Marian didn’t flinch, only stared up at the ceiling. They were all tough as wood at first. “Leechwood Venom.” Isa uncorked the green flask and poured it into the wide-mouthed end of the spiral. “To cull the weak,” he said, his expression clouded. He watched the liquid spiral around and around and finally into the needle and into his blood.
Marian gasped, and Isa remembered how it felt when that poison once burned in his veins. It felt like magma was coursing through his blood, every single nerve on fire. He remembered thinking that his skin must have been smoldering given the agony of it. Marian tried to stop a scream for a second before it tore free from his lips. Then he unraveled. He shrieked, writhed against his bonds, and tears streamed from his eyes. His every muscle flexed, veins bulging from neck and arms. He swiveled his eyes at Isa and gave him a look that begged why?
Minutes passed, and the Leechwood Venom curled around the spiral, seeped into Marian’s blood. His chest heaved with great lurching breaths, his abdomen spasming in excruciating waves. Isa remembered his vision being filled with sheets of red and white, all thought turned off. Flowers of pain blossomed in his vision, and he remembered opening his eyes and the feeling of surprise at finding his skin all intact.
He shifted his eyes at the other three Swiftshades, watching Marian with pressed lips, furrowed brows, and working jaws. This pain was inflicted as a reference point to mute the pains of all others. Isa had been shot full of arrows, arm broken, shoulder dislocated, run through with a spear, legs burned. It all paled in comparison to the fire of Leechwoood Venom. It would allow him to fight through any worldly pain with relative ease after surviving these moments.
However, everyone did not survive.
Marian’s eyes glazed over with thick tears, and his gut took a few shuddering breaths. And then there was nothing. The quiet of the room became a palpable weight. A rumble rolled through the halls. The earth’s adjusting, people called it.
Marian stared at him with accusation. What could I have been? his eyes asked. Why did you do this to me? I was only a child. His eyes rolled back in his head, his neck losing the rigidity of flexing muscle as his veins receded below the skin. Those with weak bodies and weak hearts could not be Swiftshades. A great sigh escaped Isa’s lips when he reached out and closed Marian’s wet eyes. They were already starting to take on death’s chilled touch. He stood there for a moment to watch the color drain from his cheeks.
“Not all are fit to join our ranks,” Isa said the proper words, but it felt like he was in someone else’s body.
“Not all have the will,” the Swiftshade nearest Marian’s toes said.
“Not all have the courage,” the next man said.
“Not all have the heart,” the last man said, his arms held behind his back as he looked down at Marian.
“He died and fought with honor and will be given a warrior’s death,” Isa recited. He slipped the needle from Marian’s limp arm and replaced the cylinder on the table with a soft clink.
He stared at the remaining two filled flasks on the table, those that would have built Marian up and made him into something else. Something more than a man. The amber colored liquid, the Tonic of Phantoms, would have given him pain tolerance. The final flask filled with ruby liquid would have doubled his strength and speed. They would be saved for the next candidate, someone worthy of their gifts.
On the bottom of the table was a shelf containing a broad-bladed dagger with a bone handle, the Knife of Stones. It would have been used as the last part of the testing to mark him as a full Swiftshade. It was a relic of the Old Magic and would make the body rid itself of its hair and irreversibly discard its pigmentation. Today, it would remain clean, its edge unbloodied.
Isa stood, slid the table away, and stormed out through the chamber’s doorway.
Isa knew sleep would not come tonight. When an apprentice died, his dreams were only nightmares. In his nightmares were the faces of dead men, women, and children, screaming images of slit throats and pierced hearts. His hand was always the one gripping the hilt, white fingers bathed in sheets of red. He thought of when Bezda Lightwalker, the former Arch Wizard of the Silver Tower, had sent him to kill a bandit leader in a small village bordering the Nether and the Plains of Dressna. He’d sneaked into their hut in the cover of night, murdered the man beside his snoring wife.
On his way out, a boy met him at the hut’s entryway, wide-eyed and quivering with terror. He parted his mouth to scream, and Isa was forced to cut it off, opening his neck to the stars above. He wondered how much it hurt the woman to find her family in ruins the next day, waking in a pool of her husband’s cold blood. This was his burden. This was his price of having a place in the world.
He sucked on his tobacco stick, a boot wedged between the Tower’s battlements, leaning on his knee and staring out at the Far Sea. The night sky had become cloudless and the moon a grinning orb. The sea was a dark mirror, reflecting the glimmering moon in a line of light. Deltas fanned out like a forest of islands from the shore, eventually all swallowed by the Far Sea in the distance. The waves crested against the deltas, peaks of white blinking in and out of existence. Wind coursed through his armor and twitched the bottom of his cloak.
He wondered what lay beyond the sea, what the other realms were like. He wondered if there were others like him, killing the weak to make the whole stronger. At least that’s what he hoped his actions were doing. He imagined another man like himself, a mirror image staring out from a wall on the other side of the sea. Did his doppelganger know he was just a pawn in a grand game board, pushed here and there on a whim?
A mug of steaming Elixir sat atop the wall. He watched the steam twist and curl as it cooled. He reached for it and took a sip, the mix of tobacco smoke and the bitter brew a wonderful combination.
He saw Marian’s face in the steam, saw his proud eyes before they entered the Room of Testing. Marian trusted him, and he’d let him down. He was burdened with the darkest of tasks: murdering his own. But the guild had to be strong, he reminded himself. He inhaled deeply on his tobacco and let the smoke slither out his nostrils. This was life, and this world was not kind. He wasn’t sure what more he could’ve done to prepare him. Their training was hard, sometimes cruel, perhaps even bordering on abusive.
Marian was the fourteenth orphan who had tried to become a full Swiftshade, whose blood was now on his hands. He’d only been commanding the Swiftshades for three years since their former leader, Wallis, fell during the Shadow War. Wallis was an unsung hero, just the way he’d have wanted it to be, Isa thought. It was the way of the Swiftshades, doing what needed to be done without any need for praise or honors.
“Fourteen,” he whispered, then took another sip of Elixir. Lumbering footsteps came from behind along the wall. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to find a patrol, but instead saw Grimbald marching for him. Isa snuffed out his tobacco stick against the wall and dropped the stub into his cloak’s inner pocket.
“Nice night,” Grimbald said, sounding out of breath like he’d been running, but likely from the exertion of climbing the stairs. He wore head to toe Milvorian plate armor, which reflected the light of the moon in a white luster with hints of pinks and blues at the edges. His head was as bald as Isa’s, a full square cut beard shrouding his jaw. His hands were covered in a series of crisscrossing scars, likely relics of the Shadow War.
“I suppose,” Isa said, turning back to face the black water. “Arch Wizard’s ready for me then?”
Grimbald rested his massive arms against the wall and leaned against it. “Almost. Come by in an hour.”
“Was just starting to enjoy myself.” Isa nodded and met his blue eyes gone gray in the moonlight.
“Something wrong?” Grimbald asked. “Seem a bit paler than usual,” he said in a jovial manner, his breath heavy with the stench of ale.
Isa shook his head. “Just another day.”
“Alright then,” Grimbald slapped him on the shoulder and dragged his bulk against h
is side, steadying his legs. “You assassins…” he began, his words slurred, “need to learn to lighten up, let go once in a while, especially when there are celebrations to be had.”
“Celebrations.” Isa tasted the word. Some endured the pain of a lifetime in the bowels of the Tower while those above were lost in drunken merriment. It was a strange thing.
“See you,” Grimbald said, waved, and stumbled off.
Isa waved and squinted out at the water, searching for his counterpart.
FIVE
Old Friends
“Sometimes fire can only be snuffed out by a greater fire.” – The diaries of Nyset Camfield
Swiftshades, Tower assassins, whatever they liked to call themselves were sure a brooding lot, Grimbald thought. He stumbled down the winding staircase in the tower, bumping against the walls and almost knocking a torch free from a sconce. “Maybe I shouldn’t have had that seventh ale,” he muttered to himself. “Or was it the eighth?” The stairs seemed to endlessly go round and round until he finally reached the bottom.
There was an odd figure standing beside the entrance with his arms crossed. Grim’s vision blurred in and out of focus. The man had long white hair draping over his shoulders and a dark patch over one eye. He looked skeletally gaunt, and the hilt of a longsword stood out from the side of one shoulder.
Grimbald’s arm dashed for Corpsemaker, dragging the axe free from its holster. Sober reality struck like a hammer, shattering his alcoholic haze as his heart thundered. For a fleeting, terrible moment he thought the man was Death Spawn. But it was only a man. He let his axe hand fall by his side, the axehead striking the stone with a spark.
“Juzo?” Grimbald gaped, plodding towards him, his terror vaporizing. “Is it really you?” His heart rate slowed to a dull thudding in his chest.
Juzo’s mouth formed a wolfish grin, his red eye softly glowing. “I believe it is. Seems like someone has been partaking in the night’s libations.”
I am a fool for drinking this much. He shook his head. “B-but what are you doing here?” He might have been drunk, but the skin around Juzo’s cheeks was so thin he thought he could almost see the white of the bone beneath it. Grimbald placed Corpsemaker against the wall. He wrapped Juzo up in a bear hug, an instant before he thought he saw surprise on Juzo’s face. He felt so small, smaller than he ever remembered. He must have been sick because he had the rotting stench of Death Spawn clinging to him. Smells like Death Spawn, the thought wriggled itself to the forefront of his mind.
“Here at the Arch Wizard’s behest,” Juzo chuckled and hugged him back. “She didn’t tell you?” He peered up at him, that malevolent eye boring a hole into his soul. It had been years, but it still made him feel a bit unnerved.
Grimbald stepped away from him, squeezed his bony arms. “No. She should’ve. I’m supposed to know when distinguished guests are arriving so I can secure them. I just can’t believe you’re here! It’s been so long. How long?”
“Just under three years, I reckon. Good to see you too, old friend,” Juzo was grinning, and there might’ve even been a bit of wet in his eye. “At Walter’s funeral, I think it was.”
“This is no time for dark moods.” Grimbald raised his index finger into the air. “I have an idea! C’mon, let’s go get a drink and you can tell me of how the western wilds are faring.” He threw his arm over Juzo’s shoulder, who groaned at the weight of it, and guiding his friend through the archway into the courtyard after placing Corpsemaker back in its sheath.
The courtyard was studded with Milvorian torches staked in the ground, tirelessly burning with balls of white Dragon fire as large as a man’s head. Along the path ran squat shrubs cut in long rectangular columns, guiding visitors so they stayed out of the blooming garden. Between the square shrubs were bushes carved to resemble animals of all sorts. There were dogs, cats, bears, Dragons, and Phoenixes whose long tail feathers were crystallized in the air. There was even a shrub carved into the bulbous shape of a Sand Buckeye, the carnivorous plants that lined any place wet. As they walked, Grimbald’s nose twitched on the assaulting scents going from lilac, to roses, to witch hazel to others he couldn’t identify. There were magically gurgling fountains every ten feet or so, carved in marble from bright pinks to dark grays.
The courtyard was empty besides patrols, as the few people of New Breden who liked to spend their evenings mulling in the public gardens were home celebrating. Around the courtyard, the protective walls loomed, battlements like teeth trying to eat the stars. The only way in or out was through the main gate. The portcullis was raised, the bottom lined with spikes sharp enough to impale an armored man with the poor fortune to be beneath it when it fell. If it weren’t for the gardens, it’d be nothing but a stretch of walled in dirt. They started on down the main path towards the Arch Wizard’s spire.
“Not much of a drinker anymore, thanks though. Water would be nice,” Juzo said, sliding out from under Grimbald’s arm. The stones underfoot were polished smooth cobbles from all the boots that had been over them in the last few years.
“Very well, the Explorer, the Tower’s new tavern, has water. Mostly ale and wine, but sure we can find some water. Armsman drink there and the occasional New Bredener. Just past the courtyard.”
Juzo turned in a gradual circle as he walked, marveling up at the walls. “Place has changed a lot since I last saw it, so much I almost don’t recognize it. Place of nightmares before.” His eye swiveled about, taking it all in.
“Yeah, Nyset’s done well with it, no doubt.” Grimbald let out a belch that echoed from the walls. “Pardon me.”
“Impressive,” Juzo snickered. “Did you say New Bredeners? That what they’re calling the village past the bridge?”
Grimbald grunted and nodded. “Vesla’s suggestion, Nyset’s assistant. I think. Like the name?”
“Suppose it works. Strange to hear that name again, Breden. That life feels like a dream now, almost like it never happened. It was so much in a short period.”
“Well, it did. Can’t forget your histories.” Grimbald attempted to clap him on the shoulder but found he missed by six inches or so. “There we go,” he said as he successfully clapped his shoulder the second time.
Juzo snickered. “Maybe you should have some water too.”
“Bah.” He waved him away like he was swatting a fly. “Have to let go once in a while. Thought you were always the rebel? Lost your edge in your old age, have you?”
Juzo smiled sheepishly. “Perhaps I have.”
Grimbald gave a hearty wave at a pair of patrolling guards giving Juzo suspicious stares. “Commander? Everything well?” one of them called. They paused where their paths intersected, and the shrubs formed a perfectly cut corner. The guards wore pearlescent Milvorian plate armor, shining almost as bright as daylight near the torches. It was the only alloy capable of resisting Dragon fire and the edges of Phoenix portals.
“Everything is well, Hafin. This is an old friend of mine, don’t pay any mind to his strange look.”
“Strange look? By strange, you mean dashingly good-looking?” Juzo raised an eyebrow at Grimbald then broke into a laugh at the guard’s stern looks.
“Commander?” the guard asked again, uncertain.
“Carry on, carry on.” The combination of Juzo’s laughter and the alcohol drew a laugh out of Grimbald’s chest.
They moved on and their laughter quieted. A wall of silence slid between them. The white light of the torches seemed to pass through Juzo’s translucent flesh, almost certain he was seeing his bones beneath it.
Grimbald cleared his throat. “You going to tell me how you got in here undetected? And how you found me?”
“Well—”
“No. Don’t. Don’t tell me. Not sure I want to know.” Grimbald raised a suspicious eyebrow.
“Don’t worry.” Juzo innocently raised his hands. “No one was hurt in the process. Didn’t drain the blood of anyone, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“I
can believe that… but how did you know where I was?” Grimbald crossed his enormous arms, biceps almost as large as Juzo’s head.
Juzo shrugged uncomfortably. “Know your smell.”
“My smell? Like a hound?” Grimbald couldn’t help but laugh. “You mean it, don’t you?”
“Sort of. I can smell your blood.” Juzo stared at him as if he were waiting for some sort of attack. But he wouldn’t do that, it was clear the man had already suffered enough living with his curse.
A moment or two passed. Grimbald licked his lips. “So… what’s it like out there?”
“The west?” Juzo tilted his head back, looking up at the sky.
“Yeah. Haven’t been home… not since well, you know… everything,” Grimbald said soberly.
“It’s quiet. Just the way I like it. Not too many men come my way, so that helps to keep my urges at bay.”
“Still got them, do you?” Grimbald felt suddenly unsure, wondering if maybe he was asking too personal, too heavy a question.
Juzo gave a quick nod. “Still got ‘em. Thought with the Shadow Realm’s fall that would’ve changed. Seems like all the curses were lifted… but mine,” He stared at his feet. “Don’t want any pity or anything, don’t get me wrong. Just how it is, I suppose. Have learned to accept it.”
“It’s alright. I know Nyset’s been researching it personally… and her best wizard is on it too. Mayhaps they found something. You should ask her.”
“Really? She’s been looking into it?” Juzo stopped, but Grimbald took a few more staggering steps before stopping too.
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