Tale of the Night Fox

by Allusir

Allusir spends most of his time in fantasy worlds—written, virtual, or dreamt. Sometimes hunger drives him to visit reality to work alongside his husband in their tiny apartment found on the island nation of Taiwan. You can read his collection of flash fictions here: https://www.wattpad.com/user/TheWriteAllusir

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~Trarush, Capital of Bruin—1371

I wish he would just hurry, Baron Matz von Lauer thought from his shadowy rooftop perch. If he doesn’t pick up his pace, it will be dawn before he leads me to his hideout. Why can’t he be like other nobles, completely confident nothing can touch him?

The figure shrouded in a raggedy cloak checked over his shoulder for a fourth time before finally ducking down a small street. A hooded man in tattered clothing wasn’t unusual to see on the border streets between the merchant district and slums. A hooded man in tattered clothing with dark leather boots crafted from a rare magical creature’s hide however …

You would think a man sporting boots that nice could walk faster. Matz wished he could gut Duke Fiete von Gerson and be done and on his way home. Though not conclusive, Matz had more than enough evidence to execute this lowly duke without trial. However,  his orders were clear—find the traitor's lair, destroy any illegal arcane weaponry, and dispose of anyone involved in conspiring against the Council of Viscounts. And the longer he keeps me from my feather bed, the more likely I am to miss his vitals with the first few knives.

Fiete turned this way and that, each new alley bringing him farther from wealthier streets lit by magical lamps. Every step into the ghettos gave Matz more planks and clotheslines to cross the flat-top roofs—and more laundry to hide in.

Had his target bothered to look up, he might have glimpsed his stalker’s messy blonde hair in the moonlight. Matz didn’t bother covering his light hair on missions anymore. No one ever looked up fast enough, and hoods left his hair flat for days.

Matz’s quarry rounded a corner and hugged the wall, waiting for anyone who might be following to turn after him. With his expression hidden by a hood, the duke was impossible to read. Will he wait there until he wins a staring contest with some fellow refuse?

Apparently satisfied, von Gerson continued to navigate the maze of the slums until he was so far from the city center that Matz began to worry about getting spotted by the wall guard. They checked the rooftops.

Matz crossed an arch once used to cover a market with rain cloths, almost running into a black raven perched on the edge. The raven’s cry echoed to the streets below as Matz flattened himself on the archway.

Fire lit the darkness as it scorched the corner of the roof near the shadowy bird. The raven took to the sky, and a cat leapt down from a nearby windowsill. Matz didn’t dare look.  He held his breath and clutched one of the knives on his belt. Though low ranking, von Gerson was an officer in the mage battalion, with more than enough power to burn Matz off the rooftops.

A muttered curse, a flash of light, a yelping cat, and the sound of footsteps growing more distant brought Matz a wave of relief. Once the footfalls grew too soft to hear, he resumed his hunt.

The duke stopped in front of a larger building unattached to the amalgamation of sun-dried clay the poor called houses.  A sign hung by rusted chains, marking it as the hall for a bygone merchant guild—what was left of it at least. More rubble and broken planks than walls, the once center of a thriving market now sat in ruin. Matz gave him credit for choosing a location no one would look in, but one strong gust of wind might do the assassin’s job for him.

Walking around the side of the collapsing hall, von Gerson checked for stalkers everywhere, including the shadows above. Then he vanished through the wall.

Whether the roof was falling apart or an illusion, Matz certainly wasn’t going to jump across to find out. The assassin untied an empty clothesline and climbed down.

Matz crossed the open street and reached into his pockets, taking out a clear sphere with a thatu trapped inside. The pure elemental glowed different colors in response to nearby magic. The orb glimmered lavender—indicating illusions alone guarded this side of the secret entrance. Twice he circled the building with no other responses from the thatu. If there were other exits, they weren't close by.

Iridescent fog filled the air as Matz stepped through the illusory wall. Haunting incantations whispered through the fog, echoing around him. Gravity shifted left and right as waves of energy churned through his body. One step. The elemental continued to produce a purple hue, as the color blue developed a unique smell. One step. The glow flickered, slightly redder, and Matz stopped moving. The thatu was calm, so there wasn’t any immediate threat. A trap probably hid in the cloudy haze a step or two forward. With each breath, his disoriented senses cleared. Matz waited. The fog dissolved.

Smooth granite walls rose, encasing a set of stairs leading down. Glyphs, carved into the stone around the entrance, lit the darkness. Matz extended his arm a little closer, until the thatu turned a clear red. The vibrant color signaled an intense elemental magic imbued in the arcane symbols.

Given the little creature’s quivering vibrations inside the tiny orb, another step and one or more of the glyphs would spring the magical trap.

Prepared for dealing with mages, Matz drew a dagger from the leather baldric across his chest, its orichalcum blade capable of cleaving steel a hundred times without dulling the edge—in the hands of someone strong enough. While Matz didn’t have the strength to split open a suit of plate armor, he could at least scuff up stone glyphs with ease.

Once his elemental pet was a calm purple, the assassin descended to an underground tunnel. Iron bars blocked a corridor at the bottom, three wooden doors on each side. Matz searched for traps and a lock, only to find a simple latch near the top. It opened without much force and was easily accessed from both sides. It didn’t really block entry or escape. Unless you were a savage animal. Matz replaced the blue-black blade with two made from alchemical silver, coated in poison for good measure.

The first door on the left opened. Daggers flew. A woman in dark robes slumped to the ground, convulsing. Fresh daggers from his waist belt in hand, Matz sprinted forward to attack anyone that might lurk behind her.

Nobody came running. He dragged the mage back into the room and closed the door. He searched the woman, finding an Austolian signet ring on her finger. While not an enemy nation in name, Matz knew of no official visitors from the largest island nation. Best to not give her the antidote then.

He looked around the small room, finding only a hay bed, simple desk, and tiny clothing chest. Matz blanched at the thought of living in such meager accommodations for days on end—underground. He thought back to days as a young street urchin, living with two other thieving brats in a room no bigger than this.

Before he was given a title that put him above the influence of low- and mid-level nobility, Matz had lived in squalor. No. That’s not you anymore. You’re a man of culture now. Fashionable and refined. Matz smoothed his silk trousers, anchoring his thoughts on his mansion, bought by the riches that ensured his loyalty.

Fiete von Gerson, for not providing your minions with better accommodations and causing me to remember unhappy times, you’ve earned yourself a missing finger before you die.

Matz glanced back at the woman—she no longer twitched. He moved to read an open book laying on the desk.

Day 478 - Without nourishment, the healing process has slowed. The herbs will undoubtedly help, but not enough. It needs meat to regain strength. Today we tried using a regenerative potion diluted with water at a ratio of one part potion per thirty parts water. Subject did not reach dangerous levels of strength but did become more feral for a time. However, it did not injure itself more. We will prepare fresh food to entice the subject to eat.

So there was some kind of creature. Matz flipped back a few pages, adjusting the brightness of the magical lamp to read better. Their rooms may have been simple, but their tools were top quality. A metal tipped quill sat in a glass inkwell.

Day 475 - The last of the new subjects died in the night. Only the original subject survives to date. We worried it would become enraged like it used to when the first batch of subjects died. I keep telling the duke that iron bars and wooden doors separating that thing from our sleeping quarters are not enough.

Fortunately it seems to have sunk into a depression. Perhaps feeling some sense of loneliness or fear, it has stopped eating. This may slow our process, but at least we are safe. Instinct and hunger will drive it to eat eventually.

Enough ink remains to properly glyph five more subjects. With the failure of recent attempts to create new subjects, we suspect there may be something in the first subject’s blood that allowed it to survive the initial procedure. We may need to breed it for better results. I doubt Duke Gerson will approve such a plan.

Day 476 - Subject did not eat. Worrying that the broken ribs from last week’s experiment will not heal properly, I approved a new experiment. We administered a regenerative potion and herbal water mix at a ratio of one part potion per ten parts water. Brother Nils sustained minor scratches and a bite forcing it to drink. As expected, the subject became aggressive. The new chains seem to hold better, but I still hold my breath and wait for it to break free. I fear someday I may share the same fate as our predecessors.

More testing will need to be done to determine if the amount of healing is worth aggravating the injuries. Once it calmed, we moved it from the laboratory cages to a hay bed in the storage room to curl up and recover. Brother Nils noticed no difficulties with using magical treatment on the wounds caused by the subject’s teeth.

Whatever the beast was, it was injured, starving, and contained. If Matz managed to prevent anyone from letting it out, he could dispose of the wretch safely. He regarded the woman who no longer twitched.
You were much more helpful than the man who insisted on squandering half the night searching for assassins he couldn’t find, Matz thought. This considerate soul had died without a fuss, wasn’t heavy to drag, and her book linked von Gerson to all of it. I might actually make it home before dawn.

A knock at the door sent Matz to his feet, daggers ready. The door creaked open.

“Sister Martina, you know Duke Gerson doesn’t like to be kept wai—” a knife in the man’s throat garbled the rest of his sentence.

“Then I won’t keep him any longer.”

Matz stripped the woman of her robes, since they had the least amount of blood on them and looked more important. He threw them over his shirt and trousers—he would need to burn them later—letting the dark fabric hide the red stains. Nothing would hide the smell. Matz would have to make his move before anyone could notice.

Grabbing the lamp and a few books from the table to conceal a dagger, he walked into the hall. The next four doors led to more simple dormitory rooms, all empty. An odd odor seeped from the final room.

Trusting his disguise, Matz opened the door. Nobody. Just a room full of beakers of colored liquids and jars of creepy bits. Unsure of what any of them were, he decided it would be best to destroy this room later.

More iron bars gated the next set of stairs. The bars were certainly thick enough to keep something strong in. He walked deeper, dousing the light before entering a new open room.

Three more robed figures huddled together, whispering to each other. Five dorms, five mages in robes, zero loose ends. The assassin pulled the hood low and shuffled in.

The ceiling was high, probably reaching all the way up to the ground level. Dying torches sat high, a staunch difference from the clear magical lamps in the rooms above. Matz walked slowly to let his eyes adjust.

Two iron doors crept into view, identical and both on the opposite side of the room. Which one led to the duke? Which one led to the weapon? Near him, Matz began to make out dense bars built into the wall. Cells? he wondered. It would be difficult to squeeze a tiger into holes that small. Did that mean the weapons being created were for more urban settings, rather than a battlefield fear tactic?

“Sister Martina, the duke is in his office,” one said, glancing at the door on the right. As he approached, he lowered his voice. “He seems to be in a bad mood. Worse than usual.” Matz stepped in close, not wanting him to separate from the others. In a room this large, giving mages space would be a costly mistake.

Matz nodded and held out the books for the man to take. His outstretched hands made his heart an easy target for the first jab. Two daggers sailed through the air, dropping the farthest target. A quick dash brought him within striking range of the third, who was only starting to realize that his superior was suddenly attacking them. A swift chop to the throat silenced any cries for help, and a crack of the neck dropped him.

Unable to access his belts for more daggers, Matz removed the robes. Aside from the corpses, the room seemed empty.

Clank.

Matz bumped something with his foot, something heavy. Chains. Black chains, four of them, anchored to the ground, ending in thick manacles. He tapped it again with his foot. Too heavy to be iron. Chilling sweat dampened his neck.