An Assassin's Blade: The Complete Trilogy

by Justin DePaoli

  “What of the West and East?” Braddock said. “I’ll be damned if they take Erior from me.”

  “They won’t want to,” I said. “They need bodies. The East doesn’t have many families who don’t swear allegiance to you and who haven’t already provided you with their battlements. The West is a little sketchier, but if they move in from Watchmen’s Bay or Eaglesclaw, they’d run headlong into either you and Kane or Chachant, Dercy and Edmund. Or whoever we replace them with.”

  Braddock poured a pail of water into a hollowed-out gourd. “It’s better than any damn plan I’ve come up with so far.”

  Rommel’s lips moved, but there were no words. A good boy knows when his advice is no longer wanted.

  “I’ll deal with Kane Calbid,” Braddock said, sipping his water. “I only have a contingent of the Red Sentinels here. The rest of them, along with my bannermen, are awaiting orders. I’ll send for them right away.”

  “Send Lysa Rabthorn back to Erior too,” I said, “where she’ll be safe. She shouldn’t be out here.”

  “Already had it in mind,” Braddock said.

  I turned to Vayle. “How many Rots do we have?”

  “Fifty-some.”

  “Let’s split them. Half go to Golden Coast, half to Hoarvous. They get to the highlords and promise them whatever they have to. You and me, we’re taking the North.”

  Braddock pinched a sputtering candle. “By yourselves? This isn’t a job where you assassinate some goatherd. You need to pull the entirety of the North together.”

  “I know just the man for that job,” I said. Letting Braddock hunger for the answer for moment, I then added, “Patrick Verdan.”

  The armor wasn’t my own, but it was satisfactory. One can’t hope for more than that when dealing with Glannondils.

  I put on a mail shirt, a leather jerkin, leather chaps and, as one might guess, leather boots. I was a man of variety if nothing else.

  I stuffed some heavy wools into a burlap sack in preparation for the abuse the northern weather would dole out, double-checked my hips for swords and my ankles for daggers. Thankfully the weapons were of ebon. On a less blissful note, they had belonged to my Rots, who had been taken from Vereumene and murdered in Amielle’s arena.

  I strolled out into the camp, where tents were now coming down and horses and mules were being fitted for the short journey to Kane Calbid.

  One steed in particular looked at me with hopelessness in its chestnut eyes. I patted its head and leaned in for a whisper. “Don’t worry, old boy. I hear they’re more fans of sheep than horses. But by the gods, if one sneaks up behind you and drops his trousers, you kick him hard and true.”

  The horse snorted, which I took for a hearty laugh.

  Near the edge of the camp was a wide circle of tents that appeared removed from the rest, as if they had been ostracized for perceived faults.

  “Look there!” said Wevel Pilfast, a Rot who I personally trained eleven years ago. “A man so foul not even Death wanted him!”

  The small mob of darkly dressed and oily-haired Rots bellowed with laughter.

  I smiled. “I hear you delicate little flowers were so scared when those flaming birds came through, you pissed yourselves while running away.”

  “Too fucking busy running to worry about pissing,” Elima said.

  I kicked some ash that had escaped a fire pit. “I hear that,” I said, looking at my feet. “Commander Vayle catch all of you up on the plan?”

  “Aye,” Wevel said, “I’m leadin’ the crawl through the Golden Coast, and Evandra’s taking the others through Hoarvous.”

  I nodded at my feet. “Good. That’s… that’s good.” I rubbed my hands together and tried get the courage to look at their faces while I spoke. But I guess I was too much of a coward. “Look, what happened in Vereumene… the Rots there who were taken. They, uh—” I began talking wildly with my hands, as if the words spiraled around me and I had to snag them from the air.

  “We figured they were dead,” Elima said. “Figured you were too. It’s what we signed up for, Shepherd. We know the risks.”

  My tongue stabbed my cheek in frustration. I lifted my head and shook it silently. Then, I said, “You’re wrong. You signed up for freedom. You all joined the Black Rot to experience life in its purest form: free and unrestricted. Maybe some of you have personal reasons as well, like Commander Vayle and her pursuit of justice. But above all, you wanted freedom. Freedom that you cannot find inside walls. Freedom that kings and lords withhold from you.”

  I licked my lips and continued on. “The most I’ve asked of any of you was that you do not kill kings and you do not kill children, and on occasion I’d request your company to cut down some lord who thought it wise to threaten our family. And perhaps a small amount of your coin went into the vault as tax. But otherwise you were free. Free to take whatever job came your way. Free to spend your gold as you liked, drink to your fill, fuck till you couldn’t stand anymore. I’m sorry I have stolen that freedom from you here today. I’m sorry I stole that freedom from your fellow Rots who died in another land, far away from here.”

  “Oi, fuuuuck that,” bellowed a Rot. “You didn’t steal nothin’ from us, Shepherd. We followed you willingly. Still do. We’ll follow you till that bastard Death tells us we can’t follow you no more.”

  “We trust you, Astul,” another put in. “We were all gettin’ too used to petty assassinations anyways. Now we’re on the world stage.”

  “That’s right! We fucked villages and even little kingdoms before, but never did fuck the world.”

  “Hear, hear. We get to fuck the world, boys.”

  “Right up the arse!”

  Evandra cocked her head. “Why’s it always the ass with you, Baurel?”

  “Bet you it’s protectionism,” Wevel said.

  “Protectionism?”

  “Right, right. Protectionism. In case he gets with a guy dressed up as a lady, see. Since he’s all about the ass, he can still have his fun. Protectionism.”

  “That ain’t it!” Baurel shouted.

  With an unexpected smile on my lips, I slunk back off into the camp. I hoped that wouldn’t be the last time I saw my friends. But the fact was this plan Vayle and I had concocted… it was the sort of plan you make when you’ve got nothing else. The kind in which you shrug your shoulders and throw it out there, knowing it’s better than nothing, but not by much.

  Waiting for the Glannondils to ready me and Vayle each a horse, the two of us sat in Braddock’s tent.

  The king of Erior chomped a stale piece of bread in half and chewed it vigorously, probably imagining it to be a fat chunk of the greasy sausage he dined on regularly.

  “What was it like there?” Braddock asked. “Being with the conjurers?”

  The memories put a scowl on my face. “An unforgettable time that I hope to soon forget.”

  “What was the land like? Similar to here? The people, did they speak like us?”

  “I was shackled to a pillar in a dark, cold dungeon for most of the time, at least most of the time I recall. The only man who I regularly gossiped with had no toes, but yes, he spoke just like you and me. And the land? Entirely unremarkable, except for a tree. It was the biggest tree I’d ever seen. It lurched out sideways for a while and then surged straight up into a mess of branches and golden flowers. It was serene, and it reminded me of something I still cannot remember.”

  A smile touched Braddock’s lips, which never ceased to unhinge me. “Reminds me of a girl. Finest lover I’ve ever had. Friskier and wilder than Gale. She had small tattoo of a—”

  “Tree,” I said, barely able to move the word past my shrinking throat.

  “No, not quite,” Braddock said. “It was of a blooming field on her—”

  “Back,” I said dreadfully.

  “Er, no. On her thigh. Anyway, her hair was the most brilliant shade of—”

  “Black,” I said, as the memories instilled trepidation into my heart. “Raven black.
”

  “Red,” Braddock said, sounding annoyed. “Quite not black.”

  “And she was tall and slender,” I said, ignoring him. I ignored everything based in my immediate reality. My eyes were fixated in one position, like those of a man who’d crept over that line you don’t come back from, where insanity seeps into your veins forevermore.

  “Short and rather squat,” Braddock said. “I feel confident in saying you have never had the pleasure of meeting her.”

  “Her eyes were green,” I said. “She twirled a key around her finger when I saw her for the first time in two years. She freed me from that piss hole of a dungeon in Edenvaile, and I paid back the favor at the slavers’ camp.”

  “What the piss are you going on about?” Braddock asked.

  I lifted my eyes from the floor. Apparently they did a proper job of reflecting the blend of rage, resentment and terror whirling inside me, because Braddock pulled his fat neck back inside his oversized shoulder guards like a turtle retracting inside its shell.

  “Sybil Tath,” I said. “That tree from the conjurers’ world. It was tattooed on her back, branch for branch, color for color.”

  Attempting to make sense of this unfortunate revelation, Braddock did what most people do when confronted with an ugly truth: he tried to deny it. “Trees grow all over the world,” he said, his words about as effective as the mad bark of a rabid dog is at making you pet it on the head.

  “These trees,” I said, holding my arms out wide as though the tent didn’t hide the broad-leaved trees surrounding us, “are trees that grow all over the world. Tell me one time — just once — when you’ve seen a tree rise up from the ground, decide to fuck nature and slide sideways for a while, and then inexplicably jump one hundred feet straight into the air.”

  Good old silence.

  “Go on,” I said. “I’ll wait. Actually, I can’t wait, because apparently the daughter of Edmund Tath”—I smiled insanely while shaking my head—“is a fucking conjurer!”

  Braddock emptied his gourdful of water. “Makes little sense for a conjurer to have been in a slavers’ camp.”

  I shrugged. “Gaining my trust, I imagine. Knew I’d pursue Lysa in Vereumene, where her little birds would destroy my Rots and take me to her queen.”

  “Well,” Braddock said, “our list of potential Vileoux Verdan’s executioners has been narrowed down to one.”

  “About that. He’s not dead.”

  Sheer and utter surprise doesn’t appear as bulging eyes or a gaped mouth, but simply as what framed Braddock’s doughy face: a firm, unwavering nondescript expression you would typically find when peering into the face of the recently deceased.

  He swiped his gourd from the table and, despite it being empty, pressed it to his lips. He cleared his throat. “Not dead?”

  “About as alive as you and me, save our minds not being possessed. I saw him, heard him speak. Looked just as decrepit and broken and sounded just as ancient and raw as he did when sitting on the throne of Edenvaile. So perhaps less lively than you and me.”

  “That’s not good,” Braddock said. The bluntness was nice to hear. “I can only imagine what they intend to do with him.”

  “I’d rather not imagine it,” I said. “I need to find Sybil Tath. I can’t let her corrupt Chachant more than she already has.”

  “Enlighten me as to your plan.”

  I clicked my tongue. “I told her to tell Dercy Daniser not to believe whatever whispers he hears from Chachant. She likely did not do that and instead embarked for Edenvaile from the slavers’ camp. There are a host of messenger camps between here and there. Someone must have seen her.”

  “Your pockets look awfully empty,” he noted. “Hard to buy off messengers without any coin.”

  “The Black Rot vault is not empty. You don’t always need coin on hand to exchange payment for a favor, Braddock. Not when your word is as valuable as the currency you promise. By the way, keep this between you, Vayle and myself.”

  A smugness smeared itself across the king of Erior’s face. “My, my. A secret the Shepherd wants to share with a pompous king but not with his own assassins? I feel so special.”

  “Do you feel special knowing our chance of surviving in this world has been cut off at the knees? No? I didn’t think so. I don’t want the others to hear about this. It’ll breed in the back of their mind and weaken their resolve. Keep it between us.”

  “What about Patrick Verdan?” he asked.

  “I’ll get to Patrick, don’t worry.”

  “What if you can’t find Sybil?”

  I took a step toward the entrance of the tent and looked back. “Then it’s been not very nice knowing you.”

  Chapter 16

  My fondness for the horse I’d raised since she was a foal, Pormillia — who was still in bloody Erior — was never greater than when I was bouncing on the saddle of a steed named Kroon. Kroon seemed like a kind enough soul, what with his big brown eyes and affection for nestling up against you as you rubbed his snout. However, Kroon had a nasty addiction to chewing grass at inappropriate times, such as once every twenty steps.

  It took six hours to cross the distance Pormillia could cover in two. Thankfully an inn sat along the way. I exchanged Kroon and one of my daggers — steel, not ebon, I’m not silly — for a horse named R. Or perhaps it was Are. Whatever the case, R had none of this grass-eating business that plagued Kroon, and we rode like the wind. And so too did Vayle, whose lively mare was raring to go after a short rest at the inn.

  We spent most of our time cutting across the Haiden Grasslands, well-known for its sprawling meadows of golden grass whose stalks are thick and curly. Not brown-dead grass, mind you, but a healthy glow of gold, as if permanently burnished by a noonday sun. It’s a place of serenity, but only for a few hours. After that, the calm goes right out of you like rotten meat. The mind can only take so much uninterrupted flatness and grassy pastures before boredom makes you wish you were in the mountains again.

  On the fifth day of our journey, we came upon a small encampment with a towering beanstalk of a wooden post staked in the middle. It was nighttime, but still a flag could be seen soaring from the top, with the insignia of a golden galloping horse painted against a white sky. The walls surrounding the camp were made of short wooden posts, the tops gnawed down into spikes. The gaps between the posts were large enough for a person to fit between, but not a horse, which was exactly their intended purpose.

  R trotted into the camp unimpeded, although he drew great interest from the vigilant eyes of a few messengers who watched with hands on their hilts. They relaxed once they saw the red hand of the Black Rot draped across the backsides of R and Vayle’s mare. It may be an agreement among all civilized kingdoms and cities and villages and guilds never to harm a messenger, but agreements have funny ways of being forgotten.

  A hunched man wobbled my way, holding a lantern. “How are you today, sirs and misses?” he said, taking R’s reins as I dismounted.

  “Just one sir, one miss,” I said.

  “Not so,” he explained with a wagging finger. “Got yourself a sir horse and a miss horse too. Two sirs, two misses.”

  “Hopefully we won’t be shacking up with the horses,” I said.

  An old guffaw exploded through the camp. “Not unless ya want to, no, sir. Our beds are taken tonight, but we have some straw laid out. Can put up a small tent for you, if you’d like. Standard gold piece for the straw, another for the tent.”

  The stable keeper secured R to a tie stall, then took Vayle’s mare.

  I walked over and patted the side of R, drawing attention to the red fist. “We’ve nothing in our pockets, but I believe you can trust that we will repay you.”

  The man tried to straighten his hunched back without success. “Of course, sir. The Black Rot is well-known among the messengers.” He leaned in, lifted his hand beside his mouth and whispered, “Your payments are more generous than most, the riders say.”

  “Who is yo
ur commanding officer?” Vayle asked.

  “Sir Daywrick is—”

  “Sir Daywrick is right here,” bellowed a man. He appeared beside the stable keeper. He was tall and athletically built, with a flowing red beard. A golden pin featuring a galloping horse was fastened to his cloak. “Black Rot, eh?” he said.

  “Name’s Astul,” I said.

  My commander nodded curtly. “Vayle.”

  Commander Daywrick beamed. “The Shepherd of the Black Rot.” He turned to Vayle. “I’m, er, not as familiar with you.”

  She smiled. “I prefer it that way.”

  “Well, my men enjoy delivering messages to your, what do you call it — the Hole?”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said. “Do you have a moment to talk? Privately?”

  He traded glances with the stable keeper. It was an unusual request. When you passed through a messenger camp, you did so to send a message or rest for the night, not talk to their commanders.

  “Of course,” the commander said at last, the courteous smile returning to his lips. “My quarters are right this way.”

  “Quarters” was certainly a hyperbolic term for the thing that housed Commander Daywrick. It was a shack of peeling wood with a flimsy door. It also reeked of must.

  A candle limped to one side and the other, as if it was giving up on life. It provided for something better than total darkness, but not much. The commander sat at a table littered with stacks of parchments. Vayle and I stood, for that’s what people do when there is only one chair in a room and it’s taken.

  “I’m hopeful you can provide me with information,” I said, getting to my point quickly.

  “About the messengers?” he inquired.

  “About someone who may have passed through here recently.”

  An uneasiness stiffened the commander. “I’m afraid the messengers cannot divulge that information. Our code prohibits—”

  “We know about your code,” Vayle said.

  “And we also know men are fickle creatures,” I said. “They forget things occasionally, particularly when the flash of gold catches their eye.”