“We’ll agree to your terms. Three months. Three months the King will be deposed and dead so you can return home victorious.” Daryl said holding out his hand. The commander smiled.
“I think I have the easier of the jobs.” He said shaking it. Daryl smiled.
“You’re probably right.”
It seemed things were set but her skepticism taught her better.
“We need something in writing though,” Serena said speaking up. “We don’t know you. If you really know my reputation you know I can’t leave without it.”
“If it’s found we’d both be in trouble.” The General inserted. “My word is good,”
“It won’t be found if it's written in magic. A simple spell I’m sure your witches could manage.” She offered.
“You just want an excuse to see our witches at work.”
“An added benefit but like I said. I don’t trust you. This way we both have a copy in writing and mutually assured destruction. It is the best method to keep both sides honest.” She said. He looked her over severely. She could feel the tension in the room rise. He continued to stare at her. Seconds ticking on before he nodded.
“Fine,”
He called out in Samor to the witch. The woman rose from the corner. She bowed to the General as he explained. She grabbed two pieces of paper and began chanting in Magika as words danced across the pages. It wrote itself in Templarian on one and Samorian on the other. She then placed the pages on the table and pulled out a thin blade from under the fabric at her waist. She offered it up her head low.
“We bleed on both. To bind the contracts.” the General explained in Templarian. Daryl took the small blade and pierced his finger so he could drip blood on each. When the blood hit the page, it shifted into his signature. The same happened on the other page and with the General’s blood. Serena looked over at the General’s name. General Zion Muff. Daryl quickly rolled up the paper.
“Satisfied Sparrow?”
“I am, General Zion.” She returned.
“I’d like you out by the end of the week.”
She nodded and led the group out. Once outside the trio looked back at the walls of Bathon.
“That was risky,” Daryl said. “He could’ve said no.”
“It’s assurance for both sides. If he gets Bathon, I’m not leaving without something I can prove he agreed to.” She said.
“You’re sure there are no tricks in the magic?” Wesley said. She shrugged.
“We have no way of telling.”
Wesley nodded.
“What will you tell the King and the General? No doubt both are there plotting.” Serena said.
“We’ll think of something,” Daryl said.
“I’d prefer something that didn’t end in you two getting whipped like dogs.” Serena spat out.
“Sacrifices have to be made plus we can use it to gain sympathy. We only need nine nobles to sign the articles of a trial.” Daryl said.
“Henry will sign but we need eight more.” Wesley returned.
“I doubt you’ll want me to threaten anyone.” She said.
“There may be a time for it. We’ll need your help playing political espionage.”
“By far not my favorite but if it puts the King on trial, I will do anything you need.”
The trial of a tyrant was on the horizon.
The story continues in…
The Assassin of Acreage Book Two
The Trial of a Tyrant
Don’t forget to review!
For more information about upcoming books and new series check out my website at
rlmcintyreauthor.com
or follow my instagram and facebook page
rachel.l.mcintyre
@fantasyauthorRLMcIntyre
Acknowledgements
There are so many people that come to mind that I would love to thank for their tireless support. There are quite a few people who have listened to me rant for days about characters or scenes or writer's block. I don't know how any of you put up with me, but I am so thankful you did. Also, to my amazing beta readers. This story wouldn't be possible without their tireless input.
My family has always been a great supporter and the loss of my grandfather makes this accomplishment bittersweet. I know he would have been so proud of me. For my brother who aggravates my soul but also provides the best advice, thank you. For my mother who helped craft me into the writer I am, thank you. For my father, and writing springboard, thank you. Talking writing struggles and history has always been a highlight in the process.
To my best friend in this life and all the others before your undying support means everything. You are forever my family and I am so glad to have you with me through this process.
Finally, to my dear readers, thank you for taking a chance on this story. Your support means more than you know. Thank you!
Sneak Peak of
The Assassin of Acreage Book Two
The Trial of a Tyrant
◆◆◆
Chapter One Serena
Time passed too easily, like raindrops collecting at her feet one drop at a time. Each added to the pool that grew and threatened to drown her. Serena was unprepared to leave Bathon. A week seemed so long before, but now felt like nothing. Giving this city to the enemy felt like a mockery of the lives they lost.
Thunder roared overhead as the dark clouds threatened to unleash their fury at any moment. She walked to the edge of the ally, not daring to step onto it. At least not yet. Her heart raced loudly in her ear as she tried to calm the bile in her throat. She avoided this street all week long. She avoided a lot of things in the wake of the disaster.
The shadows that had been her solace felt different. As if their darkness was not just a simple mist but a hole that continued further and further down to the center of the world. She wondered how deep she would fall the next time she walked into them. Who else would die?
With a frustrated grunt, she spun around the corner to face the empty street. Rain began to fall around her as she stared at the space. He wasn’t there. Raft’s body was not lying on the ground. His blood did not stain the streets as it had her heart. He was just gone.
It felt all the worse to realize that the street held no remnant of the young man who died. It was as if he never exists. As if he died for nothing.
She balled her fists, reminding herself of the parlay they struck. The harsh smell of spices clung to her nose still. Her skin still felt pricked by the electricity in the air from the foreign witch’s magic. The deal was unbreakable. It was what they wanted.
Time.
Time to kill a King and restore order before Samoria invaded any further. Failure would bring ruin to Acreage, but political intrigue unsettled her. What terrible secrets did the nobility, the King, and his General hide? She suspected they were worse than even the cruelest assassin could imagine.
A Samorian horn blew into the sky. The deep hollow note echoed through Bathon and vibrated in everyone who heard it.
It was time.
With one last glance back at the haunted street, she walked towards the wall. The guards headed towards the gates with their packs slung over their shoulders as everyone collected to march. They’d be returning to Meta as losers. As far as they knew, the deal was for their lives. They knew nothing of the real deal struck between their Prince and the invading army. Instead, they felt a crushing shame for their loss and the futility of their attempts. Serena understood the feeling. Even though they bought time, the lives felt too steep a price.
She tried to push the thoughts away as she climbed the steps of the wall. The rain continued to fall, dampening her clothes. The cold helped her focused. As she stood on top of the wall, she saw the Samorian troops slowly marching towards Bathon. Their black shields with red chimeras on them reminded her of when she saw them a year ago in the mash fields. The men lined either side of the road, their shields in front of them like a wall. Several War Cats with their spotted fur walked behind the lines, p
acing with their handlers. A group of witches, mostly women but with a few men walked behind the calvary that rode up the road towards the door. It was all a grand show and a threat.
Serena snorted at the sight and turned to the west, where mounds of freshly dug graves sat. Row after row, after row. Too many she dared not count. She didn’t want logic to reason with the deaths. If she could place a number, she didn’t know if it would make it easier or harder to accept. What were a hundred lives worth? Fifty? Just one?
She wondered again which one belonged to Raft. She regretted avoiding finding out. Looking closer, she spotted a man among the dirt. Ike. Even from the distance she could see this battle and Raft’s death had deepened the lines on his aging face.
She would join him. She needed to say goodbye, but again she hesitated. Walking amongst the dead felt too close to being dead. As if accepting this valley of death somehow, it would poison her own life. A wives’ tale the women in Klona spewed throughout her childhood.
Children shouldn’t be a part of the assassins. If they are around death, all the time, Altara might mistake them for the dead and take them.
It felt silly to be nervous by such a childish story. Perhaps it was just a convenient excuse. In these moments, she wanted one. The painful memories of Raft’s kind eyes and excitement before battle felt too dangerous to feel. The knowledge he should be alive still threatened to break her in two. Between the guilt and the logic, she felt constantly at war with herself. Something she could not afford, but how was she to look Raft’s father in the eyes? How was she supposed to face him and tell him his son was dead? For what? What about his poor fiancé, Karla?
The guilt settled into her gut as dread crept in and mixed. Her legs teetered under the weight as she turned back to Bathon. Looking at it, she could see that it wasn’t as intact as she thought. The remains of burnt buildings told the story of the dead, but they would be fixed while the dead would remain gone. Gritting her teeth, she climbed down the wall. The Samorians would not remain patient forever.
By the gates, Sam stood holding onto Vilkrim’s reins. He felt obliged to tend to her horse. She wondered if it was a ploy to get her or Vilkrim to trust him. The answer was probably both. Vilkrim stood pawing the ground, annoyed with Sam who did not understand the horse’s mannerisms. Sam tried to talk to him.
Seeing Sam still felt strange. Any minute she waited for him to give some sign of betrayal, but he acted the same. As if no time passed between them. Tending to her horse like he had her previous stead.
“You’re such a good boy.” He said, offering a carrot. Vilkrim snorted.
“He likes apples,” she inserted, pulling one from the saddlebag on Vilkrim’s back. She offered it to Vilkrim, who greedily took it.
“You’ve managed to snag apples?” Sam asked, his eyebrows raised. Serena smirked and rubbed Vilkrim’s nose as he ate. Finding and commandeering apples seemed the most fun in the aftermath of the battles.
“I’m packed so I’ll wait for everyone outside.” She said mounting. Sam grabbed her arm, holding her still for a second. A look passed between. They never needed words. Even as kids, one look could encompass a thousand words. This one felt far too understanding, sympathetic even. She yanked her arm free and rode outside the walls. She did not want sympathy, especially not from him. A shuddering breath left her lungs as she reached the graves.
Seeing the rows of mounded dirt up close made them suddenly feel much bigger. Down here the graves felt big enough to swallow a man, but not big enough to encompass the life lost. She looked for markers to discern who each was but there were none. Templarians believed in burying your bodies with your ancestors. Letting them be the ones to walk you to the afterlife. Yet for soldiers that rarely happened. Unmarked graves in rolling hills scattered their land and now Acreage. Acreans should be burned. Their ashes rising to the sky as Altara greets them for the journey to everlasting life among the stars.
She dismounted, patting Vilkrim’s side as she pulled out the small bag of things. She prepared for this moment for so long.
Ike stood ahead, hovering over Raft’s grave. With heavy steps, she joined him, peering down at the dirt. He said nothing. Didn’t even acknowledge her presence as he stood in silent prayer. Undeterred, she kneeled and opened the bag. Inside, she pulled out a small offering bowl. A blue cloth, a wooden dagger, and a rose. She laid them in the bowl and grabbed a handful of dirt, scattering on top. It didn’t matter that it was raining. If needed, she’d use a little magic. Nothing would stop her from seeing that Raft made it to the afterlife.
“What are you doing?”
She looked up at Ike and pulled out her flint and stone. She struck it, igniting the cloth and hovering over it to protect the flame.
“An offering for Altara, our Goddess of Life and Death.” She explained, taking a deep breath. “May Altara bless the journey of the dearly departed. Let their souls rise to the stars and their memories last in our hearts until the end of our days. Lead them out of the darkness of death and into the light of eternal life. Take care of Raft, a soldier far too pure a man to meet his end so early. See, he’s rewarded for his deeds in the next life. From Mother Wixora we grow and to Altara we return. Blessed be the path of a warrior.” She prayed. The smoke from the offering rose towards the sky as Ike stared.
“He would’ve liked that,” Ike said, offering his hand. She took it and stood next to him. His face soft and kind, devoid of the sympathy others offered her. Respect glistened in his eyes, nearly drawing a smile to her lips. A part of her felt like her small offering helped. Even if they were Templarians, they deserved a proper burial and without Gods of their own someone needed to watch over their souls. A slight weight lifted off her chest.
“He should still be alive.” She breathed out.
“He was a soldier. He died with honor.” He comforted.
“What good is honor if you’re dead?” Serena growled. Ike let out a sigh and placed a hand on her shoulder. He gently squeezed, speaking without words before walking off. She stood watching the offerings burn into ash. Her mind still mulled over the enormous sacrifice made and they would need another. You did not depose a King without consequence. People would die.
No. She refused to grieve at another’s grave. She would do anything to protect them all. Her veins heated with her magic. A warning that it was always there waiting to be released. A part of her was prepared to use it. Another part was terrified.
“Serena,” said a voice she recognized too well. The soft trembling bass sent a comforting shiver up her spine. Even before he reached her, she felt his warmth. “We have to go,” Wesley stated. “You’ve done all you can.”
She looked at him. His soft eyes trying to be a source of comfort.
“I know,”
Wesley pulled her cloak from Vilkrim’s saddle and gently laid it on her back. “Let’s go,” Wesley said, offering his hand. She looked at it but shook her head, tying her cloak around her neck.
“I need a target.” She growled, walking over to Vilkrim. Her muscles twitched with anticipation.
“Serena, please. I can’t give you a target. We need to focus on convincing nobles to sign the Writ of Tyranny.” He followed closely behind.
“That’s simple. We either give them something worse to fear or we make them believe we can win.” She responded, mounting. His horse stood next to hers and he mounted, looking at her. He reached over and gently squeezed her hand.
“We will,” For a moment his gentle and warm touch could chase away the anger and the pain. She gave a small smile before she pulled her hand free. With a snap of her reins, she focused ahead. They rode back to the gates where Daryl was leading the guards through. General Zion sat on horseback, watching. His witches hovered nearby.
Serena looked at him and he bowed his head at her, a smile dancing on his lips.
“You look aggravated today.” Daryl chimed as he rode up next to her.
“Aren’t you?”
He shrugged, br
ushing back his golden hair with his fingers. “Yes and no. Bathon is a heavy loss, but the price will be worse if we mess this up.”
Their army walked through the lines of Samorian soldiers who watched. She ignored their grins, and their jeers. Her target wasn’t them. Not anymore. They reached the open road and quickened their pace, hoping to get ahead of the storm as it blew inland. As they road, Serena turned back to Bathon. Samorian soldiers cheered and entered the city. It felt like someone stabbed her in the chest. She looked away, fisting her hands around the reins. She had to make this trial worth the cost.
Hours of marching felt numbing as Serena tried not to think about the faces that would watch them return. The tears that would erupt the moment they realized their son was gone forever. She felt the blame rise again and thought over the plan. She doubted she’d be any help convincing nobles. Her skills were better suited to sneaking around and stealing things or learning intel. Both were dangerous, and once the King knew what was happening, he would go after whoever dared to go against him. Danger would lurk everywhere.
She took a calming breath. She was not defenseless, and neither were her friends. Her control of magic would grow with practice. It would be the only trump card she could hold that might save them all if the need arose. That was the hope she clung to. Hope that she could do the impossible and protect them. She looked down at her saddlebags and felt a sense of unease knowing what laid inside. The book of Legends sat as a mysterious miracle from a God. A double-edged sword, more likely. She prayed to never need it and have to face the consequences of making such a deal.
The soldiers reached the large stone walls of Meta. Serena looked up at the towering form of stone. They felt more imposing than before. Their ominous cloud of darkness engulfed them as they traveled through into the streets. Citizens rushed out from their buildings to watch. Most smiled, peering at them as victors. People waved from balconies waving the Templarian flag.
The Death Sparrow's Shadow: The Assassin of Acreage Book One Page 26