The Assassins
by Patrick Kapera
The evening lamplight of the Merchant
Quarter spills out between the cracks of a stone wall like melted wax,
illuminating the soft footfalls of two heavily-garbed wanderers. The
sounds of nearby business transactions are only a level droning here, within
the spaces between the city of Medinaat al-Salaam and the angry desert.
Halting briefly and cocking his
head, the Old Man listens to the banter of a trader and his prey outside.
Stepping carefully to the intervening wall, he places one hand and then his
ear to the cooling stone. A moment of focused attention, and then he
is moving again - quickly, but silently.
"How long have these corridors
been here?" his companion asks, somewhat in awe of him, even given his obvious
preoccupation.
A long moment passes as he leads
her deeper into the city walls, behind and between businesses and homes,
then down a quick grade into the underworld. She had been warned about the
sewers, told of the forsaken bodies whose souls had been stolen away. Yet
she had also been assured that the Assassins were well-established here,
and that none had challenged their presence for quite some time.
She fears that this condition
is soon to change.
After the last glow of the city
is well behind them, he speaks. The words crawl along the irregular surfaces
of the tunnel uncomfortably and settle within her like a plague. "Since the
beginning."
The tunnel continues deeper into
the Jewel's belly, but he stops suddenly and turns toward the packed dirt
alongside them. To the woman's eyes, it seems a little too tightly packed,
though this may be only a trick of the shadows or the disorientation of near
complete darkness.
Flakes of the dry ground are brushed
away, revealing a dull steel square imbedded beyond. A tarnished bronze ring
in its center is grasped and jerked outward. A slight breeze tugs at the
her silks, and a shiver rushes along her skin beneath. I'm not prepared for
this, she thinks. Raya and Jangir were wrong to choose me.
"Why would you think that, child?"
It is unnerving, the Old Man addressing you directly - like falling naked
into slipsand. Before she can muster a response, he is shuffling through
a portal that has replaced the section of wall bearing the steel plate. She
doesn't recall it opening.
The chamber beyond is cold and
dry, circular and tall. The ceiling is lost in a veil of swirling shadows
which dance with a grace akin to that of her own people before falling into
dozens of alcoves cut into the hard rock all around and above them. Staring
intently at one, it almost seems as if the darkness takes on the shape of
a man.
She is led into the center of
the room, into the crux of the intricate carvings upon its floor. Her head
swims when she tries to grasp the subtle patterns therein, and she decides
that a focused gaze at a blank patch of wall level with her is prudent.
The eyes of the owl on the Old
Man's shoulder never leave her form as the he walks in circles about her.
She swallows hard, thinking about home before he calls out to the shadows
above. "My family! The outcasts
have sent us a messenger!"
There is a moment of unexpected
chatter above them, voices cast about at one another from the deep alcoves.
Looking up, she sees that not one of them is empty - a hundred hunched and
kneeling bodies having silently appeared within.
"She brings with her news of the
arrival of foreigners in our lands. They bear the symbols of our enemies,
the Senpet, yet have been taken prisoner by them." The voices rise again,
and he continues, more loudly, "But there is something far more important
that they have brought with them."
He reaches out with firm hands
to her, and she lifts the heavy circle of glass out of her sack, unwrapping
it. The faint light in the room reflects upon it, and for a moment she can
see herself within its depths. She is young, as she is now, but changed
somehow. There are dark lines stretching out from her eyes, and her fire
has drained away.
Lifting the dark plate out of
her hands, the Old Man raises it above his head for the others to see. "This
is the pool in which we bleed! Look in its cruel heart and see the
out future!"
Silence follows, and she senses
a welling of emotion in the room - despair or hope, she cannot tell. Her
eyes are closed now, and she is fighting to remain standing as balance betrays
her.
The room is awash with frantic
words now, confusion and astonishment vying for supremacy over the Assassins.
The Old Man is unmoving, the centerpiece of calm in a sea of chaos. It is
almost as if he is nurturing it, waiting for.
"Children! It is time we took
back what is ours!"
His booming voice echoes throughout
the chamber, stamping out each harsh comment in turn, until none remain.
Every breath catches in anticipation of his next words.
"The Caliph and her Senpet lap-dogs
have ruled over this place for far too long! Our distant neighbors are now
our jailors! The city is dying around us, and we, Her soldiers, who have
been waiting three hundred years, are now ready to remedy her ailment. The
portents of our allies have been fulfilled!"
"Blood calls for blood!" one of
the figures above rallied.
"Blood calls for blood!"
Long, firm fingers grasp her arm,
drawing her toward another portal across from their entry point. "Come, Shalimar.
We have much to discuss."
Opening her eyes again after her
first few steps, she finds the obsidian disc tucked under the Old Man's arm,
a blood-red Scorpion clearly visible upon its watery surface.
Emerald Empire, Legend of the Burning Sands, the Legend of the Burning Sands logo, Shadow of the Tyrant, the Shadow of the Tyrant logo and all related marks, names and characters are tm and (C) 1995-1998 by Five Rings Publishing Group. All Rights Reserved. Card illustrations are (C) 1998 by the credited artists (Jewel of the Desert by Nicola Leonard, Library by Jennifer Ambr, Divination by Pamela Shanteau, Sound Planning by Scott James). Game de