Night Blades and Morning Blood

Chapter 10

Senik’s message had already arrived when Barrett awoke. He rubbed his eyes and squinted into the blinding snow as he silently cursed the cold of winter and the thinness of his travelling blanket.
He had packed light for swift travel; a spare set of clothes, travelling blanket, a small parcel of food and a purse of gold all stored in a bag that served as his pillow. His armor and a small roll of blades lent neatly against a rotting beach tree, a light dusting of snow atop them. The chestnut mare he had chosen from the stable scrapped at the frozen ground and tugged impatiently against its leash.
Barrett stood, rubbed the cold from his knees and belted his sword. The message, pinned just above his armor with one of his own knives, was simple enough and easy to read for those who knew the code. Lord Higar held a castle near Marath and had a contract. An annoying side thread from his task.
Barrett had never heard of a Lord Higar and did not know where on the road his castle was but information was never hard to get, if you knew who to ask. Still a day’s ride away from the town that was the end of the journeys first leg, he skipped breakfast, packed his blanket and mounted his stead with haste.
The snow had stopped falling overnight and the freezing air made the ground hard and unyielding under the horse’s hooves. He kept to the road side, fearing the ruts in the previously sticky mud might trip his horse as he changed between a leisurely walk and a fast gallop. His armor jingled beside him but all else was silent as the morning drew on.
It was mid-day before he saw the first signs of any life. Large black birds flying south in a V, squawking at one another and late on their journey across the sea. They made Barrett’s stomach grumble and the thought of a plump roast goose came unbidden into his mind.
Shortly after, Barrett reached a fork in the road and passed his second disturbance in an otherwise plain, uninterrupted view of snow topped trees on the fells in the distance.
“Excuse me, sir. Could you spare a minute?” A hunched old man hollered at him, pausing his inspection of a broken cart wheel. Barrett chose the right fork and sped by, he had no time for the problems of old farmers or the tricks of hungry bandits.
Another few hours of hard riding brought his to the edge of the great Marath lake. The sun was falling fast but both Barrett and the horse were hungry. Close to a large stone bridge he found a place where the grass had survived the snow and set the horse to feed and drink. The assassin took two apples from his bag and crunched them slowly, staring out across the lake.
The apples were firm and sweet but he hardly noticed as he pondered and imagined. The horrors in the vast expanse of freezing blue before him were many, as Ferris and his men (who’s territory encompassed the lake) could well attest.
Water witches, water serpents and a whole manner of other evil nastys wouldn’t think twice about praying on those who strayed too close at night. And in the day giant fish the size of cottages might take a fancy to the occasional fishing boat. Barrett dismissed any the wandering notion of a swim.
With the apples gone and his horse partly refreshed he sped on, over the bridge and across the snow.
As the horse galloped on, he steered it wide of the shore, keeping a watchful eye of the water to his left. The suns light soon began to diminish and the shadows of man and beast grew long against snow that took on the hue of crystals bathed in honey.
Barrett reached the towns short, stone walls as the suns light began to lose its battle to the flickering torches on the battlements. Mortared walls ten feet tall were patrolled by bowmen who occasionally paused at crenulations and looked out across the land and lake. Guards armed with cudgels and wicked clubs funneled a trickling line of men, women and children through an iron grilled entrance. The air was quiet and doused with the faint scent of urgency.
Nobody in the line said a word and one by one the armed men looked over each visitor and permitted them entrance. There were more men above the gates, armed with either spear or bow and clutching tightly at their torches. But the enemy they seemed to await did not come.
Not understanding the tension in the air and placing it to the back of his mind Barrett began to study what he could through and over the walls. Dimly lit in the last flecks of sunlight, plumes of smoke floated lazily upwards against the snow clouds behind them. Encompassed by the travelling greyness sat two-dozen torches, flickering on the town’s most obvious feature, the tower.
Barrett had visited Marath on few occasions but the town was well known to all. The tallest tower in the land had stood since before the empire had come in one form or another. A famous assassin named Tober had scaled its battlements to slay the noble lord of Marath. Tober had repeated this feat twice more to assassinated the lords two eldest sons when they found themselves with rich enemies and refused to believe that the climb could be made. Tober had proved them all wrong, so the story went, and the lords who thought themselves safe so high up had died by his hand
But that was over a thousand years ago and since then the tower had been broken and rebuilt many times in exactly the same place. Each time it grew and grew, taller and taller until now it stood over four-hundred feet high. The locals knew it as the Watchtower of the lake, to everyone else it was just the Tower of Marath. Barrett gazed up at the mighty keep and wondered who had built its earliest ancestor and why.
The que of people was now shrinking quickly before him and Barrett walked slowly through the churned mud. He passed under the iron portcullis and approached the guards.
“Evening, sir. What’s your business here?”
“Just passing through” He replied. “Looking for a roof and a fire.”
“Very well, sir. Try the Anchor down the road there, they’ve a fire as big as a bear.”
Barrett thanked the guards and moved off down the sodden street.
He passed the Anchor, the noisy ruckus inside not appealing to his cold bones or his purpose and continued on towards the great tower. Leaving the walls and nosier inns behind, he took a fancy to “The Fisherman’s Wife” with the softly glowing candles in the windows. He tethered his horse to the post outside and carried his pack and armor quickly through the door, glad to be in the fires glow before the air truly began to bite.
Inside the smokey, a mixed crowd of patrons sat on a mish-mash of furniture. A father and his two sons sat at a decorative dark table close to the door, swigging their tankards in unison and group of weather-beaten old men gathered in a secretive huddle around a game board on faded leather sofa. Other patrons sat in pairs or small groups drinking, eating and creating a dull buzz of whispered conversation.
Barrett made his way to the bar where a thin, balding man stood wiping cups with a dirty cloth. The room smelt of stale beer, gravy and wood smoke, but it was warm and apparently friendly. The wooden floor boards were covered in sawdust, stained here and there with brown liquid. A pair of small dogs rushed around for scraps, kicking up the shavings as they chased and fought.
“Can I help you?” Asked the barman, his tone less than friendly.
“Yes. I would like a room for the night.” Barrett began, glossing over the hosts demeanor. “As well as stabling for my horse, a hot meal and an ale please.”
The thin man’s eyes narrowed in distrust. “Got coin to pay for it?”
He placed his armor on the floor, the built-up sawdust against the bar muffling its clinking and drew three tiny, gold coins from the purse in his bag.
“Fine. The boy will take the horse out back and I’ll show you upstairs.” He remained frosty. Barrett followed the practically floating man to his room and received a large iron key. Armor stowed safely under the bed he strapped his sword across his back and went back to the common room.
A venison pie was quickly served with a mug of dark ale as he sat staring into the fire. The deer was succulent, the gravy thick and he almost didn’t notice the two men staring at him from a corner until he moped up what juices he could with the disappointing pastry.
The pie decimated, he drained the mug of its contents and placed it loudly on the table. He slumped back satisfied. The stranger had at least been polite enough to wait till he was finished. Without hesitation he pushed back his chair with a loud scrape and limped quickly over.
“That be a nice sword you got there, eh? Expecting trouble?” the stranger asked with a chuckle that displayed his lack of healthy teeth. “Ow’d you get it?”
“I didn’t steal it if that’s what you mean.” Barrett said looking around the room and feigning disinterest. “It was a gift.”
“Gift, eh? From some high lord, I guess? You some sorta knight’?”
“Yes, actually.” Barrett, deciding that the ruse would be perfect, locked eyes with the inquisitive newcomer. “Sir Thomas of Tredknee, knighted at the hand of the emperor himself.”
“Oh Sir, beggin’ me pardon sir.” The stanger said, his confidence evaporated, voice thick with suckling apology. “I is only a lowly fisherman with a bum leg sir, but any service I can provide you just let ole’ Jim know sir.” Defeated, ole’ Jim began to rise muttering apologies continuously.
“Actually, Jim, I find myself in need of information. Information worth a bit of gold to the right man.” Barrett made sure to announciate and act speak the part of the noble.
“Oh Sir, anythin’ ole Jim knows he’ll share, sir.” He took the opposite seat and bowed his head slightly.
“Excellent.” Barrett began with a friendly smile. “First of all, when I entered your fine town the size of the guard on the eastern walls surprised me. Is Marath expecting war?” Barrett asked.
“No, no, no, no, no sir, not war as such. It be them water witches ya see? Getting real brave, they are and no mistake. Four fishermen lost in a month and then a week ago, one of them fishy hags tried to sneak in the front gate she did. Luckily the watchman dog sniffed he out before she did.” Barrett sucked his teeth and pondered. “Same down at the quay, soldiers everywhere day and night. And the western gate be worse, imperial men in their red shirts all over it like flies.”
“That’s very interesting Jim. Thank you. I have another question if I may?” Jim nodded. “Where is lord Higar’s castle?” the fisherman stared at him, apparently shocked at the quick change of subject.
“Well that’s an easy one, sir. Just head east on the road and it’s about two miles after the lake breaks away.”
“Thank you, Jim, for the excellent service,” Barrett smiled and slid a thin gold coin across the table. “and for your silence.”
“Oh, thank you, sir.” He exclaimed, overjoyed at the gesture. “Me wee ones will eat well for a month be sure of that, and ole’ Jim’ll not breathe a word, not one.” The old fisherman stood and bowed as low as his damaged limb would allow before quickly scampering back to his companion. Doubtless the peasant fisherman wouldn’t be able to keep his tongue from wagging but it was all part of the game.
Information gained; Barrett retreated upstairs to the promise of something other than frozen earth to sleep on.

He awoke before sunrise the next day and thanked the stars for his, all be it lumpy, straw stuffed bed. Skipping breakfast once again, he was quickly mounted and moving, sword at his hip and armor clinking as he went.
His overnight stop saw a fresh layer of snow two inches thick blanketing the earth. Barrett squinted as the sun bounced undiminished from every direction, blinding but devoid of warmth. He rode hard along the roadside, the water to his left, still and undisturbed even by the frozen breeze.
Just as Jim the old fisherman had said, the shoreline suddenly bent away from the road and gave way to a thin forest of pines. The snow set much thicker on the needles than it had on the bare oaks of Treadknee, the suspended drifts casting shadows that made the ground dance like a field of onyx interrupted by tufts of crystal where the sunbeams found gaps in the canopy.
Barrett slowed his pace and after less than an hour a faint track with few footfalls branched north into fields of rolling hillocks.
The road wound through pastures for some time before beginning to skirt a large hill. As Barrett followed curiously, he saw that the mound dropped away suddenly into a shear, grey cliff that looked like a curtain of steal against the bright white surroundings. Quietly startled by the appearance of such a sharp feature, he almost failed to notice the differing hue of grey. A castle stood in the cliffs shadow.
Surrounded by a short wooden palisade to its front and the cliff to its rear the castle’s four towers stood crowned with snow. Dark slits peppered the cold grey walls, none baring any warmth, except for one that hummed with an unmistakable, orange light.  No smoke rose from the thatched houses that crowded around it as if huddling for warmth. All was deathly still and quiet inside the defenses. The village appeared deserted.
Barrett drew up into a small copse of trees, tied his mount and tried to hide his armor and sword before withdrawing two small daggers from his roll and strapping them at the small of his back.
That morning he had taken out his travelling cloak in an effort to keep out the worst of the cold and snow but now he drew up his hood and wrapped the cloth around him to conceal himself and his intentions. He walked quickly back down the track until the castle and cliff disappeared and begun to assault the frozen hill.
The snow was thick on the accent, banking and collecting in dunes where the winds deposited it. The sudden severity of the wind made Barrett shiver as it cut through his cloak straight to the skin. The morning ride had taken more energy than Barrett had thought, the energy from his hot meal and warm bed bleeding from him fast. As he shuffled to the top, the ground under his boots became hard and sharp, hidden grass giving way to barren rock. At the bare precipice, he drew his hood up again when a sudden draft pulled it from around his ears. He looked down over the cliff.
The castles battlements were below him now, their crenellations and straight edges muffled by the coating of undisturbed powder. The village below sat still and silent, hibernating despite the stark midday sun. Could this be the castle Barrett sought? Was he too late?
The ground was slick but he judged the gap small enough for a well-placed jump to reach the nearest tower. He hoped the snow would be thick enough to dampen the impact and save any shattered bones. It seemed the best option, should he want to preserve his anonymity.
He spent some time clearing a path with his boot and ran on the spot to bring back the feeling in his toes. It was a risky move but he knew it would save time and energy if it paid off. He drew back his hood.
The run up went well and so did the leap but in mid-air a rogue gust threatened it all. It came hard from his left, grabbing at his cloak with icy fingers. He braced as his heart skipped. The tower would be hardly big enough for him to lay flat across and the change in course reduced it further.
He came down hard with a loud thud and his momentum slammed him hard into the stone battlements. The tower was deeper than he had guessed and the snow thicker too. He sat against the frozen wall and nursed his aching shoulder, the cliff now far above him. He had made a lot of noise, far more than he planned and he stared hard at the place where he had landed on the covered hatch, waiting for a guard to emerge, but none did. Barrett rubbed his feet and knees finding them thankfully no more aching than the cold warranted before he begun sweeping away the snow in search of a handle.
A wooden ladder greeted him below the hatch, leading to a faintly lit passage far below. Barrett tried desperately to preserve the silence and fumbled on the first few rungs before the pattern became familiar and he climbed down in earnest.
Thirty rungs brought him into the stuffy air on what he guessed to be the castles third floor. He moved out into the corridor and spied eagerly around. His ears sharp, his eyes adjusting quickly to the shadow, he rested one hand on the comforting cloth bound hilt under his cloak.
The smell of stale smoke filled his nose as he tip-toed silently along the stone passageway in search of the lone glowing window. Like the village outside, the castle seemed deserted, lit by shafts of daylight and smoky candles in the darkest corners.
Stone, spiraling stairs invited whispered conversations from below. Barrett moved slowly downwards and met a wooden door with a polished brass handle that seemed to glow as it bounced light from the nearest sunbeam.
Barrett had studied castle layout long and hard while at the college and in a small, stone fortification such as this the lords chamber always sat at its heart. He checked again for silence and slowly pushed the door.
Cracked just wide enough to observe the rooms contents with one eye, he took in the scene. The room at the center of the castle had no windows and sat mostly in darkness. A tight line of candles bordered the edge of an old writing desk, casting flickering, orange light on all the walls. The door opened slowly and Barrett preserved the solid silence. The smells of sweat, cold fires and parchment rushed through the widening crack and the faint sound of scratching crept from the writing desk. A large bundle of blankets sat before the candles, twitching with each scrape and jerking with each tap on the glass. Barrett stepped slowly into the room.
A balding man encompassed by candles scribbled franticly, occasionally steeling looks at an ornate black and gold suit of armor in front of the dead hearth. Barrett froze as the man coughed and tugged at the blankets around his neck with bony, liver-spotted hands, his crown of long, greasy hair shining in the flames.
The dagger’s draw was effortless as he stepped soundlessly across the stone floor. He pressed the sharp point into the old man’s newly exposed nape.
“Lord Higar, I presume?” The assassin asked in a whisper.
The old man froze briefly and then began to tremble.
“Y-y-yes.” He tried to turn and face Barrett.
“I think it would be best for both of us if you didn’t turn around, my lord. I am from the order… about the contract.”
“Yes, yes the contract of course. I, I wasn’t sure you’d come…” The trembling infected his voice now, each syllable warbling as if he would break at any moment. “I wasn’t even sure you were real at all, just a story my grandfather…”
“The contract, my lord?” Barrett interrupted, pressing on the dagger slightly, he could not afford to linger.
“Yes, the contract.” The frail lord tried to gather himself. “It’s my son you see, he’s…”
Barrett’s mind grasped at the words as he paused. Dead? Kidnapped?
“He’s…” Another deep breath. “He’s rebelled against me. He tried to kill me in the streets. If it wasn’t for my youngest, I’m sure he would have.”
“I understand your distress my lord, but what is the contract.” He asked not attempting to hide the impatience in his voice.
“His name is Sir Leegar. He left me no choice but to banish him and when I did, he burned all not in range of my archers, our summers crop, destroyed. My people are starving and terrified, you must understand.” He was becoming frantic and tried to turn again.
“Do not try to turn again my lord, or I will kill you.” He said his voice plain and impassive. “I will not ask a third time, what is the contract?”
“When the snow thaws, he will return and I fear we will be overwhelmed and put to the sword.” His back straightened slightly, he took a steadying breathe and donned his lords voice; suddenly commanding and confident. “Assassin, I am desperate, I need you to kill my son.”