Author: Yeho B

DARKfYRE
Chapter Seven

***
All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.
***
The shop was claustrophobic. Despite the blustery cold outside, the room was oppressively hot. Four sooty wall sconces cast off a weak glow. The rest of the light came from two stone hearths in opposite corners of the room banked high with logs, radiating uncomfortable warmth. Several braziers were set around the room, adding to the heat. They threw off a heavy shroud of incense and scented smoke, cloyingly sweet. Behind the sweetness of the incense lingered a pervasive mustiness, the smell of old things becoming older. 
	The sense of cramped closeness was probably due to the fact that, in addition to being a tiny little box of a shop, the entire space was atrociously cluttered and messy. The room consisted of book cases lining the wall to the left and right of the entrance. Two short, squat rows of shelves were set in the middle of the room, low enough to see over to the back of the room, where there was a counter space with two chairs behind it, and a stairway leading up into what was likely living quarters, not-quite obscured by a curtain of brightly colored beads. There was barely enough room to walk between the shelves and around the room.
There were objects, nick-nacks, accoutrements, paraphernalia, and bits-and-pieces of every conceivable sort scattered around the environs. There were more books piled up in random heaps around the shop and on the counter than were on the book cases, which seemed to be designated to housing anything at all in the world, as long as it was not a book. Shelves were heaped with figures and relics and mystic talismans, fetishes of wood and grass and flint. 
Strange, exotic stones were arrayed on one shelf, only instead of being displayed or separated by their various types, they were thrown in a haphazard pile in a basket, so that a seemingly precious crystal was lumped with a stone that glowed scarlet and orange as if lit from a fire within, both of which were covered over by a rock that looked for all the world exactly like a rock. 
The proprietor of this fine and strange and untidy shop was a gnarled old gentleman named Mithayu. Mithayu was a Sorcerer, a merchant, and a businessman, all while looking more like a hermit and a recluse than any of the former. He had heavy, bushy white brows and set over squinting, rheumy eyes and a bald, pale pate that he occasionally kept covered with a floppy wide brimmed hat that seemed too big for his head. His robes were a deep brown and voluminous, hanging from his small, thin frame and blotched liberally with many stains of mysterious and questionable origin.
Rael looked around the shop with sinking hopes. He was dressed warmly in plain commoner’s clothes similar to what he’d traveled home in, a heavy wool tunic and breeches, with a thick fur lined traveling cloak wrapped about his broad shoulders. He’d managed to give his concerned and protective guardsmen the slip, claiming he was riding out into the countryside to hunt for game and then circled around to Trelling’s Rest. He knew his guard meant well, but his purpose was a too sensitive in nature to let word get out, and he knew that even the most well intending guardsmen were notoriously loose lipped.
Which begged the question, why he’d allowed Silmaria to know the nature of some of his studies and inquiries. All good sense pointed to it being a bad idea, yet somehow, he felt sure that she wouldn’t speak of it to anyone else. He could not explain why. But Rael was usually inclined to trust his intuition.
This was not the first such outing he’d taken, nor the first shop of Sorcery, mysticism, witchcraft, or hedge magic he’d visited. In the two months since his return home, Rael hadn’t been idle. Between putting his House and fortune back together and caring for his people, Rael had been researching and studying, digging persistently for answers. He’d already scoured through all the tomes related to magic in his Father’s study, with Silmaria’s tight-lipped but confident assurance that all tomes she knew on the subject had been brought out for his review. 
Rael expanded his search to Trelling’s Rest, pursuing resources outside his halls. He had to be cautious and selective about his inquiries. The Knight Captain was cautious of his search being noticed by the wrong set of eyes and ears. Since his return to his home there’d been no sign of his assassins following him, no suspicious activity or untoward disturbances in his day to day life. Rather than feeling relief, Rael actually felt more paranoid, his every waking moment filled with tension and suspicion. He found it inconceivable that having failed such a strange attempt, his assassins would simply let him be.
And so, the Nobleman avoided the obvious sources of knowledge such as the Royal Libraries, the Halls of Lore and Record, and the Magi’s Sanctum, the home and hub of magic and mysticism in the North. He trusted mages little, and the dangers of someone taking note of his search was too great in one of those more public and populated places.
Instead, Rael searched the Hedge Wizard shops, the small sorcerer peddlers, the private libraries and lore collectors. He scoured any place he deemed safely away from scrutiny for any information on the dark and twisted spells tied to the deadly arrow. He kept circumspect and gave little information away, but as visit after visit was met with puzzlement and confusion and little else, his patience wore thin. Every lost opportunity and fruitless attempt left him feeling more keenly the blade at the back of his neck. With each new day, Rael felt more and more like a cornered animal. 
He wasn’t overly fond of the feeling.
In an uncharacteristic moment of frustration, Rael asked old Lirena if she knew anyone familiar with old, unusual magic or lore with the excuse of continuing his father’s studies in lost magical arts. Mithayu’s name came up.
Rael stepped through the cramped shop, looking around dubiously and trying very hard not to knock over, well, everything. The shop wasn’t built for someone his size. Hell, even a Dwarf or a Halfling would find the room uncomfortably crammed together. The Knight looked up at the leathery old man and cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Master Mithayu, I presume?”
Mithayu looked up at the much larger man as if noticing him the first time, despite the loud jangling of bells tied to his front door. He over slightly, the book he’d been nudging through still clutched in age spotted hands. He squinted up at Rael, then leaned far back, his neck craning with an audible pop. He looked thoughtful, pensive, his face screwing up as if contemplating some great mystery in the Nobleman’s strange, silvery shining eyes. He stared at Rael with such intense scrutiny, and the wisdom of ages seemed to dance in his old, fading eyes that saw without seeing.
Then, the old sage blinked, opened his mouth, and said, in a crackling, harsh voice, “Huh?”
Rael stared at him and barely suppressed the urge to turn right around and walk out the door. He stepped closer, placed his hands flat on the counter top, and said, louder this time, “I’m looking for information, Master Mithayu. Of the magical sort.”
Mithayu frowned and then spat off to the side behind the counter. Rael wasn’t sure there was a spittoon back there, and he didn’t much care to find out. “Information? Go find a library! Or someone who has time for questions!”
Rael arched a brow cooly and said, “You’re a Sorcerer, are you not?”
“Yes, a Sorcerer, precisely. A Sorcerer, not a Library, which is where you should go. Go, go on, off with you, I’m a Sorcerer as you said, a big oaf like you doesn’t scare me. Big, small, it doesn’t matter, you’ll only be a bigger cat, or pig, or frog or rat or…you know. Who cares what I turn you into? I’ll turn you into it if you don’t leave. Go find a Library!”
Mithayu said all of this while flitting about behind the desk, poking his head into a drawer, flipping through books, and rummaging about in a pile of charms and totems from the Johake Grasslands, or so a scribbled sign in front of the pile claimed. The old man pretty much busied himself with anything and everything aside from looking directly at Rael.
The young Knight set his jaw hard and with a will, he pushed his temper down. Somehow he felt sure that Lirena was laughing at him right this moment. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Master Mithayu. It’s simply that I am looking for a Sorcerer possessing old and expansive knowledge of spells and magic craft. And I was told you were just such an exceptional Sorcerer. And I’d brought sufficient means to make it worth your time, too.”
He accentuated his words with the solid clunk of his coin purse dropping onto the counter. The sound brought the old man’s frantic activity to an almost comically sudden halt. “Of course,” Rael continued, “If you are not the man I am looking for…”
By the time Rael’s hand closed on his coin purse, Mithayu was a man of drastically different temperament. “Ah, I am that man, yes sir, I am that man exactly! That Sorcerer! Good Sir, please, have a seat and let the great Mithayu answer your questions! I know many spells, many! I am a Master of the craft, have no doubt.”
“Of course, you must be,” Rael said dryly as he sat in the small chair in front of the counter. The old Sorcerer’s weathered old face splitting into a wide grin that showed more than a few missing teeth and one of gold flashing in the corner of his smile. His eyes were hidden under the weight of his bushy old brows. The effect was strange to say the least.
“I am looking for information on certain spell. I’m not very familiar with magic, but I’m given to believe that it’s a very rare and uncommon sort of spell,” Rael explained.
“M-hmm, M-hmm, I know many uncommon spells,” Mithayu nodded matter-of-factly. “Go on.”
Rael leaned forward and stared intently at the old man. “Mind you, I’ve only heard whispers of this spell. My Father spoke of it, once. He was no mage, but he was fond of researching magical arts, you see. He spoke of a spell that was both a spell of wasting, and a spell of sealing at once. He saw it used, in his youth, to cause a man’s wound to seal up over itself, while rotting and festering and decaying from the inside. Some way to seal the rot inside the body and let it corrupt and eat away at a man while masking the rot under healthy flesh. To keep anyone from detecting it, I suppose, or letting the rot free.”
Mithayu listened to him, blinking. His mouth gawped open a moment, then he looked petulant and annoyed. “What is this? You think me an old fool, is that it? Well, old I am, but fool I am not! Such a spell is a faery tale, nonsense! Take your tall tales and foolish talk elsewhere and…”
Rael silenced him by removing a silver from his coin pouch and clacking it onto the counter top, sliding it toward him. His eyes, colored to match the coin, never left the old man, and never wavered in their serious gaze. “No tall tales, Master Mithayu. My Father said this spell was very much real. He was not a man to lie.”
“Yes, well…I see,” Mithayu muttered as he took the coin. He rolled it in one hand and with the other rubbed his chin where likely a beard had once been, but now was not save a wispy little patch. He considered the coin thoughtfully. Rael, praying he was not wasting his time, sat and waited.
At last, Mithayu admitted, “I do not know such a spell. If it truly exists, then a spell of that sort would be a thing of secret and shadows.”
“Meaning?” Rael pressed.
Mithayu glanced about as if making sure they were alone, then leaned in closer, though he did not drop his voice at all. “Black Magic. The Dark Arts. Curses. These things are not commonly shared and practiced, even among powerful Magi. Spells such as they are old, and powerful, and closely guarded. The Magi’s Sanctum dabble in these magic’s, but they fear to delve too deep, and those mages who explore more than the surface of the Dark Arts are viewed suspiciously by their fellows. A spell like you describe... that is Black Magic deeper than any I’ve heard of.”
Rael sat back in his seat and let out a deep breath. He’d heard this before, of course; every Mage and Sorcerer he’d visited thus far had told him the same thing. “Can you tell me anything else?”
“Hmm, huh, hum,” Mithayu muttered to himself, rocking slightly in his seat, distracted. “Perhaps I can, maybe I can, but I don’t know. This spell, this Dark Art…you said your father saw a man struck down of this wound, yes you did. How did it happen? How long did this festering take, and how deeply did the wound foul?”
Rael leaned forward once more, his hands resting on the countertop between them. “According to my father, the man died very shortly after receiving the wound. Maybe half an hour. The wound itself was grievous, but not immediately fatal. The rot was extensive. In half an hour, the wound had sealed itself, forming scar tissue over the flesh. Almost his entire chest cavity was rotted out under the first few layers of healed tissue. He said the tissue resisted being opened and exposed, like it was trying to protect and preserve the rot coursing inside.”
The man appeared to shudder a bit, and spat in the same spot he had before. “That is Magic most foul. Dark spellwork indeed. I cannot help you young man. I do not know that spell, and would never want to know it. Such Magic is corruption, an old, evil thing best left to be forgotten and fall from the hands of Man.”
As Rael listened to the old man, he teetered on the edge of decision, weighing whether to tell Mithayu more. He considered the risks against the payoff. The risks were great, and the payoff unlikely.
Rael couldn’t shake the feeling that he was running out of time, and desperation won out.
 “One more thing,” he said. He reached for his belt and pulled the black shafted arrow from where he’d hidden it. He laid it upon the counter between them. “This is the arrow that struck the man down and caused the wound that was effected by the spell.”
Mithayu looked at the arrow, then back up at him. He made no move to touch the arrow. “How do you know it wasn’t poison, then? A poisoned arrow is much more likely than an ensorcelled one, yes it is.”
“What poison makes a man’s wound close over while rotting him from the inside?” Rael returned.
	“How should I know?” The old man snorted. “I’m a Sorcerer, not an apothecary.”
	Rael ignored him and nodded to the arrow. “There are runes. There on the shaft just beneath the arrowhead. Etched into the wood. Strange runes I’ve never seen before.”
	That seemed to pique Mithayu’s interest. He plucked the arrow up, frowning curiously, and brought the arrow up closer to his squinting eyes. “Yes, I see them. Curious indeed. They are runes of power, that much is sure. They…”
	The arrow slid from Mithayu’s fingers, falling to the countertop and resting on its side between them. He stared down at the arrow, his squinting, rheumy eyes wide now. His hands trembled violently. 
	“What is it? Do you recognize them?” Rael asked as he gripped the edge of the counter, tense and eager for answers.
	“This…those…how dare you! How dare you bring those words into my shop, into my home? You blighted fool! They are anathema! The language of abomination! You will bring ruin to me!”
	“Calm down, I meant no disrespect. I don’t understand,” Rael said, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace as he tried to calm the old man.
	But it was no good. Mithayu slapped the arrow away from him and jerked to his feet, backing away as he leveled a shaky, clawing finger toward the bigger man. “Take it away from here, take the misbegotten words and be gone! Do you hear me? Get out! Get out!”
	Rael stared at the man, frustration and confusion warring inside as he struggled to calm himself. He wanted to grab the man, to shake him and pry the answers from him. He clearly recognized something about those runes! But as he stared at the panicked man, he recognized the crazed look in his old eyes as an expression of abject terror. He was scared beyond reason, and pushing him would only make it worse.
	The Knight Captain gathered his strange, terrifying arrow and left old Mithayu’s shop with a ‘good evening’, all the while swearing to himself he would return. Later, after the Sorcerer had a chance to calm down, he would visit again and get his answers. The man’s strange reaction was different shades puzzling, intriguing, and disturbing. What could have caused the man to be so terrified, simply by seeing the runes alone? He’d been odd, certainly, but in those last moments he seemed a completely different kind of strange. 
Rael wondered, but in the end, it didn’t matter. He’d finally found the lead he’d sought for months. He could be patient. The time would come, and Mithayu would talk.

***

	Silmaria was on dining hall duty. This consisted of cleaning, wiping down, and polishing the large dining table and accompanying chairs, checking those same chairs to be sure the cushioned seats didn’t need replacing or stuffing, washing any soot stains out of the wall sconces and replacing the candles in them with fresh ones, dusting the portraits of House IronWing’s founding fathers, sweeping the floors of any debris, and going through the tea cabinet and silver drawers to make sure everything was not only organized and in order, but also polished to a shine.
	Really, it was all rather pointless, she thought. Lord Rael entertained guests even more rarely than Master Edwin had. In fact, Silmaria could only think of two instances since his return Lord Rael had received guests at all, and both times they were representatives from the Knighthood come to check on his health, or his recovery, or something of a similar nature, Silmaria wasn’t entirely sure. Whatever the case, the man’s visit had been brief on both occasions, not even necessitating the use of the good silver wear or tea pottery. 
	Plus, Lord Rael took almost all his meals in his room. It was rare for him to eat outside of his room, and when he did more often than not he went down to the barracks to join the Guardsmen for dinner. He felt a certain kinship with them, she supposed.
	Silmaria stopped in mid chore, leaning across the table and wiping it down, and gave a half-hearted scowl, annoyed with herself. Here she was, thinking about Lord Rael again without any intention to do so. It was vexing. She continued to try her damnedest to avoid the man to no avail. Sure, most of their encounters were brief and happenstance, but that didn’t make them any less uncomfortable for her. She saw him about the Manor; it was impossible not to as he seemed to always be up and about doing something. The man seemed completely unable to be still, and when he sat for any length of time it was always with a book in hand or a sheaf of parchment and quill at his fingertips. He was as restless as his father had been and more, always needing to be doing. His projects and pursuits seemed endless. It made avoiding him difficult, as he seemed to be everywhere all the bloody time.
	Still, she had to admit, in two months the man had made a wealth of changes at House IronWing, and most of them pointedly for the better. The house was finally running with a full staff of servants again. Workloads were reasonable, allowing each servant to focus on doing a proper and thoroughly job of their duties. Food was plentiful and the larder and pantries were stocked and full once more. Cook doled out hearty rations, and where once the serving folk had been wasting away to skin and bone, now everyone was hearty and robust and well fed. Even with winter now fully settled in, the Manor was kept warm enough to chase off the chill, the servants quarters included. 
	If she were honest with herself, Silmaria recognized that Lord Rael had kept his word and worked hard to turn his holdings around. He’d brought them from the brink of ruin, and if House IronWing was not yet as wealthy or well established as it had been at its height under Master Edwin, it would be there again soon. She saw it, she knew it, and she was even thankful for it. The Gnari woman was still unable to fully forgive the man, but when she allowed her stubborn pride to relax a bit, she could admit there was some good in him.
	She resolved to put Lord Rael out of her mind, the matter too complicated to dwell on with the day so fine and life at last good again for a time. Silmaria took a deep breath and smiled. She began to hum the tune of a bawdy old marching song Master Edwin taught her that never failed to lift her spirits. The Gnari girl finished with the dining table and padded across the dining hall on bare, graceful feet, the wooden floor warmed by the hall’s hearth fire. She walked to the hearth, wiping down the mantel above it, basking contentedly for a moment in the warm glow of the fire as she did her work.
The perfect, pleasant day shattered. A scream ripped through the Manor, high and stricken, coming from the direction of the foyer. Silmaria dropped her cleaning rag and bolted toward the front of the Manor, her heart pounding wildly.
Panic had already broken out by the time Silmaria dashed into the foyer. A number of servants had come running just as she did to see what the scream was about, and now ran scurrying this way and that in fright. Silmaria jumped out of the way as one of the men nearly ran her over in his haste to get away.
Looking past the dispersing cluster of servants, Silmaria clearly saw why. There was a group of strange men, half a dozen of them, standing in the middle of the foyer. They stood in a semicircle, and Tomar, the young Elven boy was sprawled on his back at their feet, one hand lifted in feeble defense. Blood dripped down into his frightened face from a deep cut on his upraised arm. The stranger standing foremost held a wickedly curved short sword that dripped wet and red with the Elf’s blood.
Thinking quickly, Silmaria reached out and grabbed the next servant running past, who happened to be Margle. The woman was so panicked she didn’t even give her usual sneer of distaste when she saw Silmaria. 
“The Barracks! Go to the Barracks and bring the guards, quickly!”
Margle nodded and with a wordless cry, rushed down the halls. Silmaria turned and took a deep breath. She willed her feet to move forward and did her best not to shake. She hoped the men couldn’t see her tremors, because she felt every one of them. The Gnari girl walked toward the unfolding scene, grabbed Tomar and pulled him back, shifting the lad behind her and shielding him.
The men before her did not move. They didn’t seem to care about the boy, and stood perfectly still, eerily so, like strange statues, not the hint of a sway or shifting of weight among them. Each of them were shrouded in black, deep cloaks wrapped about their bodies. Heavy hoods hung over their faces, covering most of their features from view save the columns of their necks, which were thin and long, with flesh so white it appeared bloodless and sallow, like corpse flesh. The men all wore fingerless black gloves running up slender arms. Their exposed fingers was the same sickly white as their necks, like long albino worms. All of them carried the same dangerous, curved blades.
“What’s the meaning of this? Are you cowards, the lot of you attacking an unarmed boy? Where is your honor?” Silmaria demanded, made bold by her fear.
“Where is your Master?” The lead man asked, ignoring her questions. At least, she thought it was him asking. It could have been any of the others, she supposed. It was hard to tell. The question was a harsh hiss, like the sound of gravel being ground together. Her ears flicked back against her head and she had to fight not to wince. 
“My Master is dead,” she answered.
One of the dark men lunged forward, his blade flashing out. Silmaria went very still, the point of the sword leveled just inches from her left eye. “Do not lie. We know he lives. Where is the Lord IronWing?”
The Gnari woman swallowed her fear, refusing to let it choke her, and instead clutched at every shred of her stubborn, foolish defiance. “Do you think if he were here, you’d be talking with me instead of him? He’s not home. He’s off cavorting who knows where. You know how Nobles are. Leave us small folk alone and go settle your business with him, and good riddance to the both of you!”
“She has a viper’s tongue,” one of the men rasped. “Cut it out.”
Silmaria shifted back slowly, ready to spring away from the men should they come an inch closer. But in the next moment the cloaked stranger’s forgot about her, their attention drawn to the seven House guards who came rushing into the room, dressed in full mail with shields strapped to their arms and swords flashing in hand.
“You bastards dare shed blood in House IronWing? You’ll suffer our Lord’s justice!” one of the guards, who she recognized as Tomas, screamed loudly, then charged forward, his fellows screaming, “IronWing!” and advancing behind him. Silmaria scrambled out of the way, darting back and huddling under the stairs, staring out into the foyer with wide eyes.
When the House guard arrived, Silmaria felt a blossom of hope. The guardsmen charged out, shoving with their shields as they slashed and stabbed with their long swords. The shadowy men met them with their deadly steel. The cloaked men moved nimbly and quick, weaving and dodging the guard’s strikes. It seemed no matter where or how the guards attacked, the strangers weaved and shifted away, swaying disconcertingly under or around the cutting offense of the IronWing men. The strangers worked together in deadly tandem, and soon the Guardsmen were no longer attacking at all, and instead were forced onto the defensive. Their shields were all that kept them alive, and only barely. The foyer was filled with the clinging-clack and thunk of steel blades cutting shallowly into the thick oak of IronWing shields. The Dragon of the House coat of arms emblazoned on their shields was soon gashed and mutilated.
The guards formed up a circle with their backs turned inward and shields raised. It was an impressive, steadfast defensive ring, but even then, the guardsmen were too pressed by their attackers. The cloaked men circled and spun, one attacking after the other, methodical and relentless. When one man’s attack was blocked or parried, he still managed to effectively create an opening for the next man to exploit. 
The first guard fell to a stabbing thrust that lunged up into his chest from under his upraised shield. His death left an opening, and it was all the strangers needed. Before the body fully crumpled to the ground, one of the cloaked men vaulted past and into the middle of the ring, and his cruelly curved blade buried deep into the exposed back of one of the guard. The circle of shields crumpled, guardsmen scrambling to get some space from the suddenly swarming shadows to no avail. The guards were cut down, falling to the brutality and efficiency of their enemy.
A hand raised over her mouth, Silmaria watched with mounting horror as the guards, most of them good, decent men, fell one after the other. The air was thick with the smell of blood and pain. Screams and moans of the dying were spaced between the screech of metal on metal and the wet sound of meat being torn and separated from itself. The Gnari sank to her knees, struck helpless and paralyzed by the carnage and cruelty of life’s violent end playing out before her. 
Tomas was the only guard left alive now. He edged back toward the far wall, panting as blood seeped in a steady pour down the side of his face. He was struggling to hold his shield between his body and the ashen skinned killers, but his arm was wounded as well, and it was heavy, so heavy. They stepped slowly now, circled him casually and without hurry; they had all the time in the world, and he had none. They were toying with him.
Then the heavy front doors were thrown wide, the boom of them hitting the walls echoing in an ominous thud through the Manor halls. Silmaria blinked, expecting more doom to come pouring through the door. Instead, Lord Rael stood, dressed all in commoner’s clothes and leaning on his walking stick.
His appearance froze the cloaked men in their tracks. All of them turned toward the Nobleman and staring silently behind the shadows of their hoods. 
“Run, my Lord! Get away!” Silmaria screamed, breaking the sudden, heavy silence.
“Go! Lord Rael, go!” Tomas croaked from where he’d sagged against the wall.
Lord Rael scanned the room, sweeping over the blood spattered and pooled liberally all over the wooden floors, the limp, torn bodies of his guardsmen tossed carelessly about to lay in whatever unsightly crumple they fell in. His gaze took in the wicked men and their bloodied swords. His face changed, becoming hard and sharp. His expression was the picture of focus and deadly, calculating calm. Yet his eyes burned with such a raging, consuming silver fire that Silmaria felt chills run the length of her spine.
One of the strangers lunged for him, exploding into swift motion. Too late, Silmaria screamed a warning.
Lord Rael moved, and his speed was stunning for a man his size. Rael met the attacker, his walking stick cutting through the air to turn the man’s blade aside. He pushed the dark warrior’s blade downward to the ground, unbalancing the man. Just as fast he brought his stick back up in a vicious strike to the slim, cloaked man’s throat with enough force to crush his airway. The man dropped to the ground, choking on his own blood.
Rael was already moving forward, and his left hand reached down to pull a longsword from the scabbard at his right hip. Silmaria had seen him with the steel at his hip before. She always thought, given the condition of his leg, he wore it out of habit, or perhaps even out of vanity. Now, his limp gone, she saw the truth of it.
The assassins moved as one to meet him. He waded into them, fearless and bold and aggressive, his walking stick in one hand and his steel in the other. One of the men squared off with him and brought his sword in an arching overhead cut. Rael caught it with his walking stick. The blade was sharp enough to sever the stick in two, but it served to deflect the blow upward and to the side. Nimbly, Rael ducked under the cut as he surged forward under and past his attacker’s guard, bringing his own sword forward in a horizontal cut that laid the man’s belly open from hip to hip.
Then it was all motion and frenzied action, a deadly dancing and weaving of man and muscle and razor edged steel. As before, the men attacked as a team, moving in tandem and looking to create openings for one another. Rael moved through them, aggressive and precise. He parried and dodged their attackers, his blade quick and flashing as he blocked and turned their slashes aside. For long, tense moments, each one seeming to last an age, the Knight Captain held them at bay. He spun and lunged, dipped and turned, moving instinctively one step ahead of the men. He moved to keep them always adjusting and compensating for his changing stance or position. For a brief time, the men seemed at a standstill, Rael too busy defending against the four to begin any sort of offense, and the four unable to pass his guard or find a clean cut.
A momentary lapse was all it took, and the standstill was broken. The cloaked swordsman on Rael’s left overextended, throwing his balance off just enough when Rael parried. The Nobleman’s foot shot out and kicked the man’s lead leg out from under him, and the assassin tipped forward just as Rael’s longsword arced in an upward cut to flay his chest cavity open. The Knight spun, dropping into a crouch as he whipped his blade out, cutting the legs out from under the assassin behind him. He brought his sword back around in a downward slash across the man’s throat to end his life, then quickly rolled back to his feet just in time to parry the next attack.
The assassin pressed him furiously, his curved short sword slashing and stabbing frantically as he lashed out. Sparks flared where Rael parried and blocked, their steel meeting again and again. Then Rael was the one advancing, his blade flashing in arcs of deadly grace, forcing his foe to dance away and retreat before his assault.
Lord Rael was focused on the man engaging him and had lost track of the other remaining assassin. The sinister figure had edged away from the Knight, and now his hooded gaze fell on Tomas, slumped and panting against the wall. He rushed the injured guardsman and knocked his feebly raised shield aside. Pale, strong fingers grabbed Tomas by his hair and yanked him up to his feet. He circled behind the struggling man, pulled his head back, and laid his blade to the guard’s throat.
“Stop!” the assassin rasped. The other cloaked attacker disengaged from the Nobleman.
A look of rage swept over Rael’s face. He flicked his blade, sending droplets of blood spraying from the length of steel and onto the floor. “Let him go. I’m the one you want, your fight is with me.”
 “You’re the one we want, yes. And we will cut down everyone around you to get you,” the man growled.
“Milord, don’t worry about me,” Tomas began, then stilled as the blade at his throat bit into his skin and a thin trickle of blood slipped down his neck.
Rael kept his blade in hand, but allowed the tip of his sword to point at the floor. “Release him and I will give you a merciful end.”
“Fool,” the shadowy warrior replied. “Keep your mercy. You’ll receive none in return.” 
Before the words had left the man’s lips, his fellow lunged at the distracted Nobleman. Rael felt the approach and leapt to the side, but he was a moment too late and the assassin’s sword bit deep into his side. A dark red stain spread across the side of his gray wool jerkin. Tomas thrashed against his captors hold. The assassin raised his blade to give the guardsman the killing blow.
Silmaria burst from her hiding place, moving on fleet, silent feet, swift and agile as any predator moving for the kill. She sprang, leaping onto the back of the man behind Tomas. Her legs wrapped around his bony waist, and one hand grabbed his sword arm, gripping tight to still his blade.
“Go, Tomas! Go!” she screamed, and raked her long, wicked claws across the assassin’s face. The man’s grip on Tomas released as he screamed, trying to grab at the wild woman thrashing and clawing on his back. Tomas let out a desperate shout and rounded on the injured man, wrestling for his sword.
Wounded, Rael was still a force to be reckoned with. As soon as he saw Silmaria jump onto the other assassin’s back, he rounded on his attacker, his blade flashing out viciously. The power of his blows rang against the assassin’s sword, knocking him back. The cloaked figure scrambled back and away, trying to recover, but Rael was relentless, springing after him and pressing the advantage until the assassin’s blade slipped from nerveless fingers and Rael swept his head from his shoulders.
The Nobleman turned, ready to finish the last of the attackers. The cloaked assassin was crumpling, his hood torn and pulled to the side. Silmaria had sank one of her claws into the man’s left eye, blinding him and disabling him long enough for Tomas to win the struggle for the assassin’s sword. The Gnari leapt free and Tomas stabbed the curved blade into the man’s chest.
The whole thing took a matter of moments, really, though it seemed a lifetime had passed. The last of his energy spent in that final struggle, Tomas let out a groan and began to fall. Silmaria grabbed hold of him to keep him from going face first into the floor. His body was limp and heavy. Blood poured from his head, the wound in his arm and another on his chest. It spread across the front of her dress in a warm, sticky smear. Then Rael was there, gripping the guardsman and helping Silmaria ease him to the ground. Rael tore a strip from his ripped shirt and pressed it firmly against the gash in Tomas’s chest. 
Rael and Silmaria’s eyes locked over the panting man’s body. Tomas’s breathing was shallow and obviously painful. Rael nodded to her, the fire in his eyes faded and his face somber. “You’re okay?”
“I…I’m fine,” Silmaria said, her voice shaking slightly. She took a deep breath and tried again, more steadily this time. “Tomas isn’t. I’ll go get help.” 
“Good. Go now,” Rael said softly but firmly.
Silmaria glanced down at Tomas worriedly once more before rising and going down the hall at a run to find where everyone was hiding.
Silmaria returned soon with a multitude of servants wearing fearful expressions, and the two guardsmen who had gathered everyone up and protected them. 
Lirena’s small form pushed her way to the front of the group and knelt beside Tomas, ignoring her creaking joints. She touched his brow and pressed her fingers to the pulse point at his throat. Rael and one of the guardsmen helped the old woman peel off Tomas’s shirt of chainmail so she could examine the wound on his chest. 
Rael stepped back to give Lirena time to check Tomas without being in the way. He looked over the faces of his people. There was too much fear in their eyes, fear and confusion and restless, anxious energy. They needed some direction, something to occupy themselves with and distract them from the terrible things that had just burst violently into their lives.
	“Oen, help Lirena with anything she needs for Tomas. Porton and Alir, take the stranger’s bodies and dump them outside. We will dispose of them later. Saul and Mirini, take our dead to the east day room and tend and clean the bodies. I want it notated who we lost, who their families, if any, are and what kind of burial rites they’re to receive. The rest of you, clean this mess, then get supper and retire for the night. I’ll meet with you all soon.”
	Given purpose once again, the servants scattered to obey, glad to have something to do. Rael turned his attention to his small books keeper, who was looking pale and not entirely well. “Selm, I want our guard replaced immediately, and doubled. I don’t care if you have to enlist some of the more able bodied field hands, hire mercenaries, or get men on loan from the palace guard itself. Whatever must be done, do it. Use whatever coin it takes.”
“I understand, Milord,” Selm nodded, looking unsettled still, but determined. “It will be done.”
“Good. See that we have guards ready to keep the House secure by tomorrow night.”
Selm looked doubtful at that, but nodded nonetheless. “MiLord.”
Silmaria was crouched down with Lirena at Tomas’s side, helping her check over the man’s wounds and holding pressure where the old Human woman instructed. Her pelt was already matted with blood up to her elbows. Tomas’s wounds were worse than she realized. Rael moved to their position and bent down. Silmaria stared at him for a moment, then shifted to allow him to huddle in a bit closer.
“How is he?” Rael asked softly, his voice pitched so only Silmaria and Lirena could hear.
Lirena shook her head slowly. She reached up, wiping sweat from her brow with her forearm to avoid smearing Tomas’s blood across her face, and not quite succeeding.
“He’s lost a lot of blood. The head wound will heal well, though he’d bear the scar of it. The wound to his chest isn’t too bad. The cut very nearly went through his breast bone, but none of his vital organs beneath were damaged. The cut to his arm may be the worst. It’s bleeding very badly. I think he may have a severed artery.”
“What needs to be done?” Rael asked.
“We’ve stopped the bleeding, for now. I have medicine and supplies in a workroom in the back. It will be quiet and less crowded and I can look him over and work on him properly with the things I need. I will save him, if I can.”
“It will be done,” Rael nodded. He motioned to some of the men helping to clean the foyer and they came to help move the fallen guardsman as gingerly as possible.
“I’ll go get the room ready,” Silmaria announced as she rose to her feet.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Lirena quipped matter-of-factly.
“Why? You need my help. I know more about stitching someone than anyone else but you,” Silmaria protested, looking confused.
“I’m sure our good seamstress Karee would take issue with that statement, though I doubt she’s ever practiced stitch work in human flesh. You’re right, dear Sil. Which is precisely why you can’t come.” The old woman raised a bony finger, leveling it at Rael. “You need to see to our Lord.”
Rael gave a look of momentary puzzlement, before his gaze fell to the red stain of blood spreading along his wounded side. He shook his head. “Don’t worry about me, I’m all right. It’s a scratch, nothing more. Tend to Tomas, he needs your help.”
“A scratch my wrinkled arse,” Lirena hissed just loud enough for them to hear, causing both of them to look surprised. “If that gash you’re hiding under there isn’t tended soon, it’ll heal all wrong, or become infected and fester, and that’s if you don’t pass out from blood loss first to begin with. It’s still bleeding.”
“It’s not that bad, truly. It won’t fest. I promise you,” Rael insisted, trying to sooth the increasingly irritated old woman.
Lirena gave the Nobleman a long suffering look of annoyance. “You’re a young fool, Milord, which is the worst type of fool. And a stubborn, rock headed ass on top of it, just like your father so often was, may the Old God’s guide his soul.”
Silmaria almost choked on her shock. Even as bold and outspoken as she was, Silmaria wouldn’t have dared speak to Lord Rael that way, and she was pretty sure she liked him a good deal less than Lirena did!
For his part, Rael simply stared at her with his brows raised, perplexed.
Lirena leaned forward, and the look on her face said, ‘I really shouldn’t have to explain this to you of all people, now of all times’. 
“Your people are frightened, Milord. They’re frightened and full of panic, and holding onto calm by fragile little threads. If they realize you’re wounded, and worse, that you aren’t having it tended, those threads are going to snap entirely.”
Rael regarded the tiny old woman for just a moment, then his lips pressed into a tight, thin line, and he relented to her wisdom. “Very well. You are right, old mother. Please do all you can for Tomas. He deserves our best for his bravery.”
“I will try,” was the best Lirena could promise. She nodded to the men that Tomas was as ready to move as he could be made. They gathered around the man and carefully, slowly lifted him. He stiffened and a small, weak cry briefly escaped Tomas’s dry lips, then he sank into an oblivious stupor once again.
Lirena nodded to Silmaria, said, “Take care of him,” and then followed after her patient. The Gnari looked up at Lord Rael, towering over her from his frustratingly tall height, his eyes strange and beautiful and unreadable.
It was too much. The shock of the strangers invading and attacking her home, the blood and the death, men she knew dying senselessly. Her stupid bravery, attacking a man who could have killed her outright, every muscle and fiber in her lithe body straining desperately against the man from his back or he would surely kill her and Tomas both. Feeling the assassin’s flesh shredding under her slashing claws. She’d as good as killed him. Tomas struck the killing blow, but if she hadn’t attacked the man, he wouldn’t be dead now, his corpse being hauled away with all the others. Even now, she could feel the blood caked under her claws, sticky and thick on her hands and forearms.
So much blood. 
So many corpses.
“Silmaria?” Rael asked, and there was concern in his deep voice.
She didn’t respond, didn’t even really hear him. She was swaying where she stood, now, a high, droning ring filling her ears, pushing out all other sounds. The room swung, tilted nauseatingly, and then went fuzzy at the edges.
All she could taste then was copper. It reminded her of blood all over again, the blood on her hands that she was certain would never wash away, staining her beyond all cleaning.

***

Chapter Seven has been one of my favorite chapters thus far. I hope you all have enjoyed it. Things continue to pick up as we move forward. As always, please send any comments,
critiques, questions and the like to Familiarstranger86@gmail.com.