2 – The Trap is Sprung

Across the burgeoning dawn, rosy fingers of light spread out through the vestiges of the night that still clung futile to the sky.  It glinted upon the tops of gleaming towers and shimmering spires that rose defiant out of the great sprawling city, and glistened upon the still waters around which the city sat, at the convergence of the two great rivers of the Swordlands, of swift Shalahir and turgid Far’hadal.

Slaves unnumbered had laboured for a hundred generations upon Qaiqala, to sculpt the myriad waterways and harbours and bays that twisted their way through the city.  It was a place of man made islands upon a man made lake, interlaced by arching bridges, ten leagues from where the waters coursed out into the Tyrant’s Sea, so as to appear as if the city was afloat.

Rising up from the earth, dominating the unmarred horizon that spread out vast and open around it, there rose on the island that formed the heart of the city a vast red stone mesa, towering high above any of the spires and towers of the city.  Slaves too had worked upon its sheer sides, polishing and carving so that immense images of past sultans and sheikhs, viziers and princes and generals marched across it, all in gilt and bright colours that stood out stark against the rich red stone.

Atop its imposing bulk had been built the Red Palace, all done in glittering red marble, its towers topped in golden, bulbous spires.  Banners waved lazily from the heights in the morning breeze.  Dominating the vista, climbing from the heart of the palace itself, to stretch forth towards the heavens, there extended a single tower before which all others appeared as mere toys, and from whose lofty heights there burned a flickering, eternal flame.

In the dawning light, the walls of the palace glistened so as to appear as if fresh blood washed down them, and the spires glittered brilliant, reflecting back the first rays of the encroaching sun that came streaming across the horizon and the endless grasslands.

Upon the island that formed the Inner City, spread out around the base of the vast mesa, the villas and mansions of the nobles were built, sheltered beneath the Red Palace, and the myriad shrines and temples and holy places of Qaiqala that had grown up since the most ancient of times when first the city had been settled, in the mists of time so distant that it had faded into myth and legend.

Once city walls had enclosed all who had dwelt within Qaiqala, but long had it been since the city had spilt out beyond them, the residents of mighty Qaiqala now living safe in the knowledge that the power and prestige of the greatest of cities kept them secure, both now and always.  The walls that enclosed the lake were a relic of more dangerous times, fading into obscurity and disrepair.

Along ancient paved roads that meandered across the rolling plains and that fed the teeming masses of the city, trod the pair so earnestly sought by the sheikh, and by the assassins that he had sent forth to end them.  Their spirits were high as Qaiqala hove into view before them, for once the city was reached there were customers eager for the wares that they had come upon, and eager were they for the gold that would grace their hands in return.  From the Temples of Halquan in far off foreign lands they had come, and there they had wrested the sacred Jewels of the Kahani from the very grip of the living statues, and from the priests of the Dread Kahani.  Those jewels were now secretly stored about their bodies, and the thought of the riches that awaited them drove them ever forward.

Of the pair, one was a tall man, and slender, his skin pale beneath dark hair.  Of distant Xuanian design was his shirt, red silk in nature that bore elaborate golden threadwork stitched in exquisite detail down sleeves and front, the silver buttons upon it appearing as silver roses blooming among golden thorns.  At collars and cuffs appeared delicate ruffled lace.  A dandy he appeared, soft, and the languid, almost indolent look about his long face and the pale eyes that appeared sleepy did little to dissuade that notion.

A blazoned baldric hung across his chest, from which he carried a rapier with an elaborate swept hilt, sheathed in an ebon black leather scabbard.  Golden etching stood out against the leather, of more roses and thorns.  From the belt at his waist there hung a small hand crossbow of black wood and even blacker iron, swift and deadly in the hands of those who were trained in its use.

The other was a woman, shorter than her companion, though more robust of form, and about her there existed none of the hint of softness that came from the man, for she moved with the fluid, deadly grace of a lioness or she-wolf on the prowl, all repressed reaction ready to explode into frenzied action in but a moment.  Auburn hair hung freely about her shoulders, and her amber eyes were ever on the move, narrowed and alert as they sought out for the least trace of danger about.

No finery she wore, but instead a shirt of mail and hardened leather, much worn and oft mended by the look of it.  Her tanned legs were bare beneath a woollen skirt of the kind favoured by the hill clans, and her feet were clad in soft boots.  Her weapons of choice were, on one hand, a heavy broadsword, and on the other, a short sword, their hilts worn by use and scabbards battered by age.

Along the old merchant way they made their way, upon which other dusty travellers trekked, headed both to and from the city that grew bustling before them.  From out on the plains they travelled, first into the sprawling outer reaches of Qaiqala that spread out from the shores of the lake, a labyrinthine maze of streets and paths, houses crowded in close together.  The din of the city grew ever louder, into a clamorous thing, even at the early hours of the day; of traders and merchants hawking their wares, of servants and slaves at their tasks, the shouts and cries echoing above the roofs.

The streets were tight packed with countless people from all across the Swordlands, and beyond; with the dusky skinned men of the plains, and of Hashala, with tall and dark Agarans, blond men of Butania and Navoida in the far north, grim faced Tersathians and more besides.  Through these the two travellers, Fiana and Carse, better known to most who knew them as Peregrine and Blade, wove their way, wary eyes on the lookout for the light-fingered who plagued the city, with their hands to the hilts of their weapons.

Deeper yet into the city hey travelled, though the outer reaches to the Inner City and the lake there, moving from island ward to island ward, traversing the bridges that weaved their way inwards, towards the vast island at the heart of it all that was dominated by the imposing bulk of the Red Mesa.  The last bridge that they came to, lined by weathered gargoyles that had been so abraded by age that their leering faces had all but been erased, crossed to the gates of the old walls of the inner island, and to the Street of Dreaming Songs, along whose length there rose the numerous shrines and temples and holy places of Qaiqala.

From the temple district there arose a vociferous blasting of horns and pipes, while the beating of drums pounded out.  Into view through the gates, making their way out onto the length of the bridge, there hove a procession of shaven headed monks, all in robes of bright red.  Paint daubed their faces, made out into the visages of fearsome tigers; some played the pipes and horns and the drums while others chanted, their voices deep and sonorous.  The crowds parted way before them as they proceeded across the bridge.

A languid sigh arose from Blade as he laid eyes upon them.  “Tis the Festival of Eels, I see.  It would have been best that we had delayed our arrival, for the city shall soon be in much tumult and uproar for the length of the day, and our endeavours shall be much impeded as a result.”

Peregrine laughed loudly at that and shook her head, her auburn hair flowing.  “Why should we wish for such a thing, for if we did then we would miss the revels that follow the festival.”

“And that, my good Peregrine, is precisely why.  All that we would make from our spoils would be frittered away on mere frivolities, slipping through our fingers like so many grains of sand.”

“By Hraega’s Thunderous Beard, Blade, you Akuvians are a dour lot,” Peregrine retorted with good humour abundant.  “Honour, and the words of your deeds, they are all that can be taken with you, so I say enjoy life while you can.”

Blade stepped delicately aside to allow the procession of monks to pass them by, and in the same manner he allowed Peregrine’s remarks to pass by, for the hill clans of the Aedring had beliefs most strange to the civilised people of the plains, and held unshakable to them, no matter how much pressed or persuaded.

With the monks at last departed, the crowds flowed back once more onto the streets and the bridge.  On the far side, where the gates of the Inner City stood flung wide open, a trio of watchmen stood guard, clad in long mail shirts and bearing spiked helms with flowing mail neck guards.  Each leaned on a spear, showing scant regards for those that entered in by the gates.

Beyond the gates there stretched out the Street of Dreaming Songs, running to the very feet of the great mesa, and along it were the temples and shrines of Qaiqala, ranging from grand edifices of marble and gold and costly stones, down to the very simple, little more than wooden shacks, all depending on the wealth and power and the tenets of those that occupied them.  Gongs and bells rang constantly, and the air was thick with the smoke of incense and sacrifices.  At every vantage point could be seen a priest or monk or holy man, coming or going, debating or teaching, their voices raised in a continuous clamour as they sought to outdo each other.  Mingling along the street were the penitents and pilgrims and parishioners, or the merely curious, many who had travelled from afar to witness the religious centre of the Swordlands.

Of a sudden Peregrine came to an abrupt halt, and in so doing she raised a hand in warning to Blade.  Her keen senses, honed razor sharp in the wilds of the hill country where the Aedring dwelt, and where all manner of fell beasts made their lairs, beasts that would have haunted the dreams of he city dwellers, had come to life, alerted to a danger felt but as yet unseen.  Like a fierce she-wolf she was, with amber eyes flickering warily from side to side, seeking out the danger that she knew must be present, but had not as yet revealed itself.

“Trouble,” she growled.  Her hand reached for the hilt of her broadsword, fingers closing around it as she prowled forward again.  The crowds melted away before her as sheep do before a wolf.

Blade’s sleepy expression sloughed away, the languid man no more, in its place one cunning and intense.  He saw no threat either; yet.  In such matters, though, he trusted the wild sword-maiden implicitly.  He had seen her being correct in similar situations too often to do aught else.

Overlooking the gate to the island, a vast temple clawed at the sky, crowned with a golden dome, around whose lofty heights there ran statues of saints and martyrs and heroes of the faith.  From behind those statues black clad killers emerged, levelling crossbows down into the street, aimed at Peregrine and Blade.

“Move!” Peregrine snarled, wrenching her sword clear from its scabbard, the steely ring as it came free echoing through the street, running for cover even as she did.  She was not alone in that, for the sound of her sword being drawn and her shout sent those nearby scattering with panicked cries.

Blade snatched for the hand crossbow that hung clipped to his belt in one swift and fluid motion, diving aside to roll for cover behind a column out the front of the temple across the street from the one the assassins had hidden atop, even as quarrels screamed down from above.  They struck paving stones hard enough to shatter, scything broken fragments outwards.

Deftly he sprung back to his feet and notched a quarrel to his small crossbow, drawing back the string to cock it in place.  A quick glance from behind the column spotted one of the assassins above and he snapped a shot off towards the man.  It flew straight and punched through the unsuspecting assassin’s eye, lodging deep in his brain. For a second the man still stood, almost disbelieving, but then he pitched forward, to tumble from the roof of the temple like a rag doll, to strike hard upon the ground below.

The shouts of consternation among the crowd grew yet more vociferous upon the eruption of violence around the holy sites, and by the sudden fall of the body.  The watchmen stationed at the gate to the innermost island of the city took but one look and were swiftly departing; no manner of pay was enough to become entangled in the affairs of the Brotherhoods when they were in action.

“Blade, this way!” Peregrine yelled, waving for the tall man to make haste and follow her.  At a run she set off down the streets, scattering priests and parishioners before her.  Blade was swift to follow, dashing from cover, his long legs scrambling to keep up with the running woman, for she had been conditioned by the harsh lands from which she had come with boundless vitality.

The assassins of the Brotherhood came swinging down from the temple roof, pulling free their black bladed knives as they landed lightly upon the ground.  Two set off running in pursuit of Peregrine and Blade, yet the third lingered behind.  He pulled down the veil that shrouded his face and raised to thin lips a small whistle.  A series of short blasts pierced the air, a message for those that understood it sent winging its way across the sounds of the crowds.

Passed temples and holy sites the chase went, commotion rippling out before it.  Then, at a small side street that headed down between a small shrine much overgrown with verdant growth and a tall temple built from gleaning red stone, in front of which stood the giant statue of a crocodile headed man, Peregrine made an abrupt sharp turn, slipping down between the two buildings.

She slid to a halt at the entrance to the street, spinning about and dropping down into a poised and measured fighting stance, gripping her raised sword tight with both hands.  Blade followed her into the side street, and behind him at but a short distance came the two pursuing assassins.

With a fierce and unexpected shout, Peregrine leapt upon them as they came upon the entrance to the side street, snarling as her sword scythed towards the pair, driven by every last measure of strength that her iron resolve could bring to bear.  The sword traced a glittering arc as it swept through the air and the lead assassin fell as the blade tore open his throat in a spray of dark blood.

Surprised or not, the second assassin was swift to react, his long years of training kicking in by instinct.  He lunged at Peregrine, a knife in each hand, one coming in high, the other low.  Quicker still was Peregrine, striking like a cobra at bay.  She kicked out with her foot, her boot slamming firm into the pit of his stomach, driving the wind from him and leaving him doubled up.  Thus bent over, straining to recover the breath that her solid kick had forced from him, he was unable to avoid the fearsome blow that descended from above, like a vengeful thunderbolt from a storm tossed sky, to hew him across the back of his neck.  Half severed was his head as he fell upon the ground, blood flowing freely from the grievous wound, an offering to the gutters of a street long accustomed to the display of sacrifices.

“Hraega’s Beard,” Peregrine spat, wiping clean the blood from her blade upon one of the fallen assassins, “What manner of trouble has befallen us?  Assassins, and in the daylight hours, and out in the open too, where all can see?  Such measures can only be if one sorely wishes to see us dead, friend Blade.”

“Mayhap one of our prospective clients felt it more expedient to simply take the Jewels of the Kahani from our corpses than to offer us fair recompense for them,” Blade hazarded, though his brow was troubled.

“Aye, that may well be, yet if I find the one who would consider doing such a thing, I shall visit upon them the full measure of my wrath so that none shall again contemplate such an action.”  Peregrine lifted her head, listening to the sounds of whistles that echoed above, the calls of the Brotherhood as they stalked their prey.  “This matter is not yet done either.  More yet come.”

“True,” Blade agreed, stooping low so as to inspect the assassins slain by Peregrine.  “They have commenced the hunt, and seldom do any escape the clutches of the Brotherhoods once they have set eyes upon their victims.”

“They have not hunted one of he Aedring before, then,” Peregrine growled, and in her eyes there blazed the grim promise of fell deeds to come.  “Long shall they ruse this day, yet it is not wise to simply await their arrival in this place.  If we are to face them, it should be in a locale of our own choosing.  Let them come to us, on our ground, and on our terms.”

“One moment,” Blade responded, his long fingered hand pulling open the blood drenched shirt of one of the fallen assassins.  Around the man’s neck Blade discovered that which he had been looking for, a simple chain of black iron, upon which there hung a small pendant in the form of a three pronged dagger.  “The Brotherhood of the Threefold Dagger,” Blade announced upon seeing it.  “They answer to the one that is called Black Iridh.”

“Friends of yours?” Peregrine asked, keeping a wary eye on the surrounds, sword still held at the ready.

Blade responded with a dismissive, languid wave of his long hand.  “I know of them,” he admitted.  “They are not the type that one wishes to associate with, though, or to cross if one values their life.”

“Nor are we.”

There was a brief flicker of a smile from Blade at Peregrine’s boast before he shook his head. “These are beyond our normal foe, even if they are still mere flesh and blood.”  He cocked his head to one side, listening with grave intent to the sounds of the whistles, the calls of the hunters.  They were not familiar to him, but then each Brotherhood did guard its codes most jealously, and indeed would go to the most formidable ends to protect them and keep them secret.  Even so, just from the origins of the whistles, he could map out where they were, and where they were coming from.

Swiftly rising to his feet, he continued on down the side street.  “This way,” he told Peregrine.  If they were to survive the hunt then they had to shake their pursuers, and the net was closing most rapidly.

Down a series of streets and passageways that weaved through the temple district Blade led the way, darting from one to the other until at last they emerged out into a street seldom used any more, the Avenue of Lost Dreams, wherein old and abandoned temples mouldered slowly away.  For the most, none still used them, and no priests remained to tend to them, yet still they stood, untouched, undisturbed; prudence dictated it was wise to do so, for those for whom they were meant for never truly disappeared.

At either end of the avenue into which they emerged, they could see a band of assassins in their black silks, closing in on them from all sides.  Blade let fly a string of oaths upon sighting them.  He looked up at the grand edifice that loomed before them, imposing still despite its age and lack of repair.  Of black stone it was, harsh in the morning light, faced by substantial columns.  Stairs led up between them, to an entrance that hung open, yet not all that inviting.  It was a grim, dour looking building, and worse was the knowledge for whom it was dedicated to, the Soul Reaver who dwelt in the Slumbering Flame.  Needs dictated their course of action though.  Blade darted up the steps, between the column, with Peregrine close behind.

The doors that hung open were of wood so old that they had blacked and become as hard as iron, set with studs of tarnished bronze.  They looked as if they had remained unmoved for years.  Beyond them there lay a vast and silent vault, the roof arching high above them, and at the far end of the vault there sat an ebon altar, stained from the long years of sacrifice that had once been offered up upon it. The air hung deathly still, and the lack of sound seemed almost unnatural in the gloom that lingered in the corners.  It was a place of silence, and of despair.  Delicate webs clung to the walls, strung out between columns that supported the rood, while across the floor lay the dust of long neglect, thankfully for the most part shrouding the mosaics that lay beneath it.  Here and there hints stood out, disturbing in nature.

Yet the dust had been disturbed, and of late, as evidenced by tracks that led across the floor, not by vermin, but by human feet.  From the entrance, they disappeared into the darkness beyond the altar, and for the most part travelled in but one way, heading in, never to return.

“Most disconcerting,” Blade noted upon spotting the tracks in the dust once his sight had adjusted to the dim light within the temple.

Peregrine gave a shrug of her shoulders, her keen eyes trying to pierce the gloom; danger was not unfamiliar to the pair, and whether it lay ahead, or behind, she would meet it as she always had, with sword in her hand and defiance upon her lips.

A barely discernible sound came to them from behind, of the softest rustle of slippers climbing the steps into the temple, a sound that few but the most alert could have picked up on.  Blade whipped around, his hand darting to a pouch that hung from his belt.  Fingers reached inside and then a fine spray of dust was scattered before him, while from his lips a soft whistle emerged, a melodic trilling like unto that of a bird singing.

The air in the chamber stirred at the sound, and the dust that hung suspended in the air began to swirl in response.  It was picked up and flung towards the three assassins that had entered the temple, striking them full in the face.  One raised a crossbow, and shot it off blindly, his vision obscured by the dust that clung to his face.  The quarrel passed by but a scant hand’s width from Blade’s head.

Beyond the trio who were wiping at their eyes to try and clear their vision, Peregrine and Blade could see more assassins out on the empty street, converging on the entrance to the dark temple.

“We have no choice but to risk it,” Peregrine told Blade, and, taking to her heels, she ran in the direction that the tracks led, into the dark, despite any fear that lurked as to where it might lead.

On to Chapter Three – Descent into Darkness

Back to Peregrine and Blade