The Son of Night

'A simple enough job' Alder thought to himself, overlooking the wide expanse of candle lit, labyrinthine streets that stretched itself on forever in all directions. Multiple dark shadows on the skyline -- with great spires, ramparts and bastions - silhouetted themselves against a sky that was not quite asleep yet; stars had emerged from the dark places, but faint traces of the amber sun lingered in the west and were stubborn to leave.

'Just in, grab the necklace, and out. Easy as breathing.' He whispered to himself, eyeing one of the larger silhouettes he recognised as the Magister's Retreat, the private abode of the royal magi whom daily busied themselves advising the king in magical matters or whatever else it was they did with their time. What that was, Alder neither knew, nor cared.

He could not explain why he hesitated, sat in a concealed overlook on the rooftop of a dingy pub, going over the planning of this job again and again. It was after all, as he told himself, a job that was straightforward, but as the client had stressed, certainly not without risk. The consequences of getting caught... who knew? But then again, those were never Alder's to know. In twenty-three years of life, and eighteen years of thievery, never once had he been caught. Perhaps it came naturally, or perhaps it was simply a means to survive all that time growing up on the streets, in the gutters.

No parents.

No past.

No future.

Barely a name.

But then again, as he had once told himself, what did it matter? Who in this grand metropolis would miss one child, one gawky little teenager? No, one man, he had tried to remind himself.

None of them would have missed him. Ever.

Bitterness flared in his chest at these thoughts, and his grip on the wooden railing tightened, threatening to splinter it for all the creaks and groans the rotting material made. He had always been strong physically. Tall and powerfully built with broad shoulders, but his short amount of dark red hair and rounded -- boyish -face had always lent him an air of innocence that was so easy to exploit.

"Excuse me mister, but could you please spare a coin and a bit of your time?" he remembered once asking a fussy old book-keeper in the marketplace in his most saccharine voice. The fool had fallen for it, and Balthasar, his long-time partner-in-crime had slipped behind the stand and snatched half a loaf of bread and a few dusty coins to boot whilst Alder had stood deaf to a hundred and one reasons why there ought to be laws against "filthy vermin" such as him.

'Balthasar...' he whispered to himself. The two had been as close as brothers for as long as either of them could remember. One had saved the other's life in a heist gone wrong many years ago. They had grown to live and steal together. Two absolute allies in a world where their enemies abounded. But there was always a little more to it than that, Alder thought.

He remembered distinctly the leaping sensation in his chest when they had locked eyes that night. Balthasar even looked somewhat like him, with a similarly athletic build, but with long onyx black hair and eyes that were grey but tinged with blue, like the colour of thunderclouds... But what exactly was that sensation? The answer had flown into his subconscious the moment he had posed the question to himself.

'I will do it tonight'. He resolved under his breath. 'I... I swear I will tell him, later.' But where was he? They had agreed to meet here at sundown. The planning of this job had hinged on both of them working in tandem, for it was the unwritten rule of the freelance thief that pure solitude was to invite risk. To infiltrate a heavily guarded tower, such as the Magister's Retreat for instance, without backup was to guarantee death. Minutes crawled past, until with no sound whatsoever, Alder recognised the presence that stood beside him. He turned, and there was Balthasar. Were it not for their deep familiarity, he would have had quite a job discerning who was beneath the large leather hood and linen balaclava that concealed Balthasar' face.

They exchanged a short greeting, and proceeded to begin cataloguing their toolkit. After all, now was the time for focus, and business had to come before pleasure.

They had dressed near enough identically, for Alder similarly shrouded his face. They were garbed in ordinary enough leather brigandines with an assortment of pouches and bandoliers that contained every tool they may or may not have needed to complete the job. Everything from hooked ropes, lock-picks, smoke bombs, various colourful alchemical solutions and climbing picks among numerous other items that were the stock and trade of two expert thieves. With not necessarily confidence, but just absolute focus and concentration, the two of them set off for the keep.

For two as seasoned as they in their trade, and in such a clustered rabbit warren of narrow streets and alleys, it was a trivial matter to keep to the cobble rooftops, out of sight and out of mind, as they journeyed towards the imposing silhouette of the Magister's Retreat.

It transcended an ordinary mage's tower, and was something akin to a walled city within a city. The stout stone walls were lined with numerous battlements and turrets, manned by a small army of not just typical city guards, but instead the magisters' own elite spellstriders, who were feared by kingdoms the world over for their unwavering discipline, high level of training in both the martial and magical, and their notorious ruthlessness. Neither Alder nor Balthasar were intimidated by the unflattering rumours that were the gossip of pubs and taverns all over the city about them.

'They're more corrupt than the church's inquisitors, and that's saying something!' was a popular line that had done the rounds over the years.

'Don't let them catch you after dark!'

The two thieves dismissed these as superstition, for they knew the spellstriders were greatly unpopular for the majority of the city, but lauded and fawned over by those in the king's court. But all the same, their experience had taught them long ago to never underestimate the enemy. To do so was a death sentence. As such, when they found themselves at the foot of the cobblestone wall, Alder took up a tiny blue phial of liquid from his side pouch, unstoppered it, and emptied it over the air in front of them. A small distortion in the air appeared where the liquid ran down like tears on an invisible face, creating a gap in what appeared to be a barrier spell. They stepped through to the other side. Here, Balthasar and Alder both took out the wooden bows they had brought as well as a hooked rope each. Aiming at the two highest windows they could, each shot found its mark, with the iron hook landing with a soft thunk. Each using a pair of metal climbing picks, they began the slow ascent.

One step up at a time. To rush would be suicidal. The night was only young, and they had many hours until the sun would spell the end of the operation.

Half way up.

Three quarters up.

Success.

They reached the open windows of what appeared to be the floor at the level of the wall's walkway, about halfway between the ground level courtyard and the top of the spire. Upon sliding inside, the two thieves found themselves in what seemed like an alchemist's laboratory, for they recognised a setup similar to their own -- albeit much neater and more orderly - with various alembics, beakers and flasks set down on the desks. Whilst the job at hand entailed grabbing a specific necklace that -- according to the client's information -- resided at the summit of the south tower, the one they had now infiltrated, neither thief had any qualms about taking whatever else they could. After all, here was a plentiful stock of rare ingredients just sitting and doing nothing here in some old fuss-pot's study.

After having lined their designated bags and satchels with a choice collection of rare and valuable reagents, Balthasar and Alder soundlessly ascended the spiral staircase in the corner of the room. They gave the room on the next floor one look before continuing up the stairs, for a few feet in front of them at the room's threshold was a large red rune symbol floating in the air. They immediately recognised it as the mage's universal signal for 'keep out, danger'. Whilst neither Alder nor Balthasar possessed formal magical training, they had learned enough to recognise runes all mages used universally to communicate in shorthand. Perhaps this room was the abode of someone's private collection of powerful spell tomes, or maybe a hazardous alchemical experiment. Regardless, even if what was on the other side was valuable, it wasn't worth alerting the entire keep for.

The same sight greeted them on the next floor up, but then on the fourth floor, nothing.

No rune. No danger.

It was a larger room than all the others, circular, and possessed a large four poster bed at its far side. Evidently these were the quarters of the master of this portion of the Retreat. He was asleep in the bed, snoring a little, but he was a much younger man than either Alder or Balthasar would have expected. In their experience, the highest ranking members of the Royal Magisters were little-old men in their seventies that were a frail collection of bones. But here was someone similar to themselves.

Young, early twenties perhaps.

Powerfully built, with an immaculate chest showing through the open, imperial red night-gown. Long hair fell down to his shoulder-blades, beautifully fair in colour.

The breath in Alder's throat froze as he drank in this man's appearance, and a constricting sensation rose in his chest. A sharp tap of Balthasar's gloved hand on his face brought him back to reality, and the sternness etched into his face reaffirmed what Alder already knew deep down.

Now more than ever was the time for focus. Nothing more, nothing less. Distractions at this stage could be disastrous.

Alder pointed to the desk on the other side of the chamber some twenty paces away. Atop it, on a small pedestal, was a magnificent silver necklace, holding multiple flawless sapphires and amethysts. Even in the darkness, it glimmered a soft white hue that clung to the silver. Perhaps it was enchanted somehow.

It didn't matter.

Alder looked across to Balthasar, and they both knew immediately what the other was thinking. That was their ticket to a better life. One of freedom.

Of at long last some stability. Somewhere, some-way to live. A home, far away from the unfriendly hustle, the corruption, the madness of this city that dared to call itself the great capital of the kingdom. Forget it, because now as Alder and Balthasar eyed the necklace with longing, not for the object itself, but for everything it represented to them, they saw a small parcel of land, and a stable amount of wealth. Wealth and Land. Two things that would ultimately bring them sanctuary and relief at long last.

They had reached the desk now, and upon closer inspection, noticed it was a workbench of sorts, with a couple of tools and a few other gem stones laying about. Perhaps the young man asleep in the bed was a jeweller by profession, and perhaps this was his masterpiece in progress. A closer inspection of the necklace itself, or more so the large sapphire fixed into the centrepiece, revealed a small inscription on it in tiny print reading:

"To William, with love, Lancelot."

Balthasar slowly, reverently, extended his gauntleted hand to grasp the necklace. Even if it was incomplete, the amount of gold they could make from selling it on was beyond imagining. His hand closed around the necklace.

Immediately a flash of silver light filled the chamber, and both Balthasar and Alder fell back onto the carpeted floor, completely paralysed with their arms by their sides, staring up at the ceiling.

'Good evening you two.' A cold voice sneered from somewhere behind them. Whilst Alder's chest continued to rise and fall, his limbs did not respond to his mind's commands. Neither he nor Balthasar could so much as twitch. Suddenly, there was the young man from earlier, who was evidently called Lancelot, stood over Alder. Horror gripped him as Lancelot looked down triumphantly at his two new catches, a twisted smirk forming on his jaw.

'I've been waiting here you know.' He began. To Alder, his voice did not match his body at all, for it was a deep sound that radiated darkness. 'For close to twenty years, the two of you have been a thorn in the kingdom's side. The guards wouldn't listen when I told them that you couldn't be caught by normal means...' he trailed off. Alder was listening intently, sensing Balthasar doing the same. For all they knew, anything Lancelot said could be important in escaping. After all, patience was among the most powerful weapons of an experienced thief. For now, they would bide their time, and Alder's heartbeat began to steady itself.

'The man who sought you out to commission you to come here and take my... no, William's necklace, was my minion all along. A set up job, I'm sure you're familiar with?' He went on. 'But now the question becomes, what to do with you? I could just kill you myself right now, and put an end to your misery-filled existence that no doubt becomes more painful with each day that crawls by...' Fear again boiled inside of Alder. Here they both were, all the planning had been for nothing. All their tools were useless without a moveable body.

But in truth, a small part of him deep inside was tired of this life of crime; tired of running, living in fear all the time. Tired of this world in fact perhaps. If there was one anchor that chained him here, it was Balthasar. The promise, or rather, the possibility of creating the life they'd both yearned for so long. But that hardly mattered now when either there would never again be a time to profess all the things he'd wanted -- needed -- to tell him, or they would both be dead. His heart sank as Lancelot continued.

'But then again, why kill you when your bodies can be put to much more efficient use. And also, our kind... are hunted and killed for sport often enough as it is...' he broke off, and his expression softened just a little. Alder realised what he was referring to, and something solemn entered his chest.

'After all, it's not so often you get a pair of live, hale and hearty young men such as yourselves wandering into the lion's den, so to speak. Better yet, orphans, with no parents, family or friends. No past. No future, barely a name... no one to miss you.' Lancelot trailed off again, evidently enjoying the depth to which his words stung them. Mingled fury and despair coursed through Alder like molten poison. How dare this wretched kid? How dare this snotty little upstart mock them from all the way up in this tower, far away from all the grime and noise of the streets. But what hurt the worst to him was knowing it was true. He'd seen it and lived it. He'd had similar thoughts himself even. He barely heard Lancelot muttering to himself.

'The inquisitors? They're still suspicious of me after they confiscated that letter... that love is forbidden makes it all the more thrilling... could these two...? No, no. Forget the inquisitors. Slaves? Hmm, certainly got strong enough bodies for it, but, they'd just escape. Or what about.... I wonder...' It seemed that the paralysis was beginning to wear off, for Alder found his fingers could now just about wriggle the tiniest fraction of an inch inside his gloves. His eyes could now move as well, and they darted over to Balthasar, who was frozen with his arm still outstretched above him almost comically.

Their eyes met for a moment, and for one glorious moment of fantasy, they weren't paralysed on the floor of some sadistic magister's chamber, but rather back at the small hovel they called home. Joking about how easy it had been to steal from the Magister's Retreat, and revelling in how they would soon be using the tiniest fraction of their new found wealth to buy a wagon and some horses and be leaving this gods-damned city and never returning. But the cold reality of the situation caught up with them. Lancelot's foot descended, and stomped down on the point where their gaze met.

'Touching...' he sneered. 'You know, in a small way, you remind me of myself. And because of that, I think I will show the two of you mercy... in a sense...' Just then however, his expression softened, looking as if stuck in a trance, and he closed his eyes and nodded, appearing to speak with someone -- or something -- that was not there.

'Yes, my lord... it will be done...' Alder was disturbed by this abrupt turn in his demeanour, but noticing that Lancelot had -- even momentarily -- taken his attention off of them, attempted to empty his mind of emotions, and focus purely on escaping. He had regained the use of at least his left hand, which was inching closer to the hidden dagger in his left trouser pocket. He noticed Lancelot's eyes hadn't reopened. He commanded his right leg to kick upwards.

Success! Relief crashed through him as he silently as he dared lowered it to the ground; surprise would be crucial that he now had at least one weapon. His fingers could almost touch the handle of the dagger, perhaps pain could cancel out this trance of paralysis? Alder glanced over at Balthasar, who had managed to retract his arm from the air, and now looked to be tensing and wriggling his body back into life. But then what? Indeed, now what? Alder thought to himself. It appeared the spellstriders hadn't been summoned or alerted. Perhaps together, they could overpower Lancelot and kill him? No. Alder told himself firmly. Just rob him blind and then...? But Alder never completed that train of thought. Several things seemed to happen at once.

Balthasar leapt up with a speed Alder had never seen before, and found within himself the will to do the same. Lancelot's eyes shot open, and he jumped back with stunned shock registering on his brutish face, which instantly devolved into a look of mingled fury and horror as the three men fought to the death. For all his bulk, it was evident that Lancelot was not accustomed to battling at a short distance. Orange flames engulfed his fist as he thrust it out. Alder easily caught his elbow from the side, and gripping his arm with all the strength he had left, pivoted him around as Balthasar lunged forward, dagger in hand, aiming squarely at Lancelot's throat thinking to land the death blow. Alder couldn't help feeling a deeply vindictive satisfaction looking at Lancelot's face that was quickly filling with panic. His verdant green eyes shone with desperation as the jagged edge of Balthasar's dagger was perhaps less than a second from his neck. He shouted something, but the sound never reached Alder's ears.

The world became... cold. Freezing. So cold he thought his blood would become ice. The world became... blue, and shaped strangely, like a bizarre kaleidoscope of polygons. He could see Balthasar and Lancelot, both a second between life and death. The moment... was time frozen? Why had Balthasar stopped? His blade was barely an inch from Lancelot's exposed neck. Then, Alder's hope imploded. He saw Lancelot's face change and his lips begin to move.

'You nearly got me... you two are much more competent than I had anticipated. No wonder the city guard could never catch you... But now it's over... and your race is run. How unfortunate'. The arrogance was gone from his tone, and all that remained was a cold evaluation of the scene. Alder tried to make out what it was he could see in Lancelot's face. Triumph? Relief? Satisfaction? He tried not to admit it to himself, but it almost seemed like pity; like the mingled frustration and disappointment of losing something he'd been looking forward to.

'No.' he finally said, after a small silence. 'My lord deems it necessary, but I cannot bear to look at you any longer.' He snapped his fingers, and what seemed to be the ice freezing Balthasar and Alder in place shattered, sending them both sailing backwards through the air, landing hard on the floor a short distance behind. Immediately they attempted to leap up again, but a flurry impossibly strong arms seized them from somewhere behind them, pinning their arms back and restraining them.