《Myth and Legend》


 The Adventurers Guild

    As you walk along the city streets in legendary Din¡¯arin, the fabled city of the Divine, you might, might come across an old, wooden building, creaking and bending to the point it seems a single gust of wind might blow it over. It might seem out of place in the grand city, chock-full of floating temples and august palaces, such an aged, tired building... and it is.


    More than a few inspectors have claimed its old, wooden structure and its propensity to favor one side (the west) over another as a public health threat, and yet, the old, creaking thing still stands as high as it did the day some builder slapped the last board on with two and a half nails along with as little effort as possible, then tossed his helmet to the side, quit his job, and went home.


    That helmet¡¯s still there. In the bushes, if you looked and were quick about it, you might see the faded, stained yellow of a long-forgotten hard hat--which is, interestingly, still ratified by the ISA. You figure they¡¯ll ever change that? But I digress.


    Stop before the building. Take in its old, dirty windows, its long-faded sign, its misshapen, flaking portrait of a woman--or a beautiful portrait of an ogre, if you think of it that way--painted by some long-ago patron to the guild.


    Yes, it¡¯s a guild. Actually, it¡¯s The Guild. The first, the original, the Adventurers Guild, now reserved for only legendary veterans, famous explorers, and storied travelers.


    Its nickname is, oh so humorously, the Hall of Fame. Yes, yes, laugh it up. Go on. I¡¯ll wait. I didn¡¯t come up with it.


    It¡¯s not that bad? Ha!


    ...A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Well, I suppose everybody has their own opinions. You seem to have the wrong one, but we¡¯re not discussing that.


    Alright. Walk up the steps, marveling at the half-dead shrubbery around the guild. Nobody in the adventurers business has a green thumb--except maybe the elves and the druids. Tree-huggers, those guys. But they don¡¯t really bother me. None of them ever show up at the guild, anyway.


    Push open the doors--rather well made, really well balanced--and hear them squeak for want of oil. Trust me--it¡¯s not because nobody cares for them. We try to keep ¡®em just oiled enough to be squeaky as well as easy to turn. It makes it easier to stare weirdly at all the cloaked strangers.


    Breathe in the savory scent of roasting meat, the strong smell of ale, the homely smell of freshly baked bread, right out of the oven. Heavenly. They¡¯re usually made by Martha, the bartender¡¯s wife. Yes, Mad Martha. That one. Turns out she¡¯s a great cook.


    Turn your head to look across the room. There, sitting at the high bar, setting the low bar, are the regulars.


    There¡¯s Evelyn the Scarlet. Yeah... it¡¯s really not hard to tell which one she is. Just follow the trail of red. Or just look for her hair. You can''t miss either of those.


    There¡¯s Lin Daohan, the Wanderer. That silent one in the corner there. The one with the big sword. Yeah, that¡¯s him. He¡¯s from the east.


    There¡¯s Liu Luoyang, the... actually, nevermind. I¡¯ve got no idea what she is. She¡¯s from the east... I think.


    There¡¯s Unbaktafure--yeah, it¡¯s a weird name. He¡¯s from up north, the nomad tribes. Crazy stuff they do up there--weather dances, cold spells, dark rituals to raise dread lords. Ya know, the works. Must be all the ice--does something to the mind, if you ask me.


    There''s Rasthen al... something. Al-something. That''s his last name. No, it''s not actually "al-something." I hear he''s a retired assassin? Sure as hell doesn''t look like one. But I suppose only the worst assassins look like assassins.


    There¡¯s a couple more... but those are all the ones I can recognize right now.


    Look, I haven¡¯t been in a while, alright?


    My memory¡¯s been going a little fuzzy ever since that one incident on the Excelsior. Damn forget-fish eel-thing god.


    What do you mean I never told you about that one?

 The Order

    The true assassin kills one to save many.


    He had chosen the inn carefully. Just close enough to the caliph''s palace to be in range, yet just far enough that no mortal man could possibly shoot into it.


    He crossed the lobby, his stature carefully crafted to be just tall enough that he wasn¡¯t too short, yet short enough to be not tall enough to be noticed.


    Not a pair of eye tracked his weaving way through the rowdy crush and sweat of the inn¡¯s floor. Not a man noticed him striding through the crowd of waving mugs and shuffling feet.


    It was an art, being unseen. Sometimes a mystical one, but now was not one of those times. The key to mundane invisibility was to be moderate. But not to be too moderate, for even that had to be in moderation. Too invisible, and you were visible. Too visible, and not even invisibility could hide you.


    One had to stand out just enough to not stand out--a truly delicate balance. Many years of experience and training had taught him thus.


    Many famous assassins walked like predators--their gait perfectly balanced, each step perfectly even, each stride long and loping. That was why they were famous.


    He walked like a merchant. His step was arched--to accommodate for the packet of gold hidden in his shoe. Just like a merchant¡¯s step might be. His feet fast, yet his stride short, representative to any who had mastered the old arts of a small heart, a quick mind. Just as a merchant might have.


    In many ways, Rasthen al-Carif was a merchant. His father had been a middling, slightly successful merchant. His mother had been a lowborn daughter of a clan of merchants--his surname had helped him many times throughout his life.


    He had grown up amongst a caravan of Siraman traders. He knew how to count coins, how to haggle, how to find the best prices. He knew all the rules of being a merchant. In fact, he often traveled the world, peddling his wares to all he met.


    But in many ways, he was not a merchant. He knew this, and so this identity, this merchant, was only almost perfect. His muscles were toned and hard, trained to the very pinnacle of the human potential... and beyond. No merchant¡¯s muscles would be like his. His chest was tattooed with a curling, ringing circle of symbols, each crackling and whispering of dark powers, powers beyond what a mere mortal could hope to understand.


    But he understood them. And so, of course, he was not a merchant.


    When he arrived at the room¡¯s door, the first thing he did was look around. First with his mortal eyes, then with his spirit. Nothing appeared in his vision. Perhaps the inn¡¯s inhabitants were all down at the ground floor.


    He knelt and checked the door. There, at the very crack between the door and the floor, sat a black hair. One of the oldest, but most effective, tricks in the book. It had been undisturbed.


    He stood and traced a symbol on the center of the door with his finger. In the spiritual domain, it burned with a scarlet red and sank into the door, disappearing. Nothing spiritual had passed through the door or waited inside.


    He reached into his pocket, pulling out a set of lockpicks. His tongue between his teeth, he carefully picked the locks, then opened the door.


    He could have opened it with magic, but any working greater than a lesser scanning left a trace. Never leave a trace if you don¡¯t have to--one of the few tenets of the assassin¡¯s trade.


    For the greater good.


    He stepped into the room. It was empty--nobody was supposed to be here, not even him. The room was unbooked. It had been for several years. Another of the Order¡¯s assets, he supposed. A fine film of dust lay over the furniture of the room. The fires in the hearth had long since gone out, leaving only dead, cold ashes behind.


    He found himself wishing he could light another, to feel at least a little warmth once more. Rasthen could not understand the caliph¡¯s decision in wanting to move the Sepulchre here. The cold would turn away many pilgrims--and kill even more.


    He walked to the balcony doors. There was a dead insect on the latch. It had been there the last time he had come and was still there now. Rasthen drew a symbol on the window, a dark, shadowy mark following his finger. It flashed once, then sank into the door. Nobody had come.


    He calmly walked to the fireplace, knelt down, and picked three charcoal colored branches from the ashes. He dusted them off, revealing a honey-brown wood beneath the ashes; revealing three pieces of a bow from the ashy grit. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Rasthen did not like bows. His personal choice was a rifle. A long range, silenced magitech rifle, capable of pinpoint accuracy from nearly a mile away. He called it Alqatil--it meant slayer in the old language, the language from before the Empire.


    Unfortunately, there were no buildings in the city higher than the caliph¡¯s winter palace. As such, only a bow would do.


    He removed two screws from his merchant¡¯s robe, screwing the three pieces of the bow together. He strung it with a black string that seemed woven of shadows--and was.


    He pulled an arrow from his robe. It was a long, black thing, shaft, feathers, and head all woven with countless workings until it practically thrummed with power. Gazing into the spiritual, runes seemed to take shape for a fleeting second before sinking back into the darkness that surrounded the arrow.


    He set it aside, taking off his merchant¡¯s robe. From an unseen pocket of space, he took a black cloak. Putting it on, he flipped the hood over his face, letting the shadows sink over him, concealing his features. Now, not even the most eagle-sighted of men could catch a glimpse of his face.


    Only darkness resided in the cowl. Only the assassin was beneath the cloak.


    The assassin stood, glancing at the time, and lit an incense stick. He sat, his legs settling into a lotus position, and meditated, clearing his mind of worldly passions and desires.


    He sat this way for a while, waiting for the stick¡¯s flame to go out. When it did, so would another, more metaphorical kind of flame.


    The candle¡¯s flame flickered. It was time. The assassin stood, picking up his bow, his single, shadowed arrow.


    The caliph was a creature of habit--a very rare thing in his profession. Such people in positions of power did not tend to live very long. Perhaps the religious leader felt safe, shrouded in enough protective working and spells to protect a city.


    He was not.


    At this time, the assassin thought, the caliph would be walking as he always did, walking along the garden pathway, surrounded by a cloud of half-dressed women, rough, grizzled bodyguards, and every socialite in the city.


    For all, one.


    The assassin knew that the caliph had been issued a letter of warning--something the Order always did. The Order did not kill without reason, and they did not kill when there were other options available. Clearly, the caliph had not taken heed.


    The assassin stepped out onto the room¡¯s balcony, casually casting a minor illusion. Anyone who looked at the balcony would only see it empty--at least until it was too late.


    The assassin wondered if the caliph truly understood the end he was sure to face--after all, the Order had not taken action in many years.


    The flame touched the half-dried wax on the bottom of the stick.


    The assassin raised his bow and nocked it. He gazed up into the stars and found one that shone especially bright. Its name was appropriate--the Star of War.


    He pointed his bow at it, then turned three degrees, until he was facing the west end of the caliph¡¯s gardens.


    He drew it back until his arms trembled with the weight of the string.  The crescent moon arc of the bow was perfectly still.


    The flame went out.


    With the deep-throated twang of a longbow, with the sighing whistle of a razor sharp object cutting through the air, the assassin released.


    The arrow arced away through the air, carrying with a terrible darkness--a comet of translucent black fire streaked through the sky.


    The assassin set his bow down, disassembled it, then hid it in his long, billowing robes. Then he cracked the door open and walked out.


    We know of the price peace demands.


    The assassin arrived at the ground floor of the inn--the restaurant. A deep, dark silence fell over the crowd, spreading like a plague, as each member, be they drunk or sober, young or old, turned to gaze at him. The shadows seemed drawn to him, eyes as well.


    He strode forward and the crowd split before him, like the waving, fearful grasses of the prairie. Whispers abounded and fingers pointed. Somebody mentioned the Order¡¯s symbol on his breast.


    The assassin knew they would remember him. Before dawn, the whole city would know of his presence here. Even the caliph¡¯s successor--especially him.


    The assassin never did anything without purpose.


    Someone shouted something at the assassin. He ignored it. A man stepped out into the open corridor of the crowd. He swayed a little on his feet, his face a flushed red. In his hand, he carried a glass bottle, mostly empty. A little week-old vomit stained his filthy clothes.


    ¡°Ay! AY! Ah¡¯m talkin¡¯ ta ya. Lissen up, you creepy bastard. Why don¡¯ ya go back to whatever hole ya climbed out of? Huh?¡± He slurred at the assassin, his face leering. He preened with pride, evidently proud that he had acted when nobody else was stupid enough to.


    A flash of amusement passed through the assassin¡¯s face under his veil of shadows. Alcohol often made men do strange things--here evidently freeing the man from the grip of terror.


    The assassin reached out and grabbed the drunk¡¯s shoulder, his face under the veil returning to its expressionless equilibrium.


    His other hand shot out of his loose robe in a blur of black, slamming into the man¡¯s stomach. He doubled over. Gathering himself, the assassin spun and threw the drunk thirty feet across the room in a whirl of loose cloth, embedding him, spread-eagled, half an inch into the inn¡¯s timber walls. The walls shook, tables shifting, drinks sloshing in their cups and bowls.


    The inn¡¯s patron and staff looked on in horror, paralyzed by terror--this time, true terror.


    The assassin retracted his hands into his loose sleeves and strode away, his black robe flapping in the wind of his passage.


    Walk in the shadow to serve the light.

 Cinders Fly

    The sorcerer¡¯s body sprawls on the rotten planks, dark, silent waves lapping against the slick, mossy wood. His last breaths spill scarlet from his lips, cherry with blood, into the black seawater. The sorcerer stares up, with unblinking gaze, at his murderer, at the city above and the stars beyond.


    Almon studies his eyes one last time, still so full of disbelief. The sorcerer¡¯s dead, iridescent eyes stab at his mind.


    A thousand shining stars hang in the sky. A broken mountain range burns scarlet as mist fades through it. A pillar of light spears the clouds.


    Iridescent eyes gaze down from the heavens.


    May they all burn.


    Almon squeezes his hand into a fist, feeling the heart he ripped from the sorcerer¡¯s still moving chest pop with a wet squelch.


    He nudges the body with a careful kick, gazing down at it all the while. One kick, then two. A third and the sorcerer is floating on the black sea.


    The water suddenly begins to splash, waves rippling through the waters. Sharks appear, their dark fins circling. The ocean never wastes time.


    A broken world. The land keens in pain. The trees grow twisted and torn, their hearts rotten and empty. The Reavers stalk the forests. The Lost wander the mortal realm.


    They condemned us to this fate. They doomed us to our suffering. Then they forgot who we were.


    He looks up into the sky. A sky full of stars.


    Almon spits into the dark seawater, his good eye flaring a dull, cherry red, like the last embers of a dying flame.


    One day, I will tear down those heavens you hide behind.


    I will reveal you for the fiends you are.


    He hears a sound on the deck. It is not the screaming of his people from so long ago. Not the cries of forgotten crows, picking through the mountains of dead and rivers of blood. Not the laughter of hidden gods, their cruel eyes trained on a broken door.


    No, this sound is real. The dull thump of something tough striking hollow, rotten wood. He turns to see a wooden ramp trembling under heavy boots.


    A thickset man, gold and jewels of a thousand colors glittering on his fingers, descends towards the docks. Blue light spills from the gilded, shaded lantern in his hands onto the dock. It¡¯s light is unnaturally muted by the shadows of the dock--but the man doesn¡¯t notice. Pathetic.


    He seems to have a high position--denoted by the gems and gold that cover the man¡¯s clothes. Perhaps he will have some important information tucked away behind all the folds of fat and debauchery that no doubt cloud his mind.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    The blood stained wood is blackish-brown in the light, finally catching the man¡¯s eye. One hand disappears into his finely woven jacket, pulling a pistol--an older model, a flintlock--pointing its wavering barrel into the darkness.


    Almon is revealed by the moonlight as the clouds above shift slightly. The man freezes--he looks like he¡¯s seen a ghost. Or maybe he¡¯s seen a demon. All the same, really.


    ¡°W-what are you?¡± The man stumbles over his words.


    Almon smiles through shattered, bloody spires of bright enamel. His voice is a ragged, sibilant hiss of vocal cords torn and shot from millenia of screaming into the void. ¡°What do you think?¡±


    The man¡¯s finger shakes, then slips.


    There is a flash of light and fire. A crack like the sound of shattering glass amplified a hundred times over. The wood of a ship behind Almon erupts in splinters and fragments.


    It¡¯s a good thing Almon isn¡¯t in the way. No, he¡¯s in the flames. His eye glows a cherry red, and his world is fire.


    For just an instant, he is transformed by long-forgotten powers into a whirling tempest of heat and energy. The man¡¯s flintlock breaks apart into a ball of flame as Almon explodes from the firing chamber, leveraging the spark and subsequent explosion to launch himself from the material to the spiritual and back again.


    The man screams aloud and drops the gun--too late. His hand is a mangled mess of burns and welts, embedded with bleeding shards of silvery steel.


    The thickset man drops his lantern, and before he can hear the sound of shattering glass, he turns to run. But again, it¡¯s too late.


    Almon grasps forward with a hand of blazing fire; he grabs the man by his neck and lifts him like a kitten.


    ¡°DO YOU KNOW WHAT I AM NOW?¡± He whisper-roars, his voice the crackle-pop of flames, the snapping cackle of a blazing bonfire.


    The man doesn¡¯t reply--he can¡¯t. Too busy screaming as the heat of Almon¡¯s hand brands its print into his neck.


    Almon smiles. For once, the sound of screaming is music to his ears. Like the soothing hum of insects at dusk.


    Then he focuses, drawing deep from within. The heartfire of his people is mostly gone, ashes remaining where flames once roared to the heavens, but there is enough. Enough left to squeeze this mortal mind for answers, enough left to burn out what he needs from this man¡¯s seared spirit.


    There is a howl of flame, a gust of hot wind that rises to the sky, and a pillar of bright orange energies that pierce the night clouds.


    A few people glance out their windows. Upon seeing the unnatural shadows that cover the dock, however, they slam them shut.


    The man disappears, his mortal form vaporized into mere ash on the wind, his spirit disintegrated, its remnants drawn into Almon¡¯s heartfire--more fuel for the flames.


    A few seconds later, Almon smiles.


    The man was important, after all.


    He knew quite a bit. Much of the things he had heard are most likely simple rumor--but they are leads. And that is all he needs.


    He stalks off the wooden dock, leaving footprints of burning ash, one step closer to freedom... one step closer to vengeance.


    Although the heartfire has burned low, still the last of it remains. And if even a spark can start a wildfire, then what of an ember?


    He shifts, whirls, and a pulse of heat and light rises to the sky.


    What is this about... Godsparks?