The Priest's Assassin

by V. C. Willis

  “By the fates, you could pass as me, little Brother.” A snort escaped it, and a shudder shook me to realize the voice came from the blade itself. “Now, let us be on our way. Where is this person bleeding with the scent of Raphael? I am curious to see them.”

  Little brother? This means … I’m actually holding… I slid to the ground, shaking as I took in the blade and its voice before at last muttering my suspicion, “A-Ashton.”

  “I used to be Ashton,” it replied with a sour tone. “Now I’ll be the blade to snuff out Fallen Arbor. On your feet. It seems you need to toughen up if this brings you to your knees.”

  “You’re a soul weapon,” I declared, standing slowly.

  “What of it, little Brother?”

  So, what the monk had seen so long ago was a complete and willing transition. Had it smelled Frank coming down the hall? And why did Frank not give chase to Fallen Arbor with Ashton in hand?

  Chapter 32

  Keys to the Kingdom

  Pale and shaken, I followed John’s scent back to the cross-section. He’d fallen asleep, and I gently leaned the soul weapon on the opposite wall. Sliding down, I sat next to him, listening to his arduous breathing and taking in the sweet aroma of his blood. Glaring at the claymore, goosebumps flowed over me, and I folded my brow. I hadn’t said much else the moment it all hit me. My brother, Ashton Traibon, is a soul weapon. Not any but a sentient one at that.

  “Staring is rude.”

  The heat in my cheeks sent my head swiveling to John. I leaned over, peeking at the bandage. My scowl deepened to see it already red-soaked. Covering my face, I leaned back against the wall, muttering curses under my breath. I couldn’t get a single thought to finish its course before another took hold. Emotions conflicted with one another at every second. All I knew was my lover was hurt, my brother a soul weapon, and Fallen Arbor would surely be waiting for me outside of Captiva City.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Ashton’s voice made me flinch, and I dropped my hands to glare at the sword across from me.

  “Trying to make a decision but I can’t seem to still my mind long enough to figure out which is more important to me,” I confessed.

  “Clearly his injury has unnerved you, has it not?” Looking to John, I hated that he looked so pale, and a cold sweat painted his forehead. “Just carry him out.”

  “Then how am I to carry you?” I drawled.

  “I’m a fucking sword, little Traibon,” Ashton growled. “You clearly have a sheath worthy of carrying two claymores on your back, fool.”

  I couldn’t hide the expression on my face and murmured, “But that feels … wrong.”

  “By the Fates, get to your damn feet, shove my ass in the fucking sheath, pick him up, and get him some place where he can heal!” Ashton’s voice rattled in my skull, sending my heart racing and eyes bouncing.

  Jerking to my feet, I hissed, “Fine. We’ll do this your way!”

  “Do what … my way?” John stirred from his sleep, gripping my leg. “I’m sorry. I lost too much…”

  “I’m going to carry you out,” I announced.

  John coughed, grunting as he pushed back to his feet. “You can’t be serious. What if they catch up?”

  “Then I hope he’s prepared for you to drop him on the ground,” mused Ashton.

  “They aren’t giving chase through the catacombs.” I took a deep breath, steeling myself before revealing what I’d concluded. “Which means they are waiting at the exit for us.”

  John’s eyes were drawn to the glowing claymore. “Where was that?”

  “Hidden in the walls. I noticed something on our way in, and well, you’re looking at a hidden soul weapon with—”

  “You are not to speak of who I am unless I wish it so.” A chill snaked up my spine at the threatening tone that vibrated through every fiber of my body.

  “—unknown powers,” I redirected.

  “Wow, it’s beautiful. Nothing like L’Dame d’Croc.” He reached for it, and I gripped his wrist. “What’s wrong?”

  “He can touch me…” I shot a disapproving glare at the blade and shook my head, lipping no.

  “There’s strange magic, and I can’t say what this one is capable of doing.” Cheeks red, a sense of jealousy rose in me, and I grabbed up Ashton.

  “I won’t bite. Just wanna get a sense of who he is… Come on, let him touch me.”

  “I don’t think it can do much to hold it,” rebuttaled John. “Nothing ever happened with the Fanged—”

  “We can discuss it later.” My words were curt.

  Pushing past, I continued down our path to the exit. Both Ashton and John fussed at me, their words mangling and muting in and out of my head. Ashton at last gave up when I slid him beside the other claymore. They both went silent as I pulled the buckling tighter on the halter and reached to scoop up John. He shoved me away, twisting to head down the corridor toward a gate. Moving slowly, John grunted on occasion and held the bandages tight against the wound.

  “You can carry me when I pass out,” he announced, annoyed with me.

  Sighing, I slid past him, digging the keyring from my satchel. I beat him to the gate, starting to try the keys one by one. I wonder if the same key that works here will work for the next gate. There had to be a good thirty or forty keys of all shapes and sizes. I could hear John shuffling closer. One after another, they failed, either too small, too large, or not turning at all. Joh reached me, a rattle in his breathing, and I dropped the ring at my feet.

  “Son of a…” I muttered as I scooped them up, staring at the fray. “Shit, which one was I on?”

  “You know you can ask me if I know, right?” Ashton snickered in the back of my head. “It’s a bronze key.”

  “There’s still a good twelve of those on here,” I mumbled.

  “Well, it should be long because of the type of lock. And thicker, since it’s an outdoor gate,” he offered.

  Raising my eyebrows and cocking my head, I picked out two that met that description. “Huh, so one of these should do it?”

  John came closer, leaning to view the keys. “What makes you think it’s one of those two?”

  “Uh, intuition?” I offered, trying the first with no luck. “Then that leaves this one…” The second slid a little deeper into the lock, and with ease, it twisted, and the gate squeaked open. “Wow, I’m impressed.”

  “I used to be in charge of the keys,” drawled Ashton. “Hated it, so I gave them to Father, and I see he gave them to you.”

  Locking the gate behind us, I laughed. “Good thing the Assassin’s Guild gave these to me.”

  “What the hell was he thinking!” Ashton’s voice rattled through me again, and I stumbled and caught the wall. “Shit!” His voice seemed panicked as I held my face.

  “Dante, what’s the matter?” John leaned on the wall.

  “I didn’t realize I had…” Ashton spoke more softly, a whisper now, “…that I could throw your balance and impact you physically. I’ll be more careful.”

  “It’s the sword,” I confessed. “It’s why I didn’t let you touch it. I’m not … used to it.”

  “Leave the cursed thing. It’s not worth your life.” Some color rose in John’s pale face.

  He’s angry I would take yet another risk. “I will not abandon it.” My tone made John visibly jolt. “It’s more important than you realize.”

  “So be it.” John turned, shuffling through the open gate and closing it behind him. “But I will toss it to the bottom of Sullen Lake if it does you harm.”

  “I see why you’re in love with him.” Ashton was back to his playful tone. “Makes me jealous. Wish Raphael had that much sass… Wait a minute … is he a fucking priest?”

  “Slow down, Saint John,” I mused, smiling at myself and the entirety of the situation.

  “Don’t
you dare start that. It’s as bad as you calling me Father John.” He couldn’t hide the smirk on his face as we made a turn.

  “Ha! We Traibons always want what we shouldn’t have” Ashton seemed pleased, almost content with being able to reconnect with the living before falling horribly quiet.

  We halted; another gate glowed with daylight just in reach. Beyond it, a green meadow speckled with white, yellow, and pink flowers fluttered in the sea breeze. We made it, but… John leaned against the wall and watched as I marched toward the gate. Slipping the keyring out, I shot a glance at John before turning the key. The gate creaked open. Huh, got it on the first try. Slipping through it, I closed it and held the keys to him. Huffing, John took them and grimaced as he locked the gate. We stood glaring at one another with the wrought iron between us. I leaned forward, and he mirrored the motion as our forehead managed to touch in the gaps. Silence fell, our heartbeats throbbing ever faster in the anxiety chomping at the bit of what would come next.

  Why is it so hard for us to protect one another? “Stay here.” I turned away, every nerve strung tighter with each step and inch gained between us.

  “I can’t get far without you,” John’s voice sounded defeated. “I’m sorry I’m not strong enough to help you this time.”

  Snorting, I exhaled in thought before replying, “We both know I will always be your shield, and I now have the means to be a proper sword, too.” Pulling Ashton from the sheath, the blade buzzed with power. “I know they must be there just out of view. Every part of me screams with it. I can smell them, hear them even.”

  “Don’t you dare be reckless.” I could feel his eyes shift to the blade. “Are you sure you want to use that here and now?”

  “Oh, I’m very sure of that.”

  He half-laughed and added, “Does it have a proper name yet?”

  “Don’t you dare use my name, brother,” warned Ashton.

  Pausing, I smirked and looked to John. “I’ll call it La Serra de l’Aigle … The Eagle’s Talon.”

  “I like it.” John huffed, his eyes sad as they shifted to the meadow behind me. “May you strike them down swiftly.”

  “Remind me to tell you about this eagle meeting a cardinal and almost losing the battle,” Ashton scoffed, “but something tells me you’ve met him already.”

  I took a deep breath. Beyond the smells of the catacombs and ocean breeze, I could smell the sweat of men and women who’d sat in the sun in anticipation of my arrival. Closing my eyes, I listened to the breaths, the heartbeats, and finding only one of them calm. These are seasoned fighters. They don’t fear me … yet. I flexed my muscles, the shoulder healed from before, though still marked. Looking down to Ashton, goosebumps rolled over me, all the events flooding forward like priming the pump to draw from a well of fighting prowess.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” I whispered down to Ashton, gripping his hilt tight as my heart fluttered. It’s only right to tell him what it is that I’ve been doing under his name.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never been in a fight.” The blade shuddered.

  “No. It’s just—I’ve been pretending to be you these last few months,” I confessed.

  Laughter rolled from him, and the blade glowed brighter. “And what makes you think you can fill my shoes, little brother?”

  Snorting, I cooed in reply, “Let me show you what I’ve learned about being you, and you are more than welcome to correct me if I don’t do your namesake justice.”

  Stepping out from the tunnel, I was blinded by the sunlight for a moment. My eyes adjusted, and the four Fallen Arbor soldiers stood before me like black strokes harsh against a canvas of pastels. Again, they all wore the same masks and tripoint hats I’d seen the henchmen in Tavern Way sport. I took the standstill as a moment for us to gauge one another. One had no weapons, but the familiar smell of sulfur made me wonder if she would prove the more dangerous opponent. My eyes lingered on her until she stepped back behind her colleagues. The pair of rogues in the middle had dual daggers, and the one on the far right carried a large shield and broadsword.

  So, they have range, offense, and defense—not a bad grouping. They planned to face me, but how much do they know about my fight with the Berserk Brigade?

  Chapter 33

  The Rise of Ashton

  Dropping down into a starting stance, my body seemed excited to return to this pose, the flutter in my heart adding to the building thrill. Ashton weighed nothing compared to the claymore I had trained on and used against the Berserk Brigade. I shuffled my stance, nervous of the weight difference and the heat emanating into my palms as if the claymore exhaled with my own breath.

  “Interesting. Seems you’ve been taught a thing or two about how I fight. More importantly, you’ve done well to convince Fallen Arbor you might be the real deal seeing they met you at the exit with so many.” Ashton’s hilt hummed as if the power soaked into me. “Fix your footing.” My foot shifted as if some unseen foot had kicked it. “Lower the stance.” Again, the invisible force pushed on my shoulders, and I let it correct me. “There. You’re ready now.”

  A familiar burning in my leg muscles made me grunt, and a force pushed my elbow higher before I whispered, “Stop. Let me fight.”

  The male rogue in the center charged forward, the mask and hat hiding his expression well. I raised my chin, wide eyed as he came inching closer. Every muscle tensed, waiting to see which way he would come at me. Despite their calm exteriors, their hearts of my enemies sounded like a stampede of horses, adding to the rush washing over me. I’m the only calm one now. He came close, and when I still did not flinch or give hint of movement, he startled and leapt back. Nothing in his body said he aimed to attack just yet. He must be a master of counterstrikes. Only a few steps off, he left the ground broken. I hadn’t moved to block or attack, and when we connected gazes, he lost his nerve.

  A roar escaped the shield-carrying soldier, and he came in with a strike, shield held tight into himself to block his torso. I spun, swinging Ashton easily with uncanny speed, arms stretching, muscles alive. I hit the shield with as much inertia as possible as I came back to meet my opponent. The blow clunked loud, the shield denting, the sword dropped in the seconds before he was slung across the field. He bounced a few times, and his companion closest to me sidled back.

  The exhale left me, and on the inhale, I reset my starting stance. Again, the initial attacker sidled back to whisper to his counterpart as she swallowed, heart thudding in my ears as her cold sweat competed with the ocean’s salt in the wind. The sulfur-scented woman rushed the soldier, her hood falling back to expose a sigil etched into the back of her shaven head before she yanked it back up. Without even dropping my eyes to the soldier, I could hear how he gasped for air.

  If you can’t cut them down, boy, the Old Farmer’s voice filled me and a sense of pride followed as I remembered his words like a whisper, then be sure to knock the wind from them.

  The crunch of grass breaking, and the scent of freshly broken dirt made my body tighten. I launched for the rogues, both a few steps into their attack. My own speed was alarming as I closed in on them, and the man faltered, sliding to a stop. The woman did not, despite the fluttering of her heart. She stepped into my path, thrusting her daggers together to stab me in the stomach. I twisted using my momentum and planted my heel hard into the soft ground. Ashton did not slow as he ripped through her. I turned and came from behind, her eyes wide as her body cleaved apart, dead before it all finished falling to the ground at my feet. Blood rained down on me, hot and thick.

  Surreal, lost to the adrenaline, I heard my father’s words, and they struck a new chord: You are a Prince, and you may take anything you desire, and not one soul can stop you.

  Raising my chin and gaze, I glared at the other rogue and reset my stance once more. Horror filled his face and he turned, running from battle. Shifting, the knight was stumbli
ng to his feet, and the weaponless woman reeking of sulfur stood between us. She chanted in the old tongue, eyes on me. Scarred fingers and arms flashed in the sunlight and the smell grew stronger.

  “Is … is this magic?” I muttered to Ashton as I stood my ground.

  “There’s nothing magical about it,” Ashton growled as the heat of his rage seemed to seep into my own being. “She’s a failed soul weapon. It happens with humans, where the blessing or curse awakens, but they come out scarred. Humans can’t be soul weapons. On the Old Continent they call them the Fractured Ones.”

  Sparks began to flicker in her open palms until torch-sized balls came to life, and the smell of burning flesh engulfed my senses.

  “Not many humans live or remain intact after awakening their powers.” Ashton’s words were a mixture of pity and disgust. “And those who do make it out? Their magic eats at them every time they use it… Beware, her flames are hotter than a raging fire in a blacksmith’s forge.”

  The Fractured One came marching toward me. My eyes landed on the balls of fire in her hands, the flesh bubbling and boiling as it stung at my nose. My eyes watered, and my heart raced at the very concept of all the scars. Her hood slipped off once more, the sun shedding light on her shaven head and the countless scars splotched across her face and skull. One ear was missing completely, melted to a point of nonexistence. I cringed, gritting my fangs.

  “What do I do with her?” I growled through clenched jaws.

  “You put her out of her misery, Dante,” replied Ashton firmly.

  Some enemies will beg you to take their life. The summer storm sky flashed and boomed, rattling the jars that night as the Old Farmer started gnawing on his pipe. Then, you’ll find an enemy with that look in their eyes, the look that begs to end it for them since they no longer have the strength to resist or die on their own. If you ever see one, just do the humane thing, Prince. Make it so they can rest six feet down after you cross paths.

  Inhaling the bitter stench, I launched forward. A screech escaped her, pain and rage engulfing one another as tears fell down her face. She tossed a flame at me, and I sidestepped and flinched as the heat stung at my flesh, evaporating the sweat and baking the blood on my skin. Her heart skipped a beat, and she stumbled, dropping the other flame. The ball exploded, catching her and the knight on fire, and they screamed, a harrowing howl of pain as their flesh melted.