Agent of Prophecy

by M. A. Rothman

  She waved dismissively. “I’m not a little girl, Tabor. I can deal with a bit of blood.”

  She watched the proceedings with interest. It wasn’t a usual training session—it looked more like an actual fight. One of the guards was squaring off against a very short man wielding a mace and shield. No, not a short man—a dwarf.

  She nudged Tabor. “What’s happening here?”

  “In order to take a position as a guard in your father’s employ, one must first prove oneself a competent fighter. Evidently this dwarf has chosen to compete for one of the open positions.”

  “Did you have to prove your worth like this?”

  “Aye, Princess. Though that was a very long time ago.”

  “And who did you upset to get cursed with the job of watching me?”

  Her tone was teasing, but Tabor frowned. “I upset no one. I had the great honor of being your mother’s protector. And prior to your birth, I swore to her that I would keep you safe from all physical harm. I honor that oath every day.”

  At hearing Tabor speak of her mother with such reverence, Arabelle felt tears well in her eyes. She looked at the man with a new appreciation for his devotion and duty.

  “I’m sorry, Tabor. I know I’m horrible, sneaking around and hiding from you.”

  “It’s expected, Princess. Your job is to be who you are. My job is to prevent mischief from occurring to your person.”

  The man’s obvious dedication made her feel all the more guilty about the deadly secret she was keeping—the one that would force her to slip away from him again tonight. She had to meet Castien. She couldn’t sleep until she learned whatever it was he’d be teaching her.

  At that moment the dwarf swung a vicious blow at the soldier’s unprotected knee. The man might have been limping for life had it landed, but before it could connect, the dwarf shoved the soldier with his shield so hard he literally flew out of the ring.

  The crowd cheered.

  The soldier who was running the contest raised a white flag. “The winner is Oda the dwarf.” He turned toward Oda. “Do you have a clan?”

  Oda belted his mace and smiled. “Of course. I be a Rockfist.” He walked over to his opponent and helped him up. “You be needin’ to learn to use yer shield properly,” he told the soldier. “If I’d not pulled back with my mace, your knee would be useless till the day you died. I won’t be havin’ that on me conscience.”

  Tabor called out to the man with the white flag. “Khalid, hire that man. He may be short in stature, but he is tall where it counts, in honor and skill.”

  Khalid’s eyes widened as he met Tabor’s gaze, and he bowed his head. “Yes, sir. Thy will be done.”

  “Why does that soldier hold you in such reverence?” Arabelle asked.

  Tabor clicked his tongue dismissively. “I am the lead guard in your father’s employ. Who else would be trusted to watch over his wife and then his daughter?”

  “How is it I never knew that?”

  “Only the weak and foolish need to talk about who they are. I believe a man’s actions speak much louder and more truly than a man’s voice.”

  A new pair of contestants entered the ring, and a murmur rippled through the crowd. One of them was a man she recognized: a soldier with huge muscles and he was gigantic. Everyone called him Ogre; Arabelle didn’t even know his true name. And yet for once, this giant of a man wasn’t drawing the attention of onlookers. Instead the crowd was focused on his opponent, a tall, handsome young stranger expertly flipping a yew staff in a blur of practiced circles. His shoulder-length honey-blond locks, brilliant blue eyes, and chiseled features caused many a sigh of appreciation from the women in attendance.

  “Who is this applicant?” Arabelle asked her guard.

  “Princess, that young man is one of the Unnamed.”

  “Unnamed?”

  Tabor shook his head. “I’m quite certain Roselle has told you this. You need to apply yourself to your lessons.”

  Arabelle rolled her eyes. “Consider this one of my lessons then. I’m listening.”

  “An Unnamed is a wanderer who has no familial ties— not to the caravan, not to Trimoria’s towns, and not, in the case of a dwarf, to any clan. Most Unnamed are not fit for decent society and remain in hiding—or become a victim to the slavers.”

  “Why would a man like that be applying for a job in my father’s guard?”

  “I would guess he’s trying to better his lot in life, Princess. But if that’s his goal, he will have a tough time of it. Unnamed have earned their bad reputations, and it takes much to overcome such a stigma.”

  As the young soldier removed his cloak, Arabelle stared. In addition to his perfect features, he was trim and well-muscled, too.

  A raven-haired girl at the edge of the ring waved a red rose at the Unnamed. Arabelle recognized her—that was Madam Mizner’s eldest daughter, Alexandra. The sister of the girl she’d run into that morning. Arabelle decided to go over and say hello.

  “Oh, Princess, how nice to see you,” Alexandra said as she approached. “Are you here to see Hassan too?”

  “Hassan?”

  Alexandra blushed. “Isn’t he just gorgeous? He only arrived last week, and already every girl I know has her eye on him.”

  Arabelle had to agree, the man was undeniably handsome. As he continued his warmup, his blond hair fluttered in the wind, and Arabelle found herself unconsciously running her fingers through her own dark hair, as if to compare.

  How juvenile and ungracious to be jealous of a boy’s hair.

  “He’s only seventeen years old, so my Pa won’t forbid me talking to him,” Alexandra gushed. “But my Mum says, ‘No chance I’ll let you ruin your life chasing an Unnamed soldier around. Especially one who’s deformed.’”

  “Deformed?” Arabelle said. “Are you kidding? He looks perfect.” As soon as she said that, she felt her face heat up, betraying the unaffected look she’d been maintaining.

  “He is perfect,” Alexandra agreed. “But look—he has six fingers on each hand. Not that I mind. Would you not talk to someone just because he has a couple extra fingers?”

  Arabelle studied the blond warrior’s hands from afar. He really did have six fingers on each hand. In a way, she found it a relief to know that this perfect specimen of a man had at least one imperfection.

  The time came for Hassan and Ogre to square off—Hasson twirling his staff, and Ogre wielding a blunted broadsword. Thought Hassan was a good six feet tall, Ogre nevertheless towered over him.

  For a moment the two men circled, studying each other’s moves. Then, as if both responding to the same cue, they lunged, their weapons connected, and Hassan was thrown back, nearly stumbling out of the ring. He had to scramble to recover his balance.

  “If that Unnamed tries to meet strength against strength,” Tabor murmured beside Arabelle, “this will be a very short contest.”

  Hassan skipped closer to the giant soldier and lunged once more with his staff. Alexandra squealed with fright; it looked as though the object of her affections had stretched himself too far. Ogre clearly saw the same opening, as he chopped viciously at Hassan’s exposed flank. But somehow Hassan used his momentum and staff to vault past the giant, whose sword crashed harmlessly into the dirt where Hassan had just stood.

  Without giving the giant a chance to recover, Hassan swept his staff at the back of Ogre’s knees, sending him hard onto his back. Hassan spun and positioned the business end of his staff mere inches from Ogre’s face. The big man’s eyes crossed as he stared at it.

  Khalid raised a white flag and called an end to the match.

  Alexandra squealed, as did all the women who’d gathered to watch. “Oh, Princess, he won, he won!”

  When Khalid tossed Hassan a brown tunic with the mark of the caravan on it, Alexandra was even more excited. “They’re actually going to let him work with the caravan soldiers! He’s going to stay with us!” She looked at herself, then up at the princess. “I have to change. I can�
��t let him see me again in this plain frock!” With a quick curtsey, she scurried away.

  Tabor shook his head. “Please, Princess, promise me you’ll never allow yourself to be so swayed by a man’s looks.”

  Arabelle laughed. “Don’t worry. Father has made it clear that he will arrange things for me when the time is right. I trust him.”

  Tabor grunted his approval. “Smart girl. Your father is a wise man, and it would be a better world if all children were as attentive to their parents as you are to yours.”

  Not finding Maggie in the caravan, Arabelle decided she must have gone into the Aubgherle marketplace. There was really no need—everything one could need was available in the caravan—but Maggie always got excited when they approached Aubgherle. She must have told Arabelle dozens of times that the town was the center for the best silk weavers in all of Trimoria.

  With Tabor and his men shadowing Arabelle’s every step, she searched for the silk merchants—with no success. Getting frustrated, she finally decided to make use of her escort.

  “Tabor, do you know where the silk merchants are?”

  He relayed the question to his soldiers, and one of them nodded and took the lead. He took them through a throng of people haggling over merchandise, clearly knowing the area well. Arabelle should have asked the guards in the first place, but she’d had no idea any of them would know anything about silk.

  Suddenly, Tabor put his hand on her shoulder and firmly pulled her behind him. Arabelle knew better than to argue, but she did peek over his shoulder to see what the issue was. Just up ahead, a man was being pulled away from a stall by one of Azazel’s black-garbed enforcers. He screamed in protest. “You can’t do this! I did nothing wrong!”

  The people in the marketplace quickly stepped back to give the soldiers in black some room. Those that were too slow were punched or kicked, and were at risk of being dragged along with the protesting man.

  “Tabor, why do they allow—”

  Tabor shushed her with a stern look.

  Soon the soldiers were out of sight, and the man’s screaming was replaced with the normal sounds of marketplace banter. Their forward motion resumed, although now Tabor maintained a protective hand on Arabelle’s shoulder.

  Arabelle eavesdropped on the chatter as they walked.

  “I wish the Protector could do something about Azazel’s men,” said a woman in a bright dress.

  A bearded merchant responded. “Don’t hope for such things. You don’t want Aubgherle to have the same fate as Ilonia, do you?”

  Arabelle looked up at her guard. “Tabor, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, Princess.”

  “What happened to Ilonia?”

  Tabor sighed. “Princess, your hearing is too keen for your own good.”

  “Tell me. Please?”

  “I will answer, and then we will have no further discussion on this topic while in this town. Agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  Tabor leaned in close and whispered. “Ilonia was utterly destroyed by fire in my grandfather’s time—and that fire is attributed to Azazel’s wrath. Azazel, it is said, is centuries old, and there is nothing anyone can do against that wizard’s might. The ashes of Ilonia remain as evidence that if one were to stand up to him, even a Protector, it would not end well. Now, no more of this talk. It’s dangerous. If you want to know more, please consult your father.”

  “Thank you for telling me the truth, Tabor. Too many people try to hide the facts from me.”

  “I’ll never lie to you, Princess. However, some truth isn’t mine to give.”

  The lead guard stopped in front of a stall with many bolts of brilliantly colored silk. Arabelle didn’t see Maggie, but she decided it was worth asking the merchant if he’d seen her. As she explained who she was and described what Maggie looked like, a wide smile appeared in the tangles of the man’s beard.

  “Yes, milady, she was here, and a very good customer. She bought many things for you that I arranged to deliver to your father’s caravan.” He looked up at her escort of soldiers and hastily added, “But the delivery left only moments ago; we could intercept it if you would like to look at it first, milady.”

  Arabelle waved off the suggestion. “I’m sure it’s fine, I just want to find Maggie. Did you see where she went?”

  The merchant looked relieved. “As a matter of fact, I saw her following after a man who passed by as we were completing the transaction.”

  “What did this man look like?”

  “He wore the mark of the caravan. Fair-haired, a long staff. Handsome, I suppose. He was heading in the direction of the weaponsmith.”

  Arabelle groaned. So Maggie wasn’t immune to Hassan’s charms either.

  Thanking the merchant, she turned to Tabor. “Tabor, do you know where the weaponsmith is?”

  “Yes, Princess, but don’t you think it’s likely that your handmaiden has returned to the caravan by now?” He nodded toward the sun, which was dropping toward the horizon.

  “You’re probably right. But let’s check the weaponsmith before heading back. I can’t miss her; I must talk to Maggie before nightfall.”

  My life depends on it.

  Training Assassins

  Kirag stood guard in a hidden alcove high above his master’s throne, armed with a dragonbone crossbow loaded with a poisoned damantite bolt. His normal responsibilities were to stop any physical attacks on Azazel and to lead his army of enforcers. But today’s instructions were simpler. While Azazel was outside inspecting the shipments of grain, Kirag was to allow no one into the throne room apart from the guards stationed there. In fact, if anyone else even tried to enter, they were to be killed instantly.

  One of the things that had earned Kirag advancement was his patience. He was able to remain unmoving for well over a day waiting for the appearance of his quarry. He also never let things startle him. Startlement was a sign of weakness, and all weakness had been beaten out of him by his mother when he was barely of an age to speak.

  The door into the throne room flew open, but it wasn’t an intruder. It was Azazel himself, yelling at the guards to leave immediately. They scrambled toward the door. Kirag did not. He knew he was expected to remain at his station.

  Azazel glanced up at him, his eyes flashing with a fiery glint, and acknowledged the soldier’s existence with a nod. Then he ascended his throne and waited.

  Soon the smell of burning sulfur wafted up to Kirag’s nostrils, and a mist formed in front of the throne. In moments the mist coalesced, taking the shape of a woman.

  As leader of Azazel’s enforcers, Kirag was more than comfortable with magic—but this magic made him uneasy, for one reason alone: it seemed not to originate from his master. Kirag had almost never witnessed magic performed by anyone other than Azazel himself.

  Well, except by my own mother, he thought.

  But that was a secret that Kirag kept strictly to himself. He didn’t like to even think of the dark magic his mother had practiced on her victims those many years ago.

  The woman before the throne spoke. “Caution, Azazel.”

  She was petite, with long blonde hair, brown skin, and ears that indicated elven ancestry.

  Azazel stood. This, too, made Kirag uneasy. “What do you mean, Ellisandrea?”

  “I have foreseen danger. Look for strangers to Trimoria. They threaten all that we have achieved.”

  “Strangers?” Azazel repeated. “But there is no such thing as a stranger to Trimoria. Thanks to that fool Protector, we’re surrounded by an impenetrable barrier.”

  “I cannot see where they are from,” the woman said. “But they are not from Trimoria, and they do not belong here. Find them, or they will jeopardize all for which we have strived.”

  “I’ll have my men seek out the strangers and bring them to me,” Azazel said.

  This remark only added to Kirag’s discomfort. He knew that barrier well. He first encountered it when he was five years old and living with his mo
ther in the mountains. He’d grown fond of a wolf puppy that had begun following him, but he knew he had to keep it a secret from his mother, or she would step on it, or torture it, or worse.

  Naturally she found out about it. And when she saw him playing with the young wolf, she snatched them both in the air, one in each hand. She carried them high into the mountains, to a place he’d never explored, and there before him stood a strange gray wall of mist.

  She shook Kirag by the scruff of his neck. “Barrier. Things go. Never come back. Do not cross.”

  She lightly tossed the puppy away from the barrier. As always, the puppy came scampering back toward Kirag with its tongue lolling out, ready to play.

  Mother pointed to the puppy. “See? It return.”

  She picked up the puppy again, and this time she tossed it into the gray mist.

  Kirag waited, expecting his wolf to return. It never did.

  Mother nodded. “No return. Dead wolf. Lesson learned. Stay away.”

  Kirag hated the memory. Hated what his mother had done. But he’d learned the lesson his mother had taught. Had learned it well.

  Nothing survived the barrier.

  Which was why he looked down at his master in the throne room with disbelief. How can Azazel so readily accept that strangers have come through that mist?

  Azazel addressed the elven witch once more. “What would you have me do with them when they are found?”

  “They must be killed.”

  “It will be my pleasure, Ellisandrea.” Azazel stepped toward the apparition and caressed her cheek. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper, and Kirag had to strain to hear. “When can we meet again, my love?”

  My love?

  Azazel never took such a tone. With anyone. Weakness, supplication, submission—these were entirely foreign to Kirag’s master. Which meant this Ellisandrea must be unimaginably powerful to make his master act so.

  “Soon. Do what you must, and all will be as promised.”

  The woman faded, as did the acrid smell.

  Azazel stared into empty space for a moment. Then he stalked to the door and flung it open. “Attend me!” he called down the stairs. “I have tasks for all of you!”