“Yet by nature, that’s what they were: magical. They were born with innate gifts, yet denied their very nature because they were afraid of what they could do with it.”
“Sounds cowardly,” Darthek remarked.
“Quite! A few hundred years went by and eventually the rahee forgot they had magic at all. Yet there were some who stumbled upon their own gifts. When I took over this kingdom, I was aware of two. One was the prince, whom I slayed myself. The other is my loose end: a rahenyan gypsy who my spies suspect is going by the name, ‘Melah.’”
“So she is a nomad?”
“Of a unique cut. When the rahee refer to gypsies, they speak of their kin who live outside of the cities and try to revive the old ways. They follow the teachings of a re’shahna like myself. His name is Patchi. We are similar in that he wants to nurture the gifted and revive the rahee’s former glory. However, we tend to disagree on how to deal with the nimurah.”
“What are nimurah?”
“Rahee who have no magic at all. They are worthless, really. Hollow shells of what was meant to be a great and powerful race. I took this city to revive the gifted. I have reaped a few from its weak crop, but it is a long process. None of them are at the same level as the prince and gypsy were when I encountered them. Yet I am a patient ruler. I can teach them. I intend to breed and nurture their magic until they become prosperous again.
“Unfortunately, this gypsy considers me an enemy and thus she is a threat. I would like you to retrieve her before Patchi does. I will give her one last chance to serve me before I slay her like I did her prince.”
The assassin stopped halfway between Shadow’s castle and the royal stables. “You do realize I am an assassin? My profession does not specialize in retrieving runaways. Not alive, at least.”
King Shadow glanced over the fur cloak draped across his shoulder. “Not even for a hundred sovereigns and an immortal mount?”
The assassin cocked his head, intrigued. His practical nature knew the value of such a reward. If Shadow spoke truly, it was worth the unusual task. “Show me the mount.”
King Shadow sprouted a devious smile. “I thought you might say that.”
As the pair entered the royal stables, the man without a name studied the various mounts inside. Rahee were famous for the horses they bred. Sought by many, they were as clever as they were fearless, yet these creatures took a step back and lowered their heads at the sight of the re’shahna.
There was a warning in the shifting and snorting the horse’s displayed at their passing. One that told Darthek King Shadow was someone to be feared.
But the assassin did not know fear. Such emotions had been extracted from him as a boy. He was never taught weaknesses such as love, empathy and compassion. Raised by a guild of assassins, the human had been trained as a tool made to dispose of his master’s enemies. Nothing more.
When that master met an untimely end at the end of a slave boy’s blade, those who suffered under his reign rejoiced, but the assassin did not share that sentiment. Where others found freedom, the human tool found a lack of purpose he did not understand.
He was a killer. He knew nothing else. Eventually, one of the guild members suggested him to a man that would become his first client, and thereafter, he forged a living as a cut-throat.
It was a cycle that brought no satisfaction. They were petty tasks. Easy; irrelevant; narrow-minded. He wanted an assignment with a challenge. Something worth his expertise.
Unlike his previous employers, Shadow wasn’t shortsighted. He had an overall plan the assassin could help him achieve. Ruthlessness was just part of getting what he wanted. Darthek saw this as an opportunity to engage in more interesting work.
King Shadow approached another set of doors and pulled out a key, but paused when he noted one stood ajar. He shoved his way inside, unsheathing a turquoise blade beneath his cloak that the assassin hadn’t noticed until now.
Darthek, who noticed everything.
A high-pitched whinny demanded the assassin’s attention. Darthek whipped out his twin daggers only to find a lithe figure in servant robes crumple to her knees before the king. His Majesty stood before the poor wretch, the tip of his horn-carved sword pointed at her neck. Behind her, a dun mare with a spiraled lance upon her crest pranced nervously, her brown eyes wide as she tossed her long, doe-like neck.
“Mercy, m’lord,” the servant quivered. “I’m only movin’ the mare to the pasture. The hart spooks her, you see… bad for her heart.”
“Your mark,” the king demanded. “Show it to me.”
The servant clawed her wool sleeve back to reveal a painful brand on her right forearm. Sighing, His Majesty glanced at the mare who backed away, her horn poised in defense. She leapt to the side when a loud bang rattled the stall to her right and grunted, her lion-esque tail whipping anxiously. The king sheathed his sword. “Get up and take the mare with you.”
The servant rose on shaky legs and bowed low before her king.
“Quickly,” he ordered.
Chin dipped low, the slave grabbed the mare’s halter and gave the king a wide birth. In doing so, she managed to bump the assassin’s shoulder.
“Watch where you step,” the assassin remarked.
The servant pulled her cowl even lower, bowing meekly as she passed. “My apologies, sirrah. It will not happen again.”
King Shadow waited for the slave to lead the nervous unicorn away before opening the top door of the rattling stall. The assassin started to look inside, but Shadow held him back. Just in time, for the creature charged the stall door, antlers leading.
Shadow lifted his chin, his devilish, red glare striking a chord of terror inside the beast. It panted heavily, as if it fought for the courage to establish his dominance. Then it took a step back and shook its white mane in submission.
Only a cruel form of torture could make this beast bow down with just a look. The king opened the stall and motioned for the hart to step forward. Lowering its neck, the hart twisted his head so that its many-pointed antlers would fit through the doorway before plodding reluctantly out onto the open floor.
“A powerful mount in its normal state,” Shadow stated. “Then, with a little magic, I made it into something more: an ice elemental that cannot be killed by blade alone.” He brushed a bony hand through the creature’s gray coat and the hart snorted, releasing wisps of icy fog into the air.
Darthek gave the mount a careful study. Strong black legs met a thick gray body built for hardy terrain. Its neck was coated in a thick white mane that framed a dappled face. Its eyes were blind, their sockets sunken and the irises milky white. Yet it stared as if it could see through him.
The assassin walked a cautious circle around the beast, which stood a good seventeen hands, at least. “And you say this creature is immortal?”
Shadow took the assassin’s dagger and stabbed it through the hart’s chest. It moaned and swung its horns in rage, which Shadow ducked before tearing the blade free. The wound shrank and closed before their eyes. An uncomfortable grunt escaped the beast’s mouth, then he shook his head as if the strike had been nothing more than a hard slap.
“Does that answer your question?” the king asked.
The assassin nodded.
Shadow led the peculiar hart back into its stall and bolted it shut. “Then I trust we have an agreement.”
“Tell me everything you know about this gypsy named ‘Melah.’”
“She has an innate gift that allows her to control the minds of horses.”
“In the same manner you do?”
Shadow laughed. “If only I could! Unfortunately, the control I harbor stems from my subjects’ fear. Had they the courage, they would defy me. Melah’s, on the other hand, is absolute. Her gift allows her to possess anything that is equine in nature.” Shadow led them back into the center of the stable where he motioned to the long line of stalls housing at least a hundred war mounts. “You can see how that could be a problem?”
&
nbsp; The assassin crossed his arms. “Would her magic influence the hart?”
Shadow shrugged. “I remade the creature to be resilient to her influence, but its very nature cannot be erased. I imagine the hart will pose a challenge to her, but I do not know how much. Melah was strong when I first encountered her. She will be far more powerful now.”
“Do you know any of her usual haunts?” The assassin was already contemplating his strategy. He would scout the gypsy out, learn her habits, and make a connection with her. After earning her trust, he would lure her somewhere her gift could not intervene.
Darthek had tonics that would knock her unconscious if he could get her to drink them. Following that, he would return her to Velagray. A task more difficult than it sounded, but surely not impossible.
“Start in Sarrokye,” the king said. “Follow the rumors of strange behavior in horses and you will find her.”
“What does she look like?”
“From what I recall? A rahee with light hair, light skin, and green eyes. The nomadic rahee tend to stay among their own so I would investigate anywhere northern gypsies congregate first. Keep a keen eye on the equines around you. The moment she steps foot around horses, you will know it. She cannot hide a gift like hers.”
“This is all I have to go on?” the assassin frowned. “That isn’t much.”
“If you are as good as they claim, you will figure it out.”
“Do you have a timeline I must work within?”
The king started his trek back to the castle. “It’s been almost twenty years, Darthek. How much longer will you make me wait?”
Clearly, King Shadow didn’t take failure lightly. He was just the type of leader Darthek was used to serving. “Have your servants prepare the hart.” he smiled. “I will leave at dawn.”
ready or Not
The harder Jaspur tried to shut it out, the harder his memories pressed. Vivid recollections interjected his thoughts. They were all brutal images stained with blood as Rayhan’s death replayed over and over in his head. Jaspur couldn’t shake it. His heart rate elevated at each failed attempt. Panic seized his chest, its hold shaken only by a relentless swell of anger.
He found himself in a mental tug of war as he made the walk to the stable near the northern gate, calling for the stable hand even before he reached the entrance. A brown-haired boy maybe twelve years in age stepped outside with a pitchfork.
“Pickin’ up yer horse, sirrah?” The boy asked when he saw that Jaspur was alone and on foot.
Jaspur handed the boy his payment. “He’s a black stallion about eighteen hands in height with silver eyes and a short temper. What stall is he in? I will retrieve him myself.”
After counting the coins, the boy nodded and jabbed a thumb behind his shoulder. “Last stall on the right.”
Jaspur followed the boy’s directions. His fingers dug into his palms in a fierce clench that reminded him to remain anchored. His gift was a curse in these moments as it tried to pull him back into the past; back into that moment where he watched the life seep from Rayhan’s eyes—
A series of high-pitched grunts called Jaspur back to the present. The rogue thrust his ears against his skull, bothered by his mount’s greeting.
“Diego?” he called softly. “It’s just me, old friend.”
Jaspur peered into the stall where the stallion stood, his head thrust outward as he swayed it back and forth.
“Easy,” he whispered to his four-legged friend.
Diego was an all-black war stallion. Eighteen hands of sheer muscle, he had a thick, crimped mane and bright silver eyes. Diego had been Jaspur’s trusted companion since the former prince was born, yet he shied when the rogue opened the stall door.
“What’s wrong, Di?” Jaspur asked.
Something had spooked him. The stallion tossed his head, his front hooves lifting off the stall floor. The rogue entered the large stall with one hand outstretched. “Howlim ne.”
Diego planted all four hooves and grunted softly, his head pressing against Jaspur’s chest. Jaspur thread his fingers into Diego’s mane, the familiar and comforting touch tempering the nightmare in his mind. He whispered in his stallion’s ear, his hands brushing against the beast’s sweat-drenched neck. “What happened here?”
Shaking his head, he took the stallion by his long forelock and led him out of the stable. Tobiano wasn’t there yet. He must have taken a longer route to avoid being seen.
Jaspur didn’t want to wait. He couldn’t. His body ached with memories. His hands were trembling. He had to get away from this place, and away from the nightmare in his head.
The re’shahna would catch up. He always did.
Jaspur chose to walk despite his mount. Although he and Diego made it safely through the gates, Jaspur’s ears and eyes flicked at every sound with a hypervigilance that carried into the stallion’s own behavior.
Perhaps that’s why he caught on to the six men following them long before they fell into sight. Jaspur led them on for about a mile and a half, feigning obliviousness just to make sure they were beyond the city’s ears and intervention. Then he stopped in the middle of the road and smiled when six pairs of feet did the same behind him.
He released Diego’s forelock. The stallion turned around and tossed his head in a defiant whinny. The metallic scrape of weapons being drawn met the rogue’s ears. Jaspur unsheathed Lumiere, embracing the surge of magic that flowed from its hilt and into his veins.
“Is there a reason why you’re following me?” he called over his shoulder.
“Yeah. I got me a second opinion on that journal, rogue," Rethro stopped just outside of Diego's reach, his posse fanning out around him. “Two silvers ain’t shit for a noble’s secrets. I got three men here who would pay hard gold for what ya took.”
“So you are calling me a thief?”
“I ain’t stupid,” he growled.
Jaspur chuckled as he turned around to find five well-armored men standing behind Rethro. “I find that debatable.”
“I’m thinkin’ that horse of yours would be good recompense,” Rethro walked toward Jaspur, a greatsword held in both hands.
The rogue glanced at Diego to find his ears were pressed back. Bunching his haunches, the stallion stomped his hoof and gave a challenging snort. Jaspur guessed these men had harassed Diego earlier. He brushed a hand across the stallion’s chin.
Then a voice Jaspur surely recognized called out from behind the thug and his posse, disrupting Rethro’s challenge. “You waste your time.”
Rethro glanced at this newcomer that had somehow snuck up behind him and his men. Tobiano had a knack for moving unseen when he wanted to. Now he demanded the attention of Jaspur’s challenger as he stood in naught but a loincloth and cloak, an arrow notched and aimed for the leader’s head.
“Who the hell are you?” Rethro demanded.
“My very dangerous friend,” Jaspur sighed. “And he is right. This stallion won’t leave my side. Walk away now, and I’ll show you mercy by letting you live.” He lifted Lumiere, inspecting its blade with a casual air. “Or don’t. The choice is yours.”
Perhaps Rethro would have considered Jaspur’s offer if it wasn’t for his taunting tone. With a prideful sneer, the thug directed three of his men toward Tobiano before leading the other two straight for Jaspur. “I’ll take my chances.”
The rogue fell into a defensive stance, causing Rethro to think he held the advantage. The ruse lasted until Jaspur sprung into motion. He side-stepped his opponent’s strike and slammed Lumiere's hilt between his shoulder blades. As Rethro stumbled away, Jaspur redirected his momentum to deflect his next attacker’s mace while his free hand unsheathed his dagger.
In the corner of his eye, he sensed Rethro coming on again from behind, his greatsword leading with a downward chop. Kicking the man with the mace back, Jaspur then dove into a sideways roll that narrowly escaped the heavy blade. Behind him sounded a grunt, then the crack of bones. When Jaspur made it back to his
feet, he realized what had happened.
Diego had leapt straight into Rethro, throwing him to the ground and striking the thug’s shoulder with his back hoof as he charged toward the man with the mace.
“War stallion, indeed,” Jaspur muttered. He saw an advantage and took it. Rethro rolled onto his good side and tried to lift himself off of the ground only to find a pearlescent blade beneath his chin.
“I warned you.” Jaspur’s cold words told Rethro it was time to say his final prayer. The man clawed with his good hand at the rogue's blade, but it only put pressure on his neck as his broken shoulder rendered his other arm useless.
“Please,” he rasped. “I have children.”
Jaspur stabbed his dirk through the man’s back and into his heart, taking sick pleasure at the sight of Rethro’s life fading from his eyes. “Then I just did them a favor.”
Meanwhile, Tobiano squared off with the first and the boldest of his own attackers.
“A horse and a journal are worth dying for?” The re’shahna asked, incredulous.
The man laughed, but his mirth was cut short by a sharp cry. He jerked his head around to see Rethro dead on the ground and a second crony staring incredulously at Lumiere’s blade sticking through his chest. He turned on the re’shahna with a furious cry.
With a sigh, Tobiano dropped his bow and lifted his blade in a swift, fluid arch, engaging the enemy’s sword so his attacker's strike swept too wide to the right.
One, two, three parries pushed the re'shahna back. He feinted right, then twirled left, feeling the gust of wind as the blade fell harmlessly past. Grabbing the dirk on his hip, he stabbed the man in the side from behind, then followed with a fierce slash across his neck. The thug's eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground before he ever had the chance to lift his sword in defense.
These men had traded mercy for death, and death stared fiercely back at them as two more men came upon Tobiano. The re’shahna sheathed his dagger, ducked and stepped between them, then thrust his elbow into the nose of the fool on his left. In his right hand, a ball of fire swelled. He flung it at his other attacker, its flames searing the man’s face.
The Rogue Trilogy Page 49
