Into the West

Yet another chapter!

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~The Silver Mile, Sanc~


The crowds cheered as the royal family rode through the streets of Sanc. It did not matter that it happened five times a year. It was symbolic because it was similar to what they had done back on Anvar.
It was something that had not disappeared with the land they had once called home. It was something that had not been consumed by chaos and volcanic fury.

Blessings were called out to the king and the princes wishing them long lives and good health. Flower petals, garlands and coloured rice was thrown in their path as signs of respect.

It did not matter to them that Anvar was forever lost, all that mattered was they had a new home, a home filled with its memories. Memories that could not fade with the passing of time, memories that had been written down so that the younger generations might know how they came to be there.

Letting his mount follow the others with a free rein, Othello looked along the crowded length of the Silver Mile.

The wide street ran due north of the palace, its tall lampposts decorated with small silver stars and vibrant ribbons.
At the very end of the road sat the Temple of the Star, its outer wall rose twice as tall as a man with high pillars running along its top.

It had been build when they first came to this place.

Back when Sanc was nothing but a grass covered mound and the Ancients had still ruled Arisis.
It was one of the only known examples of pure Andine architecture left in Sanc, the palace and some of the original inner city held traces, but nothing to compare the temple with.

Leaning back in the saddle, as far as the armour he wore would allow, the prince gazed past his father to the gates of the temple. The ornate metal work glittered, even in the dimming light of the cold sun.
Leisurely he ran his eyes along the length of the wall; the white stone was in need of cleaning he noted silently. He would have to bring that up at the next council meeting.

Looking back towards the gate, Othello noticed a slim shadow almost hidden between two of the pillars. He might not have seen it if it had not moved ever so slightly just at that moment.

Frowning, he squinted at the shadow and quickly picked out a darker shape, the vague shape of a kneeling human. But as soon as he had picked it out it seemed to melt back and disappear. Blinking, he shook his head and looked back to where it had been, his eyes must be playing tricks on him, he thought.

There was no way a person could climb up onto the wall without notice. The guards and priests who lived within the temple would not allow such a thing.

But there it was. Barely visible, but most definitely there.

Alarm bells began to chime inside his head. Could it be an assassin? Who in their right mind would order an assassination attempt in the middle of something like this? Not even Pyriel would be that foolish. Their father still had to name his heir, until then he should be safe.

They were almost to the gates when he saw the figure move.

Still kneeling, it shifted forwards slightly until it was out of the shadow of the pillar and had a clear view all the way down to the front of the gate.
The odd coloured cloak that had concealed it so well in the shadows now made it stand out boldly from the white stone. Was it a mistake on their part or had it been intentional?

Leaning forwards, the general slipped his hand into a false pocket and freed a small knife from a sheath on his thigh. If it were an assassin, he would be ready for them.

It could not be the king they were after, more then likely it was one of the princes and if it were, it would be a toss up between Ariael and himself.

They were just at the gate when it happened.

The figure shifted and the hood slid back slightly to show a sliver of face mostly obstructed by a tight cloth mask.

Looking directly into the hood, Othello found himself staring into beautiful eyes glittering like black opals. Looking into them he felt his chest tighten and his breath catch. In his hand, the blade slipped and rested forgotten against his thigh.
At the same time, his memory tinged and he knew he had seen those haunted eyes somewhere before.

Staring into them he did not see the tiny blade fly until it was far too late to do anything.

-----

“One.”

Brilliant as sapphires caught in the warm light of summer. That was the colour of the gaze that held her own with such ease. Beneath a soft curtain of pale hair they glittered, but she could see no more of the prince’s face then he could likely see of her own.

His head was crowned with a helmet that bore the likeness of a wolf face, a wolf with cut amber for eyes and red enamelled fur. The stolen likeness of a demon from the war.

She could not help but smirk at the irony of it.

Golden mail glinted beneath a long black coat, which matched the scarf that he had wrapped around his lower face.

For a moment her memory tinged and she recognised those eyes, but she pushed it aside in favour of the sensation sweeping over her.
Time had almost robbed her of it, but she remembered this feeling, even if it was faint and tinted with hatred.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly and caused her to gasp softly for breath and slip further out of the shadows.

In doing so, her hood was pulled further back from her face.

Panic surged through her to banish the other half-forgotten sensation back into the void.

Her eyes were visible to his she knew, his eyes had widened just a fraction further to show true surprise. Did he know what she was and did he hate her for things that she could not change? She longed to know, but she feared the answer also.

Just by her eyes he would be able to tell what she was.

The blade flew from her hand automatically. It was a sliver of light, unstoppable as lightning and just as deadly.

But she did not see it strike the king. She did not see it embed itself in his throat. She did not see him fall back with a look of utter surprise upon his skull-like face. She did not see him clawing for air in pain and panic.

All she could see were those beautiful eyes in the face of a man she could only see as her enemy.

It seemed to her that time had stopped. It was so very quiet and it should not have been. There should be screaming and shouting, wails of despair and more. She knew those sounds, they were the sounds of a life taken, a life that had meant something to others.

When such an evil act was performed, there was never really silence. She had grown up knowing that, fearing it, and once again she was the cause of it.

A ferocious jolt tore her from the trance, pain seared through her shoulder and down her arm.

Blinking rapidly as if waking from a dream, she looked at her right shoulder with amazement. An arrow, its thick shaft still quivering from the impact of hitting its target, had pierced her just beneath her collarbone. The first trickle of blood glided down her skin, hotter then it should have felt.

Time around her jump-started with the pain and all she could hear was screaming. The screams of the crowd as the guard pushed their way through. The bitter wails of the priests and nobles as they gather around their dying king. The unmistakable noise of fear and chaos.

Taking a deep breath, the girl glanced around her looking for the bolt’s owner. Her senses had sharpened as they did in battle and she saw the world in hyper-focus. Around her, the world for a breath moved at a snail’s pace, but she could see nothing of her attacker. Only the chaos of the street.

The pain roared to ferocious new heights and broke her concentration and with it time re-started for the world.

Soldiers pushed through the crowd, trampling men, woman and children unable to move out of their path.

The screaming belonged in hell, but above it all roared a voice.

A voice that sung with command and made you pay attention no matter what you were doing. The rich voice of the general with the beautiful eyes.

Taking a shaky breath, the girl slumped back into the shadow of the pillar, where hopefully, no more arrows could hit her. It had been a long time since anyone had managed to hurt her.

The last time had been during the war; she still carried the scar on her chest as a reminder of the young man who stopped her killing Ozoni.

Her attempt had been only days before the conclusive battle of Pandis’Veel and if she had not failed, Narsail would still be alive and they would have been victorious.
Rolling her eyes towards the sky, the girl whispered a prayer to the Five Guardians. Her breathing was ragged as she fought the agony and nausea that threatened to overtake her.

Closing her eyes, she took hold of the feathered end of the arrow and broke it off. The world flicked dark for a moment as the pain roared to new heights. Then biting her lip to stop herself from crying out she pulled the arrow out of her back.

The pain stilled for a breath and slowly began to pulse in time with her heart, spilling her life-blood with each beat.

Pushing back the thick cloak, the girl pulled a tiny phial from her belt. Pulling the cork out, she splashed the evil smelling liquid over both sides of the wound. Again her vision swam black, it felt like ice water was running within her flesh and that was not a good sign at all.

It meant that the arrow had been painted with some kind of poison. Almost immediately the muscles in her arm began to spasm violently and again she had to bite her lip bloody to keep from crying out in pain.

The yelling had escalated and the voices were closing in on her she realised.

Fighting against the pain she glanced around the pillar and found at least two battalions of the army looking up at her.

Sliding back out of sight the girl quickly un-strapped the hookshot from her wounded arm and using her teeth to aid her, strapped it to her other arm.

If she stayed here she was as good as dead, but there was always a chance that she could loose them in the maze of the city's alleys and back streets.
That was only if she did not collapse from blood loss and pain.

Standing up, she sighting along her arm and shot the grappling hook to the closest rooftop.

-----

The street was in the grips of chaos.

People lay sobbing, the priests had begun to chant death rites and the Lady Kalisin was huddled in a ball and giggling hysterically to herself.

Yet all he could see at that moment were those opal-black eyes burning down in to his own. Beautiful eyes beneath elegantly arched brows that could only belong to a woman.

Her hood had slid back just before she had thrown the knife and the sunlight glittered off bound hair the colour of heart-blood and fire. Looking into those eyes he had felt a tug on his memory, those eyes, those black eyes were familiar.

Leaping down from their mounts, Pyriel and Lir had already rushed to their father’s side. Within moments they had him out of the saddle and on the cold ground.

Blinking rapidly as if waking from a trance, Othello looked away from those hypnotic eyes and found Ariael watching their elder brothers with cool eyes. Ariael had no illusions whatsoever about what they were doing or saying to their father.

There was nobody to see the bolt from a crossbow bury itself in the assassin’s shoulder or the archer back up from the darkened window they had fired from.

Slipping the dagger on his thigh back into its sheath, Othello swung himself out of his saddle and began to bark out orders to the stunned guards around them.

Within minutes the first and second battalions of the army had the crowd under control and were securing the wall where the assassin still had not moved from.

Looking to his father and brothers, Othello found the king fighting to place his hand on Ariael’s shoulder, as the others looked on in horror.

The priests began to chant louder, the screams and crying of the population began to fade as they noticed the sudden change.

The king was trying to name his heir before he died.

For a moment Othello felt a small pang of guilt for his poor brother, but relief quickly replaced it. With this many witnesses to the passing of king-to-king, Pyriel and Lir would be more reluctant to make a move against Ariael.

With that thought, Othello glanced towards his two elder brothers.

Lir now stood beside his horse, a calculating expression on his pale face, as from a safe distance, he watched the scene unfold.

Pyriel on the other hand was still kneeling beside their father. His face crimson with fury as helplessly he looked on as his youngest brother was given all the power he had wanted so badly.

The thought of the averted bloodbath over the crown only lasted a breath as a shocked yell brought Othello’s attention back to the wall.

The prince turned in time to see a bright metal hook and rope soar across their heads.