Brigands (Blackguards)

by “Melanie Meadors”

  “Have the brothers been informed of his passing?”

  “How should I know? I’m just a guard. The steward would be the one to do that.”

  “Well then, where is the steward?”

  “I think he had a meeting with the youngest. I expect they’ll get to planning the burial and such when he gets back tomorrow.”

  The stranger paused to consider the facts, then reached into his coat to gather the second half of Cassius’s silver coins. “Quickly, where is this hunting ground?”

  “If you’ve got a fast horse and the weather’s not too rough, just follow the road due north for a while.”

  “A while?”

  “I forget how far. It’s the only fenced-in piece of forest you’ll see up that way anyway.”

  “Here is the remainder of your payment,” he said, rushing for the door.

  “Why the rush?”

  “Because if the middle brother isn’t dead yet, he will be soon. The youngest hired The Red Shadow to clear the way to the title and the estate.”

  He rushed out the door, heading for the outside. Cassius followed, trying to keep up.

  “How do you figure?” he called after the stranger.

  “I’m not a simpleton, that’s how!”

  “Are you going to try to save the middle brother?”

  “He’s already dead, or as good as, but if I move fast enough I just may reach him while The Shadow is still nearby!”

  Cassius, not in the best of health, fell behind as his benefactor rushed through the estate to the stables and set about preparing his horse for travel. The stranger was mounting the steed when Cassius reached the door, thoroughly out of breath.

  “Wait!” he gasped. “I don’t even know your name!”

  The stranger heaved himself into the saddle and spurred the horse out of the stable, calling back behind him, “That’s just as well. It wouldn’t have done you any good.”

  Cassius stood in the doorway and watched the bizarre outsider ride into the distance.

  “Meh,” he grunted. “Name doesn’t matter anyway. If he’s after The Shadow, by this time tomorrow he’ll be dead.”

  THE VAGUE DIRECTIONS Cassius provided turned out to be accurate, if not precise. “A while” revealed itself to be half a day, bringing the stranger to the fenced stretch of woods well after sunset. Most of the trip had been through snow-covered plains, with the occasional farm invariably growing cabbage or potatoes. Due to hearty types of each being the only crops that would grow beyond the southern border region of the Northern Alliance, most of the population lived on little else. This was doubly true in areas with poor hunting, which described most of the north—that the Sotur clan had claimed the one patch of forest for miles dense enough for decent hunting indicated just how little they cared for their fellow people.

  The fence around the property wasn’t very imposing, being merely a row of evergreen branches and trunks driven at wide intervals into the ground, most still bearing their needles. They served as a marker and little else. What kept people from crossing through and taking advantage of the hunting ground was the penalty imposed by its owner if they were caught.

  The stranger paid the marked boundary little heed. Dense clouds blotted out the moon and stars, as was frequently the case in the Alliance lands, leaving the forest shrouded in an almost impenetrable darkness.

  “A moonless night… not the ideal time to be searching for a shadow,” he uttered, his voice low.

  His equipment included a lantern and a few more exotic methods for creating light, but at the moment the benefits of being able to see weren’t nearly enough to outweigh the consequences of being seen. He moved forward through the inky woods as surely as he could manage. Unfortunately it soon became clear he wouldn’t be able to rely upon the horse. The forest grew steadily thicker as he approached its center, and within minutes the low branches and high shrubs blocked the way too much for the steed to penetrate. He dismounted and drew a shorter and simpler blade than the one he’d used to intimidate the guards. Such a weapon left him better able to put his final remaining advantage to use.

  He dug into a well-protected pocket beneath two layers of clothes until his gloved fingers snagged, with some difficulty, a fine silver chain. When his grip was secure he tugged it into the open. A small leather satchel swung free from his pocket. He loosened his fingers and let the weight of the satchel draw the chain through them until it hung at its full length. It swung lightly, and when he whispered a few awkwardly phrased arcane words it swung a bit more. He closed his eyes and focused on articulating each unnatural syllable properly, though his untrained tongue tripped over them twice before the spell was cast in earnest; when it did the satchel tugged against the chain, angling out to the woods ahead.

  “He’s here.” The man wrapped the chain around his fist and charged as quickly and quietly as he could in the direction it led.

  Stealth was not an option. It was too dark to see more than a few steps ahead, leaving him at the mercy of every loose branch and boot-grabbing bush. Worse, the forest was silent, magnifying the noise of his own breathing and the crunch of his footsteps. There wasn’t the chitter of a squirrel or the chirp of a bird. The woodland creatures were in hiding, all too aware of the danger lurking in the darkness. There was a predator in the woods.

  Finally he reached a clearing and stopped short. A body lay face up on the ground. In the weak light the pool of blood looked black against the white snow, and the kill was so fresh steam still rose from the slit in his throat.

  “Damn it,” hissed the stranger.

  He scanned the clearing. There were footprints, but they all seemed to belong to the dead man. None of the trees around him had dropped any of their snow, hinting that no one had hidden among their branches. The body was still warm and yet the trail was cold. He lowered his satchel and began the incantation.

  The first word still hung in the air when a blow to his back sent him sprawling. His blade went one direction; the satchel went the other. He tried to scramble forward, but a weight dropped on his back and held him to the ground. The leather fingers of a gloved hand clutched his chin and pulled his head back. The stinging cold edge of a blade touched his throat. He gasped for breath but dared not struggle, lest he do the killer’s work for him.

  He sensed a presence beside his ear.

  “You are alone,” came a harsh whisper.

  “Yes,” the restrained man wheezed, his chest and mouth constricted.

  “You did not follow my tracks. I did not leave any.”

  “No tracks.”

  “You did not follow the victim’s tracks, because you came from the wrong side.”

  “Yes.”

  “You could not follow a scent, the wind is at your back.”

  “I didn’t.”

  The next words were spoken with a force and harshness that simply wasn’t human. “Tell me how you found me.”

  “If you kill me now, you’ll never know.”

  “Neither will anyone else.”

  He swallowed. “You’re holding a black blade to my throat. It isn’t metal, it is stone. It was made for you by a gifted weaponsmith with the help of a fairy. You’ve used it for nearly sixty years and it still hasn’t dulled. I know what you are.”

  The blade began to slide; blood ran down the man’s neck.

  “Five years ago you left a place called Entwell for the second time. I know these things because I was there. My name is Desmeres Lumineblade. My father is the man who made that sword.”

  The blade stopped. “Why did you come here?”

  “I came because you and I have business together, even if you don’t know it. Let me speak. We both know if you don’t like what you hear, there’s nothing I can do to stop you from killing me.”

  His heart pounded in his ears. Warm blood dripped in fat drops on the snow. The weight lifted from his back and the blade pulled away. Desmeres moved slowly and deliberately, climbing to his feet and spreading his hands to his
side to avoid provoking any rash decisions from the assassin.

  “Speak,” The Red Shadow said.

  “May I retrieve a bandage to tend to my—?”

  A bandage landed beside him, tossed from behind.

  “Speak.” This time the voice came from a different position.

  Desmeres fetched the bandage and applied it. When it was in place, he turned. The assassin had backed into the darkness of the trees around the clearing. His presence was felt more than seen. There wasn’t even the telltale gleam of his eyes.

  “I didn’t have much use for you when you were in Entwell. I knew you were the first to go and return, but I was still honing my craft. I make weapons, like my father before me. But a year after you left I got into an argument with him. I became irate that one of my weapons, one of my best, was in the hands of a green apprentice. Father believes that the purpose of crafting a weapon is to make a fighter as formidable as he or she can be. He said my weapon was elevating the apprentice to more than he was. I believe that a fighter and a weapon are two halves of the same whole. Perfection can only be achieved when the greatest weapon is in the hand of the greatest warrior. By holding my weapon, that apprentice was spitting in the face of greatness, preventing my sword from finding the hand that would do it justice. And though my father’s sword is an undeniable masterpiece, in your hand it cheapens you. I’ve learned much since it was made. I can and have made better. My weapons belong in your hand and yours alone.”

  “You came this far, risked your life, to give me a weapon?”

  “This weapon, and the next one, and the next one. You are the finest warrior the world has ever produced. Through you, my weapons can finally achieve their rightful place.”

  “You would help an assassin in his deeds.”

  “Let me make this clear. Your skill with weaponry is the only trait that concerns me. The rest is irrelevant. I will do whatever is needed. This is my purpose. Surely you can understand how important it is to serve one’s purpose?”

  The Shadow remained silent.

  “I can do things for you. Things you and I both know you can’t do yourself because of what you are.”

  There came a sound, something less than the swish of fabric, and from the darkness emerged a form. It looked to be a human, until Desmeres’ gaze lingered upon the shadow within the hood. There was a pointed muzzle, the glint of whiskers, and the gleam of animal eyes. It was not the face of a human. This “man” of whom the whole of the north lived in fear was no man at all. He was a beast called a malthrope, with more in common with a fox than a human.

  “Killed a wolf and wore its bloodstained skull as a helmet. You started that rumor, didn’t you? Whispered it in someone’s ear from the darkness. You have become the most feared figure in Vulcrest, and you’ve done it with your hands tied, because anyone who so much as sees your face, even without knowing your crimes, will kill you on the spot. You are a monster at a glance. I am not. I can speak to humans, and elves, and dwarves. I can mix with society. Meet face to face. I can be your face to the world, if you require. Whatever it takes to put my weapons in your hands. If either of us settled for anything less it would be a crime.”

  The assassin released a seething hiss, then snapped back to his main concern. “Enough about that. Tell me how you found me.”

  “Anyone can follow the crumbs. The mark of an assassin is unmistakable, but you aren’t the only one. I found three before I saw a wound that might have come from my father’s blade. From there I traced your path, found where you lingered.”

  “I know you were following me. I know you’ve come close before. Tell me how you found me.”

  “The last few steps came from that satchel on the ground. I brought it from Entwell. Inside are a few precious strands of your hair, a few flakes of dried blood from an old bandage, and a pinch of soil from where you slept. Coupled with an incantation the gray wizard taught me, it draws itself toward you. Without it, I’d never have found you. Destroy it and neither I nor anyone else ever will again.”

  The Shadow stood silent once more. Desmeres knew the time for talk was nearly through, the killer’s mind nearly made up.

  “I don’t know what you believe in, but I know you believe in something. You aren’t an assassin for the thrill of the kill. The men and women who have fallen by your blade are, without exception, corrupt and deceitful. You are selecting people who deserve to die. Perhaps you wish to punish the wicked, perhaps you simply wish to ease your conscience. I don’t know. What I do know is that if what you are working toward is truly important you are obligated to take every advantage offered. Anything less and you are turning your back on it. Let me help you.”

  “… You would ask me to trust you?”

  “You would be a fool to trust me, and I would be a fool to trust you. But I’m more than willing to live what remains of my life with a knife to my throat. I don’t even care if it finds its way to my back.” He pointed to his fallen weapon. “As long as it is one of mine.”

  The assassin took two fluid paces toward Desmeres. They stood face-to-beastly-face, Desmeres’s eyes locked on the predatory gleam beneath the assassin’s hood. With a flicker of motion, The Red Shadow held one of the daggers formerly concealed beneath Desmeres’s jacket.

  “If I decide I have use for you, you’ll see me again. If not”—the assassin held up the stolen blade—“you’ll get your wish.”

  With those final words, The Red Shadow stepped aside, and in a blur of motion was gone. Desmeres adjusted the bloodstained bandage and breathed a long, slow breath. His eyes turned to the ground. In departing, The Red Shadow had snatched up the satchel and the fallen blade.

  Desmeres smiled.

  “And so begins the legacy…”

  THE LONESOME DARK

  Anthony Lowe

  THERE WAS A storm beating at the windows, and Evaline Cartwright wondered if one death would be enough to stop it.

  “Not sure why you even bothered telling me if I never had a choice in the matter.” John Wilbur paced the length of his bedroom, sweat building on his forehead. Even in the flickering candlelight, Evaline could see the man’s eyes paying special attention to the exits. “You’ve got no right, merc.”

  “No, you see, that’s where you’re wrong,” Evaline replied, easing herself down onto the bed. “I’ve got every right.”

  “You heard what the mayor said!”

  “That doesn’t matter, John. None of that matters.” She removed her wide brim hat and set it upside down on the blanket chest. “I’m telling you because I’d like for things to be different. I’m letting you say goodbye.”

  “You heard the mayor! It was self-fucking-defense!”

  “None of that matters,” she repeated much more firmly this time. “Not to me, anyway.”

  Mr. Wilbur looked at the door again. His face was bright red and his eyes were bloodshot. “He was trespassing on my land. I have every right to protect my property and my family. He could’ve been a wicker.”

  Evaline had to laugh. Finally, she could speak her mind. “For what reason would a wicker ever have to come this far north? Longrove’s a nice town, but it’s not that nice.” She cleared her throat. “’Sides, most of the plants they use for their rituals can’t grow here. And a wicker without some singroot to channel auras is just an average nothing with bad tattoos and worse teeth.”

  “I…” Wilbur’s resolve was receding into grim acceptance. His hands started trembling. “He could’ve been…”

  “What’s really funny about this whole thing is the Sharath are actually a very passive bunch. If you’d ever bothered to know one before killing ’em, you’d know that. They’ve taken it up the aft from us for so long, they’ve adopted an odd policy of indifference they’re all sworn to follow. After all, their First Life begins in the spirit world, right?”

  She pulled back her duster, revealing a six-slug revolver and battered sword. “But once you clip off a ’rath’s clan bracelet, their way to the spirit wor
ld is lost, and they’re forced to wander endless roads forever. And that’s a lot worse than murder in their eyes, John. Even still, they might have given you a pass, but I’m not.”

  “Do you hear yourself ?” he pleaded. “Spirit worlds and endless roads. You’re gonna kill me over heretical ’rathian bullshit like that?”

  “Yeah… Well, no. I’m gonna kill you because I had to haul that young Sharath’s body all the way into the ass-end of Westfarleigh because of you. On top of that, you clipped off his clan bracelet, probably because you’re a simpleton and thought it looked like gold. Bolt cutters are the only way to remove them, you know, and I saw the little slice you made. Like you were actually thinking of hacking his hand off to get at it.

  “You crossed the line between murder and desecration—and you inconvenienced me greatly—so now I’m gonna kill you, John Wilbur.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Evaline stood and Wilbur took a step back. “You’re on my time now,” she said. “I’m giving you a chance to say goodbye to your family. If you don’t wanna do that, I will gladly leave your headless corpse in this room for your kids to find.” She ran a finger along the hilt of her sword. “And won’t that be a cherished memory?”

  THE SHARATH BURIAL rituals last for seven days, and the Fires of Tan’shar continue to burn until the next full moon, when they are finally snuffed out. It’s only then that the journey of the departed concludes, their spirit peaceably birthed into the First Life and the presence of their ancestors.

  Evaline covered the young Sharath’s body with a dirty tarpaulin, watching as the collective torchlight of the small crowd played across its surface, giving the illusion that the dead had not yet passed on—and noticing the complete lack of a clan bracelet, that was almost certainly the truth. There would be no birth into the First Life for this boy, no ancestors to greet him. Only long roads and diseased forms conjured from fading memories.