An Assassin's Blade: The Complete Trilogy

by Justin DePaoli

  “Tylik,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “It’s as simple as growing corn in ideal conditions. Okay?”

  He seemed to think about this, and then answered, “Okay. Well, I trust you, Astul. I’ll stay right here, sittin’ on this phoenix. But, um, it’s very hot. I’m thirsty.”

  “There’s wine in the satchel there. Drink as much as you want. I won’t be long.” Under my breath I muttered, “Hopefully.”

  The maze of trees stretched on for another several hundred feet, before thinning into a clearing. Ahead, as I’d seen from the sky, an army of crimson tents hemmed in an expansive meadow of what used to be wildflowers. It seemed the heat had not only wilted the flowers but utterly destroyed the foliage here. Each step I took toward the campsite snapped stiff stalks of singed grass. The dead stuff crunched like brittle rock under my boots, bursting into fine plumes of yellow dust.

  The oppressive heat drenched me in a layer of sticky sweat. Slinging the sweat from my forehead proved about as useful as mopping up the ocean, so I let the salt sting my eyes and drip into my mouth. Thirty-some fucking years I’d been alive on this world and never witnessed heat like this. Not even in that long stretch of desert east of the Twin Mountains. It felt like Mizridahl was trying to kill me.

  A few nosey guardsmen stopped me at the outskirts of the camp. Three swords were drawn, culminating into a single pinpoint of silver against the evening horizon.

  We did the old dance, of course. The Lord-Braddock-isn’t-seeing-anyone, followed by he’ll-most-certainly-be-seeing-me, which was faithfully eclipsed by go-fuck-right-off, and that brought along the finale, consisting of tell-him-the-Shepherd-wants-to-chat-and-if-he-says-no-why-I’ll-cut-my-own-cock-off-right-here.

  Moments later, the king’s armed servants allowed me entry into their nomadic home. A moth fluttered by and suicided into a brazier. Apparently the poor chap’s home being overtaken by the Glannondils was too much to handle.

  There were seemingly endless rows of tents. Swords were sharpened, the singing of the whetstones interrupted by a cacophony of grunts and horses shooting air through their nostrils. Men with dirty faces and tired eyes sat before their tents, spitting and coughing the heat from their lungs. Sweat glazed over their flesh like sap coalescing down the trunk of a tree.

  The guards brought me to a large tent sitting by its lonesome. One of the men disappeared inside, then came out and motioned me in.

  “Dressed for the occasion, I see,” I said, ducking inside.

  Braddock straightened himself. A deep red line marked the spot on his flesh where his heavy breasts curled over and compressed against his stomach.

  “If I were you,” he said, “I’d stay in my fuckin’ hole till the bloody sun explodes. It must be cooler underground than it is out here.”

  “Funny enough, Erior’s tolerable. Or was about ten days ago.”

  Braddock stood, groaning under his weight. Or perhaps groaning because of the heat. He was wearing crimson breeches. Well, what were crimson breeches. They had since been crudely chopped off at the knee. A large stain of what I hoped to be sweat darkened his crotch. It’s not that I enjoyed looking at these details, but your eyes often let curiosity get the better of them.

  He poured two gourds full of water. “Why are you looking for me?”

  “Not you,” I corrected. “Rather a girl who I don’t believe is rightfully yours to enslave and make a queen.”

  He offered me the gourd. I grasped it by both hands and gulped down the refreshing water.

  “If you desired something at the end of the war — Lysa Rabthorn, for instance — you should have remained at Edenvaile and negotiated your part.” He sat at his table again. “That’s what I did. What Patrick did. What Dercy did. Hells, even Jesson Tath, newly crowned king of Eaglesclaw, came galloping in to negotiate peace for the broken kingdom his father left him.” He tapped a finger on the table and wagged it at me. “But you — you, Shepherd, tucked your tail between your legs and went home.”

  “Never intended on playing the game.”

  “Then answer me. Why are you here?”

  “A simple chat with Lysa.”

  He drank, slurping his water down like a dog. “I’ve gathered that. The why persists.”

  I walked over and refilled my gourd with the pail. Walking is a good way to stuff your rising temper back in your belly, I’d found. I’d come in here expecting to play nice. To have been genial. But I can only take so much bullshit before the facade crumbles.

  “You’ve obviously missed something in this conversation,” I said. “See, I’m here to talk to Lysa. A one-on-one conversation. Understand? Me and her. This is not a threesome in which you enter the fray and we giggle like little girls as we tell each other secrets. Allow me five minutes with her. Or, perhaps you would prefer Patrick and Dercy to hear you intend on usurping Kane Calbid.”

  A deep-bellied laugh rumbled throughout the tent. Braddock’s blubber jiggled as he quieted himself to a chuckle. “I’ve wondered how your attempt to rebuild the Black Rot has come along. Obviously slower than expected, because you don’t have as many birds as before, feeding you whispers. Patrick, Dercy and indeed Jesson Tath have all quietly given me authority to displace Kane Calbid. This world will be unified. This is the last step. But by all means, Shepherd, tighten those lips. We wouldn’t want to spoil the secret.”

  I backhanded Braddock’s gourd right off his table. It rebounded off the canvas and dotted his walls in temporary water stains.

  “Listen, you fat fuck. I’m going to talk to Lysa. Right here, right now. You’d better accept this offer, because the alternative is not something you will enjoy.”

  “Is that right?”

  “The Black Rot has ended. My commander has left. Thirty-some of the forty-odd that remained haven’t returned. On a hiatus? Possibly. Probably not, though. It takes everyone in the end, that sort of life. Beats you down, till you submit and decide you’ve chanced Death for the last time. I’ve got two lovers who remain; they’ll leave soon. It’s the only way their love will endure. Have a young man at the Hole. Reminds me of myself. Maybe he’ll form the Black Rot’s spiritual successor. But the Black Rot as this world knows it has come to an end. And that, King of Erior, is a much scarier thought than knowing it remains. Isn’t it?”

  Braddock wiped the sweat from his hands on his breeches. Reflection of spitting candles glistened off golden rings around his fingers.

  I closed my hand on his wet wrist. “Way I see it, I’m standing here with two blades dangling from my belt. And I’ve got a nice throat in which to stick them.”

  “You would not dare,” he hissed.

  “Black Rot’s done. I’ve got nothing to live for. Already killed a king once, and you know the second time is always easier.”

  A ring of bubbled sweat shivered on his bloated lips. “One word,” he whispered, “and you’ll have an army on you.”

  I held up a couple fingers. “Two seconds and you’ll have blood pouring down the gully between your tits. All I want is a chat with Lysa Rabthorn. Five minutes. And you’ll never see me again.”

  “For the sake of your life, you had better keep that promise, Shepherd.” He gestured toward the side of his tent. “Down the path, till you come to a fork. She’s at the head of it. Five minutes. If I see you in my camp after that…”

  “Go ahead,” I said, “ponder a method of torture that’ll sate your pride. Toodles, Braddock.”

  I left the king to swallow his fear. My heart drummed in my ears as I walked down the path laid with guards and weapons and mules and carts. With each step, I expected to hear “Get him!” And then the crashing of steel boots as scores of soldiers bounded toward me. If that happened, I had a plan. I’d run to Lysa’s tent and take her hostage, sword at her throat. What the endgame would be then, I wasn’t sure, but it would buy me time.

  Thankfully, Braddock remained true to his word, and after a brief conversation with two guards posted at Lysa’s tent, I went inside to see the quee
n-to-be.

  She sat in a corner, knees pulled up to her chin. Strawberry-blond strands of hair concealed one eye. She regarded me coolly with the other.

  “Lysa,” I said, bowing my head. It seemed like a token of goodwill. “Firstly, thank you for returning my mind to me. I never had the opportunity to—”

  “It wasn’t personal,” she said, her voice cold and distant. “I would do it for most anyone. Even those I hate.”

  I crouched before her. “I have limited time, so I’ll explain why I’m here. Grave robbers are crawling over Mizridahl like ants. They’ve taken my brother’s corpse, along with thousands of others. Might you know anything about this?”

  “Might I know? Who phrases a question like that?”

  “Someone who’s very tired of asking what in the fuck is going on.”

  She looked away. “No. I know nothing about it.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I am not.”

  “Funny. Because I heard someone is out of hiding, and that someone has you so frightened you’ve agreed to run away from Erior with Braddock and be his hand-picked queen of the South. I think the two events are connected.”

  Her throat flinched. A tell? That’d be good information to have for later.

  “Who told you that?” she asked.

  “A six-year-old girl. Specifically, Braddock’s six-year-old girl. Children have a terrible habit of putting their ears to doors and listening in on secrets.”

  She parted the hair out of her eyes. “You’re stupid if you think I want to be a queen. That” — she gritted her teeth — “awful man held me prisoner since I woke up there after cleansing your mind. I had bars on my windows. Steel bars! I thought leaving there would allow me to escape.” She looked around the shadowy tent. “But I don’t have any tools. And I can’t just walk out the front of this tent.”

  “Who’s out of hiding?” I asked.

  “I… are you here to free me?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Why? It can’t be out of your own volition.”

  “No one’s but my own.”

  She considered this. It didn’t seem to lessen her suspicions. “You’re a selfish man. What does freeing me get you?”

  “At this point in time, it’s giving me a headache. Listen, Lysa. My brother’s corpse has been dug up. I’ve killed an old friend of mine who, mind you, had already been fucking dead. Oh, and some fiend with a mouthful of barbed teeth and a face lacking flesh tried to goddamn impale me for ruining his purchase of cadavers. Maybe I’m just a bit curious as to what in the bloody hell is happening out there.”

  Lysa stood and dusted her hands on her dress. “You don’t need to be so angry.”

  “This is not anger. I’m getting there, though. Now, please tell me, who is out of hiding? And what does he want?”

  “Help me escape,” she said, pinching the lone candle. “And I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  “Yes. Well. I wish you’d done that when we were in Vereumene all those months ago.”

  She tossed her hair back and put her face against the back canvas wall. “I didn’t think this was true then. I’m sorry. Here, cut an opening.”

  “What?”

  “Cut an opening, here.” She framed a small square on the canvas. “We can’t walk out the front. We have to sneak out. Didn’t you have a plan before you came in here?”

  I shrugged, unsheathing my ebon blade. “Tend to make my plans as I go.”

  She raised a brow. “How are you still alive?”

  “Because,” I said, carefully pushing the tip of the sword through the canvas, “I’m amazing. And lucky. You’re certain the guards behind here won’t notice the queen-to-be slipping out?”

  “No guards,” she said. “There’s a hill right behind here. No tents, no guards. Empty space. We can run.”

  “Not that way, we can’t. I have a bird waiting for us. Well, a phoenix.”

  She blinked. “Why didn’t you land it behind here?”

  “Because I’m not a fucking cartographer. Now shush. I’m trying to listen.”

  The pointy end of my sword stuck out from a small hole I’d pierced into the canvas. It didn’t seem to cause any disruption outside. Confident Lysa was correct that no guards were present in this direction, I cut a haphazard square from the fabric, large enough to step through.

  And then, we made a run for it. Or more accurately, a walk. Under the assumption that even the most cowardly Glannondil soldier would spring up and take notice to us sprinting through their war camp, I gripped Lysa’s arm, and we walked straight and true. She’d combed her hair across her face, hoping to hide the most identifying features.

  That did not work.

  Sitting in groups of threes and fours, bullshitting with one another about the heat, they all ogled at us as we passed. Then whispers. And a shake of their heads. Something jangled — steel. I innocuously scratched my chin against my shoulder, attempting to probe the scene behind us.

  Someone had gotten up. Several people, actually. One of them went off in the direction of Braddock’s tent. The others trailed us, cautiously.

  Lysa side-eyed me. I shot back the old we’re-rather-fucked look.

  Tylik, I thought, if you can read minds, bring that bastard phoenix over here.

  A peek at Lysa’s attire revealed bare feet. Great.

  “Can you run?” I murmured.

  “Mm hm.”

  We’d see about that. Running in bare feet, particularly through a war camp, has the sort of enjoyment factor of belly-flopping into a shallow river of protruding rock.

  More soldiers crept behind us, like a pack of wolves waiting for the others in front to corral their prey.

  Sweat swamped up my hands. The baked earth crunched beneath me, a cackle in the throes of death.

  There was an ugly, throaty wail from far back. “Seize them! Lord Braddock says—”

  “Run!” I urged Lysa, releasing her arm.

  With a yank of my pommel, I retrieved an ebon blade. I spun around as I sprinted through the dead grass. Nine or ten or twelve — fuck if I could count — sword-wielding wannabe-assassin-killers pursued. In front, the tents fell away, concealed by rising bodies with spit-polished steel breastplates.

  My head swiveled to the right. Then to the left. Right was a no-go, unless I wanted to feel blades swimming inside my stomach. Forging on straight ahead wasn’t any better, unless I could snap my fingers and summon a bull to smash through the swarm.

  No, Lysa was right. We had to do this in a roundabout way.

  “This way,” I said, slapping her elbow. We vaulted to the left, barreling through a few crates. She swore and shook her foot but soldiered on.

  The air was so wet it felt like I was breathing in a river. If I looked hard enough, I could’ve probably seen vapor with each exhale. Didn’t have time to do that, though.

  An arrow flew overhead, and another shanked the brittle dirt, a few feet from my ankle.

  “Zigzag!” I hollered to Lysa. It’s difficult enough to hit a moving target as an archer. A moving target that leaps to and fro like a gazelle makes even the finest marksman throw up his hands in frustration. Sure, you look like a fucking idiot in the process, but at least you’re a living idiot.

  Two soldiers had broken away from the pack. They were the lanky type, all knees and elbows, each of their strides the equivalent of three of mine.

  I faced them, but kept my feet moving. I was, in fact, running backwards with a very sharp sword in my hand. In hindsight, that was a poor maneuver.

  The first of the two guards lunged for me, sword cutting diagonally. He wanted to be a hero for his good king. Probably had visions of being named a lord, given his own land, all for the elusive accomplishment of cutting down the Shepherd.

  But in his haste, he’d left himself open. In the most vital of places, too: his belly. My hand drifted forward, while I continued to run backward. He essentially impaled himself on my sword. As he fell, he attempted to wren
ch it out, but only butchered his hands in the process.

  The momentum of thrusting in one direction and moving the other tripped me up. I stumbled, hilt still in hand. Fucker’s body refused to give me my blade back. I had to let go to keep my balance — a realization that was a flicker too late.

  With my arms paddling in the air, I opened my eyes to see the stars winking sarcastically above me. And then, crunch. Thump. Thud.

  The back of my skull cratered the stiff dirt. But an assassin trains for this sort of thing. Using the momentum of my fall, I somersaulted backward and jumped to my feet, facing the second guard, who bore down on me.

  I raised my hand.

  Oh. My sword was still stuck between some guy’s ribs. I looked at the bare fist I was holding up, then at a murderous face inches away from mine.

  Fuck. That was what I thought.

  “Fuck!” That was what I said.

  A spine cold as ice licked across my bicep. Couldn’t feel a thing, which is never good. The worse the cut, the duller the initial pain. Didn’t have time to examine my wounds, though. Not now. Assassin-killer number two was readying a second strike: the killing blow.

  With a snap of my wrist, I had my fingers on the spherical pommel of my other blade. The gleaming black edge peered halfway out of its sheath when something flashed before my eye.

  “Phugh!” the guard cried. A set of knuckles drove into the bridge of his nose, snapping his head back.

  Lysa flicked her hand and winced. “Ow!”

  Bewilderment seized me for a moment, but the reality that a good hundred or so guards were thundering toward us brought me back.

  I yanked my sword from the dead soldier’s body. “Let’s go,” I said. “Into the forest.”

  As we crossed the tree line, I chanced a look at my arm.

  Mm. Not good. Two large flaps of skin separated by a three-inch-thick and six-inch-long gash. Deep enough that blubbery tissue was visible. Blood gushed out.

  The hush of the forest fell over us, along with its shadows.

  “Here,” I told her, winding our way through bare trunks. Thick webs of silk and tiny debris clung to my face. Something skittered down my neck and crab-walked across my damp shoulders.