Windsoul Family/Thaliithilion/Touch of Winter
The Touch of Winter
A silent darkness settled over Fallangard as a man named Nystas crept around the outside of the Ivory Palace. The Palace stood huge and tall above him, glistening in the little moonlight. Wearing black, Nystas was entirely invisible. He had entered the city under the cover of a Merchant, with all the right papers to fool the guards. He smiled briefly, but not any less alert.
“It’s freezing out here tonight,” a faint voice said.
The sound of the guard’s voice brought Nystas back to his senses. He brought up a pale hand to rub his chin, feeling the stubble he had allowed to become unruly so that his disguise would work.
From here he could see the guard, walking around a patrol route. He could see by the man’s annoyed body language that he was missing a warm fire.
“Blasted winter air,” the man mumbled to himself as he kept walking.
Rising to his feet, Nystas crept through the shadow of the building, following the man, at the same time drawing a long thin knife from his belt. Silently, he followed the Fallangard man to the next wall, and waited for him to stop. When he did so, Nystas took hold of his head with his right hand.
“Your foe sends his regards,” Nystas whispered almost inaudibly, sliding the blade across the man’s throat. The man dropped immediately, with a dull thump. The snow covered grass softened the sound, and the noiseless man in black dragged the body to somewhere unseen.
Soundlessly, Nystas swapped the black cloak he wore for the red and blue of Fallangard. His black hair and pale face he covered with the helmet, and picked up the sword, shoving it into his belt. Doing up the armor, he adopted the casual, confident stance of a Royal Officer, and threw the black cloak over the body of the real soldier.
The assassin sauntered around the side of the palace, the only sounds his boots crunching in the snow, and the wind blowing through the trees on the lawn. A hand on the sword, he walked up to the two guards on the doors.
“Good evening,” said one of the men.
“Sorry about this,” the other said, and grimaced, “It's the war and all, but let's see your papers."
Nystas nodded, reaching into his cloak.
“All this security isn’t good for Fallangard,” he said, as he drew the papers he had brought. The two guards surveyed them critically, but Nystas knew they were perfect. The best forger he knew had made them. One of the men handed them back and nodded.
“Alright, go on through. Sorry about that.”
“It’s no problem.”
He strode through into the lavish hallway, and was greeted with the sight of great tapestries, and guards along every wall. He walked through them, not looking at any of them, and went directly up the great stairs immediately ahead of him. Obviously, the King would reside in the greatest bedroom. He had studied Fallangard’s style of buildings, and maps from insiders of the palace. He knew exactly where the King’s bedroom was, and he meant to go directly to it. The carpeting made no sound under his boots, and a few guards even saluted him as he passed. He hid a smile, and continued walking.
Presently, he reached a huge set of oaken doors, intricately engraved with a gold design. A single guard stood outside, leaning tiredly on a pike that looked like it was built for show rather than stabbing.
“Is His Majesty already retired to his bed?” Nystas said formally to the man.
“No, he is currently in the Bird Tower, sending a message to the frontline.”
“I have an urgent message for him,” Nystas said, looking up the hallway. There was no-one in sight.
“And that is what?” the man said, sounding bored.
“That his realm is falling to pieces,” Nystas whispered, a sinister smile appearing on his face. The man had a split second to look puzzled, before that expression froze on his face. Still looking puzzled, he looked at his stomach, where the knife was stuck. Before he had collapsed, Nystas had stepped past him and pushed open one of the doors. It creaked forlornly as he entered, dragging the soldier. He shoved the body into a shadowed part of the room. None of the candles were lit, and the room was very dark. He closed the door, making it look as if no-one had been there, and then awaited the King from the darkest part of the bedroom, sporting a clear view of the door.
From his leggings he pulled a small pipe, and gently fitted a dart into the end, running a finger along it in sly satisfaction.
It was a full ten minutes before there was any noise in the hallway, but eventually, the clanking of armor betrayed the presence of the King, and then the voice of the Monarch of Fallangard rang out.
“Where is my guard? I left perfect instructions that there was to be a guard.”
The door of the bedroom edged open, as the King shouted at someone.
“Get a soldier outside this room right now! Hurry it up!”
As the King stepped into the room, all Nystas could see was a shadow on the light background. It was enough. Without a sound, the dart flew from the pipe, and buried itself in the King’s neck. Nystas saw him snatch a hand to his neck, and pull the dart free, but the poison was already in action.
“A poison dart,” the King exclaimed, and then coughed, and winced, but he held onto the door for support.
“Assassin!” he yelled, “Assassin!” Over and over, his voice becoming weaker. “Assassin in the palace!”
Nystas could hear shouts of guards and the sounds of military organizing themselves. He wasn’t worried, because he knew there was a ledge directly outside the window, and he ran lithely to the window, pulling it open and leaping out onto the narrow shelf. The cold air hit him, making him breathe in sharply. He rushed along the ledge, and clambered down the latticework, leaping down just to the right of the two guards he had shown the papers to. Silently, he ran through the snow, and climbed up the outer wall, dropping into the street.
As he ran, he heard the cry go up from the palace.
“The King is dead! The King is dead! The King is dead!”
The sound echoed out into the streets, and everyone still awake turned to look in shock as Nystas vanished into the darkness, and the cry resounded into the freezing night.
“Hail all people of Fallangard! The King is dead! The King is dead! The King is dead!”
