Perilous Ventures [Angmor / Andromeda]

[Elvorn]

If there was one thing in the world that Torska Holsaar hated the most, it was completely unplanned ops with no intel. Exactly the type of assignment that he had received from Command only eight short hours ago. He thought back on the mission briefing that he had been given, committing the details to memory. Imperial Cavalry General Icitalia, also known as “The Ice General”, had been captured within five-hundred yards of Uru’baen. A courier had immediately been sent to a Spearshadow Command safehouse in Surda with orders to send their best operative into Aberon and carry out a covert hostage extraction. In this case, that meant Torska. Galbatorix had insisted on complete secrecy, therefore sending a message by mental link would be out of the question; a link being easy to read for an experienced magician if the sender was distracted. The messenger had ridden fast and hard to get to Surda, losing two horses in the process but getting there in almost record time. Abducting one of the Empire’s most well-known generals within the city limits of the capital was the equivalent of spitting in Galbatorix’s face, and the Emperor was sending his best men out to stop the embarrassing breach at its source. A relatively new Rider named Kyemen Straethir had carried out the kidnapping, evading pursuit on the back of his emerald scaled dragon, called Sierthra, if the dossier on Straethir was current. It had appeared that they were fleeing to Borromeo castle, a well guarded fortress-like and impenetrable heart of the resistance. According to Imperial sources and debriefings from previous operations, the security measures left nothing but the barest sliver of time when an experienced operative could slip past the strictly watched walls and into the maze of cool stone passages. After the hurried briefing, he had been given forged papers, a disguise and a horse and sent into Aberon under the alias of Master Craftsman Ordal Brint, an ironsmith from Lithgow wanting to join the Varden. Getting past the guards at one of the side gates to Aberon had been child’s play, almost too easy; but the next step in the plan more than made up for that.

Ducking into an alley in one of Aberon’s bustling marketplaces, Torska stripped off his disguise and began double checking his tools. The mechanism in his right wrist-knife had been giving him problems recently, but that was easily fixed by lubricating it with a small amount of weapon oil. Your weapons and your intellect were what kept you alive in the dark business of assassination and sabotage. One of the things that I am most qualified to talk about, he thought to himself with a wry smile. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. This is what I have been chosen to do, and I’m one of the best in my field. He thought that without any pride, merely stating a fact. For it was true that Torska had the best mission record of any of the other assassination-trained Spearshadow operatives, barring his old friend Taraak who had turned traitor. Traitor, that was such an equivocal term. What was a traitor anyway? A person who sold out his comrades or dishonored a contract? Or someone who realized that what they were doing was not who they were? Torska made a conscious effort to push the thoughts to a dark corner of his mind, until after this operation. If even then.

Retracting the knife, he assumed the posture of a man with pressing business that he needed to attend to, and strode purposefully out into the market. Weaving through the throngs of clamoring people, Torska approached Borromeo castle from the north. He needed to find the informant who could tell him the guard-watch schedule for the next few days. Unfortunately, there was no simple solution of stealing a written list, since most of the orders came from those in command without a planned roster. The Varden were so unorganized. ‘Nothing but a dissenting band of rabble’. That’s what the news called them. More propaganda then news, though. Torska thought. They only say what Galbatorix tells them to. Thus is the essence of a dictatorship it would appear. Winding his way tortuously between the crowds of shoppers and merchants, he ducked out of the chaos into the relative calm of the Cooper’s Crown tavern. This was where his informant spent most of his time, drowning his wits in a mug of the Crown’s finest. In the comparatively small periods of time when the man was sober, he could offer an invaluable vault of information. For a price, that was. Fortunately, Torska had the might of the Imperial coffer’s behind him, and money was no object. The smoky air inside the tavern made his eyes sting, bad lighting and the smell of unwashed counter-tops adding to the overall atmosphere of ill repute. Torska spotted the man he was looking for in a dark corner toward the back of the room, nursing a mug of ale. It didn’t look like his first that day.

Sliding into the booth, Torska stared across the table at the haggard, weather-beaten, old man who was approaching the point of inebriation. ‘I need a few quick questions answered, Moruth, then you can go back to your drink.’ The man looked at him without so much as a blink. ‘So, Torska,’ he muttered, ‘I thought you would have been killed a while ago. Almost everyone else from Spearshadow who comes to me has. But you know that nothing is free; do you have money?’ The assassin plunked a bag of coins down on the table between them, allowing them to clink enticingly. ‘I need to know the guard schedule of Borromeo castle for the next few days,’ he whispered quietly. ‘How much?’ Moruth took a long pull from his mug and began counting on his fingers. ‘I’d say at least a hundred-‘ he began,
‘Fifty.’
‘Ninety, no less.’
Their bargaining was interrupted by the arrival of the barkeeper, who had spotted a potential customer and was closing in for the kill. Torska mentally groaned as the man waddled over to their table, beaming a smile that stopped short of his eyes. ‘What can I do for ye, kind sir?’ He asked, wiping his greasy hands on his apron. ‘If you are needing some refreshment, I’d be happy to provide as much as you want!’ Torska ordered a small mug of cider to occupy the man while he finished talking to the information broker, hoping that the dithering barkeeper would not eavesdrop on their conversation. Turning back to Moruth he quickly countered the man’s last offer.
‘Fifty.’
‘Eighty-five,’
‘Fifty.’
‘Seventy-five is my final offer,’ he said angrily, ‘There is no one else who has my sources in Aberon. It’s worth a lot more than seventy-five, and you know it!’
‘Done.’

Torska counted out the correct amount of gold crowns out of his bag, passing them across the table into the greedy hands of the other man. ‘The watch is almost seamless most of the time, but there is a parade ground exercise tomorrow leaving only a skeleton watch at key points. The guards change at six hour intervals. Depending on their position, they change at different times, so I can’t give you specifics on when and where.’ With that, Moruth downed the rest of his beer and hailed the fat barkeeper to get him another, ignoring the assassin. Torska got up, leaving the cider untouched on the sticky booth, and beat a hasty retreat from the bartender’s entreaties to stay a while more, escaping into the noisy riot of Aberon’s streets. Tomorrow he would have his chance; but getting in was comparatively easy, the hard part was always getting out.

[Angmor]

Kyemen sat in the cool semi-darkness of a cellar, deep beneath Borromeo castle. The cavernous space was used for storing wines and other ales for feasts and festivals, but those hadn't been in great supply lately, although this suited Kyemen just fine. He used the room as a hideaway when he wanted to be alone for a few minutes, in a place that no one really knew about or would think to look for him. He knew it might have been selfish to seek such time for himself, but he was never outside of communication for any longer than a few minutes. And besides, it was time he used to clear his mind and think, and to solve problems. He had determined long ago, he did his best thinking in the heat of combat, and when he was alone.
Have you decided yet?

[/Color]
Well, almost alone.

Sierthra, as he learned early on, could find him almost anywhere. He didn't mind though, she provided a comforter when he was lonely, a soothing voice when he was frustrated, a compassionate listener to his problems, and a critical but open-minded moderator of his solutions, even when she was hunting away from the city as she was now. The problem, in this case, resided up three flights of steps and a left in the corridor from where Kyemen now sat, languishing in a highly-guarded, though not uncomfortable cell. In this case, the problem's name was Icitalia Sylaer, General, Imperial Cavalry.

About a week before, Kyemen and Sierthra returned form their mission of snatching the famed general from a patch of woods directly outside of Uru-Baen. except for a fierce duel between the two elves, everything went without a hitch, and they returned triumphantly to the roof of the castle with Sylaer clasped neatly in Sierthra's talons. After the vengeful but composed prisoner was secured in the cell, the problem began. He discovered at that moment that the Varden "intelligence" spooks who had planned the mission had never actually expected it to work. They had meant it only as a propaganda mission to scare the populas of the Empire as news of the attack spread. As such, they truly had no idea what to do with the prisoner now that they had her. Their dithering had rather reminded him of the swarms of sea birds that sometimes got it into their heads to chase Sierthra across the skies; as soon as they caught her, they had no idea what to do then.

Then and there, Kyemen had personally taken charge of the whole affair, from security arrangements to interrogation. He figured that bit would fall to him anyway, considering physical torture was not something the Varden resorted to except for the very gravest of needs, and that she was so strong in magic that mental probing could take years unless undertaken by one stronger still, and he was the only Rider free. He thanked whatever controlled the destinies of sentient beings for the professional interrogator the Varden had assigned to him, to counsel him exactly how to avoid making horrendous mistakes. He thought of the long hours every day for the past week, sitting across the table from Icitalia, fighting past her defenses and peeling back the layers of her mind. As of yet, he had not gotten very far. He had discovered a few minor things; names of certain officers, several battle strategies, a personal memory or two. Each pice of information was like a the hard-fought victory of a strategic ridge in a battle, so contested that both combatants were left drained and exhausted. And through the haze of the battle, Kyemen was sure he could see the outline of something deep within her mind, something buried so deep and defended so fanatically that he would need to tear through every thought and memory into the very core of her being to reach it.

Of course, it wasn't so simple. The interrogation was starting to take time he didn't have. He could not be around forever, Nasuada and the Varden command would want him back on active missions eventually. And the fact that the general was so powerful was also a worrying factor. She had already tried to escape three times, and though each attempt was stopped before she could get further than a few yards down the corridor, it still presented another issue. She was simply too powerful of an enemy to keep locked in one's basement. Either she was a drain on the resources that were needed to guard her effectively, or she was an escape risk. A decision would have to be made, and soon.

No Sierthra, I haven't.[/Color] He responded to her query, sighing deeply. He reached out to her and found her a few miles from the castle, circling herd of deer. There is time yet. You must be patient.[/Color] Kyemen settled into a more comfortable position against the cask of wine he was sitting against, reaching for the magic and muttering words of power under his breath. A puddle of pale ale that had leaked out of another cask and pooled on a flagstone at his feet shimmered to life with an image of his prisoner. Kyemen had been scrying her at random intervals since she had arrived, in order to keep an eye out for more escape attempts. At the moment, he saw that she was simply pacing the spacious, lightly furnished room that served for her cell. You know what will need to be done, don't you?[/Color] Kyemen messaged his temples with a thumb and forefinger. I know what you would have me do. I'm just... trying to think of another way.[/Color]

A sudden anger flashed from Sierthra, causing Kyemen to draw back a little. He had gotten no hint of the this pent up wrath before now, and it frightened him. What is it with you? Why are you so reluctant to do what is necissary? Kyemen, she is a murderer, who needs to be brought to justice for her crimes.[/Color]
It is war Sierthra. She is no more of a murderer than you or I.[/i] He paused to stare down at the scryed image before him. The minute we start to count one life as expendable, we are no better than the enemy we fight. I know what should be done, but... I just feel like she has some part to play in what is to come.[/Color] He heard a snort across the link, followed by words colder than mountain air. Oh I agree. Her purpose is to be a powerful enemy, in captivity or not, and if we do not do away with her while we can, many more will die before someone else does. Do you honestly think she can be redeemed?[/Color] Kyemen hesitated, taking a deep breath before answering.
Yes.[/Color]

Silence.

There it is then.[/Color] She said at last. The heart of the matter. You want to save her.[/Color] It wasn't a question. He remained silent... what could he say? He could sense that Sierthra was doing her best to keep back many choice words, her meal forgotten.
Kyemen,[/Color] She began carefully, her tone controlled. I admire your sentiments, but sometimes it just cannot be done. Sometimes there is not enough time to devote to one person when there are so many in need of salvation, whether physical or not.
So, what? Are you saying I should abandon even trying simply because it's not expedient?[/Color] He asked angrily.
I'm sorry Kyemen, but you can't save everyone.

There was another long pause as both sides stopped to consider. Kyemen look down at the spell again, watching as Sylaer finally gave up the pacing and settled onto the large cot on one side of the room. Suddenly he too felt weary and drained, and not just with the mental battle with the prisoner. This weariness went far deeper. Even as his mind rebeled from the thought, he knew that Sierthra was right. Silently, he released the spell, allowing the liquid to fade back to its nuetral state. He could not bear to look upon her as he spoke his next words. Alright. I know that what you say is true.[/Color] He said, feeling defeated and suddenly very alone.
So you'll do it?
Yes yes. As soon as I'm called for, I'll... I'll do it.[/Color]
He felt angry and confused and guilty all at once. He realized yet again how much of a burden his power was, but now for a different reason. Even with all his speed, his skill with magic, his prowess with a sword;
There were times when he simply wasn't good enough.

Silently, he stood to his feet and started toward the stairs. The night was old, and the passages of the castle were cloaked in sable shadows, except for the torches carried by the sentries. Kyemen decided not to go back to his quarters. He would sleep on the roof tonight, under the stars. It was a long climb from the cellars, but he didn't notice. By the time reached the roof and stretched out under his cloak, his mind was so numb that he only took a casual interest in the stars above him. Even Sierthra's return came unheralded. At last he drifted to sleep, Sierthra's final statement ringing in his ears.
You can't save everyone.[/Size][/Blockquote]

[Andromeda]

Icitalia

Peering coolly through the bars as more guards filed into the hall that led to her prison, she refused to let the scowl working at her iron control break through. It seemed the Varden were upping the number of grim faced men guarding her after her last failed escape attempt. Sighing, she took a step back from the thick board of wood that blocked her way to freedom, though in more of a psychological sense than in a physical one. Icitalia knew from past experience that it could be easily blasted off of its hinges if she attempted to do so; if she had enough energy to try would be the only problem. After her 'sessions' with Kyeman she would be hard pressed to find anything left over to use. It was no easy task to keep a rider from prying important information about Imperial affairs from your skull.

It had been almost three weeks since Kyeman and Sierthra had landed on the hard soil of Surda with her clutched apparently harmless in one taloned paw. To her amusement and Kyeman's chagrin, it seemed the ones that sent him to capture her hadn't expected the mission to be successful. She was immediately hustled off to her cell where she was put under heavy watch. After waiting in boredom for some odd hours the Varden got it under control and her original captor came back to try to pry what she knew about Imperial plots.

Without any conscious thought, her feet began to weave a path across the room, her footfalls silent on the carpeted floor. Icitalia knew that it was only a matter of time until Kyeman broke her and was able to take all she knew about Galbatorix and her other superior' plans; she was not a stranger to the strategy meetings that were hosted by Damascus, the Empire's High General and newest rider. She was already too weary to keep him completely blocked, and was painstakingly aware of every bit of information he managed to dig up, though none of the things he found were of any great importance, nor of any value to her as an individual it was obvious that the drive behind her cold demeanor and alliance with the Empire was just out of reach; at least for the moment.

The scowl finally managed to skirt the ever unraveling fringe of her control, and distorted her lips into an expression that was becoming all the more familiar to her. Fingering the cool surface of the diamond icicle that hung in the hallow of her throat, she sat down with a sigh and turned her gaze to the sparse room that surrounded her. Though ordinary by any standards, it would considered luxurious to any of those that had spent time in Galbatorix's prison, or in the Varden's. The cold gray stone that served as most of the castle's substance was covered by a thick red rug of ordinary cotton, with a few hangings of a similar color and texture decorating the otherwise empty walls. In the far corner near a barred window much too small for anyone to climb through was a large cot swathed in plain, but warm blankets to keep out the chill of the castle at night. A few other necessary items littered the spacious room, and her plain meals were shoved through a little slot at the bottom of the main door three times a day. It was not the best accommodations she'd seen or lived in, but again, it was luxury for a prisoner and she couldn't complain.

Leaning back against the cool wall of the castle with a refreshing breeze from the small window playing across the back of her neck, she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift aimlessly. What would they do with her when Kyeman managed to break all the way into her mind? A grimace played on the corner of her lips before she straightened them in an unconscious move. She didn't even need to think about it to know that she would most likely be killed; she was too much of a threat to the Varden for them to let her walk. Icitalia rolled her shoulders slightly to find release from a cramp working its way into her back. Would the Empire send a rescue party? She wondered without any real hope. It would be up to her to free herself from the Varden's clutches, and she would need a whole new strategy if she hoped to succeed.

Shifting her weight to her legs she levered herself easily off of the bunk and wandered the few steps to the window. Placing her hands on the stone sill she put her face near to the bars and tilted her gaze to ward the ground, gaging the distance. It had occurred to her before to try blasting a hole in the wall, but the three story drop was daunting, even for an elf. The realization that her life was measured in mere days if not hours gave her the boost she needed to take the risk.

The courtyard outside her window was empty aside from the random merchants and off duty soldiers meandering around. They would not cause a major obstacle in her path and could be removed without much effort. Stopping herself before she got too deep in her planning, she reached tentatively for the remaining traces of her magic. In her body, she had about half of her normal power, and the stores in her sapphire studded sword belt and diamond icicle were dangerously low from being drawn on in her efforts to keep Kyeman blocked from her head. Frowning inwardly at the setback she returned to her plan. It wouldn't take too much energy to blast a hole in the foot thick stone, the more problematic situation would be slowing her fall to the hard packed dirt over twenty feet below. Usually the spell wouldn't take too much, but with her lacking strength and low reserves it could be an issue. Hopefully after her fall she'd have enough magic left to down anyone that tried to return her to her room. If not, then she'd have to hope that any magicians and riders were otherwise occupied and unable to assist in her capture.

[Elvorn]

The shadows cast by the north wall of Borromeo castle were rapidly receding as the sun rose higher into the clear sky of Aberon, inching back toward the base of the massive parapet. Lying under a thorny bush that had long ago outgrown its usefulness as cover, Torska waited impatiently for the horn to signal assembly in the courtyard on the other side of the castle. Until then, though he had another problem to deal with. Swarms of small insects haunted any scrap of shade found in the capitol, seeming to delight in pestering any captive host who was unlucky enough to stumble into their realm. Between the thorns and biting flies, the assassin had to place this hiding spot in the top twenty worst lay-up points in his career. He thought back on the restless night that he had spent preparing for the covert entrance and much more difficult exfiltration. He had repacked his satchel containing his tools, oiled his wrist-knives and strung his shortbow, double checking that the arrows were packed tightly and wouldn’t rattle. After reviewing rudimentary plans of the castle, he had decided the cell where Icitalia was most likely to be kept was somewhere on the third floor and definitely heavily guarded. His altered hair and eye color, along with a second set of forged papers would help him slip past the guards around the cell, but a center-stage entrance would attract far too much attention and probably get him killed.

As the shadows crept nearer to the wall, Torska crawled agonizingly out from under the thornbush, tearing a rent in his cloak as he did. Cursing under his breath, he began studying the wall, peering intently at the network of cracks and protrusions that jutted out from the wall at irregular intervals. Then, the sound of a horn blowing the assembly call rose over the wall, making Torska smile grimly. No more time for planning, no more time for studying the situation from a spectator’s viewpoint. He had to go in now or never. Making sure that his gloves were tight, he jammed his fingers into a thin crack at the base of the wall, and began hauling himself up foot by slow foot, bracing his feet on small nubs of stone and masonry sticking out of the outer structure. Carefully feeling for ledges and handholds, the assassin climbed to within a meter from the top, raising his head just enough to glance over the edge. Perfect. The new guard was right in front of him, standing with his back to the wall. Gathering himself for a quick spring, he vaulted over the crenellated rampart, landing on the balls of his feet as silently as a cat. The guard stiffened, stopping to listen and scanning in inner courtyard. Torska barely breathed, flattening himself against the wall.
He waited for what seemed like an eternity before the soldier finally relaxed and began strolling on down the walkway toward the north-west wall corner.

The man never knew what hit him. In a heartbeat, Torska had his arm locked around the guard’s windpipe and delivered a sharp punch just below his left ear. Letting the unconscious man slide gently to the ground, he rifled through the assorted pouches and pockets on the man’s tunic, relieving him of two keys, a sealed letter, a tinderbox and a few bronze crowns. Tucking them in his satchel for later, he sprinted toward the ladder that lead down to the inner courtyard, hoping the other three guards who composed the skeleton watch would stay at the far reaches of their fluid posts long enough for him to get down.

Jumping the last two meters of the ladder, Torska dropped into a crouch and dashed to the cluster of gorse bushes that disguised the kitchen drain cover. Crawling in under the thorny branches, he found himself right on top of the metal grate looking down into a dank tunnel filled with slimy kitchen refuse and other assorted undesirable objects not worth mentioning. Well, at least I know that I’m in the right place. He thought with a wry face. Now to figure out how to get in . . . Carefully, he began working his fingers inside the metal grate, feeling for bolts or, if he was lucky, a latch. After an extensive exploration of the underside of the grating, he discovered that there were four corroded bolts holding the frame in place, no match for a motivated entrance expert. Feeling around in his bag of supplies, Torska pulled out a small glass vial corked with a metal stopper. Opening the vial very slowly, he let one or two drops fall on each of the rusted bolts, quickly closing it when he was finished. A whiff of vapor twisted lazily up from the drain cover, followed by a soft hissing noise. While the acid was eating away at the old bolts, he grabbed a grappling hook from his belt, hooking one end of the line to the thickest of the gorse bushes and knotting it securely. With the complete focus required by any infiltration operation, Torska slid the drain cover to one side, throwing the rope down into the damp drain, he screwed up his face at the rancid smell and climbed into the tunnel.

I love my job. He thought sourly, Where else would someone have the privilege of experiencing the drainage system of Borromeo castle firsthand? What an enviable experience. I think I’ll write out my resignation when I get back to command. If I get back to command. That was purely speculative of course, if he had ever wanted to leave the program, command would have certainly obliged him. With a nice coffin and an unmarked grave in an Imperial military cemetery. No one left Spearshadow except in a body-bag. Taraak did. He said he left because he remembered. He remembered his family . . . remembered what the Empire did to him. But I don’t. I can’t remember. Torska gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on what he was doing, but the memories he had lost so long ago flickered tantalizingly at the edge of his consciousness, the sound of a deep, rich voice, the smell of bread baking in the oven . . . but no. There was nothing. Every time he tried to retrieve those precious moments in time, the slipped away. Back into the grey fog of blank time the spellcasters had created when he had been inducted into Spearshadow. They were gone. I wonder what my real name was? Torska thought absently as he ducked under a crumbling support arch.

The thoughts of his past were cast aside as he saw the shaft leading up to the kitchens in front of him. Using his wrist-knives, he worked the mortar out from around some of the bricks, pulling them out to serve as handholds. This would be as close to the cell where the Ice General was as any other possible entrance point. Hopefully it would work. If not, he would be killed and the Varden would probably interrogate Icitalia until she could no longer hold up to their probing and reveal everything. The Empire could not afford that.

[Angmor]

Kyemen exited the room carefully, feeling the icy gaze of his captive following him distainfully. As soon as the door shut and there was several feet of corridor behind him did he finally allow his shoulders to sag with fatigue, letting out a long sigh. "Are you all right?" Asked Lyone, the man walking beside him, which Kyemen thought was a strange thing to say for a man who made his living by making people tell him things they didn't want to tell. But then, the man was a paradox in many ways. Kyemen had made it a habit to discover the names of his men, and preferably their histories, in order to remind himself that the men under his command were never expendable. He had found out that Lyone's parents had been killed by the Empire, tortured for information. After that Lyone had found a wife of his own, and sired two children, the whole time servicing the cause of the Varden with his ability of 'persuasion' as he liked to call it, simply a more euphemistic term for torture. Somehow, the man still managed to be pleasant and likeable. It was not the first time Kyemen had found it difficult to reconcile a man with the job he did, but he still found it unsettling.

"I'm fine." He answered. "I just didn't sleep well last night." Lyone nodded slowly. "I understand." He said, and kyemen was sure he did. "Anything you can find useful?" The elf asked after a short pause. While interrogating Icitalia, Kyemen simply sent every fact he won straight on to Lyone's mind, so that he would be better aware of what was going on and advise Kyemen accordingly, and so that Kyemen didn't have to be the one to write the report to send along to Varden intelligence. "Not really." Lyone answered. "Battle strategies are all well and good, but if you really want to break someone, you have to find out what they hold dear. From what I've seen, she doesn't have a family, or any friends. She is entirely alone in the world." He paused, gesturing to the cell door behind them. "The one thing she wants is something that we can't threaten." Kyemen sighed, closing his eyes to massage the lids with a thumb and forefinger. "You think I'm being to soft on her, don't you?"

Lyone paused, debating the wisdom of his words before answering. "With respect, yes, I do. If it were up to me, she'd be in a lightless cell. And I'd be staggering her mealtimes at random intervals to mess up her body's sense of time. I've yet to meet a subject that can stand up to that for long."
"Then why doesn't command let you do that very often?"
Lyone frowned.
"Because I learned that tactic from the Empire."

Silence greeted the statement. After a moment, the man broke into a smile. "But I can definitely see their reasoning on that score. Anyway, I've got to write the report and go see some other prisoners before I go home tonight." He said as he turned and began striding back down the hallway. "By the way, how's Elaesa?" Kyemen called after him. "She's doing better." He responded over his shoulder before a curve took him out of sight. Kyemen shook his head. He's a good man. That's all that matters.

[/Color] He took a fork in the corridor and, after a few moments, emerged on a large balcony, overlooking the courtyard below. A series of massive parade-ground exercises were being conducted that day, involving most of the castle guard. From the size of the neat, orderly columns below, it almost seemed that the ten men still guarding Sylaer's cell where the only ones excluded from the formation.

As he watched, he almost didn't notice the concussive whooshing noise before his spring green dragon dropped onto the balcony next to him, the huge spread of her wings almost knocking him over. Oops.[/Color] She said lightly as she folded her wings against her sides. Nothing interesting eh?[/Color] She asked as a perfunctory, as if she didn’t already know. No. Nothing.[/Color] He leaned against the rail and watched the formation, trying not to meet her eyes.

Is your resolve still strong?[/Color] She asked delicately, as if to a cornered man with a knife to the throat of a small child. Her concern was unfounded, as it happened. Yes. I know what I have to do. I’m not going to be smuggling her out the back gate while no one’s looking, if that’s what you’re concerned about.[/Color]
I didn’t doubt it. Just checking.[/Color] Kyemen grunted and got back to watching the efficient rows of men conducting marching drills. Just then a voice came from behind him, making him jump. “Excuse me sir.” He spun around to be greeted by the site of a young boy edging his way around Sierthra as if she were a scalding surface. By his uniform, he was a courier, in charge ferrying massages to and fro. Why are people so afraid of me?[/Color] She asked as she swiveled her head around to watch, amused. You’re not exactly the picture of docility.[/Color]
“What is it?”
“Something for you from Lady Nasuada sir.” Came the response from the beleaguered boy as he finally negotiated his way close enough to hand Kyemen a sheave of parchment. His stomach dropped. There wasn’t many things that Nasuada shied from doing in person. A scan of the letter confirmed his sense of foreboding.
What is it?[/Color]
It’s time. She wants me to terminate Sylaer by sundown.[/Color]

He was stunned. He had prepared for this moment, visualized it, thought about it. But it still shocked him when it finally came. Mechanically he sent the messenger away, then slouched against the wide rail, staring at the door.
Do you want me to…[/Color]
No Sierthra. If I am to do this, I have to do it myself.[/Color] He knew that if he did not, he would be shirking his responsibility. His fatigue from his mental battle fell on his shoulders like a falling millstone, making him bend even lower. He had planned on going to rest once he had finished talking with Sierthra, but he knew that he could not possibly sleep now. And probably for many more nights besides.[/Size][/Blockquote]

[Andromeda]

Icitalia

Glaring harshly at the retreating back of her captor as he retired from another session of trying to pry the walls off of her mind, she allowed a harsh scowl to overcome her features, keeping her barriers firmly in place even after the tell tale click of the bolt on her door sliding home echoed mockingly through the stone room. Exhaling a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding, Icitalia closed her eyes and massaged her aching temples in an attempt to alleviate the headache that was quickly taking form there. She ran over what information he had managed to smuggle while engaged in a battle of wills with her as she shifted so her face was pressed to the wall. During his most recent visit Kyeman had succeeded in ruthlessly tearing a few of her more refined strategies, but nothing too detrimental in the great scheme that was Galbatorix’s plan. Rotating her neck to cool the other side of her sweat dampened face she smoothed the scowl off of her features and effortlessly delved into the depleted current of her magic for some relief from her increasingly painful migraine. She had much to plot and mull over if she were to escape that night, though even waiting for the cover of dusk might be too long in coming for her to bear. Icitalia was no new fledgling unlucky enough to have stumbled into the Varden’s clutches and with her years of experience was well aware of the impending deadline that could possibly serve as the end to her immortal being.

That last thought didn’t settle well with her, and her determination to escape that night tightened into a small ball of anticipation in her gut, tossing her mind into overdrive like she had flipped a switch. There was too much she wanted to do before her death to give in just because those filthy scoundrels that called themselves the Varden decided she had outlived her usefulness. Her revenge was not yet complete; her rise in through the ranks of the Empire not at its end. Forcing her speeding mind to slow a bit, she turned her attention to what the future could hold for one of her power and abilities. There were really only two paths left to her exploration, one much more promising than the other. Of course she had deliberated on the turn her life would next take, but she had been unmotivated previously to pursue any options that appeared. The more likely of the two consisted of her continued rise in Damascus’ favor and to merit a promotion to head of his personal cavalry as he had enticed her with prior to her capture. Tied for second in command with his other personal Generals, she would indeed be in a supreme seat of authority, especially over the other cavalry units which included her own.

On the other hand, the road less traveled would offer her undisputed power over everyone except Galbatorix himself; becoming a dragon rider. Of course the other riders who were senior to her would have a slight influence over her because of their superior experience. With all thoughts of power aside, if she managed to hatch an egg; a chance of one in a million, she would also gain a partner in violence who would be most likely to share in many of her convictions as she had heard that hatchlings were affected by their rider’s opinions if only for the first few weeks of life outside of their shells. A small smile curled her full lips as she imagined her future altering before her eyes as her previously unconfirmed thought to attempt to hatch an egg became a definite.

Unconsciously switching the coolness of the stones to the opposite side of her face she allowed fantasies of becoming a rider and taking revenge on Kyeman for apprehending her and hauling her off for examination before her sworn enemies to reign freely. She imagined her mighty dragon winging swiftly into the air, scales sparkling like gems under the bright sunlight as it and her captor’s jade colored dragon exchanged fierce snarls that ripped violently through the air to be heard for miles around. Icitalia herself would be tied securely to the saddle to stay with her beast as it rolled through complicated maneuvers no other creature of the sky could come close to performing. So out of hand was her day dream that the rush of air on her face seemed almost real, as did the heat from her dragon’s flames as it opened its maw and released a torrent of fiery tongues on the other rider and dragon. Though the torching proved ineffective against Kyeman’s wards her dragon and dream self remained undeterred, shooting forward in a sudden burst of speed to lock talons and fangs with a ferocity that awed and terrified the bystanders on the hard packed dirt of the distant ground below. While the two dragons fought it out, Icitalia swung Aiglos at Kyeman’s chest with all the speed her elven body could manage, a small frown of concentration on her frozen face.

Snapping her eyes open Icitalia shoved herself off the simple mattress she’d been supplied with in her sparse, but luxurious prison and paced the length of the room. It did not do to imagine such things when they were completely unrealistic. Even if she did manage to hatch one of Galbatorix’s dormant eggs the hatchling would be no match for Sierthra’s superior growth and knowledge. Besides Eragon and Saphira, Kyeman and his dragon were the oldest pair on the Varden’s side, matched only by older Empire dragons, Thorn and Murtagh, or Galbatorix himself with Shruikan to aid him. A newly born dragon and its rider would certainly have no chance to defeat them; it would be suicide. Mentally thrusting away from the path her thoughts had led her down she returned her wearied mind to the problem of her escape.

Striding once more to the window that overlooked the courtyard below she frowned slightly as she set eyes on the bustle of military parade exercises. While courtyard teemed with soldiers, her escape would be even harder to plot out, especially since she planned to escape unnoticed by anyone but her guards and captors, who would ideally discover her missing too late to recapture her. Sighing, she forced herself to lie down on her cot and close her eyes, consciously relaxing her tight muscles and easing the cramps of one not used to lazing about all day. Though uncomfortable with the idea of putting her fate in with the chance that the rigid soldiers below would leave before dark, she admitted grudgingly to herself that she had no choice. It would be nigh impossible to quietly blast a hole in the wall, scale down the smooth bricks and sprint headlong through the busy courtyard without being spotted and pointed out to her dragon and rider friends.

[Elvorn]

The grate leading up into the kitchens had made even less trouble than the earlier one. As a result, two under-cooks lay unconscious in a store-cabinet near the back of the kitchens, getting a good rest so as to be prepared for the headache they would have when they woke up. Stealing through the wavering shadows of the kitchen lamps like a wraith, Torska stalked between double rows of bread ovens purposed for the massive task of feeding the massive staff stationed in Borromeo. Tentatively turning the handle on the door, he found it unlocked, but did not open it. Pressing his ear against the thick slab of wood, he listened for the low rumble of conversation; muted tones could carry quite well without tapestries or some other way of absorbing excess noise. Stone hallways could only reflect sound, and, in this case, did it quite well. ‘ . . . eneral. Said that she was to be . . . sundown . . . Straethir himself! There’s gotta be someone who . . . Nope. I haven’t. What’s it to you anyway? Can’t . . . Nasuada’s orders. Sorry lad . . . ‘ Then the voices faded out, lost around some corner further down the passage. Try as he might, Torska could hear no more of the elusive conversation. He leaned back against the wall, disquieted. There was often an expiration date on an operation, a cavalry Captain moving to a new position or a ship putting back out to sea, but the main gist of the discourse he had overheard lent him a new air of desperation. Apparently something was happening to General Icitalia tonight, and the dragon rider was involved. While hardly insignificant in itself, the involvement of Kyemen Straethir heralded far reaching consequences.

After making sure that no one was outside the door, Torksa straightened his tunic, pulled off his hood and adopted the resolute air of a man with an important job to do. Striding quickly down the corridor toward the cell that the elven general was in, went over the escape plan in his mind. Getting into the cell wouldn’t be that hard, his forged orders from Nasuada would most likely take care of any soldiers guarding her cell, but then he had to remove the window and get both of them down three sheer stories to the ground in full sight of the wall guards. Slightly harder. With luck though, the guards on the ramparts would be distracted with the diversion Torska had set in place earlier.

Walking purposefully up to the contingent of guards stationed at the entrance to Icitalia’s cell, Torska took a deep breath and accosted the captain of the watch. ‘Captain,’ he said imperiously, ‘I need to search General Icitalia’s quarters immediately! There is a suspected escape attempt in progress.’ He almost laughed at how absurd the idea was of broadcasting the elf’s immanent departure to cover his tracks but managed to keep a straight, if harried, countenance.
‘I need to see some identification sir,’ the guard replied.
‘Of course. This should be all you need,’ Torska said, handing the Captain the forged orders from Nasuada. The guard grunted noncommittally and waved him by saying: ‘Watch your step, she’s cranky this early,’ he paused. ‘Blast it, she’s cranky all the time. Do you want a spellcaster to go in with you?’ The assassin shook his head. ‘I’m confident she won’t try anything.’
The guard raised an eyebrow at him and said something unintelligible under his breath, watching dubiously as Torska knocked. Silence. But, of course, that was to be expected from the person dubbed ‘The Ice General’. Throwing back the two deadbolts and metal bar that secured the door, he slipped carefully inside the room.

[Andromeda]

Icitalia

Running her calloused fingertips over the smooth metal of the window's bars, Icitalia stared resentfully down at the fancily clad soldiers rigidly holding their formation as their superiors barked out orders. Yes, it would be almost impossible to escape with them there, for all they were only mortals incapable of matching an elf's speed, agility, or any other ability, physical or mental. Unfortunately, even an elf could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers, especially an unarmed one that had been using all her magical talent to keep a dragon rider from breaking into her mind. Resting her face against the bars, she allowed the coldness of them to sooth her feverish skin while barely managing to keep the feeling of doom always on the fringe of her senses from overpowering her. All hopes of a rescue had been abandoned long ago along with her own plots of an easy escape. Borromeo castle was more fortified than she had originally expected, especially to the errant prisoner trying to break free of its dank stone walls.

The sound of footsteps approaching on the bare stone blocks that made up the hall outside of her prison woke her from her ever darkening well of self pity and helped to restore her senses. As she had promised upon her arrival to the Varden's cursed castle, she would remain strong and unbending until the end. Straightening her shoulders and smoothing the slight puckering of her lips and brows, the only indication on her face of her inner turmoil, she turned to face the door, her mental barriers reinforced and braced for the usual onslaught that came with visitors.

Her preparations were for naught though, for the man that approached the reattached door of her cell had the familiar conscience of one of the few soldiers brave enough to be in the same room for any length of time with her, even if it was only long enough to toss her a piece of stale bread and a pouch filled with water. Shoving back the irritation that bubbled to the surface of her mind, she ignored the polite knock they always insisted on, and leaned against the cracked window, allowing the breeze to play over her hair. As the man entered she couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at the genuine expression of fear on his face. That's right, she thought smugly, I am someone to be feared mortal, and you'd do best to remember that. Fixing him with one of her famous icy stares she almost laughed aloud at the look of panic that crossed his features, and his stumbling steps as he hurriedly retreated through the door to the safety of his fellow guardsmen. The anxious murmuring of his companions as they interrogated him on his visit in her cell soon filtered through the door, forcing her to take a deep breath in order to withhold the sharp bark of laughter that threatened to undermine her control.

Walking coolly to he handkerchief clad bread he had left on the ground during his hasty withdraw, she stooped and scooped it up in one pale hand. After carefully freeing the bread from the handkerchief, she ripped off a medium sized hunk and examined it for spells that would prevent her from using her magic. During the first few days of her stay the Varden had been foolish enough to try and trick her into eating and drinking spelled food or water. Surely it would have made her captor's job much easier, but as a General of the Empire she had been trained thoroughly in the art of discovering such magics, and as such had had to toss her food reluctantly out onto the cobbled courtyard stories below. Fortunately, her lack of nourishment had been noticed soon enough and she had been supplied with proper food and drink as they switched to more direct tactics.

Placing the hard hunk in her mouth she chewed for a solid minute before washing it down with a quick sip of water. Returning to the window, bread in one hand and flask in the other, she trained her gaze on the distant horizon where the setting sun was turning the sky and clouds around it rich shades of red, orange, pink, and blue. Taking a deep breath she stood waiting, motionless as the glowing orb slowly descended farther and farther below the flat, unremarkable stretch of land she could see from her small window. Bracing herself, she allowed her gaze to drop to the courtyard once more, and couldn't repress the hope that blossomed in her chest as she glimpsed the last of the day's formations disappear around a far corner and into a broad street where lamps flared to life even as she watched.

Without wasting another moment in painful stillness, she turned her focus to the halls branching off from the one her room opened into, noting with satisfaction the lack of movement to wards her cell. Steadying herself, she reached for the last dregs of magic stored in the gems about her waist, allowing specially chosen words of the ancient language to form unspoken on her tongue.

To her utter annoyance a pair of light steps began to work purposefully to wards her personal prison, forcing her to release the spell in fear of discovery. Though the owner of the footsteps was still a few halls down in was apparent to her that it was someone she had not encountered previously during her involuntary stay in the castle. Despite the slight wariness that made itself known in the pits of her stomach, Icitalia was confident it wasn't a rider, or anyone else worthy of unnessesary worry. Forcing herself to turn away from the welcome emptiness of the courtyard below, she withdrew into her mind once more and prepared to defend her mental blocks if the need arose.

As the unfamiliar conscience stopped outside her cell, she used her physical sense of hearing to eavesdrop on the conversation being held outside. "Captain," a man's voice barked commandingly, "I need to search General Icitalia’s quarters immediately! There is a suspected escape attempt in progress." She froze in utter shock as the stranger announced her intentions in complete confidence, struggling with anger and denial in equal parts. She had been sure no one strong enough to sense her drawing on magic was near, and there was no doubt that her mind had been closed, for never once had she let down her guard completely.
"I need to see some identification sir," the addressed guard answered calmly.
"Of course. This should be all you need," the strange man replied, his voice accompanied by a slight rustling of paper.
"Watch your step, she’s cranky this early," the guard stated before continuing after a slight pause. "Blast it, she’s cranky all the time. Do you want a spellcaster to go in with you?"
"I’m confident she won’t try anything." The ironic lilt to the man's tone tilted the tie between emotions in anger's favor, and before she knew it she was stalking to wards the door.

Barely managing to check her stride a few feet from the door she retraced her steps to she was standing with her back to the wall next to the window. Such a position would prevent her from having to worry about watching her back, and would keep her close to her escape point should she decide to make a break for it. Once more ignoring the polite knock that reverberated through the room, though more out of annoyance than amusement, she forced her expression to blank and set her feet shoulder width apart in preparation for anything.

Icitalia kept her eyes trained on the door as it swung open just wide enough for a slim man a bit taller than her five foot eleven inches to slip through. His face had a certain similarity to that of an elf's in the angular shape, and sharper features though he was undeniably human. His hair and eye color were unremarkable, though she had a sneaking suspicion that they were no more natural than the papers he had supplied to gain entry to her cell. Garbed in a plain tunic and black cloak he fit in perfectly with all the other men she had set eyes upon since her arrival at the Varden's base. Raising one fair colored brow, she stared at him for a moment, her expression inscrutable as usual before she inclined her head slightly in welcome. "What took you so long?" She inquired, a sardonic edge to her cool tone.
"I had was just preparing to put my own plan into action when you arrived, though I have to say you cut it a bit close," she frowned slightly at him before continuing. "Well, I might be in need of my plan anyways, as it seems the Empire has sent an assassin to rescue me, if that's really what you're here to accomplish." Shrugging nonchalantly she decided to cross that particular bridge if she got there. She liked to think she was worthy of a rescue, though in times of war one could never be too sure. "In any case, you might as well enlighten me on your ingenious plot."

[Elvorn]

OOC. Sorry for the powerplaying, I thought that this way the thread would get moving faster.



‘What took you so long? I was just preparing to put my own plan into action when you arrived, though I have to say you cut it a bit close.’ Torska blinked once, assimilating the fact that the General somehow knew who he was. It doesn’t matter how. he thought, Maybe she’s seen my file. Who cares? My job is simply getting her out. The elf gave him a disparaging look, saying, ‘Well, I might be in need of my plan anyways, as it seems the Empire has sent an assassin to rescue me, if that's really what you're here to accomplish.’ She shrugged. ‘In any case, you might as well enlighten me on your ingenious plot.’ Even though he had read General Sylaer’s entire dossier before embarking, he was still taken aback by her impassive personality. With a glance, he double checked the room for anything that the Varden could use to listen in on their conversation, but then realized that would have been the first thing the General did when she arrived. Her quarters were surprisingly comfortable for a prisoner, but the barred window and heavy door were stark reminders that this was a cell nonetheless. Bringing his focus back to the elven General, he stood sharply to attention and saluted. ‘Yes General. The extraction method is covert, for obvious reasons,’ he said, inclining his head toward the door, ‘I am able to remove the window bars and get you down to ground level where, if all goes as planned, the guards on the walls will be distracted by a diversion I set in place earlier. We can exit the palace grounds via the drain in the north courtyard then come out in the north-east section of the city.’ He paused, ‘That is, if you approve of it General.’ She nodded coolly, looking as if she had known this was going to happen from the start.
‘Well then, let’s get moving.’ Torska said, removing his satchel and grabbing the small flask he had used on the grates.
Stepping towards the window, he assessed the heavy iron bars, paying close attention to the ends that sank into the bottom of the stone sill. They went deep into the block, but he didn’t need to melt the entire lower portion to knock them out, only a small bit at the base and top. With deft precision that came from staking his life on the maneuver more than once, he dabbed a small amount on his fingertip and began smearing it on the metal at the base of the bar.
‘Metal corrosive.’ He explained to the elf, who was watching over his shoulder, ‘It eats into the iron, but is completely safe to the touch. Its use is only limited by your imagination.’

The opaque liquid immediately started hissing and bubbling where it touched the iron bars, dribbling down into the base as the bars melted. The top presented a slightly more difficult problem, as Torska needed to do them one-by-one and catch them when they melted off; but eventually all the bars were removed and set in a neat row on the bed.
‘Now what?’ Icitalia asked, raising a sculpted eyebrow.
By way of reply, Torska removed a coil of thin rope and a grapple from his satchel, tying the barbed head securely to the end. Hefting the grappling hook in his hand, he strode over the bed, digging the sharp tips firmly into the wood. Going back to the window, he peered around the edge of the sill, watching the two guards on this wall make their rounds. Time for the distraction. He decided.

Accessing his meager flow of magic, Torska flinched as it suffused his mind; closing his eyes and concentrating. ‘Kveikja du brisingr-lúki pungr,’ he said, directing the magic at a small black bag he had placed in the strand of gorse bushes earlier. Immediately the guards on the wall began shouting and pointing at the base of the wall, backing off when a series of loud popping noises started coming from the bushes along with a pall of thick white smoke.
‘Time to go General.’ He said, motioning toward the window and throwing the coil of rope down into the courtyard below. The elf grabbed the rope and, not climbing, but springing out of the window, lowered herself to the ground. With a last look out the barred window set in the door to make sure that the guards were suitably distracted, Torska followed her down.

The smoke outside the wall was thicker now, rising in a chalky cloud accompanied by loud bangs every now and then. Yes, the wall guards were certainly distracted, Torska thought, smiling as he watched the half dozen men stationed on top of the ramparts scurrying back and forth trying to figure out what it was that was making the commotion. The extraction is going better than I expected. Icitalia was in better shape that he had thought, obviously the Varden were only torturing her mentally, trying to abstain from ‘Imperial’ torture. Lucky for me. He thought with satisfaction. Unfortunately though, the elf did not have a weapon and the Brass had not thought to send her sword with Torska. It would probably have been a pain to get past security anyway, he consoled himself, wishing that he could have been afforded the challenge. Turning his attention back to the elven general, he groaned when he noted the fact that the sensible tunic and woolen hose she wore weren’t anything resembling the drab, nondescript clothes he had on; the bright colors would immediately be picked out of the dusty courtyard.

Icitalia rounded the corner of the keep before he did, screeching to a halt with a surprised expression. Torska’s instinct said guards, and he ejected his right wrist knife in preparation for a fight. The sound of coarse laughter confirmed his suspicions, followed by startled exclamations of fear and incredulity. He began running even harder, trying to catch up with Sylaer, who was now obviously weaponless. Her magic reserves would be low from trying to hold of the Varden spellcasters, Command had said, and it looked like they were right. Rounding the corner, he didn’t even slow down as he grabbed the nearest guard’s sword arm with his right hand, dodging inside his guard and bringing the other up just below the man’s ear. His eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped to the ground, sword hanging limply from his unconscious hand. Torska grabbed it from the man’s hand, tossing the weapon to Icitalia. Turning quickly, he faced the remaining men. There were more than he had expected, at least a dozen men wearing the livery of King Orrin’s cavalrymen now advanced warily on him with swords drawn. He swore, mentally berating himself for being so careless. Of course there is going to be soldiers wandering around after the drills today! Mistakes like this get you killed! Bringing up his guard, he motioned for Icitalia to get behind him, not caring what she thought. She was the mission objective here. He was expected to, by life or death, accomplish the mission by any means possible. Civilian casualties were acceptable, collateral damage would be overlooked. Rules didn’t apply to the men in Spearshadow. He hoped he would be able to cheat the gray horseman again, but sooner or later he wouldn’t be coming back from a mission. That was how things worked in the Empire.

Acceptable losses.

[Andromeda]

Icitalia

Swallowing her amusement at the assassin's confused expression, she waited with limited patience for him to gather his thoughts and continue. Icitalia was used to having such effects on people, whether it was her lack of personality or her unexpected reactions that caused it, it happened with nearly everyone to cross paths with her. Shrugging off the train of thought, she returned her attention to her rescuer, who had yet to supply her with his name, though if he was any good at his job he would have countless reasons to withhold such information. "Yes General. The extraction method is covert, for obvious reasons," he said, inclining his head toward the door, "I am able to remove the window bars and get you down to ground level where, if all goes as planned, the guards on the walls will be distracted by a diversion I set in place earlier. We can exit the palace grounds via the drain in the north courtyard then come out in the north-east section of the city." The assassin paused as if finished, then seemed to remember who it was he was addressing, "That is, if you approve of it General." Her resulting nod seemed to satisfy him, for he continued on briskly turning to wards her barred window as he finished speaking. "Well then, let’s get moving."

Following after a moment's pause Icitalia peered passively over the man's shoulder as he dabbed a bit of dark liquid that originated from the small flask he had removed from his satchel on the thick metal bars that blocked their way. Before she could open her mouth to inquire the name and use of the substance, the assassin was explaining. “Metal corrosive.” He informed her, “It eats into the iron, but is completely safe to the touch. Its use is only limited by your imagination.” As he applied it liberally to the top of each bar, it immediately started bubbling and fizzing in an intimidating fashion, successfully removing the obstacle that the bars had supplied. The removed bars were then laid carefully on the cot that had served has her bed for the past weeks.

After giving him a few moments of undisturbed silence, the elf decided to figure out the next part of the plan, for it was obvious that a mere human couldn’t make the three story leap from her window to the ground without an elf’s magical abilities to assist him, and as it was she didn’t want to waste her reserves on such a trivial task when she might have to face down a dragon and rider at any moment. ”Now what?” She prodded, once again arching a brow. Instead of answering he removed a grappling hook and rope from his satchel, securing the hooked metal piece to the rope’s end; he then dug the barbed tips firmly into the wood of the cot, and strode to the open window with the free end. Peering over the sill, he paused for a moment, flinching as the unmistakable tang of magic brushed against her mind and the quiet murmur of the ancient language reached her ears. Repressing the instinct to clamp down on his vulnerable mind, she followed his gaze to the wall where the guards were shouting in fear and alarm, pointing at something on the outside of the wall that was emitting a thick stream of pale smoke barely visible in the fading light of dusk and loud banging noises periodically.

“Time to go General.” Her rescuer said, his voice bringing her away from her contemplations of what spell he might have used. Stepping closer to the window, she grabbed the rope loosely in her hands and launched herself easily out of the window, tightening her grip occasionally on the rope to slow her fall. Releasing it around five or so feet off the ground, she bent her knees to absorb the impact, making the least amount of noise possible so as not to draw the attention of the guards. The assassin’s distraction was working quite well, she admitted to herself as she glanced up to the panicking guards, but better to escape while it lasted than be seen. Tilting her head to watch the man’s descent, she waited until his feet hit the ground before she took off to wards the corner of the keep that lead to the north-east part of the structure.

As she rounded the corner, she skidded to a halt, a surprised expression coming involuntarily to her face. At least a dozen men sporting the uniforms of the King’s cavalry were approaching her laughing merrily, though as their eyes caught sight of her frozen form startled gasps filled the air in the stead of their laughter. Swords and maces glinted in the firelight as the soldiers drew their weapons hastily, their expressions fearful. Of course they had heard of the captive Imperial General, but coming face to face with her after duty was another thing all together. As her mind raced over possible options, she noticed the sound of the assassin’s footsteps growing nearer, and forced herself not to dip into her depleted magic so she could take them all out at once. Bunching her muscles in expectation of the fight to come, she watched in still fascination as her rescuer efficiently downed one armed man with a single blow to the side of his head, managing to toss the man’s sword to her in the same second, and be ready to take on his next target in the next.

Catching the sword by the hilt, Icitalia allowed herself a scant second to weigh the blade, noting its balance, before she sprang forward, ignoring the assassin’s motion for her to get behind him. Just because he had been ordered to free her from the Varden’s clutches didn’t mean she had to obey his orders. In the great pyramid of Imperial forces she outranked him easily, and would not sit passively on the sidelines while he took on twelve to one odds, especially since she’d been cooped up in a small cell for the past few weeks unable to take out her frustration or anger at being held captive on anyone besides Kyeman, who didn’t serve as a very good vent anyways.

Ducking easily under one man’s swing, she sliced his throat and the man to his left’s sword arm in the same stroke, finishing the latter off with a stab through the chest before he had a chance to react. Blocking a weak blow aimed at her stomach with the flat of her stolen blade, Icitalia beheaded the guard wielding the sword in one smooth strike, dropping to the ground to avoid a slice at her head less than a second later; favoring the man responsible with a deep cut across his stomach she straightened up as he crumpled to the ground in front of her. Spinning, she brought her leg to her chest and struck a man just below the ribcage with her foot, winding him long enough for her to run him through and leap in the air over the other’s heads to land behind them, cutting another guard in half upon landing. Even after being held captive for a few weeks humans are no match for me. She thought smugly, scanning the clump of the few remaining guards for her ally. She found him fighting three of the remaining six guards while the others advanced warily to wards her in a triangle formation. Inhaling the crisp swiftly cooling air, she forced herself for regain her composure. Only during a fight did her emotions get the chance slide by her solid barriers, and it was during those moments that stupid mistakes were made on impulse. She could not afford such errors now, not with her chance to escape and her life on the line. Scanning the advancing trio’s formation for weakness, she raised her sword, charged, and swiftly disposed of them. We must be free of the keep before the guards outside the door take note of my absence, She told herself, or we will have much more to worry about than a dozen guards.

[Angmor]

Kyemen marched briskly down the corridor with three soldiers and two members of Du Vangr Gata at his heels trying to keep pace. His mouth was set in a grim line, partially out of what he was about to do and partially out of annoyance. After receiving the termination orders for his prisoner, the word had spread like wildfire among the Varden forces within the castle. At first he thought there would be no problems with that, but the very next thing he found was that there was a small coalition of Varden troops that wanted to off her personally. He truly had no idea that so many among the Varden had lost fathers or brothers or sons to the storm-colored blade wielded by the impassive hand of the Ice General, and was as such totally unprepared for the tide of vengeful desires that assaulted him.

He spent the rest of the afternoon seeing all of the people in turn, explaining dozens of times why they couldn’t be the ones to behead her, or hang her, or a few more colorful ideas submitted. A few of them even needed to be dragged forcefully away to cool down. It amazed Kyemen just how strong some hatreds could be. But then, he wasn’t really any different. He realized that if David or another of the Varden riders had Galbatorix in a cell, he would probably feel the same way. He and the rest of the Varden of course. So why is the only one who doesn’t want to kill her is me?

[/Color]

His thoughts were interrupted as his keen ears caught the sound of shouting voices from somewhere behind him, echoing down the stone corridors from the direction of the doors they had just used to enter the castle from the courtyard. He stopped and listened, causing the small procession to come to a sudden halt. He held up his hand impatiently for silence, straining to listen. He couldn’t catch the hear all of the words being shouted, but he did make out battlements and attack. He took a moment to process what this could mean before taking off at a dead run, immediately leaving the soldiers and mages behind. He reached out to contact Sierthra as he ran, shouldering aside a few other people that were in his way, knocking one over in his haste. He found her somewhere on the east side of the castle, only just coming aware of the cries.
What’s going on?[/Color]
I don’t know. The guards are shouting on the north battlements, head over there will you? I’m going for Icitalia’s cell.[/Color]
He felt her take to the sky with a rush of wings.
You think this is about her?[/Color]
What else could it be?[/Color]

The rhetorical question hung in the air without answer as the pair sped toward their places with the same amount of speed. Sierthra however, got there first. She quickly sent images of the huge cloud of white smoke rising over the northern wall of the castle, the source of the disturbance. After circling three times, she could tell one thing.
Whatever this is, it’s not an attack.[/Color]
Kyemen could think of only one other thing it could possibly be.
A distraction.[/Color]

At last he skidded to a halt in front of the cell, inciting cries of surprise from the guards. “Open it. Quickly.” He said without preamble. The lead guard stiffened.
“yes sir, but you should know that…”
But Kyemen could already sense it. The no longer contained the brooding consciousness it had once housed. Without hesitation he brought his foot up in a swift kick, easily breaking the bolt and sending it careening back on its hinges. Kyemen was inside the room faster than thought, but his eyes only confirmed what his mental perception told him. The bars of the window were laying in an incongruously neat row on the bed, which also served as the anchorpoint to a rope and grapple. His first thought was to dive out the window to search for them, but decided that he needed to know what he was searching for. “Captain!” She couldn’t possibly have done it alone, that was certain. “Sir!” said the guard, who had by now discovered what happened. “A man came sir, saying that an escape was in progress and that he was sent to keep an eye on her. He had orders from Nasuada, so we did not question it.” Kyemen came very close to throwing a punch that would have sent him across the hall, but he restrained himself, with an effort. The guard was a good man, but he was a soldier. He expected that unless something got past him, it was safe. It wasn’t the time for punishment anyway. Sierthra! Get to the eastern parade ground![/Color] His haste made him abandon courtesy as he seized the fibers of the rope and slung himself out the window, descending as swiftly as he possibly could.

Sierthra heeded his mental shout and reversed direction with a sharp bank. The urgency of the cried added speed to her already swift wings, and she was over the expansive training ground in mere moments, scanning with bright eyes. It did not take long before she noted the fray at the base of the keep, with one of the combatants leaping and slashing almost quicker than her eyes could track. The other however was using a bit more conventional methods to take down the guards that she could only assume were there purely by accident. The screams of the dying reached her at that moment, and she decided that, despite the wish of her rider, the Ice General would have to die tonight, as she had killed so many others. With a roar she furled her wings and dropped to the parade ground, head lowered menacingly.[/Size][/Blockquote]

[Elvorn]

Gasping, Torska staggered back, holding his wounded arm. The cavalryman grinned triumphantly and began advancing on him, swinging his sword in wide, wild arcs. Torska ducked, letting the blade pass harmlessly over his head before springing forward and catching the man’s sword arm with both hands. Spinning the man around so that they were back-to-back, he jerked his opponent’s arm down over his shoulder, wincing as he heard the distinctive muffled crack of breaking bone. The man screamed incoherently, dropping his sword his elbow snapped. This needs to end now. The assassin decided, bringing his fist up under the man’s square jaw. Three soldiers remained, looking decidedly less happy about their situation than when they had almost a score of men. Two of them were advancing warily on him now, holding broad-bladed stabbing spears and shields. The third was trying to quickly string a bow as his companions covered him. He wasn’t fast enough. He screamed as Icitalia bisected him cleanly in half, distracting the other two for a vital second. By the time their attention was again focused on the assassin, he was already inside their guard. Grabbing a spear from one of the unfortunate pair’s grasp, Torska brought the butt end of the weapon up, thrusting it forcefully into the other man’s gut, dodging away as he crumpled to the dusty parade ground. The last remaining man took a few wary steps back, eyeing the Imperials fearfully. Torska moved to intercept him, holding his newly acquired spear in both hands but froze in his tracks as he heard the characteristic sound of a dragon. Not this. Not this.
Oh no . . .

‘General! We need to get inside now!’ He hissed, sprinting toward the elf. An emerald blur caught his eye as he grabbed Icitalia by the arm, and the furious bellow that came as it dropped to earth gave wings to their feet. Only a few more steps to safety. Torska dug around in his satchel for a lockpick, hand closing around it just as they reached the door. In the wink of an eye, it was in his hand and working its way into the lock mechanism. After a moment’s frenzied jiggling, he gave up, ramming the head of the spear between the door and its frame. With a bound, the dragon was on top of them, snarling deep in her throat. Fear aided Torska’s arms, and with a last desperate wrench, the door swung open.

He shoved Icitalia in first, diving in behind her just as a swipe of the dragon’s claws tore the door off its hinges. ‘Move it! Get back from the door!’ He yelled, sprinting down the passageway in anticipation of the wall of fire that would inevitably come after them. They were almost too late. Just as Torska was preparing to duck in a side room after Icitalia, a massive gout of fire shot in the open doorway, incinerating the wall hangings and knocking the assassin to the floor. He got to his knees, choking on the acrid smoke and beat out a few small flames that were licking hungrily at his cloak. The noise was sure to bring guards and a disguise would no longer be any good while he was with General Sylaer, he realized. If they went back outside, they would be placing themselves at the mercy of Straethir’s dragon, which didn’t seem like a good idea. This was definitely not what Command had in mind for this extraction.

[Andromeda]

Icitalia

Straightening out of her crouch as the corpse of the third guard hit the ground, Icitalia turned to gauge how her ally was doing, and frowned in annoyance as one of the three remaining guards left to his care struggled clumsily to string his bow while his two companions prevented the assassin from attacking. Sighing almost inaudibly, she lunged smoothly forward, slicing him cleanly in half before he got the chance to shoot. Glancing over the stained red steel of her borrowed blade, she stooped to wipe it carelessly on the fine material of the fallen archer's uniform, watching out of the corner of her eye as the assassin neatly disposed of one of the reaming guards with one of their own weapons. Before she saw him finish with the last though, she was ramrod straight, mental and physical senses fully extended. She thought... yes, she was coming. The tell tale signs of Straethir's dragon filled her ears and mind, the rush of Sierthra's powerful wings and the vast, ferocious feel of her mind, familiar after her extensive battle with the rider.

She was shocked out of her paralysis when the assassin’s plea of ‘General! We need to get inside now!’ reached her ears and before she knew it, he had a firm grip on her upper arm and was dragging her to wards a near by door digging in his bag as he ran. As they reached the door he had a lock pick in his hand and was working furiously at the door. What is he doing? She thought impatiently, stepping forward to blast the door off its hinges as Sierthra closed in on their unprotected backs. Just as she was about to utter the spell that would put an end to the time wasting process of trying to pick the door, her rescuer gave it up and jammed the spear into the door jam prying it open at last. Shoving her through the door before him, they were barely clear when Kyemen’s dragon tore the door off of its hinges with one ferocious strike of her sharp ivory talons. Without pausing to enjoy their good fortune both were off and running once more in anticipation of the hot tongues of flames that were sure to be roaring down the hallway.

‘Move it! Get back from the door!’ The assassin shouted unnecessarily as they sprinted full out to wards the nearest door, the threat of being burned to a crisp spurring them on. They made it just in time. A blazing inferno courtesy of Sierthra, seared down the hall catching the tail end of her ally’s robes on fire and sending him sprawling on the floor leaving them both out of breath, but otherwise unharmed. Coughing violently to expel the smoke that she had inadvertently inhaled, she waited to let the it dissipate somewhat before she peered cautiously around the edge of the door frame. One bright green eye glared back at her from the other end of the soot blackened hall, but there was no sign of the Straethir.

Sitting back, she delved experimentally into the stores of her magic gauging how much would be used up if she warded them both from Sierthra’s flame long enough for them to turn the corner. Such a task would surely lower her remaining energy substantially, but she could think of no alternative, and she doubted the assassin had some vial or weapon in his satchel to assist them in escaping the watchful green gaze of the dragon at the mangled doorway not even a dozen yards away. Grasping her borrowed sword anew, she levered herself to her feet and turned to face the man entrusted with her rescue. He stood leaning against the wall opposite her, his appearance considerably more disshelved than it had been when she had first set eyes upon him as he slipped through her door; his hair ruffled from their dash through the halls, and his thick cloak blackened from catching fire. Glancing at her own outfit she admitted she fared no better than he with her blood speckled arms and unraveling braid. Further inspection also revealed a tear in one sleeve and a scratch on her stolen blade. Shrugging dismissively she returned to the task at hand.

“I should have enough energy left to ward us temporarily from Sierthra’s flame. We should be able to make it down the hall and out of range before I become too wearied, for there is no doubt that she will do her best to,” Icitalia paused for a moment, searching for the word. “Dispose of us before we reach safety.” Pausing once more, she stretched out her senses to their limits to verify that the rider was not in the vicinity at the moment. “I do not sense Straethir in the immediate area, so no extra energy will be required if we move swiftly. I am not sure how long I would last against both dragon and rider in my weakened state.” She admitted, wiping a smudge of dirt off her sword with her thumb as she awaited his response.

After a slight pause to mull it over the assassin nodded, and Icitalia closed her eyes to focus for a moment, feeling the familiar rush of power that coursed through her veins whenever she used magic. "Skölir nosu fra brisingr." She mumured quietly, gripping the hilt of her sword as her strength was sapped by the spell. Opening her eyes once more, she reinforced the shields on her mind and returned her attention to her ally. "Alright, let's go." She told him, racing out the door and down the hall.

[Angmor]

Kyemen dropped the last few meters, drawing his sword cautiously. The guard detail was on its way down after him, but they could never equal his speed, and he did not feel particularly inclined to wait for them. Looking down, he could clearly see the footprints of the two fugitives in the loose earth at the base of the castle. Unfortunately, the dirt was thoroughly trampled only a meter out, so he could not tell where they went, although he could guess. But how are they planning to escape? They'd have to go over the wall, or get out the front gate...

[/Color]
Just then, he felt Sierthra's mind change, becoming flooded warm rage, which could only mean she had found them. Quickly ascertaining her position, he started advancing toward where the castle's architecture took a turn, sword at the ready.

. . .

Her two potential targets were pinned to a wall, and had nowhere else to go. The door was locked apparently, as the human fighter was working some useless action against the lock. Looking him over, Sierthra decided that he was definitely someone sent by the Empire to rescue Sylaer, because apparently Galbatorix didn't care enough about her to come himself. Sierthra resolved that he wasn't much of a threat to her person, but he had to be clever. After all, he had gotten this far.
Doesn't really matter now though. Poor fool.[/Color]
She lunged forward, partially extending her wings, swiping with her serrated claws.

She missed.

It was rather comical, actually. The door sprang open as she was in the air, and her intended targets dashed inside with speed that rather reminded her of rabbits springing into a warren. Barely half a second later, her claws found the space where they had been standing and sent the doors soaring from their housings in a shower of splintered irony. With a growl of anger she forced her head through the doorway, her neck snaking down the corridor. She knew her shoulders were too wide to be able to fit fully inside, but she didn't care. As soon as she had pushed as much of her streamlined bulk inside as she could, she set her eyes on the fleeing pair and unleashed a jet of jade-colored flame, but was again half a second too slow. The fugitives managed to duck in a side room just ahead of the conflagration, escaping with nothing more than singed clothing. Sierthra cut off the flame immediately, knowing from Kyemen's memories of the castle, somewhat indistinct as they were, that there was no other way out of that particular room. In the meantime, she reached out and contacted Kyemen, finding him only a few meters away, somewhat to her surprise.
Kyemen. I have them here.[/Color] She said as calmly as she could, sending him an image. It was right then that the general and the rescuer made another run for it, dashing from the room and sprinting down the corridor. Without a thought she unloosed another fiery attack that pursued them much faster then they could run. It would only be a moment before it closed around them, burning away clothing and charring flesh...

But when it reached them, it seemed to wrap around an invisible barrier that enclosed the running pair, shielding them from the flame. Frustrated, she poured on more fire, opening her throat as far as she could. Sylaer was obviously the source of the spell, because Sierthra could see her flagging from the strain. She remembered from Kyemen's training that the body could only lose so much energy at one time without a rest, so if she could just get her target to faint... It was not to be. Just when it looked like she was about to, they disappeared around a bend in the corridor, out of reach.
Sierthra roared in frustration.

. . .

They got away![/color]
Kyemen felt a wave of helpless anger rolling from her as she extricated her head from the doorway. He was standing beside her now, looking down the hall that was now charred black by her wrath. He thought about using magic on them right then and there, but he figured it wouldn't be wise. Even if he could find their minds, which were shielded and hidden by now, using a spell or getting into a mental battle from this distance would not be a good idea. Just then Captain Hurat ran up, he and his men out of breath from the climb from the cell and the subsequent run. He was not however not too exhausted to give a salute. “What are your orders, sir?” He asked breathlessly. Kyemen was not particularly inclined to answer, but he could see by Hurat’s posture that he truly wanted to redeem himself from his blunder. Kyemen thought of all the times when Oromis and others had given him a second chance, and decided that this man deserved one as well. “Very well. Send men to sound the alarm, and gather as many men as you can. Isolate this area of the castle, then start a search, moving inwards and upwards.” Hurat nodded and turned, but Kyemen remembered something and grabbed his shoulder. “Oh, and see if you can get some spellcasters also. The prisoner is weakened, but they’d be helpful.”
“Very good sir. And what will you do?”
Kyemen hadn’t thought about that. He paused, considering.
“I’ll take three men and go in after them. See if I can follow their trail.”
“Very well. Good luck sir. And, thank you for trusting me with this.” He added quietly, then dashed off to fulfill his orders. What about me?[/Color] Interjected Sierthra, nudging his shoulder with her nose.
“You circle the castle in the air.” He said out loud for the benefit of the soldiers. “The search pattern may drive them onto the roof, and then we’ll be ready for them.”

His friend bobbed her head affirmative and leapt into the sky, nearly knocking him over with the downdraft. One of the soldiers who would be backing him up regained his balance. “Sir, what do you want us to do when we find her? Should we take her alive?” The question caught Kyemen off guard. He was silent for a moment, pondering, but decided that everything that needed to be thought about had been. There was nothing left to say, and nothing left to do but simply have the courage.
“No.” He said at last. “Kill her if you can.”
With that, he turned and started through the splintered doors, sheathing his sword and drawing his twin knives. The soldiers drew their weapons and followed, books crunching on the dusting of loose sand that had been turned into glass by Sierthra’s barrage. Strangely, Kyemen found that he was perversely glad that Icitalia had escaped. At least this way, he would slay her somewhat more honorably than just beheading her as a prisoner. This way, at least, she would go down fighting. But then he remembered the dismembered bodies of the soldiers, who’s blood still stained the courtyard behind him, and his jaw set angrily.
General, this ends now.[/Color][/Size][/Blockquote]

[Andromeda]

Even with her spell to negate Sierthra's fire, the heat was unbearable. Icitalia could almost feel her skin drying as the jade colored flames crackled around them, licking eagerly at the edges of her shield: waiting for her energy to run out. It was well known that magicians could only take so much strain at once without collapse, though the amount differed depending on the magician's power. Despite her immense magical reserves, even she had her limits, and they were swiftly approaching. She forced herself not to concentrate on the tingling in her legs that told her they were going numb, and turned her attention to the assassin, who was racing by her side, dark cloak streaming out behind him with the speed of their flight. He seemed unharmed aside from the sluggishly bleeding wound he had sustained in the earlier fight, and the slight charring on the edge of his cloak from their first encounter with dragon fire. Good. She thought, satisfied. She would not be able to escape without his assistance. Her plan had dissolved into ruin when the dragon and her rider had shown up. She was fast, but even so, an elf could not hope to outrun a dragon, nor was she strong enough to immobilize them long enough for her to escape. Of course, after escaping from her cell, she realized the foolishness of her plan. Even if she had managed to sneak past all of the Varden's guards, she would not have been able to find cover from Sierthra anywhere. Surda was situated at the edge of the desert, and besides being dry, they were sadly lacking in any sort of refuge.

Icitalia stumbled and released an involuntary curse as her legs went completely numb from the drain. Shielding herself and another person would not normally be as costly, but in her worn state, even the smallest spell was a strain. She swore again, at the Varden rider and his dragon who had so boldly snatched her from the Empire's threshold. It was their fault she was on the verge of losing her hold on the spell, their fault she was being forced to rely on another as she hadn't in over a century. All her rage coalesced into an impromptu vow of revenge. She would not let their part in her struggle go unpunished. As she pondered the forms her revenge could take, Icitalia found herself imagining how much simpler things would be as a rider. As a rider, she would be on a more even playing field with Kyemen and Sierthra, and it would be worlds easier to fulfill her vow. Of course, she'd have to escape alive first. Some instinct told her that her Kyemen was no longer under orders to take her alive. After so long on the most wanted list, she knew to trust her instincts.

She was jolted out of her reverie by the approaching corner. Once around it, they would be out of range of Sierthra's deadly torrent of fire. Icitalia forced on an extra bit of speed as black spots began to swim at the edge of her vision. It was so close… She felt the intensity of the fire increase as the corner grew nearer, as if Sierthra had realized how close they were to escaping and was determined to make her faint before they were out of range. She might just succeed. Icitalia thought grimly as she wobbled on legs that had lost all feeling, propelled purely by will power. It had been a long time since her limits had been breeched, and she was hard pressed to recall such an event. Even in her youth she had excelled beyond the normal range of spells expected of one so young. Spells that tired elves that had many years of studying on her only left her slightly worn. No one had been more surprised than her when enchantments she had never dreamed of casting for another few decades of constant study left her lips as easily as breathing. Who knew that a shy bookworm would turn into such an accomplished spell caster at such a young age? She had never expected it, that at least, was certain.

Icitalia sighed in relief as they careened around the corner and out of range, their breathing loud in the sudden absence of roaring flame. As soon as she was sure they were not in danger from another jet of jade colored flame, she released the spell, sagging slightly in relief as the black spots began to withdraw from her vision and feeling began to trickle back into her legs. That had been a little too close for comfort. As an Imperial general she was unused to such bursts of hardship, and although she worked hard to keep in shape by sparring with others in the practice arenas, short exertions in such a controlled environment just couldn't compare with the steady stream of energy needed to last a day long siege, or maintain a spell for a long period of time even in exhaustion. Sure, she had more endurance than a human, but it had been a while since she had seen fit to attend any battles her troops were involved in personally, as most of them had been minor skirmishes. I shall have to work on that upon my return. She thought, pushing herself up from her knees where she had been leaning to dispel her dizziness. Now, I just need to focus on making my escape.

She spared the assassin one more cursory glance before she set off down the abandoned hallway with long, even strides. Without the spell to sap her strength, she recovered quickly, and was almost back to her original strength when they reached the end of the corridor where she paused, ears pricked to hear the slightest sound from around the corner. In enemy territory, one could never be to careful, and even though the hall seemed abandoned, she stopped to be sure no surprises lurked out of sight. After her prior encounter with King Orrin's soldiers, she was not taking any chances, and as she listened, she was grateful she had taken the time to see if the coast was clear, for the tell tale clank and chatter of off duty guards reached her ears.

She tightened her grip on her stolen blade and turned to address the assassin, who had come to a halt beside her. "From the sound of it, there are at least half a dozen guards coming our way." She whispered to him, though judging by the careless chatter spilling from around the corner, the guards were unaware that two Imperial fugitives were loose in the castle, so it was unlikely that they'd be listening for conspiratorial whispering. "I see no way of avoiding a direct confrontation with them. There have no been any other halls branching off of this one that I have noticed, so going around them is not an option. Backtracking is also out, as I doubt Straethir or his dragon have left us such an obvious escape route, and at least one of them is sure to be guarding it." Even as she ruled out avoiding a fight with the soldiers in their path, she knew that if there had been another option, she would have opted to confront them in any case. Although she did not consider herself a cold blooded killer, she was not in the mood to show mercy after all that she had suffered in the Varden's sanctuary, and if an armed soldier bearing rebel insignia happened to crossed her path, they would not be spared.

"Good, let us be on our way, then." She announced, having decided without a word from the assassin. It may have been his rescue mission, but since she was the one being rescued, in her eyes at least, whether they fought her not should be at her discretion. Without further hesitation, she readjusted her hold on the stolen blade and swung around the corner to come face to face with a score of surprised infantry men.

Icitalia cleaved the first man in two with a side slice before they recovered, and when they finally managed to draw their various weapons, she had already beheaded two others. As the fight progressed, it was obvious to her they were unused to fighting outside their ranks, for after their initial shock had passed, they all came at her at once. The attack was a complete failure. If they were my men, I would skewer the lot of them. As it was, she inflicted similar wounds on them, running several men through as they got their weapons tangled together, unable to maneuver in the limited space. Let this serve as an example of what will happen to any Varden soldier to cross my path. She thought coldy, lost in the high that often came over her when she got closer to avenging her parents.