Hand of the Black City

For my sister, Sabine.

Stop being so awesome. You’re making me look bad.

Love,

Your brother.

“It will be by your blades that we dispense judgment on this treachery! The Provinces will NOT go unpunished! They thought us weak? They thought us cowards cringing behind our mountains? Let them bear true witness to our strength when their people fall weeping in the streets for families never returned. Let none pass the southern ranges, my Hands. Slaughter them and cast their bodies to the crows!”

—Eiramin Süll, High Priest of the Iron Will

Winter, 232n.n. – The a’Tor Ranges

-three weeks since the flight of the Free Provinces

Trystan Süll
peered down into the mountain path, his breath misting through the burgundy cloth wrapped around the lower half of his pale face. Everything was laid out before him from his perch in the cliffs some fifty feet above. Grey eyes took in the snowy trail, the only part of him that moved as he studied his opportunities. With practiced efficiency he registered every detail, memorizing every shadow, every dip and bump of stone beneath the winter white. Once satisfied, Trystan crouched low, reaching back to free the heavy pine bow slung over his shoulder. The paired sabers sheathed at his right hip rattled when he strung the weapon with rapid ease, drawing a thin black arrow from the leather quiver by his knee. Nocking it, he stilled.

The wait was on.

Somber clouds rolled thick over the heavens, suspending the mountains in semi-darkness despite the fact that it was only just past midday. It wasn't snowing now, but a sharp wind whistled through the valley, ruffling Trystan's thin white hair to whisper of swiftly coming storms. Somewhere in the bluffs high above a king-falcon screeched in its dive earthward, the lethal call reverberating through the rocky cliffs.

Trystan ignored it all. Closing his eyes, he focused on drowning out the rest of the world. When all had died to a dull thrum, like a distant river, he whispered a word.

Trystan convulsed as his senses leapt from his core, flooding out of his body into the air, over the cliff, and down into the path below. The spell drew part of his mind away, pulling it northward in a rapid blur of distorted images over the snow-covered earth like a silent wraith. The natural stone walls on either side of him whipped by, the rocky ground rising and falling before dipping suddenly to wind back and forth down the mountain. Only practice and discipline kept Trystan's physical body from off-balancing, the images playing before his eyes like a ghost world imposed over the scenery around him. He felt ill as the spell moved faster and faster, the details of his vision little more than streaks of shades and color…

And then, abruptly, it stopped.

It took a moment for Trystan to get his bearings, head reeling from the sudden shift. When he did, though, he smiled beneath his cloth wraps.

At last, at long last, he'd found them.

Six men, unshaven and haggard beneath their grimy steel plate and worn leather armor, slumped wearily atop a half-dozen warhorses that looked even worse for wear. They moved carefully, climbing the treacherous mountain path at a plodding pace for the sake of the large hide-top wagon in the center of their little group, pulled by a pair of shaggy tan oxen. Two women sat at the front of the cart, one grasping the reins while the other stared off at nothing as the small boy held tight in her arms shivered and coughed weakly from within the swaddles of the dirty blankets he was wrapped in. Trystan couldn't see them, but he knew another three women and two little girls were hidden away inside the wagon.

Unless their numbers had dwindled since they'd fled the Black City, making a break south for the Free Provinces…

In any case, it would only make his job easier.

Trystan released the spell with another word, and the scene faded away before him like smoke carried off by the wind. The group was still a fair distance off, but it mattered little. To a Hand of the Iron Will, the cold was little more than a mild annoyance.

For nearly an hour he waited, motionless except for the snap of his gaze as he searched the path below. He would hear them coming first, he knew that, but Trystan had lived through too much already in his twenty-six years to let his guard down in an unfamiliar place. It paid well to be wary of the world, and hurt little to be overly cautious. The wind picked up briefly, catching flurries off the cliffs above so that it fell in thin curtains twirling through the air, and the whining breeze nearly masked the first dull trots of hooves against frozen ground. Trystan's dark eyes snapped to the north end of the path. His body shifted slowly, inch by inch until his bow was aimed squarely at the corner of the trail. Carefully drawing the weapon to its full extent, he rested the taught bowstring against his cheek, sighting down the arrow as the noises of the approaching group grew more distinct.

It was only a moment before the first of the careworn knights pulled his horse into view.

Trystan didn't release. Instead he waited, following the man below with the head of his readied arrow, watching the rider gently urged his animal forward. Behind him, one by one, the rest of the group took the path bend at a snail's pace, the oxen huffing and snorting as they strained to pull the timber wagon over the uneven ground. It was a slow process, but Trystan forced himself to be patient, counting quickly. Then he double and triple-checked his numbers.

When he was satisfied that everything was right, he trailed his drawn bow over the group, eyeing the leading riders, then the two women and boy at the front of the cart.

Finally he settled on the last of the knights, bent over the neck of his horse and hugging the thin furs as tightly as he could over his dirty armor. Taking a breath, Trystan held it for the briefest fraction of a moment, praying to the Matron for a silent victory.

Gently he exhaled, and released.

The arrow cut downward through the cold air, catching the man squarely in the narrow space between his neck and shoulder. It tore through lungs and windpipe before the tip found its resting place in the thick arteries just above the heart. The knight died without a sound, as intended, and didn't even immediately fall from his horse. Instead the animal continued for another half-dozen plodding steps, unaware of the corpse now straddling its back until the body finally toppled out of the saddle and collapsed to the ground with a crash.

There was a shout. One of the other men had realized that something was wrong, but no panic set in amongst the group even as they halted, their attention diverted. All were unaware that anything had happened to their companion other than falling exhausted from his horse. Setting his bow aside quickly, Trystan allowed himself a small smile as he put a hand on his sabers to steady them. He watched, letting the men wheel their mounts around and trot back to their fallen companion.