The Vespus Blade

by Scott Baron

  That, he had taken advantage of on more than one occasion.

  Hozark opened the door and cast a small protective spell allowing him to cross the thicket of thorns safely. He then cast several deadly wards and traps on his ship, ensuring an unpleasant demise for any who might try to enter it should it somehow be discovered.

  But that was not ideal, and his stealthy incursion would be for naught if his ship happened to be found. So he also cast a few unpleasantness spells. Foul odors and an itching sensation as if being bitten by tiny insects, both of which would intensify should one draw close to his ship’s hiding place.

  Satisfied at his precautions, Hozark began the walk into town, a healthy, red blush to his cheeks and a small satchel of goods to trade with once he arrived at his destination. As was so often the case, a floating conveyance driven by one of the locals happened to be passing by as he walked.

  With a friendly hello and a bit of cheerful banter, he had acquired a lift the remainder of the way. This served twofold. One, he didn’t have to walk all the way to the town center. But two, it also let him casually acquire information as to the nature of the town, its layout, and what exactly the strange newcomers seemed to be doing there.

  He was a trader, after all, and perhaps there was coin to be had dealing with these Tslavar visitors, regardless of what they were doing on so remote a world.

  His new friend deposited him in town and pointed the way to the nearest tavern at which he could continue his drinking if he so desired, or perhaps add a little food to his belly to help absorb some of the copious booze he seemed to have been marinating in.

  Of course, the strong alcohol smell was magical in origin, and Hozark was stone sober, as was always the case when he was on the prowl. But those who knew him as a stoic and proper man with a somewhat stiff demeanor and precision with words would not have recognized the man who now stumbled into the tavern, bleary-eyed and grinning like a fool.

  “I’m Alasnib,” he said with a slight slur as he flopped down at the nearest table. “Just got in, and I’m starving. A lovely fella named Jodpur said this was the place ta get something to eat.”

  “Yes, of course,” a barmaid said. “What would you like? We have a hearty stew just made fresh this week. And there’s––”

  “Yes! Stew sounds wonderful!” he gushed.

  “I’ll get your order going.”

  “Wait. One more thing,” he said. “Jodpur also said you have fine drink in this lovely establishment.”

  “Oh, that we do, friend.”

  “Well, then. A bottle of your finest local brew to wash down my meal, if ya please.”

  “I’ll bring it right out,” she said, rolling her eyes at the bartender as she hurried back to the kitchen.

  In short order, Hozark was merrily slurping down his stew and engaged in a most hilarious conversation with one of the locals. Hozark was sharing his alcohol, and as a result, the two had become fast friends.

  And while he ate and drank, he observed the Tslavars and other offworlders who were likewise having a repast, taking note of each and every one of them, from their clothing to their voices to their mannerisms. He hoped to avoid killing any of them, but if the need arose, by the time he’d finished his meal he was sure he could convincingly impersonate most of them.

  But for now, he was a drunken trader, and that was all the better to casually make information slip from unguarded lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Stumbling out of the boarding house he had acquired accommodations in the night before––after waking the proprietor with loud, but good-natured shouts for a bed––Hozark rubbed his hands through his hair and yawned deeply.

  A moment later, he belched loudly and scratched his crotch, then flopped down onto a convenient seat on the porch of the building. Most of the structures were simple and squat, and none of the towering spires were held aloft by magic as you might find on the more wealthy and populous worlds.

  Garvalis was, for lack of a better word, homey. It had that little town feeling. And it was charming for it. Well, if not for the Tslavars traipsing up and down the streets on their way to and from their labors.

  It seemed the recent expansion had been undertaken without the consent of the locals. Those pulling the strings wished to build here, so here they would build, the desires of the preexisting inhabitants be damned.

  But it wasn’t all bad. The influx of workers also meant more coin flooding the coffers of local establishments so long accustomed to scraping by on the meager business of the local clientele. With the newcomers came opportunity, and the taverns and businesses that embraced them readily soon found their pockets filled.

  It wasn’t a lot of money by any standards, but for this backwater planet, it was more than some might see in a year, casually spent in but a few weeks by their visitors. Soon there were two menus in most restaurants. One for visitors, and one with lower prices for the locals.

  It was done surreptitiously, of course, as no one wanted to bite the hand that fed them. But as the amount of coin flowing was not only ample, but also coming from their employer’s vaults, the interlopers didn’t seem to care one way or another. It was always nice spending someone else’s money.

  One of the more noticeable changes to the overall feel of the place since the Tslavars began their work was a greatly increased military vibe about the place. The new structures were erected with great speed and efficiency, but something about them felt transitory. Temporary. Like an invading army making camp that might be uprooted at a moment’s notice.

  But for now, it was a functioning model, and they were all making do as best they could.

  Hozark spent his first day in the area simply wandering aimlessly, striking up conversations and making friends with all he met. Sharing the alcohol he always had on his person went a long way in furthering those interactions, and by nightfall, he had more than a few invitations to join his new acquaintances for meals or drinks.

  As a trader, and one with at least some coin to his name, many of them did so in hopes he would treat. And the first few nights, Hozark did just that.

  “What’s that?” he asked on his third day as he strolled toward the far outskirts of the town in a direction he hadn’t yet traveled.

  “That? Just another of their new buildings, is all,” the man trudging along the road beside him said.

  “Nothing special? It seems bigger than the others.”

  “Nah, there’s not much going on there. Not much anywhere, to be honest. They build all of this stuff without really putting any of it to use.”

  “Are they expecting more of their friends to come?” Hozark asked.

  “Who knows? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “But I’ve only just arrived here.”

  “Exactly,” the man said with an exaggerated wink. “Anyway, no sense worrying about it. They’ve got coin and power, so they’ll do whatever it is they want to do, like the wealthy always do.”

  Hozark and the man parted ways shortly thereafter. Alasnib the trader veered along the path running nearer the large building that had caught his eye. He had actually noted it immediately upon his arrival, but keeping with his character, he made a point to go nowhere near the obvious focal point of Tslavar activity until he was a somewhat familiar new face.

  The building had an almost warehouse or factory feel to it. Far more modern-looking than any of the other structures in the town, or on the planet, for that matter. Three sides of it sat exposed, facing the town, while the fourth abutted the small hill that arose behind it.

  With his usual inebriated cheer, Alasnib wandered over to a shade tree and flopped down, taking a break from the effort of walking. From his new vantage point, he could easily count the actual guards patrolling the building, versus the regular laborers moving to and fro.

  At a glance, the men and women appeared to be just like the others. But to his trained eyes, the differences stood out even from a distance. Their demeanor, for one, made them
easy to pick out. The way their eyes kept moving, always scanning for a threat, even though, by the bored looks on their faces, none had presented itself in a very long time.

  Then there was their clothing. Similar to the garb of the regular workers, but a bit better fitting. More functional. And with pockets that no doubt contained dangerous implements to be deployed should the need arise.

  The visible weapons––knives strapped to their belts––had the appearance of regular work tools, but the assassin knew a killer’s blade when he saw one, and these were most definitely not layman’s weapons.

  All of that aside, the guards could not hide their boredom. They shifted in place, or paced back and forth from the tedium. Whatever the job might be, it was not exciting for people of action, and eventually, boredom could make even professionals sloppy.

  Which was perfect for his needs.

  Hozark spent a little while longer studying the men and women. Most were Tslavars, but there were a few other races mixed in. Apparently, this was not an entirely mercenary force. At least, not a Tslavar one. And that could be potentially useful should things go sideways. Any flaw in their defenses could be exploited if need be.

  But for now, he just studied them, noting their routines and patterns from his spot beneath the tree where he seemed to be sleeping, and snoring quite loudly as well. Eventually, the sun began to set, and he snorted himself awake, his carefully applied stream of drool stuck to the side of his face.

  He rubbed his eyes and rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “Excuse me, I think I may be turned around,” he said to a group of workers who just so happened to be coming off shift at that precise moment.

  Obviously a coincidence. The type of coincidence that so often followed masters of this deadly craft.

  “You trying to get back to town?” a woman asked, elbowing her friend in amusement at the disheveled man’s dazed look.

  “Uh, yeah. That’s it,” Hozark said, pulling a fistful of coin from his pocket, dropping a few in the process. “I must’ve dozed off. But I’m really hungry.”

  “We know a good place to eat,” another worker said. “We’d show you and join you for a meal, but I’m afraid it’s a bit out of our budget.”

  “But you’re such lovely people. Come, let this meal be my treat. In the spirit of new friends,” he gushed.

  “If you insist,” the man replied with a grin.

  They walked into town together and settled in for a meal at what really was a pretty decent establishment. Hozark found himself impressed by the cook’s ability to work with such limited fare and wondered if he’d ever spent time off world.

  Drinks flowed, and heady laughter was thick in the air until well into the evening, when the conversation took a somewhat more serious turn.

  “I tell ya, I’m sick of tha trader thing,” Hozark slurred. “I mean, sure, I get to travel, and yeah, I earn pretty good coin. But tha thing is, it’s not stable. Like, take this place, for instance. You all have a great life. Work is steady, you know you’ll get paid every week without having to scratch out a living trading baubles, and it’s a pretty place to live.”

  The exhausted workers looked at one another with amusement, but also a degree of consideration for this outsider’s fresh eyes on their lives. Maybe he was onto something?

  “Thing is, I wish I could just have a stable life like you do,” he continued.

  “Why don’t you, then?” his new friend asked.

  “Why don’t I what?”

  “Join up with us. Stop doing what you obviously don’t enjoy. And if you find you don’t like this either, you can always go back to trading.”

  Alasnib the trader squinted hard in concentration at the man’s suggestion.

  “You know what? Maybe I’ll do just that!”

  The next day, the newcomer stuck to his assertion and followed his new friends to the foreman to ask about joining the labor force.

  “You’re sure this is for you?” the stout man asked.

  “I’m sure. I need a change of pace, and this is it!”

  “Well, okay. But you need to carry your own weight. You can’t rely on the others to keep you going, we clear?”

  “Clear as can be.”

  “Great. Then welcome to the team, Alasnib.”

  And like that, he became one of them. Another face in the group, growing more and more familiar with each passing day. And those days stretched on and became a week. And with that familiarity, those around him let their guard down more and more.

  They worked long hours together, joked together, talked shit together. He was one of their team, and as such, he enjoyed a degree of freedom that mere residents did not enjoy.

  On his eighth day as a laborer, Hozark “accidentally” stumbled into a sentry spell near the large edifice while delivering a load.

  “Oops! What’s that?” he asked innocently as guards came running, excited to finally have something to do.

  “It’s just the new guy,” the closest guard said, then uttered the disarm and reset spell.

  Hozark made note of it. He might not have possessed a konus to power the spell, but the careless guard didn’t know he still had Emmik Rostall’s power within him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noted something else the alarm had brought. Something none but the most observant would see. A trio of shimmer-cloaked sentries. They were actually quite skilled in their use of the shimmers, but he was a Ghalian master, and for him, they were only a little more difficult to pinpoint.

  “I tell ya, the guys running this show need to unclench their assholes, right?” he joked as he and his friends walked away.

  It was the kind of comment that you could get in trouble making about a visla. The kind of thing you’d only say when you were sure you were alone. And he had said it in front of the invisible guards. To turn him in would reveal their presence, and they knew it. Just as he had intended, but his “blunder” cemented him in their eyes as a fool. Just like every other low-level, whining laborer. He was normal.

  In reality, however, he was anything but.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “He’s been gone a pretty long time, now,” Uzabud said as he sipped on a cup of frothy arambis juice blended with crystalized ice.

  Laskar sat beside him, drinking a similar beverage. “Yeah. This can’t be normal, right?”

  The motherly looking woman sitting with them on the porch smiled as one might to a little child. She was the very picture of sweet, tender compassion. The sort of woman children and adults alike felt an immediate warm affection toward.

  She was safe. She was home. She was the embodiment of all the calming and comforting traits a mother could have.

  She was also the head of the Five, and arguably the deadliest woman in the galaxy.

  Master Corann had not merely excelled in her climb up the ranks of the Wampeh Ghalian. She had thrived. And her body count at this point was higher than that of some military units. The entire unit, that is. In her early days, she had outright slaughtered many, often with no more than her bare hands and fangs.

  Corann was what the locals colloquially called a “badass,” though they’d never in a million years think to apply that term to that sweet woman they all knew as Arlata, the kindly widow who adored the local youth but never had any children of her own.

  It was the perfect cover. And when a young Wampeh woman came visiting with her two friends in tow, the locals were thrilled for her having company. For this was surely the niece she’d mentioned on occasion. A girl she cherished as if she were her own.

  When Demelza had arrived at Corann’s primary city of residence, she had felt a little odd approaching the head of her order outside of one of their training houses. She was vulnerable here. At risk. Why she had communicated the desire to meet here instead of one of their secret facilities was beyond her.

  But Corann had spoken, and that was that. And once they saw how beloved she was by the locals, her safety and security seemed far more
stable than originally believed. If anyone raised so much as a finger against that kindly woman, the entire neighborhood would descend on them in an angry mob.

  Of course, she had also installed countless wards and defensive spells, all ready for her to trigger at a moment’s notice, wiping out every living thing for miles as she made her escape, if need be.

  It would be a shame, that. She really did like the locals. But she was a Ghalian assassin, and that aspect of her nature would always win out.

  “Master Hozark will come when he has completed what he set out to do,” she said to her guests as she rocked casually in her chair, soaking in the morning sun.

  “But what if he doesn’t? What if he needs our help?” Bud asked. “He’s been a little off ever since we ran into his old girlfriend.”

  “Well, we did blow her out of the sky,” Laskar noted. “After she tried to kill him, that is.”

  “Yeah. That sort of thing can mess with a man’s head,” Bud agreed. “But he’s a Ghalian. And a master at that. He should be immune to that sort of thing, shouldn’t he?”

  Corann smiled and glanced over at Demelza, who had been silently contemplating the private discussion they’d had when she first arrived, eager to share what she had learned.

  There was more at play than anyone knew, and the sooner Hozark returned and could be filled in on the developments, the better.

  “Samara was not his girlfriend,” she told them. “While they may have had a dalliance in the past, they were in no way a bonded pair.”

  “Sure, whatever you say,” Bud said. “But you didn’t see the look on his face when she died.”

  “There was no look on his face,” Laskar noted.

  “Precisely. And you don’t just take that sort of thing without it messing with your head a little. You need to let things out or it’ll eat you up inside.”