by K. A. Lentz
Suddenly feeling observed the swordsman turned to look at the pair of cowering figures huddled in a back corner of the room. Both girls squeaked in response to his gaze while attempting to wedge themselves more fully into the corner. A weak smile cracking his face, the assassin suddenly felt a violent pang from within. He was not done… there was a captain missing. Each kill had dulled his pull to the next target, so he started ignoring the pain out of habit. Returning to warn him again, the reminder chimed harder this time.
Laying his new charge on the floor, the reaper’s slave advanced on the terrified girls. The larger of the two had started to panic, letting out small whimpers with each strained breath she attempted to take. Deeming her the eldest, the assassin bent over and hauled the poor, sobbing girl to her feet. In a low growl, he demanded, “Where is the final captain?”
The serving-girl tried to answer, but horror had cemented her throat shut. Knowing her companion a coward, the younger maid still crouched on the floor stood and came to the aid of her paralyzed friend. As though reaching through frigid waters, she placed a shaking hand on the assassin’s arm. With a markedly shakier voice, she squeaked, “The captain still sits aboard her vessel… the Swift Valor.” Panic bubbled up in her chest as she shrieked, “Now, please go!”
That was all the information he needed. Set on his course, the assassin dropped his captive, retrieved the dead slave, and was back atop deck before either girl had time to return to their sanctuary. Standing on the bow of the ship, he flung the lifeless body over one shoulder and then leapt to the vessel bearing a golden plaque inscribed with the words ‘Swift Valor’. Once more he laid the slave down onto the top deck’s freshly greased timbers and listened for any sound below. None… there was no one on-board, not even crew.
Standing tall, the assassin surveyed the bay’s distant shoreline. On the far side of the beach he spotted her. The last captain and her shipmates were hastily grabbing what they could to make a quick escape. The assassin walked once more to the bow and stood upon its figurehead as if a bird atop a tree. Reaching around to the back of his waist, the storm-slave’s hand sought the bit of wood nestled between his sleeping blades.
Heartwood in hand, the assassin stretched his left arm straight out from the socket; as he did so, deep purple sparks crackled from each end of the enchanted branch. Tendrils of purple lightening reached out to form a gentle, sweeping arc on either side of his fist. A final thin string of energy connected the two limbs, forming a perfectly shaped long bow. Pinching the ethereal bowstring, he drew it back without an arrow notched between his fingers. Taking but a moment’s pause to sight his target, he loosed a comet of energy rapidly forming into a jagged tipped arrow as it sped toward his intended victim.
The crew around their captain jumped back as she was thrown into an outcrop of rock behind where she had stood. Every soldier within her party immediately sprang into action. Some fled toward the woods at the opposite end of the bay, while others screamed and roared threats at the surrounding beach. A few ran around to the occupied campfires, rallying people to flee or fight if possible.
The reaper’s slave stood aboard the empty vessel, watching the mayhem he had unwillingly created. “It is done, master, plus two.” He whispered to the night.
Quickly and quietly, he reclaimed the wind-slave’s body. Jumping over the side rail, the pair barely made a splash as the storm-slave retreated into the watery depths below. A single soul noticed his stealthy departure; a lone late-comer to the scene, just making her way around the cliff-base. Compelled by the need to assist her kind, Aginaeus muttered as she watched the assassin’s trail grow cold once again.
Chapter Two:
Worlds Apart
Thistle woke with a start. Breathing heavily, she glanced at the nightstand beside her bed and sighed in mild frustration over the time; still three hours until she had to get ready for work. Flopping over with half-hearted determination, she endeavored to fall back asleep. Eyes slammed shut against her budding wakefulness, Thistle thought hard on peaceful things like fields of flowers and cool flowing streams. Who was the frightful woman looming over me as if I were no more than an insect? No, no, back to sleep! Flowers, forests, think of something calming! A man stood near me… but wait no… was it a man? Was it human? No, couldn’t be, he had pools of lightening where his eyes should be. What was he? No, self! Sleep! Why did she hand me… to him? He looked so sad staring down at me. Darn it! No good, I’m not getting back to sleep. Sighing in defeat she rolled out of bed. Not in the mood to argue with her stubborn mind, Thistle sluggishly donned her plush bathrobe and willed her tired legs into motion. Inconvenienced by the loss of her crucial warm spot, Thistle’s pug-dog leapt from the bed to follow her human.
Leaning heavy on the rail, Thistle groggily rubbed each eye clear as she descended the steps of her loft. Dragging her feet into the kitchen, she detoured past the fridge for some juice before picking up the television remote happily sleeping on the kitchen counter. Blearily, she located the power button and clicked on her age-old, tube TV across the room. One of the many twenty-four hour news channels wobbled a little before reluctantly steadying into view. Immediately the overtaxed speakers fuzzily echoed the tale of a Minnesota couple showing off their fixer-upper. Thistle lazily wandered over to a stool boldly blocking the living-room path and absentmindedly sat down to watch as the reporter got a tour from the house’s two beaming owners. Without warning the picture abruptly changed to a black background with the words “Special Report” in bold, red letters flashing across the screen.
A woman, still in the process of tidying up, appeared on-screen. Shooting a glare at the person behind the camera, she took in a steadying breath and then started her report, “Good Morning, I’m Aurora North. This just in: An unexpected tropical storm made landfall on the eastern coast of Japan. Ocean swells are being reported as high as seventeen feet and winds are in at fifty-four miles per hour. The coastal inhabitants were hit entirely unaware by this sudden and freak storm. We have no further reports on the situation, but will keep you posted as the news comes in.”
Thistle sat transfixed, remaining this way until the picture turned to an annoyingly loud commercial. Lifting the remote still in hand, she clicked off the offending racket and then—with a mild expression of shock—exclaimed, “It’s way too early for such sad news. No need to start the day off with that. I’ll hear about that later… I have no doubt.”
Seated at the base of her perch Amy snuffed a curt response. Standing tall with a stretch, Thistle surveyed the living room for options to pass the time. Glancing at her half-finished course book casually lying on a table beside the couch, she dared herself to sit down and finish it. Hope sprung anew with the realization that she could actually fall asleep while reading it. Her stubborn side still refused to give up on a long tradition of procrastination and so she engaged in a stare-down with the confident, inanimate object. The battle was decided shortly. The book won… she flinched first.
Sagging in defeat, she slugged down more juice and made her way to a small wooden desk unceremoniously shoved into a corner of her studio apartment. Absentmindedly pulling out the set’s matching chair, she flopped down with a thud. Thistle regularly sat in her desk chair rather than the large, plush couch centered magisterially in the middle of her “living” room. Somehow… she felt less lonely sitting in something meant to seat only one. Still deep in thought over her dream, she gazed through the large window bank dominating one wall and watched as dawn’s light made its morning debut over the city horizon.
Amy refused to wait another minute for her invitation and jumped onto Thistle’s lap effectively bringing her back to the present. Thistle glanced down at the brown saucers gazing back and was instantly entranced by their excessive cuteness. Rustling Amy’s head in her hand she said with a smile, “Right then, should we just go for a walk? I don’t know about you but that sunrise looks to be turning into an equally beautiful morning.” The little dog stared at Thistle with
pure excitement upon hearing both go and walk spoken so very close together. Fixing an expression of enthusiasm on her face, Thistle encouraged her pug with a laugh, “Can’t deny it, that look says it all. Go get your leash; we’re going for a walk.”
That was the final cue Amy needed. Springing into action with the grace of a super hero, she launched herself off Thistle’s lap and was rounding the corner to the front door before her human had a chance to move. Laughing to herself, Thistle made her way up the stairs and started getting dressed early for work. Lacking any skill in the art of putting clothes away—having never been a follower of fashion—she usually put on whatever rested at the top of her clean laundry pile. This time was no different.
Amy remained impatiently waiting by the door. Muffled by the leash hanging from her mouth, the little pug-dog whined with increasing decibel the longer her human took. Putting on her watch, Thistle laughed and stated aloud, “Alright, alright, I’m coming, keep your fur on!”
Amy offered her retort in the form of a forceful bark, effectively jettisoning the leash; its metal clasp ringing distinctively against the tile floor. Laughing once more, Thistle grabbed a plush sweater from a chair beside her laundry heap and headed for the stairs. Poised on the top step, her world unexpectedly spun in furious circles. Fearing a tumble she grabbed for the handrail, missing it the first two times. Around and around the apartment whirled, threatening to send her to the floor with every spin. Bodily instinct took over as she closed her eyes, struggling to shut out the overactive world. The moment she did a series of pictures flashed before her mind’s eye; a regal woman looming over a kneeling man. Alarm lifted her lids wide in an attempt to push the images away, but this action caused the world to reel faster. With shaky haste Thistle made her way to the floor but was unable to stop herself from collapsing the last few inches.
After what felt like the blink of an eye, she woke to the disorienting sensation of Amy frantically licking her face. Cheek pressed to the cold floor, Thistle rapidly understood the exactness of her position and tentatively tried to sit up. Deciding the risk was too great to stand, she slowly propped herself against the loft’s metal railing and waited to see what would happen. Within and without the world remained still. Hoping to keep it that way, she closed her eyes for a few minutes and worked on gathering her thoughts. It was in these moments her brain took the opportunity to revisit the images she had seen before losing consciousness. Often giving into the wandering nature of her mind, Thistle focused on the numerous details abounding within each picture. The woman appeared to be in her late forties, dressed with the opulence of a queen. The man was maybe in his early thirties and looked to be a vassal of some kind, perhaps a noble champion or stealthy assassin given the pair of deadly swords sheathed upon his back. The more she focused on details the more her dream came flooding back, playing like parallel screens before her mind. It was then she realized each had featured the same two people.
Thinking it had to be from some recent fantasy-esk movie, she tried to recall the last one she had seen. Thistle rarely made it out to the cinema these days; being a part time student and a full time employee her schedule seldom allowed for it. Remembering the horrid date she had endured a month ago, the possibility that these two people were from a movie seemed totally out of the question. It had been a typical action flick set in modern day without even the slightest hint of fantasy. She thought back further still but none seemed to hold the answer.
Her mind rounded back to the vision as she pondered the man kneeling before the regal lady… as if pledging his swords to her cause. Trying to keep focus on him, she concentrated hard upon the details of his face. Had it been a look of valorous reverence, earnest devotion, or was it… something else? The more she tried to think on him, the more it seemed to slip from her mind. Not wishing to lose the image, Thistle poured all her focus onto the man’s face. It was a look of disgust, not awe, but that of pure disgust. She began to wonder why recalling his expression would mean anything to her, or—more to the point—why wasn’t she focused on the fact she’d had visions at all? Giving off a worried whine, Amy roused Thistle once more with a paw smack to the leg.
Suddenly compelled to know the time, her eyes and mouth rounded together as she looked down at her watch. I’ve been out for nearly three hours! For the first time since waking Thistle checked her head for any blood or sore spots. None… no blood, no soreness. I couldn’t have fallen far. So why have I been knocked out for almost three hours on a less than comfortable concrete floor? It hadn’t been her first fainting spell, but in the past she always awoke seconds later. Once again Thistle glanced down at her watch while contemplating the possible need for medical attention. She thought on the lack of spare funds in her bank and decided to proceed cautiously on her own. Sitting quietly on the bed seemed a good first start. For safety-sake she decided to crawl on hand and knee rather than test her ability to stand. Once in motion, Amy disapproved of the direction she was headed and tried to block Thistle’s path.
“Listen, girl, I’ll take you for a wal… journey later, now you’ve got to get out of my way,” Thistle stated with clear necessity.
She reached out intending to give Amy a nudge, but as she did so another image flashed before her eyes. Thistle quickly replaced her arm—fearing the world would spin as before—but surprisingly it did not. Hastily she closed the distance between her and the bed before dragging her body up by its thick covering of blankets. Splayed out on top she pondered the new and strange vision, but it made no sense. Everything was a blur of cloud and rain, lacking any features necessary to understand what more she was looking at. Somehow, she thought, it resembled falling… but from where and into what? Ten minutes, and a lot of debating later, she was sitting on the edge of the bed feeling self-assured enough to stand. Cautiously rising to her feet, she braced herself against a possible relapse as Amy watched on with puggish encouragement.
Feeling confident she wouldn’t faint, Thistle warily made her way down the stairs. Her stomach growled as she passed the kitchen and so she veered in for a quick bite. Opening the fridge, it was no more or less surprising to find a lone cup of yogurt sitting awkwardly in the empty expanse of the top shelf. Checking the expiration date—just to be sure—she grabbed her equally lone spoon from a nearby drawer and practically drank down the meager breakfast. Tossing the empty container into her dish laden sink, Thistle donned her jacket hanging by the front door and threw her shoulder-bag over her head. Amy whined, giving her pause for thought. Oh no, I haven’t walked Amy yet this morning! Thistle hurriedly leaned down, grabbed the dog leash lying on the entry tile, and counted herself lucky the poor thing still held it in. Fumbling with the clasp, she quickly abandoned the task and scooped Amy up as she flew out the door for work.
Shaking her head as she locked the crowd of keyholes running down her front door, Thistle stated in a voice laced with uncertain humor, “Looks like you get to go to work with me today; oh how the boss is going to love this.”
Amy’s smug expression said she had known all this would take place, even warning Thistle of such dangers, yet sadly her human had failed to listen. Thistle was laughing at her dog’s comical look when all of a sudden Amy snapped to attention and issued a warning bark that echoed down the vacant hall. Startled, she quickly rounded on the possible offender. Much to her relief each direction sat empty. Petting Amy to calm them both, Thistle finished her lengthy locking process before trotting off toward the elevator. Just to be safe, she hefted her pug to one side and sank a free hand into the bag resting at her hip. Mumbling about an overstuffed school-bag, Thistle was forced to stop and fumble through its variety of contents as she endeavored to locate the can of mace annoyingly settled to the bottom.
With her finger now firmly resting on the trigger, she bravely rounded the corner to the elevator foyer. A sigh of relief escaped her pursed lips as she entered into another empty hall. Fear sparking back to life, she took note of the elevator’s odd behavior; uncustomarily
waiting… open and empty. Normally the busy transport was kept on the move by the building’s many occupants. Rooted to the spot, Thistle wore an expression of veiled dread as scenes from every scary movie she had ever seen played like a montage before her eyes. Again Amy snapped her back to reality. Squirming with desperation the pug glared up at Thistle wearing an expression that plainly stated, “Take me out now, or I pee on you!”
Between threat of pee and a creepy vibe emanating from the continually motionless elevator, Thistle paused to decide which was worse. Instantly she came to the conclusion that getting peed on, because she was being silly about a stupid elevator, would make a bad day rapidly worse. Gripping everything tighter to herself, she bravely marched toward the elevator determined it wouldn’t get the better of her. Spinning quickly around to face the button panel, Thistle punched one marked lobby and wedged herself into the corner beside it. Taxed from over use, the tired machine jarred its contents up and down as it revved into action.
Passing the third floor, she glanced down and double-took what appeared to be an odd pair of small, muddy footprints in the opposite corner. Thistle wondered if she had tromped through any on her way in, but was surprised to find the single pair sat alone. Maybe it’s just some mother carrying her dirty… uh, baby… that’s all. There will be more in the lobby… I have no doubt.
The elevator abruptly dinged and opened to an empty vestibule. With a jump Thistle glared up at the harsh sound before turning her gaze to the shining floor below; no mud there. Amy began squirming in full protest, reminding her owner why she was in a hurry. With haste Thistle flew from the offending contraption and straight out the opposing front door. Dodging walkers on the sidewalk she hastily trotted across the street, skirting cars as she went.