The Legend of He Who Endured: Prologue (Rewrite)

Prologue

Sythril stepped onto the rocky overhang just as the moon ascended The Mountains of Teslanar. They said it couldn’t be penetrated, so heavily fortified was Castle Korestair. It’s Javelin’s and Medusa Crossbows faced the southward plains, ready to unleash a withering stream of arrows on anyone who dared attack. The north side made impenetrable by the mountain range behind it.

Maybe he had overestimated himself, he thought. Killing a king was no small matter, especially when this particular king happened to preside over the most powerful empire the world had ever known.

Shaking his head to clear his doubt, Sythril jumped from the overhang and easily landed the forty-foot drop, well within the castle grounds. He smirked, the king's defenses were more than enough to keep out normal men but since when had Sythril been normal? Silently, he crept through the lord's outer courtyard keeping in the shadows cast by the sentry’s torches as they made their nightly rounds.

Sythril reached the first of the four towers circling the inner wall. Crouching low, he leapt twenty feet in the air and managed to grab the lip of the first window by a mere two fingers. Heaving himself onto the sill, Sythril balanced on the balls of his feet. Taking a deep breath he closed his eyes, turning inward, reaching with his mind to locate an almost inhuman energy reserve. Few people had the power he possessed. Those who did were called Sorcerers, rulers of the arcane.

Carefully, Sythril scrolled through his immense amount of armaments. He first stopped on Nainor, wielded by the first High King of the continent, Tol Solie. Then, the Black arrow of Rissian caught his eye. This weapon had slaughtered thousands of men at the gates of Korestair but would be no use in Sythril’s mission.

Finally, he drew The Cardinal's Shield from his cerebral arsenal, this shield was known for killing every single high king from the first to last, an astounding feat for a weapon, and Sythril thought it would only be fitting to use in killing this king as well. The familiar tingle of energy ran through his arm as the fabled shield formed in his hand. Grasping the jet-black leather handle Sythril put one of the spikes protruding from the shield to the glass and soundlessly cut a hole.

Slipping inside, he landed in the king's servant's quarters. The lustrous quartz walls nearly blinded him as they reflected the light from the bronze lantern hanging at intervals along the hall. Silently, he padded his way down the red velvet carpet and through the hallway until he found the door leading to the kitchen. This was what he was looking for. Smiling, Sythril strode inside and was met by the surprised stares of a dozen chefs, all in customary black and white and preparing food for the celebration within the castle. Sythril eyed their clothes, taking a mental note of each, they would be important for the second part of his plan.

Then, he attacked. 

Sythril mercilessly swung his shield in a wide arc cutting through the necks of the defenseless servants. Bounding forward, Sythril elbowed the next man in the cheek with savage strength, sending him crashing into the wall on the far side of the room. On the follow through, he decapitated three more opponents as they desperately scrambled backwards.

By this time the other men had drawn daggers and, with a desperate cry, charged their attacker. Parting his lips in a vicious grin, Sythril sprang toward them and bisected his assailants. Raising his shield, he blocked a knife as it raced to fulfill its deadly purpose and returned the favor with a quick blow to the throat of the holder. Dodging another dagger, Sythril ducked behind his attacker and slung his arm around the man's neck, turning him to block the last three men who lunged forward in a futile attempt to gut him. Their knives slipped into their comrade's chest, instantly killing the man. Throwing aside his meat-shield, Sythril quickly minced his few remaining enemies.

His task being complete, Sythril stood amid the carnage and began undressing. Slipping out of his jet black tunic and tossing it aside he donned the black and white apron of the servants. Sythril had not volunteered for this job, no, a lord of great power, the prince of Allatia had put him to the task. Why? The prince had not said but Sythril had his suspicions. In return for this dark deed, the prince promised he would give Sythril The Amplifier. A powerful artifact able to magnify a sorcerer’s power ten fold.

Closing the door to the servants’ quarters, he again delved into the sphere of energy within his thoughts. Drawing upon his inner magical aspect he spread his hands and cried, "Shadar Xythil!"

The hallway suddenly darkened as the incantation took affect. His shadow elongated, churned and wove into a mass of humanoid silhouettes that gelled together to form dozens of clones. Sythril gave them the physical characteristics of the king's servants and sent them to the main hall were they would be needed to attend to the men and women at the king’s anniversary.

The night of the party was a perfect time to plan an assassination, when all the lords from across the empire whether friend or foe were invited and all placed into one room. No one would possibly suspect an outsider when all the king's enemies were in the same place.

Now, the second part of his plan came into action. The guards needed to be dealt with.

 He halted outside the entrance to the barracks. Did he have to go in there and kill all the guards? No! There had to be an easier way. Fumbling around in the language of power he finally muttered, "Uerthe".

A film of magic slowly encased his body, giving him a new skin, a tabula rasa. Where his face used to be, the captain of the guard’s, a tall, muscular man with a block like face and missing arm, now stared ahead. Grimacing, Sythril stepped inside the guard house and feverishly prayed for the real captain to not be there. To his surprise, and immense relief, he was not. The men who were immediately sprang to their feet and saluted. He stepped in, surveying the guards then growled with a commanding tone, "I have news that there has been a security breach in the outer wall. Are orders are to double up on the perimeter and make sure no one goes in or out till I say so."

Sythril was greeted by a loud "SIR YES SIR" from the men in the barracks as they quickly filed out into the night. Sighing, he released the spell surrounding him and allowed himself a pleased grin. His diversion wouldn't last long but it would be enough to keep security out of his hair until he murdered the king.

The grand ballroom was only minutes away. As he approached the his destination, Sythril heard the sounds of laughter and music, the signs of the king's anniversary party. Striding down the side stairwell, Sythril entered the grand hall. The noise hit him like a physical blow, making him grimace in annoyance. He took in the cacophony of sounds surrounding him and, forcing himself to think. He was standing in an enormous chamber with a magnificent vaulting ceiling and an giant dance floor. The walls were of marble and lavishly decorated with bright red banners bearing the royal crest. In the midst of all the guests, the king himself sat on a mock throne surrounded by a half moon table full of his most prominent guests.

Sythril caught glimpses of his shadows rushing around the party, bringing drinks to the guests and otherwise blending in perfectly with the other servants.

Sidling around the side of the party, Sythril caught site of a hallway to the far left of him. Noting this as an avenue of escape, Sythril made his way through the crowd towards the high king. The crush of bodies on the dance floor proved more of a challenge than Sythril had thought. He had to force his way between couples as they shuffled about and caught more than a few dirty looks from the lords and ladies. Halfway across the floor, Sythril bumped into another servant. The man wore a black suit and had an expression of disgust plastered across his face. Sythril identified him as the head of staff.

“What are you doing? Did I not just tell you to serve tables twenty and nine? Get to it you lazy bastard!”

With a small sigh, Sythril did his best imitation of a sheepish servant and replied, “but sir, I’ve been ordered to clean the dishes of tables…” He made a quick glance around the room and spotted two tables close to the king that needed cleaning. Spying their numbers he continued, “tables seventeen and nineteen sir.”

The head of staff looked at him with an expression of rage.

"Know your place! Who are you so I can report you!"

Sythril silently cursed himself. Of course the head of the bloody staff wouldn't recognize him! Sythril had known that the king had ordered more servants to prepare for his party but he didn't know the exact day when the order was placed. Quickly, Sythril made a rough estimate and stuttered, “I’m one of the new recruits that came in about a fortnight ago sir, to help with the setup of the anniversary.”

The head of staff eyed him for another moment then sniffed and straightened up again.

“Who ordered you to clean tables seventeen and nineteen?”

“The head chef sir, he made it very clear that it was of immediate importance.”

A look of indignant wrath crossed the man’s face and he blurted out, “The head chef! That insolent fool! I’ll have is head for contradicting my authority!” And with that the head of staff stormed off muttering a stream of curses.

Sythril waited until the man was out of sight then heaved a sigh of relief. That was close, to close. Berating himself, Sythril continued through the party now shoving his way through the crowd regardless of being rude.

Finally, he made it to the table at the middle of the party were all the jarls sat. The menand women were laughing and making merry with each other. The only sign that these people were not all good friends was that their smiles never reached their eyes. These lords were not to be trifled with. Behind every mask of glee and mirth was a cold hard mind, always watching and calculating their neighbor. Sythril could not afford to slip up here.

Casting his eyes downwards, Sythril made his way around the table towards high king himself. He almost made it when suddenly, a man to his left shouted, “Hey, servant boy! Bring me another drink eh?”

Growling, Sythril turned and adopted the look of a flustered servant, “You must excuse me sir but I cannot serve at this moment, I must attend to an important matter in the kitchen.”

A look of surprise crossed the man’s face then his features darkened and he spat, “You will do as I say boy.”

Sythril calmly stood his ground and replied, “As I said, I cannot attend to you at this moment sir, If you will wait a while longer I am sure someone else will be with you.”

The man stood with a look of fury but was interrupted by a loud clear voice, “Sit my friend, all will be well.”

Sythril turned, as the voice had sounded from behind him, and was met by the high king himself. The king turned, his great velvet robe swirling behind him. His magnificent crown shone with all manner of gems.

Syhtril quickly kneeled as did the jarls and everyone in the vicinity of the king. The high king looked upon Sythril and said in a melodic tone, “ You will get this man a goblet of my finest wine, is that clear?”

Sythril groaned, he could not waste any more time dithering about the ball room, “I-I’m sorry your highness but-“ He was interrupted by a collective gasp from the jarls. The high king glared at him,

“You would ignore a direct order from the high king?”

Sythril remained silent, the time for stealth had passed, now action was mandatory. With a quick movement, summoned a quiver and The Bow of Affliction to his hand. One tiny scratch from an arrow shot from this bow and the target would be dead in seconds.

Drawing an arrow, Sythril fired, aiming straight for the king’s heart. Then the unexpected struck, With a grin, the high king shouted, “Revindah!”

The incantation took affect immediately, sending Sythril and the arrow he had shot crashing backwards.

Sythril growled as he pushed himself out of the rubble of a destroyed table. He had not counted on the king being a sorcerer. Casting his thoughts towards his shadows who were standing out of harms way, watching the battle take place. Sythril erased their identities as servants and quickly lent them all his knowledge on swordplay. He watched as the shadows walked calmly to his side. Grinning, He launched himself towards the king, sending his shadows off to kill every other person of prominence in the room. His benefactor, the prince, had ordered him to assassinate every other lord and lady as well as the king. Hating himself for it, he had excepted the condition and convinced himself it was for the greater good.

Drawing another arrow, he loosed it in the kings direction and was startled by the king's show of swordsmanship as he deftly flicked the bolt aside. Allowing the bow to disintegrate in his hand Sythril once again summoned his shield. It's round sharp edged form appeared in is hand and he quickly slashed at the high king's chest. Parrying, the lord struck back, forcing Sythril to avoid the deadly blade.

In this manner the two warriors fought, exchanging brutal blows as chaos reigned around them. Suddenly, Sythril flinched as one of his cerebral connections was severed. Realizing one of his shadows had just died. he shouted, "Favindah!" sending the king crashing down the marble hall. Sagging slightly, he turned and surveyed the battle now raging across the grand hall. The guards, having heard the commotion, had returned to fight Sythril's shadows. Turning back to the king, he saw the tails of his cape slip around the corner and out of sight. Snarling, he lunged forwards and turned were he promptly stopped and stared dumbstruck as the king drew an Arch-blade from his armory.

The Arch-blades were one of the rarest, most powerful swords ever created. They were crafted by the ancients and utilized one of the four elements found on Tol' Solie. In this case, the king's sword held a steely gray aura matching the description of ice. Slowly waltzing forwards, The king waved the huge blade in front of him. Suddenly, he struck the ground, sending a burst of icy spikes towards Sythril, intending to impale him. Nimbly stepping aside, he leaped forwards but was again driven back as the Arch-blade sped towards his throat.

Sythril, did not attack again. Instead, he and the king stood circling each other like rival cats, both seeking the best way to slaughter the other. Slowly, the sky brightened above as dawn broke the chaos of night. The rays of weak light filtered through the skylight over looking the two warriors and illuminating the glorious marble walls. Sythril's breathing slowed and his muscles, previously tense, now relaxed. This was the way he had won every one of his battles, by examining his options. He knew the Arch-blade was to long for him to get within striking range, he also knew that the Arch-blade was stronger than his shield, he would be hard pressed to over power it. That left Sythril with one option. Speed.

Moving faster than the eye could see, Sythril feinted left then spun right and raced forwards. The slate gray edge of the Arch-blade followed him as he sprinted towards the king's side. At the last moment, Sythril jumped sideways and watched as a line of deadly spikes raced by him, a hairs breadth away from slicing him in two. Leaping upwards, Sythril cleared the wall of ice separating him from his prey and with a roar, drove his shield downwards. As he anticipated, The Arch-blade was to big to move at a quick pace. The heavy stroke the king had dealt had left him unbalanced and with his guard down. Looking upon his victim, Sythril saw the king's face pale as he stared up at his assailant. That was the last thing the king ever saw before his life ended. Extinguished by an assassin wearing an apron.

Sythril came down on top of the king. His shield had sliced through the lord's skull. Bile rose in his throat and he looked away quickly. Sythril's remaining shadow's, having dispatched all the guards and nobles in the area had returned to their master. With a quick word he dismissed them and stood shaking as physical and magical fatigue took it's toll. For a while he stood there, then, with a sudden movement, grabbed the Arch-Blade by the hilt. And added it to his arsenal. Turning, he walked out of the hallway, through the gore splattered dance floor, and out the main entrance. And thus, a new age came to pass and the sun rose into the sky to reveal the night's chaos.