The dark elf turned to his mute kin and said, "Raise the standards, my general, and gather the loyal clans upon the plains. Raise highest that standard I have chosen for my own, and let all know we begin that which was ordained. You shall be my battlemaster, Rathor, and all shall know you stand highest among my servants. Glory and greatness now await. Then, when the mad snake has identified our quarry, lead forth the Dreadnoughts. Let those whose souls are mine serve us by seeking out our enemy. Find and destroy! Go!" The mute nodded once and left the cave.
The dark elf faced the witch. The witch nodded, knowing death raced to embrace her. She suddenly mouthed a complex incantation, her hands moving furiously through the air. But the dark elf pointed his finger at her and a shaft of dark energy came forth. She shrieked in agony, then exploded into bloody pieces. The dark elf wiped the gore from his face. With a deep laugh he gathered up his robe and left the cave. Outside, his companions waited, holding his horse. He mounted and with a jerk on the reins he spun his horse and led the mute and the Snak down the mountainside.
**********
City of Yeledor
**********
A mantle of heavy fog enshrouded Yeledor, the capital of the Kingdom. Although the city never slept, the usual night sounds were muffled by the nearly impenetrable haze, cloaking the movements of those still traversing the streets. Everything seemed more subdued, less strident than usual, almost as if the city were at peace with itself--a peace long deserved after the deadly shenanigans of the goblins.
For one inhabitant of the city, the night's conditions were nearly ideal. The fog had transformed every street into a narrow, dark passageway and each block of buildings into an isolated island. The unending gloom was occasionally interrupted by streetlamps at the corners, serving as small way stations of warmth and brightness for passers-by before they plunged once more into the damp and murky night. Between these small havens of illumination, anyone accustomed to working in darkness found extra protection. Small noises were deadened, and movements were masked from chance observation.
Connor Quickfingers went about his business. At nineteen years of age, Connor was already considered one of the most gifted members of the Swipers. He had been a thief nearly all his short life, starting as a street boy stealing fruit from peddlers' carts and eventually earning full membership in the guild. Connor never knew his father, and his mother had been a woman of pleasure in Low Street until her death at the hands of a drunken mercenary. Since then, Connor had devoted himself to thievery, and his rise in the ranks had been rapid.
The most astonishing thing about Connor's rise wasn't his age. The Swipers believed that as soon as a boy was ready to try thieving, he should be set loose. Failure had its own consequences; a poor thief quickly became a dead thief. As long as no one else was put at risk, there was little loss in the death of a thief with limited talents. No, the most astonishing fact about Connor's rapid rise was that he was nearly as good as he believed himself to be. An awesome feat most would label dangerous.
With stealth bordering on the supernatural, Connor moved about the room. The night's quiet was broken only by the hushed moans and groans of his unsuspecting host and hostess. The faint glow from a distant streetlamp, filtering through the open window, provided his only illumination. Connor glanced through the slightly ajar door and saw the merchant standing beside the bed, his wife on all fours in front of him. The woman's pendulous breasts swayed with each thrust she received from behind. While the husband wore an expression of satisfaction, the wife stared indifferently ahead.
Connor averted his gaze and peered around, relying on his other senses to aid his search as he sneaked away. A sudden change in the sound of the floorboards under his light tread revealed what he was looking for. He laughed inwardly at the merchant's lack of originality in hoarding his wealth.
With economical movement the Connor had the false floorboard up and his hand into the stashed gold. In the other room, the merchant suddenly grunted and exclaimed, "Fuck yes, take my load," drawing a sarcastic response from his wife, "Yes, you strong man, ugh you feel sooooo good." Connor froze in place, barely breathing, until the two quietened and the house was submerged in silence again.
After a while, when Connor was certain the couple had fallen asleep, he extracted a heavy pouch and gently tucked the booty into his tunic, securing it with his wide belt. He replaced the floorboard and returned to the window. With luck, it might be days before the theft was discovered. He stepped through the window and, turning backwards, reached up to grip the eaves. A quick pull, and he was sitting on the roof. Leaning over the edge, he closed the window shutters with a gentle push and jiggled the hook and twine so the inside latch fell back into place. He quickly retrieved his twine, silently laughing at the perplexity sure to ensue when the merchant tried to figure out how the gold had been taken.
Connor lay quietly for a moment, listening for any signs of waking from inside the house. When he heard none, he relaxed. Rising to his feet, he began traversing the Shadow Highway, the network of rooftops that crisscrossed the city. He leaped from the roof of the merchant's house to the next, then settled down upon the tiles to inspect his haul. The pouch was proof that the merchant had been a prudent man, setting aside a significant portion of his earnings. It would provide Connor with comfort for months, as long as he didn't squander it all.
A slight noise made Connor drop to the roof, pressing himself against the tiles in silence. He heard another sound, a shuffle of movement coming from the other side of a gable halfway down the roof from where he lay. The boy cursed his luck and ran a hand through his damp, curly brown hair. The presence of someone else on the nearby rooftops could only mean trouble.
Connor was working without writ from the Swipemaster, a habit of his that had earned him reprimands and beatings the few times he had been found out, but if he was now jeopardizing another thief's work, he was in line for more than harsh words or a cuffing around the room. By his risking the life of another thief, his own could be forfeit. The other alternative could prove as bad. If a freebooting thief was working the city without permission from the guild, it was Connor's duty to identify and report him. That would somewhat mitigate Connor's own breach of thief etiquette, especially if he gave the guild its normal two thirds of the merchant's gold.
Connor slipped over the peak of the roof and crawled along until he was opposite the source of the noise. All he needed to do was catch a glimpse of the independent thief and report him. The Swipemaster would circulate the man's description, and eventually, he would be paid a visit by some guild enforcers who would teach him the proper courtesies.
Connor edged upwards and peered over the rooftop, but he saw nothing. Looking around, he caught a faint movement from the corner of his eye and turned, yet again finding nothing. Connor settled down to wait, sensing something that piqued his sensitive curiosity. This acute curiosity was one of his few weaknesses when it came to work -- along with an occasional irritation with the need to share his loot with the guild, which frowned upon such reluctance. Raised by the Swipers, Connor was uneducated but cunning. One thing he knew for certain: sound doesn't materialize out of thin air -- unless magic is at play.
Connor settled down for a moment to puzzle out what he couldn't see before him. Either some invisible spirit was squirming about uncomfortably on the roof tiles, which, while possible, was highly unlikely, or something more tangible was hidden deep within the shadows on the other side of the gable.
Connor crawled along until he was opposite the gable and raised himself slightly to look over the peak of the roof. Peering into the darkness, he heard another faint scuffling and was rewarded with a glimpse of movement. Someone was deep within the gloom, cloaked in darkness. Connor could only locate him when he moved. He inched along below the peak to gain a better angle to observe, until he was directly behind the figure. Again, he reared up. The lurker adjusted his cloak around his shoulders, causing the hair on the back of Connor's neck to stand up. The figure before him was dressed all in black and carried a heavy crossbow. This was no ordinary thief but a Nightcrawler!
Connor remained perfectly still. To stumble across a member of the Assassin's Guild at work was not likely to enhance one's prospects of old age. But there was a standing order among the Swipers that any news of the brotherhood of assassins was to be reported at once, and the order had come down from the Swipemaster himself, the highest authority in the guild.
Connor chose to wait, trusting in his skills should he be discovered. He might not possess the nearly legendary attributes of a Nightcrawler, but he had the supreme confidence of a nineteen-year-old young man who had become the youngest Master Thief in the history of the Swipers. If he was discovered, it would not be his first chase across the Shadow Highway.
Time passed and Connor waited, with incredible discipline. A thief who cannot remain still for hours if needs be does not remain a living thief long. Occasionally Connor heard and glimpsed the assassin moving about. Connor's awe of the legendary Nightcrawlers steadily lessened, for this one displayed little skill in staying motionless and soundless. Connor had long before mastered the trick of quietly tensing and relaxing muscles to prevent cramping and stiffening. Then, he considered, most legends tend to be overstated, and in the Guild of Assassins' line of work it was only to their advantage to keep people in awe of them.
Abruptly, the assassin moved, letting his cloak fall away completely as he raised his crossbow. Connor could hear hoofbeats approaching. Riders passed below, and the assassin slowly lowered the weapon. Obviously, those below had not been his intended target. Connor elbowed himself a little higher to gain a better view of the man, now that his cloak didn't conceal him. The assassin turned slightly, retrieving his cloak, exposing his face to Connor.
The thief gathered his legs under him, prepared to spring away if necessary, and studied the man. Connor could discern little, except that the man had dark hair and a light complexion. Then, the assassin appeared to be looking directly at the boy. Connor's heart pounded loudly in his ears, and he wondered how the assassin could fail to hear such a racket. However, the man turned back to his watch, and Connor dropped silently below the roof peak. He breathed slowly, fighting back a sudden urge to chuckle.
After the moment passed, he relaxed slightly and chanced another look. Once again, the assassin waited. Connor settled in, pondering the Nightcrawler's weapon. The heavy crossbow seemed an odd choice for a marksman, being less accurate than a good bow. It would suffice for someone with little training, as it delivered a bolt with thundering force -- a wound less than fatal from an arrow could prove deadly from a bolt due to the added shock of impact. Connor recalled seeing a steel cuirass on display in a tavern, sporting a hole the size of his fist punched through by a bolt from a heavy crossbow. However, the weapon had its drawbacks. Apart from its inaccuracy beyond a dozen yards, it had a limited range.
Connor craned his neck to watch the Nightcrawler. He shifted his weight slightly and suddenly, a tile gave way beneath his hand, and with a loud crack, it broke, falling away and clattering over the roof to crash onto the cobbles below. To Connor, it was like a thunderous peal sounding his doom. With inhuman speed, the assassin turned and fired. Connor's slipping saved his life; he couldn't have dodged fast enough to avoid the bolt, but gravity provided the necessary speed. He struck the roof and heard the quarrel pass over his head. For a brief instant, he imagined his head exploding like a ripe melon and silently thanked the patron god of thieves. Connor's reflexes saved him next, as he rolled to his right.
Where he had lain a moment before, a sword came crashing down. Knowing he couldn't gain enough of a lead to outrun the assassin, Connor leapt up into a crouch, pulling his dagger from his right boot in a single motion. He had little love for fighting, but he had realized early in his career that his life might depend upon his skill with the blade. He had practiced diligently whenever the opportunity arose. Connor only wished his rooftop escapade hadn't prevented him from bringing along his more useful rapier. The assassin turned to face the boy, and Connor noticed him teeter for a brief instant. The Nightcrawler might have quick reflexes, but he wasn't accustomed to the precarious footing the rooftops offered. Connor grinned, as much to hide his fear as from any amusement at the assassin's unease.
In a hissing whisper the assassin said, "Pray to whatever gods brought you here, boy." The assassin lashed out, the blade slicing the air where Connor had been, and the thief was off. He dashed along the roof and leapt back to the building wherein lived the merchant he had stolen from. A moment later he could hear the assassin landing also. Connor ran nimbly until he was confronted by a yawning gap. In his hurry he had forgotten there was a wide alley at this end of the building and the next building was impossibly distant. He spun about. The assassin was slowly approaching, his sword point levelled. Connor was struck by a thought and suddenly began a mad stomping dance upon the roof.
