Chapter 1: Sleeping Owls

Assassinations are rarely weather-dependent, but if there ever was an ideal weather for one, this was it. The light air had adopted the mere hint of a chill that it only holds onto in the eves of late summer. It tasted vaguely herbal, like fresh-brewed tea left out to cool, though by day they were certain it would be boiling once more. But no need to worry of that now. The emergent stars outnumbered the small company one-thousand-to-one in a cloudless sky, a celestial reminder of the adversity they would hopefully skirt in the coming evening. A slight breeze drew jagged waves in the sagegrass, from time to time fixating on the wayfarers’ cloaks as if trying to admire the sheen on their mud-stained armor. Only the half moon offered the party its begrudging support, throwing beams of dim light into the natural pathways between the thickest patches of brush. Every now and again, the light snagged on the ornate seals that clasped each figure’s cloak, an emblem of a jade butterfly.

Save for scurrying, the night was quiet. The party paid respect to this fact with each silent step forward; daggers, swords, bows, and flasks all carefully swaddled in straps and holsters for the careful advance towards the stone bastion, whose glow readily cast off dusk’s mantle. Ambiguous silhouettes paced atop watchtowers and palisades, gazing outward at the grassy expanse that surrounded the rectangular fortress. It was nestled in the crook of a slow, gurgling river whose name the group could not be bothered to remember. A rigid architecture and numerous battle scars held as a testament to its valiant service. The assailants moved due north before veering left into the dark embrace of the Nmenian Thickets, which accepted its guests with ambivalent hospitality. The outlines of darting owls invited them to take their place amongst the low-hanging canopy. The Nmenian was one of many forests that graced the vast lands of Tiquiria; it was said that these were once ancient cropfields, though you wouldn’t think it now with how wild it runs. The crew were early to their perch upon the forest floor, so for now, it would be a base of operations. Fire was ill-advised for most infiltrations, so the group huddled closer together for warmth amidst the dew.

“Just how early are we?” a reedy voice whispered.

"Shh!!" exclaimed another three.

“An hour, at the most. Until the moon crests that tree there, see?” A rough finger pointed.

There were a little less than five-thousand stars in the sky, and a little less than five of them. Trammel was the “little less; he had lost a decent chunk of his ear in a siege when he was sixteen. He would joke about it now and again, though he rarely gave any true details on that unfortunate history. On another note, he was the best at swordplay this side of the continent, if rumors were to be believed. Granted, they were his rumors, but they had yet to be disproven, so it was as good as fact to those who found themselves at the mercy of his falchion. He shoved his chestnut hair out of his face to get a better view. It was Trammel who had asked about their timing.

The three who interrupted him were Holber, Vemelia, and Trik, in that respective order. Holber’s long hair often smelled of evergreen, whose trees he bore resemblance to: thin, serpentine, and towering. If Trammel was the best with a sword, Holber must have been the best at disproportionality, though no one would dare say that out-loud lest they invoke his temper (a truly terrible fate given his proficiency with poisons and blowdarts). He fiddled with those now, clinking vials and sloshing liquids that would soon mix with their target’s bloodstream. He carefully uncorked a vial of orange-ish liquid – it smelled putrid, of decaying fruit. He added it to his concoction, which he mixed in a larger, spherical bottle.

Then there was Vemelia, who usually complemented Holber’s calm attentiveness with her own form of quiet stoicism, though was presently wrinkling her nose. She shook her head and resumed her scan of the horizon, arrow knocked but not drawn in her long yew bow. Tall and almost eagle-like, she made an imposing figure in the darkness of the thick foliage that enveloped them. An archer by training, Vemelia was by many accounts courageous, cheerful, and entirely confusing. Perhaps it was the lingering youth that inhabited her mind – she was the youngest of the crew, at only twenty-two – that gave her that quality, at least to her compatriots. Perhaps it was just who she was. Who could know?

Trik could not, that was for certain. She often reflected on Vemelia or the other crew members or any of another dozen topics which she keeps in her mental bookshelves. Her tendency to treat the world with gentle consideration did not detract whatsoever from her fighting abilities; short and stout, enemies commonly underestimate her speed and agility. Able to handle a dagger as aptly as a greatsword, she was a valuable asset to the team as a whole, and as dedicated as any of the rest of them so long as there was a reasonable motive for their job. This one seemed to have one: an official from somewhere-or-another had been embezzling money from his parent government. Emphasis on seemed – their handler had been vague on the details, which made her uneasy. We’re here now though. Of course, the team would not be complete without Quelter, eternally the father of the group.

“Keep an ear out for horses.”

Quelter was the one who had brought them all together, and as such, viewed himself as a sort of leader for the group. Of course, they were all equals, but his authoritative tone, strong demeanor, and sharp instincts made him a natural selection for when a united voice was required. Within this self-appointed role, he always tried to be generous and fair. He held similar moral reservations to Trik, though more because he wished to make his own assessments than due to outright aversion. This seemed as cut and dry a case as any to him, no red flags that he could see; orange ones, though, flew lazily above the fortress. Besides, the job paid. He waited patiently, scratching his bister beard and occasionally fiddling with his axe.

“Where do you get those poisons, anyway?” Trammel asked Holber.

“Shh!!” the others chimed, as Trammel had evidently not been hushed enough (a common occurrence).

Then, Holber, an octave deeper: “Just around. The forest, the coast. My lab, sometimes.”

Trammel nodded. He hadn’t known that Holber had a lab but opted not to inquire further for fear that the next “shh” would be spoken by an unsheathing dagger. He did not think the rest of the crew would actually hurt him, but even he could sense it was not the time to test the strength of their relationships. Soon enough, their target would cross by their firefly-laden patch of woods and into their crosshairs. Ideally, they planned to be out of here soon after the dignitary showed. Their plans rarely went that well, hence all five of them showing up for a job that may have been achievable by just one. They chose this spot because one had to go by it to reach the fortress’ entrance – just beyond the far corner of their vision, to the right – yet it remained at least ten seconds out from potential reinforcements. The brush concealed their outlines well, just as they hoped it would.

Just then, the night grew quiet. The sounds of forest critters lulled. Gentle hoofbeats entered stage left to replace them.

“Early…” Quelter growled. Holber’s vials danced at a heightened tempo. Trammel’s grip tightened on the hilt of his blade.

The first they saw of the incoming entourage were the figures of two steeds walking parallel, their coats appearing almost indigo in the moonlit dark. They carried two well-armed sentries who sat as straight as the halberds they carried. Two similar crossbow-carrying sentries came into view next, then two more who walked in single-file. Atop the latter one sat a figure in flowing apricot robes and brass pauldrons etched with foreign, flowing sigils – their target. He had a well-worn face that one would not attribute to aristocracy and, as it does for some, it imbued a sense of earnestness into his gaze that offset his broad build. Quelter could imagine having a drink with him were it not for the whole contract-killing business. In front of him must be his escort then, a tall bearded man whose posture and attire exuded martial status. On his shoulder, a patch bearing an orange-ish insignia was affixed: a large circle atop, then two chevrons, then a smaller circle beneath.

“This’ll have to do,” Holber interrupted their observations with a mutter. He corked his frothing mixture quickly, shook it, then uncorked it and carefully applied it to the tip of a dart. The others took defensive positions as he unholstered a pine gun from the clip on his belt, loading the dart as he crouched deeper into the grass and broke past the treeline towards the convoy. He quietly prayed that a stray beam of light would not give him away as he lined up his shot. Blowdarts were best injected into the thigh or upper arm – the latter would be easier from this angle, and given the man’s attire. That was assuming he did not have platemail beneath his robes. He steadied his hands as the others watched quietly, braced for movement in one direction or another depending on how this very moment went.

A brief pause, and then, quick as you like, the target collapsed off his horse, tumbling roughly onto the pebbled road. Blood dripped from his temple like adrenaline into the convoy’s bloodstream as they dismounted their horses and sighted weapons onto anything that moved, sweeping back and forth in search of the assailants, pounding hearts just barely inaudible over the brash, terror-tinged orders from the commanding officer, who attended to his fallen comrade as best he could. Nearby, reinforcements rushed from the gates in an effort to help stabilize both the situation and the quickly-fading dignitary. The company of mercenaries would not know till morning the degree of their success; they were as good as gone, scattered amongst the branches and thick foliage. Archers would stand vigil all night, yet the only thing they had shot by sun-up were owls.

Before this evening’s outing, they had agreed upon a concealed campsite about an hour away at which to spend the night. By the edge of a marsh, it was concealed by a patch of trees on one side and thick reedy grasses on another, forming an excellent corner for an after-action conference. A thin canopy above made a fine roof in case of rain, though admittedly, the ground was already plenty moist. Vemelia was the first one to arrive there and, were it not for the makeshift tent they had left behind to mark the spot, she would have soon concluded she was in the wrong place. She distracted herself from her doubts by challenging the aforementioned tent to a duel, though soon enough, Trik, then Quelter, and then Trammel found their way to the campsite. Not before the tent had been set up, of course.

“Late to the party, Holb,” Trammel quipped when Holber finally shuffled into their marshy cove. The bottoms of his trousers were damp, his boots mudcaked.

“Take the long way around?” Trik gestured drily, her usual style.

“Something like that,” Holber sighed, playing along. “May or may not have forgotten some of the finer points of directions.”

Trammel mocked thoughtfulness. “That’s fair, Quelter did just basically say ‘go north’ when we were reviewing the game-plan.”

“Hey!”

Vemelia held back a chuckle. “You’d think Holber, out of all of us, would be pretty adept at forest-trawling;” “You know, given,” she gestured to his many containers of foraged herbs hanging along his belt and sash, or perhaps to the map he held in his rucksack.

“I’m flattered you think that,” Holber replied.

“No incidents though?” Quelter interrupted. “No one following, nothing of note?”

"Nope-"

“Good, then that makes all of us accounted for. Great work all.”

“Thank you, but also, I didn’t find any dinner like we talked about,” Holber finished. “Did anyone else?”

The others looked at each other blankly, as though the gnawing in their abdomens had only just occurred to them. “No, I don’t think so,” Vemelia said.

“That part of the plan kind of fell to the wayside,” Trik added.

“It’s okay,” Holber responded quickly, though his tired eyes betrayed his tone. He sank to the ground to sit cross-legged, began to pick at the grass, pulled up a weed by the roots, picked at those too. Dirt wriggled beneath his fingernails, distracting him from the picket line his stomach had organized. He had hardly eaten lunch. He rarely did before missions.

Quelter cleared his throat. “We’ll get something tomorrow. We can’t cook anything tonight, anyway.”

“No, you’re right, everything is too sodden, the smoke would be excessive,” Holber said, gazing to the ground. “And there’s a good meadow to hunt in on our path, anyways.”

“Want some water?” Trik held out one of the canteens they had filled at a spring on their way from headquarters.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” Holber looked up and gave her a quick smile, held out a hand.

“Of course, anyone else?”

“Yes please,” said Trammel.

“Me too,” came Vemelia. Quelter accepted a canteen from Trik as well, tossed carefully across the clearing. They sipped, enjoying what volume the stale liquid could provide them. This fermata in the conversation allowed the chorus of insects to raise their harmonies, a midnight troupe of violinists providing a soundtrack to the dappled starlight. Just a ways away, a small stream lent aquatic percussion to the night as its resident frogs sang otherworldly melodies above the backings. It was a peaceful set of noises, a welcome novelty to unwind to.

Quelter brought them back to business. “And we think we got him? The poison worked?"

“Did you see the way he collapsed sideways off his horse? That impact messed him up, even if the poison didn’t,” Trammel answered quickly.

“And when have Holber’s poisons failed us?” Vemelia chimed.

Trik shook her head. “Still, we should make sure before we travel too far. Quelter, do you want me to travel into town tomorrow morning? I can meet you back at HQ,” she offered. She set down her canteen.

“Hmm, no. But Vemelia, might you? Holber can show you the way there on the map.”

“Why meee?” Vemelia whined.

“Because you’re less suspicious. More innocent-looking.” A brief pause. Trik glared.

“Thank you?” Vemelia said.

“So it’s settled?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she confirmed. An emotional elixir of confusion, flattery, and mild offense kept her from chasing the matter further. Instead, she crossed the clearing to sit across from Holber, who was reaching into his pack to retrieve his map of the region. Ink-drawn and out-of-scale, it served more as a reference sheet for local landmarks than any true form of directions. Still, they’d try their best.

“If you guys are going to map, we’ll have you take first watch. Who’s second?”

“I can take second! Plus,” Trammel said, turning to Vemelia, “someone needs to make sure you get enough rest, so your wholesome, child-like countenance positively glows.” Trammel winked. Vemelia snorted.

“Enforced bedtime?”

“Exactly!”

“I’m doing this to you next time.”

“I know.”

“Trik, I’ll take third, you fourth, whenever that ends up being?” Quelter asked.

“Sure thing. That means I’m off then,” Trik said, picking up her canteen and making for the tent.

“Night, Trik!” Holber and Vemelia bode in unison.

“Night folks,” Trik replied.

“Suppose that’s me too, and you, Quelter,” Trammel surmised.

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Goodnight, you two, don’t stay up too late,” he said to the resident cartographer and his impromptu protogé.

“Yup, goodnight, Quelter. Night, Trammel,” Vemelia responded.

“‘Night.”

The night before, the breeze had been a gentle comb through the Earth’s verdant hair; by this morning, it had become more of an affectionate tussle, or perhaps a pick-pocketing attempt if you were one of the company. Trammel had nearly lost his hat twice so far, meanwhile Quelter was cursing under his breath about some supposed weather pattern or another that he almost certainly knew only the half of, if even. Holber led the way today, being most familiar with the path they had to take to reach the Qiri mountain range, headquarters to their mercenary handler. Though he had never travelled northerly through the Fields of Lari, they figured he would get them the least lost. Cussing Quelter hiked behind Holber, riding his wake in the tall, gilded grass. Trammel followed next in line, carrying a decent portion of the crew’s gear. Trik trudged along behind carrying the rest of the gear, including much of Vemelia’s nonessentials and the tent that she insisted was worth bringing along, just in case it became useful. Vemelia had split off three hours ago thereabouts, presumably still traveling along the same dirt road they had left her at. She would meet them in the mountains tomorrow morning.

It had grown warmer, much warmer, a fact the crew rued. Not a tree stood in sight to lend them even the tantalizing promise of shade, nor could even a singular cloud be bothered to lend the crew respite. It felt unusual, this sort of heat in summer’s twilight days. Less unusual were the crisp songs of the groundbirds, the least bashful creatures to bless this morning’s travel. In the underbrush, field mice scurried in search of their next meal, perhaps a fine seed or an insect to savor. As for the crew, their breakfast plans had panned out well – squirrel and mushrooms, a camp delicacy. The pay for this job was handsome; they were thinking of purchasing some rations (hardtack or jerky or something of that sort) to bring along to their next trips.

“Do you think there’s more work available, or might we have to wait around, you reckon?” Trik asked, the wind begrudgingly carrying her raised voice. She lagged a few paces behind by this point.

“I mean, there’s always something. Why’d’ya ask?” Quelter replied, not turning his head.

“We were thinking of taking a break, right?” Holber added, glancing over his shoulder.

“Just, I need some more than this current gig for rent, for my parents, that stuff. It’s okay though, I can find a solo job.”

“I’ll come with if you want,” Quelter said quickly. “I could use the pay too, anyway.”

“I heard there was a bandit out near Tolton, I think. That’s not far,” Holber proposed.

“And a landlord down south somewhere, not paying his dues to the local lord,” Trammel ventured.

“Let’s just hope that’s not me when I can’t pay my rent.” Trik’s tone was sour.

“I knew it wouldn’t be your favorite, but it pays pretty well all considered.”

Quelter cleared his throat. “And we can loan you, if you need it for ren-”

“You just said you need the pay,” Trik interjected.

“It’s not that big a deal."

“Yes it is, if you need it too."

“Not urgently-”

“Just a sec,” Holber blurted. He had stopped listening; something else had caught his attention. They halted. All was quiet, save for the birds and the mice. “Nevermind, thought I heard something.”

“What did you think you heard?” Quelter asked. Trammel took his hand off the hilt of his blade.

“Scurrying or something. Probably just a mouse.”

“Ah, okay. Anyways, Trik-”

“I don’t need a loan.”

“We’ll figure it out when we get back, is what I was going to say,” Quelter finished. “Holber, how far along are we?”

He shook his head, refocusing. “Um, we’ve been travelling for like… three hours, maybe? At a fairly good pace.”

“Not bad at all, you think we’ll make it by evening?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

“Very good.”

“Unless Trik drops her load again like last week,” Trammel quipped.

“Or if you take another forsaken bathroom break,” Trik quipped back. He had drawn a smile from her face.

“I’m on a schedule!” Trammel replied in mock offense. Quelter rolled his eyes.

“Anyone need water?” he called. A varied set of murmured “all sets” gave him all the answer he needed. It somehow tasted staler than last night; the thought of it made Holber squirm. Still, Quelter took a regrettable sip of his, swallowing it against his bodily judgement. The sky was so blue, he noticed. Like cornflowers or a pale sapphire, perhaps. He caught the sensation that something was crawling up his leg – though he knew it was nothing but a trick of the mind, he took note that they would have to check for ticks later. Collectively, they all looked forward to the rest and regrouping this evening would bring, in their own ways. Another victory, a small reprieve, perhaps a step closer to each' s goals – it was all worth appreciating. The field mice seemed excited for them too, the way they rustled the grass so fervently.

“Hey, guys?” Holber called.

“Yeah?” Trik called back.

“I’ve never seen mice make this much of a ruckus.” That was when Quelter stopped in his tracks. Out of the corner of his eye, he had spied the briefest flash of orange beneath the gilded sheen of the plains. A chill slithered up his spine. His hand slid to the hilt of his axe.

“Who goes?!”