"The Night consumes us all..." by Camilla ´Motone´ Whitney

            The night consumes us all with its beauty and silence.

            Mary wasn’t a spectacularly good-looking woman.  Indeed, in no way did she stand out in a crowd, unless one got a close look at her.  Then one would be impounded with a sense of hollowness.  But she was good at not being noticed.

            Physically, she had a thin face accented with pale cheeks, accented with pale freckles, offsetting her large, traumatized-looking green eyes.  Her hair floated in a ruddy frizz about her face, and she was very slight of build.

            In demeanor she was timid.  She moved quickly and silently, as though afraid of being caught at whatever she was doing.  She would shrink herself down, as though trying to take up as little space as possible, and she rarely spoke; quietly when she did speak.

            Mary was a woman who blended easily into the background, and was soon forgotten by any who saw her.  A woman of completely mediocre looks, she didn’t stand out in any way, and nobody would note her while scanning a crowd.  She was as unnoticeable, inconspicuous and unobtrusive as a spider mounted in some corner, seduced by the silence and beauty of the night.

            The night consumed her.  If she was unnoticeable at day, she was invisible at night.  During the day she at least had a name to identify her—albeit a plain and easily forgotten name.  The night took no such liberties, politely allowing her to remain unidentified.  The day was disobliging.  It showed her face, and that made her vulnerable.  But the night loved her, hiding her small, masked body from watchful, penetrating eyes.  She needed the night.  She was no possessor of magic, as were most others like her.  But magic was an identifier, and nobody would suspect the small, shy woman, seemingly slave to her husband as she hastily bought bread in the market and hastily returned home.

            A husband?  Ha!  That she would be so lucky to have a man provide for her!  But it was too late; she could not give up the night, the sweet, silent, unassuming night.  It had consumed her.  No man would take her, husbands were for the beautiful, and she made sure she was not beautiful.  And she could not let them find her out.  She must stay in the oblivious dark.

            Like the spider, she would climb walls, descend from threads, and methodically bleed life from her victims to herself. 

            Night consumes us with its beauty and silence, as does death.  Death she knew well.  She could smell it on the night’s darkness.  It was a beauty that allowed life, and a silence that kept her alive.

            One night she could not be seen as she climbed a wall, robed as Death—that is to say, in black—covered by Night.  Her slight arms lifted her frail frame nimbly up the rope, a silent, promised reward preaching to her mind.  Even if it benefited others, she still did things her way, which meant double the reward for her.  In her pouch were three small, silver daggers—inexpensive, but incredibly sharp.  They were regularly sold to children and adults alike, as hunting knives, throwing dagger for games, or for carving and whittling—to each his own purpose.

            Once she reached the top of the rope, it was a simple matter of opening the window and going in—child’s play, with her experience, and especially with the nice wide ledge some unthinking architect had designed.

            Once inside she kept to shadow, the simple brother of her nursemaid, Night, and sought her purpose.  First to take care of the governor.  She needed to be unencumbered should a fight arise, and besides, business before pleasure.  If she knew her architecture, the master bed would be on the second level, and she had ascended to the third; a precautionary measure, and a chance to scope things out. 

            As she was finding the downwards staircase, employing the same silence that Night uses to steal upon Day, she took mental note of various objects that aroused her attention.  The rich always had wonderful things laying around for decoration.  Like swords, for instance.  There were always swords hanging around on the walls.  She plucked one off carefully, weighing it in her hands.  It was light, and the handle was big enough for both of her hands.  She liked that, and decided to carry it with her.  Sure, she didn’t know anything about sword fighting, but she could probably figure it out.

            The walls on the staircases were lined with portraits of former governors, some with their wives.  Valuable, she assessed, but too big.  Beautiful, nonetheless, specifically the use of shadow.

            Shadow, that’s what she was.  A flickering shadow in the corner of your eyes, and by the time you turned for a better look, was gone.  She didn’t like how the light glinted off her newfound sword, though.  It was like an alarm glaring out into the darkness.

            A sentry was posted at the bottom of the staircase.  He was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, wishing for a chair.  No one ever seemed to notice that guards were human, expecting them to stoically stand attentive all night, impervious to pain, hunger, or fatigue.  Human though he was, she knew she couldn’t charm herself out of a situation; she worked hard to dispel charm from her attributes.  She made a mental note to work on versatility.  Sneaking past him wasn’t an option, she had nowhere to sneak except back upstairs, and she had a job to complete.  What a silly place to put a guard.  She would have to fight this out, silently and quickly, at that.  It was a pity, she hated shedding unnecessary blood; it looked suspicious.  Maybe she could do this without a fight.

            She pulled a large dagger from the sheath on her hip.  Moonlight was casting through a tall window, streaming up the stairs, so her shadow was safely hidden behind her.  Breathlessly, she put down the sword and moved down the stairs, standing directly behind the guard.  He was taller than her, and she had to reach up; but there was no going back.  Like a shadow flashing between streaks of lightning, she simultaneously grabbed the man’s mouth and lifted the dagger to his throat, in an attempted coup de main.  But he was quick, as quick as she was, and before she could pull the knife across his throat, he had grabbed her arm with one hand, preventing her coup, and with his other arm was reaching back.  He grabbed her shirt and pulled, flipping her over his body and landing her flat on her back. 

            She sprawled gracelessly on the floor, wincing from the impact.  As she raised herself slightly she glanced up at the guard, her eyes widened as she saw the face—a strong, bold woman stared at her from behind the helmet, skin tanned and freckled from training in the sun, angry green eyes staring down at her.  Mary fumbled with her knife as she reached up; making sure her mask was safely in place.  There was no way to recognize her, no way.  Her black apparel did well to hide her form, and her mask stretched all the way over her head and neck, giving leave for eyes. 

She was safe so far, but unfortunately, there was still the fight.  Then quickly, as though she had never been on the floor, she was up again, brandishing the dagger.  If she could get the sword, maybe she could stand a chance against the spear the guard had.  If not, then she was playing very dangerous, not to mention the chance of her getting caught, for the first time in her career.  The only good thing about the situation, if it could be considered good, was that according to the look on the guard’s face, she had no intention of making this last long.

            The guard charged with her spear and Mary reached out with her dagger as she jumped aside, attempting to knock the spear off-balance, or at least out of the way.  In return, the guard twirled the spear around, hitting Mary in the side with the stick.  She grabbed it, trying unsuccessfully to pull it away.  The guard was too strong for her, and she scowled as she yanked the spear from Mary’s grasp.  A change of strategy, Mary decided, as she combined the guard’s force with her own and shoved the spear at her, causing it to catch in her stomach.  Mary used the second that followed to dart underneath the spear and slash at the woman with her dagger, then safely dart back out again.  The guard recovered her wind and charged again, and as Mary dodged it she noticed in anger that the slice had done nothing but rip her tunic, due to the chain mail underneath.  She clenched her dagger furiously as she ran from the spear tip, and used the moment to take in her surroundings.  Moonlight was streaming through the arched window that took up most of the far wall; on the opposite wall rested a cold, stone hearth.  The other walls were lined with tapestries and ornamental weapons, and poles extending from the wall every ten feet or so, from which to hang banners.  In the middle of the room was a heavy wooden table surrounded with chairs.  It was too far from the kitchen, she was guessing, to be a dining room, and therefore was meant as a place for meetings.

            She could hear the guard running behind her, leather boots making a soft swishing noise against the stone floor.  Glancing up, she saw salvation: one of the banner poles, just low enough that she could reach it if she jumped.  She pulled down the face of her mask, placed the dagger swiftly between her teeth, heaved herself upwards and maneuvered her body around the rod, swinging down upon the back of her enemy.  Mary crashed directly into her shoulder blades, and the force sent her catapulting to the floor, with Mary on top. 

Knowing she needed every moment, she tugged the helmet from the head of the guard, exposing the red curls that had been tucked inside, and threw it.  As she was taking the dagger from her mouth the guard shifted, then forcefully twisted her body, shaking Mary from her back as she stood up, grabbing her spear.  Mary’s dagger flew from her hand as she was thrown, sliding on the stone and coming to a rest on the far side of the room.  The clean blade lay gleaming uselessly in the moonlight where it landed.  Mary was slammed against the wall.  She hurriedly straightened her mask—fortunately the guard hadn’t seen her.  She was too far from the staircase now to retrieve the sword, that much she could tell. 

Meanwhile, the guard was lifting her spear to stab downwards.  Mary tried steadying herself against the wall, throwing her hands out against it to prepare for a dive or jump or anything else that might occur to her.  Her hand landed on the handle of something that decorated the wall.  She grabbed it and swung it outwards, her force meeting the blow of the spear.  She held a mace in her hand, and the chain tangled itself around the stick.  Decisively, she pulled; no, forced the spear from her opponent’s hand with the mace.  It clattered against the wall and the chain unwrapped itself.  She drew back for another strike, but the guard dodged as she swung, reaching for something on the wall and pulling it off.  It was a long sword, a large, heavy one; and the guard handled it easily, like it was some kind of plaything.

The guard swung out the sword in a wide arch.  Mary knew her mace didn’t stand a chance against a sword like that.  She dropped to the floor, just in time, and rolled away from the guard as downward stroke after stroke found a place on the floor just inches from her body each time.  She scrambled under the table, the mace swinging heavily and scraping against the floor.

“Taking the coward’s way out?” said the guard, quietly but threateningly.  Mary scowled as she crawled underneath the table towards the fireplace, that voice mocking her was too familiar for comfort.  But she wasn’t a child, and she knew that any failing move could easily terminate her career, in more than one unpleasant way.  She also knew the guard would be too proud to stoop and discover where exactly Mary was, preferring instead to have her opponent show herself in her own due time.  Maybe she could crawl unnoticed to the door.  No, that was no good, as soon as the guard figured it out she’d be after her, alerting the entire household to her presence.  Besides, she could see the feet of the guard—leather boots laced up with cord, the billowing bottom of a green cape—make their way to the door, waiting for a foolish move.

Silence was her friend.  She hung the mace around her neck to prevent the scraping noise it made as she crawled.  She kept her eye on the feet of the guard, standing strongly by the escape.  When she came to the end of the table she peeked out—the guard was making a long, sweeping gaze over the table, searching for any signs of movement.  She was currently looking at the other side, near the window, but Mary knew her attention would be directed towards her at a hint of obvious movement.  She emerged from underneath the table, slithering across the few feet of floor and finding sanctuary on the lee side of the mantle.  There were various objects of ornament on top of the fireplace, but Mary hadn’t bothered to look at them closely.  She blindly reached up and clutched the soonest thing her hand came upon.  Pulling it down she saw that it was a chalice made of pure gold, inlaid with rubies, and a fancy kind of writing along the top.  It looked to be expensive, but more importantly, was very heavy.

She stepped out from the sanctuary of shadow and hurled the goblet at the guard.  It bounced off the wall behind her, but Prince! Mary thought as she was struck, Since when did the guard have a bow and arrows?  The arrow lodged itself in the joint of her left shoulder; the guard hissed angrily that she had missed her fatal target.  Mary broke the arrow off, leaving the tip in and the slightest bit of shaft attached.  The guard was readying her second and final arrow.

Mary vaulted herself up onto the table, taking the mace in hand, presenting herself as a clear target.  “Go ahead, strike.” she said.  “But come closer this time.  Make sure you don’t miss.”  The guard did come closer, drawing the nocked arrow back and leveling it with Mary’s chest, only a foot away.  “Shoot me.  Shoot me, Amara!”  The guard paused, her eyes widening in dumbfounded shock.  This was all Mary needed.  She lashed out with the mace, knocking the bow and arrow from her hands; then again, hitting her on the side of the head.  The guard fell, the blood flowing from the gashes staining her hair a darker red.  Mary leapt down from the table, unwrapping the long piece of cloth that made her girdle, and bound it tightly around her opponent’s head, arresting the flow of blood.  She was completely unconscious.  Mary was suddenly aware that her heart was pounding.  She stood slowly, her black tunic now hanging loosely around her body, and fetched her dagger, hanging the mace once again around her neck.

Idiot, she thought as she raced along the corridors, storming into the governor’s room.  How could she be so stupid?  A small silver dagger found its resting place in the neck of the governor.  After a small deliberation a second silver dagger found home in the neck of the governor’s wife, beautiful hag.  She stormed throughout the second and third floors, throwing various valuable looking items into her thief’s bag.  She didn’t even pay attention to what she was doing, she just kept thinking back to the black cloth wrapped around the head of the guard.  It wasn’t too late to go back and retrieve it...  She descended the black thread using one arm, with a full bag and two small silver daggers less, shook the rope free and coiled it around her shoulders.  Climbing was very painful when you have an arrowhead stuck in one shoulder, that was for sure. 

She could still see those proud, bold eyes glaring into hers.  Why couldn’t she just have killed her?  She was engulfed by the silence and dark beauty of the night.

She knew the marketplace was jostling with the news the next morning, even though she stayed in to pull out the arrowhead and staunch the wound.  Had she heard?  The governor and his wife found dead in bed!  A guard had survived the attack!  Yes, she had heard, and now she could only hope that her sister would spare her life, as she had spared hers.