by J. M. Martin
“I don’t think so.”
“Take me there.”
“How do you plan on getting inside?”
“If your susceptibility to bribery is indicative of the rest of the baron’s staff, I don’t foresee any difficulty.”
Carlisle sat for a few moments, staring at the silver again. “I can’t do this. I’ve got debts to pay and mouths to feed, but you are asking me to help you do something that might put my name in the mind of the bloodiest assassin in the history of the Northern Alliance. I’m not foolish enough to do that.”
“Very well.” The stranger turned to Cassius. “Are you?”
“Damn right I am,” Cassius said.
“Cassius Whitmoor, you idiot! The Shadow will kill this lunatic for hunting him down, and he’ll kill you for helping to find him.”
“Maybe he’ll kill you, Car. After all, you were the one on duty.”
Carlisle lurched forward and attempted to grapple with Cassius. Having been denied a chance at violence once already, both men were eager for a second chance to let off some steam. For better or worse, they were still feeling the effects of the afternoon’s libations and weren’t the most graceful or effective combatants.
The stranger separated them and raised his voice. “Gentlemen, please! The Red Shadow won’t give either of you louts a second glance.”
“And why is that?” Carlisle growled.
“Because he is an assassin. Assassins kill important people, and they get paid handsomely to do it. Killing a drunken and ineffective guard and his still more drunken and ineffective cohort would be beneath him.” He snatched his thrown dagger from the beam and gestured with it. “The common folk are safe as babes from the blade that kills kings.”
“And you imagine you are safe for the same reason?” Carlisle asked. “You aren’t concerned about the blade because you aren’t a king?”
“On the contrary. The blade is of great concern to me, and I aim to be worthy of its bite, so long as its bite is worthy of me.” He gave his weapon a final appreciative glance before slipping it into its sheath beneath his coat.
“You tie the language in knots when you talk, you know that?” Cassius said.
“I aim for artistry in my every endeavor. But enough delay.” He finished his wine and corked the bottle, stowing it in an outer pocket of his pack. “If you mean to earn your silver, my good man Whitmoor, we’ll need to be on our way quickly.” He swept the mound of silver into two equal piles with a deft slice of his hand, pocketing the first. “Take your payment. You’ll get the rest when I’m satisfied you’ve earned it.”
“Gladly,” Cassius said, messily clawing at the coins.
“Wait! What about me? I answered your questions!” Carlisle said, his eyes locked on the bribe that could have been his as it fell into his drinking partner’s pocket.
“Here,” the stranger said, snatching a coin from the table and tossing it to Carlisle.
“One silver? You must be giving Cass at least twenty!”
“Actions are so much more valuable than words, good sir. That’s a lesson worth its weight in gold. Now if you will excuse me, I wouldn’t want to keep a baron waiting.”
#
The rest of the late baron’s family had fled the grounds on the night of his death for fear of sharing his fate, leaving the servants to watch over the sprawling residence and its former owner. It took three meager bribes to shift the loyalties of the staff enough to earn the stranger a private audience with their fallen master. Cassius led the way to a darkened room deep inside the late baron’s estate and raised a torch. The infirmary was a frigid room with stone walls lined with cluttered shelves. It was discernable from the armory only in that the tools for drawing blood were accompanied by bowls to catch it. At the far end of the room was a slab, and resting in peace upon it was the former baron, respectfully concealed beneath a stained linen shroud.
“Odd that a baron would have an infirmary in his estate.”
“Aw, the old codger said he wanted his estate built like a keep, made sure they put in a quarters for a squad of solders and an infirmary and suchlike,” Cassius explained. “Guess he wanted to feel safe from invaders. Half a kingdom between him and the nearest border wasn’t good enough. He even had a halfway decent healer, up until they made him send her down to the front. The butcher who runs the place now only knows how to pull teeth and cut off fingers and toes. Probably keeps ’em in one of these jars here…”
“Sound thinking. You would be surprised what one can do with a tooth and the right incantations.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that stuff. All I know is when I die I’m going to make sure they keep a fire going wherever they lay me out,” Cassius muttered, pulling his coat tighter. “Gonna spend a long time in the cold ground. The least you can do for a man is keep him from freezing before you put him in.”
“It’s just as well they didn’t. With any luck the cold has kept the corpse fresh.”
The curious stranger approached the body and turned down the sheet. The baron was a bloated and unpleasant man in life, and he was more so in death. He had the face and figure of a man who had never missed a meal; not fat, but with an overall pudginess that portrayed a life of ease. His beard was scraggly and gray, except for where it was stained brown by the dried blood of his murder. The stranger adjusted his gloves and gingerly lifted the end of the beard to reveal the wound that had claimed him.
“Bring the light closer,” he instructed, leaning nearer to the slice.
As the flickering yellow light fell upon it, the strange newcomer almost seemed to admire the horrid slice across the late baron’s neck.
“Oh yes. This is certainly the work of a fine blade and a steady hand. Look at the edge. It isn’t ragged or torn in the least.” He separated the cold-stiffened flesh on either side of the cut. “Straight to the bone in a single slice. There’s no sign that the blade met anywhere but its mark. Where did they find him? In his bed?”
“Slumped on his balcony, I think.”
“Dragged there perhaps? Was there a trail of blood, or merely a pool?”
“No trail. The servants made enough of a stink about cleaning it up where it was. If there was a trail, we’d still be hearing about it.”
“Mmm.” He pulled the shroud back farther to reveal the man’s hands. “Spotless…no scrapes, no bruises. This man didn’t have the chance to struggle. This was definitely the work of The Shadow.” He restored the shroud and turned to Cassius. “Tell me about the baron.”
“What’s to tell?”
“I haven’t noticed any mourners.”
“I’m more surprised there aren’t folks dancing in the streets. He squeezed his subjects dry, paid his servants and guards in copper, and squandered his money on damn fool things like his estate or mounds of jewels to keep that trophy of a wife interested.”
“Did he have any sons?”
“None who survived the war. Just a wife and a daughter.”
“Brothers?”
“Two.”
“Younger, I assume. Otherwise one of them would have been the baron.”
“That’s right.”
“And they are both alive?”
“Last I heard.”
“Tell me about them.”
“The middle brother is just as bad as him, only he doesn’t have the title and didn’t get the inheritance. His old man didn’t leave him anything but the private hunting ground up north. He’s practically a hermit, lives off the land and keeps his debtors off his back by having his brother accuse folk of poaching—whether or not they were nearby—then fining them.”
“And the youngest brother?”
“As I recall, he didn’t get land or money. But he’s the richest of the lot, thanks to him starting an armory and supplying weapons and armor for the war effort. Rumor has it he’s got his fingers in the black market, too.”
“Have the brothers been informed of his passing?”
“How should I know
? I’m just a guard. The steward would be the one to do that.”
“Well then, where is the steward?”
“I think he had a meeting with the youngest. I expect they’ll get to planning the burial and such when he gets back tomorrow.”
The stranger paused to consider the facts, then reached into his coat to gather the second half of Cassius’s silver coins. “Quickly, where is this hunting ground?”
“If you’ve got a fast horse and the weather’s not too rough, just follow the road due north for a while.”
“A while?”
“I forget how far. It’s the only fenced-in piece of forest you’ll see up that way anyway.”
“Here is the remainder of your payment,” he said, rushing for the door.
“Why the rush?”
“Because if the middle brother isn’t dead yet, he will be soon. The youngest hired The Red Shadow to clear the way to the title and the estate.”
He rushed out the door, heading for the outside. Cassius followed, trying to keep up.
“How do you figure?” he called after the stranger.
“I’m not a simpleton, that’s how!”
“Are you going to try to save the middle brother?”
“He’s already dead, or as good as, but if I move fast enough I just may reach him while The Shadow is still nearby!”
Cassius, not in the best of health, fell behind as his benefactor rushed through the estate to the stables and set about preparing his horse for travel. The stranger was mounting the steed when Cassius reached the door, thoroughly out of breath.
“Wait!” he gasped. “I don’t even know your name!”
The stranger heaved himself into the saddle and spurred the horse out of the stable, calling back behind him, “That’s just as well. It wouldn’t have done you any good.”
Cassius stood in the doorway and watched the bizarre outsider ride into the distance.
“Meh,” he grunted. “Name doesn’t matter anyway. If he’s after The Shadow, by this time tomorrow he’ll be dead.”
#
The vague directions Cassius provided turned out to be accurate, if not precise. “A while” revealed itself to be half a day, bringing the stranger to the fenced stretch of woods well after sunset. Most of the trip had been through snow-covered plains, with the occasional farm invariably growing cabbage or potatoes. Due to hearty types of each being the only crops that would grow beyond the southern border region of the Northern Alliance, most of the population lived on little else. This was doubly true in areas with poor hunting, which described most of the north—that the Sotur clan had claimed the one patch of forest for miles dense enough for decent hunting indicated just how little they cared for their fellow people.
The fence around the property wasn’t very imposing, being merely a row of evergreen branches and trunks driven at wide intervals into the ground, most still bearing their needles. They served as a marker and little else. What kept people from crossing through and taking advantage of the hunting ground was the penalty imposed by its owner if they were caught.
The stranger paid the marked boundary little heed. Dense clouds blotted out the moon and stars, as was frequently the case in the Alliance lands, leaving the forest shrouded in an almost impenetrable darkness.
“A moonless night…not the ideal time to be searching for a shadow,” he uttered, his voice low.
His equipment included a lantern and a few more exotic methods for creating light, but at the moment the benefits of being able to see weren’t nearly enough to outweigh the consequences of being seen. He moved forward through the inky woods as surely as he could manage. Unfortunately it soon became clear he wouldn’t be able to rely upon the horse. The forest grew steadily thicker as he approached its center, and within minutes the low branches and high shrubs blocked the way too much for the steed to penetrate. He dismounted and drew a shorter and simpler blade than the one he’d used to intimidate the guards. Such a weapon left him better able to put his final remaining advantage to use.
He dug into a well-protected pocket beneath two layers of clothes until his gloved fingers snagged, with some difficulty, a fine silver chain. When his grip was secure he tugged it into the open. A small leather satchel swung free from his pocket. He loosened his fingers and let the weight of the satchel draw the chain through them until it hung at its full length. It swung lightly, and when he whispered a few awkwardly phrased arcane words it swung a bit more. He closed his eyes and focused on articulating each unnatural syllable properly, though his untrained tongue tripped over them twice before the spell was cast in earnest; when it did the satchel tugged against the chain, angling out to the woods ahead.
“He’s here.” The man wrapped the chain around his fist and charged as quickly and quietly as he could in the direction it led.
Stealth was not an option. It was too dark to see more than a few steps ahead, leaving him at the mercy of every loose branch and boot-grabbing bush. Worse, the forest was silent, magnifying the noise of his own breathing and the crunch of his footsteps. There wasn’t the chitter of a squirrel or the chirp of a bird. The woodland creatures were in hiding, all too aware of the danger lurking in the darkness. There was a predator in the woods.
Finally he reached a clearing and stopped short. A body lay face up on the ground. In the weak light the pool of blood looked black against the white snow, and the kill was so fresh steam still rose from the slit in his throat.
“Damn it,” hissed the stranger.
He scanned the clearing. There were footprints, but they all seemed to belong to the dead man. None of the trees around him had dropped any of their snow, hinting that no one had hidden among their branches. The body was still warm and yet the trail was cold. He lowered his satchel and began the incantation.
The first word still hung in the air when a blow to his back sent him sprawling. His blade went one direction; the satchel went the other. He tried to scramble forward, but a weight dropped on his back and held him to the ground. The leather fingers of a gloved hand clutched his chin and pulled his head back. The stinging cold edge of a blade touched his throat. He gasped for breath but dared not struggle, lest he do the killer’s work for him.
He sensed a presence beside his ear.
“You are alone,” came a harsh whisper.
“Yes,” the restrained man wheezed, his chest and mouth constricted.
“You did not follow my tracks. I did not leave any.”
“No tracks.”
“You did not follow the victim’s tracks, because you came from the wrong side.”
“Yes.”
“You could not follow a scent, the wind is at your back.”
“I didn’t.”
The next words were spoken with a force and harshness that simply wasn’t human. “Tell me how you found me.”
“If you kill me now, you’ll never know.”
“Neither will anyone else.”
He swallowed. “You’re holding a black blade to my throat. It isn’t metal, it is stone. It was made for you by a gifted weaponsmith with the help of a fairy. You’ve used it for nearly sixty years and it still hasn’t dulled. I know what you are.”
The blade began to slide; blood ran down the man’s neck.
“Five years ago you left a place called Entwell for the second time. I know these things because I was there. My name is Desmeres Lumineblade. My father is the man who made that sword.”
The blade stopped. “Why did you come here?”
“I came because you and I have business together, even if you don’t know it. Let me speak. We both know if you don’t like what you hear, there’s nothing I can do to stop you from killing me.”
His heart pounded in his ears. Warm blood dripped in fat drops on the snow. The weight lifted from his back and the blade pulled away. Desmeres moved slowly and deliberately, climbing to his feet and spreading his hands to his side to avoid provoking any rash decisions from the assassin.
“Speak,”
The Red Shadow said.
“May I retrieve a bandage to tend to my—?”
A bandage landed beside him, tossed from behind.
“Speak.” This time the voice came from a different position.
Desmeres fetched the bandage and applied it. When it was in place, he turned. The assassin had backed into the darkness of the trees around the clearing. His presence was felt more than seen. There wasn’t even the telltale gleam of his eyes.
“I didn’t have much use for you when you were in Entwell. I knew you were the first to go and return, but I was still honing my craft. I make weapons, like my father before me. But a year after you left I got into an argument with him. I became irate that one of my weapons, one of my best, was in the hands of a green apprentice. Father believes that the purpose of crafting a weapon is to make a fighter as formidable as he or she can be. He said my weapon was elevating the apprentice to more than he was. I believe that a fighter and a weapon are two halves of the same whole. Perfection can only be achieved when the greatest weapon is in the hand of the greatest warrior. By holding my weapon, that apprentice was spitting in the face of greatness, preventing my sword from finding the hand that would do it justice. And though my father’s sword is an undeniable masterpiece, in your hand it cheapens you. I’ve learned much since it was made. I can and have made better. My weapons belong in your hand and yours alone.”
“You came this far, risked your life, to give me a weapon?”
“This weapon, and the next one, and the next one. You are the finest warrior the world has ever produced. Through you, my weapons can finally achieve their rightful place.”
“You would help an assassin in his deeds.”
“Let me make this clear. Your skill with weaponry is the only trait that concerns me. The rest is irrelevant. I will do whatever is needed. This is my purpose. Surely you can understand how important it is to serve one’s purpose?”
The Shadow remained silent.
“I can do things for you. Things you and I both know you can’t do yourself because of what you are.”
There came a sound, something less than the swish of fabric, and from the darkness emerged a form. It looked to be a human, until Desmeres’ gaze lingered upon the shadow within the hood. There was a pointed muzzle, the glint of whiskers, and the gleam of animal eyes. It was not the face of a human. This “man” of whom the whole of the north lived in fear was no man at all. He was a beast called a malthrope, with more in common with a fox than a human.