by Ben Hale
Assassin's Blade
By Ben Hale
Text Copyright © 2013 Ben Hale
All Rights Reserved
To my family and friends,
who believed
And to my wife,
who is perfect
The Chronicles of Lumineia
By Ben Hale
—The White Mage Saga—
Assassin's Blade (Short story prequel)
The Last Oracle
The Sword of Elseerian
Descent Unto Dark
Impact of the Fallen
The Forge of Light
—The Second Draeken War—
Elseerian
The Gathering
Seven Days
The List Unseen
—The Warsworn—
The Flesh of War
The Age of War
The Heart of War (Dec 2015)
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Elusive Target
Chapter 2: Enraged
Chapter 3: Kulldye Dreg
Chapter 4: The Icy Lair
Chapter 5: The Swordsman's Wrath
Chapter 6: Caged
Chapter 7: Oracle
Excerpt from The Last Oracle
The Chronicles of Lumineia
Author Bio
Chapter 1: The Elusive Target
The Swordsman waited.
He preferred to stalk his targets in their own haunts, but this one had proved elusive. The Swordsman had been forced to choose a less elegant method of assassination—a trap. Steeped in shadow, the warehouse suited his purposes well. Resting on the outskirts of New York City, it appeared identical to the others on the block.
Rusted cranes sat on equally rusted rails against the roof. Large machinery dotted the floor, coated in dust. A handful of homeless had taken up residence over the years, but each had moved on. They had left a scattering of trash, a mark of their disdain. Even they had found it inhospitable.
Grimy windows allowed a trickle of light to illuminate the cavernous space. Some had been broken by vandals, and the holes revealed a slim moon in a cloudless night. The resulting darkness filled the warehouse like smoke.
As he waited he fell to pondering the group that had issued this contract. As a rule he cared little for his contract benefactors, but a tremor of doubt had seeped into him. The Harbingers paid well and often, yet he'd gained an odd distaste for them.
He'd met an abundance of unsavory characters in his profession, yet the Harbingers stood out. Over the last year the Swordsman had eliminated a handful of targets for them. As always he'd verified that the soon-to-be-dead qualified for his singular rule.
He did not kill innocents.
It was not a rule shared by the others in the guild, but one that he adhered to with absolute regard. The principle stemmed from a deep seated hatred for those who acted with evil intent. He considered the removal of their kind a service, regardless of who paid the contract.
But why did the Harbingers bother him? Of the six they had contracted him to kill, none had appeared innocent. His current target was no exception. The Harbingers had shared a memory orb of the man killing one of their own with a blast of fire.
The Swordsman had accepted the contract and sought to verify his quarry. For the past three weeks he had tracked him across the globe, yet had failed to catch so much as a glimpse of him. Throughout the hunt the Swordsman had found surprisingly little beyond his name, Hawk.
The man was a mage, that much was clear, and yet the Swordsman could find no record of him anywhere. Tryton's Academy of Magic, the principal school for training young mages, had never heard of him, neither had the other magical schools. Eventually he'd discovered that his target led another secret organization, the Guild of Light.
He'd sought their halls to no avail, forcing him to resort to other tactics. After painstaking effort he managed to get a message to his target through a string of contacts. He'd kept it brief, and vague. Then he'd retreated to the warehouse to wait. After four days the target appeared.
The target entered the warehouse through the side door. He paused and then strode to the center of the warehouse. Muffled footfalls rebounded off the steel walls and echoed back. They faded to silence as the man came to a halt where the Swordsman had planned.
Every space contained an unseen heart. Unnoticed by the ignorant, it compelled those who entered to stand there. His target was no exception. Intent on meeting his "friend," Hawk had strode almost to the inch where the Swordsman waited.
The Swordsman eased out of his hide in the steel railings above. The metal did not betray his movement. Drawn into the orange band on his wrist, the groans and creaks of the machinery failed to give utterance. Gathering himself, he cast a strength spell and then slipped free.
Forty feet passed in the span of a heartbeat. He landed hard, but his magically enhanced muscles caught him easily. Drawing his sword, he rose in a fluid motion and whipped the sword toward his target's back—but Hawk was quicker.
As if he'd anticipated the blow, the man stepped away and whirled to face him. The Swordsman pressed the attack, but his target's own magic exploded between them. Fire poured from his hands, igniting the air and driving the Swordsman back. He retreated and evaporated into the shadows between the machinery.
As he sought a new point of attack he realized what had occurred. Hawk was a fire mage, a talented one, by all accounts. He would have felt the heat in his attacker’s approaching form and reacted accordingly. Irritated, the Swordsman frowned at the oversight.
"Who has sent you, assassin?" Hawk called.
The Swordsman paused, and saw that his target had not moved. Fire coiled and compressed on his arms like shimmering gauntlets, but he had not sought to retreat. His voice radiated calm.
Using the machinery to block his heat, the Swordsman glided behind his target and sheathed his sword. Drawing a short stock from under his arm, he activated the ethereal crossbow. Gray smoke poured out of the wooden nose and coalesced into a stubby weapon. The string solidified behind a bolt already notched—and he fired.
The bolt streaked toward the target’s back, but struck an unseen barrier and disintegrated into sparks and fire. The Swordsman again shifted position as he elevated his opinion of the target. A heat shield of such magnitude indicated he was more powerful than rumored.
"Your precision and weapon mark you," Hawk called. "You are the Swordsman."
The Swordsman did not respond. He glided around the perimeter of the warehouse, searching for a weakness in his target.
"I admit you have done well," Hawk continued. "This structure is made of steel and concrete—materials difficult for a fire mage to impact. But I think you know not who you have come to kill."
The Swordsman snatched his hand back as the metal underneath began to glow. He retreated, but the conveyer belt next to him had also grown warm. Heat washed over him as the machines brightened, forcing him to retreat into the shadows. A glance back revealed that every chunk of machinery had begun to melt.
The Swordsman issued a grunt of annoyance and activated his shadow hook. Catching the fading darkness on the wall, he scaled to the rails above. From there he caught a hold behind a crane. Then he dropped his strength spell and cast an agility charm.
His flesh tingled with perfect balance, and he weaved across the labyrinthine supports as if on flat ground. One of the machines below collapsed into a puddle of liquid steel. It continued to melt as another fell. By the time the Swordsman had reached a spot above his target every shred of cover in the w
arehouse had dissolved.
Steam rose from a dozen puddles, and the blistering liquid illuminated the building. Hawk bent and placed a hand in the liquid next to him. Rather than melt his flesh, it cooled as he drew the heat out. Then he withdrew a glowing sword of solid fire. He flicked the sword, sending sparks and sizzling drops of liquid scattering across the ground.
For the first time the Swordsman felt a doubt. His target was demonstrating a skill with fire unlike any he'd ever seen. The magic he performed suggested a supreme, innate ability. Suppressing his doubt, the Swordsman released his agility spell and added strength again. For the second time, he dropped toward his target.
This time, Hawk met him with his blade. Sparks exploded as the two weapons came in contact. The Swordsman whirled, driving for his target's heart. Hawk parried and struck back. Bits of fire cascaded like driving rain as they fought for an edge.
The Swordsman found one, and uncoiled his body like a whip. His boot struck Hawk in the chest, sending him rolling into one of the liquid puddles. He rose to his feet in fluid hot enough to sear flesh from bone. He flashed a smile.
"You certainly have earned your name."
The Swordsman switched to an agility charm. Taking two steps in a rush, he leapt into a high flip. His sword flicked out and nearly cleaved his target's head in two. Hawk managed to block it, and the Swordsman landed easily on the other side.
Hawk placed his sword tip down into the melted steel. In an instant he sucked all the heat from it—and every other puddle. The rush of superheated air whipped the Swordsman's clothing but it did not harm him. Instead it augmented Hawk's sword.
The glowing red blade brightened to white, and then the supreme blue. The thousand degree heat of such fire could slice through a car engine like it was cottage cheese. The Swordsman hesitated. His weapon was enchanted, but could it withstand such a temperature?
He released his agility spell and cast a speed charm. The magic drove him to action, and he darted in. Instead of a full assault he used his sword to sow confusion. Whipping it high and low—reversing it and spinning a full circle, he attacked from all sides.
Hawk fought to withstand the onslaught. Sparks and pieces of the Swordsman's blade ignited every time they grazed. The Swordsman did not relent, and drove his opponent back. Hawk's skill with a sword was undeniable, but did not compare to the Swordsman's blinding assault. Sensing the impending victory, the Swordsman forced an opening.
His arm arced forward—but slowed just before impact. The tip of his sword touched Hawk's neck but could not advance any further. He looked down at his arm in shock, and saw frost coating his skin and clothing. His speed magic had burned in his muscles, causing him not to feel the heat being drawn from his limbs.
It was the second lesson in a matter of minutes, and the Swordsman felt a flash of anger. He released the speed charm and cast strength once more. Then he strained to get out. He knew the effort was futile. At any moment Hawk could strike him down.
But the blow did not come.
The ice over his body shattered and the Swordsman stumbled free. He found Hawk a dozen steps away, his expression curious. Uncertainty caused the Swordsman to hesitate, but one glance at his own sword told the truth. Marred and chipped from the contact, his blade would never be the same. On impulse he sheathed it.
"Who are you?"
Hawk flicked his blue sword into the air, and it disintegrated into a thousand tiny flames, illuminating the warehouse. Rather than answer the Swordsman’s question, he asked his own.
"Do you kill innocents?"
The words were like a slap in the face, causing the Swordsman to growl. "Are you saying you are?"
"No more than the next man," Hawk replied. "But I don't have a penchant for inflicting pain. I cannot say the same for those who sent you."
"How do you know who sent me?" The Swordsman folded his arms.
Hawk sighed. "The Harbingers have been my enemy for a long time, and I am not the first they have sought to kill." The Swordsman remained silent, but Hawk's gaze did not deviate. "I am aware of your rule, assassin. I suggest you look deeper into the others you have slain."
"You are still my contract," the Swordsman said.
"Then I look forward to our next encounter," Hawk replied, and then turned to leave.
The Swordsman considered another attempt, but stayed his hand. Hawk's words had struck a chord, his actions even more so. The Swordsman had sought to kill—quickly and without mercy—yet Hawk had passed over opportunities to do the same. At every turn his target had displayed another goal.
To enlighten.
Chapter 2: Enraged
The Swordsman climbed to the roof and pulled his tiny air board from a pocket. He touched the rune and it swelled to full size. Tossing it off the edge, he leapt onto its surface and glided away. Its gravity and wind charms lifted him into the dark night. Catching a current of wind, he headed south.
Hawk's words gnawed at him, refusing to fade. Was he right? Had the Harbingers manipulated him? A burst of anger clenched his hands. The miles passed, but the rage did not abate.
Cities glided beneath him, their lights dotting the curving landscape. Non-mages bustled through the streets, ignorant of the existence of magic or the true history of Earth. For six thousand years the mages had lived apart from the main populace of aurens, relegating magic to myth and legend.
As he flew above them his thoughts turned to his recent Harbinger contracts. He'd tracked each with precision and skill, and had learned their movements and habits. One in particular stood out to him, Aaron Jenkins, a lieutenant colonel in the US Army. The information given to him by the Harbingers had indicated Jenkins was a traitor.
The Swordsman had verified it, of course, but his new perspective seemed to draw forth a glaring omission. The Swordsman had witnessed Jenkins receiving a cash payment from a person of Asian descent. Aaron had given the person something in turn, but the Swordsman had not been able to identify what. Could The Swordsman have been tricked into witnessing the exchange?
On impulse he banked his board west, and accelerated toward the city lights in the distance. The skyscrapers of Washington DC forced him higher into the night. His board was highly illegal, and it would wreak havoc among the aurens if he was spotted.
He circled the city until he found the right neighborhood, then he tipped the board down and dropped from the sky. Reaching his former target's roof, he slowed into a curving stop and stepped off his board. Shrinking it to the size of his hand, he pocketed it and strode to the edge. Then he leaned down and activated his shadow hook.
The hook carried him down and along the wall until he reached a second story window. The room was dark and quiet, so he eased the window open and slipped inside. In the six months since he'd been in the room it had transformed. Gone were the infant clothes and crib. In their place a bunk bed had been set up with matching dressers.
A creak of a door handle was his only warning.
Casting an agility charm, he rebounded off a toy car, caught the top edge of the bunk bed and leapt up onto the railing. The wooden bed issued a tiny creak as he balanced at the top end, causing the boy beside him to twitch.
The door eased open, and his target's wife slipped inside with a tiny girl in tow. The Swordsman pressed the darkring on his small finger, but his caution proved unnecessary. She did not turn on the light. Instead she crouched by the lower bunk and helped her daughter back under the covers.
"I miss Daddy," the little girl whimpered.
"I know, sweetheart," the mother murmured, her voice tired. "You tell me every night."
Her voice was strained, weary with more than just fatigue. The Swordsman frowned as a twinge of guilt flared inside his chest. He'd killed family men before and had never felt a hint of regret. If anything he'd been doing their children a favor.
The little girl began to cry. "I can't find my daddy bear."
"It's right here," the mother responded. "Remember what he said. When you squ
eeze it, he can feel you hugging him."
"Even now?"
The mother's voice caught. "Even now."
"Okay."
Without seeing it, the Swordsman knew she was squeezing the bear. The mother kissed her on the forehead. "Good night, sweetheart."
"Good night, Mommy."
The mother rose and returned to the door. She lingered on the threshold, blocking the light from the hall. The seconds ticked by as she gazed upon her daughter. Then she passed a hand over her face before departing. The Swordsman waited, and then followed.
The mother trudged halfway down the stairs, but came to a halt next to a picture of her husband. Just out of sight, the Swordsman watched as she reverently touched the corner of the frame.
"I miss him too, Lily," she whispered.
Her voice cracked as she spoke. Then she lifted the picture from the wall and sank onto the step. Clasping it to her chest, she began to talk.
"Hey."
The Swordsman froze, but it had not been directed at him.
"I'm sorry I didn’t get to talk to you earlier," she said. "Work has been busy. I miss being home with the kids. So far I've managed to keep up with the bills, but the money from the Army is running out. I think . . . I'm going to have to sell the house. I know how much you put into building it for us, and I'm sorry I can't keep it.
"I know I need a better job, but I'm having a hard time finding one. Who knew that homemaker didn't look good on a resume?" She released a humorless laugh. "Your sister is trying to get me a secretary position at the college, but I'm not getting my hopes up. Maybe I'll get an apartment closer to her."
She paused, and then continued in a quieter tone. "Lily lost a tooth today," she said. "It came out at pre-school and her teacher sent it home in a bag. You should have seen her face. She was so excited to show me . . . and you. She still asks every day when you will get back."