Story:Conquest/Corsail/Trials of the Silent Killer/Part 1

Part 1: The Slayer in Green

The legends described Corsail as a figure that looked as if it were tailor made to kill. It was said that his muscle mass was made apparent even through his thick armor, and would put the greatest of veterans from Sidorius to shame, and yet his figure was slim enough that he could hide from sight and move faster than one could keep up. No one had seen under his armor, so it was hard to tell if he bore scars underneath, but some stories spoke of a handsome man beneath a dreaded armor. There was no consensus among the legends regarding where he hailed from. Some claimed he was raised in Groland's jungles, where he learned to survive by slaying the wild beasts. Others say he was raised on the streets in the cities of Dorter, in which he fought street gangs before he saw his true calling in life to be an assassin.

The details were always off, but every single legend spoke of Corsail's traits in battle with unanimous detail: his swift and graceful movements as he outmanoeuvred any who dared to face him in combat, his confident strides as he walked away leaving trails of corpses after a battle, and his brute strength as he cut apart an adversary with his blades. And this was from the same man who moved so slyly from point to point, his mind going over every possible exit and entry point and running through a list of possible ways to kill his target and leave with no traces left, going through and eliminating each one until he remained with one single route, and up to ten backup routes, knowing he would inevitably have to go through the same process a mere few minutes later. How he would have almost inhuman efficiency, being able to move faster than a guard on patrol could search for clues, but take such caution as to leave not the slightest trace of his movements.

The man who wore armor completely covering his body, that could almost be mistaken for that of a Judge were it not for the dark green tint that made it difficult to see in shadows yet painfully obvious in combat that you knew who you were fighting. Attached to his armor were many blades, his favourite of which were the two large blades attached below his elbows, extending from there to just a few inches further than his hands: they would be the first thing that would be driven into the flesh of his victim. His throwing knives, which he threw with startling accuracy from nowhere to claim another poor victim.

Thus went the many legends of Corsail, the Slayer in Green. But like any legend, it was extremely difficult to believe. It sounded so hyperbolic, and Corsail sounded so inhumanly powerful, that there were a very small number of people who subscribed to the belief that Corsail was a real assassin. Each legend written about him contradicted the other, and historians could find legends detailing such a man as far back as a century. There were a few people who believed such a powerful assassin still existed, but those were often conspiracy theorists who mistrusted the Judges and did not care for the Church, or small sects of the Church who believed that God placed men to punish those he did not like. Many aspiring assassins wore green armor themselves, not realising that it was too heavy for them and often awkwardly failing their missions, adding to the credence that such a man could not exist.

But that was the main reason why Corsail was so powerful. No one believed he even existed, and very few who learnt the truth of his existence lived to tell the tail, and those who did, were not believed. The only ones who truly knew of Corsail, had spoken to him even, were his clients. The powerful nobles affiliated both with the Church and the Judges, the higher priests who kept much of the money the churchgoers gave to themselves, or even some of the Judges, each often fighting over winning Corsail over with gold and influence. But all of them, with their influence, publicly denounced the legends of Corsail. Others would often over-exaggerate the legends of Corsail to make them sound less believable, or bribe Inquisitors to wrongfully execute innocent men for assassinations that Corsail had committed.

The less knew he existed, the more dangerous he became. This, not the supreme combat strength or extremely potent murders, was his greatest strength.

Corsail often went through these thoughts in his head. In a way, he was almost marvelled by his own mystery, fully aware that if he went out in public in his armor, he would be laughed at by those who would believe he was another failed imitator, and only when he was in battle would anyone truly believe that the legends told about him were true. But the real reason he often returned to such thoughts were simply that, while making treks through the hills of Zeltuss, his active mind had nothing to focus on. While sneaking through a building, he would often have to go through every detail of his surroundings and every possible escape or entrance, but he had nothing to think about while wondering across hills.

His target was another monastery up in the highlands. Heavily guarded, but he knew that higher priests loved to keep huge gardens, whether it was to flaunt their wealth to visitors or to grow food away from the peasants who they claimed to be helping by spreading the word of God to. He'd already retrieved the exact plans of their house, having tracked down and paid off the very architect who had designed it. And as he got closer to the house, he would go over the plan several times in his head to remind himself of it.

He could tell why no one had entered through the garden: not only was it on the rougher terrain at the edge of an enormous hill, but it was covered with thick bushes and a large gate. But he knew that if he made an opening small enough and then crawled through, he would have no issues. sneaking through. That was what he thought, until he saw a larger gap caved near the edge. Perhaps it was meant as a secret exit, but it appeared too awkwardly placed to be one. Nonetheless, crawling through here would mean not having to make his entrance more obvious. He crawled through, and stuck close to the bushes as he made his way in through the backdoor.

Much as the plans to the house had outlined, it led to a large dining room, with tables neatly stacked and ready for presumably a dinner the next day. The brick walls were unpainted, but the room was surrounded with colorful, gothic windows, similar to those that would be found in a church. The high priest which owned this home had taken mosaic windows gifted to his church and used them in the one room that would impress the most guests. That, Corsail thought, would be his downfall, as it was so foolish placing windows within a building that would lead to the very corridor the stood between the dining room and the living quarters of the priest. The doors would obviously be guarded, but no one knew that the windows could be opened just enough to create an opening leading to another room.

Corsail stayed mostly in the shade, in case a guard entered the empty room just as a precaution. As he looked for the best window to escape through, he noticed something about one of the tables: a seat on the far end of the rectangular tables was ever so slightly out of position. It was budged to the right a bit, leaning diagonally while each of the others was completely straight. The average person would not have been able to notice, but Corsail had an eye for detail. He looked up, and just as he suspected, the window was open at the top by at least an inch. It was very obvious to him now: someone else had attempted to break in before him. This was natural, many people believed he did not exist, and would laugh if they were told they'd assigned a mission to him, before assigning it to someone else.

Corsail made his way through. The carpets of the corridor were red, lit with chandeliers with a white, concrete wall. He would be easily spotted, so he had to move quickly, but not too quickly that anyone would be alerted to his presence. He prepared his blades in one arm and held a throwing knife in the other, as he made his way through the corridor to the door leading to the next, believing it would be a very smart place for a guard. As he opened the door quickly, he aimed his blade, but no one answered. On the floor in front of him, however, was an unconscious guard. Dressed in silver armor and red armor, with the pike he held dropped right beside him, this guard had been knocked out by whoever had entered before Corsail. This was insufficient. Not only was he still breathing, he was kept in plain sight. While it was futile removing all traces of the knocked out guard, Corsail still felt it necessary to move his body to the wall just next to the door where it would not be immediately noticed, and stabbed the guard to ensure he didn't wake up. He kept moving.

Holding his blades close to him once again, he was a mere room and staircase away from his target now. Another corridor followed, and another guard knocked out. But this time, the guard was closer to the door on the opposite end, and wore no armor. It had been removed by whoever was attempting to kill this priest. Corsail grunted at how obvious this guard's placement was, but felt that he did not have the time to move the body aside. He went through the door into the penultimate room.

As he had suspected, this room was filled with guards. A much darker room, still with red carpets but with a painted wall, a staircase on the opposite end would lead to the higher room where the high priest would sleep. Corsail stuck close to the edges of the room, knowing that his armor would appear painfully obvious here. He would look around for guards. Two were placed below the staircase, two more patrolling up and down the more open halls leading to this room. He would need to lure the guards away, or to time his thrown knives properly and make a dash to kill his target. But despite what the legends said about him, Corsail's accuracy with the knives wasn't perfect. The slightest miss and his mission would be a failure, the guards would rush after him, and Corsail would be spending too much time fighting them to know where his target had ran to. He would have to find ways to lure them out...

...or not. Each of the guards, he had noticed, stood up straight with their pike held in the air, as if they were paid more to look professionally than they were because the high priest expected to be assassinated. But some of them made damning glances towards the one of them who held it slightly more angled than the others. As Corsail was able to catch a glimpse at this guard from the side, he could almost see them drip sweat. There was no way this priest would hire a man so new to this job and so unprofessional. It didn't add up, but it was obvious to him: this was not a guard, but the assassin who had come in before him. And if they had already done most of the work, Corsail did not have to kill any guards. This man would do it for him.

Just as he had predicted, the high priest walked down the stairs, presumably about to set the table for whatever guests were soon to arise. And just as he had predicted, as he walked past the guards, the assassin turned around, and thrust his pike into the priest. Corsail could see the shock in the eyes of this assassin, as if he were horrified by what he had just done. The assassin appeared to hesitate, as the other guards two turned in shock, but reacted much quicker. The two on patrol shouted at the top of their voice and rushed towards him, while the one next to him turned his own pike. Corsail had no obligation to stick around now that his target was dead, but on instinct, did so.

From a distance, he tossed knives towards the guard that had turned on the assassin. The assassin still retained his horrified look, and backed away from the now dead guard, startled. The other two guards continued to rush towards him, but this time, the assassin reacted. He blocked the pike of one of them with his own and stabbed them, then he kicked the other and thrust his pike around. More guards arrived, as the assassin fought them, but Corsail had shown up. Taking confident strides towards the guards, each of them had a look on their face almost as horrified as the amateur assassin, as Corsail cut them apart with his blades. Many of them fell back on the floor as they watched him, just before he threw knives and hit their throats, killing them and the others who attempted to run. Those guards who had tried to fight Corsail found it worthless, he cut apart their pikes and killed them, with a stab to the side or to the skull, until none remained.

Corsail turned to the horrified amateur assassin. After a few moments, the assassin spoke.

"Y-you're...you're him," he began with a startled look in his eyes, "aren't you? You're the S...Slayer in Green?!"

Corsail responded merely by nodding.

"I-I...I didn't," the assassin continued almost apologetically, "that you were real!"

"We must leave," Corsail said simply. His voice was deep and gruff, yet still gave him a very commanding presence. Though one could not see beneath his helmet, it was easy to imagine him glaring in frustration at the man he had just saved.

"You're...you're Corsail," the assassin said, as if he'd just ignored Corsail's command, "really?"

"Yes," Corsail responded irritably. "I assume you had planned an escape route."

The assassin nodded hurriedly, and then nodded towards the hallways which would lead through to the entrance. Corsail appeared disappointed, but now that anyone left alive would be alerted to their presence anyway, the two made a dash and left.

Outside the house, the two slowed down from their run, and began to slowly walk towards the road leading back to the nearest town, before they stopped. The assassin stood in silence, completely astonished still, while Corsail merely looked around meticulously, ensuring that no one else was around. When he had finally concluded that they were definitely alone, he addressed the assassin.

"Did you learn that in an assassins' school?" he asked, with a hint of impatience in his voice.

"Yes," the assassin replied, "I learned from a society in Dorter. I was taught by some of the best ex-assassins, anyone who can stay alive after what they've done without being caught is the best. But, none of them could...could ever be as great as- it truly is an honor, sir."

Corsail grunted, again with disappointment. "Was that your first kill?"

"It was," the assassin replied, looking down at his feet. "I wasn't prepared. I must look like such a mess."

"No one is prepared for their first kill," Corsail grunted. "No school can teach you any 'technique' to deal with the shock you feel as you thrust a blade into the body of another man and end his life. They cannot teach you to escape from the haunted visions and the trauma you will face afterwards. They can make you an efficient killer, but they cannot make you deal with what comes afterwards."

The assassin continued to look to his feet. "I'm sorry," he said, "I am weak. I wanted to follow this career path because I thought- I thought that I could follow in the footsteps of my father. He was an assassin for the Judges-" and stopped there. He looked up at Corsail, and could tell immediately that Corsail had not asked the question to learn more about him. "I want to turn my back on this life. You may claim the bounty if you wish."

"Hah," Corsail responded almost condescendingly, "you have much to learn. You cannot turn your back on this life now. It is too late. Once you have claimed your first kill, it marks you forever. You can never again be human. You will be an outcast forever, wanted by very few other than those who wish to make use of your services. You will live with the trauma, with the fear of yourself, you will know that you are a killer and little more. You will at first try to run from it, try to make excuses for what you did, but you will learn that this is no longer an option for you. You will instead turn to killing more people, as your humanity is slowly drained from you."

The assassin did not raise a single word in response. He wanted to cry out, to say that he could still turn his life around, but he was in the presence of a legend with far more experience than him. No matter how much he wanted to shut him out and ignore him, he couldn't, he knew that he would be wrong. He left Corsail continue.

"Let us talk about your technique. You had the same point of entry as I - the back garden - but you left your point of entrance in a place too obvious to be dismissed. A smaller gap could have at least appeared as a faulty growth or to have been eaten by a wild animal attempting to poach the growing vegetables, but instead you left an awkward one. And then you entered through the dining room, the same as I. But when you climbed a table to reach the window, you moved the chair and did not properly shut the window on your way out. This was careless."

How did you want me to do it?, the assassin thought to himself. He felt Corsail was asking the impossible. ''How exactly could I have moved fast enough to avoid detection and leave no small traces? What guard would really notice a small inconsistency like that anyway?'' But it was obvious through his anxious facial expression that he was thinking that, and Corsail caught on.

"It may not seem relevant to you," Corsail said, "but these things are important. You can leave no traces. Furthermore, you did not watch the movement of the guards closely enough. Many of them were suspicious of you for this reason. High priests are arrogant, they keep guards to feed their ego, not because they feel truly endangered. A guard should be there to simply look professional, to look in line with the others, to stand tall and smart. You did none of those things. Had the priest not climbed down the stairs sooner, you may have never killed him."

And the assassin knew what lecture was coming next. His fear when he had killed the priest. How, if it were not for Corsail, he would have died. Corsail was asking the impossible of him, but he was much too frightened to speak up. He let Corsail continue, expecting more damning talk.

"But you were prepared when you fought them. You knew that killing your target in plain sight would inevitably lead to battle, and you were trained for it. You killed them with elegance. You were hesitant, and often wielded your weapon clumsily, and yet you fought well. And though you hid your evidence poorly, you had made an attempt to do so even if it was not thorough. This is telling: you did not cover your tracks poorly because you were incompetent, but because you were careless. It was your first kill, you were under pressure, you knew you could never turn back at any point. You show promise."

The assassin's eyes lit up. He tried to hide the fact that a tear was forming in them. A compliment from a legend like Corsail meant the world to him after what he had just done. Corsail was empathetic towards him, having clearly known what his first kill was like too.

"Your name?" Corsail asked.

"Thorne," the assassin responded. He knew he did not need to give a surname. For an assassin, the family name did not matter, for an assassin could have no family. The family would be hunted down and used against them, and a killer who lived with the trauma and spent all day planning hit jobs would make for an awful father and an even worse husband.

"From Dorter, yes?" he asked. Thorne nodded hurriedly. "I see. The church has little hold over Dorter. Many Judges like to keep it that way. Even if high priests are as far out as here in Zeltuss, any priest that had been spotted in Dorter would still be seen as a threat. I presume you were to kill this priest to claim a bounty." Thorne nodded once again.

"Do you wish to split the bounty?" Thorne asked.

"No," Corsail said. "I have no need."

"I bet," Thorne said, "with how many you've killed, you must already be rich. Corsail grunted.

"You still have a lot to learn," he said, almost disappointed. He began to walk away, without so much as a goodbye. But it was in those moments as Corsail walked away that Thorne's trauma returned. He felt so helpless without someone sympathetic towards him, and frightened.

"Wait!" he called out. Corsail stopped, but did not turn towards him. "I want to learn from you." Corsail turned slowly, almost curiously. "I wish to travel with you. I wish to learn from you."

"What do you wish to learn?" Corsail asked.

"How to be the greatest assassin I can be," Thorne asked simply. He could feel the contempt from Corsail return, but continued anyway. "How to be feared as you are. How to truly make an impact. I want to be worth something. If I am condemned to a life as a killer, then I want it to be worthwhile."

Though he could not see through his helmet, Thorne could sense what was almost a smirk from Corsail. Corsail then approached him again, and looked down at him. Thorne's face was covered in dust and blood, but he was an otherwise young and fair looking man. The dust and blood almost tainted the look of a man who could be innocent and lead a healthy life, perhaps as a scholar, or maybe even as a landowning noble. And yet, the skills in combat showed that Thorne truly was meant to be an assassin.

"I will train you," Corsail said, "but there are many things you must understand. I am wanted across the continent, by both the Church and the Judges, despite the ironic fact that I work with both of them. Many others do not believe I exist. This will mean you will live an uncomfortable life. Worse so than most assassins. You will accompany me as I claim my next targets. You will not pursue your own. When we are finished, you may be as wanted as I am." He paused, and Thorne's frightened face appeared to be more a calm one. "Are we clear?"

"Yes," Thorne said.

"Good," Corsail nodded. "First, you will claim your bounty. You had a plan to return to Dorter?" Thorne nodded hurriedly, a smile beginning to form on his face. "Do not be disheartened if your clients look to you with surprise. They may not have expected you to succeed. They may offer you harder missions. You will decline. I will set up a camping site outside the city. You will return to me there. We will sleep, and then we will leave immediately. Do not expect to ever sleep in the comfort of an inn again."

"I understand," Thorne said. While Thorne's heart fell as Corsail spoke, he knew that he had little choice. As Corsail had said, he was marked for the rest of his life by this murder.

"You should probably remove your armor now," Corsail said, "lest you want to be incorrectly identified as a Church guardsman."

Thorne nodded, and removed the armor. Underneath it, he wore a basic shirt, trousers and sandals, which would be similar to the garments of a lower class, poorer man were it not for how clean it was with no obvious tears. His arms were toned with plenty of muscle mass, but other than the dust and blood on his face, and a little on his shoulders and legs, he lacked any real scars or cuts. This was a man who had become fit by training in the comforts of indoors, and not through running a farm outside, or through fighting often. Even the assassins' school he claimed to have been taught at had left him with no obvious broken bones or injuries. It was easy to believe that this had been his first taste of combat. He then began to discard the weapons and the pike he had taken from the guards, before Corsail spoke.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I will not need these," Thorne responded. "They are not mine."

"You brought no weapons with you?" Corsail asked in bewilderment.

"No," Thorne said. "It is not wise to gain an attachment to weapons. You can fill your blade with many engravings, or use many custom-made handles, but they give you no tactical advantage whatsoever. They are disposable tools, nothing more."

Corsail grunted. He knew that Thorne was parroting a teacher from whatever school he had trained at.

"You have much to learn," Corsail said, showing contempt. "Your weapons are what will save your life when you need them to, just as much as they will take others. You will need to be used to them, how they feel, how you can wield them. You will think every night of how best your weapons can serve you, and if you simply trade them away, they will be useless to you. And why would you leave behind the most obvious evidence of your crime?"

Thorne looked confused, but once again, did not raise a word in response. What Corsail had told him went against every single teaching he had known, but he acknowledged Corsail's wisdom.

"You must choose your weapons well," Corsail said. "Before you return to me, you will use the bounty you have earnt to purchase knew weapons. If you do not like the ones your bounty can afford you, you may trade them later."

"But the bounty was supposed to be for-"

"A new house?" Corsail guessed. Thorne looked to his feet, as Corsail grunted, then sighed. "You must divorce yourself, once and for all, from this idea that you will ever enjoy such luxuries again. You will live without wealth."

This time, Thorne's confusement led him to raise a word in response.

"But what is the point?" he asked. He knew that the question he had just asked meant nothing on his own, so he quickly amended it with a follow-up: "Why do you fight to claim bounties for your clients if not to earn from them? If you are independent of a guild, and do not seek wealth, then why do you bother to fight? Are you not the richest assassin who lived?"

"No," Corsail said. The distaste in his tone was enough to shame Thorne into silence, before Corsail. "You still understand very little. Divorce yourself from the legends about me. I am not perfect. I am not as fast as they say I am, and I am not as strong. I rely solely on my technique and my speed to outmanoeuvre my opponents, not to mention the blades I carry. And though I am neutral, though I have taken money from both the Brotherhood of Judgement and the Church, I seek the fortunes from neither."

Thorne stood in silence. It still made no sense to him. Soon, Corsail slowed down. He spoke to Thorne more softly, as if to show some sympathy.

"I will make an assassin of you yet, Thorne", Corsail said. "I will fulfil your wishes and train you to be the greatest assassin. But you still have a lot to learn."

"I know that," Thorne said. "And I thank you. I am willing to tackle whatever you have to throw at me."

"Good," Corsail said. "But that is not what you should be concerned about. What is important is if you are willing to tackle what the world will throw at you."