An Assassin's Blade: The Complete Trilogy

by Justin DePaoli

  The phoenix landed hard on a flat plateau of snow and ice. Crags rose up around us like pillars supporting the sky.

  Vayle jumped down, grabbed me by the arm and dragged me off.

  I fell face-first into the snow. As I squirmed around to upright myself, the toe of a leather boot punted me in the ribs.

  “Get up!” Vayle said, kicking me again.

  Onto my knees, then my feet, I staggered back, clutching my stomach. “You’re goddamned mad, woman. Can’t take a little criticism anymore?”

  Her face twitched. I’d never in all my years seen her like this. Depravity loured in the pinpoints of her hazel eyes. A rabidness had taken her.

  “Take your criticism,” she said, “and shove it up your ass, Astul.” She withdrew her ebon sword meaningfully. “In fact, I’ll do it for you.”

  With a pair of pleading hands in front of me, I backed up. “Vayle, calm down. We’re both tired. We’re angry. I often say things I shouldn’t, and—”

  “Take it out, now!”

  “Vayle, please…”

  She shoved her sword forward, tip aimed at my throat. “Now, Astul!”

  One of my eyes turned blurry. Something wet and hot sledded down my cheek. I struggled to withdraw my blade, fingers trembling around the hilt.

  There was an emotion I had courted three times in the past year. I had promised myself I would never court it again, because it’s a pain incomparable to steel, to ebon, to even the stickiness of fire as it glazes your flesh.

  But here I was again, taking that bloody emotion out on a fourth fucking date.

  Vayle lunged.

  Two ebon blades crashed upon that mountain, shearing against one another as my commander and I held position.

  She finally pulled away, began circling me. Snow crunched and ice crackled.

  “Vayle,” I said, matching her step for step, sword held cautiously in guard position, “those were words I cannot take back. I cannot swallow them. But I will say they were stupid. I will say they were not true. I will—”

  She jabbed her blade forward, the tip screeching against the flatness of mine. A listless attack to keep me honest.

  “Your actions,” she said, keeping an unpredictable sway to her sword, “are far more disturbing than your words. When does it stop? When the gods are dead? I think not.”

  A blink and the blurriness resolved. For a moment. Then it returned, and with it came a chin-high slash of Vayle’s sword. She turned her wrist, changing the angle, coming at my legs. I deflected her strike with a one-handed swipe of my sword.

  “I’m the better swordsman,” I told her. “You know this, Vayle.”

  Ignoring me, she continued her assault. Jabbing, lunging.

  The portly moon above watched with eagerness, staying the advancing clouds.

  “I blamed it on the conjurers when you showed a lust for power,” she said, her breath wafting along as tendrils of smoke. “Then you killed Braddock, and I wondered. The war with Kane and the East should have had me convinced, but I was in denial. Now this, and your secret dealings with Ripheneal.” She wiped away snot from her nose, sniffling and coughing. “You enjoy this.”

  “Vayle, come on…”

  She sniffled again. Her eyes were red, bleary. “You love the game.” She shook her head, tears sliding this way and that down her cheeks. “You love the game, don’t you, Astul?” Her voice cracked. “Tell me the truth!” She gritted her teeth, cheeks puffing, spit spilling from between her lips. “Tell me!”

  She straightened her blade and met mine head-on, using her forward momentum to push me back.

  In most conditions, this wouldn’t have been a problem. But a deep patch of snow swallowed me up to my knees, robbing me of my balance. I fell backward, head cratering the firm sheet of crystallized snow and ice.

  Vayle straddled me, sword high over her shoulders. She shook her head madly, then plunged the blade downward.

  “Damn you, Astul!” she screamed — a voice so raw my entire body shivered.

  Her sword sunk into the snow, up to the hilt. Approximately four inches away from my heart.

  My commander collapsed to her knees. Hands on her head, she fell forward, as if deep in prayer. Her gasps and choking breath told a different story, however.

  I regarded my blade for a moment, then stabbed it into the snow, next to hers. Symbolism had never interested me, but… well, felt like the right thing to do: two ebon swords buried next to one another, a display of solidarity fitting for two Rots. More importantly, two friends.

  Vayle wept, and I thought to let her weep. After all, consolation had never been a great strength of mine. A hand on the back, or the clutching of one’s fingers — it all seemed so vain. But perhaps that was my inclination to preserve the coldness in my heart, the proverbial plug that would stop any and all semblance of love from seeping out. Because love, as I knew too well, hurts you in the end.

  But what doesn’t hurt in the end?

  I laid my hand on Vayle’s back, fingers idling on the bump of her spine. Felt like a virgin all over again, unsure of what to do with my hands. What to say, if anything.

  Stop quieting your instincts, I told myself. Let them happen.

  So I said the first thing that came to mind.

  “You know, if you had killed me, I would have haunted your ass for all eternity in Amortis.”

  Vayle made a noise.

  “Was that a chuckle I heard?”

  My commander picked her face up from the snow. I flicked some white powder off her nose.

  “I am not hungry for power,” I told her. “Can you trust that?”

  She went to speak, but the aftermath of crying hiccupped her breath. “I have seen it before, Astul. So many times before. I have read about it.” She put her hands on her knees, gave a look to the moon. “No one survives it. I have seen good men, admirable women turned because of power. Good men. Admirable women. You would not believe the monsters they become in the end.”

  A flurry of snow fluttered down, then another. “And you fear I’ll become one of them.”

  She shook her head. “I fear you are becoming one of them.”

  I’d received a punch or three to the gut before, but none quite like that. I didn’t know how to respond.

  “Remember Vereumene?” she said. “The guards? You gave them thought. I know you did. I couldn’t pull you back from that edge, but I know you thought about the senselessness of it all. Did the poor children, the boys and girls who have barely known this world, give you pause when you triggered war between Kane and the East? You know what happens to the little ones whose villages get sacked.”

  “Maybe that’s why I didn’t think of them. Hmm?”

  Her shoulders fell. “That’s a dark path to go down, Astul.” She paused. Then, “The moment you start justifying tyranny is the moment you become a tyrant.”

  No one comes into this world or leaves it without a weakness or two. And Vayle’s flaws had never shined brighter than right now. Honor’s a good thing. A great thing. But when it spites you, when it’s a line in the sand that you cannot cross under any circumstance… is it any better than totalitarianism? You’ve got to be fluid to get what you want out of life. It’s a fine line to toe. One that perhaps both Vayle and I were on the wrong side of.

  “Vayle, I’ve made a couple promises to you in the past. Tell me a single one I’ve ever failed to live up to.”

  Squiggly red lines raced up and down her face, claw marks of a cold wind and a colder snow. She searched my face with those hazel eyes of hers, perhaps looking through the slight wrinkles, the old lines starting to form around my mouth — into the past when I was fresh, dumped into a world that hadn’t yet known of the Shepherd and his lovely commander.

  “I promise you,” I told her, “that I’m done after this. It’s over. I won’t lie to you and tell you I don’t give a damn about power, because I sure as shit take pride in being the head of the snake that is the Black Rot, but… more than that? No. I
gave up those silly ambitions before they dragged me down me a hole from which I would not return.”

  She blinked, hands still on her knees. “When?”

  I crawled on over to my commander, got up to my knees right beside her, put a hand around her shoulders. “Standing on the balcony of Edenvaile, looking out into a battlefield. Amielle stood before me, but I didn’t put a dagger in her throat.” I paused, reflecting on the moment. “And by doing that, I put a dagger in those ambitions.”

  Vayle looked up at me, a fragile smile widening her lips. “Don’t ever change, Astul.” Then, in a lower voice, “Don’t ever change.”

  I hadn’t thought about it till then, but my commander and I weren’t that different, were we? We’d both lost almost everything we’d ever known, but we still had one another.

  I jumped to my feet and helped her up.

  “It’s a damn good thing I never lost you, Vayle.”

  We grabbed our swords from the snow, put them back in their rightful sheaths, then walked side by side back to the phoenix.

  Side by side. The friendship between Vayle and me had begun in such a manner, and it would end in such a manner. One way or the other.

  Chapter 26

  I’d always wondered about having a son or daughter, much in the same way a man on a small fishing vessel ponders mythical sea storms that swallowed up entire cities, walls, keeps and all. What would I say to the kid about lying?

  Lying had always worked out for me. Well, mostly. Sometimes. Occasionally it did not. But mostly when it hadn’t, it was because I had been young and naive, yet to master my craft of extending truths and twisting reality.

  The kid would need to lie, or he’d be a very poor assassin. But that’s not very good parenting, is it?

  Anyway, I walked into the keep of Edenvaile with the sole intention of telling Patrick Verdan the truth. Er, my retelling of the truth.

  The king of the North sat on his bed, hand around a post.

  “And you’re certain of this?” he asked.

  I took a stroll through the quarters like I owned the place, picking up and putting down knickknacks and chalices and… well, there wasn’t much to pick up and put down in Patrick Verdan’s chambers. He took minimalism to a new level.

  “I’ve never made an assassination claim I couldn’t prove,” I said. “If you’d prefer, I’ll round up the phoenix I flew in on, ask Vayle to stay behind so as to make room, and you can take an excursion with me to Icerun. See for yourself.”

  I knew he wouldn’t take that offer. And he didn’t.

  The view from the square window gave me an opportunity to see a bird’s-eye view of Edenvaile. The kingdom had become pregnant, its belly swollen with steel and various Northern coat of arms stitched into tunics. Busybodies filled the market square, more merchants than I’d ever seen, and still they couldn’t keep the lines of buyers down to less than ten deep.

  “I wonder,” I said, turning back to Patrick. “What debt will you have to call in from Grannen Klosh now that your nuisance upon Icerun has been dealt with?”

  Those hard, creased eyes of his gleamed with curiosity.

  “Obviously,” I said, “your agreement to help him stave off Sollick Glannondil and crush Kane Calbid hasn’t been annulled. You practically have a war camp here. When do you march?”

  Patrick stood, the orange fox pelts on his shoulders dangling to his knees. His kept his jaw set, fists clenched. Impossible to read. I preferred kings who were easy to rile, one way or the other on the emotional spectrum. Patrick seated himself precisely in the middle, never quick to anger — except when you brought up the fact he was a king, then he lost his goddamn mind — and possibly even slower to display sullen regret.

  He wouldn’t allow me one juicy morsel of information without an equal exchange.

  “I imagine,” he said, “that it is rare for the Black Rot to go above and beyond the call of duty when payment has not yet been secured. I did not ask you to kill Darvin Fausting.”

  I gently threw the toe of my boot into a table whose support had been carved into a sword rising behind a shield. It didn’t wobble. Barely moved.

  “Fine craftsmen you’ve got,” I said, unwilling to agree to his terms of the conversation. He’d need to bend a little and give me something with which to play before I committed.

  “A force of fifteen thousand,” Patrick said finally, dipping the flame of one candle to another’s unlit wick. “Half will meet here, half at the foot of Mount Kor.”

  Mm. Well, that was something. Not much more than I’d already known, given he’d told me earlier of his intent to assist Grannen Klosh. Still, conversations of this magnitude often flow slowly at first, then gush downstream, rippling away into a bubbly current that’ll sweep you right off your feet.

  “Funny enough,” I said, “I didn’t do the job for money.”

  “Of course not. Only guarantees are worth your time.”

  I smiled. “You can’t guarantee much in this world, Patrick, but I do my best. What if I were to tell you the game has suddenly interested me?”

  “Then I would ask how much you expected to get out of the game.”

  I laughed. “Am I so obviously driven by avarice? I do like my gold, my wine and my women. The latter of the three I’ve had less intimate dealings with these past several months. And if Grannen Klosh has his way, my dealings with the other two will suffer soon enough.”

  Patrick turned his attention from a globe of snow that he fiddled with. “I was not aware that the Black Rot depends on a fractured East or on the existence of Kane Calbid.”

  I smiled inwardly. See, the trick to convincing someone — particularly a clever king or queen — that there’s foul play about is to express concern over your own status. Amateurs go up to those with glittering rings and golden crowns and too often shout at them, “Don’t you see, you dolt! There’s a big, awful conspiracy underfoot and you are the one who’s going to take the fall! Act now!”

  Those kind of messages tend to be rather transparent. People are so often out for themselves; it’s natural instinct. And you want all the naturalness you can get when playing with deception.

  “Kane Calbid,” I said, “doesn’t much matter to me. I hope a few arrows stick him in his chest, frankly. What does matter to me is the sustenance of my life as an assassin. Moreover, the thriving of the Black Rot. Which is where we have a problem. Have I told you my spy network is as vast as ever?”

  Patrick Verdan crossed his arms.

  “I’ll cut to the chase,” I said. “Grannen Klosh intends to gather his alliances — that includes you — and then destroy them in one fell swoop. He’s cut from the same cloth as Braddock, except with a bit more madness to him, I guess.”

  Patrick shifted on his feet one way and the other. “Bold claim,” he said simply.

  I shrugged. “Boldness is poisoning Darvin Fausting and the well of Icerun. Hearing whispers and passing them along is simply what I do.”

  “So long as it benefits you.”

  “Of course. If you don’t believe me, then perhaps a defector of Klosh’s will persuade you?” I strode past him to the door. “Can I bring her in?”

  He lifted his chin in silent acknowledgment.

  When Vayle and I’d arrived in Edenvaile, two things had greeted us: a snowstorm that had devolved into an ice storm, and the goddess of nature. Polinia had delivered her message to the goddess of war, informing Lyria that the tear from Fragment Zero to the beaches of Erior had been discovered by the rebellion, but that the plot as it had been conceived — marching to Vereumene’s walls with the might of Mizridahl — would go on.

  I hadn’t expected to need Polinia for anything except that and to tell Lyria when to march. But then I thought about it. If Patrick Verdan had any reservations over my claims that Grannen Klosh was a swindler ready to pull his greatest trick yet, then what better way to allay his suspicions than to let him meet with a high-ranking defector from the East?

  Polinia may hav
e been a goddess, but she was nonetheless a defector. And one who had plenty of knowledge so as to appear authentic.

  And thus the scheme was hatched.

  I exited the king’s quarters and returned a short while later with Polinia. Otherwise known as Ollya Warvin.

  “Patrick,” I said, a hand pointing between him and Polinia, “meet Ollya Warvin, Lady of the Pinnacle. Ollya, meet Patrick Verdan, king of the North.”

  He gave a curt nod, arms still crossed. “The Pinnacle. Never heard of it, myself.”

  “That’s because you lived on a fucking mountain for fifteen years,” I said. “Ollya is here under protection of the Black Rot. She’s the—”

  Patrick shushed me with a hand. “Is she a mute?”

  I flung my hands out in a “talk away” gesture to Polinia. Er, Ollya.

  “Lord Verdan,” Ollya said, offering a curtsy, “a pleasure.”

  Patrick ran a hand through the curls of his tangled black hair. “What necessitates your protection?”

  “Lord Klosh has my sister’s hand in marriage; if I am found alive, guilty of defection and treason, he will have both my head and my sister’s. It must be assumed I am dead or have been kidnapped.”

  Keep on playing the part, Polinia, I thought. Her well-placed lines matched her well-kept appearance. Golden bangles were looped around her wrists, and rubies hung from her ears. Her hair might’ve looked a bit dingy, and her eyes baggy, but she nevertheless had the airs of one who’d lived a life of nobility.

  “You’ve taken a great deal of risk,” Patrick said. “For what reward?”

  She straightened herself. “I would rather die than see the world fall into Grannen’s hands. He is a very, very evil man, Lord Verdan. He believes Lord Braddock never went far enough to obtain control of Mizridahl.”

  Ollya explained the inner workings of the East’s military prowess and its logistics concerning this war. None of this was particularly important, but it did lend her credibility. Few would have such information readily available at their fingertips, save those close to Grannen Klosh.

  Patrick listened to this intently, a thumb brushing the bristles along his chin. The hook was there, dangling before his mouth. All I needed him to do was open up and bite down. Then I’d reel him in.