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Chapter VIII

A Dire Advancement

Slar laid on the ground, admiring the stars. It was a quirk of his, ever from his childhood; whenever he could, he would lie, observing shimmering lights in the night sky, wondering about the universe. Some of those questions had come back to him in the recent weeks, ever since He showed up,

"How beautiful the night sky is from this soil," speak of the devil. Slar turned his head to see the Outsider resting his head on a log, like he himself did. Slar turned his head back towards the sky,

"Are we making this a regular thing now?" he asked sarcastically. The black-eyed bastard scoffed a little, as if bemused by the remark,

"Your escape was quite the feat," he said,

"Not my best work, I admit," Slar returned,

"Oh, but how amusing. Fighting off three armed guards in a closed off room before grabbing Lord O'Roark by the throat and crash you both through the window," the Outsider started

"Then blinking onto the battlements and vanish in the night," Slar finished, "That old croak would not survive a three story drop. Tell me, would I?" Slar turned his head towards the Outsider, expecting an answer,

"How do you feel?" the Outsider asked in return. Slar turned his head back towards the sky,

"Strong," he said after a moment of thinking,

"Then you would have survived," the Outsider, answered. They laid there staring at the sky for many minutes more, "And what now?" he asked, Slar scoffed,

"Back to the Prince, see about his important assignment. Any ideas what they might be?" Slar turned to the Outsider. The bastard kept quiet, "I see, don't want to spoil the story for me," Slar suddenly rose up, "There's something out there," he got to his feet and grabbed his blade. He threw a look over to where the Outsider was lying; he was gone. Slar felt the black-eyed bastard's party tricks were starting to irritate him less, but they still irritated him quite a bit.

He looked around, cool as a cat, scoping every part of the forest around him. He heard some rustling from his right. He blinked, activating his enhanced vision. He searched for any movement, but whatever was out there was either too low, or too good. As he searched the canopy of the stern oaks around him, he heard more rustling, this time from his left. He clenched his blade harder and started to walk slowly towards the sounds. As he approached the bushes, rustling started to get closer, closer, ever closer until Slar jabbed at the bushes. Immediately something bolted out. The speed of the assailant was so unprecedented that it made Slar stagger back a few paces, but never lose his footing. He raised his wristbow; bolt loaded, towards his target, but halted himself before firing. A deer, a bloody deer was running through the woods away from him, probably more startled by Slar, than it startled him, "Interesting." He heard the familiar voice from behind him, where the Outsider was lying before. Slar looked back, no one. He tilted his head backwards and sighed; at least the stars still looked beautiful.


The camp looked even worse up close than from the hill. When he approached, from the forest the camp looked like a big assortment of khaki tablecloths strung up by twigs. Up close, he saw all the grimness in detail. It had rained so much the last couple of days, the ground had turned into the world's biggest soup bowl. The ground both in and around the tent was nothing but mud. The men was in no better condition either. As he rode through the camp, he saw the exhaustion in the eyes of the soldiers. The mud had turned their uniforms from a proud green into a brownish gray, darkened by the constant rain. It had been six days since the victory at Breitihùnas Crossing, and since then they were still stuck a day from the capital.

In the center of the camp was the command tent, the Prince's personal home in the field. Slar rode up and dismounted next to it. He tied his horse to a pole sticking only a meter above the ground before he went in; the mud was probably hiding another meter. The inside was slightly better than the other tents. The ground was drier in there, so you could walk around without getting mud all over your boots. Several lamps were stung up against the beams holding the canvas up, giving the tent a pleasant orange glow. Otherwise, the tent's interior was rather Spartan. There were nothing inside but a table, a small field bed and a chest. Around the table, four green clad men were standing there and discussing something,

"We almost broke though on the left flank yesterday, it should still be rather weak," One of them that Slar didn't recognize said,

"No, they would have deployed their reserves there, whatever is left of them anyway," Another one Slar immediately recognized as General Caldon said,

"We could try attacking both the left and the right at the same time, wearing at them until one side break then exploit the breakthrough and overrun them from behind," Slar heard General Woerr say. Slar saw a head rising from the assembly. It was the Prince. His face was strangely filled with relief by the sight of the assassin in the doorway. He seemed as weathered by the last days as his soldiers; his hair was wet and hung in curls down his dome and his beard had grown wilder and more rugged, he had no time to groom it. His eyes were filled with the same kind of tiredness as his men and even a sense of remorse stemmed from them,

"Look who we have here, Gentlemen," He said, his voice as powerful as ever. His Generals turned and saw the dark clad assassin by the entrance,

"Your words precede you, assassin, yesterday we received words of O'Roark's death," Caldon said,

"A fine piece of work," Woerr said flatteringly. Slar looked confused at them for a moment,

"It was a mess," he eventually said. The Generals shared looks and looked to the Prince, who kept his eyes fixed at the Assassin,

"Then it was a fine mess," the Prince retorted, "Gentlemen, leave us, I need to speak with the assassin alone," he followed. The Generals looked at each other for a second,

"Your Highness, should we not finish this first," the General Slar didn't recognized said,

"We'll finish this later, Murphy, now if you would excuse us," the Generals promptly made for the entrance, scurrying past Slar where he stood. He could hear some of them murmuring about something about a flank attack. In the end, Slar stood at the entrance, alone in the tent with the Prince. Once all the Generals had left, the Prince sighed and walked over to the chest by the bed, and shuffled around until he found a bottle and two mugs. He then walked back to the table, "Now don't just stand there like some guard, get over here," he said to the assassin who had just kept standing at the entrance, observing the Prince. He walked over to the table, "Pleas, sit," the Prince, said and Slar sat down on one of the field chairs, opposite the Prince, who bate around the cork of the bottle and popped it off with his teeth. He then handed one of the mugs over to Slar and poured some of the liquid into it, "Hope you like Morlish rye," he said and poured some for himself,

"I'm quite familiar with it, yes," Slar said and dipped his tongue into it,

"What are you doing?" the Prince asked,

"Poison check," Slar answered,

"Now why would I poison you?" the Prince laughed,

"Smarter men than me have died from the beverage of their employer. I don't intend to be one of them," Slar answered coldly,

"Don't worry," the Prince said and took a swing from the mug and turned his head so Slar could see that he was drinking, "I have much use for you yet," the Prince raised the mug again in the manner of a toast and poured some more down his throat; Slar took a more careful swig off his. The Prince let out a silent roar of delight as he swallowed the hard beverage, "You know, I met with the lord of a castle, Barrykain was his name, a couple dozen miles from here. He served us Tyvian red. I have never understood what the fuzz about that wine is. Tell me what's so special about it?" the Prince stared at the assassin, expecting an answer,

"Nobles. Convince them that something is exclusive and it will taste exclusive," he said,

"Hear, hear. I want to show you something," the Prince rose from his chair, but seemed to lose his balance for a very brief moment so that his fingertip pushed against the table,

"Alcohol and war don't coincide, a wise man once told me," Slar japed,

"It may be something in that," The Prince answered blankly and moved towards the chest. He fished something wrapped in a black cloth made of silk and walked to the table. "The man who… held my family's castle for the sixty years we've been gone, seemed to have a great appreciation of our heirlooms," he loosed the knot of the thread and unwrapped the cloth, revealing a horn, not a military trumpet or horn used by the armies of the day, no this was an ancient horn. The horn was made of a completely white bullhorn with jewel encrusted golden bands around it and elegant markings and runes carved along the bone, a horn worthy a king. The Prince held it up in the air and marveled at it in the light of the lantern suspended from the canopy. "This is the Horn of Daniel, an ancient heirloom of my House, all the way back to Daniel Longbeard, the King who united Morley," Slar was genuinely impressed by it. He only dared stretching his hand forth so he could see it for himself when the Prince offered it. He studied the increment details of the horn as the Prince started talking. "And tell you another story about this horn. Many generations after Longbeard's uniting of Morley, in the seventh year of his reign, King Daniel III ventured up into the mountains to visit the good lords of House Arstone at Stoneberg. While there, it reached the King's ear that the peasants were being terrorized by a wolf up in the mountains. This was no regular wolf though, oh no, it was a huge monster, two meters long, fur as white as the snow and eyes red as the burning fire," The Prince looked up at the lantern before continuing. "They said that nothing could stop it, that it was one of Styr and Kiga's abominations, but that did nothing to deter the King. The next morning, the castle woke to find the King was gone. He had left all his weapons and armor at the castle; all he had was a thick white fur and this very horn. Of course, they went after him; it wouldn't look good if the King's own guard would let him die in the freezing mountains, but for all their efforts they could not find him. One day went by and not a sign of him. On the second day, several different people was talking about securing the King's young son for their own ends. However, on the third day, just as they were about to lose hope, they heard a horn blast from the mountains. Emerging from the forest came the king dressed in nothing but his white fur cloak, with his horn hanging on his side and the body of a gigantic white wolf over his shoulder," while the Prince recounted the legend, Slar studied the horn. He glared at the many runes and carvings. None of them was recognizable to him though; he had little knowledge of the old Morlish language. He stroke his thumb over the bone until he saw a distinctive curve. It was rather strange since none of the Morlish runes had any curves they were all straight, that much he knew. As he studied it closer, he saw a sword-like stripe going through the curve, as if cutting it in half. He glanced at his hand, then back at the rune. It was the same, exactly the same; even on this thousand year old horn it was recognizable. He looked back up at the Prince and was petrified to see two eyes, black as the Void, stare back at him.

"Seen a ghost?" he asked him. Slar shook his head and was met, much to his relief, by the Prince's hazel eyes. He looked upon him confusingly, as if Slar had just done something odd. "What is it?" the Prince asked.

"Nothing, Your Highness," Slar answered with a sigh, "Nothing at all,"

"You know you don't have to call me that here. Everyone else call me that, it is nice to have someone that…" more he couldn't say before both their attention was drawn by shouting outside,

"Your Highness! Your Highness!" they heard and saw General Woerr and Murphy rushing in through the entrance.

"What is this," the Prince rose from his seat and asked.

"Great tidings, Your Highness, from Dunwall," Woerr said through his panting.

"What? What has happened?" the Prince asked again.

"The Lord Regent, he's been deposed," Murphy said.

"What!?" the Prince almost shouted.

"We don't know how or why yet, but he's gone. They say he confessed to bringing the plague to Dunwall and had the Empress assassinated on live audio throughout the entire city," Murphy continued. The Prince started pacing back and forth, thoughtfully scratching his rugged beard.

"This accelerates things," he murmured, "There is not a moment to lose," he started decisively, "Burrows would never do such a thing on purpose, someone is definitely behind this. If he killed the Empress, he likely took the girl as well, but this might mean that someone else got their hands on her, and the recent downfalls of all the Regent's supporters, Campbell, the Pendletons, Sokolov, it can't have been coincidental. No, whoever got that girl is likely to be moving for the throne at this very moment, and we can't let them consolidate. The entire Empire will be in turmoil for the next days, and we can't give our foes a single moment of respite," the Prince paused for a moment to think before slamming his fist down at the map on the table, "We are pushing through that eastern flank one way or the other. Generals, prepare our men, we're attacking at sundown, and order our guns to fire upon that ridge, I want it on sea level. Slar, for you I got a special task. You must get yourself into the city and eliminate the upper echelon of the power structure. The Grand Overseer, the Speaker of the House and the Governor-General, I need them all incapacitated, if not dead, the Viceroy I'll finish myself,"

"But, Your Highness, no one can enter Caulkenny; the gates are shut and heavily guarded, no one enters and no one leaves, not to mention the amount of redcoats between us and it," Woerr interdicted.

"That's why he's not going that way. Slar, I'm sending you to the fleet, you'll make your way into the city by boat. I have some good smugglers in my service," the Prince retorted.

"And where am I supposed to hide in the city once in?" the assassin asked.

"We have a man at the Quartermaster's Booth Inn in the northern harbor district. If you can make it there, he will provide you a safehouse to stay at," Woerr said.

"Now what do you say, assassin, can you pull this off?" the Prince asked in a daring tone. Slar only nodded in agreement, "Good, you'll have to leave now and link up with the fleet off the coast. Godspeed to you Slar," and with that Slar made for the raining outside, heading for his horse, "Have those guns open fire, Murphy. Gentlemen, tonight we may change the course of history, and we will certainly change geography." Slar heard the Prince say as he mounted his horse and turned it towards the sea.


The closest thing to a harbor between Caulkenny and Alba that wasn't a two days ride away was the small fishing village of Dubry. The village was only a few hours ride from the army encampment and was currently used by fleet blockading Caulkenny as a resupply post. Overall, it was not a very impressive settlement, only a few small, yet well built houses, centered near a pier. Just off the pier was a small tavern, and the surrounding beaches was filled with small dinghies and rowboats used for fishing. The village reminded Slar a bit of the pirate lair where he first met the Prince, only in much better condition, and in peacetime, Slar reckoned that it would be a rather sleepy community. Of course, this wasn't peacetime. Only a few days ago, a small platoon of thirty greencoats garrisoned themselves there to help secure the coast. Since this village was rather out of way from the fighting, it meant that the soldiers stationed there was on practical R&R. Luckily for the locals, the soldiers didn't seem like the rough sort. Some of them even seemed to be from that very village. From what Slar observed as he rode through on his way to the docks, most of the soldiers congregated around the village tavern. Along with the soldiers, a few sailors had congregated in the tavern. A brig anchored up out in the bay had conveniently arrived just the other day to bring supplies back to the fleet. The ship was heading out at sundown, and the sailors with leave were drinking with the soldiers in the tavern.

"There be a phantom if I ever saw one," Slar heard a familiar voice as he rode through by the tavern. He turned and saw the old marine Floyd sitting by a table on the outdoor veranda. Slar left his horse by a water trey and moved over to the old sailor. "So you mysterious stranger; on what business have you come here?" Floyd asked while sucking on his pipe.

"I would ask you the same thing," Slar answered.

"We're waiting for the ship to get ready, I take it, you'll be joining us?" Floyd said. He took the bottle on the table and poured some of the liquid into his glass, then into another glass. Slar sat down on the free chair at the table. Floyd raised his glass, "To the Prince," he said and. Slar raised his glass in a similar toasting manner then they both downed their drinks. The drink burned down the assassin's throat and he had to grimace slightly. Floyd nearly roared and slammed the glass into the table, making a loud bang. "So, what are you up to?" Floyd asked again, fixing his eyes on the black-cloaked assassin. Slar stared at his glass for a while; he felt everyone was trying to liquor him up today.

"The Prince have commanded me to enter Caulkenny," he answered finally.

"But first you saw it wise to take a leisurely stroll along the waterfront," Floyd said while laughing.

"Well walking in through the city gates seems to be a tad bit difficult at the present time so the waterfront seemed like the wisest option," Slar returned. Floyd scoffed him off and raised the bottle to pour some more for them. Slar raised it hand over his glass and Floyd withdrew the bottle.

"Not in a drinking mood, I see," the old sailor bellowed. Slar changed his position on the chair and gazed out unto the brig in the harbor,

"When are we leaving?" Slar asked, still staring at the brig.

"In an hour." Floyd answered bluntly. Slar simply nodded, turned back to face his companion and accepted his drink.

Within the hour, all preparations had been made and the brig sat sail with the afternoon breeze northwards. They would arrive at the rest of the fleet in the middle of the night. As of yet, no counterattack had come from the Imperial Navy and the Prince hoped they would be able to take the capital before any such measures could be taken against them. The blockade of the Caulkenny was vital for the success of the campaign. The city was the only anchorage place between Fraeport in the north and Alba in the south where larger concentrations of troops could disembark. After the victory at Judgment Crossing, the Imperial army occupying the Isle was put at large disadvantage. There were no more than 5000 Imperial soldiers between the Prince's advancing army and the capital. The Morlish army was only swelling in seize after the victory and a large number of volunteers flocked to the Prince's banner. In total, the new "Royal Army of Morley" had more than doubled in size since the initial landing. 8000 men was now with the Prince fighting along the western coast towards Caulkenny and another 4000 men under General Sweyn Dulburry was fighting their way along the eastern coast, through the region known as the Eastmarches, now bearing down on the city of Wynnedown.

Slar leaned over the stern railing, smoking his pipe and gazing at the sun setting in the receding water as he pondered on the strategic situation of the war effort. He knew that the Imperial Navy would sooner or later bear down upon the motley flotilla blockading Caulkenny. From the voyage from Serkonos to Morley, he had made keen note of all the strengths and weaknesses of the Prince's forces. The only truly modern battleship of the fleet was the flagship, the destroyer The Sins of the Father. While the ship was formidable, Slar had seen half a dozen of the same class anchored up in the naval dockyard of Redmoor only three months earlier. Rumor had it that the navy was building something new and great there too. Something that would ensure the supremacy of the Empire on the high seas for a generation. Slar thought of the destroyers as fearsome ships, the very zenith of naval ingenuity, and now the Empire was making something bigger. He could only imagine.

Other than the Father, the fleet did have some proper warships. The ten frigates. They were of some age, yet still very effective in their role as blockade-runners and high sea patrols. However, in the past, the colossal ships of the line would brawl it out on the seas, with the frigates running perimeter patrols and communication duties, not in ship-to-ship engagements. The rest of the fleet, schooners, brigs, light merchant farers, buccaneer ships, small and fast, and even armed whaling trawlers. A ragtag force of rogues and pirates fighting the massive forces of the Empire in the name of freedom. Slar scoffed, puffing out a smoke ball. How ridiculously poetic. The Morlish would sing to their glorious defeat and Gristilian historians would make note of their futile resistance in the face of the bleakest of adversities. And yet here, in the middle of maelstrom, was a lone assassin, loyal to naught but his purse, trying to figure out a way to slither his way out as he always had. However, Slar felt some hesitance. A part of him simply didn't want to flee. It was something about him, the Prince that ensnared him. He felt something no good assassin should feel, loyalty. He didn't know how, but the buccaneer Prince inspired in him an idealism he had not felt since the bloody day in the snow. Strength, determination, charisma and wisdom, all the great traits a king should poses he saw in him. He deserved the throne more than any person alive did, and he would not stop until his people was free, and for that, he had Slar's everlasting respect.

He saw the light sinking beneath the waves; the fiery mirage of the last light shimmered upon the water a last time before slipping under it, leaving the orange light on the horizon for a few beautiful minutes. He looked down on the receding water hot on the ships trail. In the sunlight, the foam looked sickly green, but now in the darkness of the light it looked dark gray surrounded by complete blackness. His gaze shifted upwards the gallery to the board right beneath the railing where the name stood. Errant Venture he made out in the yellow glow of the lantern. Right then he heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind him upon the oaken board. His fingers moved around the dagger shaft in his belt. He judged the distance by the sound of the thumping boots and made his move. He suddenly and unexpectedly turned swiftly and laid his blade upon a bearded neck. He stared into the startled blue eyes of the ship's captain. He stood there as if he'd seen a ghost, his eyes wide open, his hands in the air and his chin held high at the point of a dagger. Slar looked him up and down. A green coat and baggy dark britches, fairly average for a ship captain. His face was square with a thick reddish beard and darkly auburn hair with gray streaks around his sideburns. His nose was bent quite severely and Slar would judge the man to be about 40.

"Sneaking up on me is not a wise decision," Slar said and withdrew his blade.

"I've sneaked up on worse people, I assure you," the captain answered heartily and became instantaneously relaxed. Slar sheeted his dagger and placed his hand on the railing, stroking the wood.

"A fine ship," he remarked,

"Yes, had her for twenty years," the captain said proudly and leaned on the rail next to the assassin. "She's brought me through the Culler Islands, past the Furious Cape, Outsider's eyes, she's even brought me to Pandyssia and back," he exclaimed as proudly as a man of his daughter. The captain stretched out his hand to the assassin. "Aryl Kincaid." He said. The assassin took his hand.

"You can call me Slar," he said. The captain nodded and turned his head towards the sea.

"Captain Pinkerton wouldn't tell me who you were, or what you're here for," Aryl said and turned his head to face Slar. "Is there a reason for that?" he asked, staring at him, demanding an answer.

"It's better if you don't know," Slar said and gave the captain a serious look. He looked down and nodded in agreement, a small, disappointed smile emerging on his lip.

"Right you are," he said and turned his gaze at the riggings of his ship.

"You know, it seems off that a small merchant brig like this would find itself blockading a port," the assassin started. The captain's eyes quickly met with his. Slar light his pipe, never breaking eye contact with Aryl. He blew out a long cloud of smoke down past the captain looking at him. "How sounded the call of duty?" the captain looked down a brief moment before meeting Slar's eyes again. He saw that the assassin wouldn't back down. "Cannons." He simply said.

Then a great cry came from the lookout, "Ship ho!" captain Kincaid rushed over to the helm and picked up his binoculars. Floyd came rushing up on the command deck.

"Who is it?" he asked hastily.

"Don't know," the captain said, still looking through the binoculars. Slar fixed his eyes on the horizon. One could make out the black silhouette of a ship, but it was too dark to look for a flag or any other means of identification. They then saw a light flashing rhythmically towards them, light signals. The captain fixed his eyes on it. His lips moved as if reading something. Suddenly his face went pale. He took the binoculars away from his eyes and held them at chest height.

"What is it?" Floyd asked even more hastily now, "What did you see, man?" he shook the captain, trying to make contact.

"It's not one of our signals," he said meekly. Slar and Floyd both turned towards the ship on the horizon. A loud bang came thundering across the water and a heavy cannon shell whizzed over their heads.

"All hands, man your battle stations! Blow out all lanterns and prepare to fire!" Floyd shouted. The sailors started scrambling for their positions. Slar looked at the ship. He saw the muzzle flames from the cannons before more thundering bangs. The flames light up the ship for brief seconds. In one of the flashes, he saw a huge flag fluttering off the mizzenmast. A black and white eagle stretching its wings out menacingly on a bloody crimson field.