Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Then the dead rise.

  Mercy’s blood runs cold. The Cirisians who had undoubtedly been dead—their bodies torn and shredded, their limbs bent at awkward angles or missing entirely—stand, retrieve their fallen weapons, and continue marching. They clash with the Beltharan soldiers, swords and armor flashing in the sunlight.

  “Th-That’s impossible,” Mercy stammers, her heart thundering in her chest. Beside her, Tamriel doesn’t even seem to be breathing. “Firesse can’t be that powerful. She can’t just raise the dead.” If she had learned anything in the Guild, it’s that dead is dead is dead. It’s the only certainty in life; death claims every man, prince and beggar alike, Kaius had once said. Not even the gods could change that, her tutors had claimed.

  They’d been wrong.

  A geyser of dark earth shoots into the air when another cannonball slams into the battling soldiers, killing Beltharans and Cirisians alike. Sure enough, the broken bodies rise and resume fighting only a few seconds later.

  “Firesse was outnumbered, and she knew it,” Tamriel murmurs, gaping at the chaos on the battlefield, “so she found a way to change the odds.”

  Nynev nods. “She must have strengthened her blood magic from the lives they claimed on their march here. That’s why she refrained from using her magic for so many of the attacks in the fishing sector—why she sounded the retreat in Xilor instead of wiping them off the map. She was saving her strength to deal your city a blow from which it will never recover. Every death today—human or elf—will swell her ranks until you and your father have no choice but to surrender.”

  How long . . . How long until the scales tip in her favor?

  “Firesse is going to be well protected,” she continues, nodding toward the battlefield. Firesse is out there somewhere, marching toward the gates. “Mother Illynor and the Daughters are likely protecting her. Forget about the rest of the city—all of our strength must be directed at finding the First and putting a blade through her heart.” She flinches as another distant boom echoes across the city. “I ran into Niamh on her way to the infirmary to check on your father. She thinks we might be able to end her magic by killing her, but we won’t know for sure until the moment her heart stops beating.”

  “And we have no idea what other powers she’s hiding,” Tamriel adds in a shaky voice. He wraps his hand around the grip of his sword until his knuckles turn white. “Going after her is a death sentence.”

  “Then it’s obvious who has to do it,” Mercy says. When he turns to her, already opening his mouth to object, she lifts onto her toes and kisses him—kisses him to silence him, just as she had so many weeks ago in Hessa’s farmhouse. She’s an Assassin, trained practically from birth to be a better fighter than any soldier or guard. If anyone can kill Firesse, it’s her.

  Tamriel catches her wrist when she pulls back, agony on his face as he brushes a thumb across the back of her hand. The dark sapphire on her ring sparkles. “No. You won’t survive.”

  “I’m the best Assassin the Guild has ever trained.” She peels Tamriel’s fingers off and steps out of his reach. She shoots him a cocky grin. “Firesse doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “Especially not with us helping you,” someone says.

  Cassia, Ino, Matthias, and Dayna are standing in the doorway, watching them with grim determination in their dark eyes. In unison, her siblings touch the crest pressed into the leather over their hearts in a salute. Her mother stares at her with warring pride and sorrow, taking in her priceless black armor, her Guild daggers, her and Tamriel’s joined hands. Then she turns her gaze to the prince. “It would be an honor to fight for you against that monster, Your Highness.”

  “I’ll be right there at your side.”

  “No, you won’t,” Nynev calls.

  Cassia and the others step aside as Nynev and a half-dozen guards stride out of the castle and surround the prince. Mercy stamps down her guilt at the way Tamriel’s face contorts in surprise and outrage when she slips her hand out of his, moving back to join her family beside the stairs. She’d known he’d insist on following her into battle. She’d kissed him not only to silence him, but also to distract him so Nynev could slip into the castle and gather the guards passing through the great hall, as they’d planned.

  “You and your father are going to get in that carriage and flee the city,” Nynev informs him. “We’ll send word when the war is over. If you try to fight, the guards will drag you into the castle by force.”

  “They will do no such thing!” Tamriel hisses. “I am their prince—”

  “And they have an obligation to protect you. I promised Mercy that if Firesse made it to the capital, I’d see you to safety. Come inside—your father’s waiting.”

  He ignores her and looks to Mercy, the betrayal in his eyes burning her like a brand. “You’ll get yourself killed. Let me fight with you. We’ll fight together, or not at all. You chose me, and I chose you, remember?”

  She shakes her head and starts down the stairs, Cassia and the others falling into step behind her. I’ve been living on borrowed time since I killed Aelis, she wants to tell him. If I am to die today, let it be in saving your life one last time.

  “Mercy!”

  She doesn’t look back as Tamriel tries to shove his way through the wall of guards before him. Nynev continues talking over the sounds of the prince’s struggle, the whisper of steel on leather when Tamriel draws his sword. Their voices fade as Mercy and her family make their way toward the castle gates, gravel crunching under their boots. Dayna shudders and wraps her arms around herself when they pass through the gates of wrought iron where her daughter’s body had hung nearly eighteen years earlier.

  “We’re together now,” Cassia murmurs. Mercy glances back to see her sister grab her mother’s hand. With her other hand, she peels off the black silk scarf covering her head and drops it in the dirt. Dayna gasps at the sight of her daughter’s shaven head, the mangled mess of her ear. “Nothing will ever tear us apart again. Nothing.”

  Mercy sucks in a tight breath when they step onto the cobblestone road. The flames have begun spreading to the cramped houses outside the city walls; alarm bells clang, begging for help the city guards cannot afford to give. The fire will rage on, devouring everything in its wake, because the real threat is standing somewhere among the Cirisians and undead soldiers fighting for control of the city. No—not for the city. Firesse has made it clear she couldn’t care less about conquering their land. She’s marching for Ghyslain, for Tamriel, and she won’t rest until they’re lying dead at her feet.

  “You can’t promise that, Cass,” Ino says, stopping beside Mercy. She drags her eyes from the inferno and the armies fighting beyond to look up at her eldest brother. His body is rigid, his eyes hard as flecks of obsidian, as he pulls the daggers from his sheaths and flips them over in his palms, testing their weight and balance. “But we’ll fight like hell to keep it from happening.”

  “Damn right we will,” Matthias agrees, his voice wavering a bit.

  “And we’ll be right by your side the whole time,” Ino vows, nodding to Mercy. He touches the crest over his heart. “From today until our last.”

  Gratitude and love—love for these near-strangers, who have fought every day of their lives to survive, who accepted her without question, who will walk beside her into a battle unlike any in the history of Beltharos—sweep over Mercy. She wishes she could tell them to run, to save themselves from a war they cannot possibly win without massive casualties, but she knows without a doubt that they would refuse. Tamriel was right—they will fight together, or not at all. If he were anyone but the prince, he would be standing here with her, as well.

  She unsheathes her own daggers and twists the pommels together to form that terrifying double-bladed staff. The orange and red gemstones of the handguards gleam almost as brightly as the flames blazing before them. Over the crackling of the fire, the booming of the cannons, and the far-off clashing of swords, she can hear the shrieks of Tamriel
’s people as they scramble to flee their burning homes—rats abandoning sinking ships. Their chance of victory is growing slimmer by the second, but for those innocent people, for her prince, for the city which has somehow become her home, she’ll fight to the death.

  40

  Tamriel

  The guards wait only long enough for him to watch Mercy and her siblings slip through the castle gates before they herd him through the great hall and into the throne room. They arrive to find Ghyslain and Master Adan glaring at each other in the middle of the room, the countless soldiers and guards surrounding them shifting restlessly with every boom of cannon fire. The king and his Master of the Guard are clad in thick plate armor, and each looks mere seconds from drawing his sword. A quick scan of the room reveals that Seren Pierce and the other courtiers who had been working in the castle are gone—likely home with their loved ones to wait out the battle.

  Master Adan’s tight expression relaxes when he spots Tamriel and Nynev. “The prince has arrived. Now please, let us take you and your son to safety. Your chance of escaping without drawing the Cirisians’ notice diminishes each second you waste standing here arguing.”

  A storm cloud passes over Ghyslain’s face. “I will tell you one last time, Adan, that I will not abandon my subjects to be slaughtered like cattle. Firesse has made it abundantly clear that she will not rest until I face her in battle, so the only thing we should be discussing is why you think it is acceptable to keep me trapped here while Firesse burns my city to the ground around us.” The king whirls around and glares at one of the guard-commanders. “Osiris, why hasn’t a horse been armored and prepared for me to ride out to battle?”

  The commander opens his mouth to answer, but Adan cuts him off. “Your Majesty, you and your son will board that carriage and ride to Ospia if I have to bind you and throw you in there myself.”

  Ghyslain goes still. “Was that an order, Adan?” Slowly, ever so slowly, he turns to his Master of the Guard, his rage rolling off him. He unsheathes his sword and levels the point at Adan’s throat. “You would dare order your king?”

  Wisely, none of the guards make a move toward their king or their commander.

  “As I understand it, you answer to me,” Ghyslain continues, his icy voice filling the throne room. That razor-sharp blade doesn’t waver. “Your guards answer to me. I gave you an order, which you chose to ignore. Do it again, and I won’t hesitate to put this blade through your throat. It won’t be difficult to find a man willing to take your position. I doubt he’ll make the same mistake when he sees your blood staining the floor at my feet.”

  Adan doesn’t move—doesn’t even acknowledge the sword at his neck save for the slight narrowing of his eyes. “My duty is to keep you safe, Your Majesty. Whether you like it or not, you serve this country, just as I do. You cannot rule it from a grave.”

  Ghyslain glares at him for a long, charged moment, then lowers his sword. He does not sheathe it. “I’ve been a shitty king, Adan. I know I have been—too preoccupied chasing ghosts to rule properly, isn’t that what they say?” A ghost of a smile passes across Ghyslain’s lips. Tamriel’s heart aches at the self-loathing he sees within it. “Firesse is coming to kill me. No matter how valiantly your soldiers fight, this war won’t end until one of us is dead. You spirit me away to Ospia, you’re only prolonging the destruction. Creator knows how many innocent lives will be lost. Help me meet her in the field, Adan. Help me save my citizens. Help me be the king I should have been all along.”

  The Master of the Guard hesitates. Ghyslain offers him a hand—not a gesture from a king to his subordinate, but from one soldier to another—and, after a moment of thought, Adan clasps it and nods. “And what of the prince, Your Majesty?”

  Ghyslain doesn’t spare Tamriel a glance as he says, “He’ll take the carriage to Ospia as planned. Send as many men as you can spare to guard him.” The king’s boots tap across the stone floor as he strides through the sea of soldiers. Pain and devastation shine in his eyes as he grasps Tamriel’s shoulders and lowers his voice so only he can hear. “Should I fail to defeat Firesse . . . You will run to Rivosa, or sail to Feyndara or Gyr’malr or one of the northern continents, and forget about this place. Do you understand? Forget about me, forget about your throne, and live. I have no idea what Firesse will do if she takes hold of the capital, but she will not be a friend of humans, especially not one of royal blood. Promise me, Tam. Promise me you’ll survive.”

  Ghyslain’s fingers dig into Tamriel’s shoulders as he stares up at the king, the man who has always been a father to him in name only. For so many years, the king’s grief-filled wails had haunted his sleep, had trailed him down once-bustling halls, had echoed in his ears whenever he’d caught the eye of some nobleman’s pretty daughter. For so long, he’d seen his father as nothing but a coward and a broken husk of a man.

  Recently, though . . . he’s been trying. He’s been trying to be the king he should have been, the king he hadn’t been afraid to be with Liselle and Elisora at his side. Now, his father’s dark eyes are more lucid than they have been in years, his grip on Tamriel’s shoulders tight and unwavering. Selfish as his father’s request seems, Tamriel knows Ghyslain is offering him more than just his life—he’s offering a chance to give up the throne he’d never truly wanted, to escape the rumors which have followed him his whole life.

  Tamriel shakes his head and shrugs his father’s hands off. “I won’t promise you that, and I won’t flee to Ospia. I’m staying here, with you, to fight. We’ll defend our people together.”

  “If you die—”

  “He won’t.” Nynev steps forward, lifting her chin. “I’ll protect him.”

  “As will I.”

  All eyes swing to Niamh, who is standing in the doorway in one of her simple muslin dresses. Her hair is plaited back from her face, her Cirisian tattoos peeking through the makeup she’d partially sweated off, and her knuckles are white around the grip of a rapier she must have found in the armory. She smiles at Tamriel as she steps fully into the room. “You’re lucky you have a bodyguard who cannot die.”

  “Is Adriel all right?”

  “Resting. Whatever Mercy gave him did the trick. The rest of the Strykers are in the armory, preparing to fight.”

  A loud boom rocks the castle, the force of the blast reverberating against the windowpanes at the far end of the room. It hadn’t come from one of the cannons on the city walls—it was much too close. It had come from—

  “The tunnel.” Master Adan lets out a string of curses. “Calum must have known about the secret exit. He—er, Drake—must have told the Cirisians. My men were ordered to only fire the cannons if the elves tried to infiltrate the castle through them.”

  Ghyslain nods, drawing himself to his full height. His armor gleams under the light from the chandeliers. With his dark hair neatly tied back and his sword in hand, he looks like one of the warrior-kings of old, one of the legends who fought in the myriad battles during the Year of One Night. That broken, grieving man of Tamriel’s nightmares is nowhere to be found. “Ready our horses for battle,” he commands, his voice ringing out and silencing the murmurs of the guards. Immediately, they start filtering out of the throne room. Ghyslain strides toward the door, Adan and Tamriel trailing behind. The Cirisian sisters fall into step behind them, whispering to each other in their strange, lilting tongue.

  “I do hope you’re experienced with a sword, Your Majesty,” Adan says with forced lightness.

  “We’ll soon see if my training has held up all these years. Tam, be on your guard at all times. The Cirisians have allied with the Daughters, and they still have a contract on your life.” His eyes drift upward, toward the heavens. “By the Creator, I hope I’m not making a mistake in letting you come along.”

  “Letting me come along? I’m not some stray dog yapping at your heels. I can fight, and I’ll gladly do it to save our people from that monster outside our gates. After all,” he says, smiling faintly, “I’m my fat
her’s son.”

  Ghyslain looks at him, surprise etched on his features. They slow as they reach the front of the throne room, the bottleneck into the corridor leading to the great hall. He shakes his head. “You may look like me, but you have your mother’s heart. She would be so proud to see you today.”

  Tears prick Tamriel’s eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. He can count on one hand the number of times Ghyslain has spoken about his mother to him. “Thank you, Father.”

  His words are drowned out by another cannon blast, this one strong enough to crack the tiles beneath their feet. The ground trembles, and the candles overhead gutter out as the chandeliers begin to sway wildly. Distant crackling echoes down the hall, the sound like shattering bones.

  “The soldiers sealed off the tunnel,” Adan says with a breath of relief as they step into the great hall.

  “They’ve breached the castle! The Cirisians have breached the castle!”

  Tamriel makes it to his father’s side just in time to see the young guard come barreling into the room, his arms pinwheeling wildly, his eyes wide as saucers. He’s younger than Tamriel—likely little more than a recruit. “The Cirisians have breached the castle!” he screams again. His head snaps back toward the hall from which he’d come, his breath catching as he spies something out of Tamriel’s line of view. “They’ve—”

  A spray of blood flies from his lips as the blade of a spear punches through his open mouth. He slumps to his knees, then falls face-first onto the floor, the shaft of the spear sticking straight up from the back of his skull.

  A Cirisian woman steps up behind him, her face, hair, and armor coated in blood and a strange gray powder—dust, Tamriel realizes belatedly, from the tunnel’s collapse. She cocks her head as countless elves walk out of the hall and form a half-circle behind her, every one of them grinning with murderous delight. “They’ve breached the castle?” she asks in her soft, melodic voice. Her fingers curl around the shaft of the spear. She braces her foot on the boy’s broken head and yanks the spear out.