by Ben Hale
The first to reach her attacked with two blades, but Lorica ducked the first blow and rotated into his guard. She drove her free hand into one wrist, knocking the weapon free. Then she used her blade to slap the man across the jaw, the motion filled with contempt. The dazed man fell onto his back, a bloody line across his jawline.
Lorica continued walking. “You think to kill me?” she snarled. “I am an assassin, and you are just common killers.”
Her hatred for the group welled up like a geyser, compelling her to action. A trio of Bloodsworn closed on her and she leapt into the air, her cloak expanding into wings that carried her aloft. Just as she cleared the trees she dived into their midst, leading with her blade.
One man went down, never to rise, a woman was knocked into a tree, the brutal impact driving the air from her lungs. The third managed to strike at Lorica, cutting a shallow line across her shoulder.
Lorica ignored the sting and kicked him in the chest, sending him tumbling into the woman behind. Both went down in a tangle. Lorica continued to advance upon the grand home. She spun left and right, leaving dead and dying in her path.
“You hear me Yolan!” she roared. “I want Gendor!”
Bloodsworn converged on her from all sides, and she took to the air. Drawing her crossbow with her free hand, she unleashed a blistering volley, the bolts embedding into shields and flesh, driving deep and claiming three more killers.
They unloaded their own crossbows, forcing Lorica to dive though the fountain. Water splashed across her frame, the mist briefly obscuring her from sight. She landed on the opposite side of the fountain, her weapons out. By blade and bow she unleashed the fury she’d caged since Loralyn’s death, the bodies of her foes falling to the ground.
But there were too many, and the Bloodsworn converged upon her, their shields preventing her from striking deeper into their ranks. Trapped in a ring of steel, she again took to the air, but this time they were prepared, and a large bolt streaked at her, enchanted nets hanging from the shaft.
She ducked and swooped over one, folding her wings to split the gap between two nets. The fourth caught her, the net wrapping around her, the bolts slamming into the outside of Yolan’s home.
Yolan appeared in the doorway, where he’d probably been watching the conflict, out of reach of her weapons. He sneered at her and stepped into the open, just as she twisted her sword and sliced the bonds, pulling her crossbow free and taking aim.
“Kill her!” Yolan screamed.
Crossbow bolts thudded into the wall, missing her by inches as she dropped to the ground. She rolled to absorb the fall and came to her feet, her sword flashing. A Bloodsworn died and she used his body to absorb more bolts. Then she tossed him away and leapt to Yolan.
He turned to flee, but she grabbed him around the neck, her arm snaking around his throat. She spun, putting the man between her and the dozens of crossbows pointed at her. He fought to break free but the red steel on his neck discouraged movement.
“Where’s Gendor?” she hissed.
“Gone!” Yolan shouted.
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you that,” he pleaded.
The army of Bloodsworn crept forward and she tightened her sword against his neck, drawing blood. He winced, and the killers came to a stop. Lorica sneered at them and lowered her voice.
“It would be so easy to kill you, Yolan. You and your Bloodsworn killed my sister, my whole family, and I yearn to return the favor. But you have information I need. If you tell me where Gendor is, you get to live a little longer. So what’s it to be? Death now? Or death later?”
“Mistkeep,” Yolan cried. “He’s in Mistkeep.”
Lorica shoved him into the dirt and leapt into the air, her wings unfurling and carrying her upward. A glint of steel drew her gaze, and she spun to see a mounted crossbow on the roof. She dived to avoid the bolt, but the bolt split apart, the enchanted ropes wrapping around her and tightening her cloak about her body.
She hit the ground and nearly lost consciousness. When her vision cleared, she felt pain from all the cuts and the impact. She tried to reach her sword, but it was bound at her side, and the Bloodsworn advanced upon her bound figure, one catching the sword hilt and pulling it from the net.
“You were a fool to come here,” Yolan said, approaching the net. “But I cannot deny the chance to gain favor with Gendor. He will reward me handsomely when I present him your corpse.”
She managed to regain her feet, and the surrounding soldiers retreated a step. Even caged, they feared her reach, and she allowed a grim smile. Instead she locked eyes with Yolan and spit into the dirt.
“I am the guildmaster of the Assassin’s Guild,” she snarled. “The archives have told me everything about the Bloodsworn, and those that now follow me will not rest until you are exterminated. They will hunt you and your master until your hearts are stilled, the memory of your faces forgotten.”
A flicker of doubt appeared in Yolan’s eyes. “What did the archives tell you about the Bloodsworn?”
Lorica managed to keep the smile from her face. “Enough to know you housed the Bloodsworn.”
They’d gotten that answer from Indra, but Yolan licked his lips, his doubt turning to fear. Gendor would never have been convinced, but Yolan was young and impulsive, and so he ultimately did what an underling did best and yielded to a higher authority.
“Bind her,” he ordered. “And throw her in the prison cart. I want her halfway to Mistkeep by dawn.”
“But my Lord,” a Bloodsworn protested. “We were told to kill her on sight.”
“I know what Gendor said,” Yolan barked. “But if we deliver Lorica, we’ll give him access to the Assassin’s Guild archives.”
“As you order,” the Bloodsworn said uncertainly, and then motioned the others to deal with Lorica.
Obviously reluctant to get within reach, they used poles to grab the net and drag her to the waiting prison wagon, a fortified wagon lined with anti-magic. She was forced inside at spearpoint, and they took her sword. Only when the door shut did she allow a small smile.
Dozens of Bloodsworn mounted horses to accompany the wagon on its way south. The driver snapped a whip, starting them into motion. Lorica stepped to the rear of the wagon and peered through a crack in the wood. The Bloodsworn were dragging the bodies of the dead out of sight, others attempting to heal the wounded. Above the house wall she could just make out the roof of a nearby inn, and a flicker of movement in the shadows.
She nodded to herself. “Let the hunt begin . . .”
Chapter 29: Mistkeep
Shadow watched the net bring Lorica down, and winced when she struck the earth. He’d grown fond of the assassin, and disliked seeing her take a blow, even if that was the plan. She’d fought with fury born of hatred, and he’d almost been convinced it was real. But she’d subtly turned into the final blow, allowing the nets to wrap around her body.
Lorica was loaded into the cart and a guard assembled, and Shadow noticed the captain take possession of the oathsword, which he strapped into a scabbard on his steed. Within minutes, the wagon was sent into the streets of Herosian. Although the battle at Yolan’s home should have attracted attention, no Talinorian soldiers appeared, reinforcing what Indra had said. The guard did not interfere with the Bloodsworn.
Shadow worked his way from one roof to another, following the cart until he could get ahead of it. Lorica’s cart trundled down the street, aiming for the southern entrance to the city. The road would cross over a handful of bridges, passing over the creeks that crisscrossed the city. Shadow made his way to one and dropped to the ground. Just as Lorica’s cart came into view, Shadow ducked under the bridge and waited.
The clatter of horses came first, the Bloodsworn steeds passing over the narrow bridge. Shadow had chosen this crossing because the passage was narrow, and did not permit horsemen to ride next to the wagon. As it rolled above, Shadow rolled over the lip of the bridge and darted between the wheels. The l
ight orbs that illuminated the street shined on the moving horses and wagons, filling the bridge with so many shadows that he passed unseen.
As the wagon passed above him, Shadow leashed himself to the wood, the threads of darkness picking him up and forming a hammock. The wagon bounced over the end of the bridge, but Shadow was hidden comfortably beneath and smiled as the Bloodsworn carried them to Mistkeep.
The wagon was carefully constructed, the wood molded and threaded with anti-magic to contain any prisoner. It was not so well built on the exterior, and Shadow scribbled a note onto a piece of parchment before inserting it through a crack.
The note was pulled from his fingers, and a moment later returned. Shadow smiled before tucking the note into his tunic and settling in. They had several days ride, and he had to avoid discovery for the duration.
The cart passed through the seventh circle of Herosian, the sounds of the outer factories fading, and the lights dimming even further. The echo of voices was gradually replaced with the plodding of horse hooves, and the murmuring of the guards.
Night was just beginning, so Shadow yawned and reclined in his hammock. There was always the possibility they would stop and discover him, but he doubted they would. So he allowed the rocking of the wagon to lull him to sleep.
Throughout the next few days, he spent most of the time in his hammock. At night he emerged. Fighting boredom, he studied the soldiers, resisting the urge to drive them to terror. These were not common townsfolk and may even suspect an intrusion to be him. Annoyed, he resigned himself to waiting and returned to his hiding spot each dawn.
Despite his decision to remain invisible, his boredom eventually drove him to act, and he was almost caught several times. The first came when he reached out to a horse striding by, and carefully unlatched the buckle of his saddle. The man rode for another mile before shifting in his saddle and dropping into the road. His pained shout drew the attention of all, and the leader berated the man for his not checking the binding.
From beneath the wagon, Shadow stifled a laugh at the man’s confusion. He was clearly a killer, with dozens of marks on his shoulder, all beneath the symbol of a skull. The tally of his kills revealed a brutal nature, as did the other runic tattoos on his face and neck. The chastisement left him red with anger and indignation, and he yanked the strap before remounting.
“Let’s move,” the leader barked.
A scrap of parchment passed through the crack, but he ignored the bold lettering, and at the next opportunity he slipped from his hiding spot and undid the bundle behind a rider. When it fell, the leader responded with even more anger, even going so far as to threaten a bloodletting.
Shadow watched the exchange, and the eyes of the other companions, identifying those in the lead, learning the order of authority. Swordsmen were trained to fight and to follow orders. The Bloodsworn were no exception, except these were all men and women who had been cast out by their respective commands. All bore tattoos of kills and the eyes of those who killed for sport. But as Shadow watched their response, he noticed a current of resentment among the Bloodsworn. They followed Gendor, but was it possible that not all supported the Order?
Lorica rammed a piece of parchment through the crack, the scrape of the paper loud to Shadow’s ears. He pulled it out and unfolded the heavily used parchment, and found the new message written in bold lettering.
You’re going to get us caught!
Shadow wrote a quick message and stuffed it back to her. Know your adversary.
Lorica didn’t respond, and he couldn’t be certain she believed him. Although he had learned from the reaction of the company leaders, he’d done it for fun and only afterword had noticed how he could learn.
He wanted to do more but resisted the impulse. Two accidents on a ride were unusual enough, a third would likely spark a search, one that could very well lead to Shadow’s discovery. As the miles dragged by, he amused himself by crafting tiny flies out of shadow, and sending them into the night, where they worked their way into the shadowed folds of the saddles and the clothes of the riders. They bit the Bloodsworn, repeatedly.
“Blasted flies,” one muttered, slapping his arm.
Another grimaced and struck his neck. “I swear they have teeth.”
Shadow stifled his laughter with difficulty, and swore he heard Lorica do the same. Through the tiny window in the door she would be able to see the killers, and probably suspected Shadow was to blame. This time, she did not warn him to stop, and he guessed that she enjoyed the spectacle.
Six days after departing Herosian, they reached the Evermist. The bog stretched for hundreds of miles, an enormous swamp that had claimed the lives of entire armies. The Evermist marked the southern border of Talinor and separated the claimed lands from the Dragon’s Teeth.
Steeped in shadows and mist, the road disappeared the moment they entered the swamp, and the wagon bounced over a makeshift trail. Much less comfortable, Shadow passed a note through the crack and then slipped into a bush. From there he leapt into the tree and scaled into the branches.
Green mist filled the air, permeating clothes and lungs, causing men and women to cough. Great predators stalked the bog, the beasts frequently drawn to such a company. But Shadow spotted subtle runes placed in the trees along the winding path, an invisible line that silenced the passage of the riders, protecting them from threats.
The difficulty of the road slowed the wagon to a crawl, and the riders muttered to each other, casting furtive looks into the dark mist. When the sun set a distant howl rent the stillness, and the men cursed and drew their weapons. Shadow again resisted the urge to drive them to madness. In the swamp, such an act would be almost too easy, but would probably get Lorica killed.
Shadow followed the wagon as it made its way through the mist, the trail swerving repeatedly, avoiding the patches of crocodiles, snakes, and the haunt of a scaled reaver. Like all reavers, scaled reavers were sentient, with a mind both cunning and devious. Scaled reavers lurked in lakes, bogs, and the sea, and were sworn enemy of sailors. Occasionally one attacked a ship, leaving wreckage and flotsam, but no bodies.
Shadow heard a swirling in the murky water of a pond, and glided to the canopy overlooking the water. At first the greenish water was still, and then he spotted what looked like a trio of bumps in the water, the three nostrils of a scaled reaver. Crocodile bodies littered the exterior of the water, the flesh consumed, the scales left to rot.
Shadow slipped away before the beast spotted him and returned to Lorica’s wagon. The scaled reaver’s lair was just a few hundred feet from the trail, suggesting it had recently moved in. He frowned, considering a course of action, but the wards on the trees held, and the sounds of the riders’ passage did not pass beyond the limits of the trail.
Shortly after passing the reaver’s lair, the lead rider came to a halt next to a lake and led his horse onto a bridge. Shadow dropped to the brush and flitted under the wagon, disappearing just as the wagon passed into the open.
Although the sun hung high in the heavens, much of the light failed to breach the mist of the lake, the darkness hanging over the lake and the keep, cloaking the fortress in the swirling green mist.
Shadow poked a head out and eyed the fortress, pleased at the change. In his youth the citadel had been left by the Verinai, and some sought to claim it. But the Evermist had expanded, swallowing the fortress and making passage difficult. It had lain all but empty until Shadow had discovered it and walked its halls like a lord. But since his last visit, the structure had been cleaned and renovated, the walls dotted with small light orbs, as if protecting the exterior against the shadows hiding in the mist.
As the wagon passed through the fortress gates, Shadow smiled. The orbs were not there to stop the mist from touching the fortress walls, they were to prevent him from entering. And here he was, entering.
The wagon came to a halt in a courtyard, and the Bloodsworn parted to care for their horses. The wagon was wheeled through a second gat
e and into the keep. Shadow used that chance to slip away, darting into the darkened halls before the gate slammed shut.
The fortress was deceptively large, with not one, but three great halls. Spires and turrets rose through the mist, the courtyards invisible beneath layers of fog. The courtyards dotted the citadel at various levels, with balconies built to overlook the swamp.
The corridors were a labyrinth of networking passages that intersected around, above, and below the great halls. Personal chambers, training rooms, and storage spaces lined the halls, the doors recently replaced, the rotting wood removed in favor of fine elven cedar.
Beams extended across the hallways, permitting a vaulted feel to the corridors, while also hanging the countless light orbs, all bright and new. As Shadow crept across the beams he noticed even the metal brackets had been replaced, the rust absent, the paint bright. Gendor had spent a fortune to repair the hidden fortress, and it looked as new as it had in the Age of Oracles. Then he frowned, and realized that it was likely not Gendor, but Serak that had done so much.
When the fortress had been covered in moss and steeped in ominous shadows, he’d thought it beautiful. Now it gleamed like the gold on a king’s crown, gaudy and shiny. Shadow shook his head in annoyance.
As he explored the fortress, he crafted traps out of the shadow magic, all set to trigger if the light orbs were broken. In the halls, corridors, and even the bedchambers, he set the traps, passing unseen as he prepared the next stage of their plan.
Many of the corridors and chambers were well lit, and those he avoided, but he found one corridor that was also guarded. He paused and surveyed the hallway from the shadows of the intersection.
At the end of the corridor a dark elf stood. Dressed in dark armor and a white mask, she stood like a statue, a disturbingly dark blade in her hand. The mask was not the silver of the Bloodsworn, but all white, with a single red claw marks across an eye. From a distance, Shadow examined the dark elf, wondering why a member of the Queen’s Hand would be here.