The Vespus Blade

by Scott Baron

  “Be seein’ ya, Hozark.”

  “Not if I see you first,” the Wampeh replied.

  It was a common saying, but when deadly assassins were involved, it could, at times, have a more menacing connotation. But not today.

  “Come on, Laskar. Let’s go and get ourselves properly wasted.”

  “I like the sound of that,” he replied, following his pilot into their ship.

  A moment later, they rose high into the air and were gone.

  All five of the Ghalian masters were gathered at the hidden training house on a bustling but unexceptional commerce world. Master Prombatz had taken the longest to join them, having spent a significant amount of time at the side of the young Wampeh who had been forcibly taken. A horrible error by assailants who had intended to capture the Ghalian master instead.

  Aargun would pull through, but some of his injuries were so severe that it was clear he would never again return to Ghalian life. The order would provide for him, though. He had been taken from them in the course of honoring a contract, and for the rest of his days, he would want for nothing.

  “Your contracts are valid once more,” Corann informed the others. “After a thorough review of all contact that was made between the various players employed in the Council’s little scheme, it is now clear that they had only planned the one attack. The other contracts are legitimate.”

  “Of course, we double-checked their makers as well,” Master Varsuvala added. “It only made sense to do so while we were already investigating the other.”

  “This threat is neutralized, but for how long?” Master Prombatz asked. “We have seen what they have done, but we still do not know to what end.”

  “No, we do not. And your concerns are shared. But our people are hard at work to track down the threads of that mystery.”

  “And we are keeping very close tabs on Vislas Ravik and Maktan,” Hozark added. “Though the latter seems quite harmless.”

  “The most dangerous often do, as we well know,” Varsuvala said.

  “Indeed,” he agreed. “And I am sure we will have more surprises to come. For now, however, we have recovered our lost brother and stopped our enemy in their tracks. The rest will unfold in due time.” He rose and gave a little nod to the others. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have one other matter to attend to.”

  Demelza was drenched in sweat, running through all of her sword techniques back to back, over and over. She had been at it for hours. But after coming so close to defeat at the hands of Samara, she would be at it for hours more. Every day until she felt she might, possibly, stand a chance against her.

  Hozark watched her from the training room doorway a bit while she flowed through the forms.

  “Are you just going to stare, or do you plan on joining me?” she finally asked, spinning to face him.

  “I was just admiring your technique. You know, not many have ever been able to hold their own against Samara. She’s one of the greatest swordmasters the order has ever seen.”

  “And yet, you did.”

  “I have the benefit of training with her since our youth,” he replied. “You, however, threw yourself into a situation you had no hope of winning and performed exceptionally.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. You saved my life, Demelza, and it is something I will never forget.”

  A slight blush threatened to rise to the stoic woman’s cheeks. With great effort, she forced it back down. Hozark turned to leave her to her practice once more, but paused before exiting the chamber.

  “Oh, and I thought you would like to know, I sent word to Master Orkut of your impressive service to the cause, as well as the substantial harm you dealt to the Council’s plans.”

  “It is appreciated, Master Hozark.”

  “And the least I can do. While I do not know when you will have pleased him enough to earn a blade forged by his hands, as I know you so greatly desire, at least know this. I received a reply message just before coming to see you. And Master Orkut wished you to know that he expressed great pleasure with your efforts, and he looks forward to seeing you again soon.”

  At that, despite all of her training, Demelza’s cheeks began to redden with a surge of joy, though only slightly. She was a Ghalian assassin, after all.

  Hozark smiled. “You know what?” he said, shedding his coat and drawing his sword. “A little sparring never hurts.”

  “Much,” Demelza said with a broad grin, then launched into her attack.

  Epilogue

  In the quiet of her modest home tucked away on the outskirts of a city forgotten by most, and ignored by the rest, Samara sat quietly at her small desk, staring at her recent delivery. It had arrived while she had been out hunting. Not hunting animals, though. At least, not the normal kind.

  She poured herself a tall glass of arambis juice and drank deep, cleansing her palate and removing the last traces of dried red from her lips. She took a deep breath, then opened the mysterious package and looked at the instructions within.

  Her jaw flexed involuntarily as she read, her pulse rising ever so slightly. This was no easy task. But, then, she expected nothing less.

  Samara rose and walked to the little, innocuous trunk resting against her bedroom’s far wall. She opened it, removing the false contents and revealing the wards and locks hidden beneath. Carefully, she cast her spells, unbinding and releasing every trap and ward, one by one, until, at last, it was safe to open.

  The secret panel slid back, and she reached her hand inside. A necklace of fine metal hung from a little peg, but she pushed that aside. With care, though. It may have seemed like nothing, but it had been a gift from Hozark, many, many years ago. And in addition to being pleasing to the eye, it also contained a substantial amount of deadly magic.

  A faint smile touched her lips at the memory of long ago, then faded. Her eyes hardened, and she dug deeper, drawing forth her vespus blade. Its blue metal was brighter than during her recent run-in with Hozark. She had been feeding it as much power as she could acquire. And she’d just gotten more.

  Samara focused and pushed the stolen magic from within herself into the powerful weapon. She’d fed well, and like a baby bird taking its meal from its mama, the sword greedily absorbed what she offered it.

  The metal was radiant, gleaming a bright blue. She had dumped a massive amount of power into it, and it showed. She gently tucked the blade back into its cradle and replaced the lid, her fingers brushing against the necklace as she did.

  The vespus blade was as ready as it would ever be. And so was she.

  Preview: The Ghalian Code

  Space Assassins 3

  Ornate boots crunched loudly, their steps echoing in the silent halls as they ground deep into the debris littering the formerly opulent estate’s tower. Delicate sculptures lay in ruin, smashed to shards, and artwork and decorative wall hangings depicting brighter times rested on the ground where they’d fallen in the chaos.

  Blood was everywhere. Red blood, green blood, even some blue blood. All manner of men and women had fought and died here, some by magic, but most by far more primitive means.

  Blades and cudgels had cut a brutal swath through the poor house staff who happened to be caught outside of the defensive lines on the ground floor. They had been slain with no discrimination, and with no mercy. The attack had obviously been swift and had taken them unaware, despite their state of general readiness.

  Smears of green blood on the floor where the attackers’ bodies had fallen were sticky testament to the efforts of the estate’s security teams. They had fought well, the man thought of the slain staff at his feet. Only his guards lay there, however.

  The enemy had taken their dead and wounded with them, leaving neither overt signs of who had led the attack, nor whom they worked for. But he knew. Who else would dare to do such a thing? And in his own home, no less. A show of force in a visla’s estate while he was away on business.

  It was a ballsy thing to do, and ag
ainst Visla Dinarius Jinnik, it was particularly so. The man had power. More than any visla for at least thirty systems. Someone had made a calculated choice in this attack.

  Visla Jinnik kept moving, stepping over the cold bodies of his men. The magical lift discs to the upper floors seemed to still be functional, but he cast a protective spell around himself as he boarded, just in case the intruders had left behind any little surprises for him in the way of wards or traps.

  He went straight to the top of the tower. The level containing his personal quarters. A place staffed by his most trusted men and women and protected by his most skilled guards. Just as was the case down below, the scene was one of carnage.

  Here, however, the fighting had apparently been far more intense. The walls, he noted, were greatly damaged by some dangerous magic gone astray. It was one of the reasons magic was almost never used in close-quarter fighting.

  While spells could be greatly effective against an approaching enemy, once you were in the thick of combat, those same spells could just as easily take out your own men by accident as well as your intended target.

  And while that was bad on land, it could be even worse in space, blasting a hole in the side of a ship and venting attackers and defenders alike into the frigid void.

  So, no one used spells in this kind of fighting except as a last resort. Which, judging by the stray damage, it had been.

  That little quirk of magic was what led to the development of enchanted blades. While they were somewhat limited by their wielder’s reach, the magical weapons could slice through armor and flesh alike.

  All of Visla Jinnik’s personal guard carried them and were well trained. And their proficiency with the weapons was apparent by the corpses and limbs strewn about the place.

  The fighting had obviously been fierce, as a few of the Tslavar mercenaries sent to invade his home still lay dead on the floor, their comrades unable to retrieve their bodies in the heat of battle.

  Despite the horrible loss of life, Jinnik smiled, though it was pained, not one of joy. Merely one of appreciation. His men had served him well, and their surviving families would be well taken care of for it.

  He looked at the uniform on one of the few mercenary bodies left behind. No markings. Nothing to tie the man to any one cause or organization, as he had expected. They were an anonymous fighting force, and if seen or even captured, their true loyalty would be easy enough to deny.

  On he continued, crossing the wide foyer by the lift discs and heading into his personal chambers. Furniture was scattered and smashed, and the signs of fighting were even more intense in the narrower confines of the corridor.

  Something caught his eye. Something horrible. A servant’s head had been severed and placed carefully on the leg of an upturned table. The visla paused and stared at this new horror, his boots now slick with gore.

  “Poor Sidisa. You did not deserve such an end,” he said to no one in particular. Not for lack of ears around him, but because all of them were dead.

  He felt his already bubbling rage grow even stronger. Even in the heaviest of combat, this was just not done. There was no tactical purpose for such a thing. Except one.

  Someone was making a point.

  He carefully scanned the area, taking in every detail he could. Then, with a heavy heart, he walked to the doorway of the room adjacent to his own suites. Four of his most trusted guards lay dead at the threshold, fallen where they had made their last stand.

  He took a deep breath, then stepped over their bodies into the room.

  The damage inside was minimal. Barely noticeable, in fact. All of the violence had taken place leading up to this place. The crux of it all. The true reason for the assault on so fortified an estate.

  There were bloody bootprints marking the floor, but only one body in the room. Her name was Willa, and she had been with the family a long, long time. A gentle soul, and a wise teacher. And now she was as dead as the others, long cold where she lay on the floor.

  Visla Jinnik bent down and picked up a doll. It was the likeness of a man called Suvius the Mighty. A great gladiator warrior, and his son’s favorite. His grip tightened around the doll as his emotions threatened to take control.

  The static buzz of agitated magic around him began to thicken into a dangerous crackle of power and rage as his anger grew stronger. It was a family condition. His father had it, his father’s father had it. And more likely than not, his son would too, one day. If he lived.

  Jinnik breathed deep, calming his mind and heart as he’d been trained since his powers began to truly manifest and grow in strength when he was only twelve, just a few years older than his son. Slowly, the dangerous magic receded back into the visla, but only just.

  He forced himself to look at the room with a clear mind, pushing emotion aside, at least for a moment. Then he saw it. A single, sealed note on the small table placed in the middle of the room where it could not be missed.

  He picked it up. Not a speck on the envelope, not a drop of blood or smear of soot. This had been left for him after his son was taken. He turned it over and stared at the seal. One he knew all too well.

  Jinnik strode from the room, jaw tight as he headed to his personal study. He would open it there, and then he would plan what to do next.

  A bit of motion caught his eye and he stopped and turned, his gaze falling on what he had missed when he entered. A column had tumbled in the fray, and beneath it a Tslavar mercenary lay pinned. His injuries were severe, but not fatal.

  “Please, help me,” the man asked, exhausted from days of struggle to pull free of the enormous weight.

  “Help you?” Visla Jinnik said, the angry magic crackling around him once more. “Oh, I’ll help you.”

  He raised his hand, focusing his power, and released it with one barking spell. “Hokta!”

  The green man didn’t even have the opportunity to scream as he was crushed into an unidentifiable bloody pulp.

  Jinnik lowered his arm. An arm that was not wearing a konus or slaap. This was his own power, not that stored in any magical device like the unpowered needed. It had been a fair expenditure, but not enough to completely deplete the crackling, angry excess magic buzzing around him.

  But the violence had helped. At least a little. And slowly, the magic began to pull back into his body. He had killed the one witness he could have interrogated, but with the letter in his hand, there would be no need.

  For now, he needed to sit and to think. And once he had a plan, then, and only then, would he would act.

  Also by Scott Baron

  Standalone Novels

  Living the Good Death

  The Clockwork Chimera Series

  Daisy’s Run

  Pushing Daisy

  Daisy’s Gambit

  Chasing Daisy

  Daisy’s War

  The Dragon Mage Series

  Bad Luck Charlie

  Space Pirate Charlie

  Dragon King Charlie

  Magic Man Charlie

  Star Fighter Charlie

  Portal Thief Charlie

  Rebel Mage Charlie

  Warp Speed Charlie

  Checkmate Charlie

  The Space Assassins Series

  The Interstellar Slayer

  The Vespus Blade

  The Ghalian Code

  Death From the Shadows

  Hozark’s Revenge

  The Warp Riders Series

  Deep Space Boogie

  Belly of the Beast

  Odd and Unusual Short Stories:

  The Best Laid Plans of Mice: An Anthology

  Snow White’s Walk of Shame

  The Tin Foil Hat Club

  Lawyers vs. Demons

  The Queen of the Nutters

  Lost & Found

  About the Author

  A native Californian, Scott Baron was born in Hollywood, which he claims may be the reason for his rather off-kilter sense of humor.

  Before taking up residence in Venice Beach, S
cott first spent a few years abroad in Florence, Italy before returning home to Los Angeles and settling into the film and television industry, where he has worked as an on-set medic for many years.

  Aside from mending boo-boos and owies, and penning books and screenplays, Scott is also involved in indie film and theater scene both in the U.S. and abroad.