Where Shadows Dwell
“What do you mean, ‘failed’?”
The group of Aowlands that had returned from Nessos sat in chairs before the grandmaster of their order, most of them covered in bandages across their faces that could be seen through the animalistic masks they had donned. Dark black clothing furnished them all, and was bloodstained and travel worn, but underneath it was strong, light, overlapping bronze scales and layers of bronze fashioned by Forsworn blacksmiths in secret for the assassins. Still, more than a few of their number were injured from the fighting that they had dealt with.
Titus sucked on the teufela leaf, and massaged his red eyes with the torn irises. It dulled the pain enough to be bearable, but the healers told him that he was unlikely to heal the rib if he moved too much. “We failed. Jonnah was too powerful and we lost too many men. We had to retreat, and cut down five score Lancers and three score civilians on our way out, but we lost eight of every ten men that came with us to Nessos. He was prepared; Fellip’s death had put him on edge.”
The grandmaster rubbed his eyes through the visor slits of the snarling wolf’s visage. “This bodes ill enough; the Lances know we want to destroy their accursed, heathenistic order for their desertion of us at Armorica, and they’ll be prepared for whatever we might bring. Fellip’s death was just, and deserved, but Jonnah isn’t dead and that sets our entire plans off kilter.”
“My apologies sir, but it was either leave or die with the rest of the men there. We wanted to bring word back that Nessos is still in shambles after the war… the time to strike is soon and now.”
Others around him snarled and rasped in agreement, clamoring for attention, but the grandmaster remained looking at Titus as he raised his hand to silence them. “Our plans for Nessos cannot be set into motion until we have an inside man over there. They are highly careful and observant, making infiltration by the Spotted and the Shadow Faith difficult enough as it is. At the very least, the Grand Temple here has been fortified and defended by the Stone Faith, encircled by walls and such, and now they are working upon the city of Spire and the other towns and villages across the nation in preparation for the Promised Day.”
Titus sucked in air, wheezing slightly as he adjusted himself in the chair. Painful lances shot up his side and he winced. “The Promised Day will come, soon my lord, if we can only bring the fiery scourge that has been promised to us by Him.”
“The Shadow Prophet has dictated to me and my fellow grandmasters that the time to move is not yet, not yet at all… our nation of Valyria is still reeling from treachery in the last war, and as much as everyone grumbles and complains in pot shops of wanting to destroy the Lances, we as the Forsworn can do nothing at all right now, unless we are backed by the entirety of the Red Alliance. The Marcher lords and such will back us all the while, but getting and garnering support from Pommerania, Hamburg, and others will be tricky, and Beurtgang took heavy blows as well. They all need to be propped up and supported as much as possible if we are to take Nessos and ruin it.”
“Of course; we have heard word that that Varmar has volunteered Heinrach Myles as the next in line after Jonnah… I imagine the nation will be in uproar if we have to assassinate him as well, after Jonnah’s soon to be untimely demise.”
The grandmaster smiled behind his bronze mask. “You won’t need to assassinate Heinrach, he’s already a fellow that is a little less than pleased with the proceedings that are going on around him without his consent. He’ll take the position of Iron Prophet if need be, but his feelings towards Fellip, and Jonnah… that’s another thing entirely. Myles’ father was a man of the spears at the battle of the Camps, and he’s dead, that came in when General Torr came back to the Spire. His uncle, Kurare, executed by druids as well… now that’s going to leave some bitterness behind. The only way we’d get someone who might inject more radicalism into the proceedings in the west is if we brought the second Red Prophet back.”
“Speaking of which, some of the Shadow Faith are calling for the Marchers to rejoin the empire’s main body, my lord… is there something over there that you want us to take care of?”
“Not at all; for the moment, your assignments are over, but we will dispatch you in time when our dear friend, Myles, heads west to take the appointment of Iron Prophet that has all but been given to him at this point. Your job will be very simple, all of you, and any mess-ups will happen to look extremely bad for you, if they can identify your body afterwards. Is this understood?”
All of them nodded gently. The grandmaster tapped his desk gently. “Very well then; you are all allowed to leave.”
Titus was about to stand to his feet, as the grandmaster drew out a map and spread it across his table. He hesitated slightly and looked down at the grandmaster’s map, taking note of everything as slowly the realization dawned on him. The streets, the markings and labels, notes and other such things that adorned and spiraled around the edge of it, the precise writing and the layout of the emplacement…
The map of Nessos had been drawn up by a master hand. The machinations of the Aowlands would not be stopped it seemed.
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