An Assassin's Blade: The Complete Trilogy

by Justin DePaoli

  “I’m familiar with great halls, and usually they’re… you know, great. Big pillars and fancy marble and chandeliers. This is just one large echo chamber with some orange glow and the smell of charred wood.”

  Vayle rubbed her hands. “Patrick Verdan is not one for bombastic displays.”

  “True. Hell, from what I recall, he never even had his coat of arms hanging up in here.”

  Fausting certainly did, though. Banners draped the walls: sheets of pale blue fabric centered with a silver spear on which an entanglement of vines coiled around. What that was supposed to imply I had no idea. Perhaps Grandfather Fausting had gotten drunk one night with a quill and parchment in hand, drawn some symbols and said, “Ah ha!”

  After waiting in the roasting room — a name I very much preferred — Officer Asshole came to retrieve us. Rather, one of us. He said that only Vayle or I was permitted an audience with “Lord Fausting.”

  That sounded fabulous to us. In our experience, few lords and ladies — or perhaps their handlers — enjoyed meeting with multiple Rots at the same time. A safety issue, I suppose. Vayle and I had hoped that’d be the case here too, because inflicting mass death would be rather difficult without Vayle carrying out that part of the plan.

  We’d had an alternate strategy in place, of course — but having her feign sudden sickness would have likely appeared suspicious.

  “Try not to fall asleep and roll into the fire, will you?” I told Vayle before I departed for the chambers of one Darvin Fausting.

  Vayle gave me a thumbs-up and a roll of her eyes. She’d sit in the roasting room for a little while, then tell the guards she needed some fresh air. And from there? Why, it was a minor feat to pour poison into a well.

  Slenna had told me a drop would inflict grievous harm in most. So Vayle and I theorized that an entire bottle should suffice to off a good chunk of the population in Icerun. She took the bottle and I a small thimble plugged with shaved cork.

  Kendel — the officer’s name, I’d learned — took me up several flights of stairs, where the air got colder and darker. Sometimes we’d pass through hallways where candles would suddenly expire from a gust of air through poorly insulated stone walls.

  One hallway in particular had servants tending to its needs, relighting the candles as necessary and keeping large fire pits hissing along. It was in this hallway, where those peculiar banners of vine-coiled spears stared at me from the face of every wall, that Kendel stopped before a basic wooden door beneath an archway.

  Two guardsmen were posted outside. They both nodded their skullcaps at Kendel as he knocked twice.

  A raspy voice from inside hollered out. “Well? Let’s have it.”

  Kendel opened the door, and a broiling warmth bled into the hallway. A massive fire pit lay inside the room, a chimney against the back wall funneling smoke into the icy outdoors.

  Either Darvin Fausting had gotten himself all fixed up for the occasion, or he walked around his own keep like he’d soon be off to war.

  He’d dressed himself in the glamor of a rich silk tunic woven with pale blue threads, emblazoned with sapphires the color of the North. Golden pins secured a purple cloak to his shoulders, and from a glittering belt of gems dangled a sheath.

  “Lord Fausting,” I said with a slight bow of my head. “A pleasure.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said. He brought up a hand of glittering rings and dismissed Kendel without a word.

  The officer bowed and retreated into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

  “I hear you call yourself the Shepherd?” he said.

  “Of assassins, to be exact.”

  “I’ve heard your name in passing, but you’ll often find reputations in the North belong to those who call the North their home. We handle our own up here.”

  If there was ever a claim that deserved an admonishing laugh or two…

  “Someone should tell Patrick Verdan that. He hired me to put you down.”

  Darvin chuckled, then turned to an impressive horde of amphorae. He put a hand on one of the clay jugs. “The North does turn to the rest of the world for her supply of wine, however. Tell me, what region does your tongue crave? The South? East? Or perhaps the West, with its dry flavors that suck the spit from your cheeks? I’ve red and white, flavors, even.”

  I sat at the lone table in his room. “Whatever the Lord Darvin Fausting prefers.”

  A grin lingered on his face, his teeth a shade of yellow rot. “There’s a smart man,” he said, wagging a finger at me.

  He heaved a single amphora from the rack, set it on the table, and placed two chalices beside it. Then he poured, slowly. Meticulously.

  “Satisfy my curiosity,” he said, his eyes fixed on mine — the slow trickle of wine running from the lip of the amphora spilling perfectly into the chalice. “What does it take for an assassin to turn? Aspirations for a seat of power, perhaps?”

  “Politicking seems like a messy job, Lord Fausting. It is not something that interests me.”

  He smiled, then pushed my filled chalice in front of me. He began pouring wine into his own. “Then what? Ah. Allow me a guess. Patrick Verdan spurned you somehow, yes? He’s a spurner, all right. Spurned his own damned father.” Darvin licked his lips. He snorted. “And yet the North clamors for him. A son who abdicates the throne and then returns fifteen years later to claim it. Preposterous, don’t you think?”

  I took hold of my chalice with both hands, prepared to lift that dry-smelling wine and pour it down my eager throat. But Darvin placed his hand over the rim disapprovingly.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said, noting his still-to-be-filled cup. “My apologies. To answer your question, it’s not a matter of spurning. Rather… hmm, how should I explain? Imagine you wanted crafted the finest sword ever to exist. You’d need the finest blacksmith ever to exist, and he would need the finest ore and the finest tools and so on. And you’d expect to pay a damn fine sum, wouldn’t you? Now picture yourself the blacksmith. What would you think if you were handed a small purse for all your work?”

  Darvin nodded his head. He understood how it was. He just didn’t understand this was all a lie.

  He finished filling his chalice, then returned the amphora to its appropriate location.

  And he sat. Which meant it was time to go to work.

  I produced a bottle of poison from my pocket. My poison, the one I always carried with me, just in case. I held it up to my eyes, turned it, spun it around slowly so Darvin could get a good look at the yellow cream inside. Old poison called Root of the Brute, comprised mostly of camadan seeds. Effective but terribly messy. One drop will melt the skin off your bones.

  “I was to pour this in your drink,” I said. “But I thought you might pay me a far more appropriate sum for this information than Patrick offered for this to slide into your belly. So here I am.”

  Darvin extended a hand. “Let me see,” he said. Such predictability. It’s not good to be predictable as a lord or king. Predictability gets you killed more often than not.

  I reached for his hand, but before the bottle met his fingers, it slipped from my grasp. It smacked the wooden table, bounced once to the edge and fell right off. It skittered across the ground.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “All the same,” Darvin said. “It appears intact.”

  He got up from the chair, down to his knees, turning his back to me as he lunged for the bottle.

  From my other pocket came a thimble. Holding my breath, I dug a fingernail beneath the cork, lifting it up and out. Then I poured the small amount of liquefied vossifos seeds blended with venom into Darvin’s chalice.

  The moment my back fell against my chair again, Darvin turned, bottle in hand. A smile on his lips.

  He returned to his chair, no worse for wear. Yet.

  “Root of the Brute,” he said, stifling a chuckle. “Unbelievable. Has the bank of Edenvaile behind him and he pays for a poison that’ll leav
e behind evidence brighter than if you’d go in the South without a shirt for a few days in the cusp of summer. I told you Patrick Verdan was an idiot. Or maybe I haven’t. Well, he’s an idiot.”

  “And the payment?” I asked.

  “Oh, it will be rich indeed. You have just elevated me to the Throne of the North. Now, let us drink.”

  Yes, I thought. Let us.

  Darvin pushed his chalice toward me and pulled mine toward him. “Tradition would have us imbibe from each other’s cup first.”

  “Interesting tradition.”

  “Aren’t they all?” He lifted his chalice. Er, rather, mine. “For the rightful king of the North and for the assassin who shall never be underpaid again.”

  I lifted my chalice, panic streaking through my mind. Had the cup been less full, I could have possibly put the rim to my lips, tilted it a little and faked the whole exchange. But Darvin had poured till the liquid lapped against the edge. I couldn’t lift the damn thing without drenching my fingers in red grapes.

  I stared at Darvin. The behaviors I’d learned to calm myself in times of dread — the ones I’d ascertained over a lifetime of assassinations — where were they now? What were they? With a fixed jaw and grinding teeth, I blinked.

  “Is there a problem, Astul?”

  My throat pulsed. Chest ached.

  I had to make a decision.

  I had to think. Quick. Fast. Now.

  Darvin’s eyes narrowed. “Drink.”

  If I drank, I died.

  Darvin lowered his chalice. He looked past me, toward the door.

  His mouth opened. He would yell for his guards.

  My instincts kicked in, finally. I jumped up, lifting the table with all the strength and momentum I had.

  The chalices skidded, crashed. Wine spilled out, a red, sticky river rushing toward Darvin. The now-lord of Icerun put his hands up to protect himself from the tabletop that snapped toward his face.

  Clunk went the table, smashing into and through his palms, tilting his chair back and sending him crashing to the ground.

  He scrambled to his knees, hand at his side. Fingers moving. Reaching. Stretching for that spherical pommel.

  “Guar—” he screamed, but I was on him. On him like a starving hound desperate for food, willing to do anything to have that taste of blood on his tongue, the warm, wet feel of meat sliding down his throat.

  I stomped on the back of his head, bashing his face into the stone floor. His neck twisted sideways, half his goatee and one rolled-back eye peering up at me.

  On one knee, I held his head up, hair taut. Then I ripped my dagger across his throat.

  I drove my dagger back into its hilt at the same time the doorknob jangled. A quick tug of my sword’s hilt brought the blackness of ebon to life. The impulses of a career assassin pushed me toward the door. No time for what-ifs and should-Is — only time to make decisions and hastily act on them.

  The door opened to two inquisitive voices, “Lord Darvin” on each of their tongues.

  Darvin’s quarters were constructed such that, as soon as you took one step into the room, you had full view of its offerings. In other words, there were no corners to hide behind. No nooks in which to crouch.

  The men poked their heads into the room. Whether they saw me or the blood gushing away from their lord first, I couldn’t say. But they each brought their swords up in guard position, weight heavy on their back feet.

  One went to yell for help. He got part of his intended cry out, but I rushed him before the words could be strung together to make any sense.

  The two men were standing elbow to elbow in the narrow entryway. I’d traded blows with two foes in open spaces before — and won — but why make it hard on yourself? The only options these guards had given their positioning were deflecting my blade and shuffling backward.

  Ever try to shuffle backward at the same time as someone else, through a doorway wide enough to fit one person through at a time?

  It goes something like this.

  My ebon blade clinked against steel, driving the men back. Guards are often taught to move as a synchronized unit. And these men did just that, retreating in unison. Their available space narrowed as they attempted a withdrawal from the room, till their shoulders pressed against the door frame, and their bodies fattened up the entryway.

  I came at them again, sword high above my shoulders, slicing diagonally. I stopped midway, not eager to emit a loud chime of steel and ebon through the keep hallways.

  My sole intention was simple: to entangle a pair of feet. And my faux strike did just that.

  They tripped over one another in their hasty attempt to retreat, bodies tumbling to the ground. Their heads hit hard, skullcaps dislodged.

  I put a sword in each of their throats, brushing aside their thrashing.

  Then, I ran. Then, I jogged, because running looks terribly suspicious, while a brief jog is more indicative of a man who’s late for an important meeting.

  And I was late for a meeting. With my phoenix.

  Down the stairs I went, pausing at various landings, considering where exactly the roasting room was. Turns out it’s located, logically enough, on the first floor of the keep. I probably would have thought such if my mind wasn’t buzzing about with horrible things, such as what would spending the next fifty years stuffed deep inside Icerun’s dungeon be like?

  I entered the roasting room, a big, innocent smile on my face, hoping to disarm Officer Kendal, who sat at the edge of a fire pit.

  “Your Lord Fausting is most gracious,” I said. “But I must discuss the proposed reward with…” My voice trailed off as my eyes bounced between Vayle, who appeared she’d just shat out her innards and the pigment of her flesh, and Kendal who appeared… perturbed.

  It was at this point in time that I discovered the blood on my chest, fingers, pants… just about everywhere.

  “Seize them!” Kendal roared.

  He managed three steps my way, and then retched and gurgled. Vayle had tackled him to the ground and put a dagger right through the vein of his throat. He lay there, coughing and spitting up on himself, hands indolently crawling across the puddles of his blood.

  My commander and I gave one another a nod of acknowledgment, and we hauled ass toward the keep doors.

  The guards inside — a small battalion of archers and your run-of-the-mill swordsmen — were mostly huddled by the fire pits for warmth. That gave us a clear line out of the keep, so long as iron-tipped arrows didn’t fillet our spines.

  Fwhhip! came the first one. Clinked right off the stone wall, the fletching ricocheting into my stomach.

  “These fuckers are too goddamn heavy,” I said, pushing and groaning as the heavy double-leaf doors inched open. The whiff of fresh snow, of a bitter air, saturated the roasting room.

  Vayle and I turned sideways through the tiny gap, forcing ourselves out as a barrage of arrows tinked off stone and splintered into wood.

  A glance back punched a dose of excitement into my heart as a vertical-slicing sword reached for me like a cat’s paw. Had Vayle and I taken but a few seconds more, the bastard Death might have finally taken me.

  Not yet, Reaper man, I thought. Not yet.

  There was shouting behind us, the words unintelligible. Vayle and I trudged through the snow and ice, back toward the small island where our phoenix waited patiently, pruning his fiery feathers.

  My commander tripped, and I tripped after her. Running through snow up to your goddamn shins isn’t enjoyable. Our pursuants wielding swords suffered all the same, but the archers — those fuckers cocked their arms and allowed taut twine to slip from their finger.

  Fffwhip! Fffwhip!

  “Get on, get on!” I urged Vayle.

  She threw a leg over the phoenix, and so did I, mounted behind her.

  “Go, go, go!”

  “Shush,” she said.

  “Well, any fucking time now would be gr—” The phoenix lurched to the right, lifting into the air, spewing
a mass of sparks into the night.

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief into the black sky as the choppy, malformed walls of Icerun disappeared behind us.

  After gathering my wits again, I told Vayle to take us to Edenvaile.

  “What happened up there?” she asked. She’d slowed the phoenix to a lazy glide beneath the clouds so we could talk without rupturing our voices.

  “Darvin’s dead,” I said. “Didn’t go the way I anticipated. He tried to make me drink from his chalice. Clever bastard. They’ll blame the Black Rot, but most of ’em will be dead before the end of the week, I imagine, so this won’t get tied to Patrick.”

  Vayle went quiet for a while. Which concerned me. My commander wasn’t Lysa; she’d never talk your ear off, but there was something intentional about this silence. Something calculated.

  “Vayle?” I said. “You dumped the poison in the well, yeah?”

  Silence.

  “Vayle? Please, please, fucking please tell me you—”

  “I couldn’t,” she said softly.

  I could’ve flung my head back petulantly. Could’ve coughed out a “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” But instead I sat there on the spine of the phoenix, looking into the vastness of rolling mountains beneath us and blackness above, captured by the silence of disbelief.

  “I should have taken Lysa,” I said bluntly.

  Vayle let that one go. Or maybe she didn’t know how to respond.

  But a one-off insult wasn’t good enough for me. Not now.

  “She’s big on being a savior of innocents too, you know? But, see, the difference between you and her, Vayle — the difference is that when it comes down to it, she knows you sometimes have to sacrifice your beliefs and your morals and the things that make you feel so good and warm inside.”

  I had more to say, but an elbow popped me right in the jaw before I had the chance.

  “What the fuck?” I spat blood into my hand, which then sprayed into my face as the phoenix tucked her wings back and spiraled into a rapid descent.

  “Vayle! Vayyyyy—” My voice may or may not have begun devolving into the pitch of one whose balls had not yet dropped.