INITIATION
Enjoy this first chapter from my Work-in-progress, Oath of Fangs. It concerns an apprentice assassin who finds herself the target of a dragon's ire - this chapter details the precipitating event...
Lyrem
Sogoreth’s land was dominated by wide plains patched with tall grass. Villages took off their belts out here, expanding into gutsy towns where the industry was cattle, and people made their trade from rearing, studding, guarding, and driving them. From the foothills, where the nicest grass was, to the port cities in the east, livestock were driven almost constantly, following the heavily-trodden trails that had been in place for generations.
For Lyrem, all these open plains meant very little cover. She felt exposed, the wide-open sky bearing down on her with all the weight of a hammer.
It didn’t help that this was her initiation mission, and Saft was watching her every move for the smallest misstep. As they approached Feln pass, he pressed the Switchwood arrow into her hand.
‘Don’t lose this,’ he said. Lyrem nodded, focusing on the parapets that would be her goal.
Feln Pass was the only way through to the lucrative northern shores, and Sogoreth had it guarded with a formidable fortress. Its walls spanned the entire valley, digging into the mountains that rose up from the plains like teeth. The city itself rose up tier on tier, a series of bone-white castles and fairy-tale towers which squatted like toads or jutted up like spears, so that the ultimate effect was of a hand reaching out over the plains. The far-reaching grip of Sogoreth? Or the last gasp of a drowning man? Lyrem wondered.
The sun was sinking behind the hook of hills to the west as they reached their vantage point. The plains cut off into a small cliff here, dipping down into a bowl as though the mountain peaks had created an ebb tide in the earth. She marvelled at the terrain, but her reverie was cut short by a sharp cough from Saft.
‘Besolc is your target,’ he said, pointing to the highest tower – a raised middle finger to Sogoreth’s land, with a rust-red roof that made it stand out. ‘I’m giving you until the sun reaches its zenith tomorrow to be back to me. The rest is up to you.’
Lyrem swallowed and nodded.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, ashamed of how her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and took a small cylinder from her belt – it unfolded into a telescope, and she peered through it at the intricate brickwork as she began to visualise her path to the top of the tower.
Day turned surely into night. As the stars dotted the sky and the sun sank into the icy grip of the mountains, Lyrem stole towards the outer wall. She was dressed in all-grey, a bandana covering her face, and with a sure foot and steady hands she began to climb the rough-hewn stones.
There were guards patrolling the battlements, but they did not look down – it was a matter of waiting until they had passed and clambering over, crouching low behind a water butt. Lyrem took a moment to catch her breath and scan her surroundings: the walls were an off-white scuffed with dirty grey, and there was a considerable distance between the outer wall and the inner towers. A knot of anxiety bubbled up inside her, but Lyrem pressed it down. There were still many hours of darkness left, and she knew her path.
Below the wall were tightly-packed houses and shops – the common people who passed through here were jammed in like sardines, and through the narrow streets cattle and goods twisted and stuck fast, and then were pushed loose, every day. Not so tonight – it had been cleared by evening, and people had found places to stay or had struck out for a campfire on the plains long ago. The roofs were thatch – a soft enough landing if she could manage a slow descent. Many of them were threadbare or badly-patched; she selected one which looked to be a coaching inn, with a thick blanket of dried and woven grass for a roof.
The wall leaned out a little, giving Lyrem a steep slope to move down, and she thrust a dagger into the brickwork to give herself a foothold. She crouched below the lip of the wall, the knife taking her weight – who knew for how long? - and spread herself as low as she could. Her foot was replaced by her hand as she quested for holds, the huge blocks of white stone offering little forgiveness on their smooth inner faces. Lyrem’s toe found a minor imperfection – an almost-imperceptible dent in the rock – and held onto it for dear life as she tested her weight on it. It held, and she stretched out her other foot to find another hold.
Achingly slowly, occasionally drawing the dagger out of the mortar to reinsert it in a lower stone, Lyrem made her way halfway down the wall.
At which point, as she withdrew the dagger, the weight she put on one foot proved too much. It was wedged in a gap between two blocks, clinging to the mortar, and just a little crumbled at the pressure, but it was enough to shift the balance. Lyrem yanked the blade free from its place decisively, and her foot slipped, leaving two limbs gripping precarious holds, then one as her other hand slipped. Instinctually, she kicked out, spinning away from the wall, and twisted to face the ground. She angled, braced, and at the last second tucked in her head and crossed her arms over her chest…
She hit the thatch with a muted crunch, the breath knocked from her. The indentation would be noticeable to the guards above – if they ever took notice of such trifles – and when it next rained the innkeeper would discover a leak in his roof, but she hoped her landing was still softened enough by the roof that she would remain undiscovered.
Lyrem got to her feet, hand on the wall for balance, and tottered along the roof where it abutted the battlements. She dropped down easily into the shadows of a side street and crossed into the depths of the town.
Some moments later, the door to the inn opened and a trio of drunkards spilled out into the night, illuminated by the warm light inside.
‘I’m telling you, Asa, something hit the roof!’ one of them said.
‘Leave it, Torel!’ another said. ‘You’re just imagining things!’
‘Yeah, because some plaster just happened to drop into my beer! Are you saying Hammett keeps his inn in such disrepair?’
‘Here, lads, ease off…’ the third one said, crouching in the street. He drew up something. The three of them looked at it in the half-light. It was little less than a foot long, and most of it was blade, and all of it was covered in metalblack to stop it reflecting light at night.
‘I think it’s an assassin’s dagger,’ the third one continued. ‘Should we tell the guards?’
‘Might just be some macho sod’s dropped his,’ Asa muttered. ‘I say we get back to drinking!’
‘Course you do, you sot!’ Torel snapped. ‘I’m with Lavan, we should tell a guard about this. Let’s bring it to the gatehouse.’
Lyrem discovered her missing weapon as she prepared to ascend Besolc’s tower, and she cursed herself for failing to check it earlier. The rest of the journey had been easy: sticking to the shadowy side-streets; waiting for the gap in guard rotations; slipping into an abandoned building to get back to the rooftops. Now, atop a craggy castle she had easily scaled (bar a difficult overhang to get onto the crenellations, which needed to be done quickly to avoid the attentions of a guard), she was almost at her goal, and her route required her knife. She patted her pockets for anything else she could use, and found a handy boot knife – nowhere near as long, and only with one sharp edge, but it might work. She thrust it into the mortar and test her weight briefly; it held, but less surely.
It was an inauspicious start to the climb, and Lyrem resolved to use the knife as little as possible. She found what holds she could, inspecting the stonework closely for cracks and pinches that she could not have picked out from afar, and little by little, as the black of night became edged with the grey dawn, ascended the wall of the tower.
It took time to scale the tower this way. All the time Lyrem could hear guards, marching up and down the stairwell in double-time. Had she not been so preoccupied with the problems of the route, she might have questioned why so many, and why so fast. Instead, she was struggling to reach the next hold, an awkward stone thrust into a hole it did not fully fit into. It was the best hold on the climb, and she was relying on it not being just out of reach, but with two feet awkwardly on one small outcrop, she had little room to manoeuvre.
She had no choice. It was time to use the knife.
She wedged it into the mortar between two stones, noting how difficult it was to slip it into the gap. These two had been perfectly hewn, unlike the rush job for the tower’s zenith, and there was barely a gap between them. At least she knew the blade fit snugly.
She tested her foot on it. It held firm. She put a little more weight onto it and it still held.
Sighing with relief, Lyrem reached across with one arm, putting a hand securely on the stone. Four limbs in contact. She relaxed, as though she were already there, and moved her other hand lazily from its hold.
The handle of the knife snapped clean off.
With her foothold, her other foot went too, no longer able to take the weight that was suddenly thrust onto it. Reflexively she brought her free hand up, grabbing for the rough stone outcrop. From one hand dangling over certain death, she now had just two points of contact; grimacing with the effort, she forced herself to consider the situation. Her right foot quested out, finding a small hold, and she leaned on it. No good – it gave way as she tried to put any weight on it.
With her other foot, she felt below her. Nothing, nothing, nothing… and then, with her toes, she found the gnarled and twisted tang of the blade. Less than an inch of jagged, uncomfortable metal gave her a third point of contact. She relaxed a little; that blade was securely fastened.
Lyrem focused on the mission at hand, and searched out the nearest holds. She’d lost one dagger, and the hilt of her last knife lay somewhere far below, presumably – she cursed herself as she realised – in the hands of a guard who was now looking up the height of the tower. Speed was of the essence. She threw caution to the wind, grabbing for holds and pulling herself up, trusting the awkward stones to hold against her as much as against gravity. She scrabbled up the last twenty feet, finding whatever she could to bring her up until she reached the lip of the windowsill. Pulling herself up, she paused as she panted for breath. She clumsily pulled her bow from her back and strung it, making sure it was taut and secure. She was not messing it up at this stage.
Night was steadfastly becoming morning, the sky a quickly lightening grey and the stars disappearing. Lyrem drew an arrow from her quiver – not the sparkling, black-as-night Switchwood arrow, which she would need shortly, but a plain, unadorned wooden arrow with a metal tip – and nocked it, sighting her target.
She drew back the string.
Sogoreth
She had not flown in some months now, and this height was the best she could get. Besolc was fending off a coup with some weight behind it, and he needed to stay in Feln Pass until he could solidify his power. Sogoreth understood, but she did not see the need for herself to remain grounded at all times.
She dozed, but a dragon never really sleeps. All the time she was aware of the sensations around her: Besolc, sound asleep in his bed, his dreams marred by paranoia; the murmur of the wind and the whispers it wreathed through her scales; the cool roof tiles, the rough stonework.
There were the sounds of some guards in agitation. Whether this was the next stage in civil war or some drunken louts causing trouble was not plain at present, so Sogoreth resolved to wait until the meaning became clear. She reached out for Besolc once again, and her mind found his nearby.
He was dreaming, it was active. She could only glimpse surface emotions, but she found insecurity, rage, pride. Somewhere he was in there, but his fear was driving him at the moment.
Sogoreth had offered to clear up the problem for him; it would take a few bites, a single swipe of her claws. All of his problems could melt away. But Besolc had resolved to do this himself. This was politics, he’d said; it required a human hand. She refrained from mentioning that Besolc’s “human hand” was interlinked with her claws, in a way few would understand. The bond between a dragon and their lord was all-consuming.
A few nightjars flitted overhead. Sogoreth watched them with her nose, followed their flight with her ears. As they alighted on her scales, she thought how easy it would be to snap them up. But she did not snap at birds; that was not done for a dragon, and especially not the dragon of Feln Pass.
Sogoreth felt the night beginning to lighten, and sighed inwardly. Another day meant more politics, more standing around guarding Besolc, listening to him demand the impossible of his military advisors. There were many enemies ranged against him, and he had too few men. He seemed to have forgotten he had a dragon.
So Sogoreth slept, turning her feelings to the birds and the stars, and perhaps not listening for her lord as intently as she should have.
Lyrem
Besolc was handsome, she had to admit. He was the third in this line of Dragon Lords, Sogoreth’s bond having passed through the blood from his father and grandfather, and with the riches and the authority his visage had taken on a regal bearing that his warrior lineage had lacked. He looked about ten years older than Lyrem, his beard neatly trimmed and his hair braided in locks. It was all tinged with an early grey brought about by stress. The recent civil upheaval had slimmed him down and turned his rich jowls into fine cheekbones.
All of this went through Lyrem’s head passively as she loosed the arrow. His eyes started open as it plunged into his neck, and he had an instant of shock and fear, before he slumped back, vacant, blood soaking into his expensive sheets.
Lyrem stared at the body. She cocked her head.
‘So that was a Dragon Lord,’ she muttered to herself. ‘But then where’s his-?’
Her sentence was cut off by a rumbling as the entire tower shook. Lyra fought for balance as the roof trembled and creaked. Above her, three long claws hooked into the stonework, and the roof seemed to turn into liquid and flow as what Lyrem had taken for a silly red roof turned into several tons of fierce, angry, vengeful dragon. And then it turned its eyes on her.
Lyrem moved to leap into the tower, but that was the moment the guards burst through the door. The lead guard stared at the bed in horror, then turned to the window – Lyrem saw the knife hilt in his hand and groaned.
‘An assassin!’ he yelled. ‘Get her!’
The guards ran forward to grab her as the dragon’s neck shrank back, ready to strike, and Lyrem took the only option available to her.
She turned, fired her Switchwood arrow into the sky, and leapt.
The leap was sideways, hands questing for any sort of hold, and the lurch of fear abated as she latched onto a smooth grey stone. She held it with both hands as her legs threatened to swing her out into oblivion, and with a desperate straining of her core muscles she willed herself to stay against the wall. But the jump had done its job – she was alive, and now she just needed to remain so for a few more moments.
The Switchwood arrow continued to arc through the sky.
One of the guards was at the window, trying to manoeuvre a crossbow to fire at her. Lyrem climbed steadfastly up, hearing the sound of dragon claws scraping the roof as it looked for her.
‘I know you’re there, assassin,’ the dragon growled. ‘I promise you this, you will not survive this day!’
Lyrem did not bother to look for Sogoreth. She knew a dragon would strike whether she knew where it was or not, and she had no interest in delaying her escape by allowing it to trap her. She climbed to the lip of the roof and scrambled sideways as crossbow bolts whizzed pathetically wide.
The Switchwood arrow reached its zenith, hovering ever so briefly on the crosswinds high above the city walls.
A claw scraped several tiles loose near Lyrem’s head; in desperation she looked around. There! Another tower, also part of this palace complex, a little lower down and a good leap away. The gap was wide, but Lyrem judged it manageable.
‘Come out, assassin!’ Sogoreth roared. ‘Or I will destroy this city to find you!’
‘Fang’s sakes, assassin!’ a guard yelled. ‘Do as she says! I don’t want this city destroyed!’
Lyrem ignored their threats. She crouched against the wall, swinging her weight back and forth like a pendulum. She took a deep breath, widened her movements, and finally leapt…
Sogoreth caught the movement, but too late. She swiped a claw, but grasped only empty air. Lyrem hung in between two points for what felt like eternity, eyes wide open; she did not want to close them and miss a hold.
The Switchwood arrow began its long, but much faster, descent towards the ground.
Lyrem slammed into the other tower, arms scrabbling for purchase on the rooftop as she kicked with her legs to find any hold. She bounced back and would have been lost to the fall if a flailing arm didn’t connect with a wooden beam beneath the roof. She caught it and hung, arm straining, unable to catch her breath, waiting for the spots in front of her eyes to clear.
Her blurring vision caught sight of Sogoreth on the opposite tower, limbs tensed, yellow eyes fixed on her.
As Sogoreth leapt, some hind-brain survival instincts kicked in. Lyrem grabbed hold of the beam with both hands, kicked against the wall, and scrabbled up, finding the merest purchase on the blue tiles. With a free hand she grabbed an arrow and buried it into the slate, holding on and hoping it would not break. She was on her stomach, halfway onto the roof, and she dragged herself further up as her breath came back in fits and starts.
Below her, the entire tower rocked as an entire dragon ploughed into it, claws digging up the stonework as Sogoreth fought for purchase. Her wings flapped, enveloping the delicately thin finger of stone, but Lyrem was too busy trying to pull herself up for one last leap.
Pain lanced through her, concentrated in her leg. Sogoreth’s struggles continued, but muted, and Lyrem felt herself getting dragged back down. She looked down between her body and the roof’s edge; two grim yellow eyes glared back, achingly close, Sogoreth’s teeth buried in her leg.
‘You do not get to escape,’ Sogoreth spat through closed jaws. ‘Not for what you did!’
Lyrem gasped. She felt the arrow bend, cracking slightly, as she let go with her other hand and fought for her quiver.
‘I’m not staying here to die, dragon!’ she groaned, drawing a fistful of arrows. She launched them at Sogoreth.
One struck true, needling her in the eye, and Sogoreth roared in irritation. Her jaw loosened and she fell back as she scratched at her face, pawing at the meagre injury, but she made one final snap towards Lyrem.
The arrow in Lyrem’s hand snapped.
The Switchwood arrow buried itself unerringly in a random patch of plains, far from the city limits.
Lyrem kicked out desperately with her one good leg, and leapt.
The unique properties of Switchwood are well-documented by apothecaries. From strange trees grown in Cieluan’s Territory, arrows made of Switchwood allow whoever hammers it home with enough force to switch places with it. Early attempts led to archers and assassins using up a Switchwood arrow when they dropped their quiver, with often devastating results, and the user tends to match their own velocity when they appear wherever the arrow strikes. However, a tendency for arrows to bury themselves deep in targets has led to experienced assassins to impart the useful advice: ‘jump after you’ve fired it.’
Lyrem’s jump was true. She switched places with the arrow, landing in the middle of the plain unharmed from the swap, and back in Feln Pass Sogoreth was further taunted by a burnt-out black arrow shaft dropping into her nose and making her sneeze.
Saft was waiting for her. He was on a horse, and held the reigns of another in his hand. He nodded curtly as she looked up at him.
‘I was watching,’ he said. ‘Not the neatest job I’ve seen, but you got it done. Not bad for a Dragon Lord.’
Lyrem grimaced as she got to her feet, and winced as she climbed onto the horse. Saft held something out for her – a badge, black obsidian and in the shape of a rose.
‘Welcome to the Assassins’ Guild,’ he said. Lyrem took it, leaned back, and sighed.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said. ‘Before the dragon decides we’re still too close.’
In fact, Sogoreth did not chase them. She clambered to the top of the late Besolc’s tower, watching their retreat towards the coast, and as she spoke her words echoed out to Lyrem’s ears through an ancient magic wrought from a dragon’s fury.
‘I swear, assassin, that now I have tasted your blood, I will not rest until you are dead. The bones of the earth will rise up to assault you until I have my vengeance. This I swear, by Fang and Fury!’