“I don’t—” Cassius blurted.
“Rumor has it the estate just outside town lost its owner last night.”
“You know about that?” Carlisle said. The statement came as enough of a surprise to briefly push aside his violent intentions.
“It is why I came here, sir.”
“To this village?”
“To this tavern. When I asked some townsfolk who might know more about the killing, they suggested there was a drunken lout in this very tavern who was formerly employed by the victim. Would that be you, or is it your friend here?”
Carlisle started to raise his cudgel again, but Cassius stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.
“You’re treading dangerous ground, stranger,” Cassius said. “Look at you. Prime of life. Claiming to be well trained. You ain’t in the army, and you ain’t never been in the army. We’re at war, stranger. We need every warm body we can get to take his turn at the front line to keep those Tresson devils at bay. We each took our turn. Barely made it back and got the scars to show. No one makes it back looking the way they did when they left. You don’t look like you so much as busted a lip in your life. Only way that happens for a man like you is if you deserted, dodged, or bought your way out. In any case, you’re no kind of man at all.” He pulled out his own cudgel. “I’d say it’s our solemn duty to make an example of you.”
The stranger didn’t look frightened. If anything he looked disappointed. “You are planning to make an example of me… with that misshapen piece of wood?” he asked, vague disgust in his tone as he indicated Cassius’s weapon.
“It don’t need to be pretty to cave your pretty little skull in.”
“Violence…” The outsider shook his head. “I have no specific objection to violence. It is regrettable, but it has its place. If you must spill blood though, don’t you owe it to yourself and to the target to do so with dignity? Use a tool that pays honor to the fallen. A tool like this, for example.”
The stranger drew a unique weapon from within his coat—the action performed with startling speed—brandishing a serpentine blade as long as his forearm. The gleam of metal and blur of motion were enough to convince his would-be attackers to retreat a few steps. For a moment no one moved. Even Belle, wine and tankard in hand, was frozen in place in the doorway of the storeroom.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” the stranger said, turning the blade to catch the light of the fire. “Look at the cutting edge. Asymmetrical. Curving back and forth in ever more delicate sweeps until it reaches its point. This is a dagger designed by people who knew the value and sanctity of a life, so much so that it first served its masters in rituals and ceremonies.” He sliced through the air twice, advancing as he did until the weapon was mere inches from their faces. They took a few more steps back until a stout support beam blocked their retreat.
“Look at the runes,” the stranger continued. “This is an ancient invocation to the gods, requesting mercy and bounty in exchange for the blood that would flow. Now, look at the curves. Thirteen of them, diminishing toward a point sharper than a serpent’s tooth. Unquestionably beautiful, and yet the shape has value in function as well as form. Each curve slices anew, like a separate weapon. Each forward strike bites six times, each back strike bites seven. Each thrust carves thirteen separate slices into the belly of its target. Brilliant…”
“Now look at the hilt.” He flicked the dagger toward them and each man dove aside. It twirled through the air and bit effortlessly into the beam, sinking a third of its length into the iron-hard wood. The drunks, now a good deal more sober, looked to the blade. “Made to resemble a coiled asp, its fangs needle sharp and curved toward the blade’s tip. It is the one wholly artistic flourish, meant simply to intimidate.” He glanced back and forth between them. “Effective, don’t you think? Because if not”—he opened his coat to reveal the hilts of six similarly elaborate daggers and knives—“I’ve got many more fine examples.”
In the stillness that followed, a stifled breath drew the stranger’s eyes toward the storeroom. Belle still stood there with a bottle of wine and a clay tankard, her eyes wide and her hands shaking.
“You can put it on the table, young lady,” he said. “And don’t worry. I think the posturing has been put aside for now.”
“You weren’t lying about the training,” breathed Carlisle, shakily returning his cudgel to his belt.
“I seldom lie. It is rarely necessary.” He took a seat. Belle had set down the wine bottle, but after a casual inspection of the tankard had proved unsatisfactory she industriously swabbed at its interior with a rag.
“Who are you, sir?” Cassius asked. He returned his own weapon and lowered himself into a seat.
“I am many different things at many different times, good sir. Today I am a hunter, and my prey is a mysterious creature. A creature of the shadows.” He smiled. “A shadow himself, if the rumors are true. They call him The Red Shadow.”
There was a gasp and the shattering of hardened clay. Belle stood rigidly, the rag still in her hand and the remnants of the tankard at her feet.
The stranger sighed. “Three men brandish weapons and the mug stays in your hand. Three little words, The Red Shadow, and it falls to the floor. It speaks volumes of his reputation.”
“You think The Red Shadow was responsible for Sotur’s death?”
“Sotur would be the local baron?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have reason to suspect it. He was wealthy, from what little I’ve heard he was not overly popular, and now he is dead. Most importantly, no one I’ve spoken to has the slightest idea how it could have happened. I’ve been following The Shadow for years. He tends to leave things in such a state.”
“The Red Shadow,” Carlisle said. He stared blankly at the wall before him, rubbing at his stubbly throat as though genuinely surprised to find there was no slit. “I was guarding Sotur last night. I… The Red Shadow… he’s… he killed a dire wolf. He killed a massive wolf the size of a horse, and he did it with his bare hands. Tore the thing’s head off. Stained its fur with its own blood. Made the skull into a helmet.”
“I know the stories. They would have me believe he is this supernatural thing, this demon that walks the world taking the lives of the corrupt.”
“The Red Shadow has killed lords. He’s killed other assassins,” Cassius said. “No one has seen more than a flicker of the monster. He killed the second advisor to the king during a feast. During a feast! The man was smearing butter on his bread one moment and was slumped in his chair the next. He never even left the table.”
“That’s nothing. He killed Lord Marten the very first time the old man stepped into his new keep. He killed him while his own guards were showing him his own security measures,” Carlisle said.
“As I’ve said, I know the stories.”
“What makes you think you can find him when the Alliance’s best men can’t?”
“I don’t have a high opinion of the Alliance’s best men, but I also have an item that should allow me to follow him if I get close enough.”
“You don’t follow a thing like him! You hide from a thing like him,” said Carlisle.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve heard these words, gentlemen. And may I say that it never ceases to amaze me that the same people who would gleefully beat me to pulp for even seeming to abandon my army would caution me endlessly about seeking out a known murderer.”
“You mustn’t pursue The Red Shadow,” Cassius said.
“Why would you try to stop me? Has this man not been a scourge of the Northern Alliance for decades?”
“Death has been a scourge for centuries. If you are going to hunt one of the two, death is the safer bet,” Carlisle said.
“I’m not convinced there’s a difference,” Cassius added.
“The Red Shadow is a monster on the prowl. If you hunt it, you won’t kill it. You’ll just get its attention. Then it feeds on you instead of whatever it had its eye on. I don’t
want to be anywhere near the fool who would do such a thing,” Carlisle explained.
“Be that as it may, I’ve got business with The Red Shadow that must be settled. There is a grave injustice that must be corrected, and I will not rest until I’ve done so.”
“Then do it far from here. I’ve seen a slit neck before. Makes a hell of a mess, and my coat’s stained enough,” Cassius said.
“First I must find him, and as I’ve said, it is for that reason that I have come to this charming little establishment.” The stranger paced to his seat, where Belle had returned with a fresh tankard and filled it from his bottle. She sorted through coins from her apron and counted out the change from his purchase. “Thank you. No, please. Keep the remainder. The service has been superb.”
“What do you want from us?” Cassius asked.
Their visitor sipped his wine, wincing a bit at the flavor. “Information.” He turned to Carlisle. “You say you were Sotur’s personal guard last night?”
“I was. Everyone knows that. It was supposed to be Cassius here but the louse was passed out drunk. Look, why should I help you?”
The stranger reached into his coat and removed a satchel, which he upended onto the table. Two dozen silver coins clattered on the wooden surface. When the bag was empty, he tossed it down as well. “The usual reasons.”
Carlisle eyed the small fortune on the table, his willpower visibly buckling. “I… even if I wanted to tell you something, I don’t know anything. I didn’t see anyone. I wasn’t even there when the man died.”
“Did you find him when the deed was done?”
“Yeah.”
“Describe it.”
“He was dead.”
The stranger’s expression hardened. “Care to elaborate?”
“What else is there? He was dead. Bled out all over the floor.”
“What did the wound look like?”
“He had a bloody slit where his neck ought to be.”
“Was it a clean wound?”
“I just said it was bloody. Does that sound clean to you?”
His benefactor sighed. “I can see I’ll need to take a more direct role in the investigation. Do you know where the body is being kept?”
“In the baron’s estate’s infirmary.”
“Has he been prepared for burial?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Take me there.”
“How do you plan on getting inside?”
“If your susceptibility to bribery is indicative of the rest of the baron’s staff, I don’t foresee any difficulty.”
Carlisle sat for a few moments, staring at the silver again. “I can’t do this. I’ve got debts to pay and mouths to feed, but you are asking me to help you do something that might put my name in the mind of the bloodiest assassin in the history of the Northern Alliance. I’m not foolish enough to do that.”
“Very well.” The stranger turned to Cassius. “Are you?”
“Damn right I am,” Cassius said.
“Cassius Whitmoor, you idiot! The Shadow will kill this lunatic for hunting him down, and he’ll kill you for helping to find him.”
“Maybe he’ll kill you, Car. After all, you were the one on duty.”
Carlisle lurched forward and attempted to grapple with Cassius. Having been denied a chance at violence once already, both men were eager for a second chance to let off some steam. For better or worse, they were still feeling the effects of the afternoon’s libations and weren’t the most graceful or effective combatants.
The stranger separated them and raised his voice. “Gentlemen, please! The Red Shadow won’t give either of you louts a second glance.”
“And why is that?” Carlisle growled.
“Because he is an assassin. Assassins kill important people, and they get paid handsomely to do it. Killing a drunken and ineffective guard and his still more drunken and ineffective cohort would be beneath him.” He snatched his thrown dagger from the beam and gestured with it. “The common folk are safe as babes from the blade that kills kings.”
“And you imagine you are safe for the same reason?” Carlisle asked. “You aren’t concerned about the blade because you aren’t a king?”
“On the contrary. The blade is of great concern to me, and I aim to be worthy of its bite, so long as its bite is worthy of me.” He gave his weapon a final appreciative glance before slipping it into its sheath beneath his coat.
“You tie the language in knots when you talk, you know that?” Cassius said.
“I aim for artistry in my every endeavor. But enough delay.” He finished his wine and corked the bottle, stowing it in an outer pocket of his pack. “If you mean to earn your silver, my good man Whitmoor, we’ll need to be on our way quickly.” He swept the mound of silver into two equal piles with a deft slice of his hand, pocketing the first. “Take your payment. You’ll get the rest when I’m satisfied you’ve earned it.”
“Gladly,” Cassius said, messily clawing at the coins.
“Wait! What about me? I answered your questions!” Carlisle said, his eyes locked on the bribe that could have been his as it fell into his drinking partner’s pocket.
“Here,” the stranger said, snatching a coin from the table and tossing it to Carlisle.
“One silver? You must be giving Cass at least twenty!”
“Actions are so much more valuable than words, good sir. That’s a lesson worth its weight in gold. Now if you will excuse me, I wouldn’t want to keep a baron waiting.”
THE REST OF the late baron’s family had fled the grounds on the night of his death for fear of sharing his fate, leaving the servants to watch over the sprawling residence and its former owner. It took three meager bribes to shift the loyalties of the staff enough to earn the stranger a private audience with their fallen master. Cassius led the way to a darkened room deep inside the late baron’s estate and raised a torch. The infirmary was a frigid room with stone walls lined with cluttered shelves. It was discernable from the armory only in that the tools for drawing blood were accompanied by bowls to catch it. At the far end of the room was a slab, and resting in peace upon it was the former baron, respectfully concealed beneath a stained linen shroud.
“Odd that a baron would have an infirmary in his estate.”
“Aw, the old codger said he wanted his estate built like a keep, made sure they put in a quarters for a squad of solders and an infirmary and suchlike,” Cassius explained. “Guess he wanted to feel safe from invaders. Half a kingdom between him and the nearest border wasn’t good enough. He even had a halfway decent healer, up until they made him send her down to the front. The butcher who runs the place now only knows how to pull teeth and cut off fingers and toes. Probably keeps ’em in one of these jars here…”
“Sound thinking. You would be surprised what one can do with a tooth and the right incantations.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that stuff. All I know is when I die I’m going to make sure they keep a fire going wherever they lay me out,” Cassius muttered, pulling his coat tighter. “Gonna spend a long time in the cold ground. The least you can do for a man is keep him from freezing before you put him in.”
“It’s just as well they didn’t. With any luck the cold has kept the corpse fresh.”
The curious stranger approached the body and turned down the sheet. The baron was a bloated and unpleasant man in life, and he was more so in death. He had the face and figure of a man who had never missed a meal; not fat, but with an overall pudginess that portrayed a life of ease. His beard was scraggly and gray, except for where it was stained brown by the dried blood of his murder. The stranger adjusted his gloves and gingerly lifted the end of the beard to reveal the wound that had claimed him.
“Bring the light closer,” he instructed, leaning nearer to the slice.
As the flickering yellow light fell upon it, the strange newcomer almost seemed to admire the horrid slice across the late baron’s neck.
“Oh yes. This is c
ertainly the work of a fine blade and a steady hand. Look at the edge. It isn’t ragged or torn in the least.” He separated the cold-stiffened flesh on either side of the cut. “Straight to the bone in a single slice. There’s no sign that the blade met anywhere but its mark. Where did they find him? In his bed?”
“Slumped on his balcony, I think.”
“Dragged there perhaps? Was there a trail of blood, or merely a pool?”
“No trail. The servants made enough of a stink about cleaning it up where it was. If there was a trail, we’d still be hearing about it.”
“Mmm.” He pulled the shroud back farther to reveal the man’s hands. “Spotless… no scrapes, no bruises. This man didn’t have the chance to struggle. This was definitely the work of The Shadow.” He restored the shroud and turned to Cassius. “Tell me about the baron.”
“What’s to tell?”
“I haven’t noticed any mourners.”
“I’m more surprised there aren’t folks dancing in the streets. He squeezed his subjects dry, paid his servants and guards in copper, and squandered his money on damn fool things like his estate or mounds of jewels to keep that trophy of a wife interested.”
“Did he have any sons?”
“None who survived the war. Just a wife and a daughter.”
“Brothers?”
“Two.”
“Younger, I assume. Otherwise one of them would have been the baron.”
“That’s right.”
“And they are both alive?”
“Last I heard.”
“Tell me about them.”
“The middle brother is just as bad as him, only he doesn’t have the title and didn’t get the inheritance. His old man didn’t leave him anything but the private hunting ground up north. He’s practically a hermit, lives off the land and keeps his debtors off his back by having his brother accuse folk of poaching—whether or not they were nearby—then fining them.”
“And the youngest brother?”
“As I recall, he didn’t get land or money. But he’s the richest of the lot, thanks to him starting an armory and supplying weapons and armor for the war effort. Rumor has it he’s got his fingers in the black market, too.”
Brigands (Blackguards) Page 17