By Ree Soesbee A tale of Larisnar
Darkness shrouded the city like an embrace, crushing the life from the sparkling white buildings and leaving only grey, soft ash in its wake. With the coming of night, thousands would sleep. Their shells would empty into the land of dreams, and their bodies would lie still beneath the cloak of a blackened sky.
Some would never wake again.
It was on a night like this, grim and heavy, that the work had begun. And now, a thousand assassins crept across the lands of the Accord. Their knives were laden with poison and their steps echoed with the inexorable tread of destiny. The thieves of the guild crept to all corners, ready to undertake the largest single effort ever put before their kind. Only certain members had been selected – those with the talent to ‘forget’ morals for a time and remember only the immense sum of money that had been placed in the hands of the Thieves’ Guild. They had been honored with a certain title to distinguish their efforts on this black eve – Nightwalkers. For most of them, the title would soon be posthumous.
Their targets had been selected by their unknown patron – thousands of leaders, nobility, tribal councilmen, and heroes of all strains. Members of every race and faction (except those accursed Dwarves – their cities were too distant, too unknown) had been chosen for the ‘Black List,’ but only one man in the guild knew all of the names. The assassins sent to do their jobs only knew a single target apiece– many of them did not even know that others were performing similar jobs across the continent. They had no idea how many names had been selected, nor did they know the purpose of their massive strike.
By the dawn, thousands more would know those names, but not the reason why.
The list lay crushed on a black stone table between two short pillar candles. He did not need it anymore. Tall and slender, a shadow stood before the desk, casting the outline of a man against the wall. The Master’s hands were clasped behind his back, over a long black cloak that moved like a patch cut out of the starry sky. His face, grayed and scarred by a single lucky knife blow – it had taken the woman fourteen days to die, after that insult – stared impassively into a mirror that glistened in the candlelight. Without turning from the pane of glass inset into the wall, he growled, "Time, Rora?"
"Eleven and Fifth, Tom." Her black hair hung in a straight line down her back as she reclined in a chair by the door. One leather-shod boot was placed on the oak of the doorjamb, the other crossed beneath the thick shortsword she had in her lap. "By the candle, there’s ten to go." The woman’s dark eyes were troubled, but she said nothing.
"Only ten. And then, when it is done, three years of silence." Tom said bitterly. "The pay is good… but is it that good?"
"Thinking of calling it off, eh?" Rora asked cynically.
"I’m not stupid." Tom snarled. "This plan has been in operation for a very long time, Rora. Only now are we becoming aware that we are but a part of a much larger game… one in which we are not pulling the strings."
"Cear Adinerach…" Rora began, but her voice choked off quickly when the Master spun to face her. She had never seen Tom truly angry, much less beheld the pure fury in his eyes when she spoke the name.
Controlling himself and balling one thin-fingered hand into a tight fist, Tom hissed. "Never say that name. Not to others. Not to me, you stupid crow. Not even to yourself." Rora stammered, unable to reply, and Black Tom turned as cold as ice. "I rule this guild, and I alone. Logan once made the mistake of questioning that. Now his brother is dead, his knives are broken, and he is no more than a battered refugee." The hiss of his voice was a knife in the eerie stillness of the room. "Unless you’re looking for an even worse fate, little girl, do not test me."
The young woman did not dare speak, or even move. A single wrong gesture could end her life at Tom’s extremely efficient hands. A long silence followed his words, and Rora glanced quickly at the candle on the black desk. When she dared to look at Tom once more, his back was turned again, and he was once more in contemplation of the mirror of glass.
"Time, Tom," Rora murmured weakly, cowed.
"Well, then." He reached out with one hand and touched the shining glass, whispering a command to the panel. With a swirl of darkness, the mirror clouded over. "Now we shall see what the future will hold."
The panel of glass cleared, showing multiple images in swift succession, each blending into the next. A throne room, gilded but dark and empty. Someone padded across the marble floor, slipping easily into a hidden chamber beyond. A flash of light, and then a trickle of blood seeped from under the hidden door.
The mirror changed images. A high city wall, where human generals were meeting to confer about the NoThRoG gathered outside on the plain. Three swift-moving archers burst through the door, covering the room with rapid fire. Their glistening arrows killed the men seated at the table within a matter of seconds. The military papers fluttered to the ground as astonished guards drew their weapons and sounded the alarm.
Another swirl, and a blur of color. A deep woodland altar made of bone and surrounded by twisting vines stood within a sacred grove. At its base, a figure lay sprawled like a broken doll on the forest floor, clutching at a dagger plunged into his neck. The elven priest’s robes, once white as the bone of his sacred table, were slowly becoming stained with blood.
Again. A golden palace, from which a Deverenian knight fought his last, eventually being forced over the edge of his own parapet.
Again. In the NoThRoG lands, an explosion rocked the Totem Lodge. Those inside were charred instantly in the blaze, a few survivors hobbling out with blackened skin and feral snarls of grief.
Again. And again.
One after another the images bled onto the pane and then cleared away. Tom’s eyes flickered from one to the next, absorbing the specifics of each into his amazing memory. Nothing would be forgotten about this night. Not by him, and certainly not by the thousands of mourners that would be told the news when the dawn came.
The Accordlands had been brutalized by the strike of a single knife, bloodied by a hundred hands.