Chapter 6: The Red Hand
So remember that 'problem' of mine I told you about? Yeah. It manifests itself in the form of various personality ticks, quirks, and eccentricities. One of them is that I can't stand to leave anything unfinished, it sticks in my craw. I can't really help it, it's a survival mechanism. Stuff happens, sometimes according to plan, other times not so much. In this line of work when stuff happens, you need to see it through to the end. Sometimes that means gritting your teeth and taking some pretty hard hits. If you don't, if you're timid or you hesitate or you back off, you'll die. Plain and simple.
Of course if you never back off, eventually you'll step into something too big to handle, and it will beat you.
I guess that's why you never meet any old assassins.
"What if they search you?" Brecca asked nervously, fidgeting with the string of his crossbow.
"Brecca," Zevran responded casually as he pulled on a long coat over his armor. "We're highly trained assassins walking into a meeting where someone we've never met is going to offer us an insane amount of money to kill someone else we've never met. They expect us to be armed, and it would be insulting to check us."
"You know I'm not talking about the knives and swords," said Brecca.
"Daggers," Feanor corrected him as he clasped up his own overcoat.
"Whatever," Brecca said rolling his eyes, "You know what I mean."
Feanor knew, and he winced slightly as the six delicate clay bulbs sewn into the inside of his coat clinked against his armor. If one of them broke it would make for a very…awkward and potentially life-ending scenario. Feanor forced the unpleasant thought from his mind.
"Don't worry about that," he said, "Just worry about keeping that crossbow pointed right at that front door. Anyone but us comes out, shoot em."
"Anyone but us," Zevran repeated, emphasizing the 'but us.' "I swear to the Maker, Brecca, if you kill me my spirit will come back and haunt you until your dying day.
Feanor chuckled as Brecca grumbled something about knowing what he was doing and settled in behind a fallen tree, resting his crossbow on the trunk and levelling it at the door of the inn. It was an unremarkable, single-story building maybe a dozen yards from where the Wardens were positioned across the road in a small copse of trees. There were hundreds of such roadside inns all over Ferelden. They were rarely crowded, but this one seemed conspicuously devoid of life. There were no wagons or tethered horses out front, and the building itself was in a sorry state of repair. It would have seemed abandoned if not for the glow of light that leaked out from the shuttered windows. Someone was definitely inside.
Alderas materialized from the shadows like a wraith. Dressed in all black to blend in with the night, only his eyes were visible between the hood and cowl that covered his face.
"Perimeter's all clear," Alderas said, "Any sword-arms they have are inside."
"Alright," Feanor nodded, "Everyone stay sharp and frosty. Brecca, keep your eye on that front door, Alderas keep patrolling the perimeter. Give us a good warning if anyone creeps up. Quinn, keep the horses quiet, and if you hear the alarm or things start getting ugly, come running as fast as you can with that druffalo-killer."
Quinn grinned and patted the hilt of the massive great-sword sheathed on his horse's saddle. Alderas vanished between the trees as silently as he had appeared, and Brecca exhaled as he zeroed in on the front door. Feanor glanced at Zevran and nodded, and the two stepped casually from cover and headed toward the door.
"So," Zev asked, "Are we going to play good rogue, bad rogue?"
Feanor grinned. Both he and Zev had very intense personalities that they expressed in very different ways. Zevran oozed charm and was practically impossible to dislike, Feanor on the other hand radiated menace. His cold, blank stare made people immensely uncomfortable. Feanor could disarm just about anyone with a glare as easily as Zevran could disarm anyone with a smile. Engaging with both of them at the same time was usually enough to throw anyone from street toughs to nobility off balance. Their tandem mind game had proven to be extremely effective over the years.
"I imagine it will play out that way," Feanor responded as he opened the door to the inn. The two elves stepped inside and froze.
"…or maybe not," Feanor whispered grimly.
The twelve heavily armed men standing in the room turned as one to glare at Feanor and Zevran. A single glance told Feanor all he needed to know about them: The exquisite make of their arms and armor, the way they stood, the expressions on their faces, all of it told Feanor that these were no mere mercenaries or hired thugs. These men were all stone-cold killers. And there was something about their intensely focused glares that made Feanor uneasy. He could not quite put his finger on it until he noticed their eyes. The natural color of their irises were tinted with red, and seemed to glow faintly and unnaturally in the dim light.
"Ah, the Black Wardens," an Orlesian-accented voice called from the center of the room, "I am so glad you decided to attend. Please, step in out of the cold night air and have a seat."
Feanor slowly closed the door behind him and walked cautiously toward the man seated at the only table in the room. He was middle-aged with tan skin and slicked-back hair that was just beginning to fade from black to grey. He sported a neatly trimmed, oiled beard and wore obviously expensive black and red robes. He was the only man in the room that appeared to be unarmed, and the only one without glowing red eyes. Feanor slowly sat in one of the chairs across from the man, Zevran remained standing just over his shoulder. The man looked at both of them in turn, flashing perfectly straight, pearly-white teeth in an amicable smile.
"I am honored that the commanders of the Black chose to meet with me personally," the man said, glancing at Zevran, "Zevran Arainai," the man said by way of greeting. If Zevran was surprised that the man knew his identity, he did not show it. He kept his expression neutral and nodded politely. The man returned the gesture of greeting and turned to Feanor. "And Feanor…?"
"Just Feanor," Feanor cut him off coldly, folding his hands on the table in front of him. "It's a mononym, like 'Andraste.'"
"Very well," the man chuckled, "Welcome Zevran and 'just' Feanor. I have heard much of your prowess, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
"I'm sure it is," Zevran said with a hint of his coy charm. "Might I ask, since you know our names, may we have the pleasure of learning yours?"
"I am the Red Hand," the man responded, spreading his arms and bowing his head, as if he expected applause.
Of course you are, thought Feanor.
"The Red Hand?" Zevran inquired, raising a curious eyebrow. "I imagine that is a title, and not your name."
"No, no," said Feanor, "I've heard of him. Distant relation to the Blue Foot."
The Red Hand actually laughed heartily at that and slapped a knee.
"Oh my," he said, wiping away an imaginary tear, "How delightfully droll."
"Thank the Maker you think so," Zevran said, shooting a cautious glare at Feanor. "Might I say Ser…Hand…you travel with an impressive retinue."
"Ah yes, my guards," the Hand said, gesturing to the crowd of warriors spread around the room. "You must excuse their presence. One cannot be too careful, these are dark times we live in."
"You remember a time in Thedas' history that was not dark?" Feanor asked. The Hand chuckled again and wagged his finger.
"True enough," he said. "You must admit however, that these times are especially vexing. Mages and Templars tearing each other to shreds before the Blight is even a decade gone. Then a hole is ripped in the sky, the Chantry all but destroyed, and now demons fall through the veil and roam the land. As if that were not enough, we must contend with a war between two armies of fanatics. On the one side, the Venatori, led by a madman who believes he can become god. On the other, the Inquisition, led by a different madman who believes he is a prophet sent by god. One could be excused for thinking the world is coming to an end."
"But not you," Feanor said slowly, choosing to ignore the Hand's assessment of the Inquisition as fanatics. He didn't know much about them or the Venatori, but he knew enough to be certain which faction was on the right side of history. "You do not believe the world is ending," Feanor continued, "Or we would not be having this conversation."
"Correct you are my astute friend," the Hand said with a knowing grin. "The world is not ending, but it is changing. A new era is upon us, one I intend to be on the forefront of. And I wish to offer you the opportunity to help me get there."
The Hand leaned forward and adopted a more businesslike tone. Feanor watched him carefully, his eyes occasionally darting to the armed men standing about the room. None of them seemed to have so much as shifted their weight from one foot to the other.
"I am told that the Black Wardens are the best," the Hand began, "And the contract I am opening requires the best to carry it out."
"If you have heard we are the best," Zevran said cautiously, "Why have you hired the Antivan Crows as well?"
"Because I have also been told that they are the best," he said matter-of-factly. "So I decided to hedge my bets, if one wants a job done badly enough one cannot afford to rely solely on a single party, however great they are rumored to be."
Feanor glanced over his shoulder at Zevran who met his gaze and nodded slightly. At least the Hand's logic made sense. It was a little bit comforting to know that they weren't dealing with an eccentric loon who thought of this as a game. Feanor returned his gaze to the Hand and chose his words carefully.
"The issues between the Crows and the Black run deep," he said, "So I'm curious to know what you offered them that made them agree to the unique terms of your contract," Feanor paused, "And what you seem to think is enough to make us agree."
"For payment I offer whatever you want," the Hand said.
"Whatever we want?" Zevran asked skeptically after a long pause.
"Whatever you want," he repeated. "Money, influence, information, they are of no consequence. And I can promise you something far more valuable," the Hand paused for effect. "Reputation. Whoever successfully closes this contract will be able to claim, beyond any doubt, that they are indeed superior. If it is you, your reputation will soar, you will be untouchable. You will watch as your power waxes and that of the Crows wanes. If you succeed in this where they fail, their days will be well and truly numbered. Reputation my friends, is more powerful than steel or magic. Either the Crows will wither and die, or you will."
The Hand's words rolled over in Feanor's mind. He chuckled mirthlessly and shook his head. He knew grandstanding when he saw it.
"Impossible," Feanor said, leaning forward a bit aggressively. "The Crows will not go away if they fail in just this one task, nor will we."
"And even if it were possible," Zevran added, "If you are so powerful that you can offer us anything we want, and I promise that we can imagine quite a bit, why don't you just kill this person yourself?"
"There is a time and a place for all things under the sun," the Hand said cryptically, leaning back casually in his chair. "And at this time, my place is in the shadows. As for the impossible," his gaze settled firmly on Feanor, "You above all else should know that nothing is impossible." There was a certainty in the Hand's voice that brooked no contradiction. Feanor realized that this was a man used to power, whose every word had always become deed.
"Ok," he said, "I choose to believe you, we'll bite. Who is the target?"
The Red Hand produced a small piece of paper from the folds of his robe, placed it face down on the table and slid it to Feanor. He stared at it for a moment before carefully picking it up and turning it over. His heart skipped a beat in his chest. He blinked a few times, not believing what he was reading. The words of the Saarebas echoed in his mind: They will ask you to do something you cannot do…He held the paper up over his shoulder so Zevran could see, and his friend gasped in surprise. Feanor looked at him, and a silent communication passed between the two men. Feanor folded the paper, placed it on the table, and slid it back to the Hand.
"No," Feanor said.
"No?" The Hand asked, as if he did not quite understand what the word meant.
"No," Feanor repeated. "The Black Wardens do not accept this contract. We will leave it to the Crows to benefit from your…largesse."
The Hand's nostrils flared. He cracked his knuckles and slowly placed his palms flat on the table. Feanor was sure he saw one of the man's eyes twitch.
"Why?" the Hand demanded, just barely keeping his voice level.
"Perhaps you were not made clear on the nature of our work," Zevran said. He had abandoned the charming façade, now his face was deadly serious. "We only kill people who deserve death."
"And you think that he does not deserve death?" the Hand asked, his voice rising slightly in pitch.
"No," Feanor said without hesitation. "Not for you, not for anyone. Not for all the coin in Thedas."
The Hand stared at them both through eyes narrowed into slits. Finally he slumped back in his chair and sighed.
"That is…unfortunate," he said almost sadly. "I must admit, I expected men in your line of work to be completely lacking in moral qualms. Your dedication to whatever oaths you have sworn is commendable, lesser men would have abandoned them for much less then what I offer you. I believed that everyone has a price, it seems I was mistaken. You have my respect, Black Wardens."
"So there are no…hard feelings?" Zevran asked suspiciously.
"None whatsoever," the Hand said with the utmost sincerity. Feanor relaxed a bit and felt Zevran do the same at his back.
"Do not misunderstand," the Hand continued, "I cannot possibly let you live."
"What!?" exclaimed Feanor. The Hand just shrugged.
"You have seen my face," he said, "You know who it is I want killed, and I'm afraid I cannot allow the possibility, however slight, of you interfering with what must be done," the Hand sounded genuinely remorseful. "I am truly sorry. You would have made powerful allies."
"We will not interfere!" Zevran pleaded, "That is not how this works! Let us walk out that door and you need never hear from us again, I swear it!"
"And I believe you, Zevran Arainai, truly I do," the Hand said affectionately. Then his voice turned cold, "But in this, I'm afraid you are either with me or against me."
The Hand waved and twelve swords were unsheathed as the guards began advancing purposefully toward the table. Feanor sprang to his feet and pressed his back against Zevran's, both men dropping into defensive stances. They looked about the room frantically, and Feanor knew there was no way they'd make it past so many well trained swords.
"Wait, wait!" Feanor said, his hands extended in supplication, "Just…listen to me for one moment!"
The Hand gestured and his men stopped advancing, but did not lower their swords. Feanor took a few deep breathes and steadied himself.
"Please, just answer me this," Feanor said, "Do you know what lyrium sand is?"
"Yes…" the Hand said, his expression equal parts curious and warry.
"Oh, good," Zevran said, and with a smile and a flourish he opened his long coat, revealing six clay bulbs each about the size of a fist sewn into the sides. The guardsmen looked at each other and their master with what might have been confusion, not sure of how they should react. The Hand himself seemed quizzical as well, but he had become noticeably more rigid in his chair.
"Not a very spectacular thing, lyrium sand," Feanor said as he slowly unclasped his own coat to reveal another six bulbs, "Rare, but actually pretty useless…unless you want to knock down a wall." Feanor plucked one of the balls from his coat and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. "Because when mixed with the right components, a handful can blow a hole through six feet of granite. If you want the biggest bang, you can just drop in a few grains of drakestone." Feanor rolled the clay bulb across the table toward the Hand, who caught it and held it up gingerly.
"There are two compartments inside that little ball," Feanor said with a malicious grin, "One containing lyrium sand, and the other containing shavings of drakestone. Note how thin the clay is. Drop one, fall on one, bump one the wrong way, and boom. One goes off, so do the other eleven. They all break and there'll be nothing left of this inn but a smoking crater." Feanor chuckled wickedly, his cold grin turning into an even colder sneer. "See where I'm going with this, ruffles?"
The Hand stared at the ball Feanor had rolled to him, understanding and a hint of fear dawning in his eyes. He looked past the ball at Feanor's now blank expression.
"You're bluffing," the Hand hissed, "You would kill yourselves!"
"And we would die smiling," Zevran said with a giddy grin, "Knowing that they will be finding pieces of you and your lackeys all the way to Val Royeaux."
"So why don't you just calm the frack down and reconsider the whole letting us walk out of here bit?" Feanor asked.
The Hand's face contorted with rage, his mouth forming words that did not seem to come. Suddenly he calmed, sat back in his chair and gently laid the clay ball down on the table in front of him. He waved a hand.
"Go," he said simply.
The armed men sheathed their swords and carefully stepped back to the walls.
"Good choice, well done," Zevran said.
Feanor and Zev stepped lightly to the door, keeping their backs pressed together and their coats held open as they moved. Just as they reached the exit, the Hand spoke again and the duo paused.
"You are already dead," he said in a monotone voice. "You are now marked, this only delays the inevitable." Feanor stared at the Red Hand, and the two men locked eyes across the room for one, deadly moment.
"Death is the only inevitable," Feanor said simply. "All any of us are really doing is delaying it as long as we can. To wit, you might want to wait awhile before following us. Don't want me to get jittery and start lobbing these little guys over my shoulder, do you?" With that, Feanor winked at the Red Hand, and he and Zev pulled the door shut behind them.
As soon as the door closed, Feanor put his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly. The two Elves sprinted across the road to the grove of trees. When they got there, Quinn was already in his saddle.
"Take it that didn't go well?" he asked as Feanor and Zevran sprang onto their horses. Alderas materialized from the darkness and climbed onto his own mount, pulling Brecca up behind him.
"Nope," Feanor said, "And I'm pretty sure we just royally ticked off a mage, so let's get scarce before he realizes these things are just filled with pebbles and dirt."
The four horses kicked into a gallop. They rode hard and fast for a long time, putting as much distance between themselves and the inn as possible before they had to slow their horses to a canter. Quinn rode up next to Feanor.
"So, what did they want?" he asked.
Feanor looked at Quinn, just barely making out the features of his face in the dark.
"They wanted us to kill the Inquisitor."