by Ben Hale
“Sister,” Loralyn said, her tone amused. “I, too, would like to hear about the man you met.”
Chapter 6: Sister
“Lyn,” she said, stepping forward to embrace her sister. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“You always visit Zenif’s hall before you return to the guild.”
“I miss him,” she said.
“As do I,” Loralyn said softly.
She leaned against the frame, and neither made a motion to cross the threshold. A drunken man wandered towards them, but he gave them a wide berth, as if sensing the lethality to the two assassins.
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like if he hadn’t been killed?” Loralyn asked.
“He’d be a father first, and a weaver second,” Lorica said. “We both know that.”
Lorica looked away, her thoughts drifting to the night he’d been killed. He’d journeyed to the castle to make a delivery, a task for an apprentice, yet he’d wanted to see his two younger sisters in the guard. None of them had known that someone had taken a contract on a captain of the guard. Unarmed, Zenif had tried to stop the attacker, and paid for the attempt with his life.
In the home adjacent to the hall, a child coughed, and a light orb glowed to life. Through the open window, a woman appeared at his bedside, singing the young one back to sleep. From the darkness, the two assassins watched the woman until the child stilled, and then the light orb was extinguished.
“The boy has Zenif’s eyes,” Loralyn said.
“And by all accounts, his skill with a loom.”
Loralyn laughed softly. “Remember when he told father he wanted to be a weaver?”
Lorica smiled. “I’d never seen father so angry. The oldest son of a high captain, opting to join the weaver guild instead of the army.”
“Mother would have been proud,” Loralyn said.
It was a reminder that, of their family, only the two of them remained, two sister assassins. Lorica had always thought Zenif would outlive them, probably by decades, yet he had fallen to an assassin’s blade.
“Irenae invited us to dinner,” Loralyn said. “She wants us to meet his son.”
“You know our oath,” Lorica said. “We do not cross the threshold until justice has been satisfied.”
“Are we certain it is Gendor?”
Lorica patted the bag. “I have gathered everything. We can confront him at the council.”
“That is not the purpose of the council,” she said.
Lorica frowned and turned to her. “What do mean?”
“The krey have returned to Lumineia,” Loralyn said.
“The ancient race?” Lorica asked in surprise. “Why?”
Lorica knew little of the krey but understood that the ancient race had been absent since the Dawn of Magic. Why had they returned? And why now? More importantly, how would it affect her hunt for Gendor?
“I do not know why they are here,” Loralyn said. “But the council must decide a course of action.”
“What about Gendor?” Lorica asked. “We spent years joining the Assassin’s Guild, and searching its ranks, all to find Gendor. It is our oath.”
“That was until I became Guildmaster,” Loralyn said.
Lorica’s voice gained an edge. “Surely you would not put your office above our oath. Assassins are only supposed to kill the target, and only when the target deserves death. After finally joining the guild, that was the first lesson we learned. Gendor broke his oath to the guild, and no one can punish him. No king or army can strike at the Assassin’s Guild, because we are judge and executioner.”
“There are things you do not understand, sister.”
“I understand that Zenif’s blood cries to me,” Lorica hissed. “And if you were listening, you would hear it as well.”
“I never stopped listening,” Loralyn said, heat creeping into her voice. “I just hear more than you do.”
“Like what?” Lorica demanded. “We became assassins to hunt Zenif’s killer, not to actually be assassins.”
“You can’t tell me you don’t like the craft,” she said. “You like being the Angel.”
Lorica frowned but could not deny it. “Before, we killed for the king. Now we kill those that deserve it—those that no judge can touch.”
“The people love you, the nobles fear you. I may be the guildmaster, but it is the Angel of Death they know.”
“Yet Gendor eludes us.”
“Only because we were not certain.”
“I am certain now,” Lorica said. “We know he has taken contracts outside the guild. He even sent someone after the Hauntress.”
“Many fear the Hauntress,” Loralyn said. “And for good reason. She’s more lethal than we are.”
“She does not kill innocents,” Lorica said. “Just like us.”
“But why would Gendor do this?” Loralyn asked. “Why accept outside contracts? Why kill so many?”
“I think he’s building a rival guild.”
Loralyn swiveled to face her, surprise on her features. Lorica smiled, pleased she’d managed to reveal a truth her sister did not already know. As guildmaster, Loralyn had access to archives that none within the guild possessed, and it had been some time since Loralyn had shown such surprise.
“That’s a serious accusation.”
“I’ve seen him gathering with strange groups,” Lorica said, withdrawing the memory orbs from her pouch. “They have the look of killers but lack the restraint of our guild.”
“You get all that from their eyes?”
Lorica frowned. “Do not pretend otherwise. We both know the cost of a kill.”
A dog barked and the home adjacent to the weaver hall lit up again. Lorica and Loralyn retreated from the fence, into the shadows next to a bakery. Wreathed in darkness and the scents of bread, Lorica watched Irenae exit with a small dog, the animal leaping about, tugging at the rope attached to his neck.
“I didn’t know she’d gotten a pet,” Lorica said, her voice quiet.
“For the boy.” Loralyn smiled when the woman cursed. “I think she’s begun to regret the choice.”
The dog leapt about, clearly eager to play, while the woman sought to calm him until he could relieve himself. Lorica’s smile was sad, and she wished it was her and her sister playing with the puppy, and the child that had yet to meet his aunts.
“How does she feel about our occupation?”
“She does not understand,” Loralyn said softly. “But she keeps the truth to herself. The Assassin’s Guild has its share of enemies, and if they knew her connection to us, she would be in danger.”
Lorica scowled, her eyes flicking to the empty streets. “Gendor would not hesitate to kill them if he knew their identity.”
The dog completed his business and bounded back inside, followed by the weary woman. Lorica watched them go with regret in her heart. Seeing Zenif’s wife and son reminded her of her own youth, of playing with Zen and Lyn in the yard, of fighting with sticks. Even then, Zenif was more interested in cloth and textiles, and hated it when any of them muddied new clothing.
“Do you have any idea how much effort went into that thread?” he’d asked when Lorica returned from swimming in a muddy river.
Lorica looked down at her dirty and stained tunic and shrugged. “It’s just a tunic.”
The ensuing scuffle had left the tunic torn and bloodied, a fact that did not help Lorica’s claim of innocence to their mother. She smiled at the memory, and the familiar ache of losing Zenif tightened in her chest. The door to his house shut and the light once again extinguished.
“Tell me about Gendor,” Loralyn said.
“I’ve been following him.”
Loralyn frowned. “I know we want justice, but if he had caught you . . .”
“Have more faith in your little sister,” Lorica said. “I kept my distance, gathering memories from witnesses. Most of them didn’t know much, but then I found a survivor.”
She withdrew the memory orb and handed it to
her sister. Loralyn activated the memory and the ball glowed to life, an image appearing within, showing a darkened stairwell. The memory was of a soldier standing guard. Clearly bored, he fidgeted and muttered to himself, until abruptly he crumpled to the floor, staring down at the blade protruding from his chest.
The blade was yanked out and the vision faded, the image failing to display the groan of the dying man. A shadowy figure appeared above, and then another, both flitting past his sight. Each glanced down, revealing silver masks and dark cloaks. Then Gendor appeared and knelt to examine the dying man. A faint smile appeared on his lips before he stood and strode away. For several seconds the image grew darker, the dying man’s life fading. Then Lorica appeared, her expression intense, her words a silent request to keep the memory. Lorica held aloft a small purple orb and the man managed to touch it. Then the man relaxed in death, his vision showing the banner of Griffin on the wall.
“That looks like the king’s castle,” Loralyn said, a scowl on her face. “Who did he kill?”
“Just the guard,” Lorica said. “They left the bloody sword next to the king, and a nick on the prince’s arm.”
“A warning,” Loralyn said. “But why?”
“I assume Gendor wants the king to know he can be killed,” Lorica said.
“And his companions?”
“I do not know,” Lorica said. “But I spotted him in Ilumidora before he met with the guildmaster of the Thieves Guild.”
“The Thieves Guild may be at war with the Ravens,” Loralyn said. “I doubt he is seeking an alliance with the guild, but maybe the guildmaster wanted to take a contract on the Ravens.”
Lorica had not thought of that, but she forged ahead. “Whoever his companions are, they are lethal. I managed to follow one to the dwarven kingdom, where he infiltrated and killed the wife of a clan prince.”
Loralyn was silent, her expression hard and calculating. “We must tread carefully, sister.”
“Why?” Lorica asked. “You’ve already summoned a council. Let us challenge him and claim our vengeance.”
“And what about his companions?” Lorica asked, turning to face her. “What if he has trained more?”
She snorted derisively. “He is not one who trains.”
Loralyn cocked her head to the side. “Indeed. He is one who controls. But the greater question is, how have we not noticed his followers?”
“I’ve seen two of the cockroaches,” Lorica said.
“Where there is one . . .”
“There are more,” Lorica said. “So tomorrow?”
Loralyn regarded her for several moments, and Lorica held her breath. After a decade of waiting, plotting, hunting, she sensed the moment had come, and desperately wanted to demand the truth from Gendor, and then kill him.
“Tomorrow,” Loralyn said with a nod. “If the moment comes that I can confront him, I will do so.”
“Finally,” Lorica said.
“But be warned,” Loralyn said, a small smile on her face at Lorica’s anticipation. “He has friends among the council, and they will not handle a challenge well.”
“Rest easy,” Lorica said, her smile wide. “Tomorrow we kill Zenif’s killer.”
Her eyes returned to the weaver hall, and the home at its side. She wanted her family unified, not broken and alone. She wanted to see her nephew, to teach him a blade, to see him become like Zenif. Only Gendor stood in the way.
Until tomorrow.
Chapter 7: The Unspoken
Shadow took his journey west, across the plains of Talinor toward Keese. Instead of flying at night, he visited the taverns and inns, blending into the shadows in order to listen. When possible, he asked those with influence regarding the Order of Ancients. Few answered, but Shadow followed them afterward, and from their subsequent conversations he learned a great deal.
By the time he was passing Herosian he’d begun to discover the truth. The Order of Ancients had apparently been around for ages, but their hopes for a return of the ancient race were disregarded by most. After the Mage Wars, someone had united the various factions of the Order, and the Order had seen a significant rise afterword. Despite their gathering strength, the Order had quietly drifted into obscurity. Until now.
Shadow spoke to one man in Herosian, a minor Lord too into his drink to notice the questioning. He didn’t give any answers to Shadow, and actually had him thrown from the tavern. But Shadow crept back inside, and from the darkness, listened to the man’s boasts. When he’d learned all he could, Shadow cut the wood beneath his chair, so that when the man went to rise, he fell on his backside. Smiling to himself, Shadow departed, and pondered what he’d learned about the Order and its connection to the Bloodsworn.
He’d heard one of the killers in the Thieves Guild say the name, but the term was new to him. Unlike the Order, the Bloodsworn had only existed for a short time. At first, Shadow heard only rumors, until he found a man in a small village a day’s ride from Herosian. There he overheard a captain in the Talinorian army talking of an absence of mercenary killers. Overnight, hundreds had simply disappeared from the cities of Talinor. The captain assumed they had moved on, but Shadow got a different impression.
They had been gathered.
On impulse, Shadow turned aside from Keese and returned to Herosian, this time at night. The moon was too bright for a dragon, so he cast a tigron, and rode the great cat across the plains, arriving well before dawn.
Shadow forewent the closed gates and sent a thread of shadow up the outer wall. Dismissing the tigron, he ascended the wall to the battlements and crept across the parapet. Two soldiers stood talking nearby, while a third, a woman, stood a short distance apart.
“Why won’t you come to the tavern with me?” one of the two men said, leering. “I can show you a good evening.”
“I already said no,” the woman replied.
“What about me?” the second man said arrogantly. “Too pretty for us?”
Shadow paused and crept up behind the two men, who had taken a step toward the woman. With great care, Shadow attached a thread of darkness to the boots of the men, and then tossed it over a pole of a banner. From there he attached it to a heavy stone intended for repairing a section of the wall.
One of the men reached for the woman’s shoulder, calling her by name, and the woman flinched away. Shadow took that moment to kick the stone from the battlements. The two men yelped as they were flipped upside down and knocked into the wall, their helmets striking the stone. Their cries of surprise went silent and their bodies slacked in unconsciousness.
The woman turned to find Shadow at her side, and her eyes flicked to the two unconscious men. “You’re not supposed to be up here,” she said, a small smile on her face.
“My apologies,” Shadow said. “I noticed some insects that needed squashing.”
She smiled and then suppressed it. “I can take care of myself.”
“Perhaps it was I that was uneasy,” Shadow said.
The woman laughed. “Who are you?”
“Shadow.”
“That’s not a name.”
“That’s what they call me,” Shadow said.
“Well, they call me Indra.”
“Did the beauty come with the name?”
She grunted and pointed to the two men. “You’re as bad as they are.”
“You wound me,” Shadow said, feigning indignation. “I’m much better at it than they are.”
She laughed and motioned to him. “I live in the sixth ring, north side, by the Ram’s Horn Inn.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Maybe,” she said.
He grinned and walked toward the back of the parapet, and then impulsively turned. “Do you know anything about the Bloodsworn?”
“A dangerous question,” the woman said, her smile fading.
“So you know about them?”
“We are told not to ask.”
He frowned. “They are a threat against the people. Surely the gu
ard have been informed of them.”
“The Bloodsworn are a mystery,” she said, glancing about as if merely speaking their name would invite retaliation. “But all the guard know the truth. In the last three decades men and women have gone missing, disappearing without a hint as to their fate.”
“And you think it’s the Bloodsworn?”
“The taken have one thing in common,” she said. “They were those that spoke against the Order of Ancients.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard of a connection between the Order of Ancients and the Bloodsworn,” Shadow said.
“We are told not to investigate the disappearances.”
Shadow looked to the city sprawled out beneath them—the seven circles progressively smaller until the castle at the heart of the city. It seemed impossible that word of the Order and the Bloodsworn had escaped Elenyr’s notice and the notice of the other fragments. After spending so much time among the people, they knew a great deal, but the Order’s gift for silence had kept the truth from reaching even the fragment’s ears.
Such an effort to keep a truth hidden implied intent, but who did they want to keep the secret from? If the city guard were being instructed not to investigate, someone high in the kingdom was involved, a general, a prince, or even King Porlin.
Shadow frowned when a flicker of suspicion crept into his thoughts. The Order and the Bloodsworn behaved like they were afraid of discovery, but who did they fear? If not the wrath of kings, who was more dangerous?
Draeken.
The thought came quickly, and Shadow sensed its truth. The ancients may have returned to Lumineia recently, but the Order had set themselves against Elenyr and Draeken’s fragments long before. The only question was why.
“You have been most helpful,” he said, inclining his head.
“Speaking their name will invite reprisal,” she warned.
“Perhaps that is exactly what I seek.” He stepped to the edge of the battlements.
“Will I see you again?”
“If you’re lucky.”
She snorted in amusement and he stepped free. Catching the shadows on the wall, he slowed his momentum and dropped to the ground below, his thoughts already shifting to the Bloodsworn.