Dylon Blood danced a stone dagger between his slim fingers, all six of his digits swirling the fine weapon so fast that it was nothing but a silver blur.
In the dim light of the bar, Dylon eyed Obron Nyste across the table. An older Eharib, he had dirty blonde hair and a thick black beard that was coiled into several thick locks, jewels hanging from each one. There was a low hum of conversation as Obron anxiously wrung his hands, looking at Dylon with shifty blue eyes.
"Can it be done?" He asked softly. There was a blast of laughter, causing Obron to jolt in his seat. Dylon smiled wanly and allowed his yellow eyes to follow the source of the noise: Two Dwarib making sultry gestures to a curved dwarven barmaid. Dylon returned his attention to Obron, who was now sweating profusely.
"It can. What really matters, my friend," Dylon leaned forward, slamming his knife onto the wooden table. It stuck with a loud chunk, and the surrounding chatter lessened as Dwarves shifted uncomfortably, reaching for concealed weapons. Dylon stared at Obron until the talking picked up again, and gave Obron a handsome grin.
"Is gold." He finished, leaning backward on his chair, allowing long brown hair to fall past his ears and down the sides of his neck.
"It can be supplied. Are you sure you and your men will be able to-" Obron bent his head lower, placing his massive hands on the cold table.
"Are you sure they will be able to kill the Gun-nam Gun-La?"
"My fair Obron," Dylon started, his voice soothing.
"Regicide is our specialty."
Obron moved, sending out a pallid stench that grew from his own nervousness. Dylon scrunched his nose, picking up his glass of heated ale to cover the smell.
"It needs to be done before the treaty is signed. The human delegation will be arriving soon."
Dylon put down his cup softly, wiping his mouth as the alcohol warmed his stomach.
"It will be done, Obron. The King will die, that I can promise you, yangu baradu (my friend.)"
Obron settled back in his chair, relaxed prematurely.
"How about a drink, then?" He said with a fine smile. Dylon returned the look, letting out a small laugh as he imagined the wealth that would soon be dancing between his fingers, instead of this dagger.
I'm going to be killing my brother, soon. Won't that be pleasant? He thought with a tint of glee. Dylon pulled the dagger from the table, and began playing with it again, flipping it about his body with one hand.
Nasuada's quarters were large, for a ship, with enough room for a mattress and even a drawer. A mirror was found opposite of them, and Murtagh rose his green eyes to find Nasuada looking at him, raised in a seated position, her blankets covering the lower portions of her body.
"What's wrong?" She asked, touching his scarred back. Before, that would have sent him recoiling from her, but now, to his dismay, he accepted the touch, allowing it to comfort him. He frowned then, his raven hair falling over his face like a veil.
No.
"I should be going." He said stiffly, raising himself from the bed. He eyed the floor for his clothing.
"It's still night." She said sadly as he felt her watch him. He found his trousers, pulling them on quickly as he reached for his boots.
"The sooner I leave the better." He said quietly as he pulled his tan shirt over his head. He turned, and allowed his dark verdant eyes to fall on her face once again. She was frowning, and crossed her arms.
"Why are you constantly running?" She asked, her voice spitting venom with each word. Murtagh was silent, and said nothing as he reached for the handle of her door.
"You lost something. I want to help you, Murtagh. You're a kind person. Let me show you life." Murtagh paused as his hand absorbed the coolness of the metal bar that hugged the door.
"You'll understand soon enough." Murtagh responded, and left her abode before she could respond. He was greeted with a hallway that was darker than night, holding his head as the ship swayed between the rolling waves underneath them. He groped around until he found a small staircase, and climbed up, until he hit his head on hard wood. Swearing, he felt above him, until he came across the rusty hatch that separated the middle-deck with the upper regions of the ship.
He pulled the hatch free and swallowed a gulp of fresh air, his eyes adjusting to the new light as millions of stars looked down on him. A small breeze ruffled his hair while sails whipped silently, wood creaking as wind pushed gently on their frames. Murtagh stepped onto the deck, which was quiet, save for the footsteps of the Dwarib sailors, who walked about, checking ropes and sails and cleaning.
He strode towards the railing of the boat, placing pale hands on the brown wood. Across the sea, the moon was large and almost invasive, a beam of moonlight reflecting off of the ocean, seemingly trailing straight towards him. He shuddered, realizing for the first time how cold he was, and how tired he had become.
I need rest.
Murtagh was about to leave the railing as he heard a voice call his name.
"Murtagh, if I could have a word."
Nasuadon.
"Of course." Murtagh said between clenched teeth as the black youth took up space beside him. The young beyonder had hair darker than Murtagh's, long and flowing. He wore a fishnet shirt, revealing a heavy and built chest, while the half-cloak of the Dusk Riders was fastened to his shoulder. He was similar in appearance to Nasuada: Square face, slanted eyes, and large lips, though his nose was slightly wider than hers.
"The night is cool, is it not?" He asked conversationally. Murtagh turned his attention back to the sea.
"Aye, it is." He answered. They stood in silence for a few more moments, until Nasuadon spoke again.
"Did you ever think our world was so large?" He inquired. Murtagh had to admit he hadn't. In all of his years, he never imagined that there was something so vast and massive as the sea. And yet there was more, according to one of the Dwarven sailors.
Much more.
"They say there are even more islands and land-masses, some even larger than Alagaesia." Murtagh offered, and Nasuadon laughed quietly, his white teeth shining.
"I see you have taken to speaking with the Dwarib."
Murtagh shrugged.
"They are an interesting people. Industrious."
"I can agree to that." Nasuadon said.
More silence.
"I know what you're doing, Murtagh." Nasuadon said finally, barely above a whisper.
"Know this: My father has planned for her to be matched with Orrin, to combine our two kingdoms into one after the war is won. I will not have you ruin his design. Is that clear?" Nasuadon spoke without looking at Murtagh, and Murtagh himself clenched the railing, his nails digging into portions of soft wood.
"It ends tonight." Nasuadon looked at Murtagh with those dark eyes of his.
"I told her as much." Murtagh answered back.
Nasuadon didn't look surprised. He turned away from the railing, and walked up deck, his small cape moving behind him on the soft kiss of wind.
Orrin.
Murtagh could see the young King's sneering face now: handsome and powerful and everywhere. He leaned over the railing, looking at the green water as it splashed against their craft.
They think I'm baseborn. If they only knew-
Knew what? That you were Morzan's son? You would be put to death.
Murtagh wondered how long it would take him to die if he threw himself in the water. Drowning was no clean death, but it was better than the death he would be given if they discovered his true parentage.
But I'm innocent. Maybe they wouldn't do anything...
Don't be a fool. They would kill you. And not just that, Murtagh. They would shame you, first.
Murtagh went to bed with dark thoughts, and they rose with him the next day.
"Is that . . . Alagaesia?" Zidda questioned as they approached growing stone mountain, basked in clouds. Neybark smiled at the young boy, as they all crowded on deck.
"It is."
Jagged mountains stood over the massive sea, and they were so large that they obstructed the sun. Murtagh stood with Zidda, while Nasuadon and Nasuada stood together, surrounded by the men Orrin had sent with them. Murtagh had stolen looks at Nasuada, but she had ignored them, Nasuadon glaring at him in her stead.
Enough.
As they grew closer to the rocky shore that was found beneath the mountains, Murtagh noticed ships: Dozens of them, all spread out among the dwindling sea. Gulls screamed above, and bells rang in the distance.
The ships bore sigils: Strange markings, animals, and then the familiar Dwarf flag they had seen in Kamal were all present. Their ship went around the curving beach, until they were at the mouth of a large and black cave.
"Free the notches!" Orso barked. Zidda ran to the side of the ship as a large thundering sound was heard beneath them. Murtagh followed, and was amazed to find large wooden prongs that had sprung from the ship's innards.
"What is that for?" He asked as Neybark joined them. Neybark's black eyes shined.
"You'll see."
They entered the cave, dim fires lit around the circular ceiling. The ship jolted as Murtagh watched large metal chains catch on the notches, and then drag the ship down into the cave, which Murtagh realized was at an incline. They sharply descended, metal chains dragging them further and further downward, until finally they came to a crash of water. The chains lead them to a gleaming white lake, but what was beyond the lake left the boy speechless.
He was greeted by the most magnificent city he had ever seen.
"Welcome to Farthen Dur. This is the city of Tronjheim." Neybark said as he moved to the front of the deck. Their ship was freed of the chains as they moved across the large artificial lake, stone towers that looked more like giant behemoths rather than buildings greeting them.
Viscerally built, the structures of Farthen Dur were sharp and efficient. No space was spared, and often the buildings were connected, locking several structures together by massive cylinders. Their ship docked inside an oval-like construction, while heavy drums announced their arrival. To the left and right, stone pathways rose from the clear waters, and the ship lowered its walkways with a low thump. A Dwarf gave Murtagh his sword and belt, and Murtagh thanked the Dwarib as he hurried off to give Nasuadon and the others their supplies. Zidda belted his sword to his waist, red hair softly moving across his forehead.
"Amazing . . . this place is amazing." Zidda said, breathless. They were lead from the ship, Neybark taking the lead. Dwarves hurried past them to tend to Orso's boat, and gradually they left the oval docks, and were meet with the grand city of Tronjheim. The streets were smooth stone, wide and spacious, as every corner was hugged by at least half a dozen sellers, waving wares and food in their hands.
"Lesser guilds." Neybark announced over them as they walked past. Murtagh watched, awe-struck, as the city moved by him. Dwarves looked at him curiously on the street, or from the lower levels of towering buildings, which nearly reached the ceiling of the carved-out mountain. Stalagmites drooped from some places, and the dwarves turned these into compartments as well. Murtagh saw one rounded stalagmite riddled with windows, and nearly laughed when he saw a Dwarf ride a cart into it, the cart hanging from nearly invisible zip-lines.
While humorous, he could see the sense behind it. Suddenly, horns blazed as a voice bellowed in a tongue that Murtagh did not understand. Neybark stopped, and Nasuada finally spoke.
"What's wrong?" She asked.
"The King- He's coming to greet us. I was leading you to his castle but . .. get down, kneel."
Murtagh did as he was bid.
Everyone on the streets did the same. The peddlers fell silent as the horns trumpeted, until finally he heard the cries of some ox-like creature. The sound of horns diminished. strange voice began anew, and Neybark spoke, quietly but clearly.
"You may rise." He said. As they did so, Murtagh saw the King. He was a tall Dwarf, almost as large as a human male who was above average height. Murtagh guessed the King was nearly six feet, with muscles bound by thin black fabric as stone bracelets graced his thick wrists.
A massive crown sat atop his head, and he stood on a pedestal being dragged by two oxen creatures, each beast possessing three legs on either side of them. The King was guarded by six armored Dwarf-banes, locked inside suits of armor painted gold, with curved axes in their six-fingered grip. The king stepped from the pedestal as Murtagh moved ahead of the group slightly, to get a better view of the monarch.
Neybark bowed . . . but as he did one of the dwarf-bane soldiers stepped out of rank, cutting down one of his own with his axe. The other dwarf-bane guards swirled as they went to protect their King . . . but quarrels found themselves inside bleeding skulls.
The surviving dwarf-bane pounced on the King, axe raised. Neybark shouted as Murtagh pushed him aside, pulling his sword from its sheath as he narrowly blocked the axe blow from connecting with the King's unarmored torso. The King fell backwards as the assassin hissed, dropping the axe and pulling a stone dagger from underneath the sleeve of the armor. The killer vaulted at Murtagh, who shoved the dagger point away from his face with a swift swipe of his sword.
The dwarf landed gracefully, twirling the dagger in his fingers before attacking again. Murtagh noticed in his peripheral vision robed bodies falling from the buildings that flanked them . . .
but he focused on the Dwarib as
Its nimble dagger jabbed between Morzan's sword. The assassin was fast, but dragged down by armor. Murtagh blocked all of the blows, and then found an opening. The assassin gasped as it tried to cover its face . . . but it was too late. Murtagh slipped the point of his blade underneath the edge of the assassin's dagger, and drove it below exposed clavicles.
The Dwarib died instantly. Murtagh dropped his bloody sword as authorities surrounded him, spears leveled on his body.
"Varna! Varna! Megmamen a Gun-La!" Neybark shouted, and the bush of spears around Murtagh shrunk as the King himself walked through. He stood slightly taller than Murtagh, and looked down at him with two black eyes. Suddenly, giant arms lifted him into the air, and the King shouted joyfully.
"Szabior! Az emba vedelmezo aGun-la!" The Dwarf king shouted, and as Murtagh was shaken in the air, he looked at Neybark, confusion written on his face.
Neybark wiped sweat from his brow and shouted over the cheers of the dwarves around them.
"He says you are the savior of kings!" He screamed. Murtagh laughed as he was thrown into the air.
"HE failed."
Obron wrung his hands, his heart beating faster than he would like. He wished he had a cup of wine . . . there was a cup, on the table, but he dare not drink it. It was a test, and like all things when dealing with Vermal Nyste, passing the tests meant life or death.
"I . . . I had no idea that he would . . ."
Vermal waved a hand. His face was shrouded by a black hood, and he thrummed his fingers on the glass table between them.
"You planted the false evidence on the assassin, did you not?"
"Y-yes."
Vermal smiled, softly.
"Good. You are free to go."
Obron was about to thank Vermal as a blade slid across his neck. He groped at his open throat, blood spilling between his fingers as it splattered onto the glass table. The last thing he saw before he died was Vermal removing his hood.
Obron swallowed his own blood in surprise as he saw a young Dwarib take a sip of the wine that was left on the table. Obron's lifeless body crashed against the glass, and then slid onto the ground.