Shadow's Master

by Jon Sprunk

  Published 2012 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books

  Shadow's Master. Copyright © 2012 by Jon Sprunk. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Sprunk, Jon, 1970—

  Shadow's master / by Jon Sprunk.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978–1–61614–605–4 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978–1–61614–606–1 (ebook)

  1. Assassins—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3619.P78S49 2012

  813'.6—dc23

  2011045843

  Printed in the United States of America

  I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.

  —J. Robert Oppenheimer

  Shadows pooled on the floor of the broken temple and seeped into the cracks between the stones as he stepped out of the portal.

  Splintered ends of charred wooden beams protruded from the mounds of shattered masonry, which had fallen from the ceiling and now gaped open to the night sky. Ashes rustled as the gateway closed with a quiet whisper. Outside, chaos reigned over the fallen city. Shouts and despondent cries wafted in from the street along with the stench of burning flesh as Lord Talus's soldiers slaked their lusts on Liovard's hapless survivors. But inside the sanctuary another presence lingered, reeking of death.

  Balaam walked around an overturned sarcophagus, its ancient stone surface riddled with cracks. He stopped beside a long smudge on the floor beside a hollow scrying pool. The power he'd felt radiated from the stain. Balaam knelt and traced the spot with his fingers. Here. This was where she had met her end.

  He called to the shadows. While they spun a connection between worlds, he stood and took a deep breath. An image formed in the air, a picture of this chamber as it had been on a night two moons ago. In the picture much of the rubble was gone, although some debris littered the floor. The surface of the scrying pool glistened as Lady Sybelle lay against it. Blood streaked her aristocratic features; her black dress was ripped and powdered with dust. A man in southern garb entered the frame. He was not overly large or intimidating, but Lady Sybelle stiffened as he approached.

  “Where is she?” the man asked. His voice was low and coarse, like two river stones scraping together.

  When she did not answer, the man grabbed her with both hands. “Tell me where she is!”

  Lady Sybelle looked up at him. No, beyond him. Northward. “You have her eyes,” she whispered.

  The man shook her back and forth. “Where is…?”

  Her eyes took on a sudden clarity and focused on his face. “Find Erebus. Your moth—”

  The man jerked back as streamers of smoke rose from her body. Flames lit up the sanctum, highlighting the cracks running through the walls. Lady Sybelle was burning, but Balaam studied her foe. So this is the scion.

  There was nothing remarkable about the man on the surface. But Balaam looked into the man's eyes and saw his own reflection in their flat surfaces.

  Balaam brushed the detritus from his gloves. Lady Sybelle's demise was unfortunate, but far worse was her infidelity at the end. She had betrayed her liege, her people, and her family. He couldn't understand why she would do such a thing. It went against everything he lived for: there was no self, only duty. Balaam glanced around at the destruction. So much potential lost. So much time wasted.

  A sliding footstep stirred the dust behind him. Balaam turned to meet his contact. The man was short. Loose folds of skin around his eyes and under his chin hinted he had once been pudgier, but no doubt the last few weeks had been hard on him. After Sybelle's fall, her favored priests found few allies in the new regime. But they had reemerged from the shadows since Lord Talus's victory like maggots spilling from a rotten corpse.

  “I am Willich, second archaract of the high fane.” His pale lips twitched as he nodded. “What message has the Master for me?”

  His tone was sharp, almost insolent. Balaam made no movement, except to touch the pommel of his kalishi sword with the small finger of his right hand. The gesture was enough to make the priest gulp. His tiny eyes retreated farther into their nests of puckered skin.

  “How did this happen?” Balaam didn't look down, but he made it clear what he meant.

  The priest licked his lips, which continued to wriggle like two albino worms. “The Dark Mother was overcome by a stranger who came in the night. He made some trouble with the duke's son, and then the people rose up. My brothers and I tried to help—”

  “Tried? Where were you when the scion came for her? Where were your brothers? You who swore to give your lives at her whim. No. You ran.”

  “No!”

  “You hid in some dank hole like a rat.”

  “No!” The priest clutched the robe at his chest where the black amulet of his faith swung. “How dare you question me, Talon? I have met the new Master. Lord Talus has every confidence in my loyalty.”

  A sad statement of these times. Talus had a reputation for expediency. As ruthless as he was successful, he had been waging a winning campaign in the west before this. Now he was shoring up the losses from Lady Sybelle's failure, and who knew what delays that would mean.

  The priest was still blustering. “I shall be on the council that rules Liovard when the new Master departs.”

  Balaam curled his fingers around the sword hilt. The warlord's plans were none of his concern. Unfortunately, the priest kept talking, faster with every word as if to prove his value.

  “He has announced he will punish those responsible. Everyone knows this menace came from the south. From Nimea, the old whore. The new Master will punish her—”

  The priest gasped and put a hand to his loose belly. Balaam held himself rigid, arm extended. “You failed Lady Sybelle,” he said. “And failed the one and only Master.”

  Balaam retracted his sword. The priest sighed as the black blade left his body; then he toppled to the floor. Balaam swept the kalishi sword in a half-circle to clear the gore, wiped it on the priest's wide back, and slid it back into the scabbard. The blood called to him, but he resisted, sickened by the idea of feeding from this slug.

  Finished here, Balaam left the temple through a fissure in the leaning walls. The sky was laden with heavy black clouds, but the city was awash in darting yellow-and-red light as the fires spread. Bodies sprawled on the cobblestones seeped in blood and ash. None escaped the wrath of Lord Talus, none except the city's former ruler, whom Balaam heard had escaped during the assault. Now entire wards of Liovard burned while soldiers searched for the missing sovereign.

  This is how the world will be remade. By fire and shadow. The Master foresaw it, and now it comes to pass.

  A shadow floated down to settle on his shoulder. Balaam listened to its message before sending it off. The trail in Liovard was cold. If he had been summoned sooner…but there was no use dwelling on that.

  Calling upon the darkness, he turned his back on Lady Sybelle's failed experiment and stepped though the forming portal.

  The snow-clad tops of the Drakstag Mountains chewed at
the underbelly of a dreary sky as the caravan made torturous progress up the narrow pass. Caim watched a line of thunderclouds approach from the east, crowding out the horizon. The sun's fading rays reflected off sheets of ice on the canyon walls. It wouldn't be long now.

  Up ahead, the caravaneer, Teromich, peered back from his seat on the first wagon, wearing his customary frown. You feel them, too? Watching us. You should've brought more men, Teromich.

  Caim reached under his wool cloak to loosen his knives. They were twenty-seven days out of Gerak's Rock and the last known point of civilization south of the Drakstags. The caravan consisted of three wagons loaded with trade goods, mostly bronzewares, and seven guards on horseback. Aemon and Dray rode near the middle of the pack, talking together. Or more likely arguing. Malig rode point ahead of them, his wide shoulders wrapped in a bearskin. Caim shrugged against his cloak, wishing he'd brought a thicker one. The cold, which had been bad enough in Eregoth, had worsened the farther north they went. He could barely feel the tips of his fingers through his gloves. And the days were becoming shorter.

  He straightened up in the saddle of his sturdy piebald gelding as a chill touched the back of his neck, but instead of Kit's whisper in his ear, he was treated to a picture in his head of six swarthy men in buckskin coats crouched behind a shelf of rock. Another shadow caressed his ankle through his boot and showed him seven more men in similar garb moving out from the cover of an outcropping. Caim let out a slow breath. He had expected it to start with arrows, or maybe a cascade of rocks. Instead, they approached boldly on foot, slouched low with long knives extended like silver tongues in the dying light. Familiar knives.

  Caim sent the shadows out to keep watch. Where was Kit? He hadn't seen her since last night. But he didn't have time to ponder her whereabouts as a high-pitched yell echoed down the pass, and the men he'd spied appeared both in front of and behind the caravan. Only thirteen, but the Suete were renowned for their violent disposition. They didn't wait on pretense.

  The driver in the lead wagon fell out of his seat with a throwing blade buried in his neck before he could set the brake. Teromich jumped off as the wagon kept rolling, horses neighing, and a Suete—a swarthy young man with smooth cheeks and bright blue eyes—came up behind the merchant. A spear thrust forced the young Suete to jump back before he could make the kill. Aemon swung his steed between them, giving Teromich a chance to scramble away. Then the rest of the guards arrived. The three armsmen had the awkward look of overgrown farm boys who had decided wearing a sword was more interesting than shoveling manure. Two of them went down in the first pass. Caim's crew fared better. Malig kept a hillman at bay with his broadaxe while Dray and Aemon took on a Suete together and nearly rode him into the ground as they galloped past. Dray came around quicker and slid from his steed to meet the Suete on foot. The hillman closed with frightening speed. Dray barely fended off the lightning-quick attacks. One stumble would have spelled his end, but Aemon's spear hurtled over his shoulder and slammed into the Suete. Side by side, the brothers moved around the caravan looking for another foe.

  Caim wheeled his horse around with a kick and a jerk of the reins. The seven Suete behind the caravan spread out as they approached. They seemed to be taking their time, sizing up the defenses. Caim spotted some gray hair among the men and understood. These were the old hands, the veteran warriors of the tribe. They weren't prone to the recklessness of youth, and that made them especially dangerous.

  As he slid from the saddle and drew his knives, the hillmen eyed his suete blade. A look passed among the Suete, and one of them came forward alone to meet him. Caim waited on the balls of his feet, his weight balanced, until the hillman came within arm's reach. The shrill cries of striking steel echoed from the stony walls of the pass as their knives arced and collided. The warrior had rows of small white scars across his forehead and down his cheeks. His long hair whipped loose in the wind. He was good, but he couldn't match Caim's speed. After a pair of quick strikes, the hillman fell to his knees, bleeding from his armpit and lower abdomen.

  Caim started to deliver the mercy blow when a silvery blur zipped in the corner of his vision. Caim knocked the throwing blade away with his seax knife and turned to a pair of Suete warriors advancing from his flank at a rapid trot. As he settled into a defensive stance, the hillmen separated to come at him from opposite sides.

  Both warriors had the same fierce eyes. Eyes like hunting cats. One hillman darted in with a low attack, and Caim pivoted, moving so fast with the power of the shadows flowing through his limbs that he almost tripped over his own feet in the rush to deflect and counter. The warrior's comrade rushed in with an attempted rescue, but Caim wove around the extended knife point. His own suete blade flashed once, and the second warrior staggered back. His blood looked like rich red wine dripping down his hide shirt.

  A howl alerted Caim as the rest of the hillmen charged him. Caim spun away, but took a shallow cut across the back of his wrist through the cuff of his glove. He deflected a broad, horizontal slash, and then another, and a third. Their knives connected with sharp rings and sprang away, only to return again, but Caim was always a step ahead. He was halfway into a blocking thrust when a tremor ran up through his legs and his vision dimmed. He almost stumbled, but righted himself before the Suete on either side could connect with vicious slashes. His eyesight returned in time to reveal two warriors charging at him, their knives held low for disemboweling cuts. Caim reached out to the shadows clustered in the crevices of the canyon walls as he moved his knives in position to parry. An instant before the hillmen reached him, an avalanche of darkness poured down over them. Caim retreated as the Suete spun about and hacked at the shadows tearing into their skin, and he was reminded of Lord Arion Eviskine, the duke's son; how he and his men had tried to battle the shadows and lost, though their deaths had not been his doing.

  Spots of blood appeared on the dry rock of the canyon floor under the hillmen as they rolled on the ground trying to dislodge the darknesses that had infiltrated their clothing. Dizziness washed over Caim, and he forced himself to look away. Farther up the pass, the fighting was over. Dray and Aemon were helping Teromich out from under a wagon while the merchant made frantic gestures.

  Caim took a breath. His pulse pounded in his eardrums. The sick feeling was fading, but the weakness, the dizziness—they were too much like the spells he used to suffer. And the shadows. He could hear them feasting on the cooling blood as he cleaned his knives. The sun's last rays caught the wavy temper lines along the seax blade. Keegan had given him this knife the day he left Liovard. It had belonged to the young man's father. It was good steel, more valuable than gold up here in the middle of nowhere. Caim slid the seax back into its sheath and knelt down to pick up a knife from the hand of a dead warrior. It was heavier than his suete, the metal of the blade less refined, the horn hilt smooth from use. Nothing elegant about it. He dropped it in the dirt.

  “Hey!” Malig shambled over. He had a face that looked like it had been hacked from old pinewood with a hatchet. His wide-set eyes gave him a thoughtful appearance, but Caim hadn't seen much evidence of that in the headstrong clansman. Still, he was reliable in a fight, and bigger than some two men put together. He had a host of scars on his hands and arms, a couple on his face, and he'd picked up a few fresh ones since they'd left Eregoth.

  It had taken the four of them—him, Malig, and the brothers Dray and Aemon—almost a month to cross the Great North Forest, which was as wild and savage a place as Caim ever wanted to see again. North of the forest, they had hooked up with Teromich's caravan, posing as experienced guards down on their luck. The meager pay hadn't mattered to Caim as long as the merchant was going north. As it turned out, Teromich was one of the few traders who dared to venture over these mountains to deal with the Northmen on the other side.

  Malig snatched up the fallen knife and added it to the three on his belt. “I can get a fair bit of coin for these pig-stickers.”

  The brothers walke
d up behind him, both covered in spatters of blood with a few cuts and scrapes, but nothing that looked too serious. Dray was a few inches taller than Caim and the murkiest of the three in complexion and mood. His black hair was hacked off above his bushy eyebrows, but hung long in the back. “Yeah,” he said. “And you can get your throat cut if a Suete sees you carrying them.”

  Aemon nodded. A little taller than his brother and blond-haired, he walked with a bit of a limp. “It ain't worth it, Mal.”

  Malig shrugged as he looked over his collection. “Caim walks around with one.”

  Caim tugged his gloves on tighter. Malig wasn't happy unless he was bitching, and Dray wasn't much better. Aemon was the only one of them with a dram of sense.

  “How many dead?” Caim asked.

  “All three of those sheep-lovers,” Dray said, referring to the other caravan guards.

  “Two drovers, too,” Aemon added. “And Teromich is shook up.”

  At the forefront of the halted caravan, Teromich talked to one of his men while looking back at Caim. The other teamsters were busy seeing to their animals. From behind one of the wagons came the harsh squeal of a horse being put down.

  Malig laughed. It was an ugly sound. “He's just afraid we'll squeeze him for more silver now that we're the only thing standing between him and a cold grave.”

  “We should,” Dray said. “It would serve him right.”

  “And he wants to get back on the trail without laying the bodies to rest,” Aemon said. It was clear from his tone that the blond Eregoth didn't hold with this idea.

  Caim scanned the cliffs above the pass. What little he knew of the Drakstags he'd learned from Kas, from stories about his days as a soldier in the empire's crusade against the northern wastes. The stories, full of battles and casualties, were exciting to a young boy, especially since Kas had served under Caim's father, Baron Du'Vartha. Now Caim wished the old man had been more forthcoming. He didn't see anyone above, but that meant nothing. Without his shadow spies, he never would have spotted the Suetes coming. As he started to glance away, he caught a hint of movement high up on the rocks. When he looked back, it was gone.