He took a dagger to the bicep and spun. The trouble with daggers was that you had to get too close to your enemy. Vor gripped the assassin that had stabbed him by the face and jammed a thumb into the man’s eye socket. The assassin shrieked and fell away, clutching the open hole in his head, and Vor fell upon him with his axe and ended the man’s misery.
Across the courtyard, Kiff used height as his ally and tried to stay out of reach as much as possible, but the assassins carried various ranged weapons and launched them with skilled aim, keeping the Undlander on the defensive any time he took to the air. He weaved through their ranks, cutting hamstrings, slashing throats, and hacking along the spines of his Thieves’ Guild brethren. Six of the assassins lay dead or dying by his hand and only one more sought to destroy him.
He dodged a bladed projectile and drove his board straight down at his foe. A half-moment before colliding with the assassin, Kiff leaped into the air doing a fully extended flip. His board continued on its course and smacked into the assassin’s chest. It proved to be a minor distraction, but a distraction was all Kiff needed. He landed and thrust his right arm out. With a flick of the wrist, his sickle tore open the man’s stomach.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The night brought with it a chilling wind, but Polas took no notice. The lights of Odes’Kan glowed in the distance behind him, and the shattered moons lit his path in dull blues and greys. He stumbled over rock and limb, past burrow and tree, and across field and knoll with no clear destination. Hopeless footsteps carried him forward, always forward, into the darkness.
A burrowl hooted a lonely song that drifted over the plains. Polas fell to his knees and lifted his eyes to the heavens, searching for the star, Lahngrole. The stars around it twinkled, but Lahngrole’s light was a constant.
"This is beyond what I can bear. I can go no further."
The heavens gave no reply but the gentle rush of wind through the trees and the howl of a sennen wolf. Polas knelt, waited, and felt the faith that once carried him smolder as wrath and heartache filled his loins.
Around a low hill, a voice cried out and was answered by a crash and a clatter.
Polas sat very still, trying not to hear.
"Help! Someone, help!" The voice was chalky and rattled with rheum.
"You shut your wind, old man."
"Let go of the cart," shouted a third voice.
"Dammit." Polas slammed his fists into the ground. It was none of his business. He had no call to interfere and no need to move from his spot ever again. He could let the voices play out, let the suns and moons rise and fall, and waste away until his body became one with the soil. It would be easier than anything he had ever done before. But his flesh betrayed him, and he rose to his feet.
He had seen it one hundred times before; the thugs and the dregs of a worthless town, preying upon the weak. An old man leaned against a tiny cart pulled by a sickly mule. He used his elbows to guard his face and tried to hide behind the cart’s wheels with his chest curled over his knees.
Two ruffians stood before him, one a dark-skinned Peltin with a hide jerkin laced over his hairy chest and a rusty longsword in his grip. "We’ll be having that pouch on your belt, too. Don’t be trying to hide no coin from me," the Peltin said, pointing his sword toward the old man’s waist.
The other man was a Yarsac. His four legs were thick, and his dappled body glistened with sweat. A curly, black beard wreathed his face, and his hair was like a tangled briarbush. He held a crossbow in shaky hands and wore a quiver of bolts on his side. "We don’t want to hurt you, so just walk away. There’s no need for us to use these." He waved his crossbow back and forth to accent his words, and his back legs hooved at the soft ground with loud thuds.
"Dammit, Fost, would you stop swinging that thing around?" The Peltin man slapped the Yarsac’s crossbow away when it waved a little too close to his face. "And you." He stepped forward and pushed the old man to the ground with his foot. "You best do as he says. I ain’t so soft. I’d just as soon gut ya and be done with it."
Polas tried to convince himself to walk away. It was not his problem. One old man did not even matter.
"Stop." Without thinking, Polas’s hand drifted to his hip, but found his belt bare.
The two men turned, and the Peltin took a step toward Polas. "Who in the hells are you? Keep walking. You ain’t got business here."
Fost laughed. "Careful, Liam. Looks like he’s running an invisible sword in that sheath of his. I hear they’re real sharp."
The duo shared a laugh, and Polas swore under his breath. He did not even have a dirk in his boot, for all the good it would have done him against a crossbow and a longsword. He slowly let his hand fall and took a few steps toward the cart and the cowed man. "The two of you need to move on to other fields."
"Or what?" Liam did a quick flourish with his sword. "You got an army hidden in your arse?"
Polas only had one shot that he could see. He might be able to take them both unarmed, in fact, he likely could, but there was too much ground to cover and the Yarsac had the crossbow trained on him with a much steadier grip now that it was not an old man in his sights.
"I am Polas Kas Dorian." He reached up slowly and removed his mask. "The Iron Butcher."
"Now there’s a harrow’s tale," Liam said. "The Iron Butcher returned from the grave to protect old men with his invisible sword. In the stories, you sword was always red with the blood of children and glowed in the dark."
The Peltin’s words were strong, but Polas could tell his burns unnerved the man.
The Yarsac’s front hooves pushed back, and it looked as though he might bolt at any moment. "Don’t come any closer."
Polas had to make a decision. He could try to rush the men on the chance that Fost would miss his mark, or he could try a different tactic. He took a slow step forward and began a countdown in his head. He only had to make the Yarsac miss once, and he would have time to close.
Three.
Fost cast a nervous glance to his ally, but the Peltin’s eyes were focused only on Polas and his empty hand.
"Don’t think we won’t gut you and this grey-hair both," Liam said. "I don’t care who you think you are. You’ll bleed same as everyone else."
Polas stepped forward again and closed his fist around the stained mask.
Two.
A breeze stirred Fost's wiry hair, and his hind legs twitched. Polas readied himself.
"I won’t think twice, mister," Fost said, his voice quivering.
One.
Polas flung his mask at the Yarsac and spun. He heard a twang and felt a biting pain in his shoulder, but ignored it as he began his charge.
Fost was looking down, attempting to reload his crossbow quickly but bumbling the task. The Peltin man dashed back toward the cart.
Polas came in low as the Yarsac finished reloading. With a feint left, he swung under the crossbow's sight, leaped up onto the man's equine back, and struck him in the back of the skull. The man's forelegs collapsed, and he fell to the ground, and Polas fell with him. He hit the ground hard but did not stay there. In one motion, he rolled, scooped up the loaded crossbow, and stood.
"Drop it." Liam held the old man from behind with the point of his sword pressed against the man's ribs. "You're a brave kaifer, I'll give you that, but this one dies if you take another step."
"If you hurt the man, my bolt will find your heart, and you both will have lost."
"Hells take you, hagspawn!" Liam spat at Polas and turned to look back at the cart. "This here's my loot now and --"
With a click and a whir, the man fell backward, and his sword clattered to the ground.
Polas tossed the crossbow aside and stepped over the unconscious Yarsac to look down on the Peltin man. His bolt had sheared through Liam's eye at an angle, and its point pressed at the skin above his ear, causing a sharp bulge in his hair.
Then the ache of his own wound caught him, and his neck and back burned. The broken shaft of a bol
t dug a deep red line across his shoulder. Polas thanked Hope for the surge of adrenaline that had carried him through the pain, but he knew he had been lucky.
"Thank you, sir," the old man said. "I don't have much in the way of thanks, but anything I have is yours as you have helped me keep my life."
Polas managed a tight-lipped smile as he picked up his mask off the ground. "I have no need of any payment. Get to the city safely and take no more journeys alone after dark, and I will be repaid."
The old man knelt and felt the earth around him until his hand found Liam's sword. He pried the Peltin's fingers from its pommel and held the blade out in front of him. "At least take the sword. You have won it from him."
Polas finished tying his mask and tried to pull the bolt from his shoulder. His effort only caused the wound to tear further. He grimaced and had to stop for fear of passing out. "I have no more need of blades. Melt it down or cast it aside, I do not care, but I'll have no part of it."
"You're wounded." The old man stepped forward gingerly, using the sword to test the ground before him. "May I?"
Polas nodded and stooped to allow the man to reach the wound. "I would appreciate it."
"It's doesn't seem so bad. Hold tight for a moment, and it'll be done."
Polas closed his eyes as the old man pulled the bolt free of the gash. He closed his eyes and waited for the immediate pain to wash away. When there was nothing left but a dull ache, he straightened. "My thanks."
"You're right about this one. The blade's too heavy and nicked along its edge. Probably should be melted down, yet worse swords have been used for better purposes and better swords forgotten." The old man turned and found his way back to his cart. He scratched his mule behind the ear and loaded the weapon in the back. "But, I suppose I'll take it with me. Swords are made to be used, after all. And used they will be, for good or naught. What good is it for a swordsman to deny a sword? And when the foe comes to him with his own sword, does the swordsman expect the blade to remember him and have mercy?"
Polas bent down to check the Yarsac. The man was still breathing, but he would not wake soon. "You speak in riddles."
"Do I? My apologies." The old man climbed onto his cart and stared at Polas with glossy, white eyes. "I only mean to say that I, until now, had no sword. You have given me one, and I thank you, but I do not know how to use it, and I fear I am too old to learn. It is much better suited to your hands, calloused and hard as they are. And even if you do not hold it, your hands will not soften or return to their youth. You can do things with this blade that others cannot or will not, and sometimes Hope requires a sword."
Polas watched as the mule pulled the cart over the low hill toward the distant lights of Odes'Kan. Something about the old man was familiar to him, but he could not place it. It was not until he could no longer hear the squeaky wheels or the rattling goods that Polas realized his shoulder had no wound.
He stood and wondered for what could have been an hour and finally made up his mind. With heavy steps, he returned to Odes'Kan and to the path he had started so many years ago. Only, his sword was gone. There was nothing but a notch in the root where Polas had left the blade. He would have to find a new one, though he imagined it would not serve him as well as the last one had.
CHAPTER FORTY
Vor had split one of his aggressors open at the clavicle and was busy prying his axe from the man’s limp body when the last two assassins sprang on him. One went high, grabbed Vor by his horns, and jammed a dagger into his shoulder blade. The other went low, tackled him around the knees, and knocked him backwards. As Vor dropped, he freed his axe, swung it straight up, and cleaved the man above him between the legs. The assassin’s hip shattered, and he fell away, writhing in agony.
The final assassin released Vor’s knees and stood on his chest. He pulled out a short-sword and held it to Vor’s throat. The Dorokti King reached out, grabbed the man’s shins, and squeezed. The Thieves’ Guild sellsword screamed and fell to his knees as his bones turned to shards, but he held fast to the sword. He lifted the blade overhead preparing to end Vor’s life.
Before the blade could drop, the man gurgled and lurched forward, eyes wide with shock. Kiff stood behind him, his sickle lodged in the back of the man’s skull. As the assassin collapsed, Kiff’s hand shot out, snatched the sword from his grasp, and held it in place over Vor’s throat. The two combatants stared at each other for an eternal moment.
"Now isn’t this amusing," said the Undlander.
Casually, he tossed the sword aside and offered Vor his hand.
"Could have killed you just then, you know."
Vor bristled. "Could kill you right now, assassin. Your mercy proves nothing."
The sounds of battle from the end of the alley stopped, and Xandra’s heart lurched. She was too late. As she leaped over a stack of boxes, she uttered a quick prayer that the right side had won, that Master Kas Dorian was still alive, and if Vor had caught Kiff, the Dorokti King had shown mercy.
She raced forward only to stumble over the hewn corpse of a Thieves’ Guild assassin. She steadied herself on the side of a hovel and looked up to see Kiff and Vor standing in front of an old fountain.
"Kiff, are you alright?" She put her hands on her head to help catch her breath.
"We’re fine," Kiff said. "Nothing the two of us couldn’t handle."
Vor snorted and pulled a knife from his shoulder.
Huffing and puffing along, Flint emerged from the alley at a brisk trot. "I’m not one to complain," he said between wheezes, "but we Faldred are not natural born runners. It would have been better if we could have stayed together, Xandra."
"I’m fine, Master," Xandra replied with a reassuring smile. "Besides, they may have needed my help."
Flint made his way over to the fountain and sat on its edge. He was sweating heavily and greedily gulped down each breath. Vor followed him, and they began to converse in hushed tones.
Xandra was tired, but spirited after her own battle. Her hair was coming undone, and spots of blood dotted her white garb. She wrapped the braid around her neck; it would have to wait. She licked a patch of loose cloth and rubbed it against one of the bloodstains, but made little headway.
Kiff walked over to her and pulled a small vial out of his pack. "I have something for those spots," he said. "You’ve got to get them quick or they’ll never come out."
He poured a bit of the solvent onto his gloved hand and applied it to a spot on Xandra’s arm. She felt her resolution to hate him fading until her gaze drifted up and behind him to Reyce’s corpse. She brushed Kiff aside and ran to the edge of the fountain.
"What happened?" she asked.
Vor nodded toward Kiff. "Ask the pup."
Kiff threw his hands up defensively. "Wait a second. I can explain."
Xandra turned to face the Undlander, and Vor stood.
"When Vor got here, Reyce was already dead because I'd never lose to some dry-blooded, hidebound, House of Suns crony."
They waited for the Undlander to continue, but he turned his attention to cleaning his own leathers.
"That’s it?" Xandra said. "That’s your explanation?"
"Look, I know the House of Suns really well. A little too well in fact," Kiff said with a slump in his shoulders. "People who get marked by them are always under compulsions. Nothing they can do about it. It’s the price of the ink. So long as they’re alive, they’re at the beckon call of the Thieves’ Guild."
Flint stood, his composure finally returning. "But Reyce wasn’t alive. He’d been dead for a millennium."
"Okay, maybe I didn’t think that one through so well. But by the same token, you can’t be mad at me for killing him since he was already dead."
Xandra felt like her world had been flipped again. Her cheeks burned red, and her eyes narrowed as she stormed across the courtyard, stopped mere inches in front the lying Undlander, and poked him repeatedly in the chest. "That hardly justifies --"
"You know," Polas s
aid from the shadowy alleyway, "for people trying to keep a low profile, you sure do leave an easy trail to follow."
He carried the bodies of two House of Stars’ assassins over his shoulders.
"Master Kas Dorian," Xandra said. Had she been yelling? He was probably disappointed in her. She made an apologetic bow and tried not to let her shame show. "Are you okay? What happened?"
Polas ignored her and dropped the corpses among the others scattered about the area. The scene was dreadful. Bodies lay along the street, some in several pieces. Blood stained the sides of houses and soaked into the dirt turning it a deep black.
"Clean this up," Polas ordered. "Take the bodies outside the city and burn them. Any weapons left in the street, get rid of them. When you’re done here, we’ll meet back at the Sigil House… or what’s left of it. Kiff, you’re coming with me."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Matthew the Blue stared at the elaborate ceiling high above him. It was an intricate mosaic of white and cream tiles, arranged to create a subtle sweeping effect that drew the eyes toward the symbol of Leindul at the front of the great auditorium. The entire cathedral was shimmering white from the floor to the walls to the pews that held the Faldred congregation. The chapel, Leindul’s Sanctuary, was the pride of the Hollow Mountains. Once Matthew stepped into the room, he immediately forgot that he was far underground, and the dark clouds that shrouded his future felt somehow brighter.
His burden had grown larger over the past few days. Decades ago when he had first laid plans for what he would do if Kas Dorian actually did return in this lifetime, he never imagined his road to be so lonely. His idealism was a bit of a curse at times. He had hoped rallying the forces of light would be as easy in this era as it had been for the Sigil in Kas Dorian’s time.
In those days, Exandercrast was a constant threat, and the world overcame its fear and marched into battle out of either desperation or desire to free their children from the same shadows. In recent history, the God of Fear was much more subtle in his machinations, and when he did make an overt threat or destroy a population, it was always someplace most of the world had never been, so that the truth gave birth to fearful whispers and rumors instead of outright defiance.
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