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.
Then, he stepped over the edge of the cliff, muttering his incantation as he dropped.
The spell carried him silently to the snowy ground some fifty feet below. His dark form went unnoticed, slipping through the shadows of the cliffs and stones, the entire party's focus drawn to the dead man. Even the women and child who'd been driving the cart were turned in their seats to peer back around the leather canopy walls. Drawing a slender black blade from his boot, Trystan darted forward.
All three died in a shared moment, throats slit in quick ceremonial succession.
The Matron would be satisfied with that.
Abruptly, a yell shattered the mountain calm. The arrow had been found. The murder discovered.
The game was up.
Stowing his dagger, Trystan unsheathed both sabers and dropped off the cart into plain view. More shouts picked up. All five of the remaining men were gathered around the body, three on the ground and two hovering over the scene still seated atop their horses. Most of them whirled about at their discovery, perhaps intent on warning the others in the cart.
Those who had turned, though, froze.
Trystan, bedecked in the black and burgundy clothes of the Hand, strode confidently towards them with both weapons drawn at his sides. To a one the blood drained from each of the knights' faces, leaving them pale even as they reached to tug the longswords free from their hips.
And then the back flaps of the wagon shifted, and a thin young woman with her dirty
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.
Then, he stepped over the edge of the cliff, muttering his incantation as he dropped.
The spell carried him silently to the snowy ground some fifty feet below. His dark form went unnoticed, slipping through the shadows of the cliffs and stones, the entire party's focus drawn to the dead man. Even the women and child who'd been driving the cart were turned in their seats to peer back around the leather canopy walls. Drawing a slender black blade from his boot, Trystan darted forward.
All three died in a shared moment, throats slit in quick ceremonial succession.
The Matron would be satisfied with that.
Abruptly, a yell shattered the mountain calm. The arrow had been found. The murder discovered.
The game was up.
Stowing his dagger, Trystan unsheathed both sabers and dropped off the cart into plain view. More shouts picked up. All five of the remaining men were gathered around the body, three on the ground and two hovering over the scene still seated atop their horses. Most of them whirled about at their discovery, perhaps intent on warning the others in the cart.
Those who had turned, though, froze.
Trystan, bedecked in the black and burgundy clothes of the Hand, strode confidently towards them with both weapons drawn at his sides. To a one the blood drained from each of the knights' faces, leaving them pale even as they reached to tug the longswords free from their hips.
And then the back flaps of the wagon shifted, and a thin young woman with her dirty
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