The Assassin's Tale by Jonathan Moeller Read Free Book Online

lifted his spear. “What is your name?”
    “My name,” said Ridmark, “is Ridmark Arban.”
    The men-at-arms looked at each other, and Ridmark rebuked himself. Coming here had been foolish. Better to have purchased supplies from the outlying farms or a smaller village, rather than coming to Dun Licinia. 
    But he had not expected the town to grow so large. 
    “Ridmark Arban,” said the older man-at-arms. He looked at one of the other men. “You. Go to the castle, and find Sir Joram.” One of the men ran off, chain mail flashing in the sunlight. 
    “Are you arresting me?” said Ridmark. Perhaps it would be better to simply leave.
    The first man opened his mouth again, closed it.
    “You think he made the friar disappear?” said the younger man, the one who had mentioned his mother. “But he’s the Gray Knight! They…”
    “The Gray Knight is a legend,” said the first man, “and you, Sir…” He scowled and started over. “And you, Ridmark Arban, should speak with Sir Joram. That is that.”
    “So be it,” said Ridmark.
    A dark thought flitted across his mind. If he attacked them, he might well overpower them. Their comrades would pursue him. Perhaps they would kill him.
    And he could rest at last…
    Ridmark shook off the notion and waited. 
    A short time later two men approached and spoke in low voices to the first man-at-arms. 
    “You will accompany us,” he said.
    Ridmark nodded and walked through the gates of Dun Licinia, the men-at-arms escorting him. 
     
    ###
     
    Calliande opened her eyes. 
    She saw nothing but utter blackness, felt nothing but the cold stone beneath her back, its chill soaking through her robes. She took a deep breath, her throat and tongue dry and rough. Something soft and clinging covered her face and throat, and she tried to pull it off. But her shaking hands would not obey, and only after five tries did she reach her face, her fingers brushing her cheek and jaw.
    She could not see anything in the blackness, but she recognized the feeling of the delicate threads she plucked from her face.
    Cobwebs. She was pulling cobwebs from her jaw.
    A wave of terrible exhaustion went through her, and a deeper darkness swallowed Calliande.
     
    ###
     
    Dreams danced across her mind like foam driven across a raging sea.
    She saw herself arguing with men in white robes, their voices raised in anger, their faces blurring into mist whenever she tried to look at them. 
    A great battle, tens of thousands of armored men striving against a massive horde of blue-skinned orcs, great half-human, half-spider devils on their flanks, packs of beastmen savaging the knights in their armor. Tall, gaunt figures in pale armor led the horde, their eyes burning with blue flame, glittering swords in their hands. 
    The sight of them filled her with terror, with certainty that they would devour the world. 
    “It is the only way,” she heard herself tell the men in white robes, their faces dissolving into mist as she tried to remember their names. “This is the only way. I have to do this. Otherwise it will be forgotten, and it will all happen again. And we might not be able to stop him next time.”
    She heard the distant sound of dry, mocking laughter.
    A thunderous noise filled her ears, the sound of a slab of stone slamming over the entrance to a tomb. 
    “It is the only way,” Calliande told the men in white robes.
    “Is it?”
    A shadow stood in their midst, long and dark and cold, utterly cold.
    “You,” whispered Calliande. 
    “Little girl,” whispered the shadow. “Little child, presuming to wield power you cannot understand. I am older than you. I am older than this world. I made the high elves dance long before your pathetic kindred ever crawled across the hills.” The shadow drew closer, devouring the men in the white robes. “You don’t know who I truly am. For if you did…you would run. You would run screaming. Or you would fall on your knees and worship me.”
    “No,”