Chapter 27: [Duchy of Inferna] [18] Bloody Festival [3]
As the sun draped itself over the Duchy like a golden shawl, the first hours of the festival were exactly as they should be, filled with pure jubilation and a zest for life.
The tense anticipation of yesterday had been replaced by the tart aroma of spiced meats, freshly baked pastries, and frothy ale overflowing from casks, all hanging in the air.
The fairgrounds, teeming with thousands of people, formed a kaleidoscope of color and sound.
Minstrels plucked cheerful melodies while acrobats mesmerized the crowd with their gravity-defying feats, and on every corner, the flying clubs of a juggler were met with the joyous laughter of children.
The common folk were at the very heart of this revelry.
The burdens of daily life cast aside, their faces bore only the smiles of those savoring the moment.
And the children were the purest joy of this entire spectacle; their cheeks flushed with excitement, their eyes sparkling with curiosity as they darted through the crowd.
Some watched the proceedings from their fathers’ shoulders, while others, clutching wooden swords, imagined themselves in a fairytale duel.
Their laughter, louder and more joyful than any minstrel’s song, rang out as they tugged on their mothers’ hands, their tongues stained a rainbow of colors from the cotton candy they craved.
As the evening chill began to set in, the massive pile of logs in the center of the square was set ablaze.
After the first crackles, flames greedily leaped towards the sky, instantly bathing the surroundings in a warm, orange light.
In that moment, the din of the fair gave way to a hushed, reverent silence.
Thousands of people were lost in the hypnotic dance of the flames, captivated by the magic of the sparks that scattered into the heavens.
The reflections of the colossal fire, a mixture of fear and awe, glittered in the wide eyes of the children.
This fire did not merely illuminate the darkness of the night; it kindled a sense of unity and fellowship that warmed their hearts.
From the ducal box, Duke Veynar and Duchess Seraphina watched their people, their faces wearing flawless smiles.
To an outsider, they were no different from any ruling couple taking pride in the happiness of their subjects.
Yet, contrary to this serene appearance, I could see how the Duke’s fingers were gripping the carved armrest of his chair until his knuckles turned white, and how the Duchess flinched ever so slightly at every unexpected sound.
My eyes never ceased their scan of the crowd; I etched every shadow, every fold of a cloak, every suspicious face into my mind.
The nightmare I had seen was a vivid tableau that had not faded for a moment from the surface of my consciousness.
Nobles from neighboring lands had also lost themselves in the splendor of the festival.
Isolde, wife of the Marquis Volkov from the Silver Peaks, whose beauty was the stuff of legends, tried her luck at an archery stall, her silk gown sweeping the ground. She let out a cheerful laugh after every miss.
Her personal guards, their crested armor gleaming, accompanied this civilian merriment with a detached boredom.
A short distance away, the old Baron Von Hess, whose lands were known for their rich mineral veins, admired the craftsmanship at a blacksmith’s stall under the watchful eyes of two hulking guards.
Everyone was savoring the moment, oblivious to the impending doom.
But hidden skillfully within this colorful and noisy tableau was a deadly reality.
Aron Inferna’s preparations had been as patient and flawless as a spider weaving its web.
Within that joyous crowd, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of hunters lay in wait.
That burly blacksmith, his massive arms hammering iron at his stall, the salty tang of his sweat in the air, was in fact one of the Duchy’s most feared warriors, Sir Gregor, nicknamed "the Mountain," and the colossal battle-axe hidden beneath his anvil awaited a single command.
That jovial merchant, joking with customers at his textile stall, was a master soldier trained by the Imperial Secret Service, with countless daggers concealed beneath his cloak.
Those young lovers, holding hands and whispering sweet nothings to one another, were the sharpest snipers of the Ducal Guard, their eyes not on each other, but on the surrounding rooftops.
Each was a piece of Aron’s plan.
Each was an angel of death, lying in wait.
Aron Inferna himself stood on the main balcony of the ducal castle, at a point overlooking the entire festival ground.
His aged eyes scanned the crowd with the sharpness of an eagle surveying its prey.
There was neither a guard nor a servant beside him.
He was alone, for he was the sole conductor of this hunt.
The plan was simple yet ruthless: to draw the enemy onto a battlefield of their own choosing, to give them the false hope of victory, and then to close the gates of hell upon them.
At four strategic points around the square, the most talented court mages had been placed, dressed as commoners.
Their task was to seal the entire festival ground within an impenetrable dome of magic at Aron’s signal when the first attack began.
There would be no escape.
There would be no mercy.
As the hottest hours of the day passed and the sun began its slow descent westward, the awaited moment arrived.
First, a subtle wrongness was felt in the air.
It was as if all sounds had been muffled for an instant, all colors faded by a shade.
Then, just as Cassian had seen in his dreams, the shadows came to life.
In the densest parts of the crowd, by the bases of walls, behind the stalls, the black-cloaked, faceless men appeared as if born from dark ink.
The emblem of four black suns on their backs glowed like ominous stains.
With curved, black daggers in hand, they moved to strike the innocent people nearest to them.
What they expected was panic, screams, and an easy slaughter.
What they found was death.
The very first assassin, as he raised his dagger to a woman beside him, collapsed to the ground, an arrow buried in the nape of his neck.
Another, targeting a child, was cleaved in two by a sword drawn from beneath the stall of the merchant who had just been selling him wine.
The men in black cloaks experienced a moment of shock and confusion.
What was happening?
Were they not the hunters?
It was then that Aron Inferna raised his hand from the balcony, and the entire festival ground shook with the roar of the hidden hunters.
The blacksmith, Gregor, pulled his battle-axe from under the anvil and cut down the three nearest assassins as if they were wheat before a scythe.
The jovial merchant, a dagger in each hand, began to dance through the shadows, dealing death.
Arrows rained down from the rooftops like a storm, each one felling a black-cloaked figure.
This unexpected counter-attack was a complete rout for the Obsidian Dawn cult.
Dozens of assassins were killed before they even understood what was happening.
But this did not prevent the crowd from panicking.
The music had died, replaced by screams, the clang of swords, and the thunderous roar of people stampeding for their lives. The colorful festival ground had instantly transformed into a battlefield of blood and steel.
Stalls were overturned, tents caught fire, and innocent people were trampled in the chaos.
Realizing they had walked into a trap, the remaining assassins, on a silent command from their leader, began to retreat and flee.
Their plan was exposed; their only goal now was survival.
They sprinted towards the exit gates of the square. But just as they reached them, they were thrown back as if they had struck an invisible wall.
Simultaneously, the chanting of the mages from the four corners of the fairground rose into a humming chorus.
Runes drawn on the ground began to glow, and a translucent, blue dome of energy materialized over the square, eclipsing the sky.
The magic seal was complete.
Now, no one could get in, and no one could get out.
The rats were trapped.
Seeing their escape routes cut off, the assassins began to attack the guards around them with desperate fury. The battle now raged with even greater intensity.
And it was in the midst of this chaos that the leader of the assassins emerged.
He was taller and more powerfully built than the others, the dark aura seeping from beneath his cloak almost tangible. In his hands, unlike the others, he held two curved swords that glowed with a venomous green light.
His eyes cut through all the turmoil and found Aron Inferna directly on the balcony.
A silent challenge passed between them.
The leader, with incredible speed, cut a path through the guards in his way and began to run directly towards the castle balcony.
Aron Inferna waited, without the slightest hint of fear on his face.
He slowly reached for a long object covered by a cloth that rested against the balcony railing.
When he pulled the cloth away, it revealed a massive, two-handed greatsword, an ancestral heirloom, shimmering with ancient runes.
He hefted the blade with one hand, effortlessly.
The assassin leader, scaling the wall like a phantom, reached the balcony in seconds.
The two figures stood facing each other, like two gladiators looking down upon the bloody stage of the sealed festival ground.
"Old wolf," hissed a muffled voice from behind the leader’s mask. "Your end will be in this foolish trap you have laid."
Aron smiled.
It was not a smile of mirth, but the grin of a predator about to sink its teeth into its prey’s throat.
"I have seen many vipers on the soil of this Duchy," he boomed. "They all met the same end: to be crushed beneath my boots."
And in that instant, two swords and a greatsword clashed with a deafening shriek that sent sparks flying into the air.
The lesser battles below faded into insignificance.
All eyes were locked on the violent and deadly dance of these two legends, a duel that would decide the fate of the Duchy.
The war was truly beginning now.