99th Trial, Vhalar, Arc 706
On the Road to Hiladrith
2nd break
On the Road to Hiladrith
2nd break
He'd survived thirty-three arcs in the worlds both above and under, and now he ran with the wolves on a moonless night.
It was the camp of those they were charged to doom that guided them. The flare of lamps and torches and campfires were but a smear of illumination in the endless black of the wilderness, but they sufficed for their task. Around him, sliding like snakes on their bellies or jackals in a low, careful squat, a multitude of men closed on that assemblage of tents and wagons and animals and slumbering men. They had soot rubbed onto their weapons and their clothes, anywhere light might catch it. Some of them had it dirtying up their faces, although Kasoria had declined.
His beard would be enough, he thought. That and he knew how to move quietly when he needed to, and oh, he did.
Because not all of them were slumbering, of course. This far from Etzos, or any city, with nothing resembling civilization to shield one from the pitiless ravagings of the world, people hunkered down for the night together, and never without eyes watching the darkness. Figures were stationed around the rim of the camp. Some stood still, other walked. A couple were drinking, to-and-fro movement of their hands from mouth to hips an obvious tell. But the one who was smoking... that was the one Kaoria had been assigned.
He lay in the mud, body bare save for his breeches, his shirt, and the scabbard of his gladius strapped to his chest. Nothing that could make noise, had been the orders for the men with his job. Even boots had been outlawed among them.
Kasoria didn't question the orders from the cadaverous man who led them. He expulsion from the Black Guard and immersion in the underground of Etzos was thirteen long arcs ago. The boy that had rode the southern road as a caravan guard was long dead; granted, the man in his place would still take such legitimate openings now and then, but the truth was, the underground paid for better.
Even if it did sometimes lead him to laying belly down in the cold Vhalar mud, wishing he had a hot cup of tea close to hand.
He'd slithered from the copse of trees the rest of them had been waiting in. All around, men with stony eyes to match their faces lowered themselves down, and started to crawl. Kasoria did the same: small as he was, few things passed under notice to well as being ankle-height. From the shrubs and trees, they'd started to move towards the camp site. Where dozens of people an animals and far riches from the merchants of Etzos were being transported to Hiladrith. The grand cycle of commerce, and they were here to smash the wheel to splinters.
The man he was to kill inhaled again from his pipe. The thing flared as another pinch of baccy was turned into a lungful of smoke. Kasoria crawled forward another few paces. Knees and elbows sliding, scraping through the mud and grass, making as little noise as he could. But the ground was moist, and that worked in his favor. Nothing worse than trying to sneak up on a man with everything around you dry and crackling.
Fifteen feet. Maybe more. Need to get closer.
It wasn't like the city. With streets and alleys and tunnels and all the close, choking, labyrinthine darkness of Etzos to stalk and hunt from. Out there, it was open ground as much as it was the natural nightmare of tangled woods. They'd spent the last three nights eating dried rations and burying their turds in hand-dug holes. Because Wulff wasn't stupid enough to attack the caravan head on, during the day, while it was moving.
Kasoria had nodded at that decision, when they'd all been gathered together and The Plan had been revealed. He'd been on the other side of one of those affairs. Even caravan guards had the advantage of being on the defense when it came to an outright assault, and who was to say that either Etzos or Hiladrith wouldn't have cavalry skulking around, waiting for just such an opportunity?
Hence the three days in these woods by the road. Watching for anyone watching them. Waiting for the caravan to come into view. Wulff using his experience and "sources" to guess where they would bed down that night. Kasoria had been there, watching from the treeline, one of several dozen hungry, predatory faces, observing the caravan slow from a lumbering serpent slithering down the road, to one curled up in its own coils, settled and protected for the night ahead.
A brief, blurred noise made him push himself lower into the ground. After a moment, e looked up to see another of the lookouts wave to his target. The man waved back, two of them communicating in some silent fashion. Eventually the whistler tossed some vulgar gesture at the smoker, and the man just shrugged and turned away.
Kasoria's teeth ground together. He was looking dead at him... well, dead above him, actually. But all it would take was for the man to look down, and frown hard enough at that patch of dark grass that seemed to have arms and legs and-
Another whistle. One that made the lookout frown, which told Kasoria a lot about the man. Because that was not a sound of a bird known to the wildlands. Etzos pigeons had their own distinct warble, mayhap born from hundreds of generations around humans and their endless oddities of civilization. The man looked around, curious as to where it came from, and he looked away from Kasoria-
-as the hidden man tensed his legs, knowing the counterfeit bird call was the signal-
-and as the still-smoking lookout turned to his friend, as if to ask a question-
-Kasoria rose to his feet, like a shade from the earth, reborn into flesh from an open grave-
-and a crossbow bolt slammed into the throat of the other lookout, who'd wanted some of that baccy.
"Sh-Shit!"
Cliff was dead and didn't know it. No matter what happened, he couldn't avoid the fact that the weave of his life had frayed to naught at that bit. But he still could have done his duty, in his last trills. He could have cried out and kept crying until all the air was stolen from his lungs, alerted the camp until his throat was filled with blood. Dead, yet still useful. But he didn't. Instead he went to draw his sword, after seeing Freddy take a bolt to the throat and then he-
-opened his mouth-
-but started to turn as well, because he was sure he'd heard something be-
SHUCKKKKK
Kasoria had been long enough at the game to know which ribs he needed to aim for. Or between, more accurately. The lookout turned his back and by the time Kasoria had gotten within striking distance, his whole world was the flat, featureless expanse of his torso. Because while he couldn't see under cloth and leather and armor, he could make an educated guess. Thanks to the right books, and a lot of practice.
So when Cliff opened his mouth, all that came out was a pained gasp, because there was a gladius jammed sideways through his heart.
Kasoria's other hand reached up and around and slapped across his mouth. He felt hot breath on his palm, a scream stifled even as the younger man sank to the ground. Immortal Blood, that could have been him, ten arcs back. Kasoria snarled and killed that useless thought. Yes, and maybe he could have tripped in his lunge, fell flat on his face, and the guard could have cut his fucking head off. Why waste time with the fucking Maybes?
He jerked the sword left and right and up and down, as much as the narrow space could allow. Cliff heaved in his grasp as he shredded chambers, pulped his valves, bit into his lungs as he tore his heart into pieces. From where he was, Kasoria could just about see his eyes. Shining in the firelight. Looking up into the clouds overhead, as if for deliverance.
Kasoria didn't look away. He just yanked the blade out with a twist, and hoped the boy died quick-
There was nothing but the fire in his eyes, now. The corporeal kind, reflected in a gaze that was seeing things far away, where his soul now resided. Kasoria carried the man down to the ground with him, remembering not to have the THUMP of a falling body raise any alarms. Around him, he could hear fresh and unusual sounds. Things like wood and metal, held and crafted by men, impacting into flesh and blood. Muted sounds that came from voices and throats just a tad too late to deploy them correctly.
Flashes, in the flickering light. Men who were standing suddenly wavering, vanishing. Gone. Fresh figures, skulking and squatted, replacing them in the ring around the sleeping caravan.
A burst of laughter from beyond the tents and wagons. Not all of it, apparently. Blissfully unaware and enjoying the novelty of so late a night. Kasoria acknowledged the... emotional aspect of such an activity. The camaraderie and enjoyment. Then he put the idea to one side, and vocused on the fact it meant a good chunk of their enemies were probably drunk. Which was no bad thing.
That whistle again. A bird that shouldn't be there. He knew what it meant, and there was a great but subtle rustling come from behind him.
The rest of the pack was getting into position. He wiped his gladius clean on the dead boy's shoulders, and readied himself for the kill.
No more sneaking. No more skulking. About bloody time.
