Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  Retzu quickened his step at the sight. Just a few more seconds...

  He flicked a shuriken from the inside of his wrist and let fly. The star shaped blade whistled through the air, as straight as any arrow. The blade tip neatly cut the bowstring just as the assassin released. The arrow flittered chaotically, the cut string still caressing the inner groove of the nock, before taking a downward turn.

  The shol'tuk took no time to see who had thrown the star. He lifted his feet and raised his hands, sliding down the gable to the alley below. Retzu scampered across the now vacant roof and rode the gable in pursuit. He hung in midair a moment as he cleared the eaves. The assassin below him turned east, fleeing again into the shadows of the alley. Retzu's boots had barely brushed the cobbled alley before he turned to give chase.

  * * *

  "Where are our people!" Tribean demanded again, slapping the brick wall behind the bound thugs for emphasis. Kiri stood apart from him a bit and smoldered. Their once-assailants, now bound and muzzled, cowered before the emerald and ruby mages, their eyes rolling in mounting terror as they flicked back and forth. Sal was duly impressed with the performance, if equally impatient. Tribean and Kiri were doing their jobs, in spades. If the thugs had known anything, they likely would've spilled by now.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the dull clank of steel striking brick. He turned toward the sound, and found an arrow, lying alone at the base of a nearby house. He sensed rather than saw a shadow drop from the rooftop above the arrow, then dart deeper into the alley. Barely a second later, another shadow dropped to the ground and pursued. Retzu?

  He took a step toward the alley, but put all thoughts of deadly shadows from his mind as a band of Unmarked came around the block to the north. Finally.

  "Fan out! Defensive posture!" he shouted as they approached. "We're looking for Patrys Goatherd and Cedric of Bayton. They warned us of the ambush, so they've got to be close enough to know about it. And they're hurt, so hurry!"

  A rainbow of magic lit the otherwise darkened street as mage upon mage employed their second sight. Vitality, stress, heat, energy -- all were attributes that might help the search party find their missing fellows. The Unmarked scattered in all directions, putting those attributes to use.

  Sal looked askance at Tribean, who shook his head. No. The thugs were useless.

  "Ged, you're jailer. Tribean, Kiri, you join the search," he instructed. The Unmarked nodded their compliance.

  Eager to join the search, but unsure how best to do so, Sal touched Amethyst and wielded. He lost all sense of gravity as he lifted himself into the sky, the flagstone falling away as he ascended. From his elevated vantage point, he could see the skeletons of his Unmarked, ringed in auras of various shades. They were easy to distinguish from the residents of Bastion's middle class neighborhoods -- they were the only ones hurrying around to do anything.

  The search slowed more and more as the party expanded ever outward from Sal's position, their violet skeletons growing ever fainter as distance grew greater and obstacles more numerous. Then, at the very edge of his amethyst sight, he saw a number of skeletons change directions, coming together in a single spot.

  He was already in motion when one of his lieutenants Whispered, We found them.

  A pair of emeralds were already tending them when he arrived. Patrys' breathing was ragged and wet, countered with a strange railing whistle. Two rubies and a sapphire stood watch as more of their brothers in arms rushed to their aid. Sal released Amethyst and seized Emerald as he approached.

  The emeralds that were tending Patrys and Cedric were actually only tending Patrys. Her amethyst partner was dead. He lay on his stomach with arms outstretched, his left hand resting on Patrys' throat. Oddly, his head was not turned toward the young sapphire, but was actually facing to his right. Sal followed the corpse's gaze and outstretched hand, and immediately saw why.

  There, amongst the usual street debris, he found the body of a granite, some twenty feet away and half melted into the flagstone. Cedric must've snapped a null field around him while he tried to escape into the ground. Good man.

  "Hold her down!" shouted one of the emeralds, drawing Sal's attention back to Patrys. The teenage sapphire was seizing under the verdant glow of healing magics.

  Sal pushed his way through the growing crowd of would-be helpers, who were getting in the way more than anything else. He had to clear them out. "Give me four guards at the compass points, and two to carry Cedric back to the Camp. Everybody else..." He paused. They weren't going to like this, but they needed something to do, something to keep them occupied, to keep them from dwelling on their fallen friends. "Everybody else, return to your duties. Check in with your squad leaders every fifteen minutes, and remind them to check in with their platoon leaders, and so on. Locations, suspicious incidents, the whole thing. No more surprises. Move!" The crowd set about their orders, with the four guards relaying them to the rest of the search party by way of Sapphire.

  "Let me in," Sal commanded the emeralds. They made room for him without breaking contact with Patrys.

  A pair of Unmarked hefted Cedric's body to bear him back to the Camp. As his hand came away from Patrys' throat...

  Sal's stomach roiled. Patrys' throat was ruined -- not merely wounded but practically gone! The ragged edges of the ghastly wound were cauterized, presumably by Cedric's amethyst magics.

  Good, good man. In his dying moments, he almost certainly saved the young sapphire's life.

  Patrys started seizing again. She was choking on her own blood. "Roll her onto her side," Sal directed. "Hold her there."

  He touched a hand to the side of her exposed throat and probed her with emerald magics. He visualized her wounds through Emerald, and allowed a trickle of healing magics. As he did, he sensed her blood pressure strengthen, sending crimson gouts spurting past the partially seared flesh and into her throat, choking her. Concentrating first on these blood vessels, he wielded, reconnecting them as well as the damaged tissue would allow. It was slow going. The cauterized edges of the wound turned flesh inward upon itself, making reconnecting the blood vessels much more difficult. They kept wanting to grow closed, following the cauterization. Gradually, the leakage lessened, then ceased altogether. Together, the emeralds coaxed the blood out of Patrys' lungs, and she started to breathe easier.

  Sal turned his attention to her ruined throat, only to realize that it was well and truly ruined. Though the cauterization had saved her life, it had also fused the tissues together improperly. The more emerald magic Sal poured into her, the more the scarring solidified its place.

  That's when Sal remembered his own healing at Jaren's hands so long ago, and the ruined natural eye that would become diamond. "Even I couldn’t do it, and I must say my command of the emerald soulgem is quite extensive," the emerald had said. "Your injury’s practically set now. You’d have to gouge it back out and start all over at the nerve.”

  Sal sighed bitterly. Even Jaren hadn't been able to heal his eye after it had healed errantly. How could Sal hope to rebuild Patrys' throat? Swallowing hard, he lifted mournful eyes to the other two emeralds, who returned the look, sorrow for sorrow. They had no better solutions. If he had to guess, he'd say they considered his lifesaving efforts to be miraculous as it was. Their faces betrayed no condemnation, no disappointment. They just sat there silently, in expectation of whatever Crafter-wrought work Sal would perform next.

  "I'm sorry, Patrys," Sal whispered. Then, sighing once more, he wielded.

  * * *

  The shadow ducked left into a side alley, as if the darkness would hide the change of direction, but Retzu gave chase. Even when he couldn't see the assassin, he was skilled enough to sense him -- to hear the almost imperceptible slap of slippered feet, the stir of breeze broken by the passing of a body in motion. For all that the assassin ahead was deft at hiding himself, Retzu was more deft at seeking him out.

  He knew this alley. He'd traveled its length many times in his shadowy ca
reer. The left wall was tall, and belonged to a long, snaking row house that offered no egress until the alley dumped back out into one of the common streets.

  The right wall belonged to a much shorter residence.

  Springing upward, he caught the right wall, and danced back and forth between the opposing alley faces, coming out on top of the residential roof. He sprinted across the gentle, tiled slope toward the alley bend nearest the street. He dropped into the open space just as the other assassin entered the bend. Retzu kicked sideways as he fell, catching the other in the forehead. The shol'tuk staggered back as Retzu landed lightly before him. He unsheathed and presented his gold-hilted katana in a single motion, and just as well, as the other assassin shook off the kick almost at once.

  Copper hilt, Retzu thought, noting the orange sparkle from the tanto at the assassin's waist. A grim smile tugged at one side of his mouth as he dropped into shol'zo mitsu. The other answered with a fighting stance of his own, unstrung bow held before him as a staff.

  Steel met hardwood as the pair of assassins went at each other. Narrow though the space was, it hindered their attacks only in the slightest. The copper-hilt deflected Retzu's attacks with speed and grace, but found it just as difficult to land strikes of his own. Knees and elbows found their way into the melee, though with just as little effect.

  To Retzu's amazement, he found himself driven back, being deftly maneuvered by his opponent beyond the camouflage of the back alley and onto the lighted flagstones of the broader avenue behind him. As they emerged into the torchlight, the going got a little easier. Retzu was able to use the greater range of his spindly arms and lithe form, and he found his strikes driving ever closer to flesh.

  He also got a better look at his shadow cloaked opponent. The copper-hilt was shorter than himself -- which had already been apparent -- but he was also just as slender, and slightly more fluid in his motion. He was covered from head to toe in the black linen garb of their profession, with the shroud pulled tight across his face, leaving no skin exposed save for the narrow strip that surrounded his eyes. Strangely familiar eyes at that, but Retzu couldn't afford time to dwell on the detail. The other's strikes had a grace to them that he found surprisingly difficult to match. Just as Retzu's cuts and jabs were driving closer, so were those of the shrouded assassin. In fact, the copper had skill that much closer resembled that of a gold hilt.

  Distantly, Retzu heard the buzz of spectators, occasionally punctuated with the cry of surprise and warning from those observant few who recognized the fight as more than mere theatre.

  The shadowed assassin drew first blood. Retzu found his blade parried to the side, and his opponent swept his bow upward, catching Retzu under the nose. Stars twinkled and blood flowed, but Retzu didn't slow the fury of his attack. He added to the blade's momentum, spinning in the direction of the parry and catching his opponent with a driving elbow to the throat. The assassin staggered back, and Retzu swept his katana upward, neatly slicing the other's shroud. The black veil slipped from the copper's face, trailing a blood smear as it fell...

  ...revealing the creamy skin of Fila's cheek, parted like a young stalk of wheat before the scythe.

  Fila?!? Now Retzu well and truly staggered, his sword almost dropping from nerveless fingers. "Wha---"

  The question went unasked, as Fila drove forward with her unstrung bow. Rage and desperation replaced skill, and she buffeted Retzu with abandon. Most of the blows were easily deflected, and what blows she landed fell awkwardly, more to her humiliation than to his injury.

  Death is redemptive, like the gold that frees the slave from bondage.

  Retzu felt the effect of his mantra settle upon him, sharpening is focus, pushing aside his confusion and hurt, until all that remained was the task at hand. With Fila off balance, it was a small thing to strike the bow from her hand. In her surprise, she left her midsection open, which he obligingly filled with the ball of his foot. The breath fled her, and she doubled over, leaving her neck exposed to Retzu's elbow, already coming down. He followed her to the ground, making sure to drive her forehead into the cobblestone for her trouble.

  With Fila face down in the pavement, the fight left Retzu. He lay across her shoulders, panting, his rage building with each breath. Who was she trying to kill among the Unmarked? How could she betray the people of Bastion like this, attacking the very defenders of her own city while they were in the act of keeping its peace? What did she hope to---

  A stinging pain pierced his side as he felt Fila's tanto blade slip between his ribs. He rolled frantically to his feet, his tunic slick with blood from the copper-hilted dagger still half-buried in his side. He raised his katana and punched forward, driving the point of his sword into her sternum and pressing her against the wall of one of the houses. Blood welled around the puncture in her chest as he held her there, a scant hair's breadth from death.

  "Why?" he demanded, tears of betrayal filling his vision. "Bastion? Me? Why?"

  Fila's face broke with myriad emotions. Anger, shame, regret, love, hatred, a whole spectrum of passions played across her features, fiercely battling one another for dominance. She even mirrored his own look of betrayal, briefly, before it melted into some other emotion.

  It was as if a cloud passed over her face, and as it departed, only one expression was left -- contempt.

  Her trembling lip curled, baring her teeth in a cruel parody of a smile. "Divine is the man whose light is darkness," she said shakily, and pushed herself forward onto his sword. The keen blade parted her breastbone as easily as it had her skin. Her heart, lungs, and back proved no greater barriers.

  Retzu choked on a sudden upsurge of bile, and burning tears poured freely. Why? Even mortally pierced, she continued to step forward until the guard of Retzu's sword fell flush upon her black tunic. Crimson foam bubbled at her lips as she drew a wet breath and spat it at him. He flinched as the froth sprayed his face, but still he stood there, transfixed by the display of hatred from one he'd once considered a sister. Fila's eyes, riveted on his own, gently dilated as the light within them fled.

  Chapter 9

  The streets grew more crowded as the night wore on. If they were clogged before, they were packed to the gills now. Drunken revelers made their way from lowest pub to keenest tavern, to swanky inn, and back again, rarely staying in one place for too long unless alcohol compelled them to do so. Likely as not, they simply followed whichever way the world was tilting at the time. Music spilled forth from open doors, blending into a discordant mess punctuated by barking laughter and crude commentary. Thankfully, the latter was largely unintelligible amidst the buzz of the Long Harvest nightlife.

  Retzu trudged relentlessly forward, all but oblivious to the world around him. He had no use for the festivities, the merriment. They held no interest for him tonight, no draw. He simply plodded on. Cramped as the streets were, they still parted easily before him, as flesh parted before the blade. He grimly chuckled at the irony of the thought.

  Well... he chuckled inwardly, anyway. He didn't imagine he had much of an outward smile at the moment.

  He was lightheaded from the warmth oozing from his side, a sticky reminder of the punch to the ribs that Fila had given him, leaving him her tanto for his troubles. The seeping flow had almost stopped, actually. It would have a lot sooner, if not for his death march through the streets.

  The dripping from his knuckles, however -- that was another matter entirely.

  If he considered it long enough, he could feel the blood, welling up around the tanto blade, where it bit into the palm of his hand as he squeezed. The drip would disappear momentarily as it slid down the steel, only to reappear again, collecting on whatever finger was lowest to the ground. Then it would begin it's slow track around the breadth of the digit, joining other drips as they collectively reached toward the cobblestones. Then... they were gone, to be replaced a moment later by another drop, fleeing the confines of his broken body.

  If he cared to look over his shoulde
r, he was sure he could trace the rebellious crimson beads back west through town, back into the neighborhoods to the north, back to the broken body clothed in black, tucked into an alleyway for the constabulary to collect later -- or, more likely, the Unmarked in the constabulary's place. There would be no fuss kicked up over it. There never was. They had an understanding, the constables and the Fellowship of the Silent Blade. Shol'tuk were assassins, true, but they conducted their profession with honor, killing only when death was duly warranted. If the death was not warranted, the shol'tuk themselves tended to the matter. Definitively. The constabulary enforced the law in terms of prevention and correction. Shol'tuk had their place in the law as well, though they preferred elimination.

  Come daybreak, Fila's body would be discovered, if the screaming Festival goers hadn't already alerted the city watch. They would arrange for her collection and relocation, most likely to the pauper's field. She was shol'tuk. She had no name, no identity beyond the shroud, blade and hilt, as far as the rest of the world was concerned. But he knew her, too well.

  Or thought he did.

  His hypocrisy wasn't lost on him. What he was doing, where he was going, the ceremony of it all... He was granting Fila an honor that she did not deserve, largely for her father's benefit. He certainly wouldn't have done it for Maxus.

  Too soon, it seemed, the lane turned gently left, and there before him was the guildhouse, standing unadvertised among its more legitimate fellows. A lone adherent stood guard by the front door, leaning on the jamb as lazily as his counterpart had earlier in the day. In the daylight, the display was forbidding. Amidst the drunken rabble that now filled Bastion's walls and ways, the shol'tuk guard was infinitely more threatening, however casual his appearance.

  The guard straightened as he walked up. "Death approaches, my..." His voice trailed off as he caught sight of the copper-hilted tanto in Retzu's right hand, carried openly, without sheath, and dripping in his blood.