Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  He grins at her, and excitement flutters in her stomach. After all these years of training, she’ll finally become who she was meant to be. “Thank you,” she says, moving toward the stairs. She needs to work off the sudden burst of energy pounding through her veins.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Calum calls.

  Mercy pauses, her foot on the first stair. When she glances back, he raises a brow and nods to the plate.

  “Let’s go for a ride.”

  Half an hour later, Mercy and Calum are riding along the bank of the Alynthi River, just within the tree line.

  “This is incredible,” Calum says, staring up at the canopy of leaves over their heads. The rushing rapids of the river hum in the background, and—aside from Mercy’s murmured directions—the two of them have remained silent until now.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen better in your travels with the Strykers.”

  “Not really.” He shrugs. “I only joined last summer, and I’ve never been outside of Beltharos. Hadn’t even really been around Beltharos much until a few years ago.”

  “You lived in the capital.”

  “You could tell from my clothes, I bet.”

  “And your manner of speaking. You were tutored as a child, I’m guessing.” She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “I suppose you think you’re clever, too.”

  Calum laughs, leading his horse around a thick patch of undergrowth. “Only compared to some. My father worked in the castle, but he died when I was very young. He’d been close to the king, but not someone of much importance.”

  Mercy nods.

  He turns to her on his saddle. “You said you’ve been training for seventeen years, but you’ve not yet taken your vows. How old were you when you were brought here?”

  “Does the past really matter? I’m here now,” Mercy says. She has little reason to be cautious speaking to Calum—not after the help he’s already given her—but he is a stranger.

  “If you don’t tell me, I will be forced to speculate why you were brought here.” He grins, tapping his chin in pretend thoughtfulness. “Let’s see . . . You’re the bastard child of King Ghyslain and Feyndaran Queen Cerelia, hidden away in the forest where no one will discover your true lineage.” He bows theatrically, as well as he can manage while sitting in a saddle. “Your power could topple kingdoms, Your Highness.”

  Mercy spurs her horse forward, head high, smirking despite herself. “Speculate all you like.”

  “No? Hmmm, I must guess again, then . . . Your father was the leader of an elven resistance group in the capital, your mother a noble lady in the Sapphire Quarter. They fell in love and fled to the forest to raise their child in peace.”

  “You have quite a wild imagination.”

  Calum clicks his tongue to his horse, and his leg brushes Mercy’s as he pulls ahead. “You can trust me, Mercy,” he says, his face suddenly serious. “After all, who am I to tell? It’s the past. Who cares?”

  “You seem to care a lot.”

  “I’m curious.”

  Mercy sighs, rolling her eyes. “One of the Daughters, Llorin, was working on a contract in Sandori. Her target was some nobleman who worked closely with the king. She tracked him to his estate and murdered him in his study, but one of his slaves discovered her standing over the body. That slave was my father,” she says flatly. “She was going to kill him—the Guild doesn’t leave witnesses—but he offered me in exchange for his life. Llorin accepted. She brought me here, and my father fled the capital that night.”

  “He just handed you over?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She went with him. Or she’s dead.” Mercy shrugs.

  “Don’t you ever wonder about them?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because they’re your parents!” Calum stares at her, dumbfounded.

  “And?”

  “And? You don’t care about them at all?”

  “I don’t know them. I don’t remember them. I was brought here when I was a week old because my father decided his life was worth more than mine. For all he knows, the Daughters killed me the moment I arrived.” Mercy’s brow creases as she frowns. “He made his choice. The Guild is my home—it’s where I am meant to be. I would pledge myself in Illynor’s service this minute, if I could.”

  Calum slows his horse, and after a few steps, Mercy does the same. “Let’s stop here,” he says, already dismounting. He sits down against the thick trunk of a tree and gestures to Mercy to follow suit, pulling out the bundle of food Mercy had brought him earlier. He holds it out to her. “Have some.”

  She slides down the trunk and sits, stretching her legs out in front of her. She accepts a roll and leaves the rest for him; he’s probably starving. The Strykers work hard from dawn to dusk every day, either travelling, forging weapons, or selling their wares in markets in Beltharos and abroad. Any food which hasn’t been dried or jarred is a delicacy to those living on the road.

  “Tell me about the Strykers.”

  Calum snorts. “You’ve been here a long time, you probably know more about them than I do.”

  “Probably.”

  “We’re an ancient order of blacksmiths created by the late king Alyxander to service the crown and provide weapons and armor to the Beltharan army. For three hundred years, the Strykers worked in the Sandori royal smithies, mastering the techniques of our warrior ancestors.” Calum smiles wistfully. “Metal bent to their will; steel folded in their hands like silk.”

  “Then came Auric.”

  He nods. “The man wasn’t satisfied selling swords to stuffy, overfed nobles who were content hanging their blades over the mantles in their salons, nor did he enjoy fitting the scarcely-trained farm boys who had been conscripted into the king’s army with weapons they would only mishandle or lose on the battlefield.” A shadow passes over Calum’s face as he speaks; he, like many of the Strykers, shares Auric’s point of view. “The art of crafting armor and weapons had been lost over the years, and he wished to return to the techniques of the ancient masters: the spears and crossbows of Rivosa, the poisoned daggers and traps of Feyndara, the mauls and cudgels of Gyr’malr—”

  “—so he left, along with most of his brethren,” Mercy cuts in. “Alyxander begged them to stay, promised a mightier smithy with forges to craft the fiercest blades known to man. He promised them riches beyond their dreams.”

  “But they stayed true to their craft instead of their purses.” Calum grins. “You know your history. I’ll admit, I’m impressed.”

  “Seventeen years in the Guild provides a lot of time for reading.”

  Calum takes out his dagger and twirls it in his palm, watching as the sunlight reflects off the blade. “When the Strykers left, they split into smaller bands to more easily travel the land and sea, and that’s what we’ve been doing since. There must be . . . I don’t know, fifty of us around the world.”

  “It’s amazing. No wonder Illynor continues to welcome you all here; no one in the world crafts anything as wonderfully as you do.” Mercy reaches for the dagger, then pulls her hand back, thinking better of it.

  Calum doesn’t respond, just sits there, searching her face.

  Mercy’s smile drops. “What?”

  He leans his head back, staring straight up at the sea of leaves and the sky turning purple with the sunset beyond. “Nothing,” he murmurs. Then he glances back at her and the strange look in his eyes is gone. He nudges her foot with his. “Help me finish this, won’t you?” He holds out the bundle of food. “The sky will be dark soon, and they’ll wonder to where we have sneaked off.”

  When they finish the meal, Calum stands and extends a hand to help Mercy up. They walk their horses to the river to drink, then mount them there, riding side-by-side to the Keep at a leisurely pace. The stars have just begun to twinkle overheard when they return to the courtyard and dismount.

  “We should meet tomorrow to discuss the Trial,” Calum says as they lead their
horses to the stable.

  “I can’t—training at dawn and I’m working in the infirmary all afternoon and evening.”

  “You can’t escape for one moment?”

  Mercy shakes her head and Calum frowns, moving past her to return his saddle to the far wall. “Do not worry. They do not see it because they do not wish to, but I am ready for this Trial. I will win.”

  His eyes soften, although his form remains rigid. “Of that, I have no doubt, love,” he adds with a teasing wink. Mercy pushes him away with a sound of disgust.

  “Good night,” she calls over her shoulder as she walks out of the stable.

  “Creator bless your sleep with good dreams.”

  She snorts. “I was raised in a house of assassins. My bedtime stories alone would send your god running.”

  5

  Irella, the stablewoman and groundskeeper, starts when Trytain and the apprentices approach the stables the next morning, glancing over from where she stands next to a tall mare. “Didn’t think you were coming today,” she says. “I haven’t finished brushing all the horses, and a few of them need new—”

  Trytain cuts her off with a wave of her hand. “They’ll be fine.” She enters the stable and returns a moment later with a bow and a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. She plucks out an arrow and purses her lips, weighing it in her hand. The apprentices watch as she twirls it between her fingers and, in a matter of seconds, nocks it and aims it straight at Mercy’s heart.

  “We’re going to play a game,” she says.

  “Mistress Trytain!” Irella cries.

  A corner of Trytain’s mouth twitches upward as she lowers the bow. “You have ten minutes to ride to the Alynthi River without being struck by one of my arrows. Ride fast, ride hard, and—by the Great Creator—do not ride in a straight line. I expect you to saddle your horse and be out of my sight in two minutes."

  The girls scatter instantly, no one bothering to mention the obvious:

  It’s impossible.

  Faye shoves Cianna out of the way and seizes the reins of the horse she’d begun to saddle. She swings herself up and digs her heels into the horse’s side, then she’s gone. Cianna utters a curse and bolts to the next stall. Mercy runs to her horse’s stall, relieved to find no one has taken him yet, although she knows no one in her right mind would dare. Blackfoot is an enormous stallion, gray-haired with black feathering around his hooves; he’s fast and stubborn, but she’s the only rider he hasn’t bucked.

  In her haste, someone had stolen the saddle Mercy uses, so she is forced to ride bareback. Outside, Trytain counts aloud with an unnerving amount of excitement, and although the arrows in this special quiver have been dulled to a blunt tip, they still leave bruises which ache for weeks, if not break the skin. Mercy reaches for the bridle and tightens the straps, her brows furrowed in concentration. An arrow thuds into the wall above her head. Blackfoot’s eyes widen and he jerks out of her reach, stomping his foot.

  Trytain nocks another arrow. Mercy ducks as it sails over her head and cracks against the wall, sending splinters of wood flying.

  “Not in here, you barbarian!” Irella shouts. “For the Creator’s sake, destroy the forest, not my stables!”

  Mercy jumps to her feet, holding Blackfoot’s reins with white knuckles as she begins to run, Blackfoot trotting beside her. When they make it far enough away, Mercy swings herself onto Blackfoot’s back, and they speed into the tree line as Trytain calls, “Time’s up!”

  Mercy is not the only one in the forest, although it feels like that at first.

  The woods are strangely quiet, the creatures which usually scamper in the underbrush scared away by the clomping of the horses of the girls who have already ridden past. For a moment, the only sound is the wind whooshing by Mercy’s ears, pressing her clothes to her body and rustling the branches above her head.

  A second later, the forest is deafening.

  Seven other girls riding seven other horses surround her, galloping so fast they flicker between the tree trunks like phantoms before disappearing. Hooves pound against the hard ground, echoing like trees crashing down in a storm. Branches whistle as Mercy rides by, and they slap her face and leave stinging little cuts behind. Blackfoot snorts and twigs snap under his hooves. Every so often, an apprentice yelps when an arrow finds its mark.

  Mistress Trytain has a horse.

  He’s loud and heavy and fast, and Mercy catches glimpses of him behind her as she rides. Sometimes Trytain changes course and targets someone else, and other times Mercy is peppered with wooden needles when an arrow embeds itself in the trunk of the nearest tree as she races past.

  She leans close to Blackfoot and knots a hand in his mane, her grip on him threatening to give way with every sudden turn and jolt on the hard, uneven ground. His muscles are strong, and she can feel each powerful pump of his legs as she fights to remain on his sleek back.

  She jerks the reins to the side and Blackfoot pivots so quickly she’s almost thrown off then and there. Blackfoot leaps over a fallen branch and Mercy’s head snaps back as his hooves reconnect with the earth. Mistress Trytain is behind her but losing ground with every missed arrow she is forced to retrieve. The split in the forest is just ahead, Mercy knows, where she will have to decide whether to go right—to the bank of the river, where Trytain expects—or left, to the waterfall.

  Trytain’s horse is a shadow, weaving between tree trunks with the ease of a fish in water. Mistress Trytain herself is having a harder time—she’s never been a natural rider; the bouncing of the horse and the dazzling oranges and reds of the leaves are making it difficult for her to aim properly, and frustration is getting the better of her. She growls when yet another of her arrows misses, and she slows her horse to retrieve it. The other girls thunder ahead, and Mercy spurs Blackfoot faster, jerking his reins at the split in the forest.

  She chooses left.

  The incline is gentle at first, hardly noticeable, then sharply increases until Blackfoot is snorting with effort, quickly falling out of a full gallop. The trees here are thicker, the branches wild and low-hanging. Blackfoot’s hooves trample the underbrush, but they’re the only ones Mercy hears. She smiles triumphantly; Trytain thinks she went right, like all the other girls—like she was supposed to.

  The forest is so thick light barely penetrates the canopy, and just when it seems to be thickest, it breaks, and Blackfoot and Mercy are thrust into the open air. Thirty feet ahead, the ground drops off in a cliff, and Dead Man’s Waterfall joins the Alynthi River a hundred feet below.

  Mercy pats Blackfoot’s neck and he slows to a stop. She slides off his back and he snorts as he moves to the water’s edge to drink. His body shines in the sunlight, slick with sweat. She frowns in disgust as she sits at the edge of the cliff, staring into the forest with her feet dangling over the open air.

  A sea of gold sweeps outward for miles, the Alynthi River carving a jagged blue scar through the trees. It’s nearly thirty feet wide in some places, the water dark and churning, the rapids capped with white foam. It’s said the river reaches all the way to the ocean, but Mercy doesn’t know; she’s never seen it. She can’t imagine so much water in one place.

  A shadow emerges from the tree line below. It’s too far to tell for sure, but she appears to be Faye. There’s something distinct about the way she moves, a natural grace as she slides off her horse and leads him to the water to drink. Minutes later, one, two, three more girls join her, until all seven are lounging on the grass by the river’s edge. Some of them wade carefully into the water, nursing their wounds. None are seriously hurt—only enough to teach them to pay closer attention to their surroundings.

  Blackfoot neighs, and a second later, something hard flies into Mercy’s back. She lets out a yelp of surprise and turns to glare at Trytain, who emerges from the tree line with an empty bow in hand.

  “You didn’t go to the river,” Trytain says, frowning.

  “No, I didn’t.” Mercy rubs her back where the
arrow had struck her spine, feeling the hard bump already forming under her skin. At least there’s no blood. She picks up the arrow and tosses it away, where it clatters in the dirt at Trytain’s feet. “You always tell us not to do what our pursuers expect.”

  “The point of the exercise was to test your ability to follow orders. You think I care about the rest of them? They followed orders. Some were hit, but they all obeyed. All of them, except for you.” Trytain moves to Mercy’s side, staring down from the cliff’s edge with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “Mistress—”

  “You think we want Daughters who disregard our orders and do as they please? Do you think this will convince Illynor to allow you a place in the Trial?” Trytain’s eyes narrow, and Mercy shrinks away from her tutor’s withering gaze. “You are not clever; you are not special. You are one of hundreds of apprentices who have lived in this castle and, next year, you will swear your vows and become a Daughter. You will be a great Assassin—you’re too skilled not to be—but you’re a fool if you think it’s going to bring you honor or glory or whatever it is you seek; it certainly won’t win you the affections of Illynor or the other girls here.”

  “I don’t care about their affections,” Mercy spits. “I have always known my place in the Guild.”

  “Elves have no place in the Guild.”

  Mercy doesn’t respond, frowning at the tips of her black boots as they dangle in the air, droplets of water from the waterfall beading up on the leather.

  “Would you care to hear a story?” Trytain suddenly asks.

  Mercy hesitates, then nods. It’s best to go along with whatever Mistress Trytain asks. Below them, the apprentices have begun to gather near the tree line, peering into the forest with confusion at their tutor’s absence.

  “I remember every detail of the day Llorin brought you here,” Trytain says. “All day long, the castle had been abuzz with news that Llorin had brought something special from the capital, but no one knew what it was. I had been training the girls in the forest all day, so after I cleaned myself up and arrived in the dining hall for dinner, there was Llorin, sitting at the head table with a bundle of cloth in her lap. Who do you think was inside that cloth?”