by J. M. Martin
The first dropped, blood gushing from his neck. Another took his place, only to quickly find a sword through his eye. Uncle Ross swore, and it seemed he finally realized there would be no victory for him that day. The final soldier leapt back, trying to guard the path to the door as her uncle fled. He shouldn’t have bothered. The Watcher slid about him like water around a stone, smooth and quick, and then the sabers slashed out Ross’s ankles before he could finish opening the door. As her uncle screamed, the Watcher spun around, anticipating the final guard’s rushing attack. Both blades curled around his chainmail, piercing through his armpits and deep into his body. The man froze for a moment, blood gargling from his mouth, and then he dropped.
Yanking his weapons free, the Watcher stood among the bodies, shoulders rising and falling as he breathed in deep. Drops fell from his blood-soaked sabers, and not a hint of his face was visible through the darkness of his hood. Even knowing his reason for being there, even knowing she was safe, Julianne found herself more frightened of him than ever before. He’d killed eleven men, and not a scratch was on him. The only sound now was that of Uncle Ross groaning in pain as he crawled to the door.
The Watcher knelt over him, and without ceremony or hesitation, he plunged one of his swords deep into Ross’s back.
“Bitch killed, as requested,” he whispered into her dying uncle’s ear as he twisted the blade. “Consider yourself lucky to receive such a quick death. You deserve far worse.”
The Watcher stood, cleaned his weapons on her uncle’s shirt, and then retrieved his original mismatched gray cloak. Sweeping it over his shoulders and clasping it tight, he turned toward her. The shadow around his face receded, and she saw his blue eyes, and in them was a strange sort of sympathy.
“Come, Julianne,” he said, hand outstretched. “You’re safe now.”
It seemed a strange thought, but though his cloak, his shirt, and his arms were all stained, there was no blood on his hands. Rising, she accepted it, and the Watcher smiled.
“Let’s take you home.”
Seeking the Shadow
Joseph R. Lallo
In The Book of Deacon’s setting, the Northern Alliance and its southern neighbor Tressor have been at war for generations. Almost since the war began an assassin has stalked the northern lands, quickly becoming a legend among the people for both its skill and its elusiveness. This story takes place between The Book of Deacon and its prequel The Rise of the Red Shadow. It is the much-requested telling of how two of the most infamous figures in the setting first crossed paths.
~
In a small and dark tavern in a forgotten corner of a kingdom once called Vulcrest, two men in heavy fur coats were drowning their frustrations in cheap ale. The tavern was lit mostly by scattered holes in the poorly thatched roof. From a hearth near the center of the room, a smoky fire provided meager warmth while roasting the remains of a wild pig, provided by one of the morning’s patrons.
“Another!” growled one of the men, slamming his empty tankard on the table. He was a burly young man with a wooly brown beard and a face misshapen by his wont for fighting.
“For me, as well,” said his drinking companion, an older and even more inebriated man in a rattier coat.
As the two men were the only patrons at the moment, the lull in activity had motivated the innkeeper to retire to a private room for the afternoon in preparation for the busier evening hours. That left only Belle, a mousy young barmaid, to take orders and collect payment, a task for which she lacked the proper force of will to perform with any degree of success. The two men had been taking full advantage of the arrangement.
“I…I’m sorry, but that’s your sixth, Carlisle,” said the barmaid. She was addressing the younger man, but her eyes were held low to avoid looking at him directly. “And Cassius, that’s your eighth. Your tabs are both days old and awfully large. The keeper says I shouldn’t give you any more until your bill is settled.”
Each man gave the maid a hard look, which she still refused to meet.
“Now Belle,” the older man began, “you would deny my good friend and your best customer the much needed salve of strong drink in this dark time of his?”
“You haven’t paid in days, and the keeper…well, I can’t—”
She was interrupted by a thump on the warped front door, finally heaved open after three attempts. A stranger strode inside and stamped the snow from his boots. He was tall and thin, dressed in finely tailored leather and fur more suited for a royal court than a nameless tavern. His skin was flawless and pale, neither baked by the sun nor marred by battle or blemish. He removed his fur hat to shake free its crust of snow and revealed short blond hair that seemed almost white in the dim light of the tavern. Despite the fact that the pair of drunken patrons and the barmaid turned distrustfully toward him, he didn’t seem bothered in the least. The newcomer took a seat at an empty table, shrugging free a heavy pack. It struck the ground with the rattle of metal.
“Good afternoon, young lady,” he said with a respectful bow of his head. “Might I trouble you for some brandy?”
“I’m afraid we don’t have any brandy left, sir.”
“Red wine?”
“Yes, sir.”
He flipped her a silver coin. “A bottle please.” He then turned to the two patrons. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. You were having a conversation. Don’t let me interrupt.”
“You aren’t from around here,” grumbled Carlisle. There was a quality to his voice that suggested he hadn’t uttered a single word in the last few years without gruffness.
“Astutely observed, good sir,” the newcomer said.
“Why are you here?” Carlisle said.
“I am a bit parched and badly chilled from my travels.”
“But why are you here?” Carlisle repeated, a threat in his tone.
“I am a thirsty traveler. This is a tavern. Do I need a better reason?”
“Are you a trader?” Cassius asked.
“That I am not.”
“Well, you don’t look like a soldier.”
“Another astute observation.” The stranger turned to Belle, who perched on a stool, attempting to retrieve the requested bottle of wine. “Quite the savvy patronage you’ve got at this establishment, young lady.”
Carlisle stood and rested his hand on the grip of a cudgel hanging at his belt, the end of it carved to reveal some kind of beastly creature. “You planning on joining the Alliance Army then? In the middle of training, maybe?”
“I’d wager a fair amount that I’m better trained than half of the soldiers at the front.”
“If you’re all that well trained and such, then why aren’t you out there fighting?” growled Carlisle.
“Because, as you suggest, I am not from around here.”
“Where are you from that you can’t serve your time in the army?” Cassius asked.
“The mountains.”
“This is Vulcrest. We’re all from the mountains,” Carlisle said, marching up to the man and pounding his cudgel on the table. “Where are you—?”
“You know something?” the stranger interjected, standing to meet Carlisle eye to eye. “I was warned when I came this way that I would not be well received. It is thus a welcome surprise to find the locals showing so keen an interest in their fellow man. I find it heartening to see two complete strangers make so thorough an effort to become familiar with the personal history of a simple visitor. So heartening, in fact, that I feel comforted enough—no, more than that, I feel obliged—to ask you each a few questions such that we might each know one another as proper friends do.”
“I don’t—” Cassius blurted.
“Rumor has it the estate just outside town lost its owner last night.”
“You know about that?” Carlisle said. The statement came as enough of a surprise to briefly push aside his violent intentions.
“It is why I came here, sir.”
“To this village?”
“To this tavern. W
hen I asked some townsfolk who might know more about the killing, they suggested there was a drunken lout in this very tavern who was formerly employed by the victim. Would that be you, or is it your friend here?”
Carlisle started to raise his cudgel again, but Cassius stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.
“You’re treading dangerous ground, stranger,” Cassius said. “Look at you. Prime of life. Claiming to be well trained. You ain’t in the army, and you ain’t never been in the army. We’re at war, stranger. We need every warm body we can get to take his turn at the front line to keep those Tresson devils at bay. We each took our turn. Barely made it back and got the scars to show. No one makes it back looking the way they did when they left. You don’t look like you so much as busted a lip in your life. Only way that happens for a man like you is if you deserted, dodged, or bought your way out. In any case, you’re no kind of man at all.” He pulled out his own cudgel. “I’d say it’s our solemn duty to make an example of you.”
The stranger didn’t look frightened. If anything he looked disappointed. “You are planning to make an example of me…with that misshapen piece of wood?” he asked, vague disgust in his tone as he indicated Cassius’s weapon.
“It don’t need to be pretty to cave your pretty little skull in.”
“Violence…” The outsider shook his head. “I have no specific objection to violence. It is regrettable, but it has its place. If you must spill blood though, don’t you owe it to yourself and to the target to do so with dignity? Use a tool that pays honor to the fallen. A tool like this, for example.”
The stranger drew a unique weapon from within his coat—the action performed with startling speed—brandishing a serpentine blade as long as his forearm. The gleam of metal and blur of motion were enough to convince his would-be attackers to retreat a few steps. For a moment no one moved. Even Belle, wine and tankard in hand, was frozen in place in the doorway of the storeroom.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” the stranger said, turning the blade to catch the light of the fire. “Look at the cutting edge. Asymmetrical. Curving back and forth in ever more delicate sweeps until it reaches its point. This is a dagger designed by people who knew the value and sanctity of a life, so much so that it first served its masters in rituals and ceremonies.” He sliced through the air twice, advancing as he did until the weapon was mere inches from their faces. They took a few more steps back until a stout support beam blocked their retreat.
“Look at the runes, the stranger continued. “This is an ancient invocation to the gods, requesting mercy and bounty in exchange for the blood that would flow. Now, look at the curves. Thirteen of them, diminishing toward a point sharper than a serpent’s tooth. Unquestionably beautiful, and yet the shape has value in function as well as form. Each curve slices anew, like a separate weapon. Each forward strike bites six times, each back strike bites seven. Each thrust carves thirteen separate slices into the belly of its target. Brilliant…”
“Now look at the hilt.” He flicked the dagger toward them and each man dove aside. It twirled through the air and bit effortlessly into the beam, sinking a third of its length into the iron-hard wood. The drunks, now a good deal more sober, looked to the blade. “Made to resemble a coiled asp, its fangs needle sharp and curved toward the blade’s tip. It is the one wholly artistic flourish, meant simply to intimidate.” He glanced back and forth between them. “Effective, don’t you think? Because if not”—he opened his coat to reveal the hilts of six similarly elaborate daggers and knives—“I’ve got many more fine examples.”
In the stillness that followed, a stifled breath drew the stranger’s eyes toward the storeroom. Belle still stood there with a bottle of wine and a clay tankard, her eyes wide and her hands shaking.
“You can put it on the table, young lady,” he said. “And don’t worry. I think the posturing has been put aside for now.”
“You weren’t lying about the training,” breathed Carlisle, shakily returning his cudgel to his belt.
“I seldom lie. It is rarely necessary.” He took a seat. Belle had set down the wine bottle, but after a casual inspection of the tankard had proved unsatisfactory she industriously swabbed at its interior with a rag.
“Who are you, sir?” Cassius asked. He returned his own weapon and lowered himself into a seat.
“I am many different things at many different times, good sir. Today I am a hunter, and my prey is a mysterious creature. A creature of the shadows.” He smiled. “A shadow himself, if the rumors are true. They call him The Red Shadow.”
There was a gasp and the shattering of hardened clay. Belle stood rigidly, the rag still in her hand and the remnants of the tankard at her feet.
The stranger sighed. “Three men brandish weapons and the mug stays in your hand. Three little words, The Red Shadow, and it falls to the floor. It speaks volumes of his reputation.”
“You think The Red Shadow was responsible for Sotur’s death?”
“Sotur would be the local baron?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have reason to suspect it. He was wealthy, from what little I’ve heard he was not overly popular, and now he is dead. Most importantly, no one I’ve spoken to has the slightest idea how it could have happened. I’ve been following The Shadow for years. He tends to leave things in such a state.”
“The Red Shadow,” Carlisle said. He stared blankly at the wall before him, rubbing at his stubbly throat as though genuinely surprised to find there was no slit. “I was guarding Sotur last night. I…The Red Shadow…he’s…he killed a dire wolf. He killed a massive wolf the size of a horse, and he did it with his bare hands. Tore the thing’s head off. Stained its fur with its own blood. Made the skull into a helmet.”
“I know the stories. They would have me believe he is this supernatural thing, this demon that walks the world taking the lives of the corrupt.”
“The Red Shadow has killed lords. He’s killed other assassins,” Cassius said. “No one has seen more than a flicker of the monster. He killed the second advisor to the king during a feast. During a feast! The man was smearing butter on his bread one moment and was slumped in his chair the next. He never even left the table.”
“That’s nothing. He killed Lord Marten the very first time the old man stepped into his new keep. He killed him while his own guards were showing him his own security measures,” Carlisle said.
“As I’ve said, I know the stories.”
“What makes you think you can find him when the Alliance’s best men can’t?”
“I don’t have a high opinion of the Alliance’s best men, but I also have an item that should allow me to follow him if I get close enough.”
“You don’t follow a thing like him! You hide from a thing like him,” said Carlisle.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve heard these words, gentlemen. And may I say that it never ceases to amaze me that the same people who would gleefully beat me to pulp for even seeming to abandon my army would caution me endlessly about seeking out a known murderer.”
“You mustn’t pursue The Red Shadow,” Cassius said.
“Why would you try to stop me? Has this man not been a scourge of the Northern Alliance for decades?”
“Death has been a scourge for centuries. If you are going to hunt one of the two, death is the safer bet,” Carlisle said.
“I’m not convinced there’s a difference,” Cassius added.
“The Red Shadow is a monster on the prowl. If you hunt it, you won’t kill it. You’ll just get its attention. Then it feeds on you instead of whatever it had its eye on. I don’t want to be anywhere near the fool who would do such a thing,” Carlisle explained.
“Be that as it may, I’ve got business with The Red Shadow that must be settled. There is a grave injustice that must be corrected, and I will not rest until I’ve done so.”
“Then do it far from here. I’ve seen a slit neck before. Makes a hell of a mess, and my coat’s stained enough,” Cassius said.
>
“First I must find him, and as I’ve said, it is for that reason that I have come to this charming little establishment.” The stranger paced to his seat, where Belle had returned with a fresh tankard and filled it from his bottle. She sorted through coins from her apron and counted out the change from his purchase. “Thank you. No, please. Keep the remainder. The service has been superb.”
“What do you want from us?” Cassius asked.
Their visitor sipped his wine, wincing a bit at the flavor. “Information.” He turned to Carlisle. “You say you were Sotur’s personal guard last night?”
“I was. Everyone knows that. It was supposed to be Cassius here but the louse was passed out drunk. Look, why should I help you?”
The stranger reached into his coat and removed a satchel, which he upended onto the table. Two dozen silver coins clattered on the wooden surface. When the bag was empty, he tossed it down as well. “The usual reasons.”
Carlisle eyed the small fortune on the table, his willpower visibly buckling. “I…even if I wanted to tell you something, I don’t know anything. I didn’t see anyone. I wasn’t even there when the man died.”
“Did you find him when the deed was done?”
“Yeah.”
“Describe it.”
“He was dead.”
The stranger’s expression hardened. “Care to elaborate?”
“What else is there? He was dead. Bled out all over the floor.”
“What did the wound look like?”
“He had a bloody slit where his neck ought to be.”
“Was it a clean wound?”
“I just said it was bloody. Does that sound clean to you?”
His benefactor sighed. “I can see I’ll need to take a more direct role in the investigation. Do you know where the body is being kept?”
“In the baron’s estate’s infirmary.”
“Has he been prepared for burial?”