Her mind tumbled over thoughts. Who should she blame more? The man who ripped her heart out, or the man who destroyed her homeland? Unsure of whose death would bring her more solace, she decided on both. Despite her mind remaining rational, her body still felt full of emotions she dared not name. She rose from the water with few answers. Determined to create the perfect plan after a night of rest, she moved to the bed.
Slowly sleep accepted her as the buzz of the tavern lulled her to sleep. Whatever choices laid in the days ahead, she knew they would determine the future of the Death Sparrow once and for all.
◆◆◆
Chapter Three
The stale air of the tavern filled Serena’s lungs. A bitter taste, but a breath of freedom. For the first time in over a year, the shouts of angry guards did not wake her. Whips did not bite at her back. She easily fell into an old rhythm, decorating her body with weapons. She returned to the world below and surveyed it, looking for signs of other assassins. Were they still around? Where were they? There would be no reason to despair until she reached Klona, the Assassin capital of Acreage. That city would hold her answers.
She settled her bags and saddle on her steed before mounting. The ride to Klona would not take all day. She spurred her horse forwards and outside the gates of Bathon. A northern breeze blew against her as she continued forwards.
She drifted through thoughts of her guild and her home gone. The last images of it burning to the ground flashed before her. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the helplessness she felt that night. An assassin is never helpless. The world is her weapon.
Settling her thoughts, she looked down at her horse. He needed a name. A strong name. The last image of her black gelding came to mind. A flash of pain seized her at the memory of his death. He was another who was gone too soon.
The stallion beneath her snorted, drawing her attention.
“What should I name you?” She paused, thinking. “Scythe,” He shook his head. A chuckle escaped her lips. “So, you do understand me. Okay, what about... Vilkrim. Death Sparrow and her loyal steed Vilkrim. I like that. Don’t you?” The stallion snorted again. “Well, I’m calling you Vilkrim whether or not you like it.”
The small banter evened her nerves. Even the name she chose helped. If she named her horse after Goddess Altara’s noble steed, then hopefully she’d help keep him alive. The distant shadow of Klona came into view.
The war tore Acreage apart as the Templarians smothered their magic. It was still unknown how they managed such a feat. The war ended days after her birth. Her birthright of a free land was stolen from her before she took her first breath. The sadness of the thought gripped her heart. Templarians stole her family, her heritage, and her magic. They executed their Royals, burned their witches, and desecrated their temples. There was little left by the time she could walk.
Now they were trying to repeat their success. Samoria was across the Great Sea that separated the mainland from the island nation. There were various assumptions about the new war. Samoria had magic. Perhaps the King wanted magic eradicated, especially after his unsuccessful attempts to burn down the Mystic forest. Perhaps he wanted more resources or power. The answer was unclear, and it appeared no one knew the answer.
Vilkrim cantered closer, focused on the road ahead. His sudden sidestep away from a brush drew Serena’s attention. She gripped a blade in her hand, sitting upright. The bush rustled and Vilkrim snorted, trying to break into a run. Serena held the reins tight, stopping him a distance from it. For a second, she swore a small, winged creature danced from one shadow to another. The goblin-like creature unnerved her, but she was tempted to dismount and explore. However, her veins heated with magic. She sucked in a breath, forcing the power down. It felt the same as the way it reacted to the War Cat. This was a magical creature as well. She refused to involve herself. Assassins didn’t use or care about magic. She turned Vilkrim back to the road, rushing away. Even as she put distance between herself and the creature, its presence unnerved her.
Klona’s gates rose before her. A sense of safety garnered from the stone walls. Terraces and huge wooden doors with metal rivets welcomed her into the mouth of the city. All a part of the foreboding monster that bared its teeth at her. An untamable dragon that warned of the criminal enterprises hidden within.
Klona over the years struggled to incorporate Templarian war machines into its structure, due to the age and amount of crime. Shipment convoys did not visit anymore, many had been ransacked and destroyed. This city in a lot of ways was the last holdout of Acreage culture. Even though magic was outlawed and hidden, it still existed in the underbelly.
A small smile sat on her lips as she remembered simpler times before the Death Sparrow even existed.
The city looked the same. People traveled the cobblestone paths with covered faces and colored sashes. Each hue signifying a different profession. Serena looked for red hoping to see a fellow assassin. Spotting none, she rode down the familiar streets, the tall tower of the ancestral church looming ahead.
It stood rebuilt in Templarian fashion, missing the Acreage details she loved. Her gut twisted, wondering if it was the assassins or Templarians who rebuilt it after the fire. The thought of Templarians building a church felt unlikely. Their reverence for their ancestors did not seem to extend to those who lived beyond their native border in Acreage. Few, if any, attended services.
Still, it fit into the world the Templarians wanted to create. The temples to her Gods were long gone and she couldn’t even remember what they looked like. Exactly as Templarians planned. The only way to know who rebuilt this building was to enter.
She scowled, riding up to it. The wood was freshly painted a dirt brown, and the structure seemed to be a perfect replica of the building from before, but it felt hollow. She looked down at the charred marks on the cobblestone, a sour taste rising in her mouth. She dismounted, looked towards the stables in the back. So many memories of her last horse, her fellow assassins, and her traitor flashed in front of her. Whispers of laughs, smiles, and stolen kisses. It was all gone now. The wooden beams were pristine. No nicks or gashes from a blade. No engraved letters inside of a heart. She swallowed it all down and placed Vilkrim in a stall. The fire seemed to purge her old life from existence. She reminded herself she didn’t need sentimental reminders of her past. The scars that littered her body were enough of a reminder.
An iron and wooden door stood at the back entrance to the building. Her hand shook as it reached the entrance. It eased open, revealing behind it a large set of pews in the open room. The tall ceilings angled inwards to a point like the building before it. The fresh coat of white paint made it look even bigger, as sunlight entered from the windows.
The rays of light caught in the dust, reminding her of her childhood again.
“Ren! Ren over here!” the childhood voice of her best friend and now traitor yelled. The pair climbed over the pews, jumping from one to another in a never-ending game.
“Watch out for the stardust!” she called back, dodging a ray of light. His laugh echoed in the room.
A smile danced on her lips before she remembered he betrayed her. A shot of pain rippled through her. She turned away from the hall and walked towards the back. A door sat to the left. It most likely led to the caretaker’s quarters. On the opposite side of the wall should be a hidden door to the lair. Her hands drifted over the chair rail, feeling for the slight break in it. If the assassins survived, there would be a door. If not, she didn’t want to think about the alternative. Her fingers rushed at first, finding nothing until the tip of her finger filled a small crack. She pushed. The wall eased inwards, allowing her to grip the side of the door and unlatch it. It swung open, revealing a dark stairwell before her.
She walked forward, her fingers trailing on her blades as she shut the door behind her. The darkness enveloped her as she strode down towards the light. The bottom stairs turned a corner, forcing the person to step into the open. She took the final step
s to peer out into the large room before her.
The walls rose upwards, a full story with fabric draped over the top creating the feel of a tent. Tapestries covered the right wall, decorating it with symbols of Acreage and assassins. A small altar to the Goddess Altara sat in a far corner before the room led to a hallway. A section in the front jutted off to the left with a cabinet full of various supplies, poisons, maps, bombs, and a wall of extra weapons. There was an area for lounging directly in front of her where several assassins conversed in Acrea. The sound of her native tongue welcomed her home to a lair that was not hers. A bitter moment of reflection reminded her it looked the same, but it wasn’t. The faces of the assassins were ones she did not recognize. They looked at her with skepticism, their hands drifting to their waists. They did not know her.
The closest assassin spoke. His dark eyes inspected her.
“Who are you?”
“You are perhaps a little young,” He looked maybe fourteen. She never visited enough to impress herself on the younger assassins. “but you should know well your champion. I’m the Death Sparrow.”
They stared in silence. A smirk crossed her lips. The second one spoke.
“We thought you were dead!”
“I’m the Death Sparrow. They could never kill me.”
In the back towards the training ring sat a familiar figure. She looked over spotting the person sitting on a stool sharpening his sword. His eyes watched every inch of her. With each run of the blade, he applied more pressure. His light brown hair fell in front of his eyes as he continued.
“Gwayne!”
Slowly he looked up at her, peering into her amber eyes. He flashed her a large smile pushing back his brown hair, the tension in his body gone. He stood, putting his blade back in its sheath and walked over to her.
“It’s good to see you home,”
“It’s good to be back. The lair looks perfect. Did you find the traitor?”
His face contorted into confusion and then anger.
“What do you mean?” He pulled her to the side and away from the assassins in the front.
“Viper-”
“Sam?” Shock covered his face. “Why would he betray us? Are you sure?”
“How do you think I disappeared for a year? It was not by choice. He led the Templarians right to us. They slaughtered Adrian!” she growled, keeping her voice low. He shook his head. Regardless of their feelings about their old Master, he was their leader. Killing him was a treasonous act. One against the code of assassins.
“No. Viper wouldn’t. He-”
“He left me for dead! The creed demands vengeance.”
Gwayne sighed before nodding. “We’ll find him. I’ll remind him why they called me the Executioner. He’ll die in great pain. I promise you that. I’ll put out the contract myself.”
He walked to the board of missions on the wall. He grabbed a paper and wrote it up.
Viper. Wanted Alive. Traitor to the creed. Contact Master Gwayne for details.
She looked up at the board, feeling strange to see Viper’s name written there amongst some of the most savage criminals. Gwayne threw a glass across the room. The other assassins in the room flinched.
“You two get back to work. Stop loitering around!” The assassins bowed their head and bolted.
“You’re the Master?”
“Yes.” He growled. “You weren’t around, and someone had to rebuild the guild.”
“I’m glad you did. Adrian would be proud.” She looked back to Gwayne. “I have another matter to discuss.” She pulled down the mission for intel on the castle and the King. “I want this mission.”
“You’ve just returned. Warm-up with a different one. You’re not known for your espionage.”
“I’m taking this mission. I have informants and I’ve never failed before.” Gwayne shook his head. “I’m the Death Sparrow. I am more than capable.”
“Look, Serena, we’re in the process of infiltrating the King’s court, but that hasn’t gone well. We’ve lost a few assassins trying. Not to mention now that the Samorians are invading we have more pressing issues to focus on.” He pulled at his locks sadly, looking over towards a map of Acreage. “They’ve advanced into the Mystic forest so as long as none of the magic attacks them, they’ll be on Bathon by next week. The King will send his men, but we don’t know when.”
“I can find out!”
“If I wanted the King dead right away, I’d send you. I need finesse. That has never been your specialty.” She glared at him. “We want him dead. Trust me. I want him dead as much as the next Acrean, but we need information to continue our guild. Politics are convoluted. We’re not even sure why he invaded Acreage let alone Samoria.”
She sighed. Going to the castle offered answers and vengeance. Why couldn’t Gwayne see she was the best assassin for the job?
“I can get in.”
“How? There is no reason for them to let you in. I have other missions that you could do. Ones where we need people dead.” He looked back up at the board.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Trust me. I will get in.”
Gwayne inspected her. A scowl grew on his face as he shook his head.
“You’re out of shape. Not to mention I don’t think you can restrain yourself if given an opportunity to kill the King.”
“Why should I? We want him dead.”
“Yes, but killing the King can destabilize the country. With Samoria invading, we need Templaria strong to fight them off. Otherwise, we’ll be crushed.”
Serena hissed in a breath.
“I can restrain myself.”
“I appreciate your earnest, but no. Pick another.”
She glared at him, her mind racing with ideas. She could not outwardly ignore his orders. He was the Master Assassin. Her leader now. She needed to listen, but she knew him well.
“Fight me. If I win you let me go. If you win, you pick my mission.”
A sinister grin rose on his lips.
“Agreed,”
They walked to the training circle towards the back of the lair where weapons lined the walls. On the floor sat a black circle well marked with scuff marks.
So many memories flowed through her. The first time she stepped into the circle, they broke her body. The second time, she broke theirs. She never let them break her spirit. Years of bloody fights in the ring helped her rise in status until she was the best. Returning to it felt as natural as breathing.
“Same rules as always. The first one down or out of the circle.” he reminded her with a smirk.
As if she would forget. He pulled two wooden swords from a rack against the wall. She caught the one he tossed to her, swinging it around. It was weighted well to feel just like a sword.
“I don’t remember you ever winning.” She smirked.
“We’re not the same people.”
His words grew apprehension in her. He was right. Winning would not be easy and he would exploit weakness.
She walked over to the circle and stepped inside, taking a deep breath to focus. Evening her stance, she pointed the wooden sword at Gwayne. He stood watching. The hot-headed assassin she knew was different. He didn’t charge. He waited. It lasted for a minute, the two assassins staring each other down, but not moving a muscle. Finally, he stepped towards her swiftly swinging the sword. She slid out of the way, the sword cutting through empty air. She slammed the hilt of her blade against his back. He jolted forwards with a gasp, quickly recovering. He swung out at her legs. She jumped, agilely avoiding the attack, and slammed her sword into his. Her arms screamed with the strain and her eyes widened. His strength was too much. He was stronger than she remembered, or maybe she was weaker. He pushed against her withered arms. They shook, threatening to bend under the strain. She raced through solutions, refusing to lose.
He grinned at her.
“You’re weak, Sparrow.”
She spotted the small flicker of his wrist give away his move right. Adrian drilled h
er until she stopped giving herself away. Apparently, Gwayne never mastered that. She sidestepped his attack and slammed her blade down close to the hilt of his sword. It jostled his hold, but not enough. He swung his elbow out at her face. She barely saw it in time. Ducking away she swung her blade at his gut, forcing him back. His cold eyes continued to watch her as they circled one another.
Sparrow noticed him favoring his left. Not enough to be sure of an injury, but something. She charged, faking left before swinging right. He caught her blade as she kicked her foot into his knee. He stumbled, and she grabbed his wrist. She pulled him closer, trying to break his hold on his blade, but he used her momentum against her. He slammed his weight into her, the pair falling to the ground. She lost her advantage as his weight and strength pinned her.
She would lose.
A growl escaped her throat as she head-butted Gwayne. She heard gasps from the assassins watching, but ignored them. She then jabbed into his left side. Air left his lungs as he gasped out. He angrily went to throw a punch, their wooden weapons of no use in such close quarters. She dodged it and wrapped her legs around his torso, flipping him off her. She jumped to her feet and held the sword to his throat. The quick flash of movement was too fast for him.
They panted, looking at each other for a moment. His hand holding his sword twitched. She pushed the sword harder against his neck. Sparrow glowered.
“Yield,”
Gwayne snorted before sliding his sword under hers and lifting it. She expected the move and spun her sword away as he stood slightly off balance. She jabbed the blade into his chest before he could strike again. He looked down at the wooden sword and then up at her.
Rage filled his eyes. She held the sword, still watching and waiting. He finally sighed.
“Still better than me.”
“You’re still the master,” she said, bowing her head.
“You should prepare.” He grabbed the wooden swords and placed them back on the rack. She grabbed her sword, tying it back on.
The Death Sparrow's Shadow: The Assassin of Acreage Book One Page 3