“Well, I did not see this coming…” Jaspur muttered.
Sadikaye peeked over the rogue’s shoulder, seeing the castle courtyard for the first time. The door that opened was, from the outside, the door to an old mausoleum.
Jaspur had been told his entire life that this door had been sealed shut along with the remains of the first king of Nevaharday. He had tried to open it many times in his childhood, hoping like only a child would that he’d somehow find a way in that no one else could. Now he realized it had merely been a cleverly disguised exit. It made him wonder how many other secrets were hidden within the architecture.
And why.
“Whoa…” Sadikaye’s gasp nearly made the rogue laugh out loud as they stepped out into the courtyard. It seemed all the effort Shadow should have put into maintaining the city went into the upkeep of the royal grounds.
“Welcome home, kid,” Jaspur whispered.
Sneaking through the royal gardens was like traversing a whimsical menagerie made entirely out of shrubs, statues, and trees. The river Jaspur knew ran through the palace cut across the center of the gardens, providing a serene trickle. There were a few benches and a gazebo along the path, but mostly this place was a small, open landscape designed to entice you from every angle. Twice, Jaspur had to yank Sadikaye aside by the cloak and quietly remind him he needed to stay out of sight.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “It’s just incredible.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to explore it later,” the rogue replied. “Assuming we don’t die first.”
Sadikaye’s eyes widened at that remark, to which the rogue shrugged. “Let’s go.”
Darting across the exposed path, Jaspur and his son ducked behind a thick hedge hugging the castle wall just as two voices rose up from one of the covered walkways nearby.
“Did you hear something?”
“Hear what?”
“I could have sworn I heard footsteps.”
The other voice scoffed. “You’re imagining things. The rebel army has barely made it into the city, much less the castle grounds.”
Suddenly, there was a long, rolling thrum like thunder, followed by a host of shouting.
“What in the Abyss is that?!”
Jaspur peeked above the hedge just in time to catch the two Guardsmen racing toward the front of the castle.
“That’s our cue,” he told Sadikaye.
Immediately, he began climbing the wall using both of the vines that scaled it. Sadikaye followed suit, eager to keep up with the rogue as he made for one of the arched windows on the second story. Jaspur had chosen this route because the trees grew tall here, shading the castle wall from view.
“You know,” Jaspur grunted as he grabbed onto the window’s thick outer sill. “It was inside this castle your mother and I first met…”
“Great story, Pops,” Sadikaye replied between breaths as he hoisted himself up the vine behind him, “but can you save it for another time?”
Jaspur grinned, more than a little proud his son had inherited his taste for sarcasm. Locking his boot against one of the stones that jutted out further than the others, he grabbed his dagger and squeezed the tip between the split that ran down the center of the window. With a bit of jimmying, the two panes swung open, and he crawled into the room. Sadikaye scrambled in behind him, desperate to catch his breath.
“How’d you know it was safe?” he whispered.
Jaspur pointed to the large tub in front of them. “Because no one is going to be using the wash room when war is unfolding outside.”
As the pair caught their breath, Jaspur carefully closed the window. They would have to be careful now. No more jokes. No more levity. Inside these walls somewhere, Shadow waited, and Jaspur didn’t doubt the re’shahna knew they were coming for him.
Finger to his lips, the rogue led his son out of the wash room, through one of the guest quarters, and out into the hall.
Soon, they would find him.
Soon, this would all be over.
* * * * *
Darthek stood in front of the broken doorway, contemplating the misfortune behind this unexpected scene. Shadow’s cloak sat in an abandoned pile while the doorway bore hoof marks as if it were trampled into the ground.
Night mares wouldn’t be found within the halls of the castle, but Darthek had heard of Shadow’s other form: a massive, three-horned dread stallion like those found deep within the Abyss.
They were the male counterpart of night mares, but far larger and more deadly. Born with dragon’s breath, the assassin wanted nothing to do with the tyrant so long as he had four legs.
Darthek trailed the debris out of the general’s office and down the hall, his ears attuned to every little sound. It didn’t take long for him to hear the hollow clop of hooves inside the foyer. Pressing his back against the wall, he peered discreetly down the stairs.
Below, Shadow trotted in an anxious circle, his head bobbing up and down in restless snorts. Each breath unleashed a lick of flame, testifying to the fire burning deep within his core.
At one point, a servant tried to slip from one of the downstairs halls toward the stairs, but the moment Shadow saw the lass, he charged at her. She scurried back into the hall, slamming the door shut just before the massive stallion could reach it.
He gave a throaty neigh, daring the servant to try again, and Darthek realized that Shadow no longer knew the difference between ally and foe. He had seen the mark on her arm. It seemed that the tyrant trusted no one, not even the slaves he had branded to align with his will. With spittle frothing at his lips, Shadow shook his flaming mane before cantering to the other side of the foyer.
That was enough for the assassin. He pulled away from the wall and retreated back down the hall. There was nothing left that he could do here. Even if he could, Darthek had no intention of going the extra mile. He had done his part, as promised. Now it was up to Patchi and his allies to clean up the mess. He would simply withdrawal into an empty room and lock himself inside until the battle was over.
That’s exactly where he was headed before an unexpected hand seized him the moment he turned the corner. Darthek tensed as his body was flung inside of a nearby room, the door swinging shut behind him.
Before he could blink, he was face-to-cowl with a towering rogue whose gloved fist made his collar an entire size smaller. Darthek lifted his chin, peering into the translucent shadow that covered the face beneath the fabric. He was close enough to make out several of the details, from the scruff on his captor’s face to the narrow, blue eyes above them.
“Jaspur. You are the former prince Shadow has been dreading…” the assassin deduced. “Now I understand why you hide your face beneath a cowl so often.”
“You…” Sadikaye nearly leapt over Jaspur’s shoulder at the sight of Darthek alive and well, but the rogue threw his arm out wide, holding the boy back.
This was the closest the assassin had ever been to the rogue, but now he realized why Shadow had hoped he was dead. There was magic inside of this one; a large wellspring of it that emanated from his body. The assassin couldn’t see it, but he had been trained to sense it, just as he had been trained to sense the murderous intent from the creature in the nearby foyer.
“And you are Darthek. I thought so when I saw you slinking out of the general’s office,” the rogue shoved the assassin against the wall when he tried to pull away. “Now, now, do not rush away just yet. I have questions, and Patchi told me you would cooperate.”
“I already did what Patchi’s spy requested of me. This is your fight now. I have no desire to be a part of either side of it.”
“You informed the chieftain’s spy that Shadow was in the general’s office. Clearly, he is no longer there.”
Darthek jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “That was before the king decided to turn himself into an Abysmal monster and storm his own castle. If you want Shadow, he is currently stomping about in the foyer.”
“What sort of state is he in?”
“Agitated, and far from sound of mind. I suspect what bit of magic he used to transform himself was enough to steal whatever sanity he had left. Be wary. Even I dare not take him on in this state.”
Jaspur released the assassin from his grip. “And yet that is exactly what I must do. If you value your life, you will stay in this room until all is finished. Once our people have firm hold of this castle, Patchi will follow through on whatever he promised you.”
“Fair enough,” Darthek retreated toward a chair only to be intercepted by Jaspur’s similar-looking protégé. The two exchanged hard glances before the rogue intervened, pulling the young rahee aside. As Darthek moved to plop down into his seat and light a candle, Jaspur led Sadikaye out the door. Shutting it quietly, he used the master key to lock Darthek inside.
“Are you just going to let him walk away after this is over?” Sadikaye hissed.
“That is up to Patchi.”
“He was our enemy!”
“He is not our enemy tonight.”
“That man kidnapped my mother,” Sadikaye argued.
“And now he is betraying the tyrant that hired him to do so. There are many like him in this world, Sadikaye, but for now we must focus on the shark, not the minnow.”
Jaspur moved onward, bent on finding Shadow before he had a chance to elude him again. Should the assassin be foolish enough to support their enemy, Patchi could deal with him as he willed. At this moment, all that mattered was one thing: killing the shark.
As they neared the foyer, the pair could hear the echo of an equine’s angry whinnies resounding off the walls. Its haunting screech forced the hairs on Sadikaye’s arms to stand up as he winced against the sound.
Yet Jaspur did not falter. It was almost as if he was in a trance. His expression, hard with determination, focused on the goal ahead like a horse wearing blinders. He barely acknowledged Sadikaye as the young prince scampered nervously beside him, his eyes darting toward every door and diverging hall.
For the rogue, this moment was his life’s purpose coming to a head. Everything he cared about; everything he had endured; everything he had strived for; all of it led up to this one moment. The time had come for the royal rogue to make his final stand.
And that objective was all he could see. Jaspur fell within himself, fortifying his mind against the influential magic he knew Shadow possessed. He could not afford any distraction. Velagray’s tyrant was his equal on almost every front. Thus, he closed himself off from everything around him.
From the halls of his past.
From the son that would succeed him.
From the what if’s that could make him falter.
None of it could steal his focus. Any doubt that remained had to be shed before his sword left its scabbard. As they approached the foyer, Jaspur held his hand out, silently signaling Sadikaye to stay back and remain quiet. When the young prince grabbed the rogue’s arm in protest, he scowled.
“This is not your fight, Sadikaye,” Jaspur’s voice was quiet, but there was a sternness in his tone that made Sadikaye release his grip. “If you see an opportunity to use your gift, do so, but do not try to attack Shadow directly. That risk is mine to take, and mine alone.”
The young prince watched incredulously as his father turned and began the long walk down the wide staircase. Crouched by the wall next to the first step, he held his breath.
Flipping back his cowl, Jaspur unsheathed Lumiere. The click of his boots echoing off the high ceiling, announcing every step. Shadow whirled around, his bloodshot eyes widening as they fell upon his lone challenger. Slinging his fiery tail like a whip, he stopped pacing and whinnied angrily. When that did nothing to slow Jaspur’s approach, Shadow pressed his ears back and scraped a hoof against the stone floor.
“Connor…” the dread stallion muttered. “Connor Clovenhoof?”
Connor Clovenhoof? The tyrant’s mind was truly muddled if he was confusing Jaspur with his ancestor. Clenching Lumiere’s hilt in his hand, the rogue endured the rush of heat as Shadow’s wet nostrils flared open, their exhale bringing forth a burst of flames.
“No, not Connor…” Shadow muttered. “Similar, but not the same. Descendent. Imposter. You are an echo of his; a weak imitation.”
Jaspur did not bother replying. His eyes stared unblinking upon his enemy as they assumed a faint, blue glow. Magic traced rapidly through his veins, illuminating them as the rogue’s aura grew tenfold. All the while, he continued to walk, his steps calculated and full of purpose.
It made Shadow nervous. It was as if his words didn’t even reach his enemy. He sized this stranger up, trying to find some chink within his silent confidence. “Who are you?”
But again, his words fell upon deaf ears. Jaspur had not come all this way to talk or debate. He had nothing at all to say to this addled, destructive creature.
Jaspur’s only intent was to put an end to Shadow’s pain before it could spread beyond Velagray. For Shadow was indeed in great pain; so much so that he could no longer see it for himself. The immortal re’shahna had fought his inevitable fate for far too long. An orb of magic began to swell in the rogue’s palm as the bottom of the stairs grew ever closer.
Panic swelled inside of Shadow’s chest. Who was this stranger who dressed like a re’shahna but walked like a king? He glanced at the rahee’s gauntlets, a twinge of recognition stemming from the onyx bone woven into them.
They were made from a unicorn’s horn. He had seen their black sheen before. The hum of its magic was subtle, but Shadow was familiar with it. He had felt it in his hands once… the magic of Diego.
Before him was a rahee who wore the remains of the black unicorn’s horn. He wielded Lumiere and summoned a magic that was hideously bright. Could it be? Darthek had warned him, but to finally see…
“Jaycent Connor,” Shadow hissed. “Yes, now I remember. I knew you would come. So long, you’ve been gone. So long… do you really think your people will forgive you?”
Jaspur responded by flinging that orb of magic straight at Shadow’s torso. The dread stallion leapt deftly aside just before it struck. A loud explosion filled the room, followed by a small crater that marred the floor where he once stood. Shadow nickered, impressed that the former prince could produce such a concentration of magic.
Meanwhile, the voices of the dead chorused inside his head.
This is it.
Face your demise.
The prince has returned.
It’s time to say goodbye.
Smoke billowed from Shadow’s nostrils as he contemplated how to handle this scenario. What bit of lucidity the tyrant still held told him his awareness was faltering at best. His mind leapt from the present into the past, gallivanting over bits and pieces of memories written long ago into history.
This strange, intoxicating state of mind grew stronger as time transpired. He could no longer will its influence away. Though he had fought tenaciously against the curse, Shadow knew his time was up.
Win or lose, this next hour would likely be his final act. If this was so, he intended to end it showcasing every ounce of power he had earned.
“Let us finish this, then,” he snorted, ears pressed back against his skull. “Show me what strength is left in Connor’s line, and I will show you mine.”
Jaspur tensed as Shadow began to summon his internal magic. Calling upon both his internal power as well as Lumiere’s, the rogue encased himself in a magical shield, steeling his mind for whatever was to come.
In the past, the rogue didn’t know for certain when Shadow’s illusions struck. They were always subtly crafted and incredibly real, forcing him to question what was fact and what was figment.
This time, though, Shadow chose a more blunt approach. Voices rose up all around the rogue, whispering taunts.
You cannot defeat him.
Soon, you will be one of us.
Why fight for a throne you never deserved?
Give up.
Give up.
Give
up!
Jaspur’s eyes widened. For a moment, he did falter, for every one of those voices were familiar to him. Squeezing Lumiere’s hilt in his hand, he took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Ah, now you hear them,” Shadow cackled. “But how does he know their voices, you wonder? How did Shadow fabricate them all? The truth is that I didn’t, and that is the most delectable part of this illusion, dear prince.” He spat out the rogue’s formal title like the joke they both believed it was. “The illusion is not yours, but mine. These are the voices of the dead that follow me; the ghosts of madness, my healers claimed. I was told it is all a figment of my imagination, but I suspected differently. These are my victims, and I can tell by your face you know them all.”
One-by-one, he began to see them. His father, King Donovan. His mother, Queen Wenna. Rayhan Mendeley. Siren Mendeley. Arelee Denicarli. Halin Redwood. Family, friends, legends… All of them stood behind the dread stallion’s form, speaking at once.
Why do you keep fighting?
He is stronger than you think.
Give up…
Give up!
“Give up!” Jaspur snarled. He leapt forward, transforming into his own equine form. Shadow spooked, cantering away from the now eighteen hand stallion bristling with muscle.
Jaspur fell into an easy trot, hooves hard as diamonds clopping beneath thick, mahogany feathering as he sized Shadow up. “Give up,” he said again, echoing the voices of the dead. “Those words are for you, Shadow Silverhorn, not me. Listen to them, and listen well. I have endured every trial, including death, in preparation for this day. The throne you claim is not yours. It never was, and now it is time for a Connor to take it back.”
Shadow’s fear was now palpable. The tyrant gaped at Jaspur’s equine form, including the two horns upon his brow: one brown and the other pearlescent white.
“A Regal,” Shadow murmured, identifying his breed. “Of course… You may have survived the Awakening, Jaycent Connor, but you will not survive me. Not a second time. Your heart yearns to reunite with the dead, and I will give it what it wants.”
Jaspur felt no fear in the face of his enemy’s jeers. He leapt forward, coming after the tyrant with raking hooves. The re’shahna countered with a swing of his three horns, to which Jaspur bowed his head, deflecting the swing with his own bony lances.
The Rogue Trilogy Page 107
