OlimarFan
Smash Ace
Before I start, I would like to acknowledge several sources that I have used to write this story.
Upon finishing reading Jonathon Stroud’s Bartimaeus Trilogy, I enjoyed the trilogy so much that I felt compelled to write a short story. Thus, the fictional world and several characters are loosely based on the Bartimaeus Trilogy. Inspiration about the rudiments of magic was drawn from Christopher Paolini’s Inheritance Series and Isobelle Carmody’s Obernewtyn Chronicles. Finally, I would also like to acknowledge Assassin’s Creed, for giving me the idea of the setting (although it was ultimately different).
Hope you enjoy the read!
The assassins dropped into the palace grounds at midnight, four fleet shadows dark against the wall. Behind them lay the bodies of three guards, their sightless eyes gazing into the starry night.
The fall was high and the ground was hard, but they had made no more sound than the pattering of rain. They remained unnaturally quiet, low and motionless, listening for a sound. Then away they stole, through the dark gardens and among the trees, towards the quarters where the girl lay at rest.
They went on pointed toe-tips, leaving no trace in the long wet grass. Wind howled through the night, flittering about their robes, fragmenting their shadows into wisps and traces.
No sight, no noise.
Above the palace a cold moon shone down, slathering silver across roofs and courtyards.
Away beyond the wall, the great city murmured in the night: Lamplight shone in the windows and the signal fire in the harbour tower cast a faint redness in the sky. Distant laughter echoed like a receding ghost.
At the northern post, the guards were desultorily pacing back and forth. In the pillared halls, the servants slept on beds of rushes. The palace gate was locked by triple bolts, each thicker than a man, but few eyes were turned to the eastern gardens, where death came calling, secret as a scorpion, on four pairs of silent feet.
The girl’s room was on the first floor. Four black shadows hunched beneath the wall. The leader made a signal. One by one, they pressed against the stonework; one by one they began to climb. Up they went, like bats on their cave walls. Moonlight glinted on their silver knives suspended in their mouths. The first of the assassins reached the window-ledge: he sprang tiger-like upon it and his expressionless eyes peered into the chamber. The girl lay sleeping, motionless as one already dead. Her long, dark hair fell loose among the cushions, her pale lamb’s throat shone against the silks.
The assassin took the dagger from his teeth. With quiet deliberation, he surveyed the room, gauging its extent and the possibility of traps in the room. It was a large shadowy chamber, lavish with ostentatious decorations and intricate artefacts. Four marble white pillars supported the ceiling. A furbished chandelier hung in the centre of the chamber. A regal chest, filled with neatly folded clothes, sat open in front of her bed. He saw a golden chair draped with an expensive looking cloak, slippers lying on the floor, and an onyx basin filled with water. A faint trace of perfume hung on the air.
The assassin reversed the dagger, holding it between finger and thumb by its shining, gleaming tip. It quivered once, twice. Every knife he’d thrown had found its throat.
His wrist flickered; the silver arc of the knife’s flight cut the air in two. It landed with a soft noise, hilt-deep in the cushion, an inch from the girl’s neck.
The assassin paused in doubt, still crouched upon the sill. The throw had been exact, precisely calibrated…Yet it had missed. Had the girl moved a crucial fraction? Impossible-she was fast asleep. He frowned.
He pulled a second dagger. Another careful aim. A flick of the wrist, a momentary arc -
With a soft noise, the second dagger landed in the cushion, an inch to the other side of the princess’ neck. As she slept, perhaps she dreamed – a faint smile twitched ghost-like at the corners of her mouth. Behind the black gauze of the scarf that masked his face, the assassin frowned. From within his tunic he drew a strip of fabric, twined tightly into a cord. In the eight years since he was ordered his first kill, his garrotte had never failed him. With leopard’s stealth, he slid from the sill and stole across the moonlit floor.
In her bed the girl murmured something. She stirred beneath her sheet. The assassin froze rigid, a black statue in the centre of the room.
Behind, at the window, two of his companions insinuated themselves upon the sill. They waited, watching. The girl gave a little sigh and fell silent once more. She lay face up amongst the cushions, a dagger’s hilt protruding on either side. Her hand remained outstretched on the bed sheets.
Seven seconds passed. The assassin moved again. He stole round behind the cushions, looping the ends of the cord around his hands. Now he was directly above the child; he bent swiftly, set the cord upon the sleeping throat -
The girl’s eyes opened. She rolled across the bed; a bolt of green energy lanced from her palm, smashing the assassin against the wall. Emerald fire played across his body. He convulsed once, twice….and was still. With a bound, she stood free, facing the window. Her sword gleamed with delight as blood spurted along its length.
Upon the sill, silhouetted against the moon, two assassins hissed like rock-snakes. Their comrade’s death was an affront to their collective pride. With ruthless precision, they threw a barrage of poison-tipped daggers, directed at the girl’s heart.
The girl somersaulted with unnatural dexterity; dodging the projectiles with ease.
The two assassins leaped into the room. Each now held a long, pale sword in his hand – A weapon thin enough to slip between a pair of ribs, yet stout enough to hack through the hardest armour. They spun them in complex flourishes and lunged at the girl; one from the right, one from the left.
The girl settled into a low crouch, like a snake preparing to strike. She parried both of the swords at once – the metal clang resounding through the chamber.
She parried once...twice...thrice…Each blow was driving her back to the wall. The assassins continued their offensive, savouring the taint of her fear.
The girl riposted, and then disengaged with a flourish, dancing away. She uttered a command – A sudden gust of wind rushed from her hand, lifting the assassins off their feet and sending them crashing to the marble pillars. Their necks snapped like reed stalks.
Silence. The windowsill hung vacant, nothing in it but the bright round moon. The night was still.
But an ominous atmosphere of uncertainty and danger blanketed the room, as if she sensed a presence in the room. She quickly scanned the seven planes, searching for any magical traces, but she found none. Only then did she realize that the assassins were human.
Her bare feet soundless on the floor, she carefully neared the window. Slowly, slowly, closer, closer…she saw the shrouded mass of gardens, the trees and the sentry towers.
Closer…Her hands rested on the stone itself. She leaned forwards to look down into the courtyard at the bottom of the wall. Her thin white throat extended out…
Nothing. The courtyard was empty. The wall below was sheer and smooth, its stones picked out by moonlight. She listened to the quietness. She tapped her fingers on the sill, shrugged and turned inside.
Then the fourth assassin, clinging like a thin black spider to the stones above the window, dropped down behind her. His feet made the noise of feathers falling into snow. The girl heard; she twisted and raised her sword. A knife flashed, desperately deflected at the last second. She sprung back, opening her mouth to cast a spell– but iron fingers grappled at her neck; her legs were knocked from under her. She fell, landing hard upon the floor. The assassin’s weight was on her. Her hands were pinioned, her sword lying just out of her reach. She could not move.
The knife descended. This time it met its mark.
It was done. Crouching above the body of the girl, the assassin allowed himself a quick breath – his first since his colleagues had met their ends. He sat back on his sinewy haunches, loosed his grip upon the knife and let the girl’s wrist drop free.
He inclined his head in the traditional mark of respect to the fallen victim.
At which point the girl rose to her feet and plucked the knife from the centre of her chest. The assassin blinked in consternation. She giggled.
“Not silver, you see,” the girl said, playfully waving the dagger. “Mistake.” She raised her hand.
A fireball radiated from her palm, smiting the assassin and engulfing him in a pillar of flame.
An explosion in the room. Smoke billowed through the window.
Satisfied, she dusted herself and retrieved her sword. It wasn’t long before the calm night was disturbed by commotion in the courtyard and the sound of rapid footsteps approaching her chamber. She casually blew some flakes of ash from her arms, as if she was trying to make herself presentable.
The footsteps had approached the door to her chamber. It was soundly was blasted off its hinges by a glowing force-palm, and a blue jackal-like creature entered the chamber. He stood over the bodies of the assassins on the floor, breathing hard. Then it stared at the charred remains of a blackened-figure. The creature wished its blue tail and lowered its gaze at the girl. She brushed the dark hair from her eyes and smiled.
“Hello, Lucario,” said Kitty.
Upon finishing reading Jonathon Stroud’s Bartimaeus Trilogy, I enjoyed the trilogy so much that I felt compelled to write a short story. Thus, the fictional world and several characters are loosely based on the Bartimaeus Trilogy. Inspiration about the rudiments of magic was drawn from Christopher Paolini’s Inheritance Series and Isobelle Carmody’s Obernewtyn Chronicles. Finally, I would also like to acknowledge Assassin’s Creed, for giving me the idea of the setting (although it was ultimately different).
Hope you enjoy the read!
Kitty's Story
London, 1314 AD
London, 1314 AD
The assassins dropped into the palace grounds at midnight, four fleet shadows dark against the wall. Behind them lay the bodies of three guards, their sightless eyes gazing into the starry night.
The fall was high and the ground was hard, but they had made no more sound than the pattering of rain. They remained unnaturally quiet, low and motionless, listening for a sound. Then away they stole, through the dark gardens and among the trees, towards the quarters where the girl lay at rest.
They went on pointed toe-tips, leaving no trace in the long wet grass. Wind howled through the night, flittering about their robes, fragmenting their shadows into wisps and traces.
No sight, no noise.
Above the palace a cold moon shone down, slathering silver across roofs and courtyards.
Away beyond the wall, the great city murmured in the night: Lamplight shone in the windows and the signal fire in the harbour tower cast a faint redness in the sky. Distant laughter echoed like a receding ghost.
At the northern post, the guards were desultorily pacing back and forth. In the pillared halls, the servants slept on beds of rushes. The palace gate was locked by triple bolts, each thicker than a man, but few eyes were turned to the eastern gardens, where death came calling, secret as a scorpion, on four pairs of silent feet.
The girl’s room was on the first floor. Four black shadows hunched beneath the wall. The leader made a signal. One by one, they pressed against the stonework; one by one they began to climb. Up they went, like bats on their cave walls. Moonlight glinted on their silver knives suspended in their mouths. The first of the assassins reached the window-ledge: he sprang tiger-like upon it and his expressionless eyes peered into the chamber. The girl lay sleeping, motionless as one already dead. Her long, dark hair fell loose among the cushions, her pale lamb’s throat shone against the silks.
The assassin took the dagger from his teeth. With quiet deliberation, he surveyed the room, gauging its extent and the possibility of traps in the room. It was a large shadowy chamber, lavish with ostentatious decorations and intricate artefacts. Four marble white pillars supported the ceiling. A furbished chandelier hung in the centre of the chamber. A regal chest, filled with neatly folded clothes, sat open in front of her bed. He saw a golden chair draped with an expensive looking cloak, slippers lying on the floor, and an onyx basin filled with water. A faint trace of perfume hung on the air.
The assassin reversed the dagger, holding it between finger and thumb by its shining, gleaming tip. It quivered once, twice. Every knife he’d thrown had found its throat.
His wrist flickered; the silver arc of the knife’s flight cut the air in two. It landed with a soft noise, hilt-deep in the cushion, an inch from the girl’s neck.
The assassin paused in doubt, still crouched upon the sill. The throw had been exact, precisely calibrated…Yet it had missed. Had the girl moved a crucial fraction? Impossible-she was fast asleep. He frowned.
He pulled a second dagger. Another careful aim. A flick of the wrist, a momentary arc -
With a soft noise, the second dagger landed in the cushion, an inch to the other side of the princess’ neck. As she slept, perhaps she dreamed – a faint smile twitched ghost-like at the corners of her mouth. Behind the black gauze of the scarf that masked his face, the assassin frowned. From within his tunic he drew a strip of fabric, twined tightly into a cord. In the eight years since he was ordered his first kill, his garrotte had never failed him. With leopard’s stealth, he slid from the sill and stole across the moonlit floor.
In her bed the girl murmured something. She stirred beneath her sheet. The assassin froze rigid, a black statue in the centre of the room.
Behind, at the window, two of his companions insinuated themselves upon the sill. They waited, watching. The girl gave a little sigh and fell silent once more. She lay face up amongst the cushions, a dagger’s hilt protruding on either side. Her hand remained outstretched on the bed sheets.
Seven seconds passed. The assassin moved again. He stole round behind the cushions, looping the ends of the cord around his hands. Now he was directly above the child; he bent swiftly, set the cord upon the sleeping throat -
The girl’s eyes opened. She rolled across the bed; a bolt of green energy lanced from her palm, smashing the assassin against the wall. Emerald fire played across his body. He convulsed once, twice….and was still. With a bound, she stood free, facing the window. Her sword gleamed with delight as blood spurted along its length.
Upon the sill, silhouetted against the moon, two assassins hissed like rock-snakes. Their comrade’s death was an affront to their collective pride. With ruthless precision, they threw a barrage of poison-tipped daggers, directed at the girl’s heart.
The girl somersaulted with unnatural dexterity; dodging the projectiles with ease.
The two assassins leaped into the room. Each now held a long, pale sword in his hand – A weapon thin enough to slip between a pair of ribs, yet stout enough to hack through the hardest armour. They spun them in complex flourishes and lunged at the girl; one from the right, one from the left.
The girl settled into a low crouch, like a snake preparing to strike. She parried both of the swords at once – the metal clang resounding through the chamber.
She parried once...twice...thrice…Each blow was driving her back to the wall. The assassins continued their offensive, savouring the taint of her fear.
The girl riposted, and then disengaged with a flourish, dancing away. She uttered a command – A sudden gust of wind rushed from her hand, lifting the assassins off their feet and sending them crashing to the marble pillars. Their necks snapped like reed stalks.
Silence. The windowsill hung vacant, nothing in it but the bright round moon. The night was still.
But an ominous atmosphere of uncertainty and danger blanketed the room, as if she sensed a presence in the room. She quickly scanned the seven planes, searching for any magical traces, but she found none. Only then did she realize that the assassins were human.
Her bare feet soundless on the floor, she carefully neared the window. Slowly, slowly, closer, closer…she saw the shrouded mass of gardens, the trees and the sentry towers.
Closer…Her hands rested on the stone itself. She leaned forwards to look down into the courtyard at the bottom of the wall. Her thin white throat extended out…
Nothing. The courtyard was empty. The wall below was sheer and smooth, its stones picked out by moonlight. She listened to the quietness. She tapped her fingers on the sill, shrugged and turned inside.
Then the fourth assassin, clinging like a thin black spider to the stones above the window, dropped down behind her. His feet made the noise of feathers falling into snow. The girl heard; she twisted and raised her sword. A knife flashed, desperately deflected at the last second. She sprung back, opening her mouth to cast a spell– but iron fingers grappled at her neck; her legs were knocked from under her. She fell, landing hard upon the floor. The assassin’s weight was on her. Her hands were pinioned, her sword lying just out of her reach. She could not move.
The knife descended. This time it met its mark.
It was done. Crouching above the body of the girl, the assassin allowed himself a quick breath – his first since his colleagues had met their ends. He sat back on his sinewy haunches, loosed his grip upon the knife and let the girl’s wrist drop free.
He inclined his head in the traditional mark of respect to the fallen victim.
At which point the girl rose to her feet and plucked the knife from the centre of her chest. The assassin blinked in consternation. She giggled.
“Not silver, you see,” the girl said, playfully waving the dagger. “Mistake.” She raised her hand.
A fireball radiated from her palm, smiting the assassin and engulfing him in a pillar of flame.
An explosion in the room. Smoke billowed through the window.
Satisfied, she dusted herself and retrieved her sword. It wasn’t long before the calm night was disturbed by commotion in the courtyard and the sound of rapid footsteps approaching her chamber. She casually blew some flakes of ash from her arms, as if she was trying to make herself presentable.
The footsteps had approached the door to her chamber. It was soundly was blasted off its hinges by a glowing force-palm, and a blue jackal-like creature entered the chamber. He stood over the bodies of the assassins on the floor, breathing hard. Then it stared at the charred remains of a blackened-figure. The creature wished its blue tail and lowered its gaze at the girl. She brushed the dark hair from her eyes and smiled.
“Hello, Lucario,” said Kitty.
To be Continued…
