JimSoft Insanitarium -> Insane Stories -> Assassins
By Nomad

Marcus walked across the plain, kicking small shrubs as he passed, and crushing brittle bones underfoot. Marcus wore a long grey hooded cloak and two leather mismatched boots. Tied to his belt was a small blue bottle with a message within. The sun was directly overhead, so Marcus’ face was shrouded in darkness; only his long black beard was poking out into the sunlight. He was quietly murmuring the words to old songs and ballads he had learnt over the centuries. A dozen feet behind him stumbled another man by the name of Sonk. He was a short bald man who was finding it hard to keep up with Marcus’ steady pace. Every so often he would fall behind, and then he’d jog to catch up. Sonk wasn’t a large man, he was actually quite small, with fast nimble fingers, but he was unaccustomed to the cold weather of the south. Sonk’s clothing could be described as creative, in comparison with Marcus. Sonk wore a matching pair of wooden sandals with leather straps. The tops of his feet were equally as red as the top of his bald head, due to the harsh sun. He wore long pants that had been patched so often that they looked like they were made up entirely of patches. He wore a long black jacket that was covered in hundreds of jingling pockets and pouches. On closer inspection, one might believe that Sonk had made a separate pocket, pouch or compartment for every little trinket he had ever acquired. Tied to his thick leather belt were even more sacks and pouches, each with its own unique shape, colour and sound. Sonk pulled a handkerchief from inside his jacket, wiped the sweat from his brow, then replaced it into a different pocket. He then pulled a small flask of water and a piece of ginger root from two different pockets, consumed a little of each, and then replaced them. His face was creased with exhaustion, and a vein on his neck throbbed with each step. As he walked, he carefully avoided stepping on any skulls or other identifiably human bones.

Sonk and Marcus were messengers, delivering a message from the Queen of the South to the King of the North. The bottle had passed through many hands, and Marcus and Sonk were the ones who had been asked to make the final leg of the bottle’s journey. Marcus glanced back and saw that Sonk was falling behind. “Come along Sonk!” he said enthusiastically. “Every step we take today is a step closer to Mopottrar!”

Sonk jogged a little until he was closer to Marcus. “Yes, and a step further away from the cool south.”

“Don’t be so negative, Sonk!” Marcus replied. “Besides, what’s so great about the south? Frozen winters, raining summers, farming folk who can’t tell the difference between a sword’s blade and its pommel. And a woman rules them! And all those stinking mammoths! When we get to Mopottrar, if any man serves me mammoth stew I’ll drown him in it, even if it’s only a tankard full.”

“I happen to quite like Mammoth stew,” replied Sonk, who actually hated the stuff, but felt like irritating his companion. “And besides, I’ve heard that the north isn’t that great either. The king is a fat stupid man, which is far worse than our young intelligent queen. There’s hot weather all the time, everyone is sweaty and smelly, there’s only five ours of darkness and the bandits! They say that they steal everything you have, including your clothes, before you feet hit the ground!”

“So little you know,” said Marcus. “Just because your uncle had one bad experience with a mob of bandits. But bandits are on every piece of land and sea, not just the north! And besides, I heard that this certain uncle of yours, at the time, was participating in a little..”

“That was just a rumour!” snapped Sonk.

“Oh my dear, dear Sonk. Of course it was!” replied Marcus sarcastically. “And besides, bandits only ever attack in remote places. Guards are swarming all over the highly populated areas, and even on the trade roads, with all the tension lately.”

“What caused the north and the south to become enemies in the first place anyway?” asked Sonk.

“I’m not exactly sure,” said Marcus. “The north and the south have been enemies for thousands of years. But trade has always continued. But things have been starting to heat up recently, with the assassinations and all. You’d think that this ‘intelligent’ queen of yours is attempting to assassinate the entire royal family of the north.”

“It was all an elaborate set up,” replied Sonk. “And more than half of the southern royal family have been knocked off too.”

“I guess both sides have taken great losses,” said Marcus. “Neither the north or the south have a heir to the throne now. I guess war was inevitable.”

“Was inevitable?” asked Sonk. “You speak as though war has already been declared!”

“Well what else do you think our message is?” asked Marcus. “Is the Queen of the South asking the King what kind of music he likes? Or perhaps she’s sending him a recipe for mammoth stew.”

“Maybe it’s an alliance,” said Sonk.

“Hahaha,” laughed Marcus. “All three of my suggestions would be more likely than that.”

“Why don’t we open it up and look at it then?” asked Sonk.

“The bottle is made entirely from one piece of glass, and it is sealed. The only way to open it is to smash it, and there’s no way of repairing it or making a copy; it’s blue glass, and also the Queen’s seal is imprinted on it. And besides, even if we did find someone who could make an identical bottle, we wouldn’t be able to get the message inside, it would just burn.”

“Then how did they get it in there in the first place?” questioned Sonk.

“Nobody is certain,” answered Marcus. “It’s probably some form of fire sorcery.”

They marched on in silence for the next few hours, and as the sun moved the messengers’ shadows became longer. Marcus stopped and pointed. “There,” he said.

In the horizon a small dust cloud was forming, and at least 4 horses could be seen. Marcus looked around; there were no outcroppings of rock in sight. There was nowhere to hide. They’d have to play this one out. Marcus untied the bottle from his waist and handed it to Sonk, who quickly tucked it away deep into a compartment in his jacket. Marcus reached inside his cloak and pulled out what looked like a small, red, egg. He held it firm in his fist. Sonk reached into one of his pockets and withdrew a fistful of purple dust. He poured it into the pocket of his pants.

By this time, the horsemen were closer, and would have spotted the messengers. There were five horsemen in all, four of them garbed in armour. Soon they were close to the Marcus and Sonk, who had halted completely. From the colours of the horses’ adornments and the shields of the four knights, it was obvious that these men were the mercenaries of the King of the North. Once the horsemen were close, they slowed their pace, and then halted in front of Marcus and Sonk. The leader was a short stubby man with a small red goatee. He was the one who wasn’t garbed in armour, and looked as though he wouldn’t be able to bear the weight of it anyway. His head was adorned with a strangely shaped shabby hat, which looked more like a boot or a cushion of some sort. His left eye was twitching, and his mouth was twisted into an unkind and mendacious sneer. He moved forward toward the messengers. “State your business, grandpa,” he jeered. “Or did you just take a few wrong turns on your way home from the tavern?”

The four horsemen laughed. Sonk moved his hand toward the pocket on his pants, but Marcus stopped him. “Not yet,” he whispered.

Marcus looked up at the leader. “We are simple merchants on our way to Mopottrar. So, if you’d step aside, we’ll be on our way.”

The leader squinted at Marcus. “Merchants?” he said. “All trade has halted between the north and the south. And you aren’t carrying any goods, unless you are planning to make a broom out of your beard.”
The horsemen roared with laughter. “Well that was my original plan,” Marcus said calmly, “but taking your hat and selling it as a footstool now seems like a more profitable idea.”

The leader looked down at him angrily. “Or maybe it would be less profitable if you and your mule here suddenly become two heads shorter.”

Sonk’s face became red with anger and he was on the verge of using the purple powder. This meeting, Marcus realised, had now become a tightly wound spring, so he put it bluntly. “Step aside and let us pass, or die. Make your choice now, and choose it wisely.”

The horsemen heard the tone of Marcus’ voice and realised that he was serious. But they wouldn’t be beaten by the old man and his odd-looking companion. “You say you are merchants, and you know that there is no more trade,” said the leader. “Therefore you are illegal merchants, possibly with illegal goods. Thus we must strip you of your illegal goods and deliver you to the dungeons of the nearest garrison. Seize them, boys!”

“I have a plan,” whispered Sonk. “Just play along.”

One of the guards dismounted their horse and grabbed Marcus. Another dismounted a grabbed Sonk, and the third stayed at their leader’s side. Sonk winked at Marcus as the fourth horseman dismounted. He looked Sonk up and down, seeing all the pockets, pouches and compartments and said, “I’m going to have to search you.”

“By all means,” replied Sonk.

The guard move his hand toward a round blue pocket on the jacket near Sonk’s waist.

“Uh, I wouldn’t do that,” said Sonk.

“I’ll do as I please,” the soldier replied, as he put his hand into the pocket. Suddenly he stepped back with cry of pain, and two streams of bloody trickled down from his wrist. There were two small puncture wounds, which were the obvious trademark of snakebite. He screamed again, but the scream ended in a horrid gurgle, as his hands flailed helplessly in the air in front of him. He reeled backwards and fell to the ground. He stiffened and his back arched over, his feet scuffing and kicking at the sand, and his arms flopping uselessly. His head jerked to an awful angle, his eyes bulging and his swollen tongue protruding from his mouth. Then green froth came to his lips, he jerked several more times, and then his body lay stiff and arched over on the hot sand.

There was momentary silence as the mercenaries gathered their thoughts.

“Hey, I did warn him,” said Sonk, looking down at the stiff lifeless figure.

“KILL THEM!” the leader cried out in rage.

Sonk, who had his hand already in his pants pocket, threw the purple dust at one of the soldier who was holding him. He fell over lay on the ground screaming. He rose to his attack, but then looked around. He had a frightened expression on his face and tears were forming in his eyes. He had gone mad. He jumped up and thrashed at the air, as though some creature had just swooped him, and then he ripped a tuft of his own hair out. He yelped in pain, and then began to run west, screaming and yelping with pain and horror.

The soldier holding Marcus drew a dagger and swiped. Marcus, with unexpected speed and grace, ducked the swipe and rolled a few feet away. He opened his fist, revealing the small red egg-shaped stone. “This is Segrenith!” he bellowed. “This pebble can turn any man into stone. We have already shown you some of our sorcery, and we could kill you in an instant. Leave!”

The leader and his remaining two soldiers looked down at the small red egg, with fear on their faces. The soldier, with the dagger, closest to Marcus backed away and mounted his horse. “I.. I have a wife and children,” he stammered. And then he quickly turned and galloped back toward Mopottrar. Marcus levelled his eyes at the remaining horseman, and then raised the small red stone in his hand. The soldier cracked. He turned and galloped into the distance screaming, in toe with the other solider. Finally, the leader, realising his defeat, turned and fled screaming like an old woman. He fled with such speed that his odd-shaped hat fell off. Sonk picked up the hat and placed it on his own head. “Haha, this thing is surprisingly comfortable. Well, that didn’t go to badly, did it?” he said.

“I guess not,” said Marcus, as he cracked open the egg and poured its contents into his mouth. “But it’s lucky my bluff worked. We really didn’t have any more aces under our sleeve. How did you know he was going to pick that pocket?”

“They always pick the big round blue pocket,” replied Sonk. “It looks more important than any of the other pockets.”

They stopped for a while and had some food and water. They would have buried the dead man, except that there were so many skeletons on this ancient war plain, that it seemed unnecessary. They travelled a little further that day, and then decided to stop at an outcropping of rock; the first they had passed in days. The starts shone brightly, and the yellow sands transformed into a cool dark blue. They took the opportunity to dig a small pit and light a fire for the purposes of warmth, and cooking some lizards Sonk had collected along their journey.

The following morning they set out again, and within less than an hour’s walking, they could see the massive stonewalls surrounding Mopottrar.

“We’d better circle round,” said Marcus. “The group we intercepted yesterday would have reported back by now. There’s probably a whole battalion awaiting us at the southern entrance.”

Mopottrar was such a vast city that the king couldn’t rule the entire thing. He more or less stayed in his palace and received daily reports of any major occurrences. The city was divided into many sections in which princes, barons or generals were in charge. Marcus and Sonk flanked the city, keeping its walls barely in view, and several hours later they approached the west entrance. They didn’t approach the gate with caution; if someone wanted them caught they would be because they had no horses. As they got closer, Sonk soon realised the true immensity of the city. The huge stone wall was made entirely of a pearly black stone, cut into irregular-shaped blocks, as though the wall was a giant jigsaw puzzle. The west gate was signified by two towers which were poking up at least twice the height of the wall. The tower was divided into several levels, the lower levels filled with mercenaries, the higher levels armed with archers. Between the two towers were a pair of immense wooden gates, which were wide open. A line of people were arranged outside the gate, each being individually checked, except for the more wealthy folk who went straight to the front of the line to transact a discreet bribe. Soon Sonk and Marcus joined the back of the line and waited.

“I’m sick of standing out here. Why don’t be just bribe them?” asked Sonk, kicking the sand.

“I’m not sure that would work,” replied Marcus. “Most people who bribe here are fat rich men, key political figures or infamous merchants. If we tried to bribe our way through, we’d probably be apprehended for attempted bribery.”

“That’s hardly fair,” replied Sonk, fed up with the hot weather.

“And besides,” continued Marcus. “We don’t have any of the northern currency anyway, and if we tried to bribe with the southern currency or with anything else you’ve got in your pockets, it’d probably look suspicious.”

They waited and waited, and the line shrunk smaller. Most of the people in the lines were farmers from the desert who were coming into to Mopottrar to sell their goods. They reached the front of the line.

“State your business,” said that guard.

“We live inside the city.” Marcus told him. “This here is my brother. We travelled west to our sister’s farm because she was having a wedding.” “Okay, we believe you. You’re free to pass. Actually, from the stories I’ve heard, you’re lucky to make it here at all!”

“Stories?” questioned Marcus.

“Yes,” replied the guard. “I’ve heard rumours of two monsters roaming in the desert to the south of the city. One is a short man who looks like a rat, who’s skin is made entire out of poisonous snakes. And with him is a giant, twice the height of any man, who moves faster than thought and has a long gnarled beard which looks like a horrid shrubbery.”

The guard saw they weren’t carrying any carts or bags, and since it was late in the evening he let them through. They were soon walking on the crowded streets of Mopottrar.

“A RAT?” exclaimed Sonk. “I thought myself more of a lion or a bear. Maybe even a turtle or something, but a rat!?” He mumbled some curses under his breath.

“Quit your complaining,” replied Marcus, who wasn’t impressed with his description either. He had bought a comb as soon as they’d entered the city, and was vigorously combing his beard with it. “Gnarled..” he muttered. “It’s not gnarled. It’s straight and shiny.”

“Except for the fish bones and pieces of twig,” commented Sonk.

“Shut up,” said Marcus angrily. “My beard is cleaner than anything you’ve ever owned.”

They continued walking through the streets. The palace was located in the centre, so they roughly knew where they were going. Sometimes they passed through large markets, and sometimes they passed through cottages and houses packed tightly together. Sometimes they went through wealthy areas where the dwellings were constructed from stone and metals, other times they passed through less wealthy places with mud or straw houses, where the filth was discarded onto the street. Sometimes the street was very narrow and the buildings were tall, and they couldn’t see the palace, other times the road was thick enough to get three oxcarts through side by side, and they could see the black palace, as it dwarfed the rest of the city. Marcus walked along in a daze, not paying much attention to anything. He often walked this way in the desert; it was almost a trance of sorts. His thoughts wandered, and he thought about things that had happened. Then something occurred to him. The hat! The strange-looking hat that guard leader had been wearing was on Sonk’s head! Someone might recognise it! He turned around; Sonk was nowhere to be seen. “Oh, by the maker’s name,” Marcus cursed. There was nothing he could do. The city was too large to look around. The best thing he could do was to stay put and hope that Sonk would return.

An hour later Marcus was sitting on a barrel outside a small tavern, drinking mead, when along came a short bald man with a sack over his shoulder and a grin on his face.

“Sonk, you fool!” cried Marcus. “Where the devil have you been?”
Sonk grinned. “I’ve been making a few…. transactions.”

“I know that look,” said Marcus. “You’ve done something clever. Just spit it out and be done with it. Spare me the melodrama.”

“Okay, okay,” said Sonk. “I saw an old acquaintance back there--”

“Another one of your friends who has a price on his head larger than the number of teeth in a cobalt, I presume?”

“Do you want to know what’s in this sack or not?”

“Okay, okay, continue.”

“So,” continued Sonk, “I told this friend of mine that we need a way into the palace. So, he said he had a pair of entirely official royal garb, with the northern seal and all.”

“Wouldn’t that have been very hard to obtain?” asked Marcus.

“Yes,” replied Sonk. “Impossible to obtain. In fact, the attire was peeled from two dead servants of the royal family. As you might imagine, the price was steep.”

“Where on earth did you acquire the money?”

“Well,” said Sonk, “I sold a few things which had been weighing down my coat. Haha, those Segrenith stones of yours fetched quite a price. It’s amazing how much someone will pay for a useless lizard eggs.” He chuckled. “And the footstool I had been wearing on my head also fetched quite a high price.”

“Oh good then,” said Marcus. “Now we have a way into the palace. Well done.”

“I wish we could just dump that bottle at the palace gates, though,” said Sonk.

“Yes,” Marcus agreed, “but our job is to deliver it to the king himself.”

It was dark by the time the messengers reached the palace gates. Sonk and Marcus were clad in the royal garb as they approached the gates. They both wore a pompous expression and walked with a stiff arrogant gait. As they approached the gates, they saw that there was an alarming amount of soldiers guarding the palace. There was a large wooden gate as an entrance to the palace, but it was used rarely. Usually people entered and departed through a smaller wooden door that was cut into the main gate. They approached the entrance, but a guard stood in their way. “Halt,” he said.

“Out of my way, inferior,” said Marcus with an insulting tone.

“Halt,” repeated the guard. “King’s orders.” He then lowered his voice. “Sorry, but tension is very high at the moment. Monsters and assassins are lurking about everywhere. Everyone is trying to kill the king. And if they succeed, then we are all doomed! The entire north will be doomed, and there will be no order. We have had about twenty attempts every day for the last fortnight! That’s why all these men are here.” He grabbed a torch from a nearly soldier so that he could inspect Sonk and Marcus. “Yes, everything seems to be in order. You’re not carrying any weapons are you?”

“None at all,” said Sonk.

“Okay then,” said the guard. “Proceed. But beware; daggers have been flying through the corridors at night, even thicker than the flies. Some assassins have slipped through, I’m sure of it.”

“Well, good luck with that,” said Sonk, as they went through the wooden door.

The inside of the palace was deathly silent in contrast to the bustling streets of Mopottrar. The hall they entered was very large, and had few luxuries. The floor was made from stone, and there was mud trampled everywhere. There were empty barrels boxes scattered everywhere, and there were a few wooden horse carts against a wall. There were candles on small metal stands protruding from the wall, illuminating the hall, and there were seven doors at the end.

“Let’s head for the middle one,” said Marcus. “And try not to forget which way we came. We might have to make a very rushed exit.”

They travelled through the palace in a relatively straight line, guessing that the royal chambers would be in the exact centre. The rooms seemed to become more luxurious as they approached the centre. At first they passed through stone hallways flanked with locked wooden doors, then there was a room with an immensely long wooden table that could have seated a thousand men. As they progressed the rooms had rich red carpets and expensive paintings on the walls. Mostly people in the palace seemed to be hiding or sleeping; the only person they saw was a short stubby man. It was dark and they couldn’t make out his face or clothing, but the moment he saw them, he ran away screaming.

“Well, the people here certainly are edgy,” commented Sonk.

“I’m not sure..” said Marcus, with suspicion. “I might be imagining things, but I think I recognise that scream from somewhere.”

Soon after, the messengers saw a bright light at the end of a hall. They rounded the corner and entered a large chamber. The floor was made out of intricate black tile patterns, and the ceiling was made of pure gold. Chandeliers hang down, illuminating the area and the group of about fifteen armed guards at the end. There were finely carved chairs and tables arranged in the chamber, but they looked as though they had never been used. At the end of the hall were two large golden-plated doors, which were behind the group of guards. Two of the guards were standing, the rest were slumped on the floor on in chairs. As Sonk and Marcus approached, the ones who weren’t sleeping rose to their feet.

“The king does not want to be disturbed,” said the tallest guard, who seemed to be the person in charge. “Leave, before we have to demonstrate our purpose.” Marcus spoke. “We are—“ but he was cut off. The small stubby man, who had fled before, jumped out from behind one of the soldiers. “Ah ha!” he said, with a wicked grin. “We have you now, serfs.”

And suddenly Marcus recognised him. He had a red goatee. It was the leader of the group who had attacked them to the south of Mopottrar. They hadn’t recognised him without his footstool hat. “You..” he stammered.

“Yes it’s me,” he said. “Now, seize them, boys! Make sure you don’t break to many bones.”

And in seconds the guards were scrambling and clunking around in their armour, grabbing hold of the messengers who didn’t even bother trying to run. Suddenly, the two golden doors swung open and the king stood there, squinting his eyes. He was a fat man, who has bloodshot eyes and his hands were shaking. He obviously hadn’t slept in days. He had a look on his face of utter despair, he had figured that an assassin was going to get him sooner or later, or else he would die of lack of sleep or fresh air. “What’s all the commotion?” he slurred. “I was almost asleep.”

“We caught these two assassins,” said the man with the red goatee. “Shall we dispose of them for you?”

“Wait!” cried Marcus. There was no point being secretive now. “We are not assassins. We are simply messengers. We come with a message from the south.”

The king looked at Marcus and then at Sonk. “Let go of them you oafs,” he said. “These poor fellows couldn’t knock the froth of the top of an Anklin ale.”

The guards obeyed.

“Thankyou, your majesty,” said Marcus.

“Yes, yes, please, thankyou, very much so, who, ha, what what, what not. Now, about the message.”
Marcus retrieved the bottle from the folds of his garment and handed it to the king. He examined it closely, and then nodded his head. “Yes,” he said to himself. “It’s authentic.”

He walked over to the closest wooden table. “Well I guess this is it,” he said. “A war declaration; it must be. And now all scores will be settled. Ah well, at least I’ll be able to come out of hiding.”
And with that he shattered the bottle on the table. He retrieved the curled note from the broken remains of the bottle, and unfurled it. It was blank. The king’s hands started to tremble. “What is this?” he demanded. He tried to say something else, but he couldn’t. The note wasn’t the only thing in the bottle; a dark green smoke was curling through the air around where the king stood. His hands trembled more, and he coughed, a spray of blood hit the cold tiles. His pupils expanded; his eyes became entirely black. His mouth formed the shape of a shriek, but no sound came out. His muscles went stiff, twisting his body into a horrible bizarre shape, and finally he fell to the floor; a trickle of blood spilling from each nostril.

© 2003 JimSoft