Shield of Lies Chapter 3: The Betrayal
 

Ashtar arranged for Cerberus to lead Jericho to his quarters for the night, and left for his own room.

He heard a whisper of movement behind him.

Twisting faster than even a man his size should have been able to, he drew his rapier and swung behind him. There was the clash of metal upon metal as his sword met that of the shadowy figure behind him.

Under the shadow of the long hat, Ashtar's eyes narrowed. "Jaral, I thought I told you not to wait in my quarters." He growled.

The Half-Drow merely smiled. "I have retrieved the girl." he said bluntly.

Ashtar nodded his assent and followed Jaral as he opened a small secret door. They traveled through a small tunnel and emerged in a circular room, where Kiiri was bound.

The Southern Lord stroked her chin as he smiled beneath his mask. "A beautiful prize indeed." he said as she defiantly tilted her head away.

"Antarrak will surely love a prize such as this." He turned back to Jaral. "Good work, you have proven once again to be one of the most reliable of my servents-"

"I serve no one but myself." Jaral cut him off sharply. "Never forget that."

"Of course." Ashtar replied. "And you will recieve your payment soon. But first I have another job for you..."

Minutes later, he emerged once again into his quarters. Pulling on the familiar book within the bookcase, he stepped through another secret opening. He reached his hand over the Sphere that stood on a pedastle.

"Antarrak." he spoke into it. "Prince Able will set out this afternoon to try to convince the people to go to war. Arrangements have already been made to ensure he acomplishes his task. We have another problem though. The Avariel have formed a group of Elemental Users to use against us. Continue with the plans for the assault on Bastion, and I shall ensure that these new threats will be there for you to deal with."

He was about to turn away when he stopped. "Oh, and I have a little surprise for you as well. If you succeed, I have a little gift that should make an excellent sacrifice: Gwaethir's Niece..."

*************************************
Able, Prince of the Southern Empire stood at the center of the city of Min'rak; his arguments and ideas falling on deaf ears.

Min'rak was a large city, in fact it was the second-largest in the empire. Short but wide towers of stone littered the city, with smaller huts and stone buildings interspersed between. It was a very conservative city as well, which was making Able's mission that much harder.

"The Orcs will not just let us be!" he called out to the gathering crowd. "These are not humans we are talking about. They do not desire money, they do not desire our land, what they want is the destruction of everyone in the land!"

"D'en why 'avn't dey attacked yet me'lord?" said one sceptical peasant.

Able opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a series of loud screams within the back of the crowd.

As if in answer to the peasants question, a group of thirty hooded peasants pulled their cloaks off to reveal their faces: Orcs!

They plowed through the crowd, killing all in their path, and slowly making their way toward Able; A single Yellow eyed figure lead them...

Night eclipsed the Black Citadel of Arthon, where King Macharendir dined with his guest.

A vast display of food covered the long table, and the King ate heartily, oblivious to what was to come. Jericho sat in front of his plate starring into space; his meal untouched.

The King stopped his gorging to notice Jericho's blank stare. "Is everything all right Edgemaster?" He asked, a piece of chicken dropping from his lips.

"I feel something in the winds, my Lord. Something both familiar and terrible. I've been feeling it for some time now... and the feeling is stronger than ever."

Macharendir grinned. "Perhaps it is the call of an empty stomach?" he suggested.

Jericho's mind snapped back to the present. "Oh, of course. Where are my manners."

He had just begun to pick at his food when Lord Ashtar barged into the dinning hall.

"My King!" He called out in his gravely whisper. "I have dreadful news... news most foul!"

Macharendir dropped the chicken leg he was eating; a cold feeling entered his stomach. "What is this news."

"Your son, Prince Able was killed by Orc Assassins not three hours ago! All but one escaped alive, the one killed bore the tattoos of Antarrak's personal guard!"

The last bit of half-chewed food dropped helplessly from the Kings mouth.

"And matters are even worse than that sir... The enemy is at the gates; The Fortress of Bastion is under attack."

************************************************** *********

Captain Darin Jassu of the Southern Empire watched the plains stretch out in front of him for miles and miles. A roar suddenly echoed across the fields. The captain had been expecting it. An Orc assault. He looked down and saw one lone Orc with a piece of large, wooden machinery next to it. "Is that a ballista?" he yelled, and a gargantuan arrow pierced straight into his heart.

Orcs began pouring over the hillside towards the fortress, and Antarrak smiled. This was what he lived for. He patted the ballista and slapped his goblin captain on the back, roughly picking him up afterwards. They may have expected an attack, but they did not anticipate an attack from all directions. Once again they underestimate us.

His Orcs and Ogres attacked the gates vicously. Two Trolls heaved barrels full of explosive powder into the door, and it soon folded, collapsing inward. Antarrak nodded to the commander of his cavalry, who nodded back and gave a whooping battlecry, and a large force of horses stormed the city, slaughtering all in their path. "It is a great day for the Blood Pack." Antarrak muttered.

**************************************

Macharendir sat in stunned silence.
"I fear my blindness has caused the death of those close to me." he said, his face pale and his voice a weak whisper.

He looked pleadingly at Ashtar and Jericho. "My son! My son! the line is broken! What can be done?!"

"The fort will not last the night." Ashtar said gravely. "Our only hope is to launch a counter-attack from Alioth. War is upon us your Majesty, and there is no denying it now."

Macharendir looked up at Ashtar, a cold bitter fire in his eyes. "Burn them to the ground! Master Jericho!" He yelled as he wiped tears from his eyes. "You will set out in the morning, and tell Gwaethir that we shall help. No Orc will survive after we are through!"

OOC: nice...and I'm still laughing over the "Is that a ballista?" line. I mean, just in terms of funny things to say as you die...

IC: Jaral smiled coldly, back in the palace complex once more. He cleaned the blood from his black sword with a piece of cloth, the mask worn by all members of his profession lying by his side. Kiiri stared at him, a mixture of defiance, disgust, and a sort of sick fascination on her face. Seen from a certain angle, he looked almost exactly like Hakar, his eyes possessing the same fierce intensity despite their slight difference in color. Oddly, this same intensity, which made Hakar look like a hawk sometimes, gave this other half-drow a look of dangerous cruelty that Hakar lacked....not just the fierce stare of a predator, but the cold gaze of an utterly ruthless creature, one that would do anything to achieve his goals. Hakar, by contrast, seemed to possess more of an honest, yet penetrating look...one that seemed to see straight through those he looked upon. She was jerked from her thoughts as the half-drow ninja nearby smirked, and tossed the bloodstained rag into her lap.

She closed her eyes, and looked away, which made Jaral laugh, "What? It's only a bit of royal blood...the same stuff fills your veins, doesn't it, princess? Of course, it might not be fully legitimate, considering how your uncle came to power, but in some ways a coup of that sort might be the most legitimate method of all to gain power." he gestured again at the rag, directing her gaze to it as he continued, "Of course, you royals aren't exactly immortal...that weakling prince died as easily as any soft-bodied merchant or expendable orc." his smirk widened at her disgusted expression, and at the words he imagined would be coming from her mouth if she wasn't gagged.

Metrius woke up, got up, and stretched. It had been an uneventful night, as none of the escaped orcs had gotten any ideas during the night. Looking around, he saw that he was one of the first ones awake this morning. Going over to the sentry, he asked, "Looks like your shift went quietly, eh? I'm sorry, but I never really caught anyone's name. You are?"

OOC: Feel free to pick up on that, anyone. I figured it'd be a good way to start the chapter.

Hakar had taken the last shift, and he turned around to face the newcomer...looking down from the guard tower he had chosen to perch in, "Hakar, and yourself? Don't feel bad about it...the only ones I know here are Gabriel and Talos."

"My name is Metrius. Metrius Elmfist. I was kind of hoping that some of the orcs would try to come back. I could use the exercise, you know? Anyway, I think i'll go look for breakfast. Would you let the others know when they wake up?"

Jericho did not sleep soundly that night, but then again no one in the kingdom probably did either. Dispite the unfortunate events that took place earlier, it was not what was keeping him awake. The nagging feeling of unease came to him through the winds; bringing with it the coldest of fears and malicious intent. The feeling was stronger than ever before; and it seemed to be coming from this very building.

Jericho rose from the silken sheets of the bed and got dressed. He attatched his Katanas to his belt and snuck into the hall. Seeing no one around he began to chant silently to himself, letting his power flow and his mind stretch through the air. He began to walk slowly, his eyes closed as he tracked the feeling...

And stopped a few minutes later when he walked into the wall. Composing himself once again, he took note of his location: he found himself outside of Ashtar's quarters. Pressing his ear to the door, he focused once again, mentaly searching the room...

No displacement caused by a body. No Heat caused by a man. The room was empty.

He knelt down to the keyhole and blew softly into it, modifying his breath through the wind to push on the specific levers within the lock, causing it to click open. Jericho stepped through the door and looked at the room. Everything seemed normal, just a bed, a desk, a few bookshelves, and a wall devoid of all decoration.

This caused suspicion to nagged at him. The rest of the room was well decorated, but this wall was completely spartan. He stretched out once more and felt what was wrong: the wall was hollow.

He passed his hand along the stones, pressing lightly until he hit the one stone he was looking for. A small opening appeared in the wall, and Jericho stepped through into a tunnel. He traveled a few meters as silently as possible, hearing the gloating voice... it sounded so familiar...

As he peaked through the entrance, he saw what was causing the desturbance. Kiiri was bound before Hakar... no. not Hakar, but a half-drow that looked almost exactly like him.

Jaral looked to the entrance in surprise, and was greeted with hurricane force winds which blew him straight into the wall, pinning him there.

Jericho walked through the entrance, chanting slowly to keep the attack going. Drawing his katana's he slit Kiiri's bonds. "Run child!" he stopped to say, causing Jaral to drop back to the floor...

OOC: Thanks for the comment on that line.

Talos hardly slept. He couldn't. He instead sat on the grass and meditated, clearing his mind of all pity, remorse, or second thoughts, as all Drow did before a battle. His eyes snapped pen and the blade of his two-bladed sword stopped a millimeter from Laine's throat. "Touch me and I will break your arm," Talos said in the cold, merciless voice Drow warriors typically had.

Laine suddenly materialized out of the gloom behind Talos, dressed only in the leather pants he usually wore.
"Vel'bol, vel'bol? Vel'bol's xusst? Usstan nym'uerus dos ul'nusst folbol bauth fol nesst named Jericho, lu' usstan ssiggrin dos sounded ezsakil, ji Usstan doerrus phor."
Laine knew that he would be hard to understand, but that was the first language that had come out.

Jerick was sitting on a rock near the group. He was tossing a small fireball between his hands because he was bored and couldn't sleep too well. He was having nightmares about the incident with his father and him seven years ago. The horrible memory always haunted him in recurring nightmares and he could never sleep sometimes.

"Dammit kid, just speak in a language we all understand. I don't care if it's only concerning you and Mr. Shadow over here, but it's not like the rest of us are gonna care too much." The blacksmith was definitely in a bad mood. The memories were just as vivid as ever and he was having a hard time getting over them at the moment. After he was done talking, he formed another fireball and resumed his tossing from hand to hand.