Of all the places Batara hoped to be in, the City of Deran was the least of them all. The rowdy eateries bombarded his ears with a barrage of laughter and quips as he made his way to the Chancellor’s building. He hated it here. Hated the way they chortled and guffawed. Hated the sound of them gobbling chunks of lamb shanks, and gulping tankards of ale. How ignorant could they be? And how could he be forced to be in a peaceful place when there was a war going on at home?
“It’s a contract. It’s part of the job.” Batara recalled his master’s command. He had delivered it with a shrug and a reed in his mouth.
“You summoned your ravens to fight for Nefyempat. How can you send me away when the rest of us are to fight a deadly battle? Am I not your raven?” It was the loudest Batara had ever raised his voice. He was supposed to be the quiet one. The person who always adhered to his master’s command. But nods and grunts would not help him reason with his master. He would not have Kilgore send him away to the Western Lands.
“Each of us serves a purpose,” his master—Kilgore—said. “I need you to be in Deran to do what you do best.”
“You’re implying I cannot fight Verdanii knights? Have I not proven myself in Skáratfort?” Batara pressed. How could he leave his brothers and sisters alone to fight in the valley of Nefyam? He would not leave. Not when it could be the last time the Valravns stood together.
“This job in Deran comes from a very important person. Jhames Heene, the Chancellor. She was asking for me personally, but alas I’m unavailable. You’re the best I’ve got. Don’t disappoint me.” Kilgore placed his hand on Batara’s shoulder. “And don’t worry. We’re not dying in Nefyempat.”
Commands from the master brought him to all kinds of places across Morbidia. He could only name one town larger than Deran. Garrenborough. Though, he could name many places reeking less than this city. Deran was mostly two-storey timber framed buildings with tight alleys and corners. The heart of the city was an exception. A central courtyard with a short fountain, surrounded by pitiful, circular macadam of roughened stones the citizens called a road.
The Chancellor’s Building was the widest amongst the buildings that surrounded the courtyard. Wooden just like the other buildings but easily identifiable by a steeple jutting on the building’s crown.
Batara assumed his employer would have expected his arrival. It surprised him when the city guard stopped him from entering the building.
“No hunters in the Chancellor’s Building.” The stoic man shoved Batara away. Hard enough that Batara fell and muddied his arse.
“Your Chancellor expects me,” Batara said.
“Really? Show me your face.”
Batara pulled back the black leather hood he wore above his Valravn’s cloak. Hoods like these were what Morbidian hunters would wear, and it didn’t surprise him that the guard had mistaken him for one.
“Nah.” The guard shook his head. “You ain’t him. You’re bald.”
Batara raised an eyebrow. “I’m him.”
“Nah. I was told that you’d be wearing a lot of feathers. Oh… and a hat over a shoulder-length hair.”
He’s talking about Kilgore. Batara groaned. The master didn’t leave the Chancellor a memo. “I work for him.”
“I don’t believe you.” The guard shooed Batara away. “Hurry along. We don’t want any trouble here.”
No use trying to convince him, Batara thought.
He put his hood back on and scuttled towards the shadows, away from the moonlight that washed darkness off the heart of Deran. From the crevices between buildings, he climbed the wooden walls of the Chancellor’s Building. Many who had seen him believed his hands secreted some kind of sticky substance which plastered him onto the wall. Like geckos or spiders. They didn’t know about the hooks-filled plate strapped on his palm. Hooks like these worked only for wooden surfaces, and it had lost its effectiveness when the Southerners learned to cut stone slabs to build their home. Lucky for him, cities in Western Lands—like Deran—were behind when it came to architecture.
Spry like the ocelots on the Great Plains, Batara scaled the walls. Like a shadow, he crept fast and quiet, reaching the roof in six leaps. His breathing remained calm. Moderate and paced. He kept his body close to the gabled roof. Falling would be the most embarrassing thing that could happen. Then, he crawled. Knees and elbows dragged his body up the slope to the apex of the building. Batara balanced himself, and prowled to an edge.
Grasping the pinnacle of the building’s triangular facade, he hung and made his slow descent. The climbing hooks on his palm, once again, did him wonders. The guard who blocked his path was right below him, a drop away. His mind raced, Don’t look up. Don’t look up. But his body remained composed. Reaching the window at last, he dug his pocket for a picklock only to realise that the window wasn’t locked. He opened it and seeped into the building.
The Chancellor—Missus Jhames Heenes—screamed at the top of her lungs as soon as Batara’s feet hit the floor. She yelled, “Guards, guards”, running towards a sword hanging on her wall.
Batara chased after her and stopped her arms from reaching the sword. “I am a Valravn, at your service,” Batara whispered.
Her eyes widened, filled with fear as they darted around the room, looking for an escape. Her lips quivered as she said, “You’re not Kilgore Khan. I asked for Kilgore Khan.”
“I am not him. He is my master.”
“I- I don’t believe you. How do I know that you are one of his ravens?”
In the Southern Nations, the Valravn’s cloak was usually enough proof that one was Kilgore’s raven. If that didn’t do the trick, Batara was not sure what would. He paused to think. Then, he murmured, “I can tell you, something my master does that only his closest circle would know.”
Jhames waited for him to continue. Anticipation and distress filled her face.
“When he laughs, my master has a habit of crossing his hands. And he’d placed them in front of his chest like this—” Batara did an imitation, just like how he remembered his master. And he chuckled at the memory.
Tension left Jhames, and she couldn’t help but smile. “That, I guess, he does.”
Right after, the door to Jhames’s office burst open. Guards barged into the Chancellor’s office, sabres unsheathed. One of them was the guard at the door. “You!” He snarled. “How did you get in?”
Batara raised his hands in surrender.
“Lower your weapons,” Jhames said. “He works for us.”
“Is he really what he said? A Valravn?”
Jhames nodded. “He’s one of Kilgore Khan’s.”
The guards lowered their weapons as their chancellor had commanded. For a while, the guards only stood there. Their eyes scanned Batara. Uncertain, it seemed, how the hooded figure in black had entered the building past their watchful eyes. The men only left after the Chancellor insisted them to leave, assuring that the situation was under her control. Only Jhames and Batara remained in the office.
Jhames ambled back behind her desk where she was before Batara sneaked into the room. She reached out under her desk, and Batara heard the opening of a drawer. From it, she took out several pieces of paper.
“Your master told you why you’re here?” Jhames asked.
“Who do I need to kill?” Batara asked back, knowing that the job was assassination.
“The target is not an ordinary man. He’s powerful, and he’s well-guarded.”
Batara nodded, though in his mind, he said, If the target is an ordinary man, you wouldn’t need a Valravn.
“His name is Carnes Nemeth. He mines amber along the Kerlen Trails. Sometimes, he ventures further North into the Dark Woods.” Jhames pushed the stack of paper towards Batara. On it, the painting of his target was drawn in graphite.
“Why so afraid of an ordinary miner?” Batara asked. From the painting however, he knew that this Carnes Nemeth was no ordinary miner. His face was too handsome to be one of a miner, with hair well-combed and beard well-groomed.
“Do you know what period it is in Deran?”
Batara shrugged.
“Election. This man is a candidate for the Chancellor’s seat.”
Batara nodded and took the painting with him. “How do I prove that the job is completed?”
“He wears a ring decorated with a stone. It’s not an ordinary amber. It’s green in colour. The only green amber there is in Morbidia.”
Batara nodded again and headed for the door.
Right before Batara twisted the door knob, Jhames asked, “You don’t question my motives for wanting this man dead?”
“Is it part of the job?”
“No. But I thought you’d be curious.”
Batara turned over his shoulder to see his employer once more. Her arms crossed under her breast. Chest lifted. A smirk on her face. Moonlight shone on her proud figure from the window. In the end, she is just another governor, playing in a subjugating game called politics.
“If it isn’t part of the job, then it’s not part of the contract. I don’t want it.” Batara left.
Silence. In my field of work, the word means a lot of things. There is an absence of voice. A choice to wear cloths and rags to fight instead of the rattling armour the Verdanii knights wear. To speak only when needed. To communicate with nods and shakes. To learn where to take a step in the darkness. Any Valravn can learn this kind of silence. But my silence is of a different nature.
The night had passed and Magna had risen once again. Darkness vanished under the vermilion sky, and the Valravn’s cloak could no longer hide him from watching eyes. Batara had it removed, kept safe in a satchel he carried as he sauntered along the streets of Deran.
Jhames had told him that it was the election period in Deran. From his little knowledge of politics in the Southern Nations, some governors would campaign to gain favour. He had hoped Carnes Nemeth would do the same. He spent last evening going from tavern to tavern, purchasing cheap ales, taking a sip of it and pouring the rest on him. By morning, he looked guttered and filthy, just like any other piss-stricken beggar in Deran.
Batara spent his morning sprawled on a corner of the city’s heart. Acting like a halfwit, he would stare into the fountain. “Ahhh… water… what beautiful water…” Sometimes he would say with a weak, almost incomprehensible voice. He hoped that he’d be invisible to the citizens of Deran. After all, who would spare a thought for a drunk war refugee from the South?
Election period in Deran was not much different from the Southern Nations. Kilgore often told him in the past that the Southern Nations derived its government from Deran and other Western cities. Though, the Southerners were a little more reserved about it. In the Southern Nations, portraits of a candidate raised high on banners were non-existent. They were everywhere in Deran. Portrait of Carnes Nemeth, raised high, accompanied with writing that said ‘Salvation of the South! Vote for Nemeth!’
Salvation of the South? Batara wondered.
There was the sound of trumpets. Faint at first, it grew louder and louder until more of those ‘Carnes Nemeth’ banners appeared on the streets. Crowds filled the heart of Deran. Then, a caravan emerged from amongst the crowd, paraded and exalted. Flower petals flew around it, thrown around by the citizens of Deran. Seems like it’s not a normal occasion after all, Batara thought. A rally?
This might be the opportunity he sought. Batara expected to stay in Deran for quite some time to find more information about his target. Where he lived. Where he ate and drank. When his guards would leave him most vulnerable. But it seemed that fate was on his side this time. Luck after luck. Maybe the realm wants me to return South and help my brothers and sisters.
Carnes emerged from one of the carriages in the caravan. A pickaxe in his hand, he raised it high. “Citizens of Deran!” He shouted. “Heed my call, for war is upon us!”
The crowd cheered for him.
“For many years we have traded amber with the Southern Nations. Many of us have families and friends living down South. What a peaceful life we had… A prosperous one. Then, the Verdanii came and played god. They think they own us. They think they are doing their Angel’s work. But have none of you heard?
“They slaughtered an entire town. They enslaved children. No mercy was given.”
He wished to help the Southern Nations? Batara felt a pit, stuck at the bottom of his throat. He wished to help my people?
“You may ask. Why bother?” Carnes continued with his speech. “Let me ask you. Do you think the Verdanii will stop after they’re done with the Southern Nations? And if we don’t help our brethren now, who will help us when they come knocking on our doors?”
Aid against the Verdanii? Batara smiled. No more ravens have to die retaking a town. He exhaled and he could feel his breathing shake.
Yet, this man must die. It is the contract. And the contract is our law.
Batara began. In his hand, he held a rotten apple. And he would extend it to a passer-by. “Apple mister?”
“Get that thing out of my face!” The citizen scowled. He spat on him. Batara lowered his face when he did. “Damned Southerners piling up in our city these days. Go back where you came from!”
“My apologies.” Batara covered his face when the citizen raised his fist. “’Tis all I have. ‘Tis all I could sell. Mayhaps you’d spare me some coins? Let a war refugee get some food for the day?”
“Bollocks,” the citizen bellowed. “You’re carrying a satchel. Matter of fact, gimme that!”
The citizen tried to grasp Batara’s satchel. But Batara was quick, and he had expected it. Batara twirled, evading the man’s grasp, and he yelled, “Help!”
“What are you doing? Shut it!” The citizen grew angry. Fist raised high, and like a hammer the citizen let it loose on Batara.
Batara saw it coming, of course. After all, he planned for it. Batara parried the citizen’s fist. What was supposed to hit his face, he diverted it onto his shoulder instead. Then, once again, he yelled, pretending to be in pain. “Help! This man attacked me!”
Even though he didn’t feel breathless, he breathed harder, panting. He widened his eyes, remembering the slaughter in Skáratfort to encourage himself to look afraid. “Help me! Help!” Batara limped towards the crowd.
“Shut it will you?” The citizen tackled him, and they fell onto the jagged stone road by the fountain. “Don’t make a commotion!”
Batara was quite certain that a commotion had been made. He would only need to encourage the crowd a little. “Help meee!” He yelled again. “It hurts! It hurts!”
“You damned Southerner!” The citizen shouted, falling right into Batara’s trap. Through that sky-piercing shout, Batara felt the shift in everyone’s gaze. All eyes were on them. Carnes Emeth’s eyes were on them.
Gasps and shrieks were all around him. He could feel the citizen’s palm, pressing against his mouth to keep him quiet. He focused on his real task. His eyes scanned the thickening flock of people around him. His ears listened to the sound of Carnes Emeth’s guards, shouting, “Move it! Move it!”
Took the guards a heartbeat to reach them. Another heartbeat to lift the citizen off him. Batara cowered into a foetal position, covering his satchel with his limbs. Then, he pretended to cry. He kept crying, until he felt a warm touch on his cheek, wiping his tears away.
“Are you okay?” A voice belonging to none other than Carnes Emeth. “You’re a long way from home, my friend.”
Yes. Of course it has to be Carnes Emeth. After all, what better way is there to garner favour from the people than showing compassion to those you claim to support?
Batara continued to sob. “I—” Sob. “I was—”. Sob. “I was scared. The Verdanii killed my sisters. They flayed my older brother.” He held his satchel tighter. Sob. Sob.
“You’re safe my friend. You’re not in the Southern Nations any more. You’re safe in Deran.” Carnes picked Batara up, wrapping his arm around him. The Chancellor candidate looked at him with pity, as if he was a lost puppy.
“Look at this man,” Carnes said. “Look at how much he has suffered. Look at how brave he is! To come all the way to Deran, through the barricades the Verdanii had set in Garrenborough!”
The spectators gasped in pity. Some even let out a tear after listening to Carnes Nemeth.
“We should be welcoming them with hospitality!” Carnes rallied the crowd once again. “Is this hatred and spite what you want Deran to be remembered by? If that is what you want, go and support Jhames and her rule. My Deran will be a welcoming city, one that shows strength. My Deran will unite the West, and together we will liberate the South from the Verdanii invaders!”
Arms still around Carnes’s shoulder, Batara followed him towards his caravan.
“I shall cancel this rally for this man!” Carnes shouted. Carnes sounded like he was gloating. “For I shall bring this man into my home. To be fed. To be cleaned. To be healed. As it should be!”
Carnes’s guards opened the door to his carriage. Carefully, Batara stepped in, whimpering in his effort doing so.
“Trust me, my friend. You are safe in Deran. You have my word!” Carnes said as he joined Batara in the carriage. Soon after, the door closed and the carriage trundled along the rocky road.
For a moment, there was silence in that carriage. Batara waited for the carriage to leave the heart of Deran, feeling it from how the carriage moved. The feeling of riding through a rocky passage to a smoother dirt road. At that moment, Batara was certain it was the perfect time to execute the climax of his plan.
But first, he had to know something.
“Why do you care for the South so much?” Batara murmured. “Was it a ploy? Another means to an end for your rise to be Chancellor?”
Surprised, Carnes raised an eyebrow. “Why would you think that way? I just saved your life. Is it not sincere enough?”
“It just doesn’t make sense. Our war has nothing to do with Deran or the Western Lands. Why make a promise to save the South to the people who couldn’t be bothered about the South?”
Carnes sighed. “My brother came from one of the Western Lands, but he dreamt of taming the waters of Maút. So he moved to Skáratfort with his family. His wife and his son. Last I remembered, he sent me a letter, saying that he just had a daughter. He spent his entire life learning the way of the ship. Yet he died on the rocky shores of Skáratfort to a sword, claiming that they are bringing the graces of an Angel.”
I’m sorry, Batara thought.
Then, through that full beard of his, Batara saw Carnes smile. “But I heard legends. Criminals who became freedom fighters. I heard rumours of the Southerners fighting back. To avenge my brother. Is it true? There are those who called themselves ravens, banding together to kill these invaders?”
Batara didn’t reply. Though Carnes couldn’t be more wrong. We don’t fight for the Southern Nations. We fight for governors who could pay us enough.
“Well anyway. These raven people.” Carnes shrugged. “They’ve inspired me to take up arms. And perhaps, if my efforts in Deran are not fruitful. I’ll go to the Southern Nations myself to kill the Verdanii.”
Did Master know? Did Kilgore know that we are to kill a man who could help us in this war?
“Have you seen one of them? One of the ravens?”
Batara shook his head.
“Shame.” Carnes leaned back and looked outside his carriage’s window.
Can I trust this man? Batara wondered. He watched Carnes. That full beard of his and his neat shirt. The way he crossed his arms inside that carriage, head lifted up with pride. He’s a governor. And he, like Jhames, plays a subjugating game called politics.
“When you wear the Valravn’s cloak, you will serve no one.” Kilgore’s words echoed in his head. He remembered his master’s hand, reaching out to him. Freeing him from the shackles that bound him. “Protect one another. Kill for one another. Take for one another.”
Can you trust another governor, Batara? He asked himself.
Batara reached out for Carnes’s hand, cupped it in his, and rubbed the beautiful green amber ring around his finger. He smiled at the future governor.
“You alright, friend?” Carnes asked.
“Thank you, friend,” Batara said. He unsheathed his blade, hidden in a small incision on his satchel. He slit Carnes’s throat. “And may death be kind to your soul.” Tears welled up in Carnes’ eyes as he took the green amber ring from his finger.
Batara barged out of the carriage, screaming like a mad-man. “Help me!! The knights are coming! The Verdaniis are coming!!” He ran into the shadows. Into the crevices of the two-storey buildings of Deran.
In the distance, he heard Carnes’s guard tut and say, “Poor man, what have the Verdanii done to the South?” That was before they checked the carriage and screamed in terror. By then, Batara had disappeared into the shadows, climbing up to the rooftop.
“Never trust governors, Batara. But you can trust their money.” Kilgore had told him the night Batara complained. “And if you ever doubt yourself. Remember their whips, tearing through your skin. Remember their shackles, chafing your ankles and your wrists.”
Batara remembered giving his master a loud humph. A last show of disobedience before being sent to the West.
He remembered Kilgore hugging him after. “You asked me if you’re my raven? You are and more. You are my silent blade.”
Silence. In my field of work, the word means a lot of things. But there is one which stands most powerful out of all. To come when you’re not invited. To depart, leaving no messages. My master called me the Silent Blade. It wasn’t for my habit to speak with nods and shakes.Not for my light steps, nor my choice to wear clothes and rags instead of armour. Silence is to be unexpected.
Joshua Dharmawan 