Sora stared, awestruck. What power! She was suddenly fearful. Will we be caught in a storm like this? From what she had overheard at the market, this was mild compared to most weather. She suddenly didn't know what she feared more; being caught by Volcrian, or sailing into a storm of fifty-foot swells.
She was momentarily lost in the image of Volcrian catching them at sea, killing her friends and throwing them off the ship in the middle of a storm. That's highly unlikely, her inner voice chided, and she forced her attention back to the docks. She needed to ask someone for directions, but the few people on the street walked quickly past, heads down, hoods over their faces. A few sailors shouted to each other, but she couldn't hear them over the wind, which blasted by, howling, shockingly powerful. A spatter of rain arrived. She shook her head, her ears ringing, a headache beginning around her temples. The noise of the wind was loud, but the ringing in her ears seemed to drown it out.
Then there was a sudden lull in the uproar around her. She blinked. Her ears weren't ringing at all. In fact, the sound was... were....
Bells.
Oh, no! She put her hand on her Cat's Eye in sudden fear. It was unmistakable, far louder than a distant wind chime. What could be causing the necklace to react? She whirled around and scanned the empty docks, ready for anything, but several minutes went by and still nothing happened. Maybe she had made a mistake; maybe someone close by was selling bells, or carrying them around. She shook her head. No. She knew where the sound came from. Someone was using magic... and her Cat's Eye was warning her.
Suddenly, there was a strong tug on her neck, as though an invisible leash had been pulled. Her foot stepped to the right on its own accord. Whoa. That necklace meant business! She started walking in the direction it encouraged her to go, and the more she walked, the more urgent the feeling became.
And then, she had the feeling that something terrible was about to happen. But where? How?
Sora ran away from the docks, and soon found herself drawn to the inner streets, mostly side alleys. She didn't know where she was going, but the Cat's-Eye's compulsion was overpowering. She had to move fast—there wasn't much time.
* * *
Crash arrived at the bell tower. He doubted it was the only one in the city, but it was certainly the largest, stretching far above any other building on the docks by almost three stories. It was old and decrepit, the plaster stained and chipped. From the street below, the bell looked like it hadn't been rung in a decade or more.
He paused before entering the building and pulled his veils up over his face; he didn't want to be easily recognizable. He had the hilt tucked safely away in his cloak. Leaving it with the Dracians would have been a mistake; he didn't trust any of them. He doubted they knew about the Shade... but they were still thieves, and they wouldn't hesitate to sell it off for a bit of coin. And that would inevitably place the hilt in the Shade's hands.
The sky was dense and gray, the clouds low to the ground. After surveying the docks for a moment, ensuring he hadn't been followed, he slipped smoothly into the building, prying open the rotten door.
Inside, the bell tower was dark and musty, completely abandoned. The stone tiles were cracked and salt-worn. Mold infested the walls. Wooden scaffolds crisscrossed the interior, climbing all the way up the belfry, strung with old, gray rope. At one time, it looked like there had been plans to renovate the building, but those plans had been long discarded.
He stood there in the damp darkness, waiting.
About a minute passed, then something shifted deeper in the building. He watched. There was a long, slow silence. And then....
Wham! The noise was intentional. A flock of sleepy pigeons launched off of the higher rafters, cooing in alarm, fluttering out the broken windows.
Crash looked up. A figure crouched above him in the gloom, balancing expertly on a thin wooden beam. After a moment, he picked out two more figures, hanging back in the shadows. They were cloaked and veiled, their faces hidden, similar to himself. The veils gave them away immediately, more so than their faces would have.
“Where is the package?” the first asked coldly. Surprisingly, it was a woman's voice.
Crash was prepared for this. He reached into his cloak and withdrew the hilt. He held it in his hand, feeling its weight, allowing the three to see it.
“Where's my reward?” he asked.
The woman dropped to the ground. She landed smoothly, uncoiling like a cat. The other two swung to the lower beams, but stayed above the ground. “Hand it to me,” she said.
He put the hilt back under his cloak. “My reward first.”
“We need to verify its authenticity.”
“I need to verify your authenticity,” he countered.
The woman's eyes narrowed. She stared at him through the shadows. He could detect a feminine figure beneath her heavy cloak and black clothes, but besides that, she was unidentifiable.
“You are of the Hive,” she said abruptly. “One of our own....?”
Crash didn't respond.
“Just kill him and take it,” one of the men called down. “We don't owe him anything.”
“Quiet!” she barked over her shoulder. Then she turned back to him. “Are you of the Hive or not?”
Crash stared. Her question was strange, unexpected. He let it churn in his mind. Was he? Once, perhaps. He raised his head slightly. “I am not.”
The woman glared suspiciously. “Your manner of dress says differently. Why do you challenge us?”
“Enough of this,” the man said again. “If you won't give us the hilt, then we shall take it!”
Crash took a slight step back, looking upward, his hands hovering close to his daggers. Beneath his veil, he managed a thin smile. “Try,” he said.
The woman flung out her arm, signaling for her companion to stop, but the man ignored her. He leapt from the beam and landed smoothly on the ground, a cloud of dust rising in his wake. A sword appeared in his hand, a thin blade similar to Crash's own, and he lunged forward.
Crash stepped to one side, smoothly dodging the attack. He grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, drew his dagger, and jammed it into the man's stomach.
Oof. A soft breath of air came out of his mouth, a low moan. With a shocked gurgle, the man dropped to the ground.
“Jackal!” the woman said sharply. It was not a sympathetic tone. She sounded furious. “I told you—stay put!”
Jackal didn't respond, but curled into a fetal position, wheezing.
The second man hovered in the beams above, silent, observing.
Crash knew this dance. He had grown up with it. Constant tension, always on edge, never knowing when a slim blade might pierce the darkness. He stared at the woman, impassive. She stared back. Then, slowly, she drew a heavy coin purse from her waist.
“One hundred gold,” she said. “As promised.” She flung the purse at his feet. “Now give us the hilt.”
Crash didn't move to take the coin. Instead, he kicked the bag away, deep into the shadows, somewhere past the man on the floor. A pool of blood was spreading across the dusty tiles. It touched his boots.
“I didn't come here for coin,” Crash said. “I came here for answers.”
The woman arched an eyebrow, the only part of her face that was visible. Her eyes were vividly green. “What?” she snapped.
“I want to know who you are, and what you plan to do with the weapons.”
“That is none of your concern,” she said icily.
“Actually, it is.” Crash patted his knife belt under his cloak. “Last I checked, I'm the one with the hilt.”
“We don't know if it's real.”
“Oh, it is. I can assure you.” He glanced up at the second man. Somehow, during the conversation, the man had switched beams. He was lower now, closer. Crash hadn't detected any movement. He wondered what kind of weapon he specialized in; what his attack would be. Just a matter of time now....
The woman laughed suddenly; a dry, quick sound. �
�And last I checked, we have you outnumbered, savant,” she said. “You are a savant, aren't you? Yes, I remember now. A worthless bandit leader out in the lowlands. Nameless. An exile of the Hive. That's who you are. Pathetic.”
Crash hadn't heard that word in a while: savant. A name for the Nameless. Growing up the Hive, all assassins were called savants until they competed and won a Name. Some never did.
“I prefer the odds,” he murmured. “Neither of you will leave until I have my answers.”
The woman laughed again, her voice shrill. “And what makes you think we'll answer you?”
The man on the floor coughed suddenly, spewing up blood, then went limp, his final breath oozing out of him.
They all glanced at the body, then at each other, green eyes darting around the room. The woman stood up a little straighter.
“Widow,” she said. “Kill him.”
Crash looked up, expecting an attack, but the man had disappeared from the scaffolds. The Widow. He tried to remember which weapon that Name belonged to....
Shhhing!
A long chain whirled out of nowhere. Crash ducked to one side, barely dodging the hooked scythe at its end. It spun past him, humming through the air like a deranged wasp. Chuunk! It struck the side of the wall, embedded deep in the plaster.
Crash danced backward, watching the weapon with interest. With a firm tug, the Widow pulled on the chain, dislodging the blade. With another flick of his wrist, the scythe spun obediently back to its master. The Widow stood amidst the shadows of dusty boxes, sunk deep in the room. His hands spun the chain in a tight circle, the blade thrumming at its end.
Crash drew his sword. This was a fight for a longer weapon.
The man cast out his scythe again. Crash dodged a second time, and the blade smashed past him, obliterating a soggy wooden crate at his back. Splinters and wood chips exploded through the air.
He has good aim, Crash thought. He couldn't risk getting hit; one strike would break his bones, turn his gut to chowder. The chain was deadly at a distance, but useless in close combat. Throwing caution to the wind, he charged his opponent, his sword braced before him.
The Widow stumbled back, surprised, then tugged on his chain. The blade spun through the air like a trained hawk, directly at Crash's back.
At the last second, Crash dropped to the ground. The scythe went whizzing over his head, back to its master—and struck the Widow square in the chest.
“Agh!” the man gasped, staggering. Blood gushed from the wound, spilling down his shirt. The scythe was lodged firmly in his chest plate.
Crash sprung easily back to his feet. Then, with a two-handed swing, he sliced clean through the man's neck.
Shunk.
The Widow's head bounced across the floor.
Sudden silence clogged the room, stifling the air—but Crash didn't hesitate. He whirled on the woman, bearing down on her, his sword at the ready. She saw him coming and leapt onto the scaffolds, trying to escape, jumping from beam to beam. She held a whip in her hand, and used it to help her climb, lashing out at lightning speed and swinging from one perch to the next.
Crash didn't need a whip. Using only his hands and legs, he jumped expertly after her, catching the old ropes and shimmying upward. He was perfectly balanced, his muscles coiling with ease.
About halfway up the belfry, the woman stopped. She hung from the rafters on her whip, like a spider from its web. Her hood had fallen back, and her thick black hair fell around her face, long and glistening.
Her voice didn't betray her...but she was breathing hard; he could tell by the rise and fall of her chest. “You can't win, savant!” she said. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she sent a handful of needles flying through the air. They were long and sharp, perhaps six inches or more.
Crash had no time to dodge. He held up his forearm and caught three of them, blocking his face. The fourth pierced his shoulder. He didn't flinch, but tightened his grip on the wooden beams, staring up at her.
“Who are you?” Crash asked again. “Who do you work for?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I am no one,” she said.
A predictable response, coming from one of the Hive. “I highly doubt that,” he said. “Answer me.”
“Never!”
Crash slipped a knife into his hand and flung it upward, deft and concise. The blade zipped through the air—sssnt! It didn't hit the whip. No—it pierced her hand.
“Aaaah!” With a clipped scream, the woman lost her grip and plummeted downward, the whip unfurling and falling after. Crash watched her plunge almost three stories to the floor below. Wham! she crashed into a pile of boxes, an explosion of dust billowing upward, covering the base of the tower like dense fog.
Crash leapt, diving into open space, graceful and measured, perfectly controlled. He fell several dozen yards, then grabbed hold of a rope and slid downward, entering the cloud of dust.
It was difficult to see on the ground, but he couldn't let the woman escape. Once he was on his feet, he ripped the sleeve off of his arm, dislodging the needles with it. He flung the bloody sleeve to one side, ignoring the pain.
He followed the sound of her heaving breath, dashing through a maze of broken boxes. Then he saw her shadow against the dust and took off at full force. He tackled her to the ground—whumph!—and rolled with her several feet, until he rammed her up against the wall. He pulled his dagger from its sheath and dug the blade into her throat.
She was coughing and sputtering from the dust. He pinned her like that for a long minute until the air cleared, swept clean by the fierce wind outside.
“Novice,” he said, inches from her face.
She spat at him, hissing like a snake. Her veils had come undone, her face contorted with rage and pain. She was surprisingly young, perhaps a few years younger than himself, with a blunt nose and full lips.
“It would be easier for me to kill you,” he said, speaking low and fast. “Answer my questions, and maybe I won't.”
She glared, her eyes crackling like fire. Then her gaze dropped to his arm—or, more specifically, his tattoo. Her eyes widened.
He lifted the blade slightly, allowing her to speak.
“Y-you're... the Viper!” she gasped, choking on dust.
He waited.
“The youngest to win a Name... and you abandoned your Hive. Y-you're....”
“Alive?” he suggested, and grinned beneath his veils. “What do they call you?”
“Krait,” she gasped.
Yes, that would explain the whip. Each Name came with a specialized weapon. His dagger was just as identifiable as his tattoo, if one knew what to look for. “You are a member of the Shade,” he murmured. It wasn't a question.
She glared harder, but he sensed a quickening of her pulse under the blade. It was answer enough. “And your leader?”
“I-I... I don't know.”
“Lies.” He pressed the blade again, allowing her to feel its bite. She reached up and grabbed his wrist, trying to force him away, but her wounded hand was slick with blood, her grip slippery and useless.
“A Name,” he repeated. “Who is your leader? Your Master?”
“I obey only the will of the Dark God....”
“A Name, you worthless, unskilled maggot. Talk or I will make you.”
“I can't!”
He lifted the knife slightly and ran its tip along the bottom of her jaw, not deep enough to kill her... but certainly deep enough to leave a scar. A small stream of blood ran down her neck. “You have three seconds... three... two... one....”
“Cerastes!” she gasped.
He paused. “What?”
“Cerastes is my Master!”
Crash stared at her. The Name echoed inside him like a tolling bell. He searched her face....
Like a true assassin, she took advantage of his pause. Slick as water, she slipped out from under him and scrambled backward up the wall, using it to propel herself up and over him, flipping neatly through the air. Crash sa
t up, turning, but he was still stunned by her words. He watched as she dashed across the floor, grabbed her whip, and swung out the nearest window. In five seconds, she was gone.
He could have given chase—should have, probably—but he had his answers. Only, they weren't at all what he had expected.
Cerastes.
How long had it been....?
Abruptly a powerful gust of wind whipped through the building, howling through the cracked windows. The bell swung far above him, clanging with surprising force. It resounded in his ears, making him cringe.
Crash stood up, shaken from his reverie. Whether Cerastes was the leader of the Shade or not—it didn't matter now. Sora was waiting for him, and at least he knew that the order was real... and that they were after the weapons. He walked around the blood-stained room, picking up the forgotten bag of coins, tucking it into his cloak next to the sacred hilt. On sudden inspiration, he picked up the chained scythe as well, and swung it easily into his grip. He looked upward... took aim....
He threw the chain powerfully. It arched up through the air and hooked onto one of the highest beams, at the very top of the scaffold.
He tugged it, making sure it sunk deep into the wood. Then, with a firm yank, he brought the rotten beams smashing downward.
He left the tower... and a minute later, the walls caved in.
* * *
Sora felt as though the Cat's Eye had taken over her body, leading her up and down pathways, over fences, under a bridge. Soon she found herself in a scarcely populated part of town where the streets were dirty and uneven, lined by trash cans.
She glanced up at the sky to judge the time, but found it impossible, since the clouds were so thick. It was getting darker by the second, and the wind was now blowing her hair wildly.
She stopped suddenly as a sound drifted to her on the wind. Was that the tolling of the city bell? Noon already?
Viper's Creed (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) Page 22