The Old City

0.71: Ryke Resurfaces

Vestrael hated the sound of his knife as it plunged into a man's throat, but he often did things he hated these days. Such was life at war.

He watched the light go out of Samel's eyes, and the poor bastard didn't even recognize him. Well, he wouldn't when he'd donned the face of a stranger. Or was the face Samel had known the stranger? It was hard to keep track these days.

The body slumped in his arms, and he let it down gently so as not to make noise. Then he rushed out of the great hall, back outside. Night had fallen, and the moon was clouded, casting shadows rather than light across the landscape. Vestrael took one step and then froze.

A man stood at the tree line, watching him. His aura was a mask, an unreadable void. In a place like Harak, a man like that meant trouble.

Could the Magnarians have predicted the assassination? Vestrael wondered.

The man stepped out of the tree's shadow. He didn't care if the guards saw him, not that they would be paying attention to this side of the castle. Vestrael hesitated, but knew he couldn't escape this man.

"Who are you?"

"A new employer. I have need of a man with your skills." The man had a First Ring accent, so he might have been a friendly, but coming here at the moment after he'd killed a high-ranking Magnarian squad leader was anything but a gesture of good faith. He was jeopardizing everything.

"And what skills would that be?"

A shout rang out behind him, back in the great hall. They'd found Samel's body. He needed to leave, now. Vestrael sprinted into the forest, wishing for the umpteenth time that he'd learned to shimmer. The other man stayed behind, watching with a cold look as he got further and further away.

He ran for almost an hour, as fast as he dared. When he approached the stream, he paused and bent down to drink of its water. The cool liquid quenched his burning throat and relaxed his tired lungs. He'd have to keep running, but at least he'd accomplished the mission.

"You didn't have to run, you know. You could have just stayed and become someone else again."

The man now sat on the other side of the river, holding a stick and trying to poke at one of the frogs that hopped nearby. Vestrael began to think of the ways he could fight a man who could shimmer, but he just kept talking instead.

"I'm not here to turn you in, son. I'm here to offer you a job. I was just given an impossible mission and need a chameleon. I heard from Darnaxes that you are the finest in the Second Army Corps."

"You need me to kill someone."

"Not at all. I just need you to impersonate him for one hour on a particular day. Here are your orders, son." He tossed a scroll to Vestrael. It bore the official seal of the Department of War. Vestrael didn't bother to open it—he couldn't have read its contents anyway, and this man probably knew that.

"Who's the target?"

"Tranaman Undarees."

Well, they finally had him doing something properly stupid. They wanted Vestrael to mimic Magnar's High General of the Northern Front.

Outside the Enforcers' Headquarters.

Warwick lost sight of the man about twelve blocks from the headquarters. He'd melted into the crowd and disappeared, the blue of his uniform blending with the shades of every other person in the hubbub of Shiorah Square.