TSA: 004 - The Debut​ (Patreon)

His first masterpiece…​

{Excerpts}​

The Nameless Ones are a cult of religious assassins bred, trained and governed with the sole purpose of enforcing the will of the god-consort of the Creed of the Twins; The Lord of Death—referred to as the Father by the Nameless, and the Groom by members of the Creed’s governorate.

After passing a recondite training regime and rite of passage, members of the Nameless exit as calamitously efficient killers; subservient only to priestesses, abbesses and other hierarchical members of the Creed—women who are deemed as the messengers of the divine siblings, and the bearers of their will.

Although rumoured to be headquartered in one of the coastal towns of southwest Verum, members of the Nameless range far and wide across all the major cities of Udoris and their demesnes. On the behest of a well-ranked governess, members of the Nameless may be contracted to undertake private services to secure the interests of certain clients; and while the Creed is notorious for commanding exorbitant fees, their reputation for success is unparalleled by any comparable organization.

Not much is known about the Creed of the Twins and its dreaded Nameless; yet, despite its elusive origins, it remains a rather prominent entity in Udorian Politics…

...

Excerpt from Jonas Diane's fourth book on Udorian powers- 'Religious Fallacies'. ​

{END}

• [14.13.1623]​

Mallowston.


TONIGHT, the Keep deepened into a special kind of blackness; the kind that told tales of gallant knights, beastly men and nubile princesses around bonfires. The black from which the lonely sought the forbidden passions of the flesh; moaning whispers lost to the citadel’s walls. From the east, a gust of wind smothered a few torches. There, in the bailey, benign fairies stalked; a soft shimmering on the darkened grounds tell-tale signs of their passage. The clear sky and the endless shadows, the roguish laughter of drunken men in cahoots; how Gilbert wished he could stay a bit longer, but woe to him, bearer of the burdens of a dutiful scion.

I grip the bottle o' so tight; another night gone by the drop. I pray to the forefathers of the night, help thy son stop. Gilbert whispered under his breath, bemoaning the onus of his post. An ever-conscientious man, the young earl carefully cross-checked the thin parchment slip in his hand; the dim candlelight illuminating his neatly trimmed stubble as it twitched subtly; a pleasant hum from his lips even as he diligently revised the content of the letter.

[Greetings Father,] the slip read, [how goes the preparations for your return? Mother, Malina and little Titi send their greetings. Regarding Faywyn. The annexation goes as planned. Unfortunately, it appears the von Greifenburgs refuse to vacate the burg. I still guarantee we can disseize the lands in a few weeks. Though it may cost us a few brave men, I have thrown a feast in their name, honouring their reckoned sacrifices and our inevitable victory, as per your command. At first light, we march. May the ancestors be with us all.]

He read through the message again, and once more for good measure: Content, Gilbert rolled the parchment slip into a tiny scroll before sealing it with a pint-sized wax stamp. The thought of writing more crossed his mind as he stood up from the table, but the tiny slip could only contain so many words. Plucking a rather plump pigeon from a cage by the window, he sized it up before attaching the letter to a pouch on its back and releasing the bird into the night sky. An odd feeling arose at the back of his mind and refused to dissipate. Maybe it was the excitement for his first real battle or the buzz borne as a result of indulging in one too many cups of ale. Perhaps he was just worried the letter wouldn't reach his father in the end; the local goshawk population had long proved to be a rather relentless nuisance, after all. Worse comes to worst, he would just have to remember to send another copy or two the next day before they disembark.

Still, Gilbert felt exhausted. And a bit drunk. He stood up with a stretch and a tired yawn before turning towards his bed. Stumbling slightly, he sluggishly crawled into it, turning to face the ceiling as he stifled yet another tired yawn. Eyelids heavy, he listened to the drunken laughter of his men in the building below, their boisterousness doing little to stave off the weakness of his mind; he slowly drifted off into a light slumber―A shrill noise rang through the fort.

Screaming.

Gilbert sat up with a violent start. Suddenly, his ears were assaulted by a cacophony of noises. The ding of blades on blades on stone. The crash of splintering wood. The squeal of butchered men. Of pain. Of wrath!

A caterwaul of bloodlust and despair.

The earl bolted to his window, immediately turning deathly pale at the sight before him.

The stables were empty, its equine occupants charging out of the fort via the open gates. The guesthouse north of the Citadel... ablaze. The fire grew in size as it illuminated the entire keep in a resplendent orange glow. A fight had broken out at the armoury. Cloaked men rampaged, hurling lit torches on anything that would burn. Archers and arbalists ensconced on the portcullis and across the bastioned walls, they wreaked havoc, shooting down men as they tried to escape. Chaos ran amok. Cruel flames raged, churning black, thick smog into the starry night sky.

No.

“W-we're under attack,” Gilbert muttered in disbelief; he caught a flash of a knight flying the von Grifenburg emblem in the crimson light of his burning home. He could feel his blood pumping; his heart racing; his lungs struggling to keep up; Hyperventilating. Shivering, he tore his eyes away from the sight, stumbling backwards as he inhaled sharply. Ashen-faced, he stumbled again towards his table grabbing onto its edges with whitening fists. There he fumbled as he searched clumsily before finding another papyrus slip on which he began scribbling fervently, hands trembling in fear.

[Father,] It read, pleading, [Mallowston has been attacked. By the time this message reaches you, we might have already become captives. Or worse. If not, we would flee to Towleigh and only return when we receive news of your return.]

The note was poorly written, his usual flair and frivolous handwriting nowhere to be seen. Hurriedly, Gilbert heated a small pan of sealing wax before dipping a coin-sized stamp. In his haste and possibly drunkness, the stamp fell out of his hand, rolling underneath the furniture. Panicking, he fell to his knees to retrieve the said stamp, only to knock everything on the table astray on his way down, startling the pigeons in the cage.

Then he froze, a noise outside his room alarming him; the sound of doors forcibly ripped from their hinges.

No. No. Please no.

Somehow, he forced his body to move and pick up the discarded stamp only to realise the wax on it had been rubbed off. Glancing around, he saw the heated pan on the floor, its contents spilt across the wooden floorboards.

Fuck! No!

Gilbert froze as he stared at the mess on the floor. His vision swam, his mind collapsing under the sheer weight of fear, confusion and alcohol: The door in the next room wailed as it was forcibly ripped open. The vexed growls of men echoed in the hallway.

“He is not here!” one growled, his tone thickly laden with bloodlust and frustration.

Please. Forefathers, I beg of you.

Gilbert’s fears ballooned, his head jerking to look behind him in the direction of his door which was now being kicked open at the hinges. Three loud bangs and a strained whine later the oakwood obstacle was torn from its hinges as several armed men barged into the room.

Please.

All fell silent as Gilbert gazed at the cloaked figures across from him. The group parted and one, appearing to be the leader, walked in: His footsteps thudded dully with an unspoken calmness. Clad in a cuirass and gambeson underneath a blood-soaked cloak, a bloody sword in his right hand and a lit torch in his left, the leader's gaze panned around the room; from the stamp that Gilbert held to the note on the table and the spilt wax on the floor before returning to appraise Gilbert where he knelt, spine arched fearfully, beneath his table. The two caged pigeons cooed softly in the background.

Please…

To Gilbert, the devil himself had appeared. A fiend, just like the ones his mother always told him stories about when he was much younger. Puhbeer!

“It is over, Gilbert,” The cloaked leader said, lifting his shawl to reveal his features.

“You've lost.”

***​

Earlier.

Same starry sky; same lonely moon. Lancelot thought, staring at the crescent above as he trudged along a sequestered dirt path. As he approached his destination—an empty clearing in the woods north of Mallowston Fort—he could not stop his mind from wandering; conjuring vivid images of the gruesome death that was destined for him tonight. Still, despite the unease that flourished in the depths of his mind, he trudged on albeit with utterances of prayers to his divine ancestry. Ahead of him, enshrouded in the shadowy thicket, he spotted several silhouettes standing silently around a small campfire; a pile of arrows, bolts and unlit torches to one side. The men were all armed and clad in cuirasses underneath shawls that cloaked their varied forms. Most had strained expressions on their faces; he smiled faintly when more than a few men tensed at the sound of his approaching footsteps. Some even subconsciously drew their weapons, glaring at him as he approached.

Cautious. Dangerous. Good. They understood the severity of tonight's task.

“At ease,” Lancelot said with hands raised as he walked into the clearing.

“Oi, how are you still alive?” a knight, much older than Lancelot himself, spoke in a tone of mock surprise as he extended a salute, his right hand curled in a fist over his heart. "I half expected the Lady to have flayed you alive by now for having assented to a plan as audacious as this one."

“Good to see you too, Ser Carter,” Lancelot replied, poker-faced with a salute of his own. Wisps of exasperation bubbled in the back of his mind. Though to be honest, the older man did make a valid point: even if he survived the night unscathed it would be unwise to claim he might do the same later when faced with his beloved's ever-sublime, yet still, potent wrath.

“Is everyone here?” Lancelot asked, speaking directly to Carter.

“Mostly,” the knight replied. “Two men stayed behind to attend to some 'personal matters'. I doubt we would see even a scrap of their sleazy hides anywhere near three dozen miles from Faywyn should we return now.”

"Even now we have deserters?" Lancelot sighed before nodding in understanding. “And the forester guarding the path to the Fort?”

“He and his retinue of rangers have been detained.”

"So far so good," The viscount said before taking a position at the head of the group where he was in full view of everyone present.

“I want to be of the assumption that everyone here is aware of the reason we are here tonight?” he asked, scanning the small crowd. Upon receiving no objections, Lancelot nodded relieved. Pulling out a scroll from his belt, he rolled it out on the floor beside the campfire where the crackling flames could illuminate the parchment sheet.

“This…” Lancelot said, gesturing at the outlines drawn on the large scroll as the knights gathered, murmuring, around his crouched form, “...is Mallowston Fort.”

***​

Twelve minutes later.

“...May the ancestors be with us. May the Forefathers’ guiding light shepherd our path,” Lancelot whispered as he beheld Mallowston fort on its perch on top of the hill ahead. The silver crescent hung above; the towering citadel, a menacing silhouette in its dim, argent light. The viscount glanced behind him at the four men crouching in his shadow before turning back to the Fort ahead. With a resolute exhale, he heightened his hunch, stalking towards it.

The Fort’s five-metre tall portcullis was open, guarded by four men; the first two outside, leaning torpidly against the base of the stone wall; the other two high above on the portcullis itself, both illuminated by the torches they held. Lancelot gestured at the men on the wall; the faint groan of bowstrings under tension humming from behind him followed two signature dull reports. The targets both slumped out of sight; dead, an arrow to each man.

Without waiting for a reaction, Lancelot rose, sprinting towards the guards at the gate. He pounced on one, his left palm snaking forward to clasp over the fellow’s mouth. There he watched as the guard’s eyes widened in surprise, then terror as Lancelot stabbed his dagger up the man’s throat. The poor bloke struggled for a few moments, before going still; a gurgling sound accompanied by the spurting of warm blood as the fresh corpse collapsed limply into his embrace. With the aid of one of his companions, the body was quickly hidden away from view.

He paused, listening for an alarm.

None? Good. Lancelot heaved a sigh of relief. Peering into the large bailey he noted the coast was mostly clear. A large group of men were in sight, sitting far off in the distance around a bonfire, engaged in a drunken banter as they made loud, spirited noises.

Lancelot's attention turned towards the section of the wall facing the woods they approached from. Two more guards manned it, one to each end: About a hundred meters away from the portcullis from both sides.

The viscount eyed the distance before turning to face the group behind him. “Can you do it?” he asked, looking towards the archers in the group.

“Hopefully,” one replied, “Athri definitely could, no problem, but the honorless coward is probably a fourth of the way to Towleigh by now.”

“Forget about Athri,” Lancelot said motioning towards one of the patrols. “Remember, our success tonight depends on you making the shot. No pressure. Try not to disappoint.”

The second archer remained curiously silent while the first grumbled a few choice cuss words under his breath as they both aimed at one of the distant figures. The first guard fell off the wall after being struck by a second arrow fired in his direction. The other guard required a third shot as the first two, unfortunately, missed their targets, disappearing into the night.

Lancelot glanced at the Citadel ahead, anxiously rubbing his gloved palm as one of his companions left to pry the torches off the wall before exiting the keep. Lancelot followed him out to see him waving one of the lit torches above his head in a particularly obvious manner.

A tense minute later, cloaked figures emerged from the shadowy thicket, like infernal beings rising from hell, stalking towards the Fort. Lancelot released the breath he did not realise he had been holding. His palms felt cold under his gloves, and the fabric on his back soaked through with sweat:
A cool breeze blew over sending a small shiver down his spine. Turning back to face the Citadel he let his expression harden again as he began to tread forward across the open bailey, his steps gaining a bit of speed with each stride. Behind him, men poured into the Keep before moving towards various structures—designated targets—with longswords, messers and unlit torches in hand. Archers and arbalists began manoeuvring to scale the earthen fortification to provide covering fire as they advanced.

Lancelot crossed the bailey undetected, avoiding the group he spotted earlier around the bonfire before arriving at the Citadel's gate; a small group of men quickly amassed behind him as he made to breach the barrier. The citadel’s portcullis was raised with only a door wooden door preventing access into the building. It was locked with a simple latch which Lancelot carefully pried open with his longsword.

As he entered the building, the viscount ran his blade through a male silhouette that approached, possibly to investigate the incursion. A bloody gurgle and a whimper later, the unfortunate man collapsed in Lancelot’s arms.

Lancelot pulled his blade, tossing aside the corpse as he turned to race up a flight of stairs to his right. Midway up he and the knights trailing after him came across another door similar to the one they encountered prior. Again, they easily breached it.

Beyond this door, however, was a woman, a maid perhaps, with her back pressed against the wall as she hung by the knees in the arms of a man whose breeches were strung curiously across the hallway. The pair, lost in the throes of passion, failed to notice the newcomers in the hallway with them.

Without hesitating, Lancelot lunged forward. The man could only blink as in one clean swing, he was beheaded. The maid screamed but the shrill noise immediately stopped as she too was immediately cut down.

“Bloody wench,” The viscount hissed before turning around to face the men behind him, "Well shit, to think we would be had by a maid. What are you lot dallying about for, kill anyone that resists and capture that bastard scion of the Heras; cripple him if you have to; just make sure to bring him to me alive."

The hallway exploded in a flurry of motion as the knights raced forward abandoning all attempts at subtlety. The Fort’s inhabitants were forcefully roused into a state of wakefulness as a brutal slaughter blossomed in the core of the Citadel.

Running up another flight of stairs, Lancelot, accompanied by a few knights, arrived at yet another hallway. Opening the first door, they were met with an empty room. The next three were also empty, but the fourth breach proved fruitful; it was occupied by five women and a female child huddled together in a corner of the room. Lancelot didn’t know the first three, most probably lady’s maids given the quality of their attires, but he did recognise the others as core members of the Hera household. The Count’s wife, daughter and lastborn.

“Torne, stay behind and watch them,” he said, barely glancing at the knight he ordered as the search continued. A hurried search later, they kicked open one of the last rooms; there, huddled beneath a table was a drunk and terrified young man with a tousled head of blonde hair and light blue eyes; one Lancelot was quite familiar with.

The viscount glanced around at the mess in the room. A letter on the table, spilt wax and two startled birds.

He looked back at the frightened scion before finally speaking.

“It is over, Gilbert,” he said, staring down the younger man.

“You've lost.”

***​

Morning, the next day

Levi was seated by the windowsill watching―listening―intently as a pillar of smog rose from the fortress on the hill. A crowd had gathered on the street below, abuzz with frantic, uncertain energy. Common folk and merchants alike all arrived to watch the spectacle. Befuddled, as a blissfully ignorant lot ought to be.

Behind him, the door to his room opened and someone walked in.

“Lancelot?” Levi asked.

“Yes, My Lord, It is I,” The viscount said, falling to one knee behind him. “Your will has been done, My Liege. By your command, we have taken Mallowston: The Fort, the roads and the harbour are all under your control. No one leaves this town without your express permission. The rebellious Heras and what remains of their vassals have been detained; those who resisted were put to the sword. Searches have begun to uproot spies, and our knights are suppressing whatever voices of dissent might emerge amongst the merchants and peasantry.”

“Good,” Levi said rather blandly, his detached facade expressionless; antithetically, a glint of emotion gleamed in his eyes. After a moment of sombre silence, the earl spoke again.

“Have Ser Carter deal with what remains. We are done here.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Lancelot rose to leave the room; the door shut behind him with a dull click.

…Yet, despite his words, Levi’s gaze refused to relent, fixated on the sight of his first conquest; to him, it was a beautifully made scene, one bursting with colour and grandiosity; a sanguine symphony of the most primal of sounds. Truly!

…magnificent, the earl, lost in the morbid beauty of it all, whispered to himself.