The Gauntlet : Chapter One

[ellyssian]

The Gauntlet
by Everett A Warren

Chapter 1
Ill Met – The Widowmaker – A Shadowman – Chrysalis
began August 1, 1999
completed September 15, 1999

"We have word, sir, that an assassin has been procured against you."

"And so? Do I not have the best guard in all this foul city?"

"It is said that Jandell will be the one."

There was silence.

"Well then." He looked up at his staff. And then he looked around the room, at the treasures he had accumulated over the years. After more silence, he spoke again. "Well then." Despite his great bulk he appeared now to suddenly deflate. There was nothing else to be said. He might as well take his own life and take whatever pleasure the hired killer derived with him to the grave. He said as much, and then spoke no more.

His staff and guards shuffled from one foot to the next. Stepping back as blood spread from the silent wound. The windows were still locked, the door secured, no one else in the room with them but the corpse and the men it most trusted. Not one whisper betrayed the assassin, not one movement, no mechanical devices were found. A blade, razor sharp, had cut through the neck, leaving only a bare flap of skin to prevent the head from toppling apart from the massive body. Each man in that room went, either timely or untimely as such things go, to his grave and still could not even fathom a guess as to how their master was slain.

~ ~ ~

"Nushos, my good barkeep, another round of your finest for my friends and I"

Boisterous are the youth, thought Nushos, who once was no better – perhaps much worse – then they, but now could only look down upon them with a slight distaste lingering in his eyes. Such a glance from a man the size and reputation of Nushos was generally enough to cower warlords, kings, and perhaps even some lesser deities. Such casual familiarity as this man showed to him was unavoidable given his reputation, but at the same time, knowing what Nushos was capable of kept most similar activity down to a bearable level of name-dropping and inference, always at a distance, and always with an avoidance of any actual direct association. When a man he had never met called him by name, Nushos became wary. "Come in to the money, then, eh?"

"Ah, you found me out sir, a quick piece of work and more wealth then this place brings in across a score of moons."

The bartender smiled, as it was called for, but there was nothing of any warmth in his gaze. A brigand, most likely, although the man didn't look worthy. A youngest son of a once-noble line. Threadbare and gaunt, but with pursestrings strained to the bursting, a fact which he much emphasised over the course of the evening. Perhaps he had some skill to him, to earn such a keep and fear not to fritter it away on petty entertainments, but Nushos doubted this greatly. Certainly, he lacked wisdom, for he seemed to trust his newfound mates implicitly, despite the fact that when he arrived, they knew him not until he showed the weight of the bag at his side. Another problematical judgement.

The Widowmaker was neither a tavern on the dock, nor a den of thieves, but it did cater to a rather skilled and dangerous clientele. Known to favour those who wandered the world, mercenaries at worst, heroes at best, or both depending on to whom the question was posed. Nusho's tavern, and the Inn alongside, could house, during the course of a single night, a band of Elven warriors from the forest and a dragon hunter pausing for libations, a few of the more civilised goblinkin from the tribes near the Marches and dark, lizard-like Chralags speaking amongst – or to – themselves in sibilant whispers and clicks, as well as any number of small, tightly coordinated groups of treasure-seekers, glory-hunters, devout pilgrims, and skilful maji. The Widowmaker took its name from the immense war sword hung behind the bar – and kept by its owner well oiled, both the blade itself and the brackets that held it. The Widowmaker, tavern and sword alike, were not known to tolerate fools, braggarts, or tyrants. As far as Nushos could gather, this monied-man qualified for at least two out of the three categories. As Nushos served up his famous dark, Deep Winter Ale, he wondered whether it would be up to him to put an end to this foolishness, or whether another member of his clientele, perhaps one or more of the three newfound best friends and close compatriots, would take on that task as their own.

"Much thanks, Nushos, you are truly a king amongst hosts." Raising his flagon to the barkeep, and then turning, thinking of how splendid a turn of words could be, the man who knew Nushos as well as he knew the three strangers who called him comrade drank deeply and smiled widely.

~ ~ ~

In a room some distance from both The Widowmaker and The Merchant's District a man looked in the mirror. He did not smile, and his reflection made no motion to do so of its own accord. Even in the light of three lamps the shadows seemed to gather to him, knowing one of their own. Perhaps, if it weren't for the colour of his attire, he might appear foppish, but the frills and lace and stylish ornamentation were all of the same hue – blacker than pitch. He wore upon one hip a sleek gentleman's foil. It's blade, hidden in black leather, was of purest shining steel. He had never, to the best of anyone's recognition, drawn it.

No. The bright foil, the fencer's favoured weapon, was not a tool for a man such as he. The rapier, hanging to the side, slightly below the foil, and at a slightly different angle, had a stronger, sharper blade. It was done in a style similar to that known as Damascus, save that its colours had no life in them, instead of swirling blues and pleasant shades it was a mass of black, so deep and so rich that the mind swam, taken into the folds of the metal. Without needing to question, it can be gathered that the hilt was of a like tint, and the scabbard no exception. He had other blades on him, more than most could count. Small thin blades, wide throwing wedges, stabbing dirks, parrying daggers. No, the foil did not come to any use. Perhaps it was there, as nothing else seemed to indicate, that he was a gentleman of noble birth and heritage.

He pulled the sable hood over his darkly coiled hair. Moonlight flashed momentarily on his charcoal hued skin and then, as if seeming to forget what it was about, that even a cold light wasn't fit to shine upon him, it wavered for a moment and lost him to the shadows.

~ ~ ~

"I thank you, boy, you have done well." She looked down upon him, nearly glowing, adorned in an outfit well suited to her – the velvet and lace, the strong leather, it followed no set fashion, although borrowed some mix from both the glamorous gown and a more functional riding ensemble. He kneeled, properly debasing himself before the princess. "Oh do get up. I frown upon treating stable boys in a poorer fashion than the horses they care for."

She turned, walked around in front of her stallion, one hand brushing through the wildly tossing mane, the other pulling her own hair from its bindings. Again the boy kneeled and bowed, knowing it was not proper for a man-servant to see a female member of the Royal Household in such a state of undress. Indeed, it was dangerous enough that she was without escort, either from her Ladies in Waiting or her Matron.

Looking down at him, she snorted and stomped a booted foot, mimicking closely her treasured steed, Ffaeyfyre. She shook her long, blonde tresses out, mixing them with the pure black jewelled mane for a moment, until she leaned down and collared the stable boy. None too gently she tossed him into a bale of hay several feet away. He stared in horror, cringing at what might come next.

"Please," she stressed, ending with a laugh. "I am not the tyrant those disgruntled at my father's reign would have me be. You have been here only a short time, but if I punish anyone, it is for taking poor care of their duties – and you need not worry there, I think he has not had better care since father decided I must act the role of princess and stop living in the stables – or I punish those who try to put me on some horrible pedestal. There's enough of that from the Lords and Ladies and Suitors and so forth."

"Yes, mila..." Head bowed as he spoke, he did not see the clod she kicked at him, but after it struck true, he looked up to see her hands balled at her side, mock anger on her face. "Yes, Chrysalis Maerinna." She frowned some, tilting her head to one side. "Chrys." He said the last quietly, nearly a whisper, but she accepted it.

She smiled, holding his gaze, breaking it of her own before she felt he would be forced to turn away. She stepped to the troughs and pulled on the greased wooden lever. Water began to fill one of the troughs, and Ffaeyfyre whinnied his thanks before drinking. They had quite a workout, on the grounds and then through the fields. She had started out with a full complement of lancers, her father's best cavalry. She sincerely hoped they would be able to find their way back on their own, although it would be bad for all involved if they returned without the princess. She supposed that after a suitable rest she would have to ride out after them. It was just that they tended to think ill of her jumping, or thundering through trail-less woods. And, of course, they could never be allowed to find out about the war training.

Ffaeyfyre was a spirited stallion, despite all attempts to render it a gelding, to force it to be docile for the sweet young princess. A true bond existed between Ffaeyfyre, get of Malachies, the stallion king, and Princess Chrysalis Maerinna Talisantos, daughter of Talis Kharfamthas, Overlord of Barok Nor, for both were of the mind that sweet kind horses and sweet young princesses should be left behind at the earliest age possible. Even as she was nearing adulthood, the stallion was fast approaching the point where he found it difficult to hide his proud lineage and proud bearing. It was perceptible to less than five members of the court thus far, but the herd and other horses they met in their travels knew already that the black stallion was not to be trifled with. The same could almost be said about the princess, save that she hid the warskills she practiced slightly better, so that few within the castle or the city at large noticed the change in her bearing. A few travellers to the realm, however, may think twice before attempting some mischief with a young, beautiful, and obviously wealthy, woman alone in the woods.

She shook herself from her thoughts, picked up the brush and began to apply it to Ffaeyfyre.

"Mil..."

"If I could kick you from here, I would."

"Chrys. If I am not performing my duties, I humbly request punishment."

She snorted, then looked to the roof of the stable, without breaking from the pattern of the rubdown.

"Punishment, yes. You have been insolent enough, stable boy. Here, then, is your punishment. Pick up the other brush there, and have at the other flank. In this way if you call me 'milady' or 'princess' or some other honorific, if I am unable to reach under Faey's belly and kick you myself, then he will be able to reach about and nip you."

He obeyed, still looking down and away.

"Do you want to hear about the ride?"

"No, mil..." He quieted as she ducked a little, her long leg lashing out and striking him.

"There. The Tyrant Princess has her vengeance. Now, I say this only once more. Caring for Ffaeyfyre is one of the most joyful things I could imagine, second only to riding him into battle. My father doesn't think I should do either, but I shall attempt them one way or the other. Because I am no longer supposed to be doing what I am now doing, under pain of various punishments no servants or commoners are supposed to know princesses are subject too (such as brief stays in a private, rather cozy section of the dungeon away from anything remotely dirty, filthy, or dungeonish; a private set of stocks where no one may come by to see, let alone normal things such as throw rotting foods or stones or jeers and nasty insults; or, my favourite, a dunking chair where they never hold you under long enough to present a simple challenge let alone life-threatening difficulty), because of this, I need someone to take care of Ffaey all the rest of the time I can not manage to slip away from my Guardians and Supervisors and Watchers and Babysitters."

"I should not be hearing this, mi... Chrys." He corrected himself just as she was poised to strike.

She looked thoughtful a moment. "No, you probably shouldn't." She shrugged. After a few moments in near silence, with only the sound of brushing to accompany them, she began whispering: "I was whipped once. They caught me with a sword, trying to use it. My father and the fencing master. So they decided to teach me a lesson. After I beat the fencing master to a surrender, my father chained me up like a common criminal, and allowed the fencing master to issue fifty lashes." She looked up into the ashen white face. "Oh, stop. I made it up." After hearing a breath taken at last, she finished up with a quick comment that only ten lashes were involved.

Taking on a stern gaze, the stable boy said, slowly and purposefully and with some chagrin and a little pleading, "Milady."

Knowing this to be a request for her to cease harassing the poor servants she did the only thing she could. She leaped and rolled over the stallion's back, landing in the hay atop the stable boy. He lay rigid, on his side, afraid to move.

"You are far too insolent. Maybe I should take the lash to you." With that, she reached down and slapped his backside. "I can't abide such a serious nature." She began to tickle him in the ribs, and despite his best efforts, she soon had the best of them. Moments later, both laughing heartily, she lay underneath him, both covered in straw. "You know..." she said, calming and looking up at him. "...when you made that last infraction it was the first time you really looked at me. I could tell. They say I am old enough for suitors, now."

His laughter stopped as her lips brushed his. She drew back, finding at last, a limit in her play. She slid out from under him, stood slowly, brushing some straw from her hair. Silently, they fastened the light saddle, and she swung onto Ffaeyfyre's back and was gone, without so much as a minute pressure with her heels or a whisper of a verbal command.

The stable boy watched her go, knowing that what had occurred was not only extremely dangerous to his health and continued existence, but was also liable to happen again in some form or another, and he didn't know how long he would be able to keep it in his mind that she was a noble, one of the royal household, and he was far more humbler.

Nothing good could come from it. But still he climbed to the loft, scampered across a roof or three, and watched as she rode forth, her proud stallion, her own proud bearing, just another shadow in the darkness, exiting the castle through the most humble of all egresses, the only one that did not warrant a guard in times of peace – the sewage system.


And from a slightly higher vantage, a shadow crouched, watching the scene with much interest. A smile came, slowly, to the dark-skinned face, but the lips remained sealed. No flash of white teeth to disturb the night, nothing to show that it should fear what it's darkness hid. No sound as the shadow moved and slid, dropping, climbing, joining other shadows that tended to more stationary habits, unseen even to the owls in the high tower loft.

Copyright (c) 2000 Everett A Warren