Ralnor

(Dar Eherdir)

Children of the Circle

Unseen,

the gore gradually fills up thine lungs, pools in the stomach

and seals thine gullet, if an internal wound is left to fester for too long.

It will sap at thine strength, drag thee down and eventually kill thee.

Such a wound might improve with time, however unlikely,

while also killing thee just the same, via asphyxiation.

Or it just might get septic and eradicate thee outright.

It is vital to patch thyself up, as fast as thee can, to evade all of the above.

Likewise, thy opponent shall act, so hint to these words young servant,

One can’t do this, when one has to flee an ambush…

While hunted.

Never allow thy mark the time, to patch up.

—

Saying attributed to Dar Nym,

Found in ‘Elas Study’,

Inside the Tower of Shadows,

On the Island of Nureria.

—

Circa 2100? Imperial Calendar (IC, First Era),

1106? BNC (Before New Calendar, Second Era)

Ralnor jumped inside a shadow at the base of the Barbican’s gates, burning through blood he couldn’t spare -seeing as he was leaking like a cracked faucet. He came out another, on top of the walls ending at the East Gates fortifications. Then rolled on the stone narrow parapet’s corridor, fresh blood in his mouth. He dashed forward, locking out the pain in his chest. A gasp and he veered left and reaching the internal lip jumped over it, another bolt grazing his neck.

He dropped, an insane twenty meters, through the hay roof of a stable and into a trough packed with rotten produce and animal feed. Ralnor coughed blood and rolled to the side and out of the feeder, covered in filth. The assassin reached the brick wall of the stable and smashed his left forearm on its sturdy surface, taking care to hit the bolt he’d stuck in it, dead center.

The wall pushed the bolt almost out of the torn flesh, blood spurting and spraying him in the face, but it did the job. Ralnor managed to pull it out completely, using his other hand. He sucked a deep breath in and quickly tied a tourniquet on it, using a discarded saddle’s leather strap.

Ralnor had dark spots appear in the periphery of his vision. Despite the need to tend to his most serious injury, he started moving again, when he heard someone landing on the roof of the stable. Making almost no noise.

Almost.

He climbed and jumped out of an open window nimbly, instead of using the stable’s large double doors, landed -as silent as his pursuer- in the alley running parallel to the oblong building and headed north, away from the main street.

Imperials, he thought, seeing the narrow alley ending in front of him. It led to a crossroads of sorts. To his right, it returned to the East Gates and to his left, or westwards, it headed towards the center of the burning city, or its smoking harbor.

Because the fires had reached this part as well.

Ralnor coughed violently, spraying blood out of his mouth, the bolt in his chest a couple of inches from his heart. Every time he moved, something got torn inside, hopefully not too valuable. All of the above were his feverish thoughts, as he ruminated whether to turn right, or left. A decision he’d already made in truth, the moment he stepped out of the stable’s window, but wasn’t sure on the number of opponents he’d have to face, once he entered the equally narrow alley.

The numbers were silent, his instinct suggested at least a couple.

Ralnor reached at his neck and released the clasp of his cloak, as he dashed the final meters before the turn and wrapped it twice on his injured hand.

Then he cut hard to the left, picking the city route and burst inside an alley filled with smoke, as the second building to his left was already burning. Ralnor went straight for the wall, under the small smoking street window, reached it in the blink of an eye and kicking his right foot out, used it to somersault the other way, with all the momentum he’d gathered.

The assassin stepped out of the shadows, small crossbow in hand, whiff of white hair under her hood and fired in less than a second, just as Ralnor performed his crazy acrobatics. Dar Laebae missed -being a moment too late- her bolt punching the brick wall and dropping her crossbow, reached under her cloak, got two throwing knifes out and hurled them both, towards the crashing on the opposite wall Ralnor, in one well-trained fluid move.

Aiming at the spot where Dar Eherdir landed.

Ralnor cursed and flinched panicky, half-turning his shoulder to react, all an act, as his raised left arm -wrapped in his cloak- blocked both knives from landing on his face. He rolled towards her next, his scimitar in hand, but Dar Laebae, born Yllir -though everyone was calling her Yll, when she was little- just jumped inside a new shadow, burning through her incense with wild abandon.

Well stocked, privileged Imperial cunt, Ralnor cursed and run as fast as he could down the smoking alley, not willing to fight it out with her, while injured. Not with her friend, hot on his trail.

Since Dar Laebae is here, he thought grinding his gnarly teeth, every new long stride a torture, then Dar Minue Mol is close by as well.

Why attack me in the open though? Ralnor wondered next, the alley engulfed in an inferno in front of him. Although he could guess the answer to that. It was for the same reason Reeves had taken the time he didn’t have, to retrieve that box.

There was reason after all, to the young man’s madness.

It’d given Ralnor a chance to get away.

Drawn the third assassin away from him.

And perhaps it was the same reason, Lithoniela was so protective of young Reeves.

Did she know, from the start?

Who else was in on it?

Was this Nym’s plan all along? Are you still alive old master? Ralnor always believed, the driving force behind the Circle coming after him –what remained of it anyway- had everything to do with the sorceress. Could he be wrong after all? The assassin wondered now.

His instinct said no.

This had to be a fluke.

Some god meddling with his business.

But the numbers, were jumbled.

A disjointed mess.

Ralnor entered the abandoned harbor, almost an hour later, the fires ranging everywhere and reached the torn down barricade, just as the last Cofols were leaving. He stopped behind a burning building and tried to rip the bolt out, almost blacking out in the process. Mezera was keeping an eye on Lithoniela, a laughable assignment, as the Elderborn could get away from her at will and he could use her help now.

Probably went to see Aelrindel already, he guessed thinking of Lithoniela, angry he wasn’t there for their meeting. With the gods set firmly against him, the two females could end up killing each other out of spite and ruin any chance their race had, of getting back in the game.

It would be a very disappointing outcome, he decided.

A sorceress.

A royal brood.

And a Wyvern’s egg.

The numbers held no answer.

Grabbing the end part of the nasty bolt sticking out of his chest, he shoved it with dogged purpose further in, until he felt the steel tip tearing at the flesh under his left shoulder, from the inside. Ralnor kept pushing grinding his teeth, the pain otherworldly, but paling in front of his resolve, each moment lasting forever, until finally it burst out and Ralnor wailed like an aggrieved direwolf. He legs gave underneath him and the assassin collapsed on them barely conscious.

If you faint right now, you’re dead, Ralnor reminded himself calmly, but his attempt at getting up failed. A small boy watching his agony, sitting right across from him, under a heap of smashed bricks -in what was a partially destroyed square, in front of the ruined harbor gates- stopped crying and opened his mouth aghast.

Ralnor had missed him completely.

He’d dirty shot-cut hair, probably black. A pair of dark-green eyes, over a filthy face and wore a plain old tunic, with no shoes. A street urchin, trapped inside a dying city.

Ralnor coughed up more blood, found the steel tip of the bolt poking under his shoulder blade and broke it. He could only breathe in small hurtful intakes, as much liquid coming down, as air.

“Come here,” He rasped and the boy looked at him alarmed.

“Why?” The boy asked in common.

“I need you to get something out of me,” Ralnor explained, realizing he was running out of time.

“I’m not strong enough,” The boy said, but got up to approach him.

“Just hold it. Use your tunic to get a firm grasp. I will do the rest,” Ralnor explained and getting up, turned his back to the youth. He can’t be more than ten. If he was to die from such a paltry opponent, so be it, Ralnor thought.

He felt him touching the broken tip of the bolt.

“What’s your name boy?” Ralnor asked, breathing heavy.

“Tot,” The boy replied.

“Is that short for Toutatis?” He probed and clenched his teeth, when Tot pulled lightly at the shaft to test it.

“Aye, it is,” Tot replied. “Hey, I got it.”

“Good,” Ralnor growled and placing his right hand on the small part coming out of his chest, stooped suddenly forward, letting the boy’s weight wrench it out of him.

Three large lightstones, placed inside the rotating bronze cones, hang from the ceiling and created a circle of light on the black marble floor, ever moving and constant, shattering the darkness.

Dar Nym, white robes over lacquered, black scaled armor, face hidden behind the faceless mask and indigo eyes dispassionate, waved for him to step into the circle and leave his offering.

Ralnor stared into those bottomless eyes for a moment, trying to memorize them and then stepped through the light barrier and reached for the blunted blade, his master had left on the black marble altar, located right at the center. You couldn’t see it sprouting out of the matching floor and surrounding walls, without the circle’s guidance.

“Make your offering, Dar Eherdir,” Nym rustled in a neutral voice that split into a thousand whispers repeating the same words, sometimes clearly female, others that of a male, ending with a child’s chuckle. Dar Nym was holding a long blade now. The fingers elongated and graceful. Unadorned. Deadly. “Let Oras decide, if you’re worthy.”

With that the lights faded out.

“Hey mister,” A boy asked. “Are ye alive?”

Ralnor snapped his ashen eyes open and groaned loudly, the pain in his chest returning immediately, his light leather armor soaked in his blood. He twisted around, the dark confusing, until his eyes got used to it and the night gradually lit up, in a light grey hue.

“How long was I out?” He hissed and Tot squinted his eyes, trying to see him moving about in the pitch black. The fire had moved on, burning several blocks away now and it had left a mangled, murky pile of debris behind. Everything still smoking and the air pregnant with putrid fumes. Rida smelled of burned wood, charred stones, bricks and cooked flesh.

Somewhere near.

Ralnor licked his lips, tasting bitter blood and soot.

“Hours,” Tot replied and approached, dragging his feet on the charred floor, of what was once a large two story building. Ralnor stared at the sky above their heads, the smokes hiding it, as if clouds had gathered, but no rain was forthcoming. “Had to drag you out of the street,” Tot glanced his way curious. “I thought ye died.”

Ralnor could feel the wound, right through him. He needed to heal fast. The damage would repair itself in time, but he probably didn’t have any time all.

“Two men came through the square,” Tot recalled with a grimace on his young face. “Dressed funny, like you. Looked about, stopped where you bled a lot and found your cloak, but the fire raged at the time and they had to retreat.”

Not men. One of them was female.

Neither one a human.

“How long ago?”

“Before sunset,” Tot replied readily, starved dirty face, too serious for his age.

Ralnor stared at him with interest.

“You need shoes,” He told him. “And to look about for a horse.”

The latter was for him.

“There’s one across the square,” Tot replied. “The Cofol riding him fell and died earlier. The horse stayed, until the fire reached that spot. Got scorched badly on the side, it won’t let me near.”

Ralnor walked slowly out of the destroyed building and checked at the empty smoking ruins of the square, the smashed harbor gates an unrecognizable pile of debris at the far end of it.

“You dragged me, all this distance?” He asked Tot, nigh impressed.

“Aye, yer not as heavy, as you look,” The young child replied.

Hmm.

“Why not rob me?”

“I took a knife,” Tot replied, without shame. “And a biscuit.”

Ralnor checked to see what was missing, on the twin belts cross-running over his armor and snorted. Got a straight thin dagger out of its sheath, the steel blade on it half-a-finger longer than his hand and offered it to a frowning Tot.

“Take this and give me my throwing knife back,” He told him. “You need less skill to use it,” They made the trade and Ralnor, having spotted the horse and the corpse right next to it, added with a rasp. “I’m going to get a ride.”

And hopefully a nicely done bite.

“Where to?” Tot asked, assuming he was coming along.

Ralnor paused to consider it.

The kid was holding the large dagger in his right hand, the blade reaching his exposed dirty knees. It was a strange image this.

“I need to find my pupil,” He finally said, a little uncomfortable at the small talk and surprised with himself for allowing it.

Bah, you owe a life to the boy.

“What manner of teacher are ye?” Tot asked him unfazed, talking as a grown up and twice as curious. Perhaps unsurprisingly. Street urchins do grow up faster, he thought.

Annoying little buggers.

Ralnor was once like that.

Perhaps that was the reason.

“Let’s make a deal, Toutatis,” Ralnor said, grimacing at the sudden returning ache. “Do not breathe another word and when I find her, I shall tell you.”

Mezera raised a thin brow seeing the kid riding behind him and then her face fell, spotting the bloody clothes and armor. She realized Ralnor was seriously injured, despite his attempt to mask it. Ralnor stopped her from raising a ruckus, inside the quiet Cofol warcamp. The siege under the Duke’s Palace walls was still raging, but there were a lot of ears about, despite the stillness of the place.

Or there should have been a lot of ears.

In fact, it was as if everyone, but the guards at the gate, were soundly asleep.

“Where is she?” He asked her, too tired to hide the worry in his voice.

“With the Prince’s wife,” Mezera replied, eyeing Tot suspiciously. “Not in her tent though. They commandeered his. I’ve no idea how they pulled that off.”

Ralnor knew how. There was nothing alive around their camp. No bugs, no birds, or predators. Aelrindel, instead of keeping a low profile, had doubled down on using her spells.

“Where’s the Prince now?” Ralnor hissed, bothered at the detail. It was sacrilegious having a human copulating with an Elderblood.

“He’s playing the general,” Mezera replied wryly and pointed a hand towards the massive pyramid, clearly visible over the walls of the burning city.

“Feed Toutatis,” Ralnor growled, his chest contracting painfully, every time he tried to draw breath. While the assassin had attempted not to earlier, or just bring his breathing down to a bare minimum, he’d failed spectacularly.

The guard standing outside the enormous military tent, stared passively at the beyond and didn’t even see the injured assassin hobble past him. Walking uneasily inside, Ralnor moved through a spacious corridor, the walls depicting scenes of Prince Sahand’s early-life adventures and pushed aside the soft linen coverings to reach the map room, now empty and badly lit, as most of the oil lamps were gone, but for the two on each side of the opening. He sighed wearily and stared at the gleaming wall leading to the Prince’s expansive private quarters.

He approached the cut door, barred with a dark silk sheet, the rich carpet soft under his dirty boots and paused hearing birds chirping and a woman’s chuckle. The sound of water behind it, running freely on rocks another shock, followed by the heavy smell of burning incense. All kinds of it.

Ralnor pushed the divider aside and entered the six by six room, the carpet underneath his feet, now turning even more luscious, the firepits burning bright and the air heady, the females laid side by side, their bodies reversed and facing each other, knees raised to support the others head, lavish cobalt hair spilling over naked skin and their faces beaming as their songs intertwined, long graceful ears stretched back, totally overcome with bliss.

Because this was sheer delight, pouring out of both of them. Ralnor, a stoic realist, felt himself drawn to their beauty, his need bursting out of his pores in waves unwittingly, until he recoiled catching himself and managed to shut all emotions down, the effort opening up his wound again.

Aelrindel and Lithoniela, their famed bloodlines reaching all the way back to the start of the first era, turned their deific faces his way, the fake birds dissolving into thin air, the grass like carpet and the waterfall behind them, turning again into the Prince’s tent and linen walls, the sorceress’ illusion breaking apart, in a rather dramatic fashion.

A calculated act of pettiness, a groaning and doubled over Ralnor, realized.

She’d never done this for him.

“Ralnor is here. He brought the city with him,” Aelrindel taunted, with a naughty smirk and Lithoniela, all flushed up and rejuvenated, raised a regal cobalt eyebrow at the old quip at first, but slowly her expression sobered up.

“He’s injured,” She noted simply.

“What happened?” The sorceress asked him calmly, her eyes livid, behind that façade of tranquility.

“We need to talk,” Ralnor hissed, feeling his bleeding wound with a hand. He was irritated with them both, mainly for enjoying themselves, while he’d almost gotten himself killed.

“Something happened to Reeves?” Aelrindel demanded, getting up unbothered by her nudity. Lithoniela stood up herself, her body not as mature, but as unblemished. Ralnor would have been happy at the rare treat, a couple of hundred years in the past. Even pressed for something more. Unfortunately at this moment, he couldn’t allow himself any kind of reward for his longtime services.

“Reeves escaped,” Ralnor hissed and Lithoniela stepped forward alarmed.

“Is that Glen?” The daughter of Baltoris sang, livening up again and Ralnor wanted to fuck and cut her throat at the same time.

“Imperial Assassins are inside Rida, Aelrindel,” Ralnor spat and stumbled back, as he’d managed to completely deplete his strength, in the time it took him to return to the camp. The sorceress face paled immediately at his words, a stark contrast to Lithoniela’s faraway expression. Ralnor found a stool and collapsed on it, breathing heavy for a long moment. Then he felt Aelrindel’s soft -and perfectly clean- hand touching his sweaty and smeared forehead, long fingers traveling upwards tenderly, over his bald head and the grotesque ruined ears. Her other hand touched the tear on his armour, until she found the wound underneath, with a pointy finger.

“What else?” The Sorceress whispered and Ralnor saw a snake slithering its way inside the tent and coming to coil around her naked legs. The viper hissed raising its horned head and then froze and died. The burning inside Ralnor’s chest turning to a soaring fire, then a blinding light, his flesh melting away, only to be rebuilt again in an instant and his desperate groans of agony, turning into a single cry of pure undulated delight.

“I think, Dar Nym survived,” Ralnor had told her, before he collapsed in her arms.

As the old assassin had predicted years back, the Hunters had caught up with them.