Mark of the assassin - a Shadowbane tale

Slaan steps from the sea cave into a knife of wind. Ahead, the Contact leads toward a hidden skiff, half sunk in icy surf, where a passage to the mainland waits.

The Contact lifts the bundled message higher, salt still clinging to the wrap. It is the proof meant to move Dravin, and the records Slaan carries can still expose the Chapel if they reach the right hands.

Kaelith angles his gaze toward the surf line. A pair of lanterns drifts between black rocks, then another, the patrol closing in on the skiff’s path.

The Contact turns toward Slaan and the hidden boat, waiting on her choice. Deliver the records, slip past the patrols, and the road to Dravin opens. Fail here, and the Chapel keeps its secrets another night.

Slaan presses the records into Bram’s hands, then drives herself toward the center of the group as the wind claws at her cloak.

Shadow gathers around her like a second skin. The patrol lanterns stutter through the dark as she meets the shore head-on.

A pale, hard shimmer flashes over her body, turning the first strike of cold air and steel aside.

She snaps her hands wide, and spectral bonds lash out across the ice toward the advancing shapes near the rocks.

The nearest patrols lurch blind, their lantern light swinging wild as the bindings cinch tight around their legs and arms.

The spell lands cleanly, but the effort burns hot through her casting hand, leaving it numb as the shoreline erupts with shouted alarm.

Slaan leaves Undead Isle shoreline behind and arrives at the skiff.

The skiff rocks in its icy cradle, half-shadowed by surf and spray. Slaan hits the planks in a low run, cloak snapping behind her, while the shore fight shouts itself thinner in the dark.

Bram reaches the hull first, records bundle clamped tight, and Dravin braces a hand on the gunwale, eyes cutting past Slaan toward the patrol lights.

Slaan slides in beside them and plants herself between the deck and the shoreline, one numb hand still tingling from the spell. The skiff dips, then steadies.

Bram shoves the records below the thwart, where a coil of rope and damp canvas hide them from the lantern glow. Salt water hisses under the keel.

The bundle is aboard. The skiff is under their feet.

Behind them, the patrol lanterns bob closer over the black rocks, and one voice calls out across the surf, sharp with recognition.