Unknown
Tonight is the night.
My name is of no consequence. I am but one of many pieces on the board, faithfully moving where The Mastermind wills it for I have no will of my own. My country of origin doesn't matter either, for my loyalties lie with the organization and my sole desire is to see their grand design made manifest. I see no harm in mentioning that I am half-elven, but it is of no consequence.
To sow chaos, to cause destruction, for the despair of the masses to grow into a force of nature, that is all we crave. My eight compatriots and I, equally as dedicated to the cause, were waiting in the drawing room of a large manor house. The man of the house was a well-to-do merchant who sold wine, magic potions, among other miscellaneous goods that he moved between Tor Anaura and the human lands.
I knew that he had a wife, a son, and a daughter - oh, I knew their faces very well, their names too. In order to start a war between the elves and humans, our Mastermind had a brilliant plan which was all falling into place. Yes, all of the pieces were in position. The rest of the eastern team had already set the stage, and tonight we were going to strike a decisive blow. Tonight is the night that we take the life of the first prince of Tor Anaura.
Some nights ago we had all been together. We knew that a certain personage of importance was set to travel along this road, heading home to where she thought to be safe. To receive a tousling of her golden hair from her big brother, who doted upon her relentlessly, and to feast upon steaming freshly baked elvish honey biscuits. Our organization had ways of finding things out that even the vaunted Shadar'kethal could never hope to detect.
Yes, young princeling, keep that love for your baby sister burning brightly - thus far all according to plan. The fourth princess' procession was slightly delayed, which was also our doing; our leader had a means to spread plague to entire populations.
Oh, while potentially lethal the disease he spread was nothing that a little healing magic couldn't cure I assure you, but wouldn't it be such a shame if a girl who relied on magic found herself nearly spent of mana just when she needed it the most? Yes, you kind hearted fool, heal those complete strangers - seal your own fate.
So we waited, patiently, when the princess' carriage arrived we struck hard and fast. Once the pathetic retinue fell, the eight of us departed immediately. The remaining six went to pursue the princess into the woods; worry not, this, too, was accounted for in the plan. Those men had the important task of staging the scene in order to implicate the royal family of the Cara Kingdom.
They had orders to make it as depressing as possible - one of our number suggested arranging the corpses so that the princess and the lady in waiting were holding hands, clinging to one another in their dying moments as despair set in. It made my loins roil just thinking about the anguish. I'm putting that fellow in for a promotion.
So, why in the end, do you ask, we murdered the fourth princess in such a lonely place? The answer is simple. We still had to do our part, which was to slay the first prince: Illorien. In order to facilitate the rapid discovery of her body, in a segment of the forest partially owned by humans, we needed to draw the elves' fury without.
That's right.
The death of the first prince is a feint.
There are eight of us, and we had arranged a few horses near the site of our attack - it mattered not if a few of us were killed, the important part is that after having slain their prince the response would be to send riders after us. If the last of us were caught, our orders were to brag about having gutted the princess personally, daring them to send riders down the road to see for themselves.
Regardless of how they were set to the task, those riders would invariably find the mangled carriage, and the wrath of the elves would unleash a storm of blood. Oh but it gets better. There's another team working its machinations within Cara - and that team had a man on the inside. Even in the unlikely event that we failed, nothing could stop the other team, I just knew it.
I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. A pudgy human wearing a fine silk doublet, leather shoes, and ostentatious breeches, appeared before me. I knew his rosy cheeked face well, though right now he'd lost all his color. The merchant knew what I was capable of, for I had made it very clear. His role was a vital one, and so we made certain to have him by the balls.
Of course he would be sweating, he knew full well what would happen if he were to screw up or double cross us. Yes, yes, keep thinking of your wife's kind visage with those little freckles under her eyes and imagine the vacant expression she'll wear when her head is separated from her body.
I remained silent, but smiled under my mask, for I also knew that it was futile - our men were under orders to keep them alive only long enough so that we could slaughter them right before his eyes. Poor useful idiot, thinking that he would be spared.
"Is everything ready," I asked coldly.
The man nodded nervously, "Y-yes. P-please climb into the barrels and I'll d-drive you p-personally."
"Very good," I said, "you may yet live to see your adorable daughter again after all, Mr. Popper."
He wiped his glistening brow nervously and smiled, sighing in what seemed like genuine relief. "You've b-been most gracious, milord."
I was now hiding inside of a wine barrel. Mister Percival Popper was a supplier of wine to a specific tavern in the upper crust part of the human quarter. I knew that every week the first prince made an incognito visit to that place. The first prince enjoyed human wine, and some suspected that he was seeing a mistress there; it didn't matter.
The point was that it was an open secret that he would hie himself there on a weekly basis in order to sip wine and write poetry. Prince Ilorien was a diplomat, a courtier, and not much of a warrior or a mage - of course he knew how to use a sword and bow, all elves regardless of status have at least some skill in both, but he was no match for eight of us all alone and unprepared with a belly full of wine besides.
The fact that he was allowed to prance around thusly unguarded was exactly the sort of oversight that we needed.
We were being moved, yes, I could feel it - the cart had halted and we were being carried. That's right, move us to the basement you roustabouts. All muscle and no brain. But please do have enough self-awareness to realize you let in the killers of your prince and let it eat you from the inside out.
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My blood quickened. We were so close to completion.
The merchant knocked four times.
That was our signal to exit the barrels. By the time we got out, the merchant was already gone; I guessed that he didn't wish to watch. Very well, but your turn will come soon enough. There were two entrances to the wine cellar; the big double doors for wine delivery, and a small wooden staircase leading to a door behind the bar.
Weapons drawn, the nine of us stormed into the common room of the dimly lit tavern, past the bartender, who ducked down. There was another man at the bar, strangely garbed. I had never seen a coat quite like his.
There was a broad-brimmed hat of some sort and an empty glass on the table; for some reason he didn't seem to care about us. Must be drunk, I thought; and just what was that song he was whistling anyroad? No matter.
We needed living witnesses. The only other patron of the tavern was a man reclining with his back to the wall, in the darkest corner of the tavern, with a hood cast over his face; there were two barmaids leaning against him and cooing. That outfit was unmistakable - this had to be the first prince. When they saw us, the man under the hood muttered "ladies, leave", and they fled. We surrounded the prince, and let the whores pass us by. We needed witnesses.
"Well, well," said the prince, "what can I do for you fine gentlemen?" There was a hint of disdain in his voice.
"It should be obvious, Prince Illorien, that we are here to kill you," I replied coldly.
Then he started chuckling, why was he chuckling?
"Oh, I see," he said, standing up, and then he started rolling his right shoulder back and forth, cracked his neck, "this is actually a bit of a misunderstanding. You mistook me for my bro - happens all the time."
I froze. What - what was happening?
The man before me cast off his ratty old cloak, tore off his shirt with both hands pulling outwards from the sternum, and I was suddenly filled with terror. Standing before me wasn't the first prince, but the second prince: Valyrian.
An elf warrior of peerless skill, with hundreds of confirmed kills in each battle he fought in. Impossible! Not that platinum ranked adventurer, famous across this continent and in more far distant lands. Not the hero who even had the respect of the dwarves, to such a degree that they started selling stone figurines of him.
Surely not he for whom an entire epic ballad was written, being sung in every tavern for hundreds of leagues. But there was all the proof: he had the same hair color as the first prince, but it was a wild mane that flew off in every which direction, he was wearing a breastplate of mithril with red and gold trim, two swords on his belt, and a spear of the sort which could both cut and pierce. I recognized that gear; it was legendary, every bard knew what they looked like.
"Not -" one of my men sputtered, "not the Tiger of Anaura!"
"The whirling doom!" cried another
"The dragon-tamer himself? Impossible!"
"Wielder of Dragonskewer, a weapon capable of piercing a dragon's heart in a single blow!"
This wasn't good - some of the men were losing their composure. Not that I was in a position to judge.
The elf clicked his tongue, "to be fair, that dragon was injured at the time. All I did was give him some food, healed his wounds, and suddenly it was following me home like a puppy dog. Oh, and this baby:"
He patted his spear, "It's actually called Dragonskewer because that's how I fed the guy - I stuck a hunk of meat on it and offered it to him. It's supposed to be Dragon's Skewer, but the story got it wrong and the name stuck. But that's not important," his brow furrowed, "I've got a bone to pick with you lot. You've really been a pain in my ass."
He drew one of his swords, Orkskyr, and trained it upon me, "you plotted to kill my bro, but since we were warned of your little plan I had to sit in this prissy little bar whose usual patrons are poofy-pantalooned periwig pated ponces who wouldn't know good booze from cow piss, waiting for you slimy snakes to come crawling in."
Warned? Impossible, damn it! That swill peddler must have betrayed us! This…this was a trap! No matter. We were going to kill him anyway. If we survived. If. The possibility of failing at this point was real, but perhaps if we all worked together we might put him down at a heavy cost.
This wasn't fair. We are the bringers of shadow! We are the triumphant darkness! I opened my mouth to speak but-
"Hey, I'm not done," the elf growled, I noticed that his face had darkened. This was a being of pure terror, glaring the very lances of hell itself in my direction.
"But you wanna know what's worse? Oh so much worse? The fact that you assholes tried to have my baby sister murdered. Inconveniencing me I could overlook, but when you fuck with my precious sister - you're gonna find out exactly why even the most ferocious orcs cower in terror at the mere mention of my name."
Wait. Tried? Did he just say tried? My heart sank into my stomach. "What do you mean by tried," I cried, "the princess is dead! Our best men saw to that!"
The elf closed his eyes and nodded, tapping his shoulder nonchalantly with his sword, "oh she sure as the hells woulda been, if it weren't for that guy over there."
He stuck his thumb out, in the direction of…that man from before, who had been wearing such a cornball expression before was smiling, smugly at that. At the prince's words he had turned around, looked right into my eyes. His right hand was on his hip, and his left hand was doing a strange sort of wave, with his elbow on the table. Each finger curled in sequence starting with his pinky and, what was he doing with his eyebrows? Bouncing them up and down? The nerve!
"Y'see," the prince continued, "your men are dead. That guy killed 'em with one attack and saved my sis' life - I owe him a lot," the human saluted the prince with three fingers, and the prince grinned sharply. He uttered one more word: "boys?"
All of a sudden there was a spray of blood behind me and five of my compatriots fell dead; a strike from the shadows. The Shadar'kethal?
"What? You think I came here without backup? Please. Not that I needed it, but Han over there insisted. Didn't want any of you assholes escaping.
The three remaining men under my command, in their desperation, charged the prince all at once; there was a flash of steel. The three of them fell dead, decapitated in one stroke. I stood frozen in place.
"Only one of ya left. You've been doin all the talkin', so I take it you're the ringleader. My buddy Han has ways of makin' you spill the beans, just ask your merchant friend - he squealed real good!"
My heart pounded. I croaked the words out, laughing, "then make sure to tell him that it is too late. We were planning to kill his family in a few days anyway - by the time you find out where we have them held captive they will already-"
"Oh, about that," came a voice, the human at the bar, speaking common but with a stilted accent as though it wasn't his first language. Wait, he was looking at a piece of parchment as he spoke; had he a pre-written speech or something?
"I already went and rescued Mr. Popper's family, your buddies are all fertilizing the soil now. Checkmate."
All reason left me. Every part of our plan was foiled. Fouled by this strange man. How? The princess was more than sixty leagues away from where we left her, and given the amount of time that had passed - how had he travelled so far, so swiftly?
Checkmate. How dare he? No. This was supposed to be our checkmate, not his! I charged at him - he didn't appear to be armed, so if I was going to go down, I could at least take this man with me.
"YOU ASSHOLE," I cried.
What happened next…the so-called hero pulled some sort of spheroid object from his right pocket, stood to face me. I had my blade ready to attack, he twisted, exposing his flank, with his hands behind his head. What a fool, was this his idea of defending himself?
Then something hit me square in the face. The pain was like no pain I'd ever felt before. Blood covered my vision; my own blood. The last thing I remembered before I lost consciousness was that man sticking his thumb out behind him and shouting words in a language I'd never heard before. I think it sounded something like:
"Strike three, you're out!"
Checkmate.
Valyrian - Should He Get His Own Spinoff?
