heed my words, Marcel wasn't the last or only one to seek it."

Ibn's wife looked as thoroughly lost and confused as Zachary felt, but at least he had some small help. He thought then of the words Renaud's specter had left him with. My Heart is in my mind. But what did it mean? And how would he ever know now?

"Zachary, you must go. More guards will be coming soon, and your absence may have been found already. But one more thing. Renaud knew Marcel because they trained together. Marcel is an Assassin as well."

[Smokestorm]

Zachary was conflicted as he moved silently through the shadows of L'enfer Rocheux. Part of him knew that Ibn deserved to die for his part in Renaud's death and Zachary's torture. But another part of him was okay with sparing the Raja'Aini's life. He had betrayed them, had permanently mangled the boy's life in multiple ways. But everything he had done, he did only to protect his wife. He wasn't the one who had forced this deadly game. Marcel had pushed the first domino, had set this vicious chain reaction into motion. His hand had lent the momentum.

Every so often, a patrol of guards would cut across a hallway, forcing the boy to seek refuge in the deep shadows. Though the street had been full of them when they'd been captured, there seemed to be very few here. A mercy that the boy was thankful for. The more corpses he had to leave behind, the better the chances of an alarm being raised.

Though no one walked beside him, the boy knew he wasn't alone. The spirits walked the night, and he could feel Renaud close by. The Sense was quiet, though not for lack of threat. It felt as it had while Renaud was alive; as if danger were near, but allies were closer. There was a barrier, a shield between himself and the peril. It was an odd feeling, to know the dead walked with you. It was a coldness that didn't bite, a light that moved in the corner of his eye but disappeared when he turned to look. And it was that feeling that kept him going. The knowledge that here, in the heart of darkness and evil, he was perfectly safe. It was past time that the hunter became the hunted.

By the time he neared the chamber Ibn had marked with his finger, Zachary felt no fear. He felt neither rage nor lust for revenge. He felt nothing. Nothing but a deep hole in his chest where something had once lived but was now vacant. His mind was machinery without emotion, simple gears that turned and worked, processing without fuel and yielding no product. He was dead, and only one thing would restore him to life. Death for life. That had ever been the only real currency in this world. One last tribute for Renaud. One last sign to show his love.

The door was ajar, flickering lamplight spilling through like a pool of liquid gold. The shadows peeled back from his body as he entered the light, his eyes searching. The room was large and rectangular, obviously meant for meetings or audiences. There was a single wooden table near the right wall that could easily sit twenty men, and a chair that seemed more like a throne on the opposite wall. He broke into a silent sprint as his eyes found Marcel. The Lord stood at a window, his back to the door. Rather it was a reflection from the glass pane or just supernatural senses on the man's part, Zachary would never know. He was less than two yards away, his hand lifted and pulled back as if to deliver a punch with his Hidden Blade, when the man disappeared in a streak of purple and black.

Zachary's instincts saved him. He dropped into a roll as the razor stars whirled above his head. They split the air with a keening sound that reminded him of a cat's throaty hiss. Two of them hit the wooden window sill hard enough to send splinters out of it as they quivered to an embedded stop. The third shattered the window as it sailed through and disappeared into the night. But Zachary was already twisting to launch a salvo of his own, the knives reflecting gleams of golden light as they spun toward the man.

Marcel wasn't wearing his armor now, but he still made no attempt to move as the knives came in. Almost lazily, he knocked one off course with a backhanded smack. It was nothing more than a fly to him. The second was spinning off course, and wouldn't have hit him anyways. The third traced a shallow line of red across his cheek.

"Seems Renaud's apprentice has teeth after all." Marcel said.

He drew daggers then, and Zachary followed the lead. He held them easily, his posture relaxed but ready. The sense of calm within felt unnatural, and he knew he should have been afraid. Marcel was older, stronger. But Zachary could still feel Renaud's presence wrapped around him like a protective cloak. This would end tonight, one way or another. And Renaud's words still echoed in the boy's mind. I'll be there when you wake. Failure didn't seem so harsh. He had nothing left to lose, and nothing to really gain. If he did kill Marcel, it wouldn't bring his Master back, or undo the damage Zachary had taken. This meant nothing.

Marcel came in high, his daggers whispering through the air side by side. Zachary caught Marcel's wrists in the cross of his forearms, his foot lifting to intercept the kick meant to slip past his defenses. And then the fight began in honest, razor edges whistling through the air, daggers smearing the firelight into golden ribbons as strike after strike fell. It was a dance of parries and blocks, riposte and counterattack. Even their bodies became lethal weapons as they lashed out with kicks and punches, elbows and headbutts.

Zachary drew first blood in that melee, scoring a shallow nick across the back of the man's knuckles. Marcel replied with a line of fire across the boy's shoulder. And on and on it went until they were both panting with effort, sweat soaking their clothing and stinging their wounds.

Marcel disengaged with a backward somersault that took him to the opposite side of the chamber. He landed lightly, his daggers back at his waist. Zachary knew something bad was coming, and the feeling was affirmed when the man lifted his hand to point his palm at the boy. The torches that lined the walls began to roar as first one, and then others began to explode outward in a torrent of flame. Each column of fire moved like a snake, rearing backward and striking with lightning speed. The boy was running and dodging, and where the magical assaults hammered into the wall behind him the stone was left scorched and smoking.

Three tongues of flame slammed down in front of him, blazing upward in a wall of smoke and heat that halted the boy in his tracks, and behind him another line of fire boxed him in. He was caged, with nowhere to go. Across the chamber, Marcel smiled as he pushed both hands forward at Zachary. For a moment, it seemed as if the man was orchestrating a symphony. And then he was hidden behind the rushing pillar of death.

Instinct drove Zachary to the ground, lifted his hands to cover his head. But it would do no good. There was no escape from the approaching ocean of fire. But in the face of that certain end, he felt Renaud's specter. It felt like a comforting hand on his shoulder, or the protective embrace of a father. He felt the Rift opening around him, but not in the same way it did when he Shadowstepped. Instead, he felt as if he were pulling something toward himself, rather than projecting himself through it. And from the dark corners of the room, the shadows slithered outward to wrap about him like a cloak.

When the flame hit, he felt nothing but warmth. It parted around him like a river around a stone, flowing to each side and merging together again when it passed him. The boy stood, his form bathed in flame but not consumed. The wind left in the inferno's wake lifted his hair, rustled his clothing. Zachary reached again to the Rift, this time falling into it. The world of flame disappeared around him like smoke in a hurricane. When the flame cleared, there was nothing. For a split second, Marcel smiled.

And that second was all the boy needed. He stepped out of the shadows, wisps of purple and black smoke licking his face as he drove Renaud's Hidden Blade into the small of Marcel's back. The blade bit through skin and muscle, burrowing deep and piercing the right kidney. It was a painful death. Less than clean, far short of easy. The man collapsed backward into Zachary's waiting arms. And despite the hate, and the pain, the boy lowered Marcel gently to the ground. His face was contorted in misery. Words whispered from his lips.

"She was all I wanted. He could have given her to me. We could have..." The life passed from Marcel's eyes. And as Zachary knelt over the dead man, his mind wondered only of what could and might have been.

With care, the boy removed Marcel's Hidden Blade. Inscribed with the mark of Mortalis, the weapon belonged to an Assassin. Not to a traitor and murderer. He fastened the leather straps to his belt, and left it to hang against his left thigh. And then he began the grisly work. He'd made a promise. And he intended to keep it.

[Smokestorm]

He left Marcel's head in the exact spot where Renaud had died, a grim and bloody tombstone. It was barbaric, he knew. And it didn't make him feel better. But it didn't make him feel worse either.

In the morning, the people of Tal'Ahkmet would find a gruesome present, courtesy of a disfigured boy and a dead father. It wasn't much, but it would be enough. It had to be.

And as the ship pulled away from the harbor, it's captain greedily counting the purse full of gold coins, the boy looked back at the city. Like many other things in life, it had left him with more questions than answers. What would happen to Fallien? How long would the dead continue to walk among the living? Why were they rising? Who inside Mortalis had betrayed Renaud, and what artifact had his Master hidden away?

The sun was rising now, the ripples of the ocean reflecting red. The clouds were like bloody smears across the sky. Zachary had finally found his strength, but it had left him broken and drained.

And as the sun finally broke across the horizon, the boy felt Renaud fade away forever.



















Requested Spoils:

Items: Renaud's Hidden Blade, made of either Prevalida or Delyn (or whatever you feel I've earned here.)

As well as Marcel's Hidden Blade, don't care what tier metal it is.

Ability: Anti-magic Shell. An ability that weakens magical attacks made against Zachary while active. If approved, I'll work out the exact details with the RoG Mods at my next update.

Thank you for reading, and I hope it wasn't too painful for you! :)

[The International]

A Story of My Makers

Let me begin by saying this was probably the most enjoyable solo I’ve had the pleasure of reviewing so far. Once I started reading I only stopped when I had to, which was mostly for tedious life things like the dryer buzzing or someone calling. Perhaps those forced breaks made this all the more valued and enjoyable.

Plot Construction ~ /30

Story 8 /10 – You took me on a ride here. For the most part it was very well paced. The beginning was action packed and got me hooked, the middle didn’t sag too much, and the end was riveting and gave me a good catharsis. For the vast majority of the thread this was an amazing read. There was however a few posts after the first where you sought to introduce the reader to your Fallien. It was good, but it felt like those few pages in a Dan Brown novel where it seems like Robert Langdon is preaching to the reader about history. If you had cut that a little bit shorter and found another way to show some of that, you would have been golden. This lul was, however, minimal, and didn’t hurt the pacing of your story much at all.

Strategy 9 /10 – Sense and Shadowstep were so well used and depicted that I didn’t have to look at your profile once to make sure they were viable. I particularly loved the fact that you decided to ‘show’ and not ‘tell’ Zachary and his master’s skills and abilities. The scene where Zachary is inhibited by the collar comes to mind first. You did that very very well. I was waiting for a really great show of Zachary’s combat skills, and you definitely gave that to me in the battle at the end.

Setting 9 /10 – A-mazing. It was totally vivid and appealed to all five senses without being overwhelming. I think what made it very effective was that you only depicted Fallien and the many aspects of it through action, like how you only mentioned how deep the sands were by showing them through Zachary’s steps. You also only dealt with the setting when it was important to one of the characters, like when Zachary noticed the scene of Ibn’s wedding in front of him. That’s what made it real, and that’s what kept it from dragging.

Characterisation ~ /30

Continuity 7 /10 – Your thread is the prime example of what I want to see in terms of taking liberty with Althanas lore. You took risks, and for the most part, hit the nail on the head with the story world and how it affected your character and the plot. I loved the fact that you used Hindu/Indian etymology for names and clans. I loved the fact that you pointed out the diversity of ethnicities and tribes in Fallien, and I particularly like how you injected some Native American tradition into Corone (Dreamcatcher… nice!). I was this frickin’ close to making a new forum for that city if it weren’t for the presence of a King. Fallien is a matriarchal society, so that little discrepancy couldn’t be ignored. The rest was amazing though. As for Zachary, it was nice to see a brand new character with a past. This is something a lot of players forget to do - give a character a history that dictates his/her own actions. He definitely showed growth during the thread too, especially upon his master’s death. I’ll be keeping up with him.

Interaction 9 /10 – Interaction judges the way the main character interacts with the world around them, be it socially, physically, or otherwise. Not only was Zachary’s action logical and entertaining, but everyone else’s action was too. It drove the story forward with every single step, and you didn’t get caught up on minute details.

Character 7 /10 – You proved something here. A character need not have a lot to say to have a personality. And I mean that in more ways than just one. A lot of writers think that if their character isn’t saying much outside, they have to say a boatload on the inside with italics all over the damn place. I hate that. However, somehow, you managed to give Zachary a distinct personality. You did it by filtering the narration through him. You also did this with Ibn and Renaud, and you organized it superbly. You head hopped the narrative’s POV but you only did so in between posts. That way the reader knows whose mind he or she was in. The one note I will give you is that I felt like Ranaud stole the spotlight from Zachary, which is okay if that was your intention. Believe me, my player’s family takes the spotlight from him all the time, but I do that on purpose. If it was your intention to make Renaud the star of the show for a while, it might have been best to tell the first post through his eyes, but if it wasn’t your intention consider exposing a bit more of Zachary’s back story so that we feel like we know him better than Renaud (who is kind of out of play now so…).

Writing Style ~ /30

Creativity 7 /10 – This category deals with the utilization of literary and rhetorical devices. Despite being reminders of the real world, the quotes were a nice touch. Similes, imagery, metaphors abound and all done pretty well. Watch out for redundancy though and try not to lay it on too heavy at the beginning of the thread. I sometimes felt like you made a bit too much of an effort to remind us that Fallien’s hot in a relatively similar fashion. If you took some of that beautiful prose about Fallien in the first few posts and sprinkled them throughout the thread I think it will serve to balance things out more.

Mechanics 7 /10 – Spelling, grammar, and all that good stuff. I didn’t see any blatant spelling errors, but every now and then I noticed peculiar mistakes like a small conjunction missing from a sentence or two.

… to show you what you were endure if you were ever captured.

Wasn’t there supposed to be a ‘to’ somewhere in there? As small as these were, they were hard to ignore. Perhaps that’s because I catch myself doing that all the time and kick my own ass about it.

Clarity 8 /10 – This has a lot to do with spelling and grammar, and if that’s good, this usually pans out well. Other things that affect this category is how well you describe things, how well you build your storyline and how easily the reader processes the information presented. It was all crystal clear to me except for one part. Maybe I missed it, but where exactly is Tal'Ahkmet in Fallien. There’s no wrong answer to that since it’s your city, but that was the only question I asked myself that didn’t seem to get answered.

Wildcard: 7/10 – Awesome.

Total 78 /100
This is the highest score I’ve given on Althanas so far.

Smokestorm gains 1404 exp

Renaud’s Hidden Blade approved at Delyn strength.
Marcel’s Hidden Blade approved at Steel strength.
Ability granted pending RoG approval.

[Letho]

EXP/GP added!