by Scott Baron
Corann took a sip from her steaming mug of local herbs as she sized the men up. Both seemed to care about Hozark, and while the new one was somewhat of an untested variable, Uzabud had worked with Hozark for a long time, and she knew he trusted him implicitly.
“Master Hozark is something of an unusual man. Even for a Ghalian,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “But he will be fine, I assure you.”
Bud and Laskar looked at Demelza, confused. She said nothing, but just shrugged. Whatever Corann was getting at was news to her as well.
“Unusual?” Bud asked.
“Let’s just say that Master Hozark was able to attain his ranking within the order largely because he overcame his own innate foibles.”
“Well, he’s the best at what he does that I’ve ever seen.”
“An assessment I would not think to contradict,” she replied. “But he was not always this way. In fact, as a youth, there was much doubt as to whether or not he was even Ghalian material.”
“Hozark? We are talking about the same fella, right?” Laskar said. “Scary guy with pointy teeth who mows down his enemies like they were made of tissue paper? The one with a freakin’ vespus blade and the power to wield it? That’s who you had doubts about becoming a Ghalian?”
Corann smiled as she thought back to her friend’s early years. “Oh, yes,” she said. “He has always been different, even among our order. You see, what you say about his connection to Samara rings true, to an extent. In his youth, Aspirant Hozark continually proved to be too emotional for our kind. He felt too much, and it affected his performance.”
“My turn,” Bud said. “We are talking about the same guy, right? The one who puts on a happy face, acts like a jolly drunk, making friends with everyone he talks to, then slaughters the entire roomful of people without breaking a sweat? That guy’s overly sentimental?”
“Was,” she corrected him. “He overcame that weakness, in time.”
“Obviously,” Bud cracked.
“And now his stoicism is legendary even among the Ghalian. His ascendance taught us all a little lesson about judging an aspiring candidate too soon.”
Bud couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Hozark was a softy? It was just so incongruous with all he knew of the man. Sure, he expected his ex’s death to get to him, but he had no idea those still waters ran quite so deep. It seemed there was still a lot to learn about his friend.
Demelza finally broke her lengthy silence. “Whatever he is up to, I am sure he will be successful in his endeavor. One thing I have learned about Master Hozark in the short time we have traveled and worked together, is he is not one to leave things to chance, and he never takes a task lightly.”
On that they were all in agreement. And so it seemed they had naught to do but patiently wait for the return of their friend. When exactly that would be, however, was anyone’s guess. As was whatever in the worlds he was up to.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It had been an uncommonly long infiltration by many people’s standards. Weeks spent essentially doing nothing but laboring and toiling in the company of the motley band of workers building out the expanding development.
But the Wampeh Ghalian were legendary for their results, and this showed why. What people failed to realize is those incredible and seemingly impossible assassinations were often the result of weeks, months, or in rare instances, years, of hard work gathering intel, building “friendships,” and gaining proximity.
It was akin to the great Bantoo philosopher Aukratzi’s saying: “The ease of mastery comes with the effort of training.”
In this, the Ghalian were certainly of the same mind, though they had also adopted a much more martial mantra as well: “The more one sweats and bleeds in training, the less one bleeds and dies in battle.”
Thus it was that Hozark did what seemed like the most un-assassin thing possible. He worked as a menial grunt, whining about his day and drinking away the aches and pains every night with his new comrades.
Of course, his lifelong training regimen had given him the muscle tone that made these labors seem trivial by comparison. But he grumbled and groaned all the same, endearing himself to his likewise whinging friends.
He had found a groove, and as a good worker––but not so good as to stand out particularly––he had been shifted to more important tasks. One of which was using the smaller floating conveyances pushed by hand to deliver containers to the mysterious building on the outskirts of town.
It was being worked on inside, so whatever was being done to it was still hidden from view. And for whom it was being made was still a question mark. But Hozark had spent enough time in proximity to the structure now to have marked out all of the actual guards blending in with the workers, as well as the handful of shimmer-cloaked sentries who shifted positions like clockwork.
Sentries on a fixed schedule. It was the sort of thing people like he so enjoyed coming across. It was almost like a gift-wrapped roadmap to incursion. Truly well-versed guard captains knew better. They knew to mix up the routine daily, if not hourly, so as to not allow one such as Hozark to learn their patterns.
But these men were lax in that regard. And the master assassin was certainly not going to look this gift Malooki in the mouth.
After weeks of observation, it seemed clear that the multiple entrances to the large facility were unimportant. Not decoys, per se, but they led to parts of the structure that were seemingly benign in nature.
The back of the building, however, where it abutted the hill, possessed a small, hidden entrance. Very few deliveries were made in the vicinity of that one, and they were never taken inside, but merely deposited nearby, as if being stored temporarily.
Hozark knew better.
Of course, the door was hidden, and as such, no one had seen it used who wasn’t supposed to. No one but Hozark, that is. He had adopted the habit of taking surreptitious naps on his breaks beneath a nearby shade tree. It was a position that allowed him just the slightest glimpse of the rear of the building.
It was all he needed. In just a few days he’d observed everything he required for his next steps.
At the end of the third week he found himself delivering a load of crates to the area at the rear of the building. It seemed the man who normally made that delivery had gotten sick after breakfast that morning.
The little droplet of toxic slime mold that grew on this world that Hozark had mixed in with his meal might have had something to do with it.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” the man asked as he caught his breath between bouts of vomiting.
“Of course,” Alasnib the trader had replied. “You’re a good friend, Tiku. I’m sure you’d do the same for me if positions were reversed.”
“Thanks, Alasnib. You know, I’m really glad you decided to stick around and join us.”
“It’s been exhausting, I’ll admit. But also a lot more stable than trading, though I do miss it a bit.”
“Well, you can alwa––” he started, then spun away as a fresh stream of bile rose from the depths of his belly.
Hozark patted him on the back. “You just feel better, my friend. Good old Alasnib will make sure your deliveries are handled. You won’t be docked any pay on my watch!”
Tiku merely nodded his thanks as his body trembled from the dry heaves that took hold of him.
Hozark headed off to hurry through his own work so he would be free the rest of the day. He knew it might draw a little attention that he was suddenly so efficient, but he reasoned a single day of faster work would likely not catch anyone’s eye. Especially not while they were preoccupied with their own tasks, as people typically were.
He finished up the bulk of his work, then gathered up Tiku’s deliveries and headed to the back of the structure to deposit the full crates, which would be brought inside later by the as-of-yet unseen denizens of that secret area.
He was unloading the cargo when he noted a nearby guard scrutinizing him. He must have notice
d this was not the usual delivery person. Hozark hummed and went about his work, stacking the crates high and putting the floating conveyance to the side where it would eventually be loaded with empty container for re-use. Then he casually trotted back to get his next load, quickly blending in with the other workers.
On his return trip, the same guard was still on shift, and he once again kept an eye on this particular laborer working in his area. Hozark was mildly inconvenienced by this development, but he had learned many tricks in his day, and it seemed this was the time to utilize one of them.
He unloaded the crates, then leaned against one of them and began picking his nose.
Not just casually picking. He was really digging in there, then examining his finger with great interest before thrusting it into his nose again, digging like a dwarf mining for gemstones.
It was a funny psychological trick, and one that worked more often than not.
When under scrutiny, simply picking one’s nose tended to make people look away. It was a completely involuntary action that had been observed and exploited by masters of mental trickery. It was like being caught looking at something you shouldn’t. An instinctive reaction that could be used to one’s advantage on occasion. And today was one such day.
The guard looked away, making an effort to scan the other workers in the opposite direction. Hozark didn’t waste a second, quickly bypassing the magical wards on the door he had been casually studying for days from his siesta vantage point. The magic was hard to sense at that distance, but with the benefit of time and focus, he had worked out the basics of the mechanism even from afar.
The door’s safeties released, and the threshold appeared where a wall had been. Without missing a beat, the assassin scanned for further traps within the doorway, then, when he was satisfied there were none, slipped inside and sealed it shut behind him.
Outside, a stack of crates was neatly in place, just as they were supposed to be. When the guard finally turned his head in that direction once more, it would look as if the laborer had simply gone off to continue his work. And working he was, but not in a manner any would have expected.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The interior of the secret door appeared to be nothing terribly out of the ordinary. At least, not to a layman’s eyes. Once inside, Hozark found himself in a dimly lit corridor that stretched nearly five meters before reaching another door.
It was wider than a normal hallway might be, designed to allow for the passage of larger items, such as crates and supplies, he reasoned. The faint glow overhead was cast by an overlapping series of spells rather than a single one. Should one fail, the others would keep the space illuminated.
It was that little detail that made Hozark stop in his tracks. Something about this felt far too familiar. He had dealt with seemingly straightforward things such as this in the past. Most recently when he tracked down the legendary swordmaker Master Orkut to entreat him to craft him a vespus blade.
Ultimately, after overcoming a lengthy series of traps, pitfalls, wards, and snares, Hozark had proven himself to the bladesmith, and the weapon he had desired had been forged. In the process, he had also found himself saddled with an unwanted item. A partner.
Demelza had been part of Master Orkut’s deal, but what had seemed to be an inconvenience and intrusion on his lone wolf style had proven to be a most beneficial arrangement.
She was more than just a talented assassin. There were scores of them within the order. But she was also particularly clever. And it had been her masterful subterfuge that had allowed them to complete their first contract together.
But that was a different time on a different world, and the obstacles he had faced leading up to that were of a far milder variety. Those might have hurt and even maimed, but the spells he was beginning to sense hidden in this seemingly benign corridor were deadly.
This was not a test. This was a trap. One giant trap waiting to be sprung on any so unfortunate as to enter without first knowing its secrets.
Hozark reached out with his internal magic and plucked at the strings of power all around him. It was almost like a web waiting to snare its next victim. Hozark stood stock-still and felt the space. After several minutes––one does not rush when surrounded by deadly traps if one can avoid it––he opened his eyes. Yes, there was a way through this invisible gauntlet.
It was the lights that gave him the clue he needed. Most would have begun undoing the wards one by one as they went, clearing the way to the door at the far end of the hallway. And most would have perished.
It was quite clever, and he certainly gave whoever devised this little trap full kudos for their ingenious design. This was a functional entrance to an important facility, and whoever came through the outer door would be on their way to whatever task they were engaged in. Likely something that would simply not do with lengthy delays.
This hallway was one giant delay. Even with the correct counter-spells, it would take time to deactivate and reset them as you went. Each light above was keyed in to a series of spells, and their visual shifts would act as a confirmation of progress, leading the intruder farther down the hall, closer to their goal.
But the doorway at the far end was a trap in and of itself.
“Oh, you are a clever one,” Hozark said with a low chuckle.
Logic dictated that workers would need to be efficient. Speedy, even. This entry was by no means fast.
Hozark closed his eyes and shut down his senses once more, focusing on ignoring the tangle of magic laid out in front of him. Slowly, it all faded until it was just him standing within the entryway and nothing else.
He then let his power trickle out to either side, gently feeling for a tug on his magic.
“Yes, there you are,” he said, slowly opening his eyes as he reeled in that thread of connection.
It was almost invisible to the naked eye. A tiny discoloration on the wall to his left. And within that mark was a very subtle magical ward. A lock. He grinned.
Locks were meant to be picked.
In just a few seconds he had disabled the warding spell and released the hidden doorway, the section of wall silently and effortlessly swinging open on a magically linked cushion of power.
Hozark stepped inside, the door sealing behind him as he did. This was the true interior of the facility, and it was far different than what any would have guessed from seeing the rest of the structure.
It was dark, for one. Not pitch-black, but merely measured in the use of power to illuminate the space. No additional magic was floating through this area, and when the sharp, acrid smell of hot metal and the clanging of enchanted tools reached his ears, Hozark suddenly had a very good idea why.
This was a weapons factory. And the forming and powering of konuses and slaaps had to be done in a very particular manner. Once they were completed units, they would be robustly safeguarded against all sorts of mishaps. But in the creating process, too much ambient magic could make the initial charge misfire, and that could be catastrophic.
It was for that reason that most konuses and slaaps were only minimally imbued with magical potential at first, then shipped for proper powering up afterward. It greatly reduced the likelihood of mishaps that way.
These, however, were being fully charged on creation. And while they were stable once that task was completed, each unit still in production could prove deadly if the wrong magic mingled with its new charge.
Hozark stealthily moved through the shadows to get a better view, utilizing the side effect of the reduced magic to his benefit. The creatures forging the devices were a deep green with blotches of black smattered across their skin.
He had come across their kind before, and always in the employ of nefarious types. Weapons makers of some talent, but with such a malevolent nature that only the most powerful, or the most twisted, would employ their skills. And it seemed that this lot was making some very powerful weapons.
A few small crates lay open, exposing their contents.
Konuses, in one crate. Slaaps in another, the more powerful weaponized version of a konus being of particular use in purely martial endeavors. Yes, this confirmed it. Someone was gearing up for a conflict, though most of the devices did not appear to be charged yet.
A flash of golden light caught his eye. There, in the dark, a pale-yellow-skinned woman sat chained to a heavy ring in the floor. No control collar for her. Not in this place where magic had to be carefully contained. But she was an Ootaki, and she possessed a vast quantity of magic of her own. Magic that she herself could not access.
So, that’s how they’re doing it, Hozark mused.
Without a visla or other high-level power user to actively feed magic into the new devices, they would be no more than inert pieces of metal. And it was clear that whoever their master was, he or she was nowhere near. Had they been, they would not have needed the Ootaki, though a visla conserving their own power would often use the stored magic in Ootaki hair to preserve and enhance their own.
Looking closer, he could see she had already had a large chunk of her long hair crudely chopped off, undoubtedly used to power some of the devices. Movement in the shadows caught Hozark’s attention, and even in the dim light, he could make out the shapes of several other Ootaki, all huddled together, bound by non-magical restraints.
They were being treated like refuse, not the valuable tools their kind were seen as. But one look at their heads revealed why. Shorn, the lot of them, robbed of their magical hair, undoubtedly by the creatures currently enslaving them.
Yes, their hair would grow back, and it seemed as if several were of the age where they’d likely had their locks harvested more than once. But that would take years, and until any sizable amount had grown back, they were just more mouths to feed and look after, their value diminished with their loss of hair.
Hozark watched in silence as another swath of hair was unceremoniously cut from the woman’s head. It seemed to be her first growth. The most powerful. But she was not freely giving it. Not in these circumstances. And as a result, much of the power faded as soon as the hair had parted from her head.
