The Silence of Vonir - 1. Chapter 1 - The Strength To Take It

Arkan’s eyes flickered open, taking in his darkened surroundings at a glance. He was lying on a slightly squeaky bed in the corner of the cheapest room in the tavern, and it showed. Pushing the itchy cover aside, he sat up, blinked, and grabbed the nearest item on the bed-side table; a long dagger. Whilst it had clearly seen a lot of use, the dagger was impeccably clean and just a slight touch would be enough to draw blood. Satisfied, he placed the dagger in its place on his belt and stood up from the bed.

Padding silently across the room, he could see a small door made of a sturdy, if somewhat rotten, wood, next to which stood a larger table with a broken back leg, propped up by what looked suspiciously like a dead rat. Sighing audibly, Arkan sat down on a stool and lit an almost burnt out candle, the only source of light in the room. Pushing it idly aside he grabbed the scrap of paper that had been sitting underneath and re-read the small amount of writing it held:

4.00 am, n.p.

“Shit” he thought, “whatever made me take this damned job?” Returning the page to his desk, he wondered why his contact had chosen the north postern gate of Castle Engrad. The river Teyrn flowed out of the nearby mountains, splitting into two and flowing either side of the island city of Cavaria, before meeting on the far side and entering the western sea. Cavaria was quite possibly the richest city in the world; although this could never be proved as a state of almost constant war had sealed the borders of the states of Cyrus to the point where the only interaction between them was one of invasion or diplomatic futilities.

The crown of Cavaria Isle, as it was known, consisted of three huge structures, Castle Engrad to the north, Castle Valgan to the south and the Imperial Palace to the east. The two castles, each belonging to a powerful family of Dukes, sat atop two hills, either side of the paved road to the Imperial Palace. They were heavily fortified and could easily form a last line of defence if the main walls of the city had fallen. Castle Engrad had been built some 3000 years ago, before the sundering of Cyrus; when the whole continent had been ruled as one. Cavaria had been a port city, governed by the Engrads.

Castle Valgan was more modern, being built by an exiled dukedom of neighbouring Malern in an attempt to rival the splendour of House Engrad. Where Castle Engrad was built from dark grey stone in the ancient style of Cyrus, Valgan had been constructed with local stone after the sundering, and it’s architect had favoured the lighter style used in many other buildings in the city of Cavaria.

The Imperial Palace was a stunning symbol of the opulence of the port city, having been built by Emperor Calven the Great of House Dren after his simulacrum 150 years ago, ceding Cavaria from its parent state of Malern. It held no defensive purpose other than the overwhelming awe it inspired in anyone seeing it. Built with its back to a sheer cliff at the fork of the Teyrn, the palace was centred in landscaped gardens, with two symmetrical wings framing a main courtyard at the back of which stood the Imperial Tower, towering far above any other structure and holding the council chambers for the royal court.

House Engrad and Valgan fought constantly in a bitter and costly rivalry. Whilst the royal line had held, barely, for 30 something years after the death of Emperor Calven, the Dukes both had plausible claims to the throne, and were determined to hold the Emperor’s favour, as well as that of the lesser nobles, so that their family may one day lead the Cavarian State. House Engrad was winning, and that was why one the less scrupulous sons of House Valgan had turned to Arkan.

Three weeks ago, Arkan had been staying at the Blue Boar Inn, deep in the slums of western Cavaria. Sitting at the bar, he had been approached by a cloaked man, but he could immediately tell that the stranger was a nobleman and unaccustomed to the squalor through which he was currently wading.

“That’s enough, Jarn” Arkan muttered, waving away the proffered ale and tossing a small copper coin to the innkeeper. Jarn was a short man, with light grey hair and a pronounced stoop. His poverty was immediately apparent, although he was much better off than the majority of people in the slums; he at least had his own room and food. Scratching his stubble, he wondered why Arkan had left so suddenly, normally the man drank at least a few pints. Jarn had met Arkan several times before, but had learnt quickly not to ask any questions. Arkan was strange, and Jarn felt safer keeping his distance; the cold stare and emotionless eyes were more than enough to unsettle the superstitious old man.

Aleine Valgan walked up to the bar, holding his breath. How could people live like this? The Cavarian slums were situated outside the city walls, on a small peninsula on the westward side of the island. The closest Aleine had ever been to the slums before was on top of the main gate of the city proper, where he had surveyed the assembled peasantry and felt nothing but contempt; he felt much the same now.

Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Aleine spotted a man walking out of the main room of the inn and up the stairs. Nodding to Jarn as he passed, Aleine walked into a second smaller room and put his hand on the banister of the stairs, quickly withdrawing it with a curse. The small white and black spider that had until recently been making a web where the banister met the wall scuttled up to the ceiling. Aleine hated spiders, especially poisonous ones, and a bite from a white tiger spider would slowly spread paralytic venom through the nervous system of its victim, leaving them completely unable to move or breathe after a period of several agonising days.

Leaving the door open behind him, Arkan crossed quickly to the table, placing the hand-and-a-half sword that had lain there in a hidden holster on his back, and then turning to wait for his customer. Years of experience had taught Arkan to stay on his guard when visited by a noble; too many previous interactions had turned sour.

“You’re a hard man to find!” exclaimed Aleine, pushing the door shut, with an obviously forced smile on his face. Arkan’s face remained emotionless and the smile quickly faltered. “I need a job doing, and I’ve heard that you can help me.”

“Oh? Who told you that Aleine Valgan?”

“Who told you my...” Aleine muttered, and quickly recovered “no matter, you are clearly the man I was told to find. I want you to murder Lady Engrad. Duke Engrad has just one male heir, and I want it kept that way. Now, from what I've managed to gather, that heir is infertile. My father is too weak to do what is necessary but I will see my family rise above the Engrads.”

Arkan raised an eyebrow.

“Spies have told me that for the past four years Lady Engrad has taken a fertility draught brewed from a poisonous compound; taken in moderation it is harmless but I am told an overdose could prove fatal. I want you to stage a murder-suicide, where the woman kills her guards and then herself by means of this poison. ”

Arkan’s left eyebrow joined his right. “That is total nonsense. What sort of person would kill a pair of guards that mean nothing to them in a suicide? The only motive for such an event would be a desire to protect family or friends from something, or hatred. Unless the woman is having an affair with half the Castle’s soldiery I think you might want to think of something better. The only way I can think of making it appear convincing would be to force Lady Engrad to overdose on a hallucinogen. That way, it would be feasible for her to perceive the guards as threats; eliminating them herself before succumbing to the drugs.”

“Very well, so long as the effect is the same I don’t really care. I shall deliver you payment of 300 Drens when I hear about the woman’s death.”

A look of disgust crossed Arkan’s features. “3000 Drens; 600 for the poisons I will require and 2400 for the suicide itself.”

“I understand 600 for poisons, I would assume you have to mix various substances and then administer them to the victim to create the necessary effect, but 2400 for suicide? Just shove the damn bottle down her throat and push her towards the guards!”

“How about we start again.” Arkan stated quietly. “You talk as if you know that I’m the best damn assassin in this city and I’ll talk as if there’s a chance in hell that I’ll take this job.”

Second General Aleine removed his hood, scratched a rough hand through his long brown hair and sighed. He was starting to regret coming here tonight; this man was dangerous and Aleine wished he hadn’t decided against bringing a squad of soldiers with him. Perhaps it was for the best though, soldiers weren’t the brightest of men but even they would be suspicious of their general over this trip. “Tell me then, why does faking a suicide cost 2400 gold?”

“A suicide can take months to fake depending on the target’s history; maybe just weeks if the victim is already suffering from depression or a few days if they have attempted it before, but regardless it is not enough to merely kill the victim. What if they had just arranged a meeting with a friend, or been promised an audience with the Emperor? That would seem a strange time to end your life. With time I can get close enough to the victim to learn about their life and influence certain events that they will experience. The victim becomes depressed and sullen, paranoid even, withdrawing into themselves and gradually worsening, and then perhaps a well loved pet dies, or a valued servant resigns.”

As Arkan continued, Aleine’s jaw slowly fell, and his eyes grew a little fearful.

“The victim becomes angry with itself, and lashes out at their friends. Slowly, the friends stop visiting, and the victim becomes more and more lonely. Sometimes they even commit suicide of their own volition; in which case I need only ensure it is a suitable method for the required effect. Over a long enough period, no-one thinks it was anything but a suicide, and the victim’s family may even cover up the evidence to save political face. Murder is never even a thought in their minds. If a forged suicide note is required, then I study their letters and their diaries, not only forging their handwriting but their writing style and vocabulary. I may need to influence the coroner, to ensure he can recognise the poison and its effects, to prevent an incorrect verdict. You could say that assassination is an art Aleine; the art of covering all eventualities”, Arkan added, smiling “and I am this city’s finest artisan”.

“What kind of a man are you, to play with life as if it meant nothing?”

“I don’t expect judgement from a man willing to hire me, Valgan. You ask for my services, yet you seem to lack the stomach to see it through. Now what’s it to be?” Arkan asked, moving his right hand to the pommel of a dagger. Aleine’s face turned sour.

“Do you think to threaten me assassin? You have no idea what I can do to you. You will take my offer of 300 Drens, or you will die.”

Arkan burst out laughing, keeping his pale eyes focussed on Aleine. “Do not mock me general. Now get out.” Aleine turned abruptly, threw open the door and stormed out of the room. An amused look materialised on Arkan’s face as a loud crash echoed from the stairs, and the livid nobleman staggered back into the room, clutching his hand and glaring expectantly at the assassin.

“3000, or you will die slowly as the poison creeps through your body and shatters your nervous system.” Arkan growled, as he picked up a small vial and offered it to Aleine. “And I wouldn’t touch the door handle if I were you. Wear gloves next time you meet with an assassin.” Eyes alight with hatred and disgust; Second General Aleine Valgan thrust a coin purse onto the floor and snatched the vial, gulping its contents down and leaving the room, careful not to touch anything.

Regarding the memory with a degree of contempt, Arkan realised that – almost certainly unintentionally – the general had manipulated him into accepting what would prove to be a difficult and frustrating contract. The assassin’s pride had forced him to show the general that here his status and power meant nothing and in doing so had been forced to agree to the general’s demands.

Arkan stood up and began buckling a holster across his chest, carefully placing five daggers inside, all covered in a deadly neurotoxin that would immediately immobilise the user and increase the speed at which blood clotted. The result would be a quick, silent death and an almost invisible cut. After the daggers, Arkan placed a small bottle of carefully mixed poison in a pouch, strapped his hand-and-a-half sword to his back, sheathed two anelaces on his belt and crossed the room to a small chest. Withdrawing a key from inside his black garments, he unlocked the chest and retrieved an elaborate amulet, fastening it around his neck and tucking it under his shirt. Pulling down a black facial mask, Arkan checked his weapons and climbed out of the window, dropping silently to the filthy street below.

Muttering a single word, Arkan melted into the shadows flooding the dark street, and began a slow jog eastwards. Whilst one road in the slums was paved; the avenue from the city gates to the ports, the many intertwining alleys and dead ends were just made of dirt water, and the excrement thrown idly out of the windows of houses. Turning left at the end of the street, Arkan quickly met the main road, at which point he slowed to a walk. A strict curfew was held in the slums, and anyone caught out at night was thrown to rot in the Mire.

The only prison in Cavaria, the Mire was a huge stone construct on an island in the middle of the southern branch of the Teyrn. There were three main levels of the Mire; the highest, above ground, was reserved for nobles who had either fallen from Imperial grace, or exiles from other lands. Underneath the ground were thousands of cells for the peasantry. No semblance of order even attempted to exist, with dozens of prisoners being thrown in single cells and left to rot until someone remembered they were there. Then there was the lowest level, built beneath the level of the river. Everything else was thrown in here. Murderers, rapists, traitors and loose sewerage were left to fight amongst themselves for the scraps of food and water thrown in from high above and any who succumbed to the disease and filth within just became food for the survivors.

A rhythmic pounding of feet told Arkan that a column of soldiers were patrolling Emperor’s Way, and he shifted to the side of the road silently. 30 soldiers tramped past, 5 abreast with each man holding a torch in one hand and a vicious halberd in the other. Made up of an axe-head, a speared tip and a hook on the reverse, the Halberd was an efficient weapon for guard duty and could be used to defend against a cavalry charge, although the clumsy device would prove too unwieldy in combat with an assassin.

Oblivious to his presence, the soldiers marched past on their way to the port, and Arkan broke into a run, leaping 10 feet off the banked side of the road onto the rooftops of the slums on the northern side. Without breaking stride, he jumped over several narrow alleyways before coming to the canal that formed a moat around the main city walls. As he reached the edge of the last rooftop, Arkan jumped over the water, grabbing a stiletto from his belt. He landed evenly in a small gondola, manned by a fisherman returning home with his catch. The slight rocking of the boat caused the crooked old man to turn round slowly, and the dagger quickly flew from Arkan’s hand, disappearing up to the hilt in the fisherman’s eye. Masking the sounds of the falling body, Arkan extricated his dagger, flicking away the shattered remnants of the man’s eye and cleaning the weapon in his bedraggled brown hair.

Prodding the corpse off the boat with his foot, Arkan grabbed the oar and slowly paddled the gondola around until it was facing north, and began his slow journey up the canal and then further up the river to a private dockyard behind Castle Engrad. Scuttling the boat and kicking it downstream, Arkan ran up the steep bank and onto the wooden pier leading to a thickset metal gate in the outer wall, manned by two dead guards, and wide open.

Built at the same time, the outer walls of Castle Engrad were built directly off of the city’s ramparts, with the manse itself built in the centre of the enclosure with a square tower in its north-eastern corner. Jogging to the base of this tower, Arkan peered upwards, searching for handholds. At last selecting a path, he reached up and grabbed a stone that had been offset slightly from the wall, hauling himself upwards and reaching for the bottom of a chiselled engraving depicted a lord on a horse trampling a soldier. Stretching again he grabbed the top of the horse’s tail with his right hand, and froze as a pair of guards patrolled beneath him.

“The Lady’s locked ‘erself in ‘er room again Kern. Dunno what’s got into ‘er lately but she won’t talk to no-one.”

“I know what you mean; I saw her the other day, face like the Emperor himself had died. “ The guard called Kern replied. “Or she’d gotten lost in the slums. That’s bad too.”

“I think it was that painting she lost of ‘er father. She used to spend hours gawking at the bloody thing. God knows what good it did ‘er but she ‘asn’t been the same since it’s gone. Oh well, none of our business. I s’pose we’d better go check on ‘er again. Veran’d have our arses if anythin’ ‘appened to ‘er.”

A small smile played across Arkan’s face as he imagined just how much of the guards arses Veran would have. Veran Engrad was the current Duke Engrad, and whilst a strict upholder of honour and justice, he brooked no failure and had many of his servants executed for their discrepancies. Once the guards had turned down the west facing wall of the manse, Arkan resumed his climb, resting his feet on the head of the knight and jumping up and to his right, grabbing the stone gutter of the building proper with his outstretched fingers.

A low stone barrier encircled the flat rooftop, embellished with leering gargoyles clearly created to inspire awe and fear in anyone visiting House Engrad. Reaching up and grabbing one of these, Arkan vaulted onto the flat rooftop, pausing for a second before crossing the rooftop to the south facing wall.

Across the gardens, the front gate of the castle loudly creaked open, and light from dozens of torches poured into the darkened space. A squadron of guards, wearing a black and white tunic emblazoned with a ship over full plate body armour, crowned by an elaborate burgonet covered in trailing gold leaf which, when viewed from above formed the Imperial crest. The guard’s falchions remained in their sheathes, but each man carried a large metal shield, bearing both the Emperor’s coat of arms and that of the two main houses of Cavaria.

The purpose of this escort was a man of around 14 years; on the back of a magnificent black destrier rode Arien Dren, Crown Prince of Cavaria. Arkan immediately ducked behind the stone balustrade. Where the father Emperor Vaniar was a weak, overweight fool who left the running of his country to loyal ministers and soldiers whilst he gorged on the worst excesses of the opulence that corrupted so many of the leading classes of Cyrus, the son was strong and intelligent.

One of the less morally blinded Earls serving on Vaniar’s court had wisely decided that it would be in the country’s best interests to produce a powerful heir, and in an unprecedented move had hired Arkan to train the young prince in combat. Arkan had on his own volition taught the boy the history and politics of the world – differing significantly from those taught within the palace - ensuring that one day he could rule from a position of knowledge and power. Whilst the prince was not popular with the mob, and even less so with the nobles he would come to rule, Arkan made sure that when his time came Cavaria may once again become a strong nation.

Arien had taken to the assassin’s trade with a significant degree of talent, and Arkan had no doubt that the prince could see through the illusory darkness Arkan had shrouded himself in; whilst it was unlikely he would betray the assassin’s position, the less the boy knew about Arkan’s movements the safer he would be. Besides, if he was discovered prince would be forced to kill Arkan or lose both his honour and the credibility of his claim to the throne.

A crash rang out into the night as the door immediately below Arkan was thrown open, and Duke Veran marched out of his castle and walked up to meet the prince.

“Your highness.” Veran bowed stiffly, and couldn’t keep a subtle note of hostility from his voice.

“Show some respect Veran. You may not like me, or understand me, but I am your prince and you answer to me; you would do well to remember that.” Arien sniffed, his eye’s flicking up to the roof of the manse. A smile flickered across his handsome features as he continued. “I would have thought someone of your great wisdom and age would have learnt that by now. The Emperor demands your presence at once.” Livid at being undermined in the presence of his guards, Veran snapped his fingers, waiting for a servant to bring his horse which he mounted savagely before smacking his spurred boots into its flank.

“Shit.” Arkan could tell immediately that his old apprentice had sensed him, although the Emperor’s summons were most fortunate; half of the garrison would accompany the embarrassed duke on his journey to the palace. Waiting for the entourage to leave the way they had come, Arkan swung over the balustrade, dropping neatly onto a windowsill directly above the door. The window led into one of the spare bedrooms, and during his relentless planning Arkan had decided that this would be the safest entrance. The bedroom had been set aside for the use of Veran’s heir but as no such person existed it lay empty, cleaned once a week but otherwise untouched.

Gently opening the window, and cringing when the polished glass let out a small squeak, Arkan slipped into the dark bedroom. Directly facing him was a large double-poster bed, with a solid looking wooden wardrobe to his left and the door to the upstairs hallway in the far right corner. Making for this door, Arkan crossed a heavily embroidered rug depicting a scene involving a man and an imp best left to the imagination. On previous visits to the house, Arkan had learnt that this door would give away his presence if he was not careful and so, taking out a cloth and some grease, he set to work on the three sets of hinges.

At the age of 33, Arkan Ural had been an assassin for nearly 25 years, and during that time he had risen from an apprentice to the most successful and richest man in the city. He had killed more people than he cared to or knew how to count, but as he grew older he began to feel the emptiness of his life; he had destroyed families that had stood for centuries and changed the fate of even the Emperors, yet to him this meant nothing. He had no-one to confide in; no-one to trust, no-one to call a friend, and when he died no-one would remember him for anything except for the chaos he had surrounded himself in. To an assassin, attachments were a weakness, a crippling flaw in their armour that would slowly kill them.

Stepping out of the bedroom, Arkan closed the door behind him, and stepped onto a lush red carpet lining a long hallway, leading to the dozens of bedrooms in the house. Turning right, Arkan walked slowly down the hallway, gazing at the busts lining alcoves on either side of the hall, depicting long dead dukes of the Engrad family. Pushing aside the last door on the left, Arkan entered a narrow spiral staircase, turning clockwise in order to give a martial advantage to any men defending the stairs. At the top of the stairs, two guards stood in a small antechamber, either side of a wooden door leading to the master bedroom of the household. Opposite the stairs sat a small table, with the leftovers of the guard’s meal and a bottle of cheap Malernian wine.

Clearly drunk, one of the guards staggered over to the table and took another swig of the wine, bumping clumsily into the table and knocking a plate onto the floor, where it shattered with a loud crash.

“Put it down Steve, if you fall asleep on the job Veran’ll have us both killed and you...” Choosing his moment to strike, Arkan darted forward, pulling out one of the poisoned daggers and burying it in the sober guard’s neck, just above the hairline. The man stiffened immediately, sagging backwards against the door whilst the blade of the dagger disintegrated into shadows. Before the other guard was aware of the death of his companion, another knife emerged from the back of his neck, shimmering into nothingness in the same way as the first.

Taking the limp bodies, Arkan propped them up against the wall. Anyone in their right mind could see that they were dead, but that would make no difference to the hallucinating Lady Engrad. Pushing open the door, Arkan strode into the bedroom, drawing an anelace in preparation for a struggle. To his surprise, Lady Engrad stood facing the door, her features resolute, but darkened with fear.

“I wondered when you would arrive, assassin. I must be honest, I did not expect you to wait this long.” Surprised, Arkan looked at her quizzically. “Not all of the nobles in this city are as foolish as you may think. Tell me, assassin. What gives you the right to murder, to kill me in cold blood? For forty years I have lived in this city, shedding tears of joy and sorrow in equal measure whilst trying to serve my Empire, yet you, you think you have the right to take it all away on a whim? Then end me assassin; take my life and be gone. I will not beg for your mercy.”

“Life is empty, a hollow shell of false hope and lies. You surround yourself in people you think you can trust to protect it from people like me. But do you think they really care? Would anyone give up their own for yours? No. This world is cruel and remorseless; it is neither fair nor unfair and does not for a moment care. If your illusions give you strength, then so be it, but they will shatter along with everything else. You ask what gives me the right to kill you? Nothing, except the fact that I have the strength to take it.”

Arkan stepped forward and grabbed her wrist, twisting it to his left and then using her own resistance to swing it behind her, forcing Lady Engrad to turn round. Taking out the vial of poison, Arkan emptied its contents down her throat, choking her. After a few seconds, her body went rigid and her eyes glazed over. Stepping smartly backwards, Arkan watched as she began thrashing around the room, oblivious to her surroundings.

Searching around the room for something blunt and heavy, Arkan’s eyes focused on an elaborate gold candelabrum. Tearing out the candles, he grasped it by the thin end and prodded it towards Lady Engrad. She spun round savagely, clasping onto the candelabrum and shaking her body to the left and right. Arkan released his grip, and she took off in the other direction, staggering out of the door and into the guards. The first guard’s skull caved in with a satisfying crunch, and he flopped to the floor as if he had been killed from within the doorway. As Lady Engrad hit the second guard, the candelabrum broke; running forward, Arkan grabbed her by the arms, and forced her back into the room and towards her bed, where he restrained her until she stopped thrashing.

When he was 8 years old, Arkan had been taken from his life in the slums by a cloaked man. He had never known his parents, but this man took him away from everything he knew. The next day when Arkan woke up, he found himself in a dark room with a stranger looking over him. This man had become his master for the next 10 years, as Arkan mastered the arts of combat, poisoning and intrigue. The training of an assassin was relentless; most days the young Arkan would stagger to his small bed, covered in bruises from sparring with his master.

Within a few minutes, Lady Engrad’s eyes stopped moving, and, resisting the urge to close them, Arkan retreated back down the spiral staircase. His exit was possibly the most important part of tonight’s job. If any more guards died, the verdict of suicide could be questioned and all of his preparations would have been for nothing. Jogging lightly down the hallway, Arkan returned to the room he had originally entered from, again opening the window and dropping down just to the right of the door. Rolling to muffle the sound of his fall, he sprinted across the grounds and leapt to grab a step ten feet above him, pulling himself quickly upwards and continuing his ascent to the west wall.

As Arkan reached the top of the wall, the two guards that he had overheard earlier rounded the southwest wall corner, walking slowly towards him on their rounds; to his right, two more guards approached. Trust his luck to pick the one point on the wall where the guards would converge. Hoping he had the strength for it, Arkan jumped straight over the thirty foot high wall.