Later that night, Carson was just putting the finishing touches onto his clothing for the dinner. He had his naval uniform on, a cravat to smarten the whole thing up, and a ceremonial sword at his waist. Of course, he didn’t tell anyone that he also had a loaded pistol in his jacket pocket because, as Tarkon always put it, it never hurts to have one over dinner.
He emerged from his room, Tarkon and Sykil were waiting for him, dressed in a similar fashion. Tarkon had the symbol of his new rank, the black wolf of Isim against a red background, sown onto his arm. Tarkon gave a big grin as he exited and slapped him on the back.
“You’re looking marvellous, little brother.”
“Not too bad yourselves.” Carson responded, he did enjoy the formality of the clothing a good deal and knew that they did as well. Then he noticed the sword at Tarkon’s waist.
“That’s an interesting ceremonial sword you have there.” He said. Tarkon leaned in close and whispered,
“Don’t tell anyone, but I thought I’d bring a real sword. Just in case.”
“Tarkon and I take it in turns to do this whenever we have a formal event. In any case, we all have a pistol on us and one real sword between us, so we can protect the king when necessary. Now, let’s go.” Sykil continued, before gesturing down the corridor.
After a short walk through the citadel, they knocked upon the door of the King’s private chambers, the door was promptly opened by an ageing man, wearing a rather old and battered suit with white gloves.
“Come on through.” He said, in that quiet voice servants often have. They followed him through to the dining room, where Carson could scarce believe what he saw. Ornaments hung here and there, paintings that commemorated some of the great moments from Isim’s history. Busts of former kings sat glaring at the table, as if they too wanted to come along and have a bite. Although, from what Carson remembered from his long history classes, many of them had come to a particularly sticky end over the dinner table, so perhaps they were simply glaring in disapproval.
The table sat in the middle of the room, a round one so that all guests could see and talk with each other. It was apparently the latest phase in woodworking, so every household worth its name had one. And at the moment there were two people sat at the table. The King, in all his finery and his son Prince Nosorum. The sight of Nosorum made Carson quiver; he had eyes that burned into you as soon as they caught you in their gaze. His hair was jet black, his eyes sunken slightly into his face.
The three sat down relatively close to one another as the king welcomed them to his table,
“Welcome, boys. The food won’t be too long.”
He turned his eyes onto his son, who was currently staring off at a nearby portrait.
“Say hello Nosorum. It’s not polite to leave guests waiting.”
“Ah, yes. Sorry about that. Hello there, admirals and future admiral.” The prince said, seemingly embarrassed at being chastised in front of guests.
“No need to apologise, my prince.” Sykil replied, a reassuring smile on his face. That was his thing, he was the one with the answers, with the advice, the one who had it all under control. His presence was calming, even Nosorum gave a smile in return and nodded.
As the eyes drifted back to the king, the door leading to the kitchens opened and in walked another man in a suit, carrying two plates of something that smelled delightful, even to Carson’s not yet fully developed taste buds. He placed the two plates on the table, one for the king and one for Nosorum before heading out again into the kitchen. The meal seemed to consist of some boar meat, judging from the look.
“The finest boars of the Easterlands. I had a few brought up for special occasions.” The King said, as if echoing Carson’s thoughts.
“And then, if you wish, a bottle of Blue Wavrinka from the heathen lands. Say what you will about them, they make a fine drink. Is Carson too young to-“
“The sooner he gets drunk enough to knock him out for a day or two, the sooner he’ll learn not to do it again.” Tarkon said, causing a round of chuckles around the table, particularly from Carson himself. Not that they needed to know how many times he’d been drunk before.
As the chuckling died down, the servant returned, this time balancing three plates on his arms. He placed them down one by one in front of the brothers, before moving over to the King.
“Is your meal satisfactory, your majesty?” he asked his voice soft and calm.
“Yes. Please give my compliments to the cook.”
“I’m afraid that might not be possible.”
The King looked up, puzzled, but then froze, his mouth slightly agape. The four young men looked up to, looking at the man’s face for the first time. He was a pale man, his face partially covered by shoulder length brown hair. And in his hand was a pistol.
The assassin raised the pistol and held it close to the King as Sykil and Tarkon went to stand.
“Keep the swords in the sheaths.” he warned. The two sat down slowly, though both were on the edge of the seat, ready to jump up if necessary.
He turned to the King, the smile fading as he raised the pistol.
“You once asked the Prince of Heirofalt if he would wed his daughter to your son, correct?”
“That is correct.” The king responded, glaring accusingly at the assassin, his hand still on his fork.
“He wanted me to give you his reply.” The assassin said and promptly shot the king through the head. He slumped forward, his head smashing onto the plate and sending crockery and bits of meat flying everywhere.
There was a grim silence, Tarkon and Sykil stared open mouthed at the dead man and Nosorum looked like he was going to snap the assassin’s neck with his bare hands, such was the rage and shock in his face. Carson tried his best to keep himself from vomiting, but couldn’t tear his eyes away from a small chunk of King’s head that lay within his reach.
The assassin lowered the smoking pistol and spoke one final time as he headed towards the door.
“My name is Hralfur, of the Thanos Cult. Good evening.”
The Thanos Cult?
Carson could scarce believe what he was seeing as the assassin exited via the servants door. A real life Thanos Cultist, the order of murderers that killed for money and to please the heathen god of death, Thanos himself. From what he knew about them, and that was mere rumour, they were very, very dangerous people. No doubt Tarkon and Sykil knew as well, but that didn’t stop them from jumping to their feet and removing the pistols from the inside of their jackets. Carson did the same as he rose unsteadily to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on Sykil’s back, rather than the corpse before him. As Tarkon pulled open the servants door, Nosorum finally rose form his seat, placing a shaking hand upon the back of the chair. Sykil turned sharply as he did so.
“My prince, you must sit! We cannot-“
“To hell with etiquette and reason, admiral. I’m going after that man!”
Sykil didn’t bother to argue, but rushed through the open door, Tarkon close behind. Then came Carson and Nosorum in the back. As they reached one of the many sharp turns in the labyrinth-like quarters, Sykil turned the corner, only to dart back as a gunshot sounded and a bullet struck the wall beside him.
“Three of the bastards there!” he shouted, before peering round the corner again.
“They’re gone. Quickly, move!”
They rushed forward, at the end of this corridor was a wooden door that Sykil simply shoulder charged his way through, emerging in the castle courtyard. Above them, one of the eight towers of the Citadel blotted out the moon, so its edges seemed to shimmer.
“He’s headed into the south east tower. We’ve got him.” Nosorum shouted as they ran. The door of the tower was ajar, it’s lock thoroughly smashed. As they lined up by the edge of the tower, Sykil pushed the door open and rushed in.
The moment they entered the tower, the outer shell made out of stone but with flimsy stairs of old wood, they instantly came under fire again. One bullet shot straight past Carson and looking up he saw at least three men firing from one of the wooden platforms about ten feet off the ground. Fortunately, they were poor shots and the four of them threw themselves underneath the platform, pressing up against the wall as the mocking cries came from the men above, in the heathen language of Hierofalt.
Tarkon and Sykil sat beside him, pistols in hand. They nodded to each other and then rushed out, firing upwards at the attackers. Carson heard the first thump from upstairs, the sound of someone dying most likely. But even as he celebrated that victory, Tarkon collapsed, blood flying from a neat bullet hole in his left trouser leg. He screamed as he fell, pistol dropping to the floor.
Sykil stepped to the side, standing over his brother as he kept firing, face burning with rage even as he ran out of bullets, even as he prepared himself for death in defence of his brother. Carson went to move, but Nosorum moved faster, in a moment he had Tarkon’s pistol in hand and in another moment two more thumps came from upstairs as the prince shot them.
Nosorum didn’t stop, he charged up the stairs, bloody murder on his face. Carson chased after him, sidestepping the dead men as Sykil tried to comfort their fallen brother.
As he passed a nearby window, he heard the thumping of a ship’s engine and sure enough a schooner appeared, heading directly for the top of the tower.
So that’s how they were going to get away. How did the heathens manage to build a ship, let alone crew it?
Then another gunshot rang out and a scream of pain echoed through the building. Carson looked up, his heart sinking as that scream rattled through his head. If Nosorum was killed then- no, it didn’t bear thinking about. He rushed up the rest of the steps, taking them two at a time as he burst up on the very top of the tower.
Nosorum was clutching his hand with blood leaking from his fresh wound, Tarkon’s pistol on the ground. The assassin stood on the edge, pistol smoking in his right hand. He gave a sigh as he lowered the weapon and spoke, his voice quiet but assured.
“Give it up, young man. You’ve got spirit but you lack patience and skill.”
“Shut up! I will drive a knife through your heart, inch by inch!” Nosorum snarled, his voice ragged with anger.
“Idle threats don’t frighten me. Give it ten years and maybe you’ll be worth the trouble.” The cultist replied, turning his back on the fallen prince.
Nosorum’s face became a death mask of a man doomed to spend a thousand years in agony, he drew himself up to his full height, wiping his bloody hand on his face and leaving a streak of it on his cheek. Then he spoke, his voice trembling with pure rage.
“If I-If I have to scour every single heathen stronghold, I will. If I have to burn every single one I come across in order to find you, I will. If I have to tear the ground up, level mountains, raise valleys or drain lakes, I will. You’ve killed one of the Black Wolf’s litter, scum. Just pray to your god that disease takes you before I do.”
He fell to his knees as he finished, placing his non-injured hand on the floor to support himself.
“I look forward to it.” The assassin replied and gave a small smile, not even bothering to turn back. He raised his hand in some mocking salute and spoke one final time to the prince,
“Farewell, Nosorum. Nay, King Nosorum. May your reign be long and profitable.”
The ship pulled up alongside the tower and he stepped aboard. Carson reacted immediately while his back was turned and raised his pistol, keeping his hands steady like he was always taught to. Then he squeezed the trigger three times, the recoil not nearly as bad as he was expecting given the stressful circumstances. The first bullet struck one of the men on the ship, sending him crashing to the ground. The second flew over Hralfur’s head. The third buried itself in his shoulder.
He let out a curse as he fell forward onto the ship, staggering to his feet and turning his body to face his assailant. Carson froze as the man’s seemingly calm demeanour dropped for a moment as he saw him, his face twisting in shock. Then he seemed to regain composure and stood properly, as the ship began to shove off.
“Not bad, young man!” he shouted out.
“A few more years and you might have killed me. Forgive my carelessness there, it’s very unlike me. Farewell, young Hardcastle, perhaps you might be the one to truly carry on your father’s legacy!”
And with that, the ship flew out of hailing range and sailed off into the night, as Nosorum slammed his injured hand down again and again onto the roof stones, covering them in blood. With one final roar, a howl that pierced the night, he slumped into unconsciousness, Carson rushing over to help as the schooner disappeared from view, all trace of it lost in the blackness.
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The Skymaster's Shadow (Updated: 29/05/16) Chapter 19 Released)
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It was also... interesting. I'm wondering why the assassin killed the king but not the prince... (And why kill either of them just for requesting that the daughter of the Prince of Hierofalt marry Victor's son? Surely a "no" would be sufficient to avoid the marriage.)
Originally Posted by Caillagh
