The Assassin's Arrow

“And the Anmolians have been sending raiding parties to our borders more frequently. Surely this calls for a strengthening of our outer garrisons? Fenrien? Fenrien are you listening to me?”

Fenrien looked up from his stack of strategic reports. “Yes, Your Grace. I am listening intently. Forgive me, my attention was held by the recent reports from our scouts.”

The king glanced at his arm full of papers and nodded. “Understandable. How do you stand on increasing the size of our outer garrisons?”

Fenrien considered this for a moment, tilting his head in a characteristic thoughtful manner. “To be honest, Sire, I believe it to be a mistake. If my training as a Blademaster and my experience in the outer garrisons tells me anything, it tells me that the Anmolians are expecting that to be our reaction. They most likely decided to increase their raids in order to draw out our forces.”

“So what would you suggest Fenrien?” the king asked as the two men, along with the king’s constant guard, made their way down the corridor towards the Council Arena.

“In my professional opinion I would suggest fortifying the Romanoran River Valley first. I imagine that the Anmolians were planning on attacking our inner cities as well as our border cities in order to draw out our troops. Then, with the palace and surrounding garrisons weakened, they would send the full force of their army down the Romanoran River Valley to seize the palace, effectively taking over your kingdom,” Fenrien concluded, drawing out an invisible map of Trenultain and the Romanoran River Valley for the king.

The king, working through his suggestion. “Yes, yes, I see now. That would make an excellent strategy to thwart the Anmolians. Wonderful work as always Fenrien. Oh, we’re here,” the king said as the procession stopped in front of a set of large oak doors, inlaid with gold, silver, and various other gems ostentatiously set to show the wealth of the ruling family. From the other side of the doors a loud chorus of trumpets could be heard, announcing the arrival of the king at the Council Arena.

“It would be best if you went to your place in the Arena now,” the king said. “It wouldn’t do to have your enemies see you walk through those doors alongside me.”

Fenrien bowed deeply, still impressed at the king’s vast knowledge on the rivalries among his court. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you.” Fenrien turned on his heel and began to walk down an adjacent corridor toward a smaller, less ostentatious door that led out onto the Council Arena. He opened the door and walked out onto an open air platform decorated with merely and oak desk and chair, meant solely for practical use. Fenrien took his seat at his desk and gazed out at the other platforms.

Each platform was similarly adorned with a desk and chair, though they were all made of different woods with different finishes; each Council member was given their preference. Already every desk was occupied with the rest of the Council members. Behind each platform was a ring for audience members, mainly the nobility of Trenultain and their families. In the center of the Council Arena was sand pit, meant solely for the settlement of disputes. Fenrien looked out at the Council with a faint sense of disgust. He hated the whole concept of the Council Arena and its purpose.

“All rise for King Galnan, Ruler of Trenultain, Keeper of the People, and Watcher of the Council Arena,” the criar announced. Fenrien rose once again and turned to face the king’s high platform, which was adorned with a more decorative desk and throne. King Galnan strode out from the ostentatious door behind him, dressed in robes of silk and velvet, with gold and jewels hanging from his neck and adorning his fingers. Fenrien sighed. He knew the king was just putting on a show to demonstrate his power, but Fenrien knew that it wasn’t winning him any allies. He wished that the king would heed his advice on this matter but he remained persistently stubborn. Fenrien just hoped that Galnan wouldn’t regret his decision.

He cast another glance around the Arena at the gather Council members. Fenrien studied each one warily, knowing that every smile or straight-face was just a mask obscuring some power-hungry individual. That was the problem with Galnan’s Council. It’s corruption spread like a disease throughout the court, each little germ having its own agenda. Some wanted money, some wanted to secure something for a group of people they represented, and some just wanted to ascend the throne and consume the king’s power. Galnan shouldn’t flaunt his wealth, Fenrien thought once again. It only makes him more of a target.

Galnan sat and the rest of the Council and audience followed suit. “Council members,” he began, addressing the gathered men, “we are faced with a drastic threat from the Almonians to the North. We must devise a strategy to push them back.”

Fenrien stopped listening. He already knew that the king was going to listen to him no matter what other ideas were presented. That’s why Fenrien had so many enemies. He had the ear of the king. Anything Fenrien recommended the king did, regardless of what others had to say on the matter. It was because of their friendship as young boys, a friendship that Fenrien had warned Galnan against showing publicly.

When he was still in training, Fenrien had had few friends. He was a quiet boy and a quick study, rising quickly to the top of their class. Just like adults, children are envious of those better than them, those with more power. Fenrien was the child of envy among the other trainees. He spent his time away from the rest of class. He'd tried to make friends, but with little success. He was a naïve boy and hadn't known the full extent of control that envy had over people.

Fenrien was frequently the target of practical jokes meant to degrade and dissuade him. And they were working. Slowly he had started to lose focus, growing less responsive on the training grounds, earning bad marks on his studies. It was when he was at his lowest that he contemplated dropping out and returning to his poor little farming village, and it was at this moment that Galnan arrived at the Compound.

He had arrived under an alias to hide his true identity from the rest of the boys. His father had sent him to be trained by the Blademasters to learn the arts of combat and strategy; Blademasters during his time had still been highly respected warriors. The young boys of the Compound had taken him under their wing almost the instant he stepped through the door. The showed him the ropes of the place and what they could do to have fun. The extent of their fun, Galnan was soon shown, was the torment of Fenrien.

Later in life Galnan had told Fenrien the story of the first time he took his side. "No. I won't do it," he'd said to the leader of the pack. They'd been planning on spilling ink on every page of Fenrien's workbooks, hoping to earn him some demerits.

"And why not?" one of the older boys had asked.

"Because no one deserves that kind of treatment," and with the logic of a young boy he then proclaimed, "I'm going to be his friend."

Galnan had held true to his proclamation and quickly befriend the friendless Fenrien. It was he who encouraged Fenrien to keep moving forward with his training, to not give those awful bullies the satisfaction of seeing him quit. They'd just have to suffer and watch as Fenrien became the greatest Blademaster in a century. Which they did, even after Galnan left, though that might have had something to do with the fact that his true identity had been revealed the day he left the Compound. If it hadn't been for his friendship Fenrien would not have been sitting in the Council Arena.

As Council members erupted into a heated debate over what action should be taken Fenrien’s mind wandered to his son. He hoped that Razyck was out in the training grounds with the rest of the young boys, but he doubted it. When his mother died Razyck turned to books rather than the sword. Fenrien knew it was partially his fault. The loss of his dear Marianna had left him shocked and alone; he’d hadn’t know what to do. All he hoped was that one day Razyck would show an interest in going to the Compound to become a Blademaster like him.

A particularly loud shout drew Fenrien’s attention back to the Council. Somehow the debate over the coming Anmolian invasion had turned into an even more heated debate on taxes. The little germs were at it again, soaking their vile plague into the Council. The man who had caught Fenrien’s attention was standing, gesticulating widely with his hands as he fumed. One glance told him that it was one of the Councilors of Finance.

The man he was shouting at was also on his feet. Fenrien took note of his office as well: Councilors of Agriculture. They were spewing their arguments across the sand pit to each other, the echoes of their shouts ringing off the stone of the Arena. “If you raise taxes on our wheat crops we’ll never be able to produce enough sustainable food?!” the Councilor of Agriculture shouted.

It was followed by a sharp retort. “And who should we tax then?! The workers?! The sailors?! The property owners?! They’re already taxed enough!”

The Councilor of Agriculture let out an incredulous laugh. “Who produces your food, Councilor?!” he asked. “It certainly isn’t your workers, sailors, or property owners now is it?!”

“Enough!” the Councilor of Finance finally screamed. A hush fell across the Council Arena as everyone looked to the Councilor of Finance standing by his desk with fire in his eyes. Fenrien knew that look and knew what was coming next.

“I hereby challenge Anglien, Councilor of Agriculture, to a duel. The weapon: steel swords. The duel will end when first blood is drawn,” the Councilor of Finance said in a loud, crisp voice.

Anglien straightened. “I, Anglien, accept the challenge issued by Dangmir, Councilor of Finance.”

Fenrien watched as the two made their way down to the Arena’s sad pit. That’s what it was there for. To settle disputes between Councilors. However won the duel would win the argument and the actions that he proposed would be passed by the Council and given to the king for consideration. The loser obviously would lose the argument, but he’d also lose his pride and his standing within the Council. In such a formidable environment surrounded by the little germs, a man had to be wary of losing a duel. It would open him up to his political enemies.

Each man walked along the rack of swords that were waiting for them in the pit. Fenrien studied how each man observed and tested the swords, searching for the best one. Fenrien’s training as a Blademaster and his constant years of service to the military and the king had given him a fine ability to judge a swordsman and his ability. From just the way they approached the swords he could tell that neither of them were incredibly familiar with combat. Anglien finally settled on a weapon that appeared to not be properly balanced in his hand. That was going to make defensive maneuvers tricky for him. Dangmir still walked along the weapons, studying each one carefully. To the untrained eye he might have looked thoughtful and considerate, but Fenrien could tell that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Finally he settled on a two-handed blade. There was no way that man was going to be able to wield such a weapon and attack efficiently. Fenrien sighed. He found he did that often when in the Council Arena.

The sword rack was removed from the pit by a couple of servants and the stairs leading onto the sand were sealed off, leaving a 10 foot high wall surrounding the Councilors. They backed away from each other and bowed, as was customary during a duel. Then, as they took their ready positions, the duel began.

Anglien and Dangmir circled each other slowly. Fenrien noted the men’s footwork. It appeared that Anglien had the most graceful steps, giving him the clear advantage. As Dangmir moved to deliver his first strike Fenrien had already predicted it and devised the perfect counter. Dangmir swung his two-handed blade with all his might, sloppily letting it cut through the air. Anglien brought his sword up to block the swing and was buffeted back by the power. Anglien had not done what Fenrien would have. The duel would’ve been over in a single stroke had Fenrien’s counter been used.

Dangmir struck again, and again, and again, swinging his sword with full force and energy. As Fenrien had judged, Anglien had chosen a poorly balanced blade and it was knocked from his hands as Dangmir tuck another swing. With his opponent unarmed Dangmir charged at him, but Anglien dove to the side. Anglien dove again as Dangmir charged, screaming. Fenrien studied the position of the men and Anglien’s sword. He knew it was in reach and it would’ve been easy for Anglien to grab it and go on the offensive.

A couple more charges and dives gave away Anglien’s strategy. He was trying to tire the Councilor out. Each time he missed his unarmed target just enraged him even more, driving him to continue his charges. Swinging his large sword tiring enough, but running full-speed towards someone and swinging the sword was extremely energy-consuming. Anglien also appeared to have figured out that all Dangmir could do was swing the sword, as evidenced to Fenrien when Anglien dove away the exact same way every time. Fenrien knew who was going to win this fight.

Dangmir’s steps slowed until he eventually stopped. His arms hung loose, the tip of his sword resting against the ground. His breath came in heavy pants as he stared down Anglien. He stood between him and his fallen sword, which at the moment was the only thing stopping Anglien from ending it then and there. “Come anywhere near it and I’ll gut you,” Dangmir sneered, confident that Anglien wouldn’t try anything. Fenrien studied the situation and knew exactly what Anglien was going to do.

Anglien’s graceful footwork was finally put to use when he made his most drastic move of the whole duel. He began to run and, as Dangmir brought the blade up and swung it at his middle, Anglien leapt. He cleared both the sword and Dangmir, going over his head and landing in front of his sword. Dangmir whirled around to be faced with a brutal and quick onslaught as Anglien took the offensive. Blow after blow contacting Dangmir’s hastily raised blade, the clash of steel reverberating against the stone walls and echoing out into the spectators.

Dangmir drew back as fast as he could but his earlier charges had worn him out and he stumbled. He fell back onto the ground, his heavy sword skittering away across the sand. He lay there on the sand panting as Anglien stood above him. One quick slash across his chest and the duel was over; Anglien had won. As the gathered Councilors and audience members cheered on the winner and jeered at the loser, the walls out of the pit were unsealed. Fenrien watched as Anglien made his way back to his desk followed by the defeated Dangmir, still bleeding from his cut. He had underestimated Anglien and his strategic skill. Fenrien made a note to be wary of the Councilor of Agriculture in the future.

The king stood to address the Council. "It would seem that we are now to listen to Anglien on the matters of taxation for the coming war," Galnan said. "But we must come back to that later. We seemed to have strayed from the original topic. What must be done about the Anmolians? I give the floor to Fenrien. He has useful ideas at least."

Fenrien mentally cringed as all the eyes of the Councilor's turned to look at him. How he wished the king hadn't have said those words. It was bad enough that he personally addressed Fenrien, but to degrade the ideas of the Councilors in front of them like that was even worse. As he stood to speak he scanned the faces watching him. Some showed outright anger and hatred towards him while others seemed not to care, but there were a few that appeared completely impassive and it was those people he worried about the most. Those Councilors were the plotters, the meticulous planners. They were the ones that were most likely to challenge Fenrien, an observation that he had gathered over the many times he'd been forced to enter the sand pit.

He cleared his throat. "My fellow Councilors," he began, trying to make it seem as if he were addressing everyone so as not to suggest any sign of favoritism to a particular division of the Council, "it is my recommendation that we fortify the Romanoran River Valley instead of strengthening our outer garrisons and inner cities in order to stop the Anmolians from flanking us and sacking the palace."

"And what would you have us do about of outer garrisons and our cities and villages?! Do you want them to be overrun by the enemy, to see our people murdered by those retched Anmolians?" one of the Councilors of Agriculture called out.

Trying to remain diplomatic Fenrien replied, "My recommendation is to also send out parties of trained Blademasters who have graduated from the Compound to any city, village, or garrison that needs defending or reinforcements. A small party should be able to handle any raiders that the Anmolians send, especially since they'll be keeping the majority of their forces behind to fight us on our flank up the Romanoran River Valley."

This suggestion was followed by a chorus of outraged shouts from across the Council Arena. "What? Are your Blademasters more important than our normal soldiers? Are they really worth so much that you would send our good boys into the front lines to defend the Romanoran River Valley?" someone shouted.

"It's because of your Blademasters that the Anmolians are going to war with us in the first place!" came another shout. Fenrien maintained his composure as the shouts washed over him. He had figured this would be the Council's reaction. Fenrien was too close to the king, he had too much power among the Council and the king's court; the Councilors wanted his power and they would use what ever evidence they had to bring him down, even dragging in the Blademasters.

There was an incident that occurred a few weeks before the Anmolians had declared war on Trenultain. A unit of Blademasters had been sent into Anmolia on a mission to observe the internal state of their kingdom, since they'd recently suffered a series of uprisings within the peasant class. But, spurred by seeds of corruption within the Blademaster command that Fenrien was trying to snuff out, the patrol disobeyed their orders in favor of a more violent approach. They began to spread word throughout the peasants of a weakness in the Anmolian government that could be exploited and used to their benefit. They instigated another uprising that resulted in a massive death toll. The Anmolians discovered the source of the uprising and shortly after declared war on Trenultain.

Fenrien was about to say something in defense of his strategy when one particular shout carried over the rest and took any words that Fenrien was about to say from him. "I hereby challenge Fenrien, Grand Councilor of War and Defense, to a duel. The weapon: steel swords. The duel will end when first blood is drawn."

Fenrien looked to the man who had proclaimed the challenge. It was man from his own department, a Councilor of War and Defemse, named Ignasis. At his feet was a red cloth. So this man is a Blademaster, Fenrien thought as he considered the man and the cloth. The red cloth was a ceremonial tool used by Blademasters to declare a challenge, and only Blademasters were eligible to carry them tied to their belts. Fenrien unconsciously tugged on his cloth that was wrapped securely around his belt loop, the cloth that had never once been untied.

The entire Council Arena had fallen silent as they looked between Fenrien and Ignasis. Even Galnan showed more interest than usual in this particular duel. He had been challenged to duels before so Fenrien didn't understand the interest that the Councilors had every time he dueled. He was sure that every time they hoped he would lose, but he never did. That made him wonder why people even bothered challenging him at all. There was a reason he was Commander of the Blademasters and the Grand Councilor of War and Defense.

"I, Fenrien, do accept the challenge issued by Ignasis, Councilor of War and Defense," Fenrien said in a clear voice that echoed off the walls of the now silent Council Arena, making his voice seem unnaturally loud and distorted.

He walked out from behind his desk and began to go down the stairs towards the sand pit. As with every moment before battle or a duel Fenrien's mind wandered to Razyck. His son would undoubtedly still be absorbed in the palace's extensive libraries, one of the only few who took the time to read such magnificent tomes. How would losing affect Razyck's life? If he died would Razyck grieve? He and his son weren't very close and the idea of Razyck's grief would keep Fenrien up at night. But there was nothing he could do about it, especially not now. His duties as both the Commander of the Blademasters and the Grand Councilor of War and Defense prevented him from getting close to his son.

Fenrien's feet touched the soft sand and he glanced at Ignasis as they approached the rack of swords. He studied the Blademaster as he tested various swords. He was experienced, that he could tell. Ignasis gave careful consideration to each sword he picked up, finally settling on one that was perfect for him. Fenrien already knew which sword he wanted. It was a sturdy sword with a good grip and excellent balance, it's edge finely sharpened. It was a sword meant for battle, for drawing blood, and it was the blade that Fenrien always used in the pit.

The sword rack was removed and the walls separating the pit from the stairs were raised. Lesser men would've been intimidated by the ten-foot high stone walls surrounding them in without a chance of escape but not Fenrien and certainly not the man standing in front of him. There was fire in Ignasis' eyes, a fire that was reflected back in Fenrien's. This fight wouldn't just be a battle of swords but a battle of wills as well. They bowed to each other and the duel began.

They circled each other slowly. Fenrien watched Ignasis' eyes intently. The eyes give a man's attack away and Ignasis' eyes were screaming it. He came at him with speed, swinging his sword in a tight arc. Fenrien brought his sword up to block it, a movement that felt as natural as breathing to him. The blows came faster and faster, each one being blocked and returned just as fast. It was like a dance and Fenrien was leading it.

The cuts and swings kept coming, and Fenrien was guiding them. Each of his moves was precisely calculated. This was why Fenrien was such a skilled swordsman, he was able to predict attacks and to guide his opponent right where he wanted him, right to the moment he could strike and deal the final blow. And the final blow was coming soon.

Fenrien's breath was coming out in a rapid rush as he and Ignasis traded blows. The clash of the swords filled his ears and a cloud of sand swarmed around them. A few more blows were traded until, finally, Fenrien had Ignasis right where he wanted him.

Fenrien made to slash at Ignasis' shoulder and Ignasis went to block and parry the blow. That was his critical mistake. Igansis' parry brought his blade out wide, away from his body, leaving him open to attack. Fenrien took the moment and came in fast. He tripped the man, causing him to sprawl. His sword skittered away and Ignasis looked up from the sand to find a sword pointed down at his face.

Fenrien didn't want to hurt the man so he said, "Do you yield?"

Ignasis looked from Fenrien to the sword. He had to see that there was no way he'd be fast enough to stop him if Fenrien decided to cut him. There was a weird look in Ignasis' eyes as he stared at him from the ground. A little voice in the back of Fenrien's head was screaming at him that something was wrong.

Fenrien glanced around, trying to find the source of his unease. He could see nothing. "Do you yield?" he asked once again, pressing his sword closer to Ignasis.

The man seemed to smile. "Yes," he said, and nodded slightly.

Fenrien was in the process of lowering his sword when suddenly there was a sharp pain in his back. He gasped as he fell forward onto the sand. Another pain hit him close to the second. His vision was growing darker, and threw the rushing in his ears he could hear screams and Ignasis shouting for someone to help. Fenrien was losing consciousness. No, I can't die, he thought desperately. I can't leave Razyck alone with no one. Fenrien's world was consumed in darkness.

***

Fenrien regained consciousness slowly. He was still laying on the sand in the pit only he was surrounded by healers. Standing above them was Galnan who watched them with a worried expression. Fenrien could literally feel the blood draining from his wounds and he knew, in an instance of clarity, that he wasn't going to survive. Fighting through the pain he managed to speak. "My King," he said, voice hoarse.

"Fenrien! By the gods, don't speak. You were hit by several arrows. I have the guards sweeping the palace for the assassin. He was up among the crenallations surrounding the Arena. Nobody saw him, even after he fired. Stop moving. The healers are doing their best, but you must be still," he commanded.

"This is one order I'm gong to have to disobey," Fenrien said. "My son Razyck needs a family--"

"Don't talk like that! The healers are doing their work and you will be perfectly fine," Galnan interrupted.

Fenrien let out a sharp laugh that sent bolts of agony through him, turning his vision red. "I'm going to die and I know it. My son needs a family after I'm gone." Fenrien's voice was growing fainter and he was straining to stay conscious, to use these last moments of his life to secure his son a future. "Send Razyck to the Compound. Send him there to become a Blademaster. Please just take care of him and tell him I lov--"

And Fenrien finally ran out of breath.