Shadow Rogue Ascendant

by Mike Truk

  I bared my teeth, knowing them slicked red, and spread my arms. “Come on, you bastards. Come at me. The Hanged God will dance on your graves.”

  They exchanged dubious glances then spread out, looking to triangulate. One of Cerys’ arrows took a man in the temple, and even as he dropped I screamed and threw myself at the closest, hacking at him as if he were a piece of lumber.

  Shock made him clumsy, so that it was all he could do to parry my attacks, but his friend was quicker on the uptake; he stepped in, kicked my feet out from under me, then stabbed his blade down through my gut with enough force to shatter the tile beneath me.

  Pain.

  Pain blossomed within me like the flames that had consumed the Bonegwayne, yet the very memory of that ship caused me to grip the man’s wrist and hack at his forearms with such fury that I cut through them both.

  He screamed, staggered back, blood fountaining from the wounds, and then fell over.

  My remaining opponent stepped forward, blade raised, to stare down at me in horror. “What are you?”

  Grimacing, I took hold of the hilt of the blade that was piercing me, and tried to pull it free. No good. It was wedged deep into the ground.

  I heard the sound of fighting outside even as four more men entered the room through the archway.

  Guess they’d learned how to use the front door.

  I coughed up a gout of blood. Five on me. Three on Netherys. She’d been backed against the wall. Yashara was face down on the tile.

  I dropped my blade, gripped the hilt of the enemy’s sword with both hands, and pulled. Doing so drew a scream from my depths, as if the very fabric of my soul were being torn apart, but the blade finally wrenched free, slid out of my body, and I fell back with a gasp.

  The assassin was still staring at me in horror. I guess I was supposed to be dead now. With supreme effort I rolled over onto my side. Blood was coming out of me from a variety of holes. I was light-headed, my vision narrowing down to a shimmering tunnel, and it took everything I had to rise to my knees.

  “Fucker won’t die,” said the assassin to his three friends as they joined him.

  “Take off his head,” said another. “That’ll do the trick.”

  “You do it,” said the first, clearly spooked.

  “My pleasure.”

  I raised my head to see the man draw his blade back. Then pause.

  The other assassins were climbing to their feet.

  The dead ones.

  The men assaulting Netherys pulled back, panting for breath, to turn and gaze about themselves with a sense of wonder that quickly turned to horror. A good six or seven assassins clawed their way to standing, fresh blood gleaming on their clothing, wounds gaping, weapons in hand.

  “The Hallowed Oak protect us,” whispered one of the men. “I didn’t sign up for this shit.”

  Movement in the archway. A host of people had appeared there. Not warriors, but aristocratic-looking types, clad in evening gowns and dresses, their skin pale, their eyes unseeing, but all of them holding a variety of weapons, from cleavers to silver candelabra to rusted blades.

  The assassins edged back.

  And that’s when Pony rose up, head still misshapen, but one yellow eye gleaming with thick, syrupy anger that promised oblivion.

  “New plan,” said one of them, clearly their leader. “Grab whom you can and get the fuck out.”

  With admirable coordination three of them lifted Yashara and threw her out the window. Another grabbed Tamara, threw her over his shoulder and hurried back as Pony lumbered after him.

  I rose to my feet. The dead closed on the assassins, who fended them off as best they could as they slipped out the windows, fleeing into the dark.

  I staggered after them. “Yashara! Tamara!” I couldn’t move any faster. Everything was loose and wrong in my middle. I was still coughing up blood.

  The dead assassins climbed out the windows after their living counterparts. Pony let out a curdled roar, hunched his shoulder and ran at the wall, plowing clean through in an explosion of plaster, wooden lathes and thicker posts.

  I followed him out into the darkness. Shapes were fleeing toward a large group of horses tied to a tree a little ways down the manor entrance. Where was Cerys? There, fighting off two men - who disengaged even as I saw them, to run back with the others.

  A wave of weakness washed over me and I retched up more blood. Pony was running toward the horses, the dead before him. Screams. The assassins weren’t getting away unscathed.

  But they were still getting away.

  I couldn’t make out what was happening. One of the lead dead assassins exploded into gleaming viscera and bones, turning into a living whip that tore through the enemy ranks. Horses screamed. Men shouted in terror, and then Pony was amongst them, clobbering left and right with a massive fist.

  Four or five horsemen broke away, galloped down the entrance and out the gate. The screaming amongst their fellows was cut short, and as I staggered closer I saw those who had fallen to Pony and the undead’s assault rise up in turn to look after those who had escaped.

  Nauseated, heaving for breath, I came to a stop. Saw Pony bend down and gently pick up a supine form.

  Tamara.

  Was she alive?

  Pony cradled her to his chest and turned to regard me.

  “Inside,” I croaked. “Take her to Netherys.”

  I almost passed out when he picked me up as well, scooping me up in one large arm and over his shoulder, to stride back up to the gaping hole and into the manor.

  Aristocratic strangers moved forward to help me down from Pony’s grip. They smelled strange, a combination of must and brackish water, but though dusty their clothing was fine, their grip was strong, and they moved with a confident fluidity.

  I was too distraught and in pain to argue. They helped me to a chair and set me down, then stepped back, rejoining their fellows.

  Netherys moved up, clearly distraught, a spire of twisting purple flames rising from the palm of her hand. “No, no, no,” she hissed, hands moving back and forth as if unsure where to begin. She actually looked grief-stricken, as if she really cared for me. Had to be the blood loss and pain. Surely.

  Kellik,” she said, voice taut with despair. “You’re…”

  “Inadequate? An idiot? Yes.” I struggled to sit up. “Who are those people? Where’s Iris?”

  The crowd had drawn back. There had to be some ten or twelve of them, but it was hard to make out in the gloom and flickering purple light. Most of them had a strong family resemblance, a resemblance that became all the more evident when they parted for Iris, who stepped forward clad once more in her ruined black wedding dress.

  “Kellik.” Her voice was sepulchral. “What happened?”

  Pogo turned from the window where he was peering out into the dark. “Ambush. Clearly. They followed you, Kellik, from the harbor. Cunningly done! I admire them for their tactics even as I yearn to break every bone in their bodies. They took Yashara!”

  “How’s Tamara?” I asked. Pony tipped a chaise back onto its feet and laid her down carefully. Netherys tore herself from my side to press her fingers to her neck. “Alive. They hit her very hard across the temple. Her pulse is steady.”

  Cerys came striding into the room, bow in one hand, a cut down her cheek, crimson hair mussed and pulling free of her dissolving braid. “We need to get out of here.”

  My mind was spinning. My body itching fiercely as it knitted wounds together. “Who are they?” I asked, pointing at the men and women who had closed ranks behind Iris.

  “My family,” she said, voice calm, almost surprised. “I raised them from the crypt. Restored them. Then brought them inside to clothe them. I was tired by my exertions. We were sleeping together when the attack came.”

  I blinked. The men and women were all middle-aged, none of them over forty. “Your… they…” I knew I had more pressing issues to handle, but blood loss, or the pain, made it hard to focus. I could only
latch onto whatever thought presented itself. “Your family all died young?”

  “Oh no,” said Iris, turning to smile fondly at a striking man with a satyr-like face. She caressed his arm. “This is my grandfather, Oternus. He died at the age of eighty-seven. I’m not sure how old my great grandfather here was when he passed, but I believe he was young, only his late twenties. I chose to age them as I saw fit. It’s more pleasing this way, don’t you think?”

  I stared at the ranks of the dead. All of them in their mid-thirties. All dressed in old suits and ballgowns. All with unfocused gazes, though not slack-jawed. As if they were all currently preoccupied with pressing thoughts, their minds a million miles away.

  “That’s great,” said Cerys. “Really heartwarming. But we need to get away. There’s no telling when they’ll send reinforcements.”

  I forced myself to focus. “They’ll have left people to watch the estate. To track us to wherever we go next.”

  “They did,” said Iris. “I’ve had the dead assassins hunting for them all this time. I’ve found two. They’re with us now.”

  Even as wounded and bloody as I was I felt a chill pass over me. “You’re directing them now?”

  Iris gave a grave nod. “I’ve pulled most of them back into the shadows beside the gate. A couple at the rear of the grounds where the servant’s entrance is located. If anybody tries to come through they will be unpleasantly surprised.”

  “That’s… great,” I said. And it was. Yet surrounded by her dead family, commanding the dead across the expanse of the estate, I couldn’t help but feel a dull sense of horror when I gazed upon her. A horror that fought with compassion. Fascination. Just how powerful was she becoming? How had she restored the corpses of her great grandfather or older to such youthful, seemingly living prime?

  Pogo smacked one hand into the palm of the other. “We must rescue Yashara now! This is intolerable!”

  “Agreed,” I said, forcing myself to sit up. Slits in my body pulled apart, causing more blood to leak forth. A wave of weakness washed over me, but I gritted my jaw and ignored it. “But we can’t just charge in there. Yashara herself would tell us to come up with a plan.”

  Cerys was pacing, peering out the windows despite Iris’ assurance as to our safety. “First, we need to go somewhere safe. The longer we remain here, the greater the danger of being followed or attacked again.”

  “But where?” I asked, helpless despair closing around my throat. “The Bonegwayne is an inferno. They’ll know all about Jessie’s warehouse. I won’t imperil Matteo by returning to the Mermaid.”

  Pony reached up and shoved at his head with the base of his palm. I heard the plates of his skull scrape as they slid back into position. He was now completely healed from the six or eight bolts he’d taken to the head. “Swamp,” he said, voice a low rasp like boulders rubbing against each other.

  “Swamp?” Cerys stopped her pacing. “Outside Port Lusander? Perhaps.”

  “Wait,” I said. “We’re not just running out into the swamps to hide. For once I’m going to hold up a moment and just think about our next step. Try and get a little logical about shit.”

  Everybody paused and considered me.

  “We need to get Yashara back,” I said. “I think we can safely say she was taken by Nautilus. Which means she’s probably been taken back to their compound or estate or whatever it is. Which, apparently, is massively guarded. Fighting our way in is either going to require Iris’ undead army or some really elaborate stratagem.”

  “I’m fine with Iris’ undead army,” said Netherys.

  “Me too,” said Cerys. “Fuck those assholes.”

  “Thirded,” said Pogo.

  It was so hard to concentrate as my wounds healed up. I wanted to just pace and hiss and wait until the worst of it was over. But I powered on. “Sure. That would feel good. But what would the end result be? Hundreds dead, the rest of the city alarmed, the finger pointed at us, which means our having to immediately flee. Without the use of the Bonegwayne, so we’d then have to either steal a ship or force someone to take us out of the harbor. Which is assuming the lampetramen would agree to guide us if the likes of Beauhammer or whomever else doesn’t shut down the bay to prevent our escaping.”

  “We can’t leave Yashara with them,” said Pogo, voice flat.

  “No, we can’t. But perhaps we can negotiate.”

  “Negotiate?” Cerys sounded incredulous. “With someone who just sent some twenty assassins to kill us?”

  I pressed my fingers to my brow. “Gremond is a businessman. He’s flexing his muscle at no cost to himself. We speak to him through Elsa. Tell him to return Yashara or we unleash an army of the undead on his compound. Perhaps we send a small wave to attack the walls, raise whomever they kill, and drive the point home.”

  “Blackmail,” said Netherys. “That could work.”

  “Especially when you consider why he launched this attack. We destroyed the Fever Dream, a favorite haunt of theirs, and insulted his son, and by extension Nautilus’ reputation. Is that really enough for him to go to war over? Risk massive property damage and huge casualties? I think not. So we get Elsa to negotiate, we send a warning, and then find a way for him to release Yashara while saving face. Perhaps…” I searched for something, anything that might do. “Gold. Nautilus is clearly about profits. We give them a cut of our findings. Yashara for a thousand gold crowns, plus we don’t raze their compound to the ground with a horde of undead.”

  “Gold,” said Cerys, voice thick with disgust. “We’re going to pay him after what he’s done? No - wait. I understand. It just sticks in my fucking craw.”

  “And you don’t think it does in mine?” I leaned back with a wince, several stab wounds in my back protesting. “But what matters here? Getting Yashara back and retrieving enough gold to pay Maestria for her loss. Getting the king troll information that brought us to this town in the first place. Let Gremond feel like he came out on top. He’s not a priority of ours, and we can’t allow pride to get in our way.”

  “Wise,” said Netherys. “And if he disagrees, we annihilate him and all his men.”

  “Agreed,” I said tiredly. “Though there’s no guarantee he won’t bring Yashara up to the walls and threaten to cut off her head if we don’t stop.”

  “So we avoid that,” said Cerys. “We negotiate for her release. All right. In the meantime, where do we go?”

  “I’m going to find Elsa. She’s probably still at the party. With luck, she can negotiate for us tonight. In the meantime, we use the gloom keys to hide our location. You all stay together, find an empty building somewhere -”

  “My family crypt,” said Iris. “There are several levels. The lowest is disguised. We can wait down there.”

  “Great,” said Cerys. “Oh joy. The family crypt.”

  “Perfect,” I said, ignoring Cerys. “They can search the manor, use magic even, and find nothing if you’ve got the gloom keys. And it’ll prevent our having to walk Pony through the streets. You all wait. I’ll come back and find you there.”

  Pogo sniffed. “Perhaps this time you can avoid being followed by Nautilus assassins.”

  “You have to admire this Gremond,” said Netherys, voice soft. “He did well tonight. Torched the Bonegwayne, sending a message to ship captains everywhere, and drawing you into the open in the process so that his assassins could trail you back to wherever you might be hiding and kill you.”

  Cerys placed her hands on her hips and shook her head. “And they were good, very good. Changing their plan mid-combat and retreating like that? It takes a very elite unit to retain coherence like that.”

  “Not elite enough,” I said.

  “What of the ruins?” asked Iris. “I thought we had to enter them tomorrow?”

  “We did. We do. I don’t know.” I pinched the brow of my nose. “I’ll talk to Elsa about getting an extension.”

  Cerys crouched by Tamara’s side and took her hand. “C’mon, c’mon, girl. Wak
e up.” She looked over her shoulder at me. “The longer she remains out the worse it is. Head injuries can be fatal even if they don’t break bone.”

  I fought to keep my voice calm. “I know. You going to come with me back to the castle?”

  Cerys curled Tamara’s hair away from her face then stood. “Of course.”

  “Pony, please help Tamara into the crypt. I’ll try to be back within an hour or two. Pony, you’ve got a gloom key?”

  The troll tapped it where it hung from his neck.

  “Iris, you’ve got the second?”

  Iris nodded.

  “I’m taking the third. Stay close together. Iris, what do I need to do to reach the lowest floor of the crypt?”

  “There’s a secret door at the back. A slab of stone depicting children playing within the Ashen Garden. Lift the far right side over a hidden ridge along the floor on the far side. It’s only an inch high. Once you lift the door, it’s balanced so that you should be able to swing it open with but a push.”

  “Got it.” I took a deep, shuddering breath. “Then let’s go.”

  “Your wounds?” asked Netherys, stepping up to touch the crossbow bolt that still stuck out of my chest.

  I took hold of it, snarled, and tore it out. Blood spurted out, spattering over Netherys’ arm, and I flung the bolt aside. “Not a problem,” I said.

  Cerys stared at me in wonder. “I hadn’t realized… how many injuries did you take…?”

  “Not enough.” I’d lost my blade somewhere outside, so I reached down and took up an assassin’s sword. It barely fit, but I rammed it home in my scabbard. “Let’s go.”

  Netherys reached out to touch my arm. “Rein in your anger. Please. We need you cool headed if we’re to get through this.”

  I fought the urge to slap her hand away, and instead gave a grudging nod. “You’re right. Thank you, Netherys.”

  She inclined her head, dark eyes liquid with emotion, and stepped back.

  Cerys followed me into the hallway. “You can’t go into that party covered in gore like this.”