Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  The guards let out roars of rage and sprint toward the Cirisian soldiers. Tamriel’s heart leaps into his throat when they collide with a crash of steel, blood spraying. The Cirisians are outnumbered, but only barely. Adan had sent as many soldiers as he could afford to search for Firesse.

  Someone grabs Tamriel’s arm.

  “Out through the main doors,” Adan hisses, jerking his chin toward the other end of the hall. Already, Ghyslain and some of the guard-commanders are running toward the exit. Tamriel makes a break for the doors, Niamh following hard on his heels. Nynev fires off arrow after arrow, hissing curses, as Adan unsheathes his sword and leaps into the fray.

  “The bastards just keep getting up!” the huntress cries. Tamriel risks a glance over his shoulder to see that the dead soldiers—Cirisian and Beltharan alike—have indeed continued fighting, some bearing massive holes in their armor from the Cirisians’ spears, others with Nynev’s arrows sticking out of their eyes or through their necks.

  “Tam, duck!” Ghyslain yells right as someone tackles him. They go sprawling on the stone floor as something hard thuds against the wall and clatters to the ground.

  “It’s me,” Niamh wheezes in his ear. She clutches her side as she stands, then offers Tamriel her free hand and pulls him to his feet. She points to the spear lying on the floor at their feet, then at the bloody mark it had left on the wall—at the exact height of his chest. “That would have hit you if I hadn’t tackled you.”

  “Then let’s go before they can throw another one.” Tamriel scoops his sword off the ground—it had slipped out of his grasp when he’d fallen—and grabs Niamh’s arm, dragging her toward where Ghyslain and the commanders are waiting near the exit. “Nynev! Adan!”

  The huntress and the Master of the Guard are fighting side by side in the middle of the room, facing off against four Cirisians who had broken off from the main group. Three of them are alive; the undead one bears a gaping gash in its stomach, its intestines hanging out around its knees, but it does not fight with any less ferocity than the rest.

  “Go!” Nynev calls without looking back. “We’ll buy you time!” She slams the butt of her hunting knife into the dead elf’s nose. It crumples with a sick crunch, but the elf does not so much as blink as blood begins gushing down its face. “GO!”

  Niamh chokes on a sob as she and Tamriel run for the castle doors. Ghyslain and the guard-commanders are shouting for them to hurry. Then—

  “What the hell?”

  They stumble to a stop just beyond the castle doors, nearly slamming into the king and the others as they gape at something across the manicured lawn. Osiris points to the gate—now standing closed—and the people hanging on it, reaching through the gaps in the wrought iron.

  Niamh’s breath catches. “Are they sick?”

  “How did they get out of the End?” another commander demands, whirling on her. “I thought you were healing them!”

  “The gates were closed when I left an hour ago!”

  A dozen guards are standing at the end of the gravel carriageway, blades drawn and leveled at the sick as the gates creak and groan under the weight of their bodies. At first, Tamriel assumes they’re begging for help, for healing or protection from the elves outside the city, but as they descend the stairs and draw close enough for Tamriel to make out the individual voices, he realizes the sick are taunting the guards. When one of the guards steps too close to the gate, a hand plunges through and clamps down on the man’s arm. He drops his sword and begins screaming, thrashing, crumpling to his knees in the gravel. The rest of the guards jump back in alarm.

  “Osiris, see what’s happening,” one of the commanders says, his voice wobbling. “You, too, Healer.”

  Tamriel and the others wait in tense silence as Osiris and Niamh approach the man, the sounds of the fight in the great hall spilling out behind them. When they reach the gate, the cries of the sick grow louder, more frantic. Niamh’s shoulders hunch as she bends down to examine the writhing, shrieking guard. She shakes her head, and Tamriel’s mouth goes dry as he watches Osiris plunge his sword into the guard’s chest.

  “Surrounded,” Ghyslain mutters, shaking his head. Even if they were willing to run, there would be no escape. Even the lake, with its churning waves and massive, sharp boulders, would be too treacherous for any but the most desperate to brave.

  A yelp draws their attention back to the gates. The guard—the one who’d been sick moments ago—has begun to twitch, reanimated by Firesse’s otherworldly powers. Niamh doesn’t hesitate before she brings her rapier down on the guard’s neck. The man immediately falls still and does not move again.

  “At least we know how to kill them now,” Tamriel says, frowning, as Osiris and Niamh start back to them. “Or . . . re-kill them.”

  “The plague was upon him in seconds,” Niamh pants upon their return. “He was covered in a rash, his eyes blind, his mind gone. Kept talking nonsense to people who weren’t there.” She braces her hands on her knees and shudders, still gulping down air. “Those people out there—they’re elves, and they didn’t have the tattoos. I think they’re the slaves Firesse liberated. She sent them here to infect everyone.”

  “Impossible,” one of the commanders scoffs.

  Her eyes flash. “She knew they wouldn’t be able to fight, but that they’d be useful for spreading the plague, weakening your people in every way they can.” Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Adriel told me Firesse’s powers control the plague, but I didn’t think it could consume someone so quickly. Her strength . . .”

  Tamriel’s heart pounds against his ribcage as his gaze returns to the gate. Mercy is out there, somewhere. Possibly dying. Possibly dead. Possibly one of Firesse’s undead minions.

  He shuts the thoughts out. Death will not claim either of them today. Death will not claim anyone he loves. “How did they get in the city?” If her soldiers already breached the gates . . .

  Osiris shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  Tamriel turns back to Niamh. “Can you combat her magic?”

  “I don’t know the spell she used. Even if I did, the amount of power such a spell would require is massive. Our best hope”—our only hope, she doesn’t say—“is to kill Firesse and pray that puts an end to her magic.”

  “Then it’s up to Mercy and her family now.” He tries to ignore the way his stomach clenches at the words.

  “No. Firesse is coming to us.” Ghyslain jerks his chin toward the inferno blazing outside the city, and Tamriel at last realizes what the fire and the battle beyond really are—a distraction. A trick to divide their soldiers and their attention, just like the Cirisians had done their whole march across the fishing sector. Firesse really had been a dozen steps ahead of them this entire time. “She raised an army and led them all the way here to kill us, and she won’t let anyone else take that opportunity from her. She’s coming, and we’re going to be ready when she arrives.”

  Master Adan bursts through the doors of the castle, breathing hard. His silver armor is splattered with crimson—so much blood Tamriel can’t tell how much is his and how much is the enemy’s. Adan’s gaze goes to the gates, groaning under the weight of the sick elves, then back to the great hall. “The throne room. It’s the most defensible part of the castle. Bar the doors,” he orders Osiris and another commander.

  The massive doors slam shut behind them as Adan leads them through the great hall, keeping well away from the fighting on the opposite side of the room. Nynev and the guards are holding their own, but they’re tiring, and the Cirisians’ undead soldiers show no signs of slowing. They’re all covered in so much blood it’s hard to tell who is alive and who is another one of Firesse’s puppets. The floor is slick with it, and the tang of copper hangs heavily in the air.

  “Guards, to us!” Adan shouts as they sprint down the hall to the throne room. Nynev slashes at one of the elves with her hunting knife, then runs after them, slipping and sliding on the floor. The guards follow close behind he
r. A bloody spear sails over Tamriel’s shoulder and glances harmlessly off the wall. “Quickly, quickly,” Adan urges.

  They spill through the double doors of the throne room and Adan slams them behind the last guard, sliding the heavy bolt into place. Through the wood, Tamriel can hear the elves mutter to one another in Cirisian. He’d expected them to start trying to break down the doors, but they’re clearly in no hurry to give chase.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” Nynev is assuring her sister as she leans against the wall, her skin shining with sweat, her eyes bright with the adrenaline of a fight. A nasty purple bruise is blooming across her jaw and blood leaks from a gash across the bridge of her nose, but otherwise, she looks no worse for wear.

  Ghyslain snarls, “You have the nerve to show your face here after all you’ve done?” The hatred in his voice sends a chill down Tamriel’s spine.

  He turns to find his father standing in the middle of the room, the remaining guards in a half-circle around him. Of the sixty men they’d had, only forty or so are still alive. The king is glaring up at the dais, and Tamriel follows his father’s gaze up to—

  Calum, lounging on the throne with his legs hanging over one of the arms, his chin propped on a hand and a lazy grin tugging at his lips. A dozen stunning, blood-splattered Assassins flank him, bows in hand. “Hello, cousin,” he drawls.

  “Drop the charade, Drake,” Ghyslain snarls. “We all know you’re the real monster behind these attacks.”

  The creature wearing Calum’s skin ignores the king completely as he straightens, his eyes roving over Tamriel with fiendish delight. That lazy grin turns into a full-on beaming smile when Niamh and Nynev step forward, directly into the path of the arrows the Daughters have trained on Tamriel’s heart. Calum lifts a hand, and the Daughters lower their bows as he continues, “I’ve come so far to see you, Tam.” He rises and unsheathes his sword as he stalks down the steps of the dais. The guards tense, drawing closer to Tamriel and the king, but Calum stops at the foot of the platform and cocks his head. “Won’t you honor me with a duel, princeling? For old time’s sake?”

  When Tamriel doesn’t respond, Calum frowns. “No? You don’t want your father to have to watch me gut you?” He shrugs. “Oh, but it would be so much fun. Very well, then. We can do it the hard way.”

  “Where is Firesse?” Ghyslain calls, a warning in his voice. “She sent her minion to do her killing for her?”

  At last, Drake’s eyes flick to the king, a sneer tugging at his lips. “She knew you’d be waiting here for her, so she offered me some time to play. She’ll be here soon enough—she’s off on a stroll, reveling in the destruction we’ve wrought upon your precious citizens. Now,” he says, grinning, “Make sure you’re paying attention, Your Majesty. I would hate for you to miss your son’s slaughter.”

  He gestures for the Daughters to attack. They leap into motion, half of them loosing throwing knives so quickly all Tamriel can do is blink as six guards fall to the ground around him. Adan shouts a command, and the guards surge to protect Tamriel and his father as the Daughters unleash themselves on the nearest soldiers, laughing as their blades rend flesh and bone. Nynev elbows Tamriel out of the way, a hunting knife in each hand. “Stay back, Your Highness. Let us deal with Firesse’s puppet.”

  Across the room, Calum swaggers toward him with his sword and dagger in hand, a cat stalking its prey. His eyes light up when he sees Nynev and Niamh standing protectively before him, as if this whole battle is nothing more than a game. He touches one of the Daughter’s shoulders as he passes, a girl with blue-black hair which shines like an oil slick under the light streaming in through the windows. “You still want to complete the contract, Faye?” he asks, loudly enough for Tamriel to hear over the clanging of weapons against metal armor and cries of pain. When she nods, he jerks his chin toward Niamh and Nynev. “Rid the prince of his bodyguards, and the killing blow is yours—but only after we’ve had our fun.” He doesn’t flinch when another Assassin’s blade arcs and sends a splatter of blood across his sharp, angular face. He grins, something dark and evil dancing in his eyes, and says, “Let’s teach the king what a grave mistake he made in having me killed.”

  41

  Calum

  ONE HOUR EARLIER

  Drake’s lips curl into a smirk when he sees the unmarked carriage waiting beside the rocky shore of Lake Myrella, half hidden in the shadow cast by the enormous boulder which conceals the entrance to the castle’s secret tunnel. He presses a hand to the smooth stone of the city’s exterior wall and waves Kenna and Farren over, the rest of the fifty elves and Assassins he’s leading waiting just around the curve of the wall. “Four dozen,” he murmurs, nodding to the guards pacing beside the boulder and surrounding the carriage. Then he gestures to the men standing atop the boulder, crossbows in hand. “Three lookouts. Take them out.”

  Calum watches in silent horror as the twins pull the bows off their backs and send three arrows arcing toward the guards. The second they hit their targets—the guards’ bodies teetering, then falling and landing in a bloody heap on the pebbled shore—Drake pushes away from the cover of the wall and sprints toward the shocked guards, his soldiers streaming out behind him. Before the humans can react, his blade plunges through the stomach of one and slits the throat of another. The Cirisians and Daughters shriek and wail like creatures out of a nightmare—like the half-wild, terrifying warriors the folk tales depict them to be—as they leap into the fray, blades slashing.

  When the last guard falls, the shore is drenched in blood and bodies and the carriage is no more than a splintered shell. Bits of broken wood bob in the lake’s waves. The horses are nowhere to be found—they’d bolted the moment their harnesses snapped.

  “Forty-two,” Faye says, crouching near the water’s edge to clean her dagger. She nods to the bodies scattered around them, then at the shadowy entrance to the tunnel, nearly invisible through the artfully placed vines creeping up the boulder and the city’s outer wall. “Some retreated to the castle to warn the king.”

  “Then they’ll be expecting us,” Kaius responds. He plucks an arrow out of the carriage driver’s chest, wipes the arrowhead off on a clean section of the man’s tunic, then drops it into his quiver. “We’d better not keep them waiting.”

  When they’ve finished gathering their weapons and tending to some minor injuries, the Cirisians and Daughters under his command fall into step behind Drake as they make their way into the tunnel, so narrow Drake could spread his arms and brush both sides. He trails a hand along the damp walls, navigating the pitch blackness purely by touch. They don’t dare use a torch to light the way; the guards who are no doubt stationed at the other end would see them coming a mile away. For a long while, their only companions are the dank, earth-scented air and the occasional scrape of a weapon or armor against the jagged stone walls.

  Then, a faint light appears up ahead, around a bend. “Go on,” he murmurs to Faye and Giovanna. The Assassins creep forward and load the crossbows they’d brought from the Guild—each no longer than their forearms—in the low light seeping around the bend. They dart forward, slipping out of sight, and the Beltharan guards let out cries of alarm and pain as the bolts thud into flesh. Drake and the others follow hard upon them, rounding the corner to find the Assassins locked in combat with four guards. Their blades send sparks flying when they glance off the walls. The girls make quick work of them, using the close quarters and low light to their advantage. The guards are bigger than they, and all Calum can see is the flash of light glinting off Faye’s blade as she drops low and shoves her dagger through a chink in one of the guard’s breastplates.

  The mouth of the tunnel is several yards beyond them, lined with countless guards gaping at the beautiful, deadly women before them. None of them dare take a step closer as the last man falls to his knees before the Assassins, then slumps to the ground.

  “Well done, my darlings,” Drake croons as he and the rest of the soldiers join the Daughters. Like the bre
aking of a dam, they crash into the waiting guards in a wave of steel, flooding the corridor—the underground halls below the castle. The ground soon grows slick with blood and gore, and twice Drake trips over a body slumped across the middle of the hallway. Seconds later, the corpses rise and fight alongside them.

  “Fire it!” the Beltharan commander shouts, his voice raw with pain and fear. The light from the torch bobs as someone rips it from its sconce on the wall. The guard Drake had been fighting jumps aside, and a moment later, he sees why:

  A boy, not much younger than Calum himself, is kneeling beside a low black box, holding a torch to the strange box’s . . . fuse. It’s a handheld cannon, Drake realizes belatedly, and it’s pointed straight at the mouth of the tunnel. They’re going to seal it off with half of his forces still inside. “Watch out!” he bellows, and sprints for the boy.

  They collide in a crunch of metal and bone. The torch flies out of the boy’s hand as he claws at his broken nose, the blood bubbling over his lips, but Drake wasn’t fast enough. The fuse is short—and lit. Before he can reach up to snuff it out, the boy and another guard grab the collar of his breastplate and drag him backward. His hands scrabble for purchase on the slick stone, and he can do nothing but watch as the cannonball hurtles into the tunnel and collides with one of the walls, in the process taking out a few undead soldiers who had been too slow to move out of its path. The walls of the tunnel groan, shuddering under the impact, but they hold.

  Drake flips onto his back and kicks the boy in the face, slamming his heel into the broken mass of his nose. He screams and releases Drake’s breastplate, distracting the other guard long enough for Drake to grab his dagger and jam it into the other guard’s eye socket. He jumps to his feet just in time to see Faye and the Daughters fighting beside her drop to their knees as another cannonball flies over their heads. There’s a loud boom as it crashes into stone, then . . .