Darkness falls and sunlight fades

Tonight the stars come out to play.

Hillbank wasn't so much a town as a tiny hamlet. Its dozen or so buildings huddled in a narrow, sheltered dale between two round, grassy hills. The buildings were small and quaint, constructed of bluestone from the nearby Barlakk Mountains: a common building material in the area. But the most notable and beautiful feature of Hillbank's architecture came from its distinctly Sirinese influence: the steeply-pitched wooden roofs; the tall, sunken windows and highly decorative white architraves. Matching white, ornate fences bordered well-kept gardens outside every cottage.

Nestled snugly around the houses were sprawling oaks, golden ash, Sirinese maples and other deciduous trees which draped shawls of shadow and deep amber sunlight over the buildings.

The occasional trickle of chatter or laughter could be heard from the houses that lined the hamlet's single, dusty street, as farmers returned home from their fields and headed for the tavern to ease their stiff muscles with even stiffer drinks.

Over the little bridge leading into the hamlet stretched two long shadows, accompanied by the clear sound of footfalls on wooden planking. One set of footsteps slowed and stopped, while the other kept purposefully onwards.

Flint turned to see that Lord Requar had paused in the middle of the bridge, glancing into the dark stream below. The Bladeshifter muttered under his breath and started pacing restlessly as he waited, unable to decide whether he was annoyed or relieved at the delay. A peaceful lull had fallen over the countryside, filled with the glugging of frogs and the nearby creaking of a water mill.

"It's so peaceful here, " Requar remarked. Had Flint been listening, he would have noticed a slight tinge of regret in the sorcerer's voice.

Requar looked back the way they had come, at the setting sun streaming through the trees behind them. "It reminds me of my valley, before…." His voiced trailed into silence. After a moment, he shook his head, dismissing whatever thought he had been about to voice, and continued walking.

Flint's stomach was churning. He had reached the end of the road. Here they were in Hillbank, and Lord Requar was still alive...

"Which one is your sister's residence?" the sorcerer enquired as he caught up with Flint.

Flint looked up from chewing his thumbnail and pointed at a random house. "Over there. That one at the end." He had been expecting this question. Requar nodded, and started to move in the direction Flint had indicated.

"Wait!" Flint cried suddenly. He made as if to grab Requar's arm, then remembered who it was he was grabbing, and hastily retracted his hand. "I… uh… I mean…" he stammered as Requar turned to look at him.

"You're a…" he hesitated, glancing about to make certain no one was close enough to overhear, then continued in a lowered voice: "You're a sorcerer. My sister doesn't know you're coming. You walk in there and start wavin' magic around and you'll scare the livin' wits out of her!"

Requar stared at him for a long moment. "You're absolutely right," he said finally. "What would you like me to do?"

It was all Flint could do to keep from sagging with relief. For the first time since he had agreed to this mission, he felt as though he gained some real control over the course of events.

He took a slow, deep breath, hoping that Requar would assume his obvious anxiety stemmed from concern for his non-existent sister.

"I think I should go an' talk to her first," he replied carefully. "To… y'know, explain things…" He gestured at the nearby tavern. "You can stay at the tavern tonight, and I'll come an' fetch you in the morning. By then I'm sure she'll have had time to… uh, get used to the idea of meeting a sorcerer."

Requar nodded. "Agreed," he said. Then, to Flint's surprise, he gave a small smile and placed a hand on Flint's shoulder.

"There is no need to be anxious, Flint," he said. "I'll take care of her."

Flint forced a smile in response. He watched Requar turn and start across the street towards the tavern, while he himself began walking slowly down the road toward his supposed sister's house.

The moment he heard the tavern door close, however, he shot a hasty glance over his shoulder and bolted for a shadowed laneway between two cottages.

As soon as he was certain he was out of sight, he slumped against the wall, taking several deep breaths to steady himself.

Throughout the conversation with Requar, his heart had been beating so hard he was sure it was visible beneath his black leather jacket. This is it, he thought. The point of no return.

Tomorrow there would be no more chances. There could be no more excuses.

He had to complete this mission tonight.

As he looked at the sunset-gilded trees at the end of the lane, he was struck with an almost overwhelming desire to flee into their leafy depths, to keep on running until he had put several dozen miles between himself and the sorcerer.

But once again, all of his old doubts came crawling back to point out that running would achieve nothing. Both the sorcerer and Nightwalker would come after him, and one or the other would probably kill him.

Nightwalker didn't take too kindly to traitors and deserters. Requar might seem good-natured on the outside, but Flint had no idea what he would do if he found out someone had been sent to deceive and assassinate him.

He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, muttering bitterly. There was nothing else for it. He had no choice but to kill Requar. He tried to steel himself against this decision.

Just DO it, Flint, he told himself. Stop worrying about the consequences and do it! Shoot him, steal his sword and get the hell out of this place…

But before he could think about how he was to achieve this, he reminded himself that he had more immediate concerns. He cursed himself again for choosing Hillbank as a destination; it had only complicated matters further. The Bladeshifters had passed through here barely a fortnight ago. If one of the villagers happened to catch sight of him, there was sure to be a scene. News of the presence of a Bladeshifter would be all over the hamlet in thirty seconds, and he didn't need that kind of attention.

He needed to acquire some new clothes. If he didn't look like a Bladeshifter, there was a good chance no one would recognise him.

He unbuckled the Justifier and stared at it in the gloom, thinking hard. He needed somewhere to stash this, as well. Walking around with a gigantic crossbow on his back was a dead giveaway.

He walked to the far end of the lane and glanced cautiously to the left and right. A well-worn pathway ran along the backs of the houses. Beyond it was a thicket of trees which screened the hill from view. There was no one in sight.

Flint stepped out of the lane and turned right, walking quickly towards the rear of the tavern. The sun had disappeared below the horizon now, and night was gathering rapidly. A bright oblong of light spilled without warning across his path. Flint drew up just in time, his breath catching in his throat, but the light narrowed a moment later to a thin sliver as someone drew the curtains.

Glancing nervously at the window, Flint hurried on.

He passed a tiny stableyard and came to a walled courtyard which backed onto the tavern. An iron gate in desperate need of a new coat of paint provided entry from the path. Flint edged along the wall and peered through the gate into the courtyard. It was flooded with light from the tavern's windows. A stone path led up to a door, which was wide open. He caught glimpses of people bustling about, and heard a loud voice calling out instructions. The kitchen, Flint thought.

Turning back to the gate, he examined it as closely as he could while remaining hidden in the shadows. Flint suspected that it was probably not locked, but it was impossible to be certain without physically testing it. His eyes flicked once more to the open kitchen door.

Too risky.

With another quick glance over his shoulder, he moved swiftly across the path, up a short embankment and into the trees, being careful to stay out of the blaze of light from the tavern. Just as he'd hoped, the undergrowth beneath the trees was thick.

He shoved his crossbow beneath a bush, checked to see that it was well hidden, then pushed his way back out of the thicket and onto the path.

From there he began to retrace his steps, although more slowly this time, inspecting the tiny, walled backyards of the cottages as he went.

Unfortunately for Flint, there did not happen to be any convenient washing hanging out to dry in any of them. When he reached the end of the row, he darted across the street and checked the houses there as well: again, no success.

In the end, now thoroughly frustrated, he was forced to follow the road out of town for about a mile until he found a barn. To his luck, he found a pair of dusty breeches and a shirt on a hook within. They were too large for him, but Flint was grateful for this, as it meant he only had to remove his jacket and they slipped easily over his usual clothing.

The sky was speckled with glittering stars by the time he finally arrived back at the tavern, which went by the name Emoré's Rest.

The interior of the establishment was bigger than it looked from the outside, but cosy. A row of the distinctive narrow windows that gave the hamlet its charm ran along the right-hand wall, overlooking the river. The bluestone walls were hung with paintings depicting Hillbank and the surrounding countryside. Obviously, this place was popular with artists.

Smoke from the lanterns drifted up into the exposed blackwood beams of the ceiling. A few coals had been left glowing in the fireplace to take off the slight chill of the evening.

Flint quickly scanned the sea of heads as he entered. Brown hair, grey, some dusty-blond… no white. Lord Requar must have retired to his room.

Relaxing slightly, Flint made his way to the bar at the end of the room. Only a couple of people glanced at him as he passed, and soon returned to their drinks or conversations. A bald, round-faced barman was leaning on the counter, engaged in an animated conversation with two of his customers. Flint waited impatiently, casting uneasy glances at the staircase.

Finally, the barman broke off his conversation with a bellowing laugh and turned to Flint, still grinning. "What can I do for you, my good man?" he asked cheerily, slapping the counter with a thick hand.

"A room and a meal, if you don't mind," Flint replied, tossing a single gold gruble onto the bar. The barman picked up the gruble and held it up to the light, his thick eyebrows lifting. "I'll be damned," he said. "Don't see these much any more…"

"I'm travelling with a friend," Flint went on, ignoring him. "Tall guy? White hair? Expensive clothes?"

"Ahhh," the barman said, as though he suddenly understood something that had been bothering him. His smile widened. He bounced the coin on his hand before slipping it into a box beneath the counter. "You're with Lord Requar?"

He used his real name? Flint thought, astonished. "Right," he told the barman, flashing his friendliest smile. He leaned casually against the counter. "You, er… wouldn't be able to tell me what room he's staying in, by any chance?"

"That'd be number six," the barman replied, fetching Flint's room key and handing it over. His face turned suddenly thoughtful. "Odd bloke," he said. "Most of the nobs that come through 'ere want the best room in the house, no matter the cost. That Requar… he tossed down two grubles and said he'd take whatever I had. And he wouldn't drink naught but plain water, neither!"

The barman continued rambling for some time, pausing suddenly with an embarrassed laugh when he realised he had forgotten to ask Flint's name. Flint gave it as 'Tilfn Wodahsrats' and watched the innkeeper scribble it down in his ledger. If his nerves hadn't been buzzing so violently, Flint would have been hard pressed to resist a smirk.

Flint managed to navigate the barman's occasional difficult questions with shrugs and vague answers, but his reluctance to talk did not seem to worry the barman in the slightest, he was perfectly content instead to give Flint the history of his own town and a seemingly endless supply of gossip.

Flint gained a brief, yet welcome respite from the barrage of incessant chatter when the man departed to check on his meal, but unfortunately he returned all too soon and waffled all through Flint's dinner. Flint shovelled his food down as quickly as he could (which wasn't difficult after living on camp food for two days), and seized the opportunity to take his leave while the innkeeper was distracted with a newly arrived customer. He ascended the stairs unhurriedly, trying to memorise which steps creaked when he put his weight on them.

The noise from the crowded common room faded to a muffled murmur as he reached the landing. The tavern's upper storey was quiet and still. A long corridor stretched before him, dividing the upper floor in two. Lanterns spaced evenly along the walls gleamed dully off the wood-panelled walls. The floorboards had been scrubbed clean, but were not polished. The ceiling was high and dark, with exposed beams. A vase of fresh wildflowers stood on a wooden table beneath the far window, filling the corridor with a relaxing scent of lavender, though it did little to unknot Flint's taut muscles or dispel his dark thoughts.

He started walking casually down the corridor, again noting where the floorboards creaked. He wished his footsteps didn't sound so loud. His heart had begun hammering again, and an unpleasant, queasy feeling was rising in his stomach. Get a grip on yourself, Flint! he chided himself.

There was no way that Requar could know he was here; he had taken great care to approach the tavern inconspicuously, keeping close against the walls. The windows were deeply sunken; no one on the upper floor could have seen him enter unless they had opened a casement and leaned right out over the sill, and Flint would have noticed such an obvious action.

He reached the middle of the corridor, where two short hallways – one to the east and one to the west – intersected it. There were two doors set into the opposite walls of each one, all of them closed. He paused and checked his room key. Number two. His room was tucked in the north wall of the left-hand corridor. He glanced ahead. Number six, Requar's room, was in the main corridor, at the end.

Flint stared at the closed door. That was the room he would be entering later, when the night deepened.

Upon entering his own room, Flint quickly closed the door behind him, locked it, and strode at once to the window. His room looked out over the back courtyard of the tavern, which was still filled with light, but deserted. His eyes shifted to the dark cluster of trees where his Justifier lay hidden. He would need to wait until all the tavern's lights had been extinguished and its occupants had retired to bed before he ventured out to get it.

Flint drew the small curtain, leaving just enough of a gap to permit a dim ambient glow that allowed him to make out his surroundings and move around without tripping over. An oil lamp sat on a desk against one wall, but he left it deliberately unlit. With only a cursory glance at his room, he set immediately to work preparing himself for the task ahead, mainly to keep his mind occupied. Unslinging his knapsack, he tossed it onto the bed, pulled off his farming garments and began removing the weapons that had been concealed beneath.

As well as the Justifier, Flint carried a range of knives of various shapes and sizes hidden in various parts of his clothing. He removed them all carefully from their sheaths and set them somewhat regretfully on a nearby chair, but he could not afford to risk any hazardous clinking that might jeopardise his mission. Besides, he thought. If I have to resort to blades, I might as well dig my own grave right now and save the sorcerer the effort....

Once Flint had fully unarmed himself and removed all metallic objects from his clothing, he took one of the knives and cut the farmer's shirt into strips, binding them around his boots to muffle his footsteps. Having completed this to his satisfaction, he rose and checked the small brass clock on the bedside table. It was an hour before midnight. Still too early…

As he stood there in the gloom, staring at the clock in his hand and listening to its soft ticking, an oddly serene feeling came over him, as though someone had draped him with a blanket of finest silk. For a moment, his fear trickled away, his thoughts became focused and his stomach settled. He felt as though his fate had been taken out of his hands, that someone, some higher intelligence that he could never hope to understand, was guiding his actions.

He was going to shoot the sorcerer tonight, and whatever happened afterwards was up to Lady Fate to decide.

Midnight had been gone two hours and the moon was low in the northern sky when Starshadow Flint rose from the bed, checked the window and the clock one final time, and walked silently to the door. He unlocked it with a quiet click, then hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, looking over his shoulder at his possessions and wondering with an odd feeling of detachment if he would have time to come back for them. Or even if I'll still be alive to do so…

After a moment's pause he went back, picked up his hat and placed it on his head, pulling the brim down resolutely. Then he twisted the doorknob as quietly as he could and stepped out into the corridor.

The murmur from downstairs had ceased: Flint could hear nothing save an indistinct snoring sound from the room directly opposite him. All of the lanterns had been extinguished, leaving the corridors crowded with shadow; except for a single, almost abnormally bright shaft of moonlight that speared into the central hallway. It lay directly across his path, between him and Lord Requar's room like some kind of eerie, outstretched arm, as though the moon had learned his terrible secret and was determined to bar his way. Flint shuddered involuntarily. It reminded him too vividly of the white light that had spilled from the sorcerer's fingers on the day both their fates had been sealed, back in that tavern in Meadrun.

He left the door to his room open just a crack, in case he had to return suddenly. Then, with a deep breath and a silent prayer to the Gods, he began to ease his cloth-bound boots very slowly and carefully down the hallway.

His eyes flicked apprehensively at the other rooms as he passed, but no light glimmered beneath any of the doors. To his great relief, the floorboards did not protest too loudly at his passage. Reaching the central corridor and the edge of the moonlight, he peered cautiously around the corner, but it was empty. He purposefully avoided looking beyond the glow into the ominous darkness of Requar's corridor, instead concentrating his immediate attention on sneaking successfully out of the tavern and back in again without raising suspicion.

Flint's shadow stretched out before him like a wraith as he crept slowly towards the stairs, freezing every time one of his steps happened to be a little too heavy.

But no one stirred. No doors opened, no creak of footsteps could be heard. The occupants of the tavern remained deep in slumber.

Flint reached the notoriously cranky stairs, paused for a moment to let out the breath he had been holding, then started down. By some favour of the Gods, he managed to avoid the worst creaks. He paused frequently, his ears alert to the slightest sound, but only silence and his own pounding heartbeat answered.

The common room was pierced with hazy shafts of moonlight from the front windows, but was otherwise dark and deserted. Flint skirted the counter quickly and peered through the kitchen door, which had been left ajar.

No one there.

He slipped into the kitchen and moved quietly through the benches, heading for the back door. The kitchen was warm and still, filled with the heady aroma of freshly baked bread and wine. A dusky orange glow from the ovens along the far right-hand wall provided barely enough light to see by. Flint was just about to negotiate some sacks of flour when he almost jumped through the ceiling at a loud, grating noise from somewhere very close by. He let out a loud gasp and stumbled, but managed to catch his fall on the edge of a bench.

Breathing hard, his heart racing like a wild horse somewhere in the region of his throat, Flint looked around wildly for the source of the noise, but could see nothing but jumbles of unidentifiable black shapes. He looked at the bench to which he was clinging like a drowning man, and noticed with mingled horror and relief that his hand had landed half an inch from the bottom handle of a towering stack of empty saucepans. He swallowed thickly and listened intently, still trying to identify what had startled him.

The noise came once more and Flint jumped again, despite himself. It had come from somewhere near the floor…

He peered hard into the darkness, and after a minute or two his eyes made out the slim figure of a boy, slumped against the flour sacks with his legs sprawled out directly in Flint's path, fast asleep.

Flint let out a shaky breath and straightened, silently cursing himself for being so jumpy. Some assassin I am, he berated himself, scared out of my wits by a damn snoring kid…

He stepped carefully over the sleeping kitchen hand and arrived without further mishap at the back door. Beyond, the courtyard was blanketed in darkness. Though the sky was clear, the moon had sunk low in the sky, and the bulk of the tavern blocked out most of its light. Flint eased the door open and hurried down the path to the gate.

As he had hoped, it was not locked. He pulled it open tentatively, holding his breath, but to his surprise it swung soundlessly on its hinges: it had obviously been recently oiled. He darted through the gate, across the path and into the thicket of trees, squinting around in the darkness for the place where the Justifier lay concealed.

For one terrifying moment, he thought he'd forgotten where he'd left it. When he felt with his hands beneath the bush that he swore he'd hidden it under, it was not there. He straightened quickly, panic beginning to swell through him, then he took a step backwards and his foot became entangled in something that had too many hard edges to be naturally made.

He very nearly tripped again, only managing to stifle his curse at the last second. He picked up the Justifier, inspected it for damage and blessed a thousand times over the man who had invented safety catches.

Flint managed to make his way back through the kitchen, past the still-snoring kitchen boy and up the stairs again without incident. When he finally reached the corridor junction again, he paused with his back to the wall and took a moment to gather his thoughts.

A thin sheen of cold sweat glimmered on his skin, and he brushed it away from his face with his sleeve. The serene feeling that he had experienced earlier had regrettably disappeared, and his anxiety had returned with an unpleasant jolt. He licked dry lips and stared at the Justifier in his hands. The huge crossbow looked even more sinister than usual, etched in stark relief against the white moonlight. Flint knew that time was still ticking away somewhere, but to him it appeared to have frozen. He was about to assassinate a sorcerer. A paralysing uncertainty suddenly gripped his mind. What am I doing? Am I insane?

You're carrying out a mission, another, colder voice in his mind reasoned calmly. You're doing the world a favour by eliminating him. If you pull this off, you'll be rich. Remember that sword…?

Trying not to think about what would happen if he didn't pull this off, Flint tightened his grip on his crossbow, hardened his thoughts to uncrackable stone, and swung around the corner, the tip of the loaded bolt flashing momentarily with the movement.

Willing the floorboards to be silent, Flint began to stalk down the corridor towards the room at the end.