x.

Chapter VII

In the Giant's Shadow

Slar stared at the wall in abject bitterness. He had expected the empty feeling he had from last night to be somewhat filled by satisfaction at this point. However, there was nothing, just emptiness, and Slar's bitterness over it. He had fired several bolts into the bull's eye on the wall, but had now used them all and didn't bother to get up from his seat to wrestle them loose. He briefly glanced at the mark on his hand before looking back at the wall, trying to find that one solitary bit of stone in the wall that he had been staring at for the last half hour,

"How was your midnight encounter, Slar?" a voice came from the desk, outside of his field of view,

"You know damn well how it went down," Slar said, not bothering to turn his head,

"Yes, and it seems like you are not entirely satisfied with the result," the Outsider said with some twisted amusement in his voice, "How long was it since? Thirteen years? Fifteen? How the time flies," Slar felt the anger boiling in him, he was ready to snap the black-eyed bastard neck if it would have had any effect,

"Is this what justice feels like?" Slar calmed himself and turned to the Outsider. He was sitting as nonchalantly as ever, like a nobleman sitting in the galleries watching a theater play. He rose from his seat, levitating above the ground; Slar was starting to get sick of the Outsiders show off gimmicks,

"Let's find out," the Outsider said deviously with a smirk on his lips. The entire room was engulfed by darkness. Slar lost his footing to the ground; it felt like he was falling. He fell down into the abyss, not knowing whether he was going to live or die. Then eventually, he hit the ground. Not hard, something soft braked his fall. After collecting himself, he made the discovery that he had fallen into something very familiar to him, snow. He could feel how the snow turned into ice-cold water in his hand, and the staggering cold from the it forcing its way over his collar and onto his neck. As he rose from the snow, he felt the familiar bitter blasts of wind tearing at his clothes. He also made the discovery that he wasn't wearing his usual clothing; no, instead of his black cloak he was wearing a thick grey coat. On his head, he was wearing black bear fur hat with a thick scarf rolled around from the top of his head to his chin for warmth. It was his army uniform from the old days.

"Familiar?" Slar looked up to see the snide face of the Outsider. He was wearing the same clothing as him. A cold blast of wind tore at his body and Slar found himself grasping his collar to shield his neck,

"Why did you bring me here?" Slar said over the howling wind,

"You said you wanted to feel what justice felt like… well let's see," The Outsider stretched his hand invitingly towards the ridgeline in front of them, coaxing Slar to come with him. Slar grudgingly took the bait and walked past the Outsider, up towards the top. The wind blew big masses of snow into his face and Slar raised his hand and turned his head downward to shield his face.

"What will we see at the top?" Slar shouted over the wind,

"I think you already know," the Outsider shouted calmly back at him. Slar raised his head as they neared the top and saw a tattered crimson flag wave defiantly in the wind. Its cloth had been bereft by ice and snow, making it almost more white than red. Its edges was tattered not only from the wear and tear of the inhospitable environment, but also from bullet holes. It was an image burned into his mind years ago; he had sarcastically thought to himself on several occasions that he could probably paint a true to life painting of the scene only from memory. At the sight of the dreaded flag, Slar feared what he might see over the top of the ridge.

The Outsider had passed him, and continued upwards. He looked down at Slar, as if to say, "Come on" but just stared at him for a moment before turning back. Slar unwillingly continued after. It was as if his legs had grown a mind of their own and continued forward despite his hesitance of continuing. The Outsider reached the top first and gazed out into the horizon while waiting for Slar. When Slar finally reached the top, he was almost unwilling to look up, but forced himself to see what he already knew. Slar's heart sank as he stared out across the horrible spectacle of war.

The thickly covered bodies of the dead covered the entire snowy tundra. There was hundreds of them, perhaps thousands of them lying lifeless in the snow. The blood streaming out of them was absorbed into it, making the entire field blood red. Soldiers dressed in thick red uniforms were a minority among the dead. Most of them were wearing thick gray coats like himself, his comrades. A procession of redcoats led by two officers marched across the tundra, surveying the bloody battlefield. Even at the extreme range, Slar could clearly see the face of General Braddock. The procession stopped and Braddock got down from his horse. He approached a wounded graycoat twitching and moaning on the ground. Braddock knelt down besides the soldier, who raised a hand towards the Gristilian general, begging for help. Braddock stretched his hand backwards, towards the officer who had dismounted next to him. The officer gave him a dagger that the Mad Dog promptly showed it into the young graycoat's neck.

Slar lowered his head. He clenched his fists in anger; ready to charge down the hill and strangle the General with his own bootlaces. Slar's mind fluctuated between several ways of killing the Mad Dog, one more brutal and painful than the other, as the howling wind ceased,

"Does it feel like justice yet?" The Outsider muttered. Slar raised his head to face the ancient entity, but found himself back in his room at Breitihùnas Castle, alone. The fireplace was still crackling, giving the room a pleasant calm, warming Slar from the brutal winter of his homeland. Slar closed his eyes and breathed deeply, before unclenching his fists and exhaling. Slar laid his forehead to rest in the bridge between his thumb and right index finger, contemplating on the event that had just unfolded before him. In the end, he drew a small sliver of satisfaction from Braddock's demise; he only wished he had suffered more.

At that instance, a knock came on his door. Slar turned around noting an awkward familiarity with the night before, "Yes," he said loudly so the person on the other side could hear him. The same aide from last night poked his head in the door, and opened his mouth to speak, "The Prince wants to see me?" Slar cut him off before he could say anything. The dumbfounded aide was stuck trying to formulate a response, several times raising and lowering his finger, backtracking before he could speak, "Just tell him I'll be there shortly," Slar said while stroking his face with the palm of his hand,

"Yes Sir," the aide said before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. Slar quietly chuckled to himself; taking a meagre measure of amusement from the aide's blunder. He looked over at the clock over the fireplace to check the time. Half past noon, at least the Prince wasn't sending him out on a night assassination right away. Slar picked up his coat from the stand, threw it over his shoulder and left the room.

There was a great commotion in the hallway; soldiers were lugging crates and weapons up and down it, and officers were standing at every corner shouting and directing the men. Slar made his way through them to make his way towards the Prince's office. He slimly snuck past the broad-shouldered brutes, and jumped over several crates. It was somewhat necessary to use some of his acrobatic skills to maneuver through the organized insanity plaguing the hallways.

At last, he reached the door to the Prince's office. Slar left the teeming hallway and slipped into the waiting room. The room looked just the same as it had done earlier. The secretary was sitting behind the desk writing, and the two guards were guarding the door to the office itself. Slar didn't have to wait to enter it this time. The guards simply moved aside and allowed him to pass. Slar heard some chatter when he entered the room,

"We have the initiative now, no doubt about it," Slar could hear the voice of General Caldon,

"Certainly, but the one day that these stragglers have delayed us with might make a huge difference," Slar heard the Prince answer. When he entered the room, Slar saw the Prince and the General sitting in each their couch, both bent over a coffee table with a chessboard on it, "Ah, good day, Slar," the Prince said as the assassin came through the door,

"Well, well, assassin, you certainly made neat job of it last night," General Caldon said, "Once Braddock's blood was mixed with the mud, the entire redcoat position broke down," Caldon had straighten his back to talk with Slar, the Prince was still bent over the chess board, characteristically stroking his beard thoughtfully,

"Yes, it was an excellent example of cutting off the snake head. Once the queen fall, the king is not far behind," The Prince moved a piece on the chessboard, "Check mate," Caldon bewilderedly turned back to the table. A confused mine formed in his face as he tried to ascertain the situation, "I'll be…" it eventually came out of him,

"Now Slar, down to the order of the day," the Prince had already put the game out of his mind, and turned to deal with the assassin, "As you have probably noticed we are preparing to march on to the capital," he continued,

"Yes I have noticed that something was off today," Slar answered,

"Funny, well anyway I have an important assignment for you," the Prince said in a disinteresting tone, "And Gabriel, stop looking like a bewildered buffoon, this is important," he said to General Caldon, who was still confusingly looking over the chessboard,

"Apologies Sire. Slar, do you know about the Stone Lords?" Caldon quickly composed himself before addressing the assassin,

"Can't say I have," he answered,

"Well, the Stone Lords are the rulers of the mountainous inland of Morley. The name refer to four great families: the O'Roarks of Harafort, the Fisherwicks of Lakehall, the Denbighs of Blightwell, and of course the Viceroy's House, the Arstones of Stoneberg. You can probably see where the Stone Lords loyalties lie," Caldon said,

"So what do you want me to do with them?" Slar asked,

"Get rid of Lord O'Roark," the Prince answered coldly, "He is the most loyal of the Viceroy's supporters and the de facto head of the Stone Lords in Viceroy Arstone's absence. Without him, the loyalty of the remaining families may shift," the Prince seemed very uncomfortable talking about the assassination. He didn't look Slar in the eyes, and his voice was less forceful than it used to be, more passive and withdrawn,

"How do you want it done?" Slar asked,

"What do you mean?" the Prince looked at him puzzled,

"Knife, poison, strangulation perhaps? Do want it to look like an accident, or maybe like a message? The possibilities are endless," Slar explained in a business-like manner. The Prince became even more uncomfortable, refusing to look at Slar and covering his mouth with his hand,

"As long as he's dead it doesn't matter," Caldon took over the briefing from his sovereign at the sight of his uncomfortable frame,

"Very well, Sir. It's always easier with less restrains," Slar concluded and made for the door,

"Slar," The Prince said, "Just make it quick, for him too, and come back and join with the army, I got another important assignment for you." Slar nodded and left the room.


It is not often that it doesn't rain in Morley, but when it don't, weather was almost like a summer day in Serkonos. The fresh air of the Morlish Mountains reminded Slar of home. Slar contemplated on various issues as he enjoyed the beautiful spring day. He was sitting on the branch of an old and strong oaken tree. With his back tucked up comfortable against the trunk and a pipe with some good weeds in his mouth, he briefly entertained the idea of retiring in this area, before reminding himself that he was supposed to kill the local lord.

It had taken three days to reach Jótundal, where Harafort was located. The roads up the mountains had been treacherous in their own right, but also the consequences of war. The mountains was by now littered with local guerrilla fighters proclaiming their loyalty to Prince Liam and waging an aggressive war against the Stone Lords, the aforementioned Lords' law enforcing and militia forces trying to keep order, and of course the inevitable highwaymen and other war profiteers trying to make a quick coin of unwary travelers. This made traveling by the main roads a dangerous if down right suicidal affair. The only viable option then was to use the many side roads that slithered through the mountains like snakes. However, not even these roads provided much safety. He had been hold up by bandits at one point, but for a professional assassin, would-be criminals didn't provide much in the way of a challenge. Getting through the guerrillas and the Lordsmen became a much harder affair, however. Naturally, he could not say that he was on a secret mission from the Prince to assassinate Lord O'Roark; one side would probably not believe him and the other would hang him from the nearest tree just for saying it. For those reasons, Slar avoided all unnecessary confrontations.

Then at last, after three days of the second most dangerous hiking trip in Slar's life, he was finally here, at Harafort, the stronghold of House O'Roark. From his position in the tree, he could see the entirety of the valley. Harafort was an odd-looking castle. The castle was itself situated on top of a hill dominating the valley. The castle had strong outer walls of old design. Slar estimated the walls to be at least a few hundred years old, perhaps stretching back into the Dark Ages. However, the castle keep itself was of contemporary design. The keep resembled a mansion of some noble outside of Dunwall. It was a four story white brick building with black stone around its windows. The castle roof was of black cobblestone in a V-shaped arch. Around it, one could see the dramatic landscape shots of the mountains stretching upwards towards the sky. With the snow covering their peaks, they plummeted down towards the floor of the valley, hitting the forest line. It was like looking at a painting on display in the Royal Art Gallery in Dunwall. The highest of the mountains was itself the highest mountain of Morley: Jótunin, the Giant. Dark like the rest of its kin, it reached up into the air like the middle finger of Morley. One could see the summit on this clear day, but on any other days, it was all but invisible. The steep mountain, high as it was, cast a great shadow over the valley, covering the land in darkness even hours before the sunset. Proud, tall and insurmountable, like a symbol of the Morlish nation it stood. Yet here, in the Giant's Shadow, fell deeds awaited.


Darkness was his ally, his mistress and his best friend; not even the keenest eye could see him as he crossed the field between the forest and the castle. There was a short cliff, excellent for defense, right beneath the eastern wall of the castle. He had decided that it would be the perfect spot for infiltration. Few would expect someone to attempt to enter through the single hardest point of the castle. That was what made it vulnerable. Slar moved quickly underneath the walls. Guards were patrolling the battlements, though mostly around the gate area. From what he had observed, he had surmised that the eastern wall was lightly guarded in comparison. After checking that the coast was clear, Slar fired his grappling hook into the window of a tower facing outwards. A silent thud indicated the projectile's landing and thus, after properly securing the line, Slar carefully started to climb.

He watched his step all the way up, careful not to chip out any loose stones in the wall, occasionally looking up, hoping not to see the muzzle of a pistol pointed at his face. Thankfully, there were no one and the climb continued. He made it to the top with no difficulties nor sound. He silently jumped onto the battlements and looked around for potential enemies. He could see the light of a fireplace inside one of the towers, the tower he had to go through. He stealthily moved up towards the cobblestone wall that made up the structure and peered through the doorway. Inside two guards dressed in olive-grey uniforms sat around a fire with a kettle over it. The stairwell was just to his left, but he had to go through the light to get to it, so he sat tight and waited for an opportunity. Meanwhile, the guards had started talking,

"This shit is really piling up, isn't it?" one of the guards said,

"Aye, let's just hope those rebels don't decide to come and knock on our door," the other answered,

"I'm serious mate. You heard about what happened at the Judgment Crossing,"

"Aye, they say more than five thousand died there,"

"Right, and with those rebels up in those mountains coming after us too, might happen that O'Judge boy be coming up here too," the first guard said distraught,

"Relax mate, Young Liam won't be coming for our heads just yet, he got to take the capital first, and by then who knows, maybe Lord O'Roark can work out a deal with him," the second guard said confidently,

"Your optimism make me wanna barf," the first guard said pessimistically,

"Oh no, that's just the whiskey, mate." The second guard said humorously before laughing. Slar saw his moment and bolted to the stairway. He almost dove back into the darkness. He turned his head back to check the guards, bolts ready in his wristbow. However, the guards hadn't noticed anything, the second guard was even still laughing. He quickly continued down the stairs. Halfway down the stairs he halted in his tracks, "Bloody idiot" he thought to himself. He could have simply used his shadow cloak to get past them, or better yet, just blinked from the battlements and into the courtyard. He didn't take time to curse himself further, he simply didn't have time. After descending from the tower, Slar peeked out into the courtyard. It was mostly empty, just two guards near the gatehouse.

While he could have probably crossed the next to empty courtyard without being spotted and sneaked through the front door to the keep, it simply wasn't his style. It were probably more guards inside the keep and the entrance hall was sure to be well light. His eyes ran along the second floor of the keep, searching for a subtle entry: he found one. On the side of the keep, shrouded in darkness, was the balcony of a dark room. He quickly went into the courtyard and moved towards the balcony, getting close enough to blink onto it. When he was up, he quickly looked around himself. No one had detected him yet. He then turned towards the door. He carefully turned the knob to check if it was unlocked. To his relief it was. He silently cracked the door and peered into the dark room. He couldn't see much so he carefully opened it just enough to slip inside, then closing it just as carefully. He looked around and found that he was in a bedroom, most likely a child's bedroom. The room was relatively big, as big as one could expect a noble child's room to be, and was decorated as such. There was the usual large dresser and a small desk along with a toy chest and several dolls and stuffed animals littered around the rug. Some were even placed upon small chairs around a tiny table with tea accessories on it. Down at the end of the room stood the bed. It was a small bed, a child's bed.

A sudden sleepy moan came from the bed. Slar quickly ducked in behind a curtain and prepared a sleep dart; he did not wish to harm a child, "Patrick, is that you?" he heard a sleepy voice say from the bed. At that, the door opened witch long creak. Light from the hallway shined into the room, blocked by the silhouette of a man.

"Lady Amelia, are you still awake?" the man said,

"I thought I heard you coming in," the child said, already not believing she had heard something,

"It was just the wind, child," the man said in a calm, soothing tone, placing a gentle hand on her cheek. The child looked down,

"I suppose so," she said,

"Get some sleep now and I'll show you how to load a pistol tomorrow," the man said, having sat down on the bed to tuck in the child. She simply nodded and closed her eyes again, going back to dreamland. The man kissed the child on the forehead and walked quietly back to the door. Slar acted quickly. He silently bolted across the room towards him. As the man reached the door, Slar wrapped his arms around his neck and pushed him forward through the door. The man struggled to get Slar off him; he wheezed heavily and sprouted out choked gurgles as Slar's strong arms crushed upon his windpipe. Inevitably, he fell unconscious. Slar placed him silently on the floor and looked behind him into the bedroom to make sure the girl hadn't woken up from the struggle. Luckily, she hadn't. Slar gently closed the door.

Before him, there was a straight hallway. Just to his right there was a door. He silently opened it and peered inside. It was a broom closet. Slar quickly picked up the unconscious guard and placed him inside. After hiding the body, Slar moved up to the corner at the end of the hallway. The lightning at this hour was thankfully dim and there were not too many guards around either. Slar took a right at the corner and after taking another left, he was at the main entrance area. The entrance covered two stories with a large stairway leading up to the second floor. The stairs were made of smooth oak in a modern design, contrasting the old design of the castle. Just next to the doorway, two guards were standing, talking,

"Where's Lord O'Roark?" one of them asked the other,

"Some man came in a few minutes ago, said it was important. They're upstairs now," the other answered,

"Well, we better keep an eye out then. Anyone upstairs with him?"

"Just Perry and Greenleaf. The captain's guarding Lady O'Roark's room,"

Hmpf, nobody's getting to that girl as long as he's on guard,"

"Yeah, stay here and watch the door, I'll take a look upstairs," the guard started walking up the stairs towards Slar. He needed to find Lord O'Roark's study, and quickly. He leapt into the shadows so the sentry heading up the stairs couldn't see him. The guard took a left once at the top and headed towards the young Lady O'Roark's room. Once out of his fellow guard's view, Slar pounced at him from behind. Like the captain before him, the guard succumbed to Slar's strong arm. Slar promptly dragged his victim's unconscious body into a nearby dark room. Now to finding Lord O'Roark's study. He reckoned that the upstairs would be a safe bet. Slar poked out to see the entrance. The guard wasn't looking, so Slar quickly and quietly moved upstairs. The stairs went in either direction halfway up. He took a chance and headed right instead of left. He knew there were at least two guards upstairs. Once at the top he started searching the dark corridors for his target. He poked around a corner and saw a sentry standing guard outside. He also saw light coming from under the door. He wagered that the door led to Lord O'Roark's study.

He studied the hallway and saw a ventilation grill up by the wall close to the door, a more subtle way in. He activated his shadow cloak and started sneaking up towards the drowsy guard, who kept nodding off where he stood. Slar quickly grabbed a small golden goblet standing on a pedestal in the hallway and threw it over to the other side of the room while the guard nodded off. The goblet made a large thud as it hit the ground near a bookshelf.

"What was that?" the guard quake into an alert state and turned towards the bookshelf. He moved towards it to investigate. At that time, Slar made his move. He quickly jumped unto the wall and silently removed the grill, crept into the shaft and placed the grill back. As luck would have it, he saw a light coming from the left turn. He crawled towards it and peered into a well light room. There were two men talking in there, one was wearing a green coat, worn from recent travel, and an older man in an evening gown.

"And what word of the Prince?" said the older man,

"He's marching on the capital; the redcoats are giving off a stiff resistance though. His attack seem to have grinded to a halt, a mere day and a half march from the city, my Lord," the other man answered,

"And what are the Viceroy's orders?" the old man asked,

"To muster our forces and wait for further instructions, my Lord," the other man answered,

"Well, if we don't act fast, there might not be a Viceroy to answer to anymore," the old man remarked and turned towards the window and leaned his arm against the frame, "You know, Horatio, I think we might be betting on the wrong horse," he said solemnly,

"My Lord?" the other man said confusingly,

"Perhaps the time is nigh, for the return of the King," Lord O'Roark continued, "Send word to the leader of the mountain rebels. Tell him I would like a word with him,"

"My Lord, you are not thinking of…?" Horatio asked carefully,

"I suspect I'm not the only one to express such sentiments, Horatio," now was the time to strike. Lord O'Roark wasn't watching, so Slar leapt out of the ventilation shaft and attacked the man named Horatio, putting his blade against his throat. Lord O'Roark turned to see his herald dumbfounded and fearful with a sharp steel blade pressed against his Adam's Apple, "What is the meaning of this!? Who are you!?" the Lord yelled confusingly,

"Not so loud, My Lord, unless you value this one's life," Slar said coldly while pressing the blade against Horatio's throat,

"Alright then, what have you come here for?" Lord O'Roark said with a lowered voice,

"Your life, My Lord," Slar said, "With courtesies from Liam O'Judge,"

"Then how come, you have not taken it yet?" the Lord spat,

"Your conversation. Did you think it was time to jump ship now? How unwise, considering the life raft have long departed,"

"Do you think there is much affection between us and that spiteful midget called Governor-General and his bowl-headed rat for a Lord Regent? Why do you think the Viceroy would call his men to arms after Charlton told him not to? How loyal to this rotten Empire do you think we Morlish are?" Lord O'Roark ranted angrily,

"Fair enough. However, the Viceroy would not be so dumb as to issue such an order while he's in the capital, surrounded by redcoats," Slar returned,

"Of course, it has to look like we're loyal, if we, the Viceroy's most loyal men would suddenly join the Prince's cause, how would that make him look in Charlton's eyes, hm?" Lord O'Roark answered,

"Or, you know, this could be a trick to ward me off," Slar said, pressing the blade even harder against Horatio's throat,

"Are you really so narrow minded, assassin?"

"Maybe. Only thing I know is that either one of us will not witness another sunrise," at that the door slammed open behind Slar,

"Kill him!" Lord O'Roark yelled. With a swift maneuver, Slar sliced Horatio's throat and turned his blade to meet his attackers. Crimson fluid ran onto the Serkonan carpet, as the herald fell to his knees with his hands clenched around the gash that once was his throat; and Slar stared straight into three graycoated guards, swords drawn, ready to kill their master's would-be assailant.