Introduction

The fire crackled noisily as T'chall stirred the embers. He stared at the bubbling pot suspended above the flames, his belly eagerly anticipating the coming meal. The smell of the venison stew was strong and filled his senses, but years of training allowed him to also note most everything else that existed around him. Though the night was dark, and the campfire his only source of light, he could see his partner, Riandr sitting motionless next to him, her eyes never leaving the flames. The mage Fil sat across the fire from them, rummaging noisily through his sack. T'chall could sense the mage's frustration and growing unease. Myllian, a warrior of some renown, sat slightly away from the fire, silent in the dark but for the sound the whetstone made as she ran it across the blade of her impressive Dwarven axe. The sound was at once musical and invigorating. The smell of sharpened steel caused T'chall's blood to heat. Was there anything more stimulating than a well honed blade? The silent thrust? Watching a mark's blood spill from his body in a warm crimson stream? T'chall poked at the fire again, trying to control his growing bloodlust. Tonight there would be a kill and T'chall would gain the Nightmother's favor.

Riandr held her breath for a moment, so slight a change that neither of their companions noticed, but T'chall knew what it meant. Their mark drew near. He searched the camp for movement while casually stirring the fire. He could sense nothing. However he knew well enough not to doubt Riandr's senses. She had an uncanny ability to sense a mark almost before they had become a target. He continued to poke at the fire, angry with himself for his lingering concern. The scene he had created was perfect. Unassuming travelers, sharing a repast on a warm summer evening, it was flawless. Still, this mark had somehow detected and killed three of their finest assassins. No meager feat. And though his heart thrilled at his fellow assassin's journey into the arms of Sithis, he could not help but wonder if they had been ready for that glory.

Perhaps it was the addition of the mage and warrior that bothered him. They were Riandr's idea. He couldn't argue with her logic. As the mark had so easily seen through the first three single assassins, perhaps a group of travelers, treasure seekers, readying to plunder a nearby tomb would allay suspicion. An offer of a warm meal, a safe bedroll, might be just what was needed to lull the mark into letting his guard down. That moment, that fraction of a second was all T'chall would need.

A quiet rustling in the woods to his right caught his attention; his response was that of inquisitive though cautious traveler, his tone pure Argonian charm. "Hello? Someone there?"

He could sense the others turn in the direction of the noise, and the halting of Myllian's whetstone. It took a moment before someone stepped into view. It was a woman, she stood no taller than his shoulders, her hair was golden and glowed in the fire light. She was dressed in the light blue raiment's of a healer and she carried an intricately carved staff that held a clear stone at its apex.

When she spoke her voice reminded him of warm honey. "Hello. I hope I am not disturbing you?"

It took all of T'chall's training to stem his excitement. This girl was nothing, a slip of a thing! He could fulfill this contract and return to the Sanctuary by morning and this contract, this kill, would cement his authority in the Brotherhood. He might even bring about the return of order to the Dark Brotherhood. Perhaps the Nightmother would find him worthy, would speak to him and make him Listener. The first Listener in a decade! His hunger for the mark was so strong he tightened his grip on the firepoker until a sharp metal braid dug into his thick, scaled skin, causing blood to drip from his hand. It sizzled as it hit the stones surrounding the fire. He took a deep breath, the sharp pain in his hand calming him. The others glanced at him; their expressions vacant, waiting. This was his mark, so they waited for him to respond.

"Disturbing us? Of course not." T'chall's grin was welcoming. As an Argonian, a man of green scaled skin, yellow eyes and large razor sharp teeth set in an elongated snout, he had quickly learned to use his voice to convey warmth and sincerity. It helped dispel the fear the other races often exhibited at the sight of an Argonian's visage. At the moment, he oozed charmed. "Please join us! We have plenty of room by the fire, the stew is ready. We'd love some company. I'm afraid we've grown quite tired of each other. A fresh face would be welcome indeed."

"You are too kind." The young woman stepped closer to the fire. "We have been traveling a long time. A bowl of stew and a lively conversation would be a welcome respite."

For the first time since he and Riandr had left the Sanctuary T'chall felt the cold hand of doubt touch his heart. "We?"

The girl favored him with a breathtaking smile. "Oh yes. My traveling companion…" she glanced behind her and motioned toward the darkness. "Camber. Come out. We're here."

A young man of about eight years stepped from the darkness into the firelight. He and the woman had the same golden hair and bright blue eyes, but where she was pale, his skin held a dark tinge, almost as if he had spent his life in the wild sunlit land of Elsweyr.

The young woman placed her hand on top of the boy's head, ruffling his hair, grinning at him. She glanced back at the campfire, "This is my son, Camber. I am Gian."

The mage stood and bowed his head. "Fil, my lady. A mage of some distinction, at your service."

"Myllian," the warrior nodded to the newcomer and her son. "Warrior and Champion of Talos."

Gian nodded her head in their direction. "Honored to meet you both, fellow travelers."

T'chall stood motionless for a moment. The contract was for one mark. One mark to arrive at this destination, at this hour. Yet two stood before him. Had something happened during the sacrament? Was his information about the mark, false? T'chall quickly squelched his blasphemous thoughts. All was as it should be; all was as it was meant to be. 'In any case,' he thought, 'two are as easy to kill as one.' He bowed his head toward the woman and her son. "I am, T'chall. Adventurer and occasional bard. At your service, my lady."

Riandr moved for the first time that evening, slowly turning her head toward the newcomers, she stared at the young man before them. "Riandr," was all she said.

The boy returned her gaze, his eyes absorbing every inch of her. His response was simple, "Camber." Riandr gave the briefest of nods, and then returned her attention to the fire.

Gian and Camber stepped into the fire's light and gestured to the others to retake their seats. "It is certainly kind of you to share your meal and fire with us. We've been traveling for sometime and not met with another soul! Plenty of saber cats and trolls mind you. But few people." Gian's voice covered them in sweetness and warmth.

T'chall could see Fil beginning to lean toward the young woman like a flower leans into the sun. Stupid man. Bewitching as the wench was she would be dead in a few hours. His plan was simple enough. Offer them a warm meal, safe haven for the night. Kill them in their sleep. Riandr had made the stew with enough sleeping draught that they would rest until Morndas if he let them. Riandr had mixed the antidote to the draught and distributed it to everyone. They had taken it before the pairs arrival, thus the stew would have no affect on them. Riandr was a decent alchemist and a talented enchanter. Her only drawback was this recent penchant towards moody silence. They had worked a hundred jobs together. Protected each other, helped each other rise in the ranks of the Brotherhood. He considered her as close to a friend as he would ever have, considering his vocation.

'Of course,' he had to admit to himself, 'if the contract was right, I would, with some regret, take her life.' He knew this would not make him popular in the Brotherhood, but if it increased his standing with the Nightmother, he would gladly suffer the consequences.

Riandr rose and began to ladle stew for everyone. The sound of Gian's gentle babble filled the night air. As he took the bowl from Riandr and began to dig in, he allowed the woman's voice to wash over him. After all, she would be dead soon, he might as well let her enjoy her final hours.

The venison stew was so tasty T'chall was tempted to lick the bottom of his bowl. 'Must be a product of my hunger,' he thought, 'for both the stew and the kill.' He could feel his blood rushing as the minutes ticked by. Soon they would feel sleepy; want to curl up on their bedrolls. Two quick knife thrusts as they slept and the contract would be fulfilled and the position of Listener almost guaranteed. He tried not to yawn. The young woman's voice was so soothing, almost hypnotic. He was having trouble making out the words, there was only the calming rhythm working its way into his mind.

Whether it was his training or a cry from his subconscious he couldn't say, but he began to feel unsettled, almost nervous. His mind was screaming at him to stand, move about, to fight the drowsiness that threatened to overwhelm him and wake up, be ready for the kill. He went to lean forward, place the bowl on the stones at his feet, and realized with a blinding suddenness that he could not move. He felt the bowl drop from his stiffened fingers and heard it land with a clatter against the stones. Though he could not move his head, or adjust his gaze, he could see Riandr reach down, pick up the bowl, and place it on the fire. She turned to him with an expression on her face he could not quite place. He tried again to move, to stand and found he could not. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he focus? Was it the stew? Had his antidote failed him? 'Damn it!' his thoughts whirled around in his head like a swarm of insects. He had to let Riandr know, had to tell her he needed more antidote. He tried to speak, but could not make a sound. Tried to gesture, nod, blink, anything to get her attention. Not a muscle responded. It was as if he were made of stone.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Riandr glance at the boy. The boy nodded and then Riandr turned towards him. He could tell the woman had stopped speaking; the absence of her voice was like a splash of ice cold water in his face. Though he could not move his eyes to glance around him, the familiar crawling sensation on his skin clearly told him all eyes were fixed on him.

Riandr moved to stand directly in front of him, her face lowered, her assassin's hood hiding her expression. "I know you can hear me, T'chall. It has been good to kill beside you, brother. May you walk in shadow with Sithis."

T'chall could not move, could not cry out, but he felt the blade as it slide between his ribs. Felt it as it struck his heart, tearing the flesh and muscle, allowing the crimson river to flow. At that moment, when he could feel his life's blood rushing like a treacherous army from his body, leaving him cold and lifeless, Riandr moved her gaze from the ground to his and he saw it. That expression. That look. The look he had given hundreds of victims. A combination of sadness, accusation and victory. The look he had never expected to see on his fellow assassin's face. As his body shut down, and his life ended he had one final thought, 'I am not ready…'