SD 1

THE SIGRETH’S DISK
Chapter 1 – Mission: Suicidal
Shadows among shadows moved on the night of the dark moon. Draconian guardians, wyverns, lurked in the darkness around the castle, their scarlet eyes penetrating the gloom sharply as they roamed the courtyard, took wing to watch the terraces, or climbed the walls on watch for intruders. The assassin, but a silent shadow herself, moved deftly around the watch-beasts, undetected. She’d invaded the inner keep now, standing with her back against the gates. Her eyes roamed upwards at the towering peak of the keep to mark the movements of the wyverns, glad she wouldn’t have to go up there, though if she’d had to, she could and would have tackled the feat with success. The luxurious and guarded room at the top was only a decoy, however, the figure in the bed an illusion.
The assassin, adept at her art, knew better than to waste the precious moments left until sunrise. She slipped into the shadows of a window well and paused to oil the hinges of the window so they wouldn’t squeak and betray her when she entered. Her target was asleep, she could see from the gap in the curtains. Easing the window open, the assassin slid through the more-than-adequate opening, landing crouched on the floor, pausing again to assess everything in the room. All seemed quiet, and she was about to move, when a tiny flicker caught the corner of her eye and she froze again. It was a Veesike, no larger than the mouse it resembled. Now that she’d seen one, the assassin quickly looked for others and spotted three. She slowly drew back into the shadows of the curtains, slipped one hand into a pouch on her belt and withdrew four darts and their dart-tube.
She waited a while, to see if any others she hadn’t spotted would move, but none except those four did. Loading and firing all four darts accurately in quick succession, the assassin insured she would go unnoticed until morning. Still, she navigated around to the other side of the room within the bounds of shadows, ever-cautious. Arriving at her target’s bedside, the assassin activated a tiny amulet from her pocket and held it close to him. Had there been any illusions present, it would have broken them, but this man was who he appeared to be. The traitor who had been selling information to the enemy. Putting the amulet away and drawing a dagger, the assassin swiftly insured he would not wake up again.
Deed done, the assassin left the way she had come, nothing but a shadow among shadows.
*
“You see? A cinch,” General Serval told her. Assassin Tajara Onca gave a snort of derision.
“Easy for you to say,” she retorted, scowling. “You didn’t have to do it. If that qualifies as a cinch, then I don’t want to be around when things get tough.” She stood at ease in the general’s tent, having just given her report of the previous night’s success.
“You won’t like your next assignment then,” General Serval replied, his craggy features serious. He handed her a few sheets of paper. “Target: Zirak, High Priest of Dasdar.”
Anger flared in Taj’s yellow eyes as she glanced at the papers then back up at the general.
“That’s suicide.”
It was impossible. He’d have the best of both magical and physical protection. If she had the proper information, then maybe… but Taj knew that the scanty three sheets in her hand held no such knowledge. No, they’d expect her to find it, and she doubted there was any person she could extract such information from. Any person who would know the kind of information she’d need would either be too loyal to Zirak or too frightened of him to be able to impart that knowledge to her. Not to mention they’d be bespelled. Suicide was all it was, to go in without that information.
“Regardless, it’s your mission,” the general told her. There was sympathy in his eyes, but no mercy. He knew what she was up against, and why she’d do it. “You know your only other option.”
“Military assassins are different from freelancers,” the sergeant barked. A much younger Taj, a Taj in training, nodded. This she knew.
“A military assassin must give her total devotion to her army, for she is trained to be so deadly that her army can’t afford for her to be anything less than utterly devoted. An AWOL assassin is a dead assassin. It’s too risky to leave her alive.” To be that dangerous… Taj nodded again. She had no qualms about serving the Queenclaw.
“Once an assassin, the only ways out are to become a Bodyguard, magically bound to protect the Queenclaw, or to die, or – and this only when you become too old to serve in the field, providing you live that long – to become a trainer to future assassins.” Taj, with the optimism and confidence of youth, was betting on that last. She’d never become a Bodyguard – the notion made her shudder – and she planned to be too good to die in action.
Now, Taj fumed. Her slim, wiry frame was tense, and though she barely reached 5’5”, most people were terrified of the assassin – but not General Serval. He knew her too well and had for too long. Taj always looked the part of the assassin, with her severely short-cropped black hair, yellow eyes, and black assassin’s gear, and her ill temper made her look downright savage. Taj clenched and unclenched her fists, thinking of how good it would feel to punch something but reminding herself that striking a superior officer never went over well in the long run.
“Fine.” Taj spat the word tersely. “Mission accepted.” The formal response tasted bitter on her tongue. She received a stiff nod from General Serval in return for her words.
“Dismissed,” he ordered. Taj stalked out of the tent.
*
A rat-faced man clothed in the black and red robes of a dark priest stood boldly before a repulsive yet magnificent throne. Constructed of human skulls, steel, and black onyx, the throne was grand in scale, invoking fear from most who stood before it, as empty eye sockets tracked their movements. The priest who stood there now displayed no fear, however. His beady black eyes were cruel, greedy, and fanatical as he raised his arms dramatically, his fingers tense and twisted into hooks like claws. Black fire rushed from his hands to enveloped the seat of the throne, then condensed into a singly ball of pulsing flame.
In the flame formed an image, the head of a dragon made of flame himself, as well as darkness. The image’s maw opened, and spoke in a terrible voice that called to mind rumbling thunder and the roar of all-consuming flames.
“Our day comes swiftly,” the dragon said.
“It cannot possibly come swiftly enough, Mighty One,” the priest replied.
“Yet do not rush our cause; that can only lead to failure,” the dragon warned.
The priest bowed to the image. “Never, Mighty God. I shall savor each day both before and after your rise to power.” The fervor in his voice made his words a promise. A malicious smile appeared on the dragon’s face.
“See that it is so.” His tone was… amused. “How, you have summoned me for a reason. Speak.” The priest spoke.
“Enemy forces are moving…”
*
Taj knelt before the shrine of Khastarendross, her head bowed in prayer. She had never been afraid, and she wasn’t about to start now, but at the same time she didn’t want to die. In theory, it perhaps could be done. She could get in, kill Zirak, and get out. In actuality, it was more as she had said to Serval. Suicide. Maybe she would be able to get in and kill Zirak, but get out alive? She doubted it.
Suddenly her own thoughts rounded on her. What was she thinking? A slight snarl tugged at her lips. Was she going to turn and run away, a coward? Death? Since when had she been afraid of that? These are weakling thoughts, she scolded herself. If you die, you die. You have always believed in the Queenclaw’s cause, and nothing there has changed. This is what you’ve always wanted. You’ll be able to prove that you’re the best, by killing that scum Zirak. Doubt was crushed by a powerful resolve. She would go, and she would kill the bastard, and by Khastarendross, she’d come back.
Taj looked up at the shrine.
“After I kill him, I’ll come back here and give my thanks to you, Khastarendross,” she vowed.
Suddenly a blinding light flooded the inside of the tent that sheltered the shrine. Taj flung an arm up to shelter her eyes, a blade finding its way into her other hand as she listened for any sound that would betray the presence of an attacker.
“You go to confront my Arch-Enemy.” The voice was powerful and echoing, as well as undoubtedly female, and coming from in front of her. The light had lasted only a moment, and Taj moved her arm out of the way so she could see. To her surprise, no lights danced in front of her eyes when she blinked. Her vision was perfectly clear as she scanned the tent, empty but for her, before looking at the shrine again. Something had changed. For one, the shrine was glowing, and there was a sheathed dagger with a belt leaning against the base of the shrine. The blade was ten inches long and about the width of two quill pens. It looked fragile, but Taj knew instinctively it was not. It was an assassin’s weapon, usable in overt or covert fighting. The weapon had a long hilt with runs inscribed in it, as well as on its sheath.
“Admiring your new blade?” the voice from before asked. It was coming from the shrine itself, from the monument dedicated to Khastarendross.
“Khastarendross?” Taj asked. The voice did not answer her query.
“Take it,” she commanded. “And listen. The blade, sheath and belt before you cannot be broken, pierced, ripped, burned, or damaged in any way. No one can even draw the blade from its sheath or take the belt off you except you. A regular blade cannot kill Dasdar or his priest. This blade can kill anything short of a god. It will protect you.” Taj reached out and took the dagger. It had been glowing softly, like the shrine, but when she picked it up the glow faded, revealing that the hilt was colored with swirls of white, blue, and bronze, symbolizing air, water, and earth.
“The colors of the goddess,” Taj whispered reverently.
The voice spoke again. “As for your question, yes, I am Khastarendross, and I will help you, even as I hold you to your vow, though I am no goddess. No more than Dasdar is a god.”
Taj opened her mouth to respond, but the glow had vanished from shrine. Khastarendross was gone.
*
Taj perched in a tree, examining her new blade. Her inspection revealed how truly strange it was; the colors on the blade were the same color as the hilt, but they were constantly swirling around each other, blending and redefining, again and again, exotically and beautifully. The white whipped around the bronze and blue, while the blue, appropriately, flowed between the other two colors. The bronze crept sluggishly between the white and the blue; each color acted as befitted the element they symbolized.
“New blade?” asked a silky voice from above her in speedy syllables that made the two words sound like one. Taj whirled around on the branch, displaying a remarkable sense of balance, her blade ready.
Idle and unalarmed, on a branch three limbs above her, perched a Kleese. His long-featured, reptilian body was flopped lazily over several branches. Like all Kleese, he had a wickedly curved beak, two horns bending upwards from his skull, and two hooks, made of a bone-like substance protruding from the back of his head. His sleek, smoothly scaled body ended in a slim tail that twitched absently.
“Y’know, on a mission like yours, you’re gonna get a lot of allies, but also a lot of enemies.” Taj had to concentrate in order to understand the Kleese’s speedy dialect; the words all ran into each other, so it sounded more like “yknowonamissionlikeyours…” It was difficult, to say the least.
“So here’s a token of good faith from some allies to help you on your way.” The Kleese dropped something attached to a string. Taj made no move to catch it, but the Kleese seemed to have sensed that she wouldn’t, for it caught on a twig at eye-level. Taj examined what turned out to be a pendant on a leather thong, though she kept one eye on the Kleese, whose attention seemed to be wandering.
“What is it?” Taj asked skeptically.
“Oh right,” The Kleese brought its attention back to Taj. “It has some fancy-schmancy name actually, but younger Kleese, like me, call it a running crystal.”
“Crystal? It looks like a little rock on a thong to me,” Taj stated, brutally honest.
“There’s crystal embedded in the stone. Anyways, that little thing there’ll help your speed and your endurance. Gotta go!” Then the Kleese zipped off so quickly that he appeared to just vanish. There were few creatures whose eyes could track the movements of a Kleese when they chose to move quickly.
Taj reached out and fingered the pendant, fairly sure it was safe. The Kleese were their allies, though it was nearly impossible to know whose side anyone was on these days. Upon closer inspection of the rock, she discovered that there was, in fact, crystal in it. Taj placed the pendant in a pouch, descended from the tree and slipped back to camp.
*
Taj entered the tent and saluted, reporting to General Serval’s summons. To her surprise, she didn’t recognize the man beside him. Her only display of emotion, however, was the slight raising of one eyebrow. Taj discreetly studied the newcomer as the general debriefed her for the second time. The newcomer was handsome enough, she supposed, though it meant little enough regardless. His hair was a rich, dark brown and his eyes were a brown that almost looked amber. His skin was bronzed from exposure to the sun and his hands bore the calluses of a fighter. That much, at least, Taj approved of. He was well-muscled and fit, and neither his face nor his almond-shaped eyes betrayed any emotion whatsoever. He was outfitted simply enough, with serviceable clothes and a bow and quiver slung over one shoulder as well as a couple daggers tucked into his belt.
“Assassin Tajara Onca,” General Serval addressed her, using her full title to get her attention, “this man will be your companion on your journey. His name is Rowlen and he is an expert hunter, scavenger, and forager. He will assist you on your journey. He was sent by the Queenclaw herself to aid you.” Taj opened her mouth to protest, to say that she worked best alone, but the general cut her off.
“Did I tell you to stand at ease?!” General Serval barked, and Taj came smartly to attention. Then the general’s voice softened.
“I know what you’re about to say Tajara, but Rowlen is not participating in the assassination, he is only to assist you on your journey to the High Temple of Dasdar.” Taj shut her mouth and glared at him. “Dismissed.” General Serval stated finally. Taj turned on her heel stalked out of the tent after giving him a rather abrupt salute.
“Her tent is at the far side of the camp,” the general told Rowlen. “It flies the assassin’s emblem. Take your things and go there.” Rowlen nodded, picked up his things, and moved to leave.
“Oh,” General Serval said just as he reached the tent flap, “you will likely be met with hostility, but don’t worry; she’s not allowed to kill you.” Rowlen turned and left.
*
Taj watched Rowlen from her hidden vantage point as he strode towards her tent. When he stopped at the tent flap and set down his pack, Taj flipped the knife in her hand and sprang. She landed squarely on his back, but Rowlen immediately dropped and curled up, rolling so that she was forced to leap away. She took two paces as he completed the roll and sprang to his feet, eyeing her warily. A blink later Taj was on the offensive again, launching an attack with a flurry of blows. Rowlen evaded them, giving ground as he took several steps backwards to place him out of range. Suddenly his bow was in his hands and he swept outwards with it, aiming to entangle her feet. Taj jumped forwards over the bow, aiming a tackle at Rowlen’s legs. He sidestepped, but Taj predicted the action and lashed out as she leapt to her feet again. The knife grazed the flesh on Rowlen’s arm, but his skin healed as quickly as the knife passed through it. The battling allies froze, and both pairs of eyes dropped to the blade in her hand. It was the one Khastarendross had given her. The blade was a misty blue for the healing element of water. Taj swiftly sheathed the blade.
“I think that’s enough,” Taj said, and stepped into her tent.
*
Ten minutes later Taj and Rowlen were mounted on a pair of horses, making a start on their long and perilous journey.
*
Taj and Rowlen made camp off the road in the woods that night. Rowlen built a fire while Taj scaled a tree and sat lazily on a wide branch, one foot on the branch, the other dangling.
“Okay, expert hunter, scavenger, and forager, do your stuff,” she mocked. Rowlen didn’t rise to insult, simply retrieving travel rations from their pack and placing them over the fire to warm them. Taj smirked slightly and pulled out a dagger to sharpen. Soon the only sounds were the rhythmic ringing scrap of steel against stone and the crackling of the fire.
“Company,” Taj whispered abruptly and Rowlen gave a slight nod. Neither looked at the other, and the sounds of stone, steel and fire reigned again until a man stepped out of the trees into their campsite. He was a scruffy man, fairly non-descript, with a pack slung over one shoulder and a long walking staff in one hand. He stopped by a tree at the edge of the clearing and leaned against it.
“Have you the hospitality to accept a weary traveler at your fire?” he asked in a cheerful voice.
“No,” Taj replied abruptly. The man appeared at a loss for what to say.
Finally he managed, “Well, why not?” in a puzzled tone accompanied by a disapproving frown.
There was a whistle and a thud, and Taj’s dagger was suddenly pinning the man to the tree by the hood of his cloak. He tugged back in surprise but an instant later Taj was there too, another dagger resting against his throat.
“I’m sure you’re just completely confused with my behavior,” Taj hissed in his face. Then she held up the blade Khastarendross had given her, turning it slowly in front of his face so he got a good look at it.
“See this blade? I discovered something really cool about it. It tells me things. Like if you’re with me-” Lightning-quick, she pressed the blade against his cheek, pricking him with its tip and causing a tiny bead of blood to well up. “-or against me.”
“Tell your boys to drop their bows and show themselves,” Taj demanded. The man stayed stubbornly silent until Taj pushed her dagger against his throat a little harder.
“Now,” Taj warned. The man swallowed and spoke.
“Drop your bows and come on out, boys,” he ordered, defeated. Ten others like him stepped out of the trees surrounding them, without their bows but armed to the teeth with a multitude of other weapons.
“Now, I have a couple of questions for you,” Taj stated calmly to the man as she assessed the situation. “One. Who sent you?”
The man shuddered and began to lie, “Who sent us? Nobody sent us! We’re free men.”
Taj drew a dot of blood. “Still lying.” she warned with a taunting tone in her voice. “Try again.”
The man whimpered a bit before continuing, “All right, all right. Sarra sent us.”
Taj nicked him with the blade but it healed immediately. “Good. Now who’s Sarra?”
“She’s a…” suddenly the man’s skin went ice cold, and he crumpled to the ground, dead. The others of his band turned and fled.
Taj sheathed her blade and swore as she bent over and checked the man’s pulse. She swore again, for good measure, and stood up.
“He’s dead,” she stated unnecessarily. She paced for a moment.
“Who wants to keep a secret so badly that they’ll kill their own soldier to keep it?” she asked rhetorically. She was silent for a moment as she thought.
“Never mind cooking the food Rowlen, just put it in those wooden travel bowls and help me saddle the Deladin. We’ll eat on the trail,” Taj ordered.
Within moments they were on their way again.
“First night of our journey and already we’ve been attacked. Good omen.” Taj commented after they had ridden in silence for several minutes. Rowlen looked over and raised an eyebrow at her.
Taj gave him a sickeningly sweet smile and explained.
“That means this trip won’t be boring.”
*
About a day into their journey, Taj couldn’t help but notice that Rowlen never said anything. She’d tried starting conversations several times, only to be met with a shrug and continued silence. She didn’t think the Queenclaw would send a mute to her as help – they weren’t exactly good for camouflage, since people remembered when they ran into someone who couldn’t talk – but she was suspicious of it anyways.
She also couldn’t help but notice that he never showed any emotion, either. She never managed to get a smile, or a frown, or a scowl, or any sort of display of emotion at all. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. When conversation failed, she took to bugging him, whether through random comments, sly asides, or outright insults. He either just shrugged or ignored her completely. She didn’t like indifference, and so it bothered her. That was why, a few days later, it came to a head.
“Rowlen,” she began. Rowlen turned his attention from the trail ahead to look at her.
“Don’t you ever talk? I haven’t once heard you say anything, ever!” Taj exploded. Rowlen just shrugged.
“Can you talk?” Taj pressed. Another shrug.
“You know, you are really infuriating!” Taj exploded. “If the Queenclaw herself hadn’t sent you, I would’ve left you in some ditch a long time ago. And what makes it worse, is that along with never saying anything, you never get mad either! I’ve never seen you show even the slightest hint of anger! No emotion: nothing! “You know, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re capable of any sort of emotion! For all I know, you could be some sort of golem or something – an animated rock!” She ranted for a moment longer before realizing that Rowlen wasn’t paying attention to her any more.
He had turned his attention to some birds that were flitting around in the bushes they were passing, and obviously hadn’t heard a word she’d said. Taj’s rage had finally run its course, and, in the face of Rowlen’s total disinterest, left her feeling completely deflated. Taj gave him a perplexed look, which he didn’t notice, and shut up.
*
After another infuriatingly silent day of travel, the assassin and her companion came to a small village.
Taj reigned in her horse at the edge of the trees, and Rowlen stopped beside her.
“Ok, we can’t exactly go into that town as an assassin and her stooge now can we?” Taj mused. She gave Rowlen a sidelong glance to see if he would rise to her jest, but, as usual, he kept his expression perfectly blank. “Golem.” Taj muttered, and knew Rowlen heard her, since she hadn’t muttered all that quietly.
Then Taj was struck by sudden inspiration.
“I know, we can be TaleWeavers, I can spin a pretty good story, and can even include a little bit of truth too. Say Mr. Expert Food-Finder, do you know any tales you could tell in this quaint little town?” she mocked.
“As it happens, I am a TaleMaster,” Rowlen said. Taj blinked and stared at him. After all that, he chose to speak now? Rowlen didn’t give her a chance to recover, setting off at a trot towards the small civilization. Taj stayed in shock for another moment before galloping to catch Rowlen before he reached the village.
*
They were greeted in a hostile fashion by a pair of young sentries. Once they explained that they were travelers and taletellers, they were given a much warmer welcome and an explanation.
“We’ve been living in dark times since Dasdar rose from the flames in force,” said the one who’d introduced herself as Mandy.
“Ah, then you must gather near the fire tonight, for we bring a tale to warm your hearts with hope. It has to do with the matter of which you speak,” Rowlen said mysteriously as Taj glared at him. He ignored her pointedly.
“I shall look forward to that.” Mandy replied. The other sentry still looked suspiciously at the two taletellers, but he seemed to trust Mandy’s judgment. Rowlen inclined his head to the guard and they proceeded on into the town.
*
That night, the majority of the village gathered around a huge bonfire in the village square to listen to Taj and Rowlen weave tales. For the first hour or more, they wove traditional tales of lore and history, until the sentry, Mandy, interrupted them.
“When we first stopped you, you told us that you bore news of the rising of the dark god,” she announced boldly.
People in the crowd muttered exclamations and talked among themselves. Rowlen and Taj sat calmly by the fire, neither confirming nor denying Mandy’s words. Finally, the mayor of the village rose from his seat and addressed them.
“Is this true?” The mayor only continued once Rowlen nodded. “Do you bear good or bad tidings?”
Rowlen got to his feet, gathering the audience’s attention with the magic of TaleMasters. “Let us tell you the tale, so you may decide for yourself.” And he launched into the story…

So ends Chapter 1 (there will be a new page for Chapter 2)