PART I: The Shadow of Death
Summer is in the air as flowers bloom on trees and a nip in the air levels the humidity of the day collides with the coastal breeze. Villagers are about their business, selling goods and marrying with one another. Children follow a dog that has snatched a handkerchief and now runs down the cobblestone boardwalk.
From the local tavern, he overheard: the kingdom's princess was apparently kidnapped as a child, recently reunited with her real parents. She's beloved and is the celebrated by the kingdom; despite her marrying a retired thief. Due to a new order in the officer ranks, the crime in the kingdom vanished in half overnight.
Atop the roof of a local parlor shop, Michael Tuller gazes upon the people.
The Kingdom of Corona has proven to be quite the merry of most. There's a level of, equality that he never sees in others. Most seem to make a good living if they're willing to work hard. Yet this shouldn't denture the thieves that crawl beneath the city.
Crouching down, Michael rests one elbow on his knee and gazes at the streets. His black hood conceals his face as shadows obscure the features. He looks left and right, though the north end seems secure. Usually the south edge was the worst parts of town. But as he finished the thought, a scream erupts from the town square. Michael rises from his position and pivots right, bolting at a full sprint.
He leaps across rooftops and planks. He focuses on his breathing and heartbeat as he nears the cathedral's bell tower located in the Sought Edge. It isn't that far to get to The Square, and it provides him a high view over the heads of onlookers. He reaches the top and steps around the bell and settles next to a gargoyle overlooking the square.
A sound catches to his left, and he looks down and finds a group of men huddled close. He would've thought nothing of it, until he saw the brief view of a slim, and pale leg in the middle of the group.
A young girl is blindfolded and shackled to the wall. She was a pretty thing with cream-colored skin, red hair that falls to her shoulders in waves, and dazzling violet eyes. She wears dirtied rags, and is unconscious. She isn't moving, and it appears her body is trying to slack to her knees, but the shackles aren't allowing it.
Michael can see one man order the other to wake her, as he watches him rustle and then something sharp, like a needle, stabs the tip of the girl's forefinger. She cries out. The sound is just barely coming out of her mouth before his fist strikes her. Blood dribbles down her lips.
That is enough.
Michael rises from his position and as the bell chimes noon, his shadow is gone.
He's then on the ground just near the front of the alley. He doesn't know what's going on, or what the cause is, but he doesn't care. Michael could tell by the dirt stains on their uniforms, and bits of blood around the collar that these aren't the city guards; normally not noticed by the average citizen.
Also, their swords. For some odd reason, the guards around the kingdom had switched to frying pans as better weapons. These men carry steel swords, and stand before the girl as if she is a peasant in the presence of a man who owns the world.
One man yanks the blindfold off the girl's face. She looks to her captors. Three in total are surrounding her while citizens meander about; completely oblivious. Michael tries to listen to their conversation.
"What's going on?" One woman asks.
"Public humiliation." A man answers.
Michael expects to see the girl cower in fear, but she glares at the men with a look of absolute loathing. She is tough, he'll give her that. She tries to turn her head to spit, but the shackles around her neck prevent it. She spits the blood from her mouth. It dribbles down her neck and onto the front of her rags.
Michael places his hand on the hilt of his dagger. He watches as the leader approaches the girl with a sort of cocky walk. His smile suggests he holds all the power, and with his hand on the hilt of his sword shows he is prepared to strike at any sudden movements.
He says something to the girl. She replies, and the man's fist smashes into her face. Michael carefully slinks his way down the side of the building; careful not to disturb any trash.
"You're smart, strong, and beautiful." The leader says. "But you should know that no one crosses me."
He gazes at her, his eyes lingering over her chest. He runs his fingers along the girl's shoulder, the tickles her chin. The girl struggles against her chains. A look of disgust contorts her face into a snarl. The girl pulls so hard on her bindings that her wrists bled. Tears trickle down her cheeks.
"Oh, no, no, no." He whispers. "Don't cry."
"Fuck you." The girl whispers back.
He laughs, but not at all bothered. She is shackled and helpless. He has all day.
He presses the tip of his dagger against her right eyebrow. Michael sees him lean in and whispers something in her ear. The men presses his dagger further into her flesh. Blood trickles around her eye. She blinks against its sting.
"All day," Michael hears the man say as she slowly drags the dagger downward "I have all day."
Michael increases his speed towards the mosaic. Stepping over or around a number of puddles.
The leader cuts her eyebrow, her eyelid, and then her eye.
Her scream is bloodcurdling. The bell tower chimes.
The leader rams his mouth over hers, drinking in her scream like it's a fine wine. He pulls back, smiles at her.
When he's about to fondle her, he flies to the side from Michael's brutal kick to the head. The leader rolls along the hard ground stopping only when he hits the wall.
Michael now stands before the group, who has fallen dead silent. He has half the mind to shout for the guards, but he can't bring himself to shatter the silence. So he only draws another dagger from his belt.
One of the lackey's roars as he swings his sword, barreling towards Michael. The other readies his sword and sneers.
The first guard slashes his sword at Michael's chest. Michael parries it with the dagger in his left hand, steps closer, and then cuts across the man's face with his right. Blood splashes on his arm, but slides off like water.
The man howls as the tip hooks the underside of his eye. His companion lunges, forcing Michael back and preventing a killing blow. The wounded man clutches his face with his free hand, glaring with his good eye. The other man strikes again, a weak thrust that reveals just how green he is.
Michael bats the man's sword aside, slashes his wrist, and then hurls his dagger. He can easily kill a man from a rooftop. Standing mere feet away, they have no chance. The dagger strikes just above his gorget, and he gargles out a few unintelligible words as he collapses.
A great cry rises up as a woman shrieks in horror.
Good. Let the guards come.
Knowing his time is short, Michael presses an attack on the wounded soldier. The man parries a couple of Michael's stabs, his movements awkward from clutching his face with his other hand.
Michael curls about him, always drifting to his wounded side, until one of his blocks comes in to early. Michael's daggers sinks into the flesh of his throat and stomach. Gasping, the man falls and dies.
As puddles of blood pool under their bodies, and citizens gasp and scream in terror. Michael sheathes one dagger, keeping the serrated one in hand, and approaches the girl. Now she fidgets in fear and tries to wriggle her wrists out of the bindings; they scrape against her wounds and she grits her teeth. Behind him, the crowd wails and holler things towards him to get away from her.
Michael comes to level with her, and she turns her head to the side as far a she could, tears streaming down her already raw cheeks. Michael puts his free hand against the vicious wound on the girl's face, his fingers gently touching the flesh. Blood pools across the cloth around Michael's fingers, yet it is not absorbed into it.
The girl gasps at his touch, a shuddering breath escaping her lips. When she feels his touch is gentle, she slowly turns her head to face him and flutters her eyes open.
She looks into the shadows that obscure his features, seeing only the faintest hint of blue eyes.
"Are you alright?" Michael asks. The girl answers with an inconspicuous nod of her head. "Are you sure?"
"Who are you?" The girl's lips tremble as she asks.
"I'm a friend." He sighs as he assesses her wound. Blood continues to pour down her face, her neck, and her slender body. The eye is useless, completely useless.
"Thank you." She quietly weeps.
Michael gives the girl a faint smile, more like a scrunching of fabric from his mask. His hands are a blur about the girl's body. One by one the locks click open. The girl collapses into the Michael's arms, unable to stand.
"You're name?" The girl asks as she clutches his shoulders, one eye crying tears, the other blood.
"Unimportant." He replies.
Gently he puts the girl to her knees on the ground and wraps a blanket he picked from the one of the stands selling textiles, wrapping it around the girl's shoulders. It clings to her body and pools around her.
It covers her entirety, including her feet. Clutching her sides, the creases ripple like water as she fists it in her hands and huddles into it like a youngling. Now that she's covered, Michael turns his attention to the remaining man. He stands and puts his back to the wall. He still has his dagger.
"Uncalled for. I'll have you arrested for interfering with official officer business!" He shouts.
"That would be intimidating if you were part of the royal guard." Michael calmly snarls.
The man is about to shout in reply, when his eyes flick over Michael's shoulder. Michael turns and sees a trio of real guards, led by a citizen, file into the alley. The citizen points towards Michael then the man. They ready frying pans like weapons.
Michael turns back just in time as the thug spin his dagger lunging towards Michael's chest.
It never comes close.
He slaps it away with an open palm, kicks the man in the groin, and then slams an elbow into the man's forehead.
"You ought to be nicer with the ladies." Spinning his serrated dagger, Michael grips the man by scruffs of his hair and as the man tries to reason that killing him won't solve anything, Michael simply snarls and slices his throat. Blood splatters across the ground.
Simply tossing the body aside, Michael approaches the girl carefully. "Can I touch you?"' he asks.
The girl looks to him and nods her head. He helps her up and keeps an eye on her gait. She appears to be able to handle the walk towards the guards, until her knees quake and she tumbles into his chest. He manages to hold her up and keeps an arm around her shoulder.
He guides her to the guards, but as one carefully carries her, five others surround him. They point their pans towards him, and it takes all he has not to laugh. He holds his arms in the air in submission.
"No!" The girl cries. "He helped me! He's innocent!"
"He's interfered with public affairs without consulting the guards." The one soldier says.
"Without –! He saved me! Those men could've done worse and you're arresting him?" She argues.
She's shouting now, and he can't seem to pinpoint where the anger comes from, except that it swirls within her, violent and vicious and the strongest she's felt this whole time.
This seems to somehow strike the guards, as their grips on their 'weapons' loosen. Michael bows his head in respect to the officers. They lower their pans but he still keeps his arms above his head. Slowly, he reaches back towards his sheath of arrows.
"Be that as it may, we still need to take him in."
"What?!" the girl barks.
"He needs to be brought before the King and Queen. He may have justified actions, but he's still murdered men."
"I meant no disrespect to the law." Michael chimes.
"Of course, sir. But we had gotten word about who you are; you'll have to come with us." The guard responds.
"I'm afraid I can't do that."
In an instant Michael takes the arrow head and slaps it to the ground. Smoke erupts and envelops his body. Guards jump back and cough.
His cloak swirls about his body, his limbs and head fading away into a shapeless blob of back and gray. Michael wraps his cloak around his body, its fabric seemingly made of liquid shadow. A sudden jerk and he is gone, his body exploding into dark fragments that splashes across the walls and fades like smoke.
Standing at the end of the kingdom's bridge, he gazes at the kingdom gates, the salty air wafting into his nose. Turning on his heels, he keeps his hood up as he starts to walk away from the kingdom.
Since the death of his parents when he was thirteen, he has since made it a sworn duty he would abolish any form of crime in any kingdom he'd come across. Usually it ends peacefully as the guards let him go for being a "Helpful citizen."
But those rare cases where he wasn't easily excused for being 'heroic.' He usually has to take the more discreet escape; leaving behind some coin. Whether they take it as a bribe to overlook his actions, or as a payment is up to them.
He hasn't seen a wanted poster of him yet, and he hopes his luck will hold out. Though a part of him does with for something to happen; maybe finally be hired as some mercenary or get picked up by a high-ranking citizen for protection. Hell, he'll even settle as a desk clerk for a library, at this point. Ever since the ending of a long-standing rebellion in his own hold, Michael has been a man without much of a purpose.
His kingdom – a forgotten land he once called home – was once ruled by a ruthless king. If any were to speak ill will of him, they were usually dragged to the castle dungeons and never seen again. If they were lucky, they'd be a public example – at least then you'd know they weren't suffering anymore.
And gods forbid anyone spoke of the rebellion in the kingdom. That was a guaranteed trip to the gallows. Though, the rules seemed to vary, from time to time; like when three black-clothed guards showed up at his cabin home, accusing his parents of being rebels.
There was very little talking, and so much bloodshed.
Needless to say he joined the rebel cause shortly after, excelling at his training and working his way up into the elite ranks. He never led anyone bigger than a group of three; never really desiring power. Not really wanting it.
It took years to train, but only days to overthrow the king; Michael having the pleasure of holding his head out over the balcony for all to see. Through those years, folks have taken it upon themselves to give him an alias: The Reaper.
It's not the best name, but it is fitting, and frankly he can't care less about it. All that the world knows about The Reaper is that he is male. And frankly, he wants to keep it that way.
A new order was quickly established after that; a collective vote putting a new, and better person on the throne.
Michael was cleared of all would-be charges, and soon the rebels disbanded; some taking up refuge as castle guards, others simply carrying on with their own lives – settling down, starting families.
But there were others, like himself, who still couldn't sleep at night despite the justice that had been brought for those who lost more at the hands of that king.
During his time there, he would train so often, and so hard that the exhaustion usually lulled him to sleep. But with the king dead, and his one purpose in life fulfilled he felt . . . empty.
And with years of training branded into his brain, it's not so easy to just break the habits. Never sleeping in the same place twice and carefully covering his tracks. He can't recall the last time he slept in a place comfortably; able to relax without needing to hug a dagger close to his chest.
As the sky begins to surrender to the night, Michael stumbles across a local inn for travelers. Walking up the steps, he stops upon seeing a beggar sitting on the outside bench, a bucket placed in front of him with nothing but scrapes of food inside. He gazes at the beggar. He gives a slight smile and flicks a coin into the bucket.
"Oh thank you. May the gods bless your kind heart." He praises.
Michael nods and enters the inn. Inside, he takes note of only the three customers. A huge fireplace is at the center, with long wooden tables set against the walls, and chairs scattered about in a tasteful fashion.
He approaches the counter and orders a room for the night. The bartender shows him to his room and he shuts the door behind him. It takes him five minutes to search the room for any spyholes or signs of danger, five minutes to lift the framed painting on the wood-paneled walls, tap at the floorboards, seal the gap between the door and the floor, and shutter the windows.
When he is certain that no one can either see him or hear him, he rips off his hood, unties his mask and tosses them onto the chair.
He throws himself on the small bed – which seems more like a cot – and pulls out a worn book he keeps strapped against his quiver. It's charming read and is something to get his mind off of things, allowing him to escape for however many pages he can cram before sleep.
Reading has always been another escape for him. He can still remember the stacks of books that covered his bedroom at his family's old home.
Time passes by, as told by the candlestick on his table as it slowly shrinks. As he nears the end of a chapter, a creak in the wood catches his attention. Michael freezes and flicks his gaze around his room.
He slowly sits up and sets the book aside. There is only one wardrobe in his room, a chest, a single table and chair, and a bed. The stout candle flickers at the slightest breeze. There's is no other room for someone to be in here.
He stands and gazes around the room. He goes to the door and opens it, sticking his head out, and glances around the inn. The bartender has changed shifts, and a drunkard has his head flopped in the table snoring.
Gazing out the windows located above the vaulted ceiling, it has to be at least eleven o'clock at night. Michael steps out of his room and begins to circle around the fireplace.
Nothing seems out of place, and the bartender doesn't seem bothered, though this doesn't calm him. As he goes back into his room, he glances at the bartender who keep wiping the counter with an old rag, as if cleaning is a necessity. He locks the door behind him as he enters.
As he does, the room goes dark.
He instantly spins and lunges forward. A hand grabs his arm and drags him to the side. Someone shoves a burlap sack over his head while someone else pushes him against the wall.
He struggles to breathe and thrashes against them. Struggling with the fabric covering his face, there are at least two hands on his arms. He twists one arm free and punches, hitting someone in a shoulder, or a chin, he can't tell. Through it all, he doesn't cry out for help.
"Hey!" A male voice says. "That hurt!"
"We're sorry for startling you, Michael." Another man says, his tone softer. Gentler. "But anonymity is integral to our operation. We mean you no harm."
He pauses for a minute at the mention of his name. No one should know his name. This man must have some, secured, connection if he is able to get this information. "Then let go of me." He growls. All the hands holding him to the wall fall away. "Who are you?" He demands.
"We are representatives of another kingdom in dire need your, talents." The man continues. Michael can tell he is trying to quell panic, his voice laced with urgency.
This makes him laugh. "Why the need to take drastic measures?"
"We've caught wind of your, recent acts, and weren't sure whether you'd be hostile." Another voice responds, deeper, gruff.
"Which circumstance are you referencing?" Michael asks, crossing his arms.
"Back in your home kingdom." Is all honey-dripping man's voice says, and it's all he needs to say.
"Well, I'm no criminal, and your obviously not here to arrest me, so what problems do you have?" Michael asks. He tries to see through the fibers of whatever is over his head, but they are too dense and it is too dark.
"If you'll just head outside, there is a carriage waiting for you. We'll discuss when the matters are more, private."
"Well at least let me ask you this," Michael says, pointing to the burlap sack. "If I'm going to see who you are, in a matter of minutes, why is it so important to keep this thing over my head?"
"A day contains many dangers," the voice says. "especially with a man of your status. Meet us outside in five minutes."
All at once, the door swings open, blowing the sack against Michael's cheeks, and he hears running footsteps down the hall and the opening of the front door.
He instantly pulls the sack from his head and glances over his shoulder. The bartender is gone and the innkeeper as just come up from the cellar. Folding the sack and tucking it away on his belt, he gathers his things.
Once five minutes have passed, Michael pulls up his hood, secures his mask and hastily exists the inn. Outside, twilight was beginning to arise over the horizon. There are little to no people outside, and an early morning breeze drifts through the town, causing the wood foundations moan.
Parked just outside the inn is a pale blue carriage. Its intricate designed structure defines that of a high class. The color itself is a pale, almost icy blue with pearl white outlines that could be made of actual pearl for all he knew.
Gilt details chased the walls and netted the windows while a giant snowflake dominates the entire back. The coachman sits straight with his head facing forward. His posture so stiff that he looks like he made be made of plastic. He doesn't turn his head even as Michael approaches. A footman stands at the open carriage door with a similar stature, only he actually looks to him and gestures him in.
Michael walks up the two steps and raises his eyebrows. The interior has navy-blue plush cushions and crystal snowflakes hang suspended from the ceiling, wavering ever so slightly. Embroidered pillows sit on either side of the cushions while velvet carpeting muffles his footsteps.
With one seat occupied by a cloaked figure, Michael takes the seat across. He folds his hands together and waits for the figure to say something, otherwise he might as well just walk out. No pointing going anywhere until he knows where he's going and why.
The man first removes his hood revealing a balding man in his mid-thirties. Underneath the black cloak, he wears a green and purple button suit with a golden yellow stylized crocus crest encompassed over his heart.
Michael has recognized it before. Usually they are associated and prominent with the kingdom of Arendelle. He furrows his eyebrows.
"You must be boiling in all that clothing." He says by way of greeting.
He crosses his arms behind his head. "I'm used to it." The mask and clothes are a necessary precaution, one that makes it far easier to protect his identity. How else is he able to stroll down the board avenues of kingdoms, or infiltrate grand parties by posing as foreign nobility? "How do you know my name?" Michael asks.
"Connections." The man replies. Fair enough. The man bows his head slightly. "Thank you for meeting us. I know it wasn't our, smartest first impression by far." The man says.
"If you've got a job for me let's hear it." Michael says flatly.
"First, a little history lesson." The man says holding up a gloved hand. "I am a representative of the Kingdom of Arendelle; as I'm sure you've taken notice. My Queen and her sister are beloved by all who know them. Elsa is the oldest, and after the death of their parents, she ascended the throne."
Michael leans back into the seat and folds his arms. "I extend my condolences."
The man bows his head in thanks. He looks nervous given Michael's hood and cowl that only reveals his blue eyes. "Our Queen Elsa is, gifted, so to speak."
"Gifted how?"
"She, has the ability of winter. She can create flurries with a flick of her wrist. And she is also, very powerful." The man explains.
"Seems like quite the dictator." Michael says.
"Not at all. Quite the opposite. Queen Elsa actually feared her gift for most of her life. She secluded herself from the world, and even her own sister. For so many years their royal majesties have kept the gates closed, and reduced the staff because of her ability. Only recently has she regained control and now rules the kingdom with as much grace and dignity as her parents. As the queen regnant of the kingdom of Arendelle, she is calm, reserved and regal, and is experienced in grace and poise." He explains, his eyes lighting with passion for his gifted queen.
As he speaks, Michael hears the coachman snap the reins on the horses and the carriage lurches forward. The man is still talking like nothing is happening, but Michael ignores his talking.
"Wait, what the hell is happening?" he asks.
"W-we're moving." The man stutters, confused.
Looking out the back window, Michael growls in aggravation. "Stop the carriage." he says.
"But sir –"
"Stop the damn carriage!" He says with a heavy thump of his wrist against the wall. The carriage harshly stops and the driver looks in back to see if something is wrong. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me everything." Michael clarifies.
"I'm trying sir, but we need to get there quickly –"
"We are not moving until I have all the details. I need to make sure this isn't a waste of my time."
The man sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "A man of business, I see."
Michael simply waves his hand as he leans back against the seat.
"Ah yes, of course. Now I've recently been given word that an assassin is hiding out in our kingdom. And he was sent to annihilate the remainder of the royal family."
"And this is all based off of rumors that may or may not be true." Michael says, unconvinced.
"I understand you're doubts, but please note that with any kingdom, any threat to the royalty is a matter that must be addressed even if it is all just gossip. Surely you must understand that." The man persist.
"So why hire me? Why not some brute mercenary or double the guards? Plus, if your beloved queen has magic, I'm sure she's more than capable of looking out for herself." Michael says.
"Keep in mind she is hesitant to use her powers in combat. It is her last resort. Only if she is forced to will she use them. Plus, this is an assassin. A creature skilled in the art of deception." The man leans forward, elbows to his knees and makes vigorous motions with his hands. "Royalty is reminded about it, but not trained to defend against it. We're hiring you because you are a man of the shadows. You seem to know when danger is abound, as you demonstrated in the inn. Your skills are unmatched. Help us, please. You're the only one who is skilled enough."
Michael stills for a moment, then asks, "You know my story?"
"I only have basic facts. Nothing personal and nothing concrete; mostly myths and legends.
"Myths are usually based on some version of the truth." Michael purrs, smiling beneath his mask; even if the man can't see it.
"I assume you'd rather not talk about it. But I can guarantee you whatever payment you ask, it can be met."
"A bold claim, though I don't seek much reward these days."
Indeed, just enough for him to rent a room at another inn in another town. Michael ponders for a moment before he leans back, and crosses his ankle to his knee.
"I can assure you, both sisters will welcome you with open arms."
"Hold on." Michael holds up an open palm hand. "If I'm to do this, I'd prefer I do it with tactics I'm familiar with."
"Of course. We assumed as much. The Queen is hosting a party tonight, details aren't important. But what is important, is that it's a gathering of very significant people. What better way to kill the Queen than in front of her predecessors."
Michael eyes the man. "Every detail is important."
The man merely laughs. "I have this uncanny ability to delve into the minds of others." He says.
"Remind me not to get close to you." Michael's tone cannot sound more bored. "So I assume I'm not going to be on guard duty?"
"No, I've contacted my associates, and they've planned to get you into the party with the crowd. Guards will be notified, so if anything were to happen, they won't target you. Their only concern will to be getting the Queen and Princess to safety."
Michael looks to the man and exhales deeply through his nose. it only makes the interior of his insufferable mask hotter.
"So, do we have a deal?" The man asks, extending out his hand.
Michael looks to it at first, sensing a trap; but gives a ghost of a smile and takes the man's hand.
"Deal."