Return of the Kolat

[The Kolat]

It had been a long ride. One of those filled with thoughts and doubts mixed with lingering confusion over the true nature of the motives at hand. Still, the return within the boundaries of Myrken Wood felt like a fresh breath that tasted of…home. The Kolat had never put the word into thought regarding this place, but that’s what it was and there was no changing the truth.

Years had passed since he had stepped foot in these provinces and longer still since he had made this land his place of daily resting. He could not even be sure that this would change now. Whether he was a sojourner of the night and merely passing time before traveling the long road elsewhere or if Myrken Wood would harbor him for the rest of his days was something he didn’t ponder. Yet, despite the aperture of time it all felt the same as the day Aidan, his now aging steed, clopped across Myrken Wood’s borders into the Silver Forest on the trail for answers. Answers he thought lie in wait like some kind of solid stone along the path he rode but were in truth only smoke meant to sting the eyes. The Kolat were all dead and he was alone. That was the only answer he found and even that truth had only served to vindicate his fears. Now it was answers that were driving him home, back to that elusive stronghold smothered in the forest like a birds nest in a spring oak. At least that is all he is telling himself. The other reasons had been too painful and all too human for him to admit. He had not seen her grave since the funeral and perhaps that was the most poignant purpose to this whole mess of returning.

It was, of course, the curse that had started the whole thing along—a curse which had run its course long ago. It had begun by causing his body and mind to transform between two personalities—one male, one female—both somehow pieces of a person he can only guess was something like who he is now.

He could still remember the night of the immense migraine that cracked through his skull like a gale of thunder and how he passed out for what felt like days only to awaken facing the full blunt of the affliction in its final form. She was lying next to him, and the horror upon that dark ebony gaze that was his own encapsulated in a visage much prettier was an image that struck in his mind as vividly then as now. She was He and He was She but both had now been separated physically and permanently and though he had retained his original body and mind he had no memory of ever passing a day in her form. She had remembered everything from the first change to the last and final. The next he saw her, weeks later, she was in a pool of her own blood after taking a dagger of the clan and ending her own life.

Sorrow was a burden he carried time and again through his life and this new assault of the senses was no different. He had not shed a tear for her at the time, but now, in this moment, he felt overwhelmed with the memory. Aidan’s reins were hauled up gently as he sat on the saddle, woozy with alien feelings and emotions pouring over him like a cascading waterfall. A hand lifted and covered his brow and forehead as the tears drained slowly down his taut cheeks. He shakes, quivers with the memory of what was his own funeral. He remembers how he had stood there looking on over the dirt mound with a callous heart, speaking those few somber words of departure before turning his back and mounting his awaiting steed to take up the trail out of Myrken Wood that same day. Enough was enough. His hand gripped the reigns tighter and the pools of bleak midnight that were his eyes set themselves before him from beneath the heavy cowl of his ashen midnight cloak as he shifted Aidan into a trot. It was time to move forward. There were answers somewhere down this North Passage.

[The Kolat]

He rested during the day and moved at night. It was his way. Aidan was specially trained for this but that did not mean traveling on horseback at night was without perils and so they both kept a keen eye while riding beneath the midnight moon. Despite that, the Kolat delved a hand within the confines of his cloak for a taste of the warm amber brandy that was contained in a small silver flask whose supplies he had procured in Foggy Bottom the previous eve. It was a bad habit he had taken up after the discovery of the disappearance of his kin. He had not drank a drop before, but that was more than ten years ago and now he couldn’t put the stuff down. Not that he needed much, a swallow and the small metal vessel was replaced. He rode on.

Thoughts were vagabonds on this ride, and they assaulted and faded with relentless hit and run tactics each leg of the long journey. Ahead lay Myrkentown, the Dagger, and the gods only knew which of the faces he remembers still kicking up dust there. All those faces had him thinking of his name, and what a lie it had been. Rhuarc—that’s what he told people, and it was not like the rest of the time when he had made up names for purposes of creating and maintaining cover in the past. This was a name he wore as his own. Spoken so many times and taken to heart in such a way that at times he really believed it was. In truth he owned no name. The clan of the Kolat carried none. He was a title and a four digit number, nothing more. Kolat Assassin #3381. Not even the number was unique. Countless Kolat had worn it throughout the generations, but he was the last. Rhuarc—he had found the name in a book he had read.

Growing up Kolat was never easy, but he had never known how hard it was until they were gone and he had naught but to go out into the world and begin to try to live life the way of the outsiders. #3381 had never had parents. It was against the Kolat way. At birth they were taken from the mother without allowing her so much as casting her gaze over the newborn baby. There were quotas. Too many girls, too many boys, too small, too big, too anything other than ideal and they were disposed of without the mercy and remorse he had grown to learn later in life. He had tutors, masters, and mistresses. Those were his parents. It was all he knew. He could still picture the cell he grew up in when not training and studying extensively. It was an oddly warm feeling. He could not understand how he could feel this emotion of…fondness and comfort in relation to it, but there it was. It was an eight by eight cell with naught but a grate in the middle and a pad in the corner with a candle to see by. He couldn’t count the hours he spent meditating, exercising, and reading there. So many meaningless books. He had never known the pleasures of the infinitesimal depths that great fiction could bring until he had passed initiation and broke the rules while on assignments.

Aidan’s whinny broke the nights calm and the Kolat realized that both he and the steed were hungry. He pulled off the path and dismounted with an efficient grace to lead his stallion a little further off into the forest before harnessing the feed to Aidan’s muzzle and pulling some dried meat from one of his packs for himself second. His ears were alert to the sound of the night around him. Owls, the ever present cries of the wolves howling in the distance, small creatures of the night bumbling around in the underbrush, and the insects buzzing and clicking in the summer eve were all part of the nightly repertoire of sounds assaulting his sences. How long now before day break? He hoped to make Myrkentown by dawn but he would have to pick up the pace if that was to become a reality.

[The Kolat]

He could also hear them in the background, and Aidan could too. A little peculiar flick of the stallions ear told him that much. Around six to eight men closing in like a snare in all directions. The Kolat had thought they would have waited until nearer dawn, when they could see better. They had been following him since around dusk. #3381 knew this because not once had he detected torchlight or senced their presence nearby and it was a dark night. They had done this before, maybe they were even real pro's, but he doubted it. Still, had they waited until the light shone a little better through this murky night the outcome would have been no different. He took his last bite of the dried meat, pulled Aidan's feed harness off to the sound of a horses grumble and the sway of his head that told the Kolat something was amiss, and waited.

Three charged at once, from the three possible directions; A stave and a halberd meant to run him through and an axe meant to cleave. The Kolat's blade was free before the first mans battle cry ushered up his throat. He spun to the right, pivoting off the toes of his right foot as the blade, which was a cross between a katana and a long sword, clashed and parried the halberd, letting the mans momentum carry him forward as the Kolat brought himself up alongside the attacker and yet against Aidan's broadside with a swivel of his hips. His blade reversed in the flicker of an instant and drew back with mercurial speed to take the mans head clean off, leaving the body to stumble and fall before the wielder of the axe.

His free hand smacked Aidan's rump hard enough to make the steed launch into a sprint and cause the man bearing the stave to run through the stomach of his own comrade who stood in surprise, having been inches away from doing what the Kolat had done for him by sending the stallion running.

#3381 delved into the second rank like a ghost amongst shadows, dispatching two men with the sound of steel flashing through air and flesh. There were no screams, just the gurgles of quickly dying men. There was sorrow in his heart. Sorrow with each kill. It was likely these men had homes and families they were trying to feed, and every death was the potential loss of a father. Beyond that, to look at his face was to look upon the face of a stone. His gaze--deep, black, and cold--was distant while yet more in the moment--the here and now--than these men had ever been in their entire lives. He was vapor amongst them, a mist of death that seeped everywhere at once, the illusion created by the alltogether strange properties of his cloak which transformed him into the image of a wavering shadow as he moved, a shadow in the black of night.

"If you wish to live, run now." It was the first noise he had made beyond the swirl of leaves cascaded lightly into the air that marked his passing. He said this after cutting down their leader, who had stood by 15 paces away and now lie at the end of a trail of dead. The Kolat thought he had made sure this band would never attack again. He had no way of knowing this one just one small segment of a much larger group of raiders, but he did notice the crescent moon tattoo upon one of his victims shoulders as he sliced him free of his life.

They ran, ran like the howling of the wind. With the snap of his arm and the flick of his wrist the blade was cleaned of the once life-bearing liquid that covered it from point to tsuba and was sheathed. #3381 walked back to pick up the package of dried meat and chewed off another bite. He had killed more men than their number the day of his initiation--and they had been elite knights. It was all he could hope for that the trusty steed didnt trip over anything in his flight. He whistled the return call. It was time to make way into town.

[Carnath-Emory]

Their passage into the town -- or, for that matter, the province itself -- is not entirely impeded. Surely they must have expected something, for small Myrken Wood is not without a certain renown all its own, these days. Bad Things befall those who cross that border, it's said here and there; Curses are sewn into the very earth, it's murmured. And, almost as frequently: There's no better place to make some coin and a name for yourself...if you've got the steadfast courage for it.

They may, in time, come to understand the reasoning behind that.

But for now there is simply this single obstacle: The Wall.Construction had begun on this monstrosity a half-year ago, and construction had been swift: good co-ordination and an excess of manpower had seen to that. While the Wall remains a work-in-progress (Myrken Wood has lavoured for several months now under the assumption that the structure will never be fully completed to the Councilor's satisfaction), it yet remains a formidable barrier.

Stone is piled upon stone, solid rock struck from ground miles from here, and imported from several of Myrken Wood's neighbours; the barrier stretches the length of Myrken's borders, a little over six feet in height and dotted with watchtowers. Torches burn, at those lookouts, each equipped with a bell to raise alarms -- and as the Kolat make their approach, they may spy the men who man those watchtowers. In these dangerous times, what with white-robed cultists and the spread of arid famine, there is a heavy presence guarding those borders, heavy and vigilant.

After all, this is Myrken's first line of defense.

[The Kolat]

There was but one Kolat on this ride. That was not strange for his particular caste. The assassins almost always worked alone. What had been continually eating at him was the fact that no other Kolat appeared to exist at all. #3381 had not known they were dead until he had his talk with Count Forsbear in the far north across the Sea of Amasynia, one of the precious few contacts whom actually knew the Kolat had ever existed beyond a rumored myth amongst the noble elite. He was also one of the last remaining to receive a visit from #3381.

Count Forsbear was a portly man in his late 50’s with whitening hair, a too large nose, and beady little eyes that seldom missed seeing the true picture of what was before them. They had been filled with first surprise, and then fear at the sight of the Kolat who had appeared mysteriously within the Count’s study one grey eve.

After the reassurance of a gesture of a hand from the dark one cloaked in shadows, the Count, always quick with his words, spoke. “I thought you were all dead. Your one of them, aren’t you? Yes, that cloak, I’ve only seen one other like it, and the way it makes you look when you stand amongst the shadows, how they seem to glue to you…there can be no doubt. You are one of –them-.â€

[The Kolat]

The Kolat’s eyes opened hours later when the first hints of dusk were sweeping across the land in wide swaths of shadow and the mighty half-eye that was the sun dared to take its final plunge beneath the horizon’s veil. He had not meant for the trance to last this long. Had he fallen asleep during that time? He could not tell. It was often that way with the hypnotic-like state he had induced, but he knew it was the shadow that now creeped across his face that brought him out of it, as any other disturbance in the natural order of things would have.

He stood with one smooth motion from his cross-legged position, sword in hand, and took up his waterskin near the old church’s door to rinse his mouth and parched throat before wiping the sheen of sweat from his face with a towel from his side-satchel. He then donned the ashen midnight cloak that rode his form like a second skin and secured his blade at his side before taking up his saddle and packs to reload Aidan and get underway without wasting any more time.

It was getting dark fast but the heat barely seemed to abate with the darkening of the sky. It did not bother him. His mind and body had been conditioned against extreme elements against his will long ago and the heat was no different from the desert lands of the Sammala, only there you could freeze in the night. Still, he had never known it to be like this in Myrken Wood; perhaps someone in town or the Dagger knew the reasons why but until then he simply shut it out of his mind.

He kept Aidan at a solid pace. No reason to hurry, but no reason to drag feet either. He had to admit he was eager to be off this beaten path. His thoughts wandered to his child. It had been years since he had seen Sahara and he often wondered if he would ever see her again. Her mother, Amaris, had disappeared and so had he but she had taken the child and he had not seen her since she began to walk. She would be at least five now and the thought made his heart ache with longing. Still, if Sahara had to be with only one of them, he was at least partial towards Amaris; the girl needed a mother and he had serious doubts about his abilities as a father. But that did not mean he was without the desire to see her little green eyes with every beat of his heart. He let the thought of her go. Any more and he would be wiping tears and he had done enough of that over the years. Fate would decide if their lives would ever intertwine, and he had to accept that maybe it was for the best if they never did. He knew it was true for Amaris. He had loved her more than he had ever loved a woman, though considering the circumstances of all they had been through, if it weren’t for Sahara, he would wish he had never seen her face. She had caused too much pain. The cheating, the lies, the way she repented of it all so easily. Yes, he often wishes he had never met her all those years ago in the den of the Third Arm, but then he would think of Sahara…

The moon shone brightly now, half-full, its pallor cast the faintest of glows that further disseminated itself amongst the lofty tree branches of the forest, leaving the road and the assassin cast in darkness and filled with the ominous nuances of solitude. Myrken Town was but a couple hours ride away and the Kolat could feel himself beginning to be filled with the subtle pleasure of a journey fulfilled. Thoughts of Amaris and Sahara, always tainted with feelings wrought with negative connotations, had been left in the dust kicked up by the plodding of Aidan’s hooves and gave way to wonderment over how his old friends would receive him. And Whether those old friends were even still there in Myrken Town and the Dagger at all. It had indeed been long since he stepped through those tavern doors and yet he could picture it all in his mind so easily. He missed the well-worn and faded barthe most. How many times had he lounged there? And the brandy, gods the brandy. He did not know where they attained the dark liquor but he would have to find out. In all his travels he had found none that tasted quite the same.

As he rode, a scream made itself heard through the cacophony of the night. A woman’s scream that echoed through the forest down the path and to his right that rolled on an pitched itself ever higher as the Kolat quickened the pace of his steed. Soon he could make out that she was crying for help. Obsidian gaze struck out through the black forest for any sign of light but found none. He dismounted when the pitch of the wailing girl became highest and set out into the forest, following the sound of her voice. Something was strange about this, so he refrained from calling back until he could see more of the situation. He moved through the wood silently, cinching his cloak tight to keep form catching on snags, all of his senses fired up though the wail of her screaming blocked out the rest of the sounds of the night. Finally, he saw her, she was on the forest floor, her leg caught and twisted in a tangle of branches.

“Hold still. And stop screaming now. I’m here to help.â€

[The Kolat]

(To be continued in "The Bloodletter's" thread for the time being)