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Author: Mythurien
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The night had grown cold after sundown, and a heavy fog was now rising on the near-empty streets of Freeport. Only a brave few wandered the streets at this time of night, along, of course, with those poor souls who had nowhere to call home. Those outside walked quickly, a hunch to their shoulders and grim looks on their faces. And with good reason. During the day the guards walked the streets, enforcing at least a modicum of order, but at night they withdrew, allowing the city to be ruled, if only briefly, by thieves and brawlers and other sorts of unsavory peoples.
It was at this time of night that Mythurien thrived. Moving in the shadows, silently hopping from one alley to the next, the night was like some grim theme park to him. Full of challenges and hardships, sure, but of excitement as well and, if one knew the right people, lucrative opportunities.
He was sitting in an alley now on a splintering box, watching a tavern across the way. He enjoyed the way that his breath appeared in front of him this night, curling about like the fog at his feet. It seemed feral, in a way. Predatory. Like the wolf hunting at night, Myth too stalked his prey. And he would soon be satisfied.
With a sudden and loud crash, the door to the tavern opened and three men strode out. Two of them were dressed in the manner of bodyguards, but they were inconsequential. The one in the center was who Myth focused on. Richly dressed in a light blue velvet robe, the man appeared to be in his mid-forties. A black goatee with a gray stripe running through it identified the man as Myth’s target.
He rose from his resting place and strode from the alley to the edge of the shadows in the street, allowing his form to be only just visible. His advantage as an assassin was his youth. At the age of fourteen, he looked nothing like the talented and ruthless killer that he was. He always used this to its full advantage.
“You are Toman Inigatchi of the Rising Waters Guild in the north section, are you not?” Myth asked.
The two guards turned their heads and in an instant had their hands on their sword hilts, blades halfway pulled from the sheathes. One of them grunted, “Who wants to know? Show yourself.”
Myth walked toward the men at a steady pace, revealing himself in the full light coming from the tavern windows. “A friend asked me to deliver a message to you,” he said. He suppressed a smile when he saw the guards visibly relax. That’s right, he thought. I’m just another kid.
“Speak then and be done with it,” one of the guards said. Both sheathed their weapons and Toman stepped forward to receive the message.
Quick and silent as the shadows he had stepped from, Myth leapt toward the closest of the two guards. He slipped a stiletto free from his sleeve and slashed through the guard’s throat. He landed on his feet and threw the dagger at the second guard, who had nearly freed his sword by now. The dagger pierced his eye and he fell to the ground in a heap. Without pause Myth pulled a second stiletto from his boot and spun to puncture Toman’s throat. Such was Myth’s speed that Toman had barely had time to register that his guards were dead before his own blood began to flow down his neck.
Toman fell to his knees and tried to say something, but only a wet gurgle sounded in the air and a bloody froth issued from the puncture in his throat.
“Oh, how rude of me,” Myth said. “The message. It is from your rival, Jeanin.” Myth leaned in close to Toman’s ear. “‘Goodnight’.”
* * *
“The demons are waking.”
“There is wealth for the taking.”
“The strong shall rise, and the weak shall fall.”
“And the power of darkness shall rule over all.”
A loud grating noise carried through the darkness as the lock was pulled back, and the heavily rusted door in front of Myth swung inward. He strode into the stone hallway that was revealed and said to the guard standing there, “I grow weary of your drawn out passwords.”
“Master’s orders,” the guard said, shrugging.
Myth rolled his eyes and walked down the hall. He turned a corner and the wet and mossy stone walls gave way to polished marble, a mark of wealth that would not be guessed at from the outside of this building.
A tall dark elf dressed in black velvet swooped out of a side passage and fell in stride with Myth. “Things went well tonight?”
“Yes.”
The man handed a small leather pouch to Myth, who fastened it to his belt. “Someone waits in your chambers,” he said, the walked off down another hallway.
Myth reached a stairway covered in thick crimson carpeting and climbed to the second floor. The light on this level was dimmer, at the request of those who lived there. The walls were also bare of adornments. He walked down the plain corridor until he reached a highly polished oak door. He stood outside for a moment and heaved a sigh, then drew himself up and entered.
The furnishings in his room were kept to a minimum, as he rarely had company. Besides the small bed in the corner there were only two chairs placed on either side of the table where he took his meals. One of them was occupied by a kind looking human, clean shaven with a mess of short white hair on his head. He was dressed in red silk, and the crest of Lucan D’Lere rested upon his chest. Myth was surprised to find an emissary from the Overlord in his room, but he did not let it show. Emotions were a tool that the enemy could use against you.
Myth moved across the room and poured two glasses of water and sat at the table, placing one of the glasses in front of his guest. “I would offer you something else, but I’m afraid I don’t drink.”
“That is commendable,” the human said. “Water is fine.”
Myth sat and stared at the human for some time, but it seemed that this man did not want to speak first. Finally his impatience got the better of him. “Why are you here?”
“As you are already aware I come from the personal offices of Overlord D’Lere,” the man said, laying a finger on the symbol on his chest. “Though you may think that you operate in anonymity, we have been keeping an eye on you and your progress for six months now. We have been impressed, to say the least, by what you have accomplished at your age. We invite you to come and train with the Overlord’s best assassins.”
“And if I refuse?” Myth asked. “I’ve got a pretty nice situation here.”
The man frowned. “Overlord D’Lere would like to have a word with you before you make your final decision, but if you decide not to accept our offer then you continue to live your life as you please as long as you are able.”
As long as he was able. Myth knew what he spoke of. No one said “no” to Lucan and lived. Should he refuse, he would be dead in a week. He feigned non-interest for the moment. “Alright, I’ll meet with your master but I make no promises.”
The man nodded and rose from the table. “Come to the palace when you are ready.” He moved to the door and opened it. Before stepping out, however, he paused and looked at Myth with a threatening stare. “Remember boy: he is not only my master; all in Freeport pledge allegiance to the Overlord or suffer the consequences.”
Myth smiled at the man as he left, then rolled his eyes. He wished they wouldn’t send such amateurs to speak with him. Of course he would go to meet with Lucan; he had only said he wouldn’t to see if he could get a rise out of this emissary, and it had been easier than he thought. Going to the palace was going to be fun. Not many people got to meet Lucan in person.
* * *
The enormous black-lacquered wooden doors swung inward without a sound. The grand hall beyond was huge beyond imagining, at least to Myth’s perspective. The floor was of black marble veined with white, as were the columns that ran down the length of the hall to either side. Large fires burned in braziers throughout the room, making the gold thread in the tapestries on the wall shimmer. But all of this held his attention for only a moment. His gaze traveled almost immediately down the length of the hall, where Lucan D’Lere himself sat in his magnificent throne. Flanking him were two ancient looking humans, one man, one woman, both in red robes, standing amid what appeared from this distance to bones. Myth’s body gave an involuntary shiver.
He steeled his resolve and strode down the hall. He felt a brush of air on the back of his neck and knew that the doors had closed behind him. He was trapped in a room with the most powerful man in all of Norrath. It suddenly felt hard to breathe. He came within twenty feet of the stairs leading up to the dais on which Lucan sat when the Overlord raised his hand. Myth froze.
“You are Mythurien Dae’Mondan, are you not?” Lucan said, his voice sounded warm, almost fatherly. Not at all what Myth had expected. He could only nod in answer. “Dae’Mondan...that is high elven, is it not? No doubt given to you by your adoptive mother, Trienne.”
This time Myth felt his eyes widen. He had told no one about his mother in this city.
Lucan gave a sly smile. “Oh yes, I know about your special situation.” His smile faded. “But unfortunately I have asked you here to tell you some bad news.” He rose from his throne and made his way down the steps, stopping when he stood directly in front of Myth. He kneeled down so they were face to face and said, “I have recently been informed by my contacts in Qeynos that a certain high elf named Trienne Dae’Mondan was put to death a few months past.”
The blood drained from Myth’s face. Tears came unbidden to his eyes. “Why?” he whispered.
Lucan lowered his eyes as if his own sadness was unbearable. “Antonia Bayle found out about her past, about her raising you, a dark elf. Antonia deemed this to be an act of treason, and had your mother beheaded.” Lucan looked back up at Myth and reached out to cup his face in his hand. “I have decided to offer you a chance at vengeance. I will let you train with my master assassins so that you may, in time, travel to Qeynos and kill Antonia in retribution for her misdeeds.”
Lucan’s gaze was boring into Myth’s mind, and he felt himself being caught up in the rage that trembled in Lucan’s voice. The Overlord was offering him this great chance to avenge his mother. The Overlord cared for him, felt sorrow for him. He was prepared to call Lucan master. He felt his own gaze become as hard as Lucan’s. “Teach me,” he whispered fiercely.
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