Orb of Night

It was a calm night, well illuminated by a full moon. The woods were calm and still, no breeze ruffled the unstirred fields. The only redeeming quality was the cool temperature. A lone figure ran along a narrow trail through the dense woods, high above the riverbank. He stopped to listen. Drums, the faint melody of an exotic stringed instrument, and the lilting voice of a troupe of actors reached his ears. It was the perfect night for a party. The figure slipped off the trail and crept down the river bank, towards the sound of roaring water. His foot dislodged a large rock and he froze. Sweat trickled down his brow. He counted to thirty and, seeing no movement of guards, he continued.

Coming to the water's edge he encountered a problem. The full moon reflected off the foaming water, making a white surface, resulting in a horribly visible silhouette should he try to cross. The water was shallow, too shallow to swim. The figure scouted up and down the river bank looking for a place to cross. Finally he found a place where large tall rocks stuck out of the river, and, jumping from one ledge to another, he made his way across the raging tempest and struck into the woods on the far side. He followed the sounds of the party until suddenly he rose to the crest of a small hill. There he had his first sight of the celebration. It appeared to be a wedding of some sort, three large tents stood in the field, a large wagon stood nearby, and the area was littered with small buggies. About a quarter mile away stood a large farmhouse, an inadequate row of torches sketching the way across the field. Quickly, he climbed over the lip of the hill and descended towards the party. Between him and the party lay a bramble patch, very hard to navigate quietly or quickly. Climbing into a tree, he made his way along narrow branches, moving as silently as he could, his noise being covered by the singers. He made his way to the edge of the brambles and dropped to the ground, noiselessly.  

Pausing a moment, he reviewed his mission. Simple enough, his one goal was to isolate and kill the clan leader, leaving a sealed envelope with the body. A standard first mission for an apprentice assassin. He pressed on, gliding from tree to tree, cursing the full moon for it's brightness. With any luck, the party-goers and guards alike would be blinded by the firelight-a few glasses of the strong local liquor couldn't hurt either.

The assassin made his way around the area, very slowly scouting for the man he had to kill. He fingered the hilt of the long straight sword slung over his shoulder. Through the trees ahead, to the right of the party, he could see firelight, so he crept closer. A stone fire-pit sat in a garden, interlaced with stone walkways and walls. The fire cast dancing shadows across the area, good for hiding movement on this bright night. Taking a deep breath, the man took one final look through the garden, and, seeing no one, he darted into the open garden where he took shelter behind a low wall. His grin was spread wide under the face mask. Even though he was risking his life, he was still enjoying it; the exhilarating feeling of freedom that accompanied such adventures was always worth it. This time was different though. This time he had to kill.

The knowledge sobered him a little, and he made his way across the garden. Running parallel to the field was a stream enclosed by trees, the low water leaving plenty of stones to traverse with. An iron rail separated him from the stream's bank. He dashed at the rail and vaulted it, unexpectedly coming down with a cacophonous crash on some piece of metal. He dove to the ground. Listening for a disturbance, he lay like a rabbit quivering under the brush. After a few minutes he began to slowly crawl forward, picking his way as noiselessly as he could through the crisp undergrowth. A shout! He froze and slowly turned his head to look back at the garden where someone was standing, looking out into the darkness. He called again, and whistled, beckoning. Suddenly, the assassin realized he was calling a pet. 

He waited for the man to leave and then pressed on, now on the far side of the party. Diving out from the undergrowth, he rolled to one of the carriages and took another look at the party. The dancers were done dancing, and the singers were packing up their instruments. The party appeared to be over. People still remained talking in small groups. He hid under the carriage as people trickled past, back to the mansion and their buggies. After a half an hour, the assassin realized that the target man must be at the manor, as he wasn't in the tents, and hadn't passed by. How to get to the house... He had seen someone strike out across the field to the house, not by the lighted path. He readied himself, pulled the hood of his cloak over his face, adjusted his sword's visibility and stood up, walking out from behind the carriage. Heart pounding, he struggled to remain calm. “as long as I don't run, they wont notice anything and I'll be fine.” He kept going. When he was still about 30 feet from the fence surrounding the house, a light suddenly came around the corner, and open topped wagon with a dozen people in it was coming towards him. Nowhere to hide, he stood to one side and inclined his head, peeking subtly at the riders. He gasped. He was an arm's reach away from a wagon load of soldiers. He bowed further, and as soon as he was out of lantern light he quickly made his way to the house and hid behind a crate, watching the wagon. It stopped. It turned. It came back. He was paralyzed with fear, and only barely managed to creep closer to the house, going behind a conifer for cover. The guards passed his hiding place. The branches of the bush brushed the side of the wagon. It passed, and the assassin sighed with relief. He waited a few more minutes and crept from behind the tree.

The carriage yard looked like a good place to start, so he crept to where they were lined in rows on the grass and dirt. A group of people stood in the center, around a torch, waiting for the stable hands to bring their horses. Avoiding them was a simple task. He rummaged though a few of the carriages but found no clues to the whereabouts of the clan father, so back to the manor-house he went. Silently and slowly he made his way around the building, carefully avoiding making noise, while he listened for conversations inside the house. About halfway round, he heard an echoing whisper. Putting his ear to a metal drain set in the wall, he heard snatches of conversation from the mysterious whisperers, but he could not make sense of the words. He followed the drain with his eyes, up the side of the building and into a room leading off of a balcony. Quickly, he got a running start, and launched himself up to grab the lip of the balcony. With his heart in his throat, he pulled himself up and listened for disturbance until he was satisfied no one had seen him. He put his ear to the wall. There seemed to be three women in the room opposite his head, three ladies of the house. He waited for a good while, hoping for a morsel of information but getting nothing but talk of the weather and the party. The conversation died down, and he was ready to leave when suddenly he got what he needed to hear.

Sighing, one of the girls, the youngest, lamented that the old patriarch had gone for the month; what a shame he had to miss this party for a trip to the capitol city, all for some meeting with his lawyers.

Considering the situation, the would-be assassin jumped down from the balcony and continued around the house, his mission was a failure. He realized that there was no way he could return to the guild without completing his mission, he would have to continue. He crept back towards the carriage yard, from there he planned to enter the woods an loop around the tents from behind, where a small group of people still remained. He rounded a corner and saw, to his dismay, the guards from earlier, checking the carriages, their torches illuminating the yard and all within. Bad luck. Only one thing for it, to saunter across the field as he had done earlier, and hope that they would not recognize he did not belong. He stood up straight, adjusted his sword to hang under his cloak and began to walk forward, anticipating a shout or-- a bark! One of the men by the tent had a hunting dog, who set up a howling din as soon as he smelled this foreign man. The terrified assassin took off sprinting towards the tree line, knocking over a torch as he ran, expecting the dog to leap on his back at any moment. The men saw him now too and began to shout. He ran faster. The dog was called off, but the men pursued, unthinkingly. The assassin dove into the woods, and tried to crawl deeper into the brambles, but his sword had been caught and he could not move. The men who had followed looked briefly into the darkness before cursing at his disappearance, turning and leaving. The last one however, retrieved the dropped torch, and forayed into the thickets. He stood right at the edge of the thorns and cast the light of the torch directly on the assassin. Neither moved. Sweat dripped down the assassin's brow as he waited breathlessly for a shout, the drawing of steel, and the hot tearing of a blade in the ribs. It did not come.

After what seemed an eternity, the torch wielder turned and walked back to his friends, and the assassin was left in the darkness. He gathered his composure and pressed further on, slowly and silently. Wishing to see the area in full once more, he found a dying sycamore tree, and with squirrel-like agility, climbed it's scaly trunk. Standing on a branch, thirty feet above the field, he looked back over the grounds.

The mission had been a failure on many accounts, but he was still alive and had gathered valuable experience. Sliding down the trunk, the cloaked man moved like a shadow through the night, disappeared toward the capital.

Mr Ashby

21/9/2010