Chapter II- Brotherhood of Shadows

21^st of Magra, Year 819 of Imperial Calendar (IC)

 

Dusk had descended upon the snow-covered streets of Ne’mair by the time Sage reached the marketplace that was his destination, the overcast sky tinged orange by the sun’s final decline.  As the already chilly temperature continued to drop, the crowds of shoppers who had rushed into the streets to take advantage of a break in the snowfall began to disperse just as quickly. 

Men and women of every social class wandered back toward the warmth and sanctuary of their homes with arms and push carts laden with goods.  A few scattered carriages bearing wealthy merchants or lesser nobles rumbled across the cobblestones and disappeared into the distance while traders displaying their wares at the market packed their booths away for the night, some merely closing up their storefronts as others loaded carts if they had further still to travel.

The marketplace was one of the biggest in Ne’mair’s outer city, a large open square framed by four rows of buildings that were broken only by the two major streets bisecting the space.  Vendor stalls were set up throughout the square, the simple wooden structures intended to be permanent despite the constant change of the vendors themselves.  Travelling peddlers, traders of every distinction, and successful farmers from the regions surrounding the city would descend upon the market in droves, practically brawling amongst each other for one of the coveted stalls. 

Sage passed silently amidst the shrinking crowd without so much as a glance at the traders busily stowing their goods, ignoring the cautious stare a young peasant girl gave his weapons before she scurried away as if from the threat of violence.  It was not uncommon to see a man wandering Ne’mair’s streets with a sword or axe by his side, but recent events would give anyone motive for vigilance.  Sage, however, was unconcerned with the events transpiring around him, though he was alert as always for any sign of a potential threat.  His footsteps tread a path that he had walked countless times before, moving at a purposeful pace through the quickly emptying stalls to the base of one of the large buildings that surrounded the marketplace.

A freshly painted wooden sign hung from well-oiled chains outside one of the shops, bearing the image of a black leather shoe with a silver buckle at the ankle.  Glittering golden script in a stylized font portrayed the owner’s name along with the words ‘custom orders and repair.’  The bench that would have held boots and shoes of all fashionable designs during market hours was already stored inside for the night and heavy shutters were closed and bolted over the large display window.  Knowing the simple wooden door would be locked as well, Sage mounted the three stairs leading up to it and wrapped his knuckles against the portal until he heard the approach of footsteps from inside.

Even standing a slight step above, the man who opened the door was only at an equal height with Sage and was skinny as a rail, his frame resembling a blade of grass that might blow over in a strong wind.  His skin was as dry and brown as a field in high summer, and he wrung his hands constantly as if drying them on an imaginary rag.  The man looked Sage up and down cautiously, his brown eyes darting about like a rat in a trap.

“We’re closed,” the man said, his voice nervous as he eyed Sage’s weapons.

“My brothers await me,” Sage replied in a near whisper.

The shopkeeper’s nervous twitching stopped abruptly and he met Sage’s eyes with a fixed stare.  His voice dropped to a scarcely perceptible whisper when he spoke.

“Come with me.”

Once Sage stepped into the store, the shopkeeper locked the door behind him after a quick peek outside.  The interior of the shop was nearly spotless, a broom leaning against the wall having seen recent use clearing away any speck of dust.  Everything within was in its proper place, from the display bench stored inside until the morrow to the rows of shelving along the walls that held all manner of expertly crafted footwear.  Despite his nervous, rat-like demeanor, Master Kyzer was one of the most sought after shoemakers in Riyvaria, and the immaculate presentation of his shop reflected his great skill.

“You have picked an unfortunate time to return,” the shopkeeper said.

“So I have heard.  How fare things in the sanctuary?”

“None have appeared from below to tell the tale, but there have been rumors throughout the city of your brothers being arrested.”

“Is there truth to these rumors, or does the Imperium simply snatch up anyone it suspects?” Sage questioned.

“That remains to be seen.  I have yet to verify so much as a single name of anyone they’ve apprehended.”

“I will inquire myself within the sanctuary.  No authorities have troubled you, then?”

“None as of yet,” Master Kyzer replied.  “If they do come knocking here, they will learn nothing from me.”

“Your discretion is appreciated, Balthemin,” Sage said.

“I have not spoken a word about the Brotherhood to any outsiders in twenty years, and I have no plans to begin now.”

Balthemin Kyzer silently led Sage toward the back of the storefront, passed the countertop that separated it from the shoemaker’s actual workshop.  A dirty rag lay forgotten atop the counter where Balthemin had been using it to clean before the interruption.  The walls of the workshop were lined with impeccably organized benches holding tools of the man’s trade, one bench still holding a pair of boots too flashy to belong to anyone less than a merchant, the sole detached and awaiting mending.  A locked door at the rear of the workshop, just beyond a staircase leading up to Master Kyzer’s living quarters, could have led to any old storage room in any building in the city.  Balthemin quickly unlocked the door from a small ring of brass keys jingling at his belt.

“Pull the bell chain inside when you wish to leave,” the shoemaker explained without opening the door.

“I am familiar with the procedure,” Sage said flatly.

“Ah, yes,” Balthemin nodded after looking Sage up and down once again.  “Your people come and go so often.  I forget faces.”

“That is for the best.  Keep your wits about you, Balthemin Kyzer.  These are troubling times ahead.”

The scrawny man turned away without another word, and Sage passed through the door in equal silence.  Locks clicked into place on the other side, Balthemin’s footsteps fading away as he returned to his duties.  The tiny storeroom Sage had entered was only faintly lit by the feeble light of a single lantern which the shopkeeper kept burning at all times, suspended from a chain hanging in the center of the room. 

Having once been nothing more than the storeroom it resembled, the chamber was littered with old barrels, crates, and two standing shelves that still bore various forgotten knickknacks from long ago.  Dust motes floated in the air, and everything within the tiny room was covered in a layer of dust, though the floor had been disturbed by frequent footsteps.  A single iron-bound door was tucked away behind one of the shelving units, the small covered slit of a peephole in its center.

Sage rapped on the door in a precise sequence, then waited patiently for the iron slat blocking the peephole to slide open, revealing a pair of dark brown eyes staring from beneath a heavy brow.

“In silence, brother?” a raspy voice questioned from behind the door.

“Wreathed in shadow,” Sage recited.

“The Brotherhood welcomes you,” said the man, the peephole sliding shut once more.

The clicking of locks and swish of bolts pulled free were followed by grunts of exertion as the heavy crossbeam that secured the portal was lifted and set aside.  It was on well-oiled hinges that the thick door swung inward, revealing two monstrous guards blocking the portal like statues as immovable as stone.  Both of the burly men towered head and shoulders over Sage, their heads rising so high that they nearly struck the ceiling above, and neither could have passed through the entryway without ducking. 

Even Jeorg Sigurdsson could have stood next to the stony-eyed men without dwarfing either one, though where the Sea Dragon’s hearty captain had a sizable belly to accompany his muscles, the two giant guards seemed to know nothing of the word fat.  Their matching grey tunics struggled to contain bulging muscles of the tree trunk arms that each man had crossed over his chest in identical stances of intimidation.

Sage could see at the edges of his vision that both men were armed, one with a primitive wooden club and the other with a cruelly spiked mace, but both weapons remained untouched at their owner’s belt.  Small in comparison to either man, Sage was forced to look up to meet the hard gaze of the older guard.  He refused as he always did to let himself be daunted by any man, regardless of numbers or superior size.

An unspoken communication seemed to pass between Sage and the older of the two guards, whose fast-receding hairline now showed streaks of grey at the temples.  The big man nodded after looking Sage up and down and he moved to unbar the path.  His young associate, however, made no move to do the same.

“Does this bride of a mountain troll intend to admire me further, or may I pass?” Sage asked of the older man without so much as a glance to the younger.

The giant of a man blanched at the insult, his mop of sandy-brown hair seeming almost to quiver with outrage as he took a threatening step forward while reaching for his club.  Only the thick arm of his elder reaching out to bar his path caused the guard to stop, still glaring at Sage with murder in his eyes.

“Pardon the boy’s rudeness, Brother,” the older man said to Sage.  “He is new to this post, and hotheaded to boot.”

It was not without a forceful push from his leader that the young guard was compelled to step reluctantly aside, allowing Sage to finally enter the small chamber.   The room was scarcely larger than the one that had preceded it, with walls of ancient stone bricks that curved upward into the low arch that was the ceiling.  A battered lantern hung by a chain from the apex of the arch and cast lambent shadows across the unused clutter of barrels and shelves that crowded the corners of the room.  Near the door, a pair of wooden chairs flanked a small end table that bore its own flickering oil lamp, and a battered old book lay open on one of the chairs where its reader had left it.

The only other passage from the small chamber was a lone hallway opposite the door that appeared to slope gradually downward beneath the streets of Ne’mair.  No two men could have traversed the passage abreast, and those of a height with the guards would have been forced to hunch.  When the light of the lantern in the entry room began to fade, iron sconces dripping with wax from tall cylindrical candles lined the walls to spread their meager illumination.

Sage heard the closing and securing of the heavy door in the room behind him, and could faintly discern the sound of voices thick with anger.

“Why’d ye let him disgrace me like that?” the young guard whined.  “I coulda beat him to a pulp.”

“You forget where it is you are guarding,” snapped the elder.  “You do not want a confrontation with the likes of him.  It is not one you would walk away from…”

Though their voices were raised in petty bickering, the argument soon faded into an unintelligible murmur and then was lost completely as the ancient tunnel wound its way like a stone serpent into the bowels of the Imperial capital.  Haphazardly placed brick soon gave way to roughly hewn stone as the tunnel seemed to undulate with the current of earth and rock surrounding it.  As Sage moved deeper underground and down crude stairs chipped into the rock, he began to encounter numerous rectangular crevices carefully carved into the walls. 

The catacombs had once been part of a network of ancient tombs running beneath the city, though grave robbers had long since plundered any valuables contained therein.  Only scattered scraps of decayed clothing and the occasional overlooked bone remained of the primeval burial ground after the founding of the Church of the All-God over seven hundred years ago. 

That was when the clergy of the new state religion had the catacombs cleared and the residents reinterred in cemeteries throughout the city.  Ne’mair’s extensive underground had then been decommissioned from usage, blockaded against intrusion, and it became a crime punishable by public lashing to even set foot in the derelict tunnels.  Amidst the conflict of the ensuing centuries, most of those within the city�"including members of the clergy itself�"had forgotten the existence of the catacombs altogether.

The tunnel ended abruptly at a small oval chamber where the passageway split in opposite directions, both of which glowed with light from the perpetually burning candles.  A trio of crumbling sepulchers was arrayed against the curving rear wall, their feet facing toward the entrance of the chamber and each capped with the pointy-roofed image of a pagoda.  Though the lids sat eschew and the bodies once therein had long since been removed by the clergy, the little pagodas still displayed fine folded cloth�"now so decayed as to be scarcely more than scraps�"and bits of broken pottery that had in life been precious to the deceased.  All other artifacts that may have been of value were plundered long ago by grave robbers or, to avoid the heathen practice of sending the dead to the next life with their worldly possessions, were melted down to fill the church’s coffers.

Sage knew that the servants whose duty it was to light the way illuminated countless divergent pathways throughout the catacombs, in order to discourage any but the chosen of the Brotherhood from finding the sanctuary hidden within.  Even for those who had traversed the passages many times before, they could become a jumbled mess of twists and turns that could easily lead one astray. 

The first of the subtle markings that proclaimed the true path was hidden within the flowing designs that framed the lid of each sepulcher, secret directions written in an archaic script created by and known only to those of the Brotherhood.  Those secret markings turned Sage down the right-hand path and into a maze of twists and turns, forks and dead ends that were enough to make a person’s head spin.

By the time he finally descended a flight of stairs leading into a naturally formed space that was now a small antechamber, Sage had lost track of time, though he doubted he had walked as long as his tired feet implied.  He could not remember how many times the passage had split into multiple tributaries and he had been forced to stoop down to locate and decipher the well-disguised directions, nor could he recall how many richly adorned tombs and simple grave nooks he had meandered passed. 

In one such burial chamber had been an entire wall formed of ancient skulls stacked like bricks, too tightly packed and molded in place for the church to have removed them those centuries ago.  Guardians of the heathen underworld, immortalized in imposing stone, stood their eternal vigilance over countless tunnels and some of the more expensive mausoleums.

The antechamber was a small, irregularly shaped cavern that was more the creation of nature than a product of man’s ingenuity.  Water dripped steadily from rifts in the ceiling, running over mounds that had formed from centuries of the same dribbling and making a rhythmic plop-plop in buckets placed underneath.  A heavy oak door bound in strips of iron was set in a passageway hewn through the rock face, its center adorned with a square plaque bearing the image of a reaper wielding two scythes crossed before him.

As Sage approached the imposing portal, his sharp ears perked at the scuffling of footsteps from the other side, before the door swung open smoothly.  Two men appeared through the portal from the passageway beyond, each dressed in plain garments of gray wool that were of simple design but would not have been uncomfortable.  A patch with the reaper symbol was sewn into the left breast of each man’s tunic, and the crest marked them both as servants as much as did the heavy bundles of fresh candles and torches they carried.

The foremost of the two was a tall, dark skinned man from the savannas of Etoria; a golden ring through his nose connected to one in his ear by way of a short chain.  The other was a pale-skinned man with a mane of fiery red hair that nearly obscured his face entirely and only three fingers remaining on his left hand.  Both men bowed respectfully upon noticing Sage’s presence, and the Etorian held the heavy door open until Levethyian had passed through.

Sage waited for the door to clang shut behind him before he traversed the short passageway, smoothly-hewn walls lit by candles identical to those in the tunnels that preceded it.  The passage quickly opened up into a spectacular sight the likes of which few men would ever see.  A massive subterranean cavern spread out before him like nature’s jewel of glittering crystal and sparkling rock slick with moisture, so immense it could have swallowed the entire city block that rested above beyond the spans of crushing stone.

Giant stalactites materialized from the darkness shrouding the cavern’s ceiling, jagged teeth dripping like a colossal maw freshly glutted on the blood of the earth.  Where water had splattered and coalesced over countless centuries loomed gargantuan stalagmites like the crooked fingers of fallen giants futilely grasping at the heavy air of the ancient cavern.  Phosphorescent rocks spread their light to glimmer in startling patterns on multicolored crystals, casting the cavern in an eerily beautiful glow.

A small lake languished amidst the jagged rocks in the center of the cavern, fed by trickling subterranean streams that had pooled together to form a placid body with a surface like smooth black glass.  The glow of the chamber glittered serenely across the still lake, accompanied by the pinprick light of torches from the primitive fort that had sprung up nearby, like the scattered timber hill forts of the Ali’fari nation.  Entire trees had been felled to make each of the tall posts that made up the fort’s outer wall, which ran in a semicircle encompassing half the lake and the score of squat timber buildings that had been erected within. 

The hideaway of the elusive Brotherhood of Shadows was a village unto itself, complete with its own small general store, a blacksmith, and several tailors and seamstresses who served only the Brotherhood’s members.  It was defended as much by the sturdy walls and skilled mercenary guards as by the secrecy of its underground lair.  For the two centuries since its founding and the discovery of the far more ancient catacombs, the members of Ne’mair’s notorious guild of assassins had maintained their precious refuge, sponsoring skilled tradesmen who were sympathetic to their cause to occupy the shop aboveground, as well as the fort’s own industries.  From there the Brotherhood of Shadows could conduct their lucrative business in relative peace, each assassin aware that at all times they had a sanctuary to return to which was free from the death and danger that perpetuated their everyday lives.

Sage started carefully down the winding path that meandered into the basin which held both lake and fort, the wide trail framed by stacked rocks and worn smooth by two centuries of traffic.  Wagon wheels had worn ruts in the path where they lumbered down from the world above, bearing with them precious goods from the Brotherhood’s associates throughout the city.  In the claustrophobic tunnels above, strongmen were forced to lug the heavy burdens through spaces too narrow for wagon or cart, but such load-bearing vehicles always waited at the cavern’s entrance to ease the last leg of the difficult journey.

One such wagon obstructed the path ahead, laden with goods bound for the fort, but now rendered stationary since it had strayed off the path and splintered a wheel on the sharp rocks.  Horses on loan from the Brotherhood’s own stables snorted and stamped impatiently as several guards and strongmen scurried about to repair the damage, spurred on by the caustic tongue of the burly wagon driver.  A team of workers hurried up the path from the direction of the fort with a fresh wheel carried between them.

Sage slipped passed the clamor around the wagon and avoided the servants in their gray livery as he continued to the imposing gate that stood closed on the Brotherhood’s underground sanctuary, towering over twice the height of a man with its timbers sharpened to deadly spikes.  Two guardsmen in dark leather armor with simple pointed helmets�"the twin-scythed reaper on their round bucklers�"stepped forward and crossed their spears to block Sage’s path.

“State your name and business,” one of the stone-faced men barked.

“Brother Levethyian Ravenwolf returning from a mission,” Sage greeted.

One of the guards retrieved a small book from his belt pouch and quickly leafed through its pages.  Apparently satisfied with what he found, the shaggy-haired man nodded and uncrossed his spear.

“He’s clear.  Welcome home, brother,” the man said with a deferential bow as his companion waved to a guard atop the wall.  Slowly the massive gate swung open and the two guards stepped aside to allow Sage entry.

The gate began to close once more as soon as Sage was inside, and he moved through the rabble that filled the square amidst the cries of hawkers and the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer.  Though night had fallen aboveground, the dark subterranean realm of the Brotherhood, lit only by the perpetually burning fires and the cavern’s dim phosphorescence, followed its own vastly different schedule in which people worked most while Ne’mair slept.

Sage spared more than a passing glance for the morbid attraction of a battered and emaciated man who hung crucified to a crudely constructed cross at the edge of the square, his back a patchwork of welts and gashes and his attire little more than rags.  Though the tormented man’s face was a disfigured mess of bruises, Sage recognized the man as one of his brothers in arms who had been on trial for the charge of abandoning the interests of the Brotherhood of Shadows, one of the most heinous of crimes within the guild. 

It seemed that the poor soul had been convicted of his transgressions during Sage’s absence, and had since suffered greatly for his misdeeds.  No greater punishment could befall a member of the Brotherhood than the torture and death that awaited those who committed traitorous acts against the guild, especially those betrayals that led to another member’s death or their capture by Imperial authorities.

The barracks and central offices of those feared assassins who served the Brotherhood of Shadows, whose ranks comprised only a small number of the fort’s residents, was a large rectangular structure with a thatch roof that rested in the center of the subterranean colony.  Like the buildings around it, the structure was designed for practicality more than for appearance, with naught resembling an architect’s creativity in its construction and only the Brotherhood’s reaper crest on its front door in the way of adornment.  Sage ascended the short staircase and pushed his way through the heavy door.

A reception desk was the only furnishing in the small anteroom, and a chandelier made from an old wagon wheel the only decoration from where it hung by chains in the center of the chamber.  The liveried woman behind the desk was the only soul around, though the rumble of loud voices could be heard from the rooms beyond.  As Sage approached, the receptionist closed the worn book she had been reading, a romantic adventure story by Talia Mallonin called Taming the Wanderlust, and leaned forward expectantly, openly batting her long eyelashes over steepled fingers.

“Can I help you, darling?” she said in a husky voice as she boldly eyed Sage up and down.

“A long journey has been left behind me,” he replied.  “I would have a bath prepared before I retire.”

“That’s a simple task.  Is there anything else; a meal perhaps, or some company for the night?” she asked hopefully.

“The bath shall suffice,” Sage said as he walked away, oblivious to the disappointment in her murmured assent.

Sage made his way down the hallway and rounded a corner leading away from the bustling tavern hall where men and women celebrated the night with drink.  A door at the end of the next hall would have been indistinguishable from those that preceded it if not for the silver plaque it bore that showed the snarling visage of a wolf, its long fangs glinting in the torchlight.  The doors at this side of the building led to the personal chambers of the skilled assassins who carried out the violent contracts for the Brotherhood of Shadows, and each was identified only by the personal sigil of the warrior who resided within.  Sage retrieved a plain brass key from the pocket of his breeches and opened the door to the darkened chamber.

He took only enough time to shed both rucksack and cloak and unbuckle the belt that held his weapons, stashing all of his burdens inside before closing and locking the portal once more.  Not far down another hallway was a wide set of double doors that opened into a small bath chamber.  Steaming water already filled one of the four wooden tubs, while a fresh bucket of water, a sponge, and a bar of lye soap waited nearby.  A clean towel and small brush rested on a three-legged stool, along with salt and soda for the scrubbing of teeth. 

Sage hastily undressed and lowered himself into the nearly scalding water, resting his head on the rim of the tub with a grateful sigh as the heat enveloped him like a Vystarin hot spring to soak away the grime and aches of a tiring journey.  The act of cleaning teeth and body was a therapeutic experience that eased the tiredness of sore muscles, but it left Sage’s mind to wander. 

In the two centuries since its founding, never had the Brotherhood of Shadows attempted such a foolish escapade as the assassination of an emperor.  With the city above in turmoil, it was already apparent that those who killed under the Brotherhood’s banner would be the ones to suffer the full effect of Imperial wrath.  Their secret was out, and Sage knew his life as an assassin would never be the same. 

Sage soaked until the water had turned tepid around him, sorting through his troubled thoughts for nearly an hour before he finally extracted himself from the tub.  Wrapping himself in the same towel with which he dried, Sage picked up his discarded clothes and hastily retired to the sanctuary of his chamber.