by CS Sealey
“How in the world do you know that?”
“Snitches, Challan. I will not take your contract.”
“You have no idea what you’ve just thrown away, Sable. With your help, the Ronnesian Empire could overthrow the Ayons for good!”
Zoran shrugged, then finished his fifth firewater. After draining the mug, he placed it upside down on the table and rose.
“If that’s all, I think the time has come for me to leave. Thanks for the drinks, they really quenched my thirst.”
“Damn you, Sable, I won’t let you turn me down!”
“You’ve run out of cards.”
“Oh, no. In that regard, you are quite mistaken. Men!”
The door to their private room flew open to reveal half-a-dozen armed guards. Zoran glanced around the room, noticing every possible rafter, shadow and obstacle. There were no windows, and he realized now that the mayor had probably picked the room especially.
“A low blow even for you, Challan,” the assassin said, putting the table between himself and the men who were filing into the room. “You are making a very bad mistake.”
Challan scoffed and shut the door, sliding the bolt firmly across. “I need you to do this job for me, Sable,” the mayor said. “You are not leaving this room until you agree to take it, and I know you keep your word.”
“If your men take another step, Challan, I’ll finish them all.”
The mayor glanced at his men and then laughed. “Don’t be stupid, there’s seven of us to one of you.”
“Six. You hardly count.”
“Accept the contract, Sable, or you’ll regret it.”
The guards began to move toward Zoran again. Challan was a fool but Zoran would not make the mayor’s men pay for their master’s mistakes. There was much more fun to be had from humiliating the lot of them.
“What did I tell you?” Zoran said, drawing his knives. “Just one step!”
He lunged at the nearest guard and hit him hard on the jaw with the pommel of a knife. The man’s head snapped back and he crumpled to the floor, eyes rolling. The other guards were momentarily stunned, and by the time they had come to their senses, Zoran had already done more damage. He was simply too quick and agile for their mighty swings. He darted around them with ease, using the pommels of his knives to bruise, batter and knock out Challan’s guards.
The mayor himself stood rooted to the spot, terrified.
In a final act, the assassin lunged for the chain of the crude chandelier and swung down onto the table, kicking the last guard in the head and sending him tumbling to the floor. Then he sheathed his knives and folded his arms, regarding Challan with undisguised mockery.
“I would regret it…” Zoran mused, smiling slightly.
“All right, Sable, you’ve made your point,” Challan said, his hand slowly inching its way to the dagger at his belt.
“Don’t even think about doing that,” Zoran said, darting forward and grasping the mayor’s wrist tightly in his long fingers. “That is just plain rude. Now, you will listen to me and you will listen carefully, understood?”
Challan nodded angrily, trying to squirm out of Zoran’s grip.
“In the past, yes, I have killed royalty but none of those deaths ever harmed a nation. I killed King Rosentius at the height of his madness so that his niece could pull Zennor out of the darkness of past decades. Queen Mersea died by my hand after having her only son arrested for treason, when she refused to accept that her husband was the man conspiring against her.
“Don’t try to tell me that King Samian’s death would do the world any good. His offer of marriage to Queen Sorcha is testament of his noble intentions. He wants peace stretching right from Turgyl all the way down to the elven lands. King Samian is a better man than you or any of your countrymen give him credit for. If he was to die, the Ayons would immediately suspect Ronnesian involvement and declare war, and you must know that their military strength dwarfs yours considerably. Queen Sorcha is a fool if she refuses his hand and you are a fool for wanting to kill him! No, Challan, I will not eliminate him just because you Ronnesians are too proud to bend the knee!”
One of the guards moaned and attempted to stand. Zoran let go of Challan’s wrist, crossed the room, grasped a handful of the guard’s hair and forcefully smacked the man’s head upon the floor. In the corner of his vision, he saw the mayor quickly draw his dagger and put his hands behind his back. Zoran clenched his fists, his anger boiling. He turned, jumped onto the table and kicked an empty mug at Challan’s face. The mayor beat the mug aside and swiped at Zoran’s legs with his dagger. Zoran leaped into the air and swung his leg around, his boot making heavy contact with Challan’s shoulder. The man staggered back but attacked again, cursing the assassin with a string of obscenities.
Zoran pulled out his own knives and considered using the sharp blades. The man had insulted, trapped and threatened him, and feeling the cold bite of Zoran’s knives in his flesh would soon put him back in line. But Zoran knew better than to let his actions be ruled by anger alone.
Springing off the table once more, he swiped at Challan with his knives, cutting into the man’s jacket. The mayor staggered backward and Zoran took his chance to hook his foot around the back of the large man’s knee and bring him down. The man tumbled to the floor with a cry and dropped his dagger. Zoran snatched up the weapon and brought his boot down heavily on Challan’s chest.
He inspected the dagger. It was new and very beautiful, gold in the pommel and hilt and encrusted with green jewels. Raising his eyebrows, he held it up to the light of the lantern next to the door. It was sharp. Challan, it seemed, had taken precautions.
The mayor struggled but Zoran quickly straddled him, clamping the man’s arms to the floor with his knees.
“That was a very stupid thing you did,” he said. “You will readily ask for my help but prepare to stab me in the back at the same time. How very like a politician.” He pressed the tip of the dagger to the mayor’s throat. “I despise men like you, Challan. Do you know what I did to the duke of El Smials when he insulted me?”
The man shook his head.
“I had his own guards arrest him for the murder of his wife. You may have heard of the case. Every piece of evidence pointed to him and he was executed two days later. Now, what would happen if I let slip to the queen why you came to see me tonight?”
“No, Sable,” Challan said anxiously, shaking his head. “Your refusal is punishment enough!”
“If I hear of any attempt made on Samian’s life, be warned that I won’t hesitate to tell Queen Sorcha or even the Ayon authorities everything I know.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“My dear lord mayor, turning you in wouldn’t cause me the slightest grief, especially after tonight. Now, do we have an accord?”
“Bastard!”
“Do we have a bloody accord?” Zoran yelled, grabbing a handful of the mayor’s hair and thumping his head against the floorboards.
“Yes! Yes!”
“Then good day to you.”
With that, Zoran punched Challan in the ribs and got to his feet. Stepping over two unconscious guards, he made his way to the door, shot back the bolt and returned to the tavern for another drink.
CHAPTER 19
Archis Varren passed through the castle gates and emerged into the pale moonlight. The wind rushed at him fiercely and he wrapped his cloak tightly about him. General Carter had received his orders from King Samian himself but, after two days, he had failed to report back. At first, Varren had thought it had been a delay in the preparation of supply drops along their designated route south, but he no longer thought so. The general had always been organized.
Winter was biting at their heels and Varren was anxious to begin the campaign as soon as possible. The king had suggested that they hold off until spring but anything could happen in the passing of a single season. In a matter of weeks, the Ronnesians could muster twice their current number, and if Galenros’s l
atest vision was to be believed, the Ronnesians had sent to their allies for support.
The delay in receiving the report from General Carter had slowed progress and Varren was not impressed. Nor was the king, which surprised him. In fact, Varren was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he had managed to gain the king’s full support. Samian was now almost as eager to get the campaign underway as Varren himself. The last time he had seen the king so excited was when he had first put the Ayon crown on his head and set off to find himself a queen. That little escapade, Varren remembered, had been a nightmare to cover up. While Lhunannon and Galenros had gone after him, relying on the seer’s visions to guide their path, Archis Varren had been left the task of hiding the truth from the royal court and dealing with matters of state.
“The king has decided to visit the mayors and dukes of several prominent cities to the north,” he had lied. “He should return, if all goes well, in a few weeks’ time.”
A little over three weeks later, Samian had returned with Lhunannon and Galenros as a shell of a man.
“She is dead,” the young king had whispered, collapsing into his chair by the fire. “She is dead and I am to blame for it.”
Samian had mourned for a full six months, refusing to exchange his black clothes for his regal attire and very rarely leaving his personal suite. Varren had been forced to tell the concerned public that the king was ill and could not perform public appearances until the doctors pronounced his health stable.
Varren sighed and thanked whichever Spirit had exerted their influence on the king. Had Samian never overcome his grief, the empire could have fallen into ruin. Instead, he had eagerly grown into his role as king of the Ayons, reveling in the prospect of defeating the Ronnesians and suggesting complicated and often intelligent strategies. With a few more years, Varren thought confidently, Samian would make a fine king, and the two of them would have a formidable partnership.
As he reached the general’s house, snow began to drift lazily down from the heavens. If they delayed their campaign any longer, their men would be marching south, ankle deep in snow. The blizzards were never kind to Leith, even the coastal regions received a few inches of snow in high winter. He rapped at the door and stood there, waiting. He had visited the general’s house several times before but never on business. In fact, he had often suspected that the general was trying to flaunt his younger sister to see whether Varren would take interest.
When his knock went unanswered, he did not bother to knock again. He pointed his forefinger toward the lock and a stream of green light spiraled from the tip. It hurtled through the keyhole and he heard the lock click. The door swung open.
He was on his guard the moment he stepped over the threshold. A maid was slumped at the bottom of the general’s grand staircase. The top half of her gray dress was covered in blood from a wound in her neck. Her gurgling, rasping breaths masked his footsteps as he hurried the length of the hall. By the time he reached her, she had fallen silent and her wide eyes had gone blank.
He hastened up the stairs, treading as lightly as he could, and headed straight for the sitting room. The door was shut but there was a sliver of light under the door that told him there was or had been someone recently inside. Just as he was about to place his hand on the doorknob and turn, a shadow passed across the light and he hesitated. He knew General Carter well enough to dismiss the possibility that he had killed the maid. If the general himself was injured or captured, barging into the room beyond could have fatal consequences.
Varren quickly cloaked himself in a spell of concealment and sat down on the floor just outside the room. As he closed his eyes, he felt the full force of his power surging through his veins and harnessed its energy. It built quickly, but instead of projecting it outward, Varren forced it deep inside himself. His body grew cold. Thousands of ethereal cords kept his conscious mind attached to his physical being and he felt each one of them snap as he tore his spirit from his flesh. He felt no pain but a sudden sense of emptiness and vulnerability that still managed to unnerve him.
In his disembodied form, Varren glanced back and saw his body slump, lifeless. He slid through the door as a whisper of a ghost and emerged into the sitting room beyond. Weightless, he glided through the air into the middle of the room and looked around for the owner of the shadow he had seen.
He saw nobody. Nothing seemed amiss. He could see no sign of a struggle and the supper General Carter’s servants had laid out was untouched on the large table. However, moving further into the room, his spectral eyes picked out the shape of a man lying face down, half concealed by a large sofa. He approached the body and, with a stab of anguish and confusion, he recognized Carter. The general, like the woman on the stairs, had been slashed across the throat. Blood was soaking into the intricately designed rug and a dark pool was spreading out around Carter’s head.
A sudden movement behind him made Varren spin. He thought wind was rippling the curtains but he quickly realized it was a woman standing before the window in a white underdress. Her bloodied hands were on the windowsill, preparing to unfasten the latch and effect an escape.
Varren hurtled back across the room, burst through the door and collided with his slumped body. The thousand cords reconnected in an instant, fusing his mind once more with his flesh. Whole once more, he sprang up, flung open the sitting room door and hurried inside. He caught sight of the woman and made a lunge for her, grabbing her wrist just as she jumped. She screamed as she fell but Varren did not let go. He grasped the window ledge as she swung and careened into the outside wall of the house with a dull thud. The woman struggled and lashed out with her free arm, scratching and screaming at him, but he heaved her back up into the room and threw her to the floor. She got quickly to her feet and brandished her bloodied knife at him.
“I’ll gut you, you bastard!” she cried.
Varren glowered in reply.
The woman leaped at him, the knife gleaming red in the light of the fire. With a swift movement, he dodged her attack, grabbed her arm and spun her around. She cried out in pain as he forced her arm behind her back and tightened his fingers around her wrist.
“Drop the knife!”
The woman flung curses at him over her shoulder. Varren drove his elbow into her spine and heard her grunt in pain.
“Drop it!”
The knife slid harmlessly from her fingers. He glanced down at the weapon before kicking it away across the rug and spinning her around to face him. There was still a look of determination in her eyes. Spurred on by a sudden burst of uncontrollable anger, he slapped her hard across the face. She took the blow well, so he hit her again, harder. This time, she crumpled to the floor, whimpering.
“Look at me,” he snarled.
Her large, anxious eyes cautiously rose from the floor to rest on his.
“What were you doing here?”
“P-please, sir,” the woman said. “I’m only a maid!”
“Don’t lie to me!” He lifted his arm with his palm toward her and released a surge of magic. It was not the kind of spell that could be seen, but by the look on the woman’s face, she could definitely feel it. Her eyes began to widen as he slowly closed his fist.
“What were you doing in this house?”
The woman grabbed at her chest and keeled over, gasping. Archis Varren felt a slight pressure throbbing in his palm – her heart. He could feel it beating quicker and quicker as her pain and fear mounted. But she still did not answer him. Furious, he tightened his grip even more.
“No!” she breathed, looking up at him desperately. “Please!”
“Who hired you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Varren enclosed his fist almost fully. She released a terrible scream that left his ears ringing.
“Who hired you to kill him?” he asked, motioning to the body of General Carter. “Was it the Ronnesians?”
The woman, who was now pale and shaking, nodded frantically.<
br />
“I want names,” Varren said.
“He told me he’d kill my family if I didn’t do it! I had to!”
“Who?”
“I don’t know!” the woman cried. “Please!”
Varren regarded the woman apathetically but then relented, opening his fist. She collapsed to the floor at his feet, panting and gasping, one hand tight over her heart. When she eventually rose to her knees, Varren crouched in front of her, grabbed her jaw tightly in his fingers and fixed her with a stern gaze. The image of her terror-stricken face faded from his view and he saw instead her memories as they flashed before his mind’s eye.
*
The alleyway was dark and mist blanketed the sodden ground. The woman stood at the entrance to the alley with her arm raised, leaning on the wall of a dingy inn, deep in the heart of the lower city. Her dress was cut to expose her legs up to her knees and she cocked her head to the passing men, a fake smile upon her painted lips.
A man approached from a tavern across the street. She lowered her arm and put her hands on her hips, accentuating her breasts and hips seductively.
“See anything you like, sir?”
The man looked her up and down leisurely, taking his time on each of her features. His eyes lingered longest on her full breasts but it was something she was used to. Her mother and mentor had taught her to use her attributes to gain what she wanted a long time ago.
“Yes…Yes, you’ll do,” the man said finally, grinning repugnantly. “Now, back in that alley, I haven’t got much time.”
She was used to taking men out in the open. In fact, she only rarely serviced clients who preferred the privacy of a room. She knew that alley well and had already become intimately acquainted with some of its darker corners that night. The few coins she had earned from her other customers, which she had stowed in her bodice, would buy her enough food to last her family a couple of days. After him, she could go home.
She took his hand and led him down the alley to a space sheltered by a stack of crates and barrels. There, she faced him and reached forward to cup him between his legs. From her experience, the clients liked it when she stimulated them beforehand and it made the business happen a whole lot quicker. But this customer did not let her get that far. He forced her roughly against the wall, one hand tight around her neck and the other brandishing a knife only inches from her face. She froze.