The Death Sparrow's Shadow: The Assassin of Acreage Book One

by R. L. McIntyre

  Serena drank in the landscape before her. Trees and more trees surrounded her. It felt like a maze as the darkness of the sky offered no sense of direction. Regardless, she moved what she hoped was forwards. She noticed the sound of rushing water turning towards it. Hope nestled into her chest.

  She ran into a small clearing around the river’s edge. A perfect ambush point. The rhythmic thud of boots and hooves grew closer, but there was no sign of the cats. Their silent steps made it feel like ghosts tracked her as she turned to the nearby trees. One stuck out for its thick windy branches and she charged it, sliding the dagger into the belt. Her feet contacted the trunk as she ran up, her fingers reaching for a branch. They sunk in, twisting as her momentum threw her upwards. Landing softly on her toes, she sprang from branch to branch higher until she sat perched overhanging the clearing.

  Torrents drenched her as she remained still. Goosebumps rose on her skin, but she was unsure if it was the cold or the anticipation. Shadows danced below as the sound of running grew closer. Thunder roared, a foreboding warning she ignored, remaining steady.

  A horse and rider bolted from the brush. Its hooves loudly pounding the ground as it snorted, tossing its head. The rider yanked on the reins, turning in circles as the rider looked around. Another figure walked from the brush appearing below her as she sucked in a breath, shifting her weight forwards. His rushed steps sloshed in puddles, but her eyes fell first to the war cat. Trepidation filled her at the realization that she was right. The cats were hunting her. She just couldn’t hear them.

  The large black and white spotted cat growled; its eyes glowing yellow as it walked out into view. It sniffed the air but shook its massive head. It seemed agitated by the heavy rain that compressed its fur. Sparrow noticed the large scars where fur refused to grow back. The sound of a whip snapping as it connected with skin nearly made her flinch. The following yowl nearly pulled a gasp from her lips.

  Her resolve held as a flash of light afforded her the time to take in these torturers. Black armor draped the soldiers in protection, making finding a weak point harder. She noticed the thickness of the metal around the neck. Heavy armor. She grinned. It would slow them, especially in the mud. Her eyes soon drifted to the long piece of sharpened metal they both clasped in their hands. A straight blade with an edge on only one side. Standard issue for a soldier. The whip was the only extra weapon.

  “Find her!”

  The Samorian who spoke held the whip threateningly.

  The Samorian snapped the whip again and the war cat wailed, shrinking away, its right paw swatting at them uselessly. Her heart raced, aggravated by the sight. This powerful beast was at the mercy of people she could easily kill. A spark of warmth flowed through her veins, reminding her of her forbidden option. She nearly hissed at the feeling, knowing well now was not the time for her unruly magic to interfere. Controlling it was impossible without practice and nowhere was safe. Not if it remained outlawed. She bit back the heat, focusing on the chilly rain.

  “Where is she? She can’t escape! Their King can’t be told we’re here!” The one with the whip looked around, almost frantically.

  “If anyone finds out we’re here before the commander wants-” started the other on horseback.

  “Stop! We’ll find her.” He snapped back, whipping the cat again. Tension rose into her shoulders as she shifted further forwards anger settling into her breaths.

  She eyed the man with the whip, biting her lip in anticipation. The last time she assassinated anyone from a tree felt like forever ago. Her heart beat loudly in her ear as she bit harder, the metallic taste of blood spurring her closer to the edge. The branch swayed with her weight, warning her. She took a final moment to take in every detail. The white noise of the rain. The soft sway of the arms of the trees. The feel of the rain dripping off her. She sucked in a large breath and locked her eyes on her target. The man on horseback was first. In a split second, she propelled off her perch into freefall.

  Her stomach rose to her throat as air rushed against her. She pulled her dagger, positioning it into the back of the neck of her target. Her body crashed into him, the momentum pushing the blade through bone with ease. She fell with the body to the ground near the horse. The steed startled, running away. She turned to her next target. The second soldier’s blade swung at her. She bent backward, ducking the steel before pushing off her back leg. Sliding under his arm, she stood inside his defenses. In one swift move, she flipped the blade before it slashed across his collar. Blood poured out as he dropped his sword, using his hands to stop the bleeding. It seeped out from between his fingers as he fell to his knees. She kicked him away from her until he perished. A precaution in case he managed to lash out.

  Turning, she faced the war cat. Its large yellow eyes glowed, its sharp teeth prominent as it growled at her. The air charged with the tension between them before her body reacted. A jolt of heat overcame her. Her blood boiled and her eyes blazed amber. The normal confusion of this power swept over her as it reacted to the beast. The cat stood still, its growl softening into silence. Serena waited for an attack, seconds dragging on like hours. Then it spun and in one impressive leap jumped the river, taking off into the brush.

  Fatigue settled in while her blood cooled, and her eyes returned to normal. She stumbled on her feet. Ignoring her discomfort, she scavenged the dead, finding coins, provisions, and a change of clothes.

  After the bodies laid hidden, she grabbed her new tools and stood, taking in a deep breath. Her muscles relaxed as she turned to the river. Her eyes trailed the edge, leading her what she hoped would be out of the forest.

  She stepped forwards but froze at the loud sound of hooves. Uncertain, she gripped her blade watching. From the darkness of a brush returned the horse, looking for its rider. She inspected the mount, noticing his height and defined muscles. A warhorse. A young one to have startled so easily. The saddle on his back looked packed with supplies. She held out her hand to the horse, hoping to coax it closer.

  “Easy boy,”

  She needed to get farther away before they started sending more soldiers to investigate. The stallion eyed her. She quickly shielded her weapons, trying to call to the horse again. He tossed his head, unsure but allowed her closer. She reached into the saddlebags and quickly investigated. Apples. She grinned, offering one to the steed. The horse pawed the ground, snorting before stepping closer. Slowly the horse took the apple. Serena grabbed the reins and stroked his nose before mounting. His chestnut coat was well cared for, but she noticed the scars on his rump. Templarians didn’t know how to train anything without pain.

  “I’m gonna need your help boy,” she said, turning towards the river. She rushed forwards the threat of another soldier looming. Her heart continued to race, the loud beating in her ear warning her to move faster.

  The horse caught his stride as Serena felt his powerful muscles underneath her. It comforted her as she leaned into his steps. The pair flew down the riverside as far as the horse could run before she calmed her pace.

  Sitting back in the saddle, the rain began to subside. She released the breath she held and patted his neck.

  “You’re a good horse,” she commented as her mind reviewed the events of the day. Four dead. Not a terrible start for the Assassin of Acreage. Before this, a part of her felt like an imposter, still claiming that title. Without killing or the guild behind her, she wondered if she was still who she claimed. Now that her newfound weapons were tainted in blood, it felt more natural. Her muscles ached with all the activity unused to the job.

  Training. Lots of training would be needed to fully return to her mantle. Her mind drifted to her yearlong disappearance. The gap of a year meant much changed in the world of assassins. New assassins would rise while others fell. She could only guess who still lived after that night.

  She sucked in a breath at the vivid memory dancing across her eyelids. The feel of the flames still warmed her skin, warning they’d scorch her. Her fingers curled hard
er around the reins as the horse shifted under her. The horror of her headless master, the betrayal of the man she loved, all of it mixed in her chest, threatening to explode.

  Sam.

  The name fell into her mind, pulling harder at the pain in her heart.

  “Traitor.” She growled out into the air. Angry tears sat at the edges of her eyes as she refocused on the path. The sun began to shine thru the clouds, allowing her to gauge her direction. She traveled east, which put her closest to the city of Bathon. A reasonable location to gather supplies and intel.

  She turned back to the saddlebags, looking over the contents. Overall, a decent start of supplies even if it missed the assassin essentials. She rearranged her outfit with the meager clothes in the bags before tossing on a cloak. Satisfied with the impromptu look, she began detangling her braid. Pulling it free, she noticed the gentle waves framed her face, which wasn’t the worst thing considering she’d need to finesse her way into Bathon. In the south of Acreage, all the cities had walls protecting them. Getting in and out was a matter of skill. Avoiding Templarian guards being the hardest part of the task.

  The forest opened into the grasslands of the south. The vast valley outstretched before her as the shadow of the walls of Bathon drifted in the distance with a shimmer of the ocean behind it. As she left the edge of the forest, a shiver shot up her spine. Her head snapped back to the foliage, studying it for eyes. Nothing moved, but for a moment she thought she caught the glimpse of silver hair. Unnerved she urged her steed back into a run, putting as much distance between herself and the forest.

  The walls of Bathon grew as the sun settled in the west, and a pit sank in her stomach. Serena looked forward to resuming her old life. And didn’t. She reclined in her saddle and watched the sky pass. But there was no choice. The King had to pay for his misdeeds, and Sam for his betrayal. Her anger rose. Her very nature demanded vengeance.

  Her thoughts shifted back to returning to her role, leaving the burning hatred sit in her lungs. She wondered what others heard of the Death Sparrow in the last year. Many probably assumed she was dead. Despite the annoyance of proving herself living, death gave an advantage.

  Finally, Bathon rose in front of her. Huge watchtowers peeked over the walls from four different sides of the Templarian constructed courthouse at the center of the city. Their mammoth size easily blocked out the sun downtown. To the Templarians they were pillars of justice, but to the Acreans they felt more like spirals of death and misery. They hung people from the windows of those towers after the war. It forever scarred the minds of Acreans, reminding them daily of their loss. Serena’s blood boiled. She pulled her eyes away, biting back her magic.

  She turned to the large metal brackets that reinforced the joints of the city walls. Templarian engineering. They wasted their time on becoming experts of metal smithing and war. Every new impossibility they surpassed bolstered their confidence, making them believe they could do anything without magic. They were right. They created a world in which they controlled Acreage and never stopped there. They wanted everything.

  Serena’s jaw clenched at their greed as her hand moved to massage her temples. A sigh escaped as she tried to steel herself for the changes she’d find inside. She joined in amongst the merchants, farmers, and other folks hiding in their numbers. Dirt and exhaustion clung to the people. Looking away, she focused on the city guards ahead barking orders.

  “Move along!” echoed in the air as they drew closer.

  She reached the large wooden and metal doors to Bathon and the guards stood like gargoyles inspecting everyone entering. As cautious as they were crime never stopped. According to informants, the only reason they cared was criminal activities slowed the goals of the Templarians. Such a pity. She scoffed.

  “Move along!” the guards continued to yell.

  She urged her horse forward. Her higher stature above the crowd drew the eyes of the guards. She cursed, preparing a plan, but the sounds of shouting drew the guards’ attention for a moment. She flicked her reins, rushing her horse into the streets unseen.

  Bathon changed as Serena feared. The Templarians took even more control of the landscape. She remembered the stalls full of colorful crystals. The stores with large signs for spell work that tempted witches to enter. Now in their place, metalsmiths and empty shops stood. Sadness filled her as it reminded her they stole her heritage. She rode her horse past the stores, trying to look forwards.

  Hatred filled her for these metal workers covered in black soot. They crafted beasts of war with ore and wood, never thinking about the damage their work caused. Not that they saw it. Any machine of war left for Meta, the King’s capital, or set sail on a ship to war. This left Bathon with little defenses for itself. Four large turrets stood on the wall, outstretched in each direction to keep watch, but just a useless lie.

  Everywhere she turned the old parts of the world were destroyed, leaving reminders behind. Her body shook with a mixture of anger and sadness. If she thought too long about it, tears might escape her eyes and she couldn’t allow that. She looked down at her hands as they trembled. No weaknesses. The color of her skin was enough of one. She could not afford another.

  With a deep breath, she focused on other things. Money. Supplies.

  Riding her horse to a nearby tavern, she preferred to travel on foot through the sizeable crowds ahead. The building’s front wall was blown out and replaced with a wall of metal, screwed in by rivets. A simple brace trying to hide the actual problem. She saw the thin sheet of ore did nothing more than keep out the weather. A useless fix that kept up appearances. Cheap and fast, but leaving structural damage the owner could never fix. There was no fixing what the Templarians broke.

  She brought her horse behind to the small barn where a stable hand took the reins.

  “It’s five pence a night for stabling, an extra two for food, and an extra three for storage.”

  Serena looked into the purse and pulled out the amount, handing it to him.

  “Treat him well,” she warned before returning to the streets. The colors of the stalls and the crowd drew her into the nearby thoroughfare.

  She entered the masses flowing between the moving currents of people as merchants yelled out trying to sell products. She ignored them, bumping into folks as they bumped into her. Her hands slid in and out of shadows pulling off unsecured purses. After she tied about five plump bags to her side, she snuck out of the flocks towards a small clothing shop. She needed a fresh look.

  Once inside, Serena scowled at the delicate array of fabrics strewn around the room. Each less interesting than the last. Few suited her purpose. Most were high fashion, focused on pretty arrangements of multiple layers of fabric. She scoffed at the idea instead, focusing on the blouses and bodices that allowed the most mobility. The middle-aged shopkeeper tried her best to persuade her to buy a gown. However, an assassin could not be manipulated by such a woman. After a few quick negotiations, Serena left with exactly what she needed. A blouse and bodice decorated her body.

  She left walking off down the road stealing a few more plump purses before spotting the armory, a grey stone building with wooden doors. She walked inside and the man at the counter looked up at her. His cold eyes took her in. A grimace grew on his face as he returned to polishing the weapon in his hands.

  “This ain’t the perfume store,”

  “I do not require perfume.”

  The man glared at her, a sigh escaping his lips.

  “I don’t sell to anyone who can’t use such fine pieces of metal.”

  She walked up to him and pulled the sword from her belt.

  “I need this appraised,” she said, putting it down before turning to a rack of swords.

  “Girl-”

  She picked up a blade and swung it around with ease. Her arms ached from the strain. She was more out of shape than she hoped. She tested the metal trying to bend it and frowned at how little it flexed. Too stiff and it would break in battle.

  “D
o you have anything of better quality?” She placed it back.

  “That’s a fine blade miss.”

  “I need one of better quality.” She said moving towards the throwing daggers. Some had golden hilts decorated with jewels, but she liked the ones with simple metal. The presentation did not matter. She picked them up and balanced the blade on her finger. Perfectly balanced. The tip would not dip as she threw it. She also decided on a quiver of arrows and a bow. She placed them on the counter and the man stared at her.

  She went back and forth with the man, bargaining a fair price for the weapons she wanted while fighting the urge not to slit his throat. The more he acted like she was incompetent, the more he tried her patience. She concluded her business, returning to the streets.

  Her stomach grumbled as the evening light reminded her of the time. She stopped at a cart buying two canteens and other provisions for travel before returning to the tavern. Her horse safely settled, she grabbed her saddlebags and entered the building. She acquired a meal and sat assessing the clientele.

  She assessed the people in the tavern. A few thieves, drunkards, and guards. No one of consequence. Finished with her food, she rented a room and carried her belongings up the stairs. She locked the door of her chamber and looked over the space. Standard furnishings welcomed her. The door and floorboards creaked, giving her added alarms. She noted the single window overlooking the stables. A perfect escape route.

  Serena called for a bath, excited to bathe properly for the first time a year. The tavern’s maid finished setting up the bath. Serena carried a blade with her into the bathroom before settling into the warm water. At first, the bathe seemed to soothe not only her aching muscles but her mind as well.

  She closed her eyes, clearing her head successfully for only a moment. Then the roaring image of fire returned. A black blade gleamed in her memory as it struck down her brethren. She could not control the sting of betrayal that burned her throat. What did she miss in those coming days? What signs should she have seen?