by Ben Hale
With great care Lorica positioned the body of her sister, laying her arms across her chest and putting her sword hilt in her hands. Then she brushed the dust off her clothes, a tear dropping into the dirt on the dead woman’s tunic.
“I’m sorry, Lyn,” she whispered. “It should have been me . . .”
The ache and anger in the voice cut Shadow to the soul, and he abruptly sought for a point of egress, unwilling to witness the assassin’s grief. But there was no window in the tower, just a small bedchamber and a set of stairs rising out of view. Although spacious, the room contained few adornments, most of which were paintings. A easel sat in a corner with a partially completed canvas.
Lorica sank to the floor, her back against the bed containing her fallen sister. She stared into space, her eyes distant, broken. Perched on a beam in the corner, Shadow did not move, and wished he’d waited outside.
“First Zenif and now you,” she murmured. “Both dead by the same man.” Her voice had turned bitter, and anger briefly tightened her features. “You should have trusted me. I knew he was gathering a rival guild, but you had to adhere to the tenets of the guild.”
Tears leaked from her eyes and she angrily brushed them away, and for several seconds there was silence. Bound in place, Shadow watched the hardened assassin cry. The woman had probably not shed a tear in decades. Although young, she had the look of a seasoned warrior, the hardness to the gaze that bespoke training and experience.
Her frame was equally as hardened, her arms muscular, but that strength was now absent. Shadow realized the woman was showing a piece of her soul that had been buried for much of her life.
“You’ve always watched out for me,” she said, her voice distant. “Even when we were in training for the army. I remember that officer that tried to force himself upon me, and you dragged him into the night.”
A quiet chuckle escaped her lips, the tone filled with admiration and regret. “You made me come to where you’d bound him to the stockade wall and stripped him to the waist. You told me you wouldn’t always be there to protect me and handed me a sword. That’s when you cut him loose.”
“He nearly killed me,” Lorica said softly. “And you just stood there, watching. I remember being so angry with you, but I turned that anger on him, until I stood over him as he wept, his blood on my blade. I was so angry I wanted to strike at you, but you smiled and told me you were proud of me. I cursed you then, but it was the last time I felt fear.”
She sighed and wiped a hand over her face, as if the memory had suddenly become painful. Every time Lorica talked, her voice gained more control, her features turning more rigid. Shadow did not envy Gendor when she caught up to him.
“We were supposed to cross the threshold together,” Lorica said, her voice distant. “But now you will never get the chance. Because of Gendor.”
Her features hardened anew, and the window into her soul shut, the fragment of vulnerability sinking deep. Lorica rose to her feet and reached down to her sister’s hand, removing the ring on her finger.
At first the ring appeared like an ordinary black jewel, but as Lorica slid it onto her finger, the surface of the jewel glowed, the symbol of the Assassin’s Guild appearing, the light illuminating the stone and Lorica’s rigid features.
“I know you would want me to rebuild the guild first,” she said. “And I know that is the duty of the Guildmaster, but I don’t care. I’m going after Gendor first.”
Lorica looked away, as if she could no longer bear to see her sister’s body, and Shadow thought she might cry again. But the tears were gone, and it was obvious Lorica struggled with saying goodbye.
“I will kill him,” Lorica said. “For the guild. For you. And for Zenif.”
Lorica leaned down and kissed her sister’s forehead, and then trudged to the door. She lingered on the threshold before casting a final look at her dead sister. Then she reached up and tapped her ring on the stone above the door.
A rune glowed to life, and Shadow’s eyes widened. The rune was a type of fire rune, a trio of sharp lines extending upward from a single center, all red, all growing brighter. It was a warning for a single type of charm.
A detonation spell.
Shadow dropped to the ground and stepped into Lorica’s shadow as she stepped through the door. Following an assassin so closely was a quick way to lose one’s head. Even silent and in shadow form, he knew he would be caught if Lorica was not distracted, but he wanted to see what the assassin would do next.
Lorica made her way to the second tower and touched a second rune before moving to the third. At the first opportunity, Shadow slipped to the shadows next to the destroyed council chamber and watched from there, his eyes on the assassin.
The woman made her way to each of the towers except one, activating identical runes on all. Then she retreated to the center council chamber, coming to a halt just feet from Shadow’s hide. He retreated deeper into the darkness between two fallen stones and waited.
She stood silent, but anger and grief wafted off her frame. When red lines of light appeared in the towers she did not turn, even when the light brightened, rising to the point of blinding. Shadow shielded his eyes as an ominous whine came from the towers.
The detonation ripped the stones asunder, fire engulfing the breadth of the first tower and spilling to the sides. It swallowed the paintings, the furniture, and Loralyn’s body. White fires devoured the tower, the stones shattering into chunks of rock that flew in all directions, some sizzling into the lake beyond. For an instant the fire raged, and then the second tower detonated.
Shadow flinched as the tower erupted, the stones also disintegrating, the flames ripping through beam and support to rend the tower to ruins. It collapsed from the strain, landing on its side in a plume of sparks and fire.
The third detonated, and then the fourth, each expanding the wall of fire around the island. Shadow’s hiding place quickly evaporated as the flames extinguished the darkness in the cavern, and he was forced to retreat deeper into the fallen stones of the council chamber.
Even a hundred feet away, Shadow felt the heat as the fifth and sixth towers shattered. The ring of fire was nearly complete, with only the seventh tower remaining intact. The banner flapped in the gust of fire-heated air, the symbol of an angel.
The woman stood in place, watching her world burn. Then she took a step towards her own tower—before drawing her blade and spinning to face Shadow. Before he could blink, he found her blade on his throat.
Trapped by the stones, Shadow leapt high, but she swept her free hand, sending a ball of pure black to strike his chest. Chains of anti-magic burst from the sphere and expanded around his body, binding his legs and arms, sending him crashing onto the rubble.
She stepped forward and caught the chain at his shoulder. Without a word, she turned and dragged him toward the final tower. Shadow struggled in his bonds but the anti-magic proved impervious, so he resorted to diplomacy.
“I’m not with the Bloodsworn.”
Silence.
“I serve the Hauntress,” he continued. “I do not stand with Gendor.”
Still silence.
She dragged him across the stones like he was nothing more than a sack of flower, her strength intimidating yet admirable. Shadow continued to speak his cause, all the while he worked at the bonds, managing to get a hand free of the chains.
She dragged him to her tower and tossed him on the floor. The interior resembled her sister’s, albeit with even more weaponry. They also contained a pair of great wings, the feathers ornamental, yet unfinished. Then he noticed that each contained a name, and realized it was the list of her kills.
“Is that the Duke of Summerfell?” he asked, using his chin to point at the newest addition.
Lorica was standing at the wall. She drew her sword and placed it in a large stone chest against the wall. One by one she retrieved the other weapons and placed them in the chest, the daggers and swords disappearing until only one blade remai
ned, a sword of blood red.
“Word was he beat a farmer’s daughter six months past,” Shadow said. “And rumor had it she was far from the first. I wager he incited the ire of one with coin to issue an assassin contract.”
She gently lifted the red blade down from the wall and examined the dark metal. It was a sword meant for claiming a single life. To don it was a promise, an oath of revenge. She slid the sword into her scabbard, the sound of scraping steel a chilling proclamation, a death knell for Gendor.
“I heard he died in his bed, with a hundred guards in his castle, all untouched. They claimed his heart gave in to age. How did you do it?”
She lowered the last of the supplies and placed everything in the stone chest, stripping the walls of everything of value. She briefly disappeared up the stairs and returned with more weapons. She placed everything in the stone chest, until the tower lay barren.
“I’ve seen the duke’s castle,” Shadow said. “Your infiltration skills are impressive. Did you use poison? One not known to the healers?”
She added the last of the items, and then stepped to the wings on the wall. From a small wooden box, she collected two feathers. One she inscribed with Gendor’s name, adding it to the wings. Then she took another and tossed it to Shadow, where it settled on the floor. As Shadow stared at the feather, she lowered the lid of the chest. She stepped to the door and reached for the detonation rune, and Shadow called out to her.
“I am not your foe,” Shadow said.
She finally met his gaze. “I don’t care.”
She slammed her palm onto the rune and then stepped outside, the door shutting behind her. From the inside, the rune glowed to life, sending threads of heat into explosive charms embedded in the stones. They spread, arcing from one to another until they had all been ignited. As Shadow struggled against his bonds they glowed to life, growing ever brighter.
Outside, Lorica departed the assassin refuge, her wings carrying her over the fire and billowing smoke to reach an exit. She did not look back when the charms reached their pinnacle, and the final tower detonated, exploding into broken stone and raging fire.
Chapter 10: Shadow’s Request
The tower burst into flames, the stones shattering, the interior filling with fire and ash, cinders and smoke. The door burst apart, the burning fragments of wood clattering into the courtyard still littered with dead Bloodsworn.
The tower crumbled and collapsed, falling onto the first level, piling onto the couches and walls, burning the feathers to ash, the names flitting away. Only one feather remained, the feather enchanted to endure the flames, the one bearing Gendor’s name. The feather fell and swirled one way and then another, the heat brushing it across the room and back, before it gently landed on the stone chest, remaining there as the fires consumed the beams.
With little wood to fuel its hunger, the fire burned low, until only the wooden supports continued to blaze, the stones blackened and scorched. From inside the stone chest, a dull clanking sounded, and then the lid shifted. The feather slid across the surface as the lid lifted, and a hand appeared.
Still bound in anti-magic bonds, Shadow rolled from the chest and fell to the scorched ground. He coughed at the lingering smoke and then began to laugh. He withdrew a dagger he’d found in the chest and finished cutting his bonds. Then he stood and discarded the anti-magic bonds.
“Well played,” he murmured as he looked to the devastated assassin stronghold.
He picked his way through the broken tower and exited the ruined island. He crossed a bridge and ascended the stairs to the exit where he’d entered. From there he paused and looked back upon the secret refuge.
Smoke still climbed from the seven towers, obscuring the view of the fallen Titan. The waters, once clear, were now filled with broken stones, and ash darkened the pristine lake. In the midst of the fallen refuge, the bodies of the dead also burned, the vestiges of the Assassin’s Guild gone. Except for Lorica.
He turned away and departed the fallen refuge, hurrying down the tunnel. Lorica had sought to kill him, but he found the woman intriguing, her passion as commanding as her prowess. He wondered if the woman would survive, for she was about to hunt Gendor until he died, or she did.
He reached the end of the corridor and escaped outside, leaving through an abandoned inn in the sixth circle. It was night, but the remnants of sunrise touched the horizon, the colors nearly swallowed by the ominous clouds.
The streets were filled with people. Merchants called out, hoping to sell their wares before the coming deluge. Bakers rushed to return their goods to the shelves, while patrons completed their purchases and departed, their pace hurried. Lightning crackled in the distance and thunder rumbled, hastening their steps.
Shadow ascended to the top of the abandoned inn, the roof tiles creaking with his passage. When he reached the top he drew on the growing shadows and cast a compass, the needle of which pointed north.
He frowned. He’d expected Lorica to have departed west, toward Keese. Instead, it directed north and east, deeper into Herosian. When she’d left, she’d been intent on seeking Gendor, so what gave her pause?
He hesitated and looked west, torn between following Lorica and continuing to the Ravens Guild for the ancient map. The assassin could be a powerful ally, but Shadow preferred to work alone. Shrugging, he took a step away from Lorica before Elenyr’s words returned.
Again he hesitated, and considered the possibility that on this assignment, it would be better to have such an ally. He was also curious, and ultimately he turned after Lorica, deciding that if she proved too much of a bore, he would just disappear.
Shadow dropped into the streets and followed the compass, passing though knots of rushed patrons. His pace was unhurried, and he ignored the surrounding haste, even as drops of rain passed through his compass and splattered on his boots.
The compass led him through the fifth ring and back to the sixth. The streets emptied as he walked, and windows were shuttered. For a long moment the street was silent, and then the storm broke, sheets of rain battering the city, sluicing off Shadow’s cloak and filling the gutters that lined the road.
The needle wavered and he frowned, for the first time accelerating his step. He turned several corners, ignoring the patches of darkness for the sheets of rain that obscured his path. When the needle began to point downward, he slowed and drifted to an overhanging roof, where he shook the rain from his cloak. Then he eased to the corner and peered down the street.
He stood at the end of the road, the view of a weaver hall and home. Light orbs were visible through the windows, while the weavers continued to labor on their looms. Outside, the street was devoid of life, except for a cloaked figure standing in the shadows of a neighboring structure.
Shadow watched Lorica observe the weaver hall, confused and intrigued. Why would the assassin come here instead of going after Gendor? What would give the assassin such pause? Then Lorica began to speak and Shadow drifted close.
“I’m sorry, Zenif,” she said, her voice distant. “Please tell Lyn I’m sorry.”
“Who’s Zenif?”
She whirled, her red blade at his throat. Shadow remained in place, leaning against the wall. The woman glared at him, the blade so close that Shadow could see the blood channels in the red steel.
“Do you seek death?”
“You already tried that,” Shadow said, his lips twitching with amusement.
“How did you find me?”
Shadow motioned to her boot, but she didn’t take the bait. He chuckled lightly. “Your caution is admirable, but this is not a ruse.”
She scowled, and then glanced to her boot. Her scowl deepened and she kicked the wall, dislodging the small rune of shadow attached to her ankle. The brand rolled into the rain and disintegrated.
“You branded me when I was about to kill you?” she asked.
Her tone was incredulous. But there was also anger and rage, the fury of one whose home had been violated by an i
ntruder. She wanted to kill him, and only curiosity held her in check.
“Who’s Zenif?” he asked.
She leaned in and put the tip of her blade on his throat, her lips curling with hatred. “You are indeed a—”
He faded to his shadow form and slipped along the wall. Her eyes widened in shock, and then she spun to strike, but he darted through a window into the warehouse. She followed with agility that matched his own and pursued him to the open space inside the warehouse.
“Who’s Zenif?” he asked.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked, her voice soft and dangerous.
“The Angel of Death,” he said, and then offered a smirk and a bow. “It’s truly a pleasure.”
“You dare to mock me after witnessing what I have endured?”
She darted in, her sword swinging for his heart. Shadow drew his own dagger, the short blade deflecting her sword wide. He stepped to a stack of barrels and raced up the wall, flipping over her and landing behind. She did the same, but her cloak flared outward and the wings allowed her to swoop wide, before she dropped like a hawk.
He retreated, racing backwards up a stack of barrels as if it was flat ground, the shadows of his boots bonding to the shadows on the wood. Again surprise flickered across her features, and Shadow used the momentary hesitation to cast his own wings out of darkness, the dark material allowing him to soar above the assassin.
She deflected his strike and landed her own, the weapon bouncing off a second blade, this one appearing in his free hand. The new dagger carried a feather on the blade, and her eyes went wide as she saw the name.
“Is there nothing you will not desecrate?”
“Who’s Zenif?”
She glared at him, her wings flaring as if sensing her anger. Then she charged, her blade whirling at him, seeming to come from all sides. He fought with both daggers, and the ring of steel echoed in the confines of the warehouse, blending with the sound of rain on the roof.