Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  The sword and dagger hung at her side, begging for her attention like children pulling at their mother’s hands. Instead her fingers strayed for the coiled bullwhip, all leather and rage.

  “I would like to speak to you,” her pursuer ground out in Paramount, the common language stilted and oddly formal for their circumstance. She tried and failed to place his accent.

  While her heartbeat still surged, he showed no signs of exertion. Not even a single hair out of place.

  “You’re speaking to me now,” she replied, adjusting her balance, both feet set beneath her. Her toes wiggled in anticipation. The whip loosed, trailing like a venomous snake.

  Below them, the fruit vendor continued to yell in Tyri, but no one else stopped to watch. The Byllskos alleys were filled with fools. Two more were of little consequence.

  The man did not blink, watching every tick of her muscles. “I would prefer to converse elsewhere.”

  She shrugged and tightened her grip on the plaited handle of the whip, slipping the wrist loop into place. “That’s a shame.”

  The man stretched out his hand, the palm as big as a dinner plate, the pale skin crossed with calluses and training scars. Won at the citadel, though I have never seen him before. Is he some pet of Mercury’s trained in isolation, a dragon to unleash on any of us who cross his will?

  “I’m not here to harm you,” he said.

  Sorasa scoffed low at the back of her throat. “I’ve heard that before.”

  He curled his fingers into a fist. “But I will if I must.”

  The wind stirred his cloak, revealing the heavy longsword at his hip. He was not a swordsman like Garion. The terrible blade was not meant for performance.

  It would also be difficult to draw in such a precarious position, all but useless even for the most skilled swordsmen of the Ward.

  Sorasa bared her teeth in a grim smile. “Try me, then.”

  “Very well.”

  Despite her decades of training, honing her body to the razor’s edge, Mercury’s dog was somehow faster. His reflexes, his reactions, his instincts. He was a storm. Her only recourse was to anticipate and predict, to move first.

  The whip curled around a washing line as she jumped, before his feet left the plank. He leapt forward, intending to catch her around the middle. But instead of jumping over him, she swung around, using the whip and her own momentum to kick off the alley wall. The change in angle was enough to miss him by inches, leaving him to land hard on her perch.

  The pole cracked through, splintering under his weight. The fruit vendor shrieked as a six-and-a-half-foot assassin crashed through his stall and crushed a pile of spotty oranges.

  Sorasa cut the washing line, clutching the whip as she fell into the alley. With a practiced tumble, she absorbed the brunt of the fall and popped to her feet, a pile of clothes fluttering around her. She grabbed a patched aquamarine cloak from the heap and threw it around her shoulders.

  When she looked back, peering around her new hood, she saw a blond head above the crowd, trying to shoulder his way through. The crowd pushed back, rallying against him. The vendor even pelted him with ruined oranges. He hardly noticed, scanning the alley like a hound picking up a scent.

  Sorasa did not give him the chance and slipped back onto the main road, her pace even and unbothered. Just another body on the streets of Byllskos.

  The cattle auctions continued in earnest, drawing a heavy throng of people and animals alike as traders stopped to observe. She traded the stolen cloak for a long, stained vest and hat from a farmer’s cart. Both hid her face and weapons well, though she looked worse than a peasant. Smell worse too, she thought with a curl of her lip.

  One of her first and best lessons at the Guild concerned no weapon. No blade or poison. No disguises. No language. She excelled in those, of course. They were as necessary as rain and sunshine to a field of wheat. But the most important element, the most vital to fulfilling a contract, was opportunity.

  It was not luck that Sorasa caught the merchant king asleep, his guards distant and slow. She chose that moment. And she would choose again here. Mercury’s assassin would not be so easily left behind. He would be on her again in a few minutes’ time, if he wasn’t following already. She did not breathe a sigh of relief as she walked. She did not uncoil or drop her guard. Sorasa Sarn was not so foolish.

  Her heartbeat slowed, her muscles recovered, and her head cleared.

  Opportunity lay ahead.

  With a smile, she approached a pen of black bulls. They gleamed with sweat, packed tight like barrels in the hold of a trade galley. They could scarcely move even to swat off the biting flies. They were next to the auction paddock, ready to trample round and round for the traders. Slowly, she leaned up alongside their gate, one that opened to the dirt square. The lock was simple, a wooden draw bar. She glanced at it and removed her hat, baring her face for all the street to see.

  The trap is baited.

  One hand darted into her pack and she pulled out a peach, biting greedily into its oversweet flesh.

  He was not difficult to spot. The assassin towered over most of the market crowd. He was taller even than Garion, and paler besides. She guessed him to be of the far north—Calidon, or perhaps the Jyd. He had the look of a snowborn raider, with his white face, giant frame, and golden hair.

  He barreled on with singular focus, his great strides closing the distance between them.

  Savoring the taste of fruit, she tossed the peach and slid the lock, throwing open the gate to the bulls’ pen. A nearby man grabbed her arm, but she broke his hold without thought, sending him howling into the dirt with a mouthful of missing teeth.

  Ten feet away, the assassin’s eyes widened.

  Sorasa cracked her whip over the pen.

  The herd burst forth, heavy as a thundercloud, with hooves and horns like striking lightning. On and on they poured, the great flanks and shoulders jostling against their fence, threatening to break loose. They rolled toward him in a black tide, bucking and frothing mad with every crack of the whip. Opportunity, she thought, satisfied.

  She expected him to run. Or dodge. Or simply be trampled, his bones shattered beneath a hundred pounding hooves.

  Instead the assassin set his feet and put out his hands. It was a truly ridiculous sight, but Sorasa’s breath caught in her teeth.

  His hands closed around the horns of the first bull, his knuckles turning white, heels digging into the dirt. He tossed the beast with a grunt, sending it sprawling onto its side. Its head lolled, the neck snapped. Sorasa gaped as the rest of the herd broke around him, a wave around a pillar in the sea. He stood firm and unafraid. His eyes never left her, alive with green fire.

  Elder, her brain screamed in realization.

  Immortal.

  She ran as she had never run before. Through alleys, over rooftops, between walls so tight even the sun could not reach the ground. Cloak after cloak fell from her shoulders, in all colors. Anything to confuse him, to slow him down, to steal another second out of his hands.

  She circled, trying for the docks, but he was always there, keeping her from her ship, from any ship. Her pouch of tricks was nearly empty, leaving blue, white, and green smoke trailing the streets of Byllskos. She dared not try the black.

  Unyielding, unbeatable. The few things she knew of the Elders came rushing back from a lesson learned long ago. Unbelievable beings born of a lost realm.

  Her body burned with exertion. Her nails tore on brick and wood; her fingers bristled with splinters. She felt little pain, most of it trained out of her. Adrenaline and fear ate the rest. She climbed; she leapt; she tumbled and spun. Fruit carts and barrels of wine exploded in her wake. Dedicant priests cursed her as she parted their ranks. She even debated sprinting back to the villa of the murdered merchant, to the guards and watchmen, who would make a fine shield between herself and the immortal monster.

  None of the guild had ever killed an immortal. None had been foolish enough to try. Few had even
seen them. How did Lord Mercury manage to wrangle one into his service?

  She racked her memory for anything that could be of use. Whispers heard about the Elder kind, their strengths, their weaknesses. In the Guild, the masters and mistresses were not so concerned with folk of legend, nor creatures of Spindles lost. No one ever took out a contract on a dragon. Guild assassins did not cross paths with the immortal ghosts still haunting the Ward.

  Until Mercury somehow sends one to kill me, she sneered to herself.

  She was faster, smaller; she knew the city. But those things only bought her minutes.

  And her minutes were quickly spent.

  He fell on her too quickly, unstoppable as a rockslide. She loosed her sword before he could, slicing with a backhanded blow. The next strike met steel, his longsword bracing against her own.

  Again she wished for Garion, if only to shove him into harm’s way.

  But I am alone. It’s the road I’ve chosen.

  He was immovable, his blade locked with hers at the hilt. It was all she could do to hold him off, arms and legs screaming beneath the pressure. She had no logical hope of overpowering him and did not try. When he opened his mouth to speak, she spat in his face.

  “By the Spindles—” he cursed, dropping back in disgust. He had the manners and idiocy to wipe the spittle away.

  She kicked a spray of dust into his eyes and pounced, winding herself around his torso until she was on his back. Her dagger rose, aiming for the spot where neck met shoulder, to pierce muscle and vein. To kill and kill quickly. One arm locked over his throat, squeezing tightly. Sorasa could not count how many men she had choked this way.

  To her delight, she could feel him gasp for air. Even immortals need to breathe.

  He moved as she stabbed, the strike glancing. Blood welled up at his shoulder, but not enough.

  He seized her by the collar and pulled her free, throwing her off with ease. She landed hard against an alley wall. She bled too, her face scraped raw by brick. Out in the streets, the whistles and trumpets of watchmen echoed. Between a stampede and a dead man, they had their hands more than full.

  “We’ve caused some trouble, you and I,” Sorasa gasped out, her eyes on the street. Her entire body howled in pain.

  The alley echoed around them. The Elder sneered and checked the blood at his shoulder. “This is foolish,” he said, gritting his teeth. There was blood in his mouth too.

  Sorasa’s pride flared. She gulped for air.

  “I promise I will not harm you.” Again, the Elder reached out. “Come, Mortal.”

  Death was a welcome friend to Sorasa Sarn. She and the goddess Lasreen had passed many years bound, hand in hand. One followed the other like night follows dusk. Sorasa had never felt her so close before.

  Lord Mercury rose in her mind, white and terrible, his teeth sharp, his eyes distant. It was so like him, to give her a death this way. A death she could not outrun or outfox.

  It was good Sorasa did not believe in absolutes. There was only opportunity, and opportunity could always be found.

  “Come, Mortal,” the Elder said again. His fingers twitched.

  “No,” she said, laughing as she bolted one last time.

  Her sword lay forgotten in the dirt.

  She landed in the chair hard, one foot propped on the taverna table. The other jittered on the floor, shaking with nervous energy. I look a wreck, she thought, noting the way the barmaid hesitated. She was covered in dirt and blood, one of her braids undone, hair spilling over her shoulder in a black curtain. A cut on her lip oozed. She licked away the blood. With a manic grin, Sorasa held up two fingers and the maid scurried to serve.

  Sorasa was not the only patron of the port taverna who looked run through. There were a few battered men who she suspected had met her bulls. The rest were sailors half-dead in their ale. She recognized Ibalet sailors of the Storm Fleet, disheveled in their dark-blue sailing silks. They noticed her too and twitched fingers in hello, greeting a sister of Ibal.

  She did not return the gesture.

  Two tankards were set down in front of her a moment before the door opened, spilling light through the dark barroom. The sailors winced or cursed, but the immortal ignored them. He stood for a moment, framed in sunshine, his shadow stretching over her.

  She did not move as he crossed the taverna and sat.

  Without a word, she pushed the pewter tankard across the pitted table. He stared at the sloshing cup of ale, perplexed. Then, with oddly stilted motions, he took a gulp.

  Sorasa kept still, her face blank. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.

  The Elder glanced down at the tankard, staring into its golden depths. His brow furrowed. Then he drank again, draining it dry. For a second, Sorasa felt a burst of unseen triumph. It faded as he stared at her, unblinking. His pupils went wide in the dim light, black eating up the green.

  “Did you know the Vedera are immune to nearly all poisons?” he said slowly.

  The Vedera. She tucked the strange world into her mind and exhaled the last of her hope. “What a waste of arsenic.”

  Part of her whispered to grab for her dagger, her whip, the last powders in her pouch. Another poison, another cut, another opportunity. For any and all things that might save her, even now. She felt as if a hole had opened beneath her feet.

  I must choose to jump or fall.

  Her body ached. She took a deep draft of piss-water ale and wished it were ibari liquor. To die with the bittersweet bite of home on her lips. For I will die here, at his hand, and at Mercury’s, she thought. It was almost a relief to admit.

  The Elder searched her face, his eyes snaring on the tattoos crawling up her neck. Sorasa let him look. He did not know each tattoo as she did, its meaning and weight within the Guild.

  “Three times you’ve tried to kill me today,” he muttered, as if astonished.

  She drank again. “I’d say this all counts a single attempt.”

  “Then you came close to succeeding thrice.”

  “Thrice,” she sneered back, mocking his tone. As if we’re in a royal court, not a shitbucket bar. “Well, what now, Elder? How will you do it?”

  He blinked, digesting her words, simple as they were. She thought of a child at the Guild, struggling through a lesson they did not understand. He clenched his jaw and sat back in his chair. Sorasa half expected it to collapse under his bulk. Slowly, he put both palms to the table, a display of peace. He treats me like a spooked animal, she thought, tasting fury.

  “I told you before, it is not my objective to harm you.”

  He reached to his side, throwing back his cloak. She braced herself for the song of a sword unsheathed. Instead he pulled forth a familiar blade.

  Her own.

  The sword was thin and well balanced, a double-edged ribbon of steel with hammered bronze at the hilt. It had been forged in the citadel armory, born of the Guild as she was. There was no insignia, no sigil, no jewels, no carved words. Hardly a treasure. It served her well.

  She took it with sure hands, careful not to pull her eyes from the Elder in front of her.

  “I have little concern for your well-being, for good or ill,” he said.

  With the sword back in her possession, Sorasa felt oddly light. “Is that what you tell all the mortal girls, or just me?”

  Something crossed his face, like a shadow or a darkness. “I do not speak to many mortals,” he forced out.

  “I can tell.”

  The barmaid produced another tankard for each of them, nearly spilling the flat ale. She glanced between the assassin and the immortal, a lamb between wolves. Sorasa waved her off with a silver penny.

  He startled at the sight of the coin and drew out his own purse, thunking it on the table. Sorasa snapped to attention, all thoughts of ale and death pushed to the side. Though the purse was small, it burst with gold, winking yellow within the leather. The weak light of the bar played over the coins.

  “I want information. I’m willing to pay,” the E
lder said sharply, drawing out a piece of hammered gold. The coin was perfectly round, marked with a stag. It was not money of any kingdom Sorasa knew, but gold was gold. “Will these do?”

  To her shock, Sorasa heard apprehension in the Elder’s voice. She nearly laughed aloud as realization dawned on her. He has no idea what he’s doing. He’s not an assassin, for Lord Mercury or any other. No matter how strong he might be. This Spindleborn fool is just lucky a street beggar hasn’t swindled him by now.

  Opportunity sang in her blood, more familiar than any mother she ever had. With her hands on the table, Sorasa mirrored his posture, leaning forward. She took the coin.

  “How can I set a price if I don’t know what you’re asking?” she said. The gold is crude but fine, from a pure vein. Bright yellow. A rare sort.

  The Elder did not hesitate. “I’m looking for Corblood mortals, descendants of the old empire. I’m told the Amhara know them, or can find them.”

  Her face was a mask as she began counting coins from the purse. He watched but did not stop her as one, two, three coins slid out onto the table. Neither bothered to hide the money. They were the most dangerous things in the taverna—in all the city, perhaps.

  The Amhara. Her throat tightened, but her face remained a mask. She bit one of the coins, judging the give of the metal. He wrinkled his nose.

  “The sons and daughters of Old Cor are few and far-flung,” she said around the coin. “Even the Amhara are losing track.”

  “I seek one in particular.”

  Sorasa drew another three coins from the purse.

  “A child.”

  Another coin.

  “The bastard of Prince Cortael and an unknown woman.”

  Another.

  “He’s no prince of any kingdom in living memory,” she replied.

  The name is familiar enough. Another mortal descended from the old empire, from the Spindles and a realm forgotten. A prince in name only, and to very few. Still, there have been contracts taken before. All failed. She eyed the Elder warrior again. And now I see why.

  Smirking, she neatly piled the coins. “Mortal living memory, of course.”