The Vespus Blade

by Scott Baron

  The Vespus Blade

  Space Assassins 2

  Scott Baron

  Copyright © 2020 by Scott Baron

  All rights reserved.

  Print Edition ISBN 978-1-945996-37-5

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  “The path of the warrior is lifelong, and mastery is often simply staying on the path.”

  – Richard Strozzi Heckler

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Epilogue

  Preview: The Ghalian Code

  Also by Scott Baron

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Normally, the light of the nearly full moon would have reflected brightly from the Ootaki woman’s golden hair. The natural magic storing property of her kind’s resplendent locks made them something to behold under the right circumstances.

  These, however, were not the right circumstances. Mud and debris werematted into her hair and were likewise smeared over most of her body. Her hasty escape had been the cause of that. It was also the reason she was still free.

  For the time being at least.

  The woman ran on even faster than before, pushing herself far beyond her own perceived limitations. Ootaki might have been capable of storing massive quantities of magic in their hair, but as a people, they were unable to tap into it themselves. A cruel joke of fate, for the mostly enslaved race.

  But not all Ootaki were slaves. Some small pockets of free folk still existed at the periphery of the systems. Places where the peaceful, pale-yellow-skinned people with their golden hair could live unmolested by ruffians and scoundrels.

  Usually, at least.

  Hers had been a tranquil existence. A quiet life with her friends and family, all living in a small commune in a quiet corner of a quiet world.

  Then the horror fell upon them, shattering all semblance of peace they had ever known. And it wasn’t just a random group of pirates or thieves. Those they could hide from as they’d done in the past. But not this time. This time, they’d been discovered by Tslavars.

  They were a disgusting race of mercenaries. Slave traders. Strong arms for hire, working for the highest bidder. The deep-green-skinned men and women were more than that, however.

  They took great pleasure in their profession, making them even worse than mere thugs for hire. They enjoyed the dirty work. And that made them a particularly popular tool of the Council of Twenty as that group of power users strove to expand their control over the known systems.

  And that was what they were doing here, undoubtedly. Rounding up the magical beings for their masters. All of them to be collared and enslaved, their hair to be charged with even more magic until such time as it was ready to be harvested, even though some of that power would be lost in the shearing process.

  The first cut was always the most potent, and for that reason, the younger Ootaki were a great prize. One that could be groomed their whole life until a rainy day. Or a day their owner wanted it to rain. Fire and brimstone, that is, for their harvested magic could be a fearsome thing.

  But to preserve the power without loss upon cutting, an Ootaki could give their hair freely. It was rarely done, though, and their locks always knew their owner’s intent, even if they did say the words, “Freely given.”

  If their heart wasn’t truly in it, the hair would know and only be a tiny fraction stronger than that taken by force.

  There were tales that Ootaki hair given not only freely, but out of love, held immense power, exponentially greater than what it appeared to initially contain, binding it forever to the recipient. But that was no more than a myth. A legend. For Ootaki could not use their own kind’s power, and giving it in love to another of their race, even out of love, would have no effect.

  A ship roared through the air nearby, powered by a team of Drooks, the enslaved men and women focusing their particular flavor of magic to make the craft fly. Free Drooks were even more rare than free Ootaki, for without them, interstellar travel would be impossible.

  Such was the way of this magical galaxy.

  The golden-haired woman raced through the sparse woods that bordered the fields at the far end of her people’s enclave. Her clothing was torn, her pale-yellow skin bleeding from the myriad scrapes and abrasions acquired in her hasty flight. And, of course, her hair was a mess of dirt and grime.

  A faint whiff of fresh moisture greeted her nose and exhausted lungs. The river. It was close by.

  She pushed on, racing as fast as her feet could carry her on the uneven ground, even as the trees grew thicker close to the water’s edge. Her father had told her to run. To run far and find water. Only there could she hide her scent from any tracking animals the invaders might possess.

  Another ship approached, much lower and much closer this time. The young woman quickly jumped into the muddy water at the river’s shore and tucked herself beneath a partially submerged log near the water’s edge. It was not a moment too soon, for footsteps could be heard growing near. Many of them. And not all of them belonging to the men and women hunting her.

  There was something else. A sound besides that of the clomping boots of the mercenaries. When she heard the nearby snuffling of the Tslavars’ beasts, she realized her father had been correct in his assumption. Trackers, no doubt.

  She shifted ever so slowly, allowing herself the tiniest of glimpses of the animals padding along the shoreline. They weren’t terribly large, nor were they particularly fierce in appearance. Nothing like their massive, distant cousins often used as guards for royal families of particular note and wealth.

  But these smaller versions, with their wiry hair and long snouts, had a keen sense of smell, and for that they served the Tslavars well. And there was more to them than mere animal tracking.

  These animals, in addition to sweat and fear, could also sense magic. And that was something th
e Ootaki girl had in abundance. Fortunately for her, the flowing waters of this world possessed ambient magic of their own, though minor. Nevertheless, it muddied her scent, preventing them from getting a proper fix on her.

  She felt a tug on her head. Her hair was of great length, having never been cut, as was the Ootaki way, and the weight of it in the water was threatening to pull her farther out into the fast-moving current. The same current that was also beginning to rinse away some of the mud caked in her hair.

  She felt her grip on the slippery log failing as the pull of the river drew her farther into its depths. Any moment now, she would be swept free, a golden-haired treasure for all to see. She clung as tightly as she could, but as she had feared, the river finally took her into its embrace.

  Only not as she’d imagined.

  Rather than floating along the surface, making an easy target for the hunters along the shoreline, she was hit by a piece of debris and pulled underwater, swept out to the middle of the torrent.

  Drowning was suddenly a very real possibility, and as her lungs burned with the need for air, the thought of slavery was beginning to sound a lot better than that alternative.

  Pulling frantically, she felt her head begin to go light as stars coalesced at the periphery of her vision. Her body was starting to go weak, the lack of oxygen taking its toll. She was going to drown, she realized.

  Fear shot through her body, the surge of adrenaline giving her the energy for one last burst of strength. With a final, mighty pull, she freed her hair from whatever it was she’d been caught up by and burst through the surface, gulping in huge lungfuls of air.

  She expected to hear shouts, then be snatched from the water. Instead, she heard nothing. Drained, she collapsed at the shoreline.

  “Where am I?” she wondered as she pulled herself from the waters.

  It seemed that the current in the middle of the river was far faster than that at the shoreline, and she had been transported a great distance in a short time. Far enough that her home was now a significant distance away, in fact.

  Scared, wet, and alone, she sloshed from the shore into the relative cover of the woods nearby. Her hair was golden once more, she realized. She had to get out of the moonlight before the shine caught someone’s eye.

  Deeper into the woods she walked, fighting back tears with every step. She was worse than lost. She was alone. Truly alone, for her entire family had been captured just after her father told her to flee. She’d never seen such urgency in his eyes before, and she had reacted immediately without question. It was the only reason she’d escaped.

  And now she was on her own. On her own and far from home, walking through woods she’d never before set foot in.

  She moved farther from the rushing water and stopped to listen. Far away, the faint sound of Tslavar voices could be heard carrying over the water. But sound was funny like that, and those men could be miles away.

  It was quiet here. Quieter than back home. There were no laughs of children, nor the sounds of livestock and those tending them. Just her own faint footsteps on the soft soil.

  This would not be easy, but she owed it to her father to survive. To make sure at least someone could recount what had happened here this night. With her will renewed and her back straightened, she began walking, her home to her back. She could never return. That was simply how it would be. But she would make the most of it.

  A magical stun spell slammed her to the ground, nearly knocking her unconscious.

  Snarling Tslavar mercenaries stepped out of the shadows, shedding their magical camouflage. They wore shimmer cloaks, though not very good ones. Adding to that was their lack of proficiency in the spells to utilize them, which led to mediocre camouflage at best.

  But for the distracted Ootaki girl, they had proven more than enough and served their purpose well in the dim light. Certainly, any with a fair degree of training would have spotted them, but a scared Ootaki girl with no off-world experience didn’t stand a chance.

  “Skree back to Captain Moratz we’ve got another one,” a Tslavar said as he loomed over the fallen girl.

  “She’s young. And her hair is long. We’ll get a nice bonus for this one,” his associate said.

  “Yeah, and it’s about time,” his friend replied. “Work’s been picking up lately, and I gotta say, I’m getting a bit antsy for some shore leave.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. I’m looking forward to a stiff drink and a warm woman, once we get paid.”

  “You said it,” the other Tslavar said as he threw the young woman over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get this one back. We might get lucky and find a few more if we hurry.”

  The two carried her back to the hastily constructed pen the other captured Ootaki had been corralled into and unfastened the gate. A golden control collar was slapped around her neck, magically sealing into an unbroken band, keeping her under the control of her owner. She was no longer free. She was now someone’s property.

  Just like all of the other slaves in the galaxy.

  Chapter Two

  Death came in many shapes and sizes, and while it was sometimes delayed, eventually, it would visit all. The specifics, however, were a crapshoot for the most part.

  Time, place, method. Some people simply met the shadowy specter of their demise sooner than others, and they never knew who, or what, would herald its arrival.

  Some deaths came via bearers that were long in tooth and claw, stalking their prey with bloody focus and intent. Other bringers of death walked on two legs, or ambulated on rippling tentacles or cushions of magic, and wielded all manner of weapons, conventional and magical alike.

  In their grasp one would find swords and knives, blades both enchanted and not, and each non-magical variety was well capable of ending life in its own manner with brutal efficiency.

  And then there were the magical devices. Items that did not look like violent implements at all. And some were not. At least, not in their original design.

  The magic-storing konuses, their metal bands resting around the wearer’s wrist, holding often vast stores of magic for later use. Whether the smallest of service units used to power the casting of day-to-day housework spells, or the heftiest of battle konus, they were alike in that they were tools used by nearly everyone, as only a tiny portion of the galaxy’s inhabitants possessed actual power of their own.

  In addition to konuses, there were slaaps, the heftier versions more military in design, and not often used for anything but fighting. However, those devices were extremely dangerous and required far more training to handle, the absence of which could result in a tragic end to an unskilled wielder as well as those around them.

  Other, far rarer magic storage and concentration items existed, but for the most part, those were the two most often encountered in daily life. But on this evening, in this dimly lit maze of alleyways and corridors, despite the danger in the air, only limited magic seemed to be in play.

  A well-muscled woman, fairly tall, but by no means what one would call lithe or statuesque, moved from shadow to shadow with a smooth grace that belied her stockier build.

  She possessed great physical strength, that much was clear, despite the layer of womanly padding that provided her the curves she had often used to her advantage to distract a target. Just before ending their lives.

  Her name was Demelza, and she was a Wampeh Ghalian. An assassin of the highest order. And this particular pale woman was on the hunt.

  Demelza’s long, dark hair was woven into a snug braid that barely moved behind her as she stalked. It served two purposes; not only keeping her locks out of the way in case of battle, which was pretty much a given on this evening, but the braid also possessed multiple weapons hidden in the tight bindings.

  There were numerous guards and sentries stationed in the area, nearly all in varying degrees of concealment. Any lesser killer wouldn’t have stood a chance, but she wasn’t just any killer.

  Demelza slid into place behind a young ma
n who believed himself shielded from view without so much as a whisper of a sound. Even her clothing was utterly silent, laced with a handful of muffling spells––one of her strong suits––that kept her movements unnoted by all.

  Her arms wrapped around the youth’s neck fast. So fast he didn’t have the chance to sound an alarm before the blocked blood flow to his brain rendered him unconscious. Demelza carefully bound him, applied a magical gag spell, then hid the body before continuing toward her ultimate target.

  Two more guards fell in quick succession. One in much the same manner as the first, but the second possessed a fair amount of skill, managing to evade the initial choke and sound the alarm. Unfortunately for him, his attacker had been prepared for that, and the air around them absorbed his shouts, dissolving them to less than whispers in the wind.

  He resorted to martial engagement immediately, drawing his knife from his belt and settling into a fighting stance. Demelza was on a ticking clock, however, and simply didn’t have the time for a knife fight. So she did the last thing he expected. She lunged right at him.