As armored footsteps approached, Azazel looked up. “Kirag, I know you heard everything. I expect you to lead this mission. From now on, this is your only goal. You will focus on nothing else. Ellisandrea has powerful premonitions, and I assure you, what she tells me is undeniably true. There are strangers in Trimoria. Or will be. Her understanding of time isn’t like ours; these events might be happening now, or they may happen a year from now. That will make your mission all the more challenging. But you must not fail me.”
Kirag nodded. “Yes, Master.”
The other soldiers entered the throne room and took their appointed positions. Azazel turned to them.
“I have a mission for you all. Kirag will lead you in this…”
Kirag paced the mustering grounds while the soldiers poured out of Azazel’s tower and stepped into formation. His task was simply defined, but difficult to execute.
He had no idea where these strangers would show up, when they might show up, how many they would be, or what they looked like.
To someone without his background, this might seem like an impossible task. But he had a few ideas. First, he needed to increase the number of Duos in his retinue of assassins.
Looking over his soldiers, he felt a moment of disgust. They were so small and uncoordinated. Humans. His own heritage was much more complicated. His grandfather had been a dwarf with magical powers, and his grandmother had been an ogre. In fact, his mother blamed her father for enchanting her mother and producing her, and this was the source of her deep-seated disdain for all dwarves.
Kirag didn’t know his father, but he believed his father was human, for his mother had many times complained to him how weak human males were and how she had accidentally killed several of them in his making.
Despite, or because of, this mixed heritage, Kirag towered over the gathered soldiers. He was nearly eight feet tall and weighed half again as much as the largest of them. He’d yet to find a human that provided a contest for him when it came to a fight.
“I’m taking you to one of my training camps!” he shouted to the assembled men. “You’ll all be given the rank of Grubs. Today, you’re barely worthy of guarding a cesspool. But with training, skill, and luck, you will survive to become members of Lord Azazel’s Black Talons. As a Talon, you will have earned the black leathers of Azazel’s enforcers—and the honors that go with them.”
He paused to let that sink in.
“If anyone isn’t willing to undertake the training, leave now.”
Most of the soldiers stood motionless, staring stoically forward. Only two soldiers left the ranks. Kirag pulled two daggers from his vest and whipped them at their receding forms. The blades whistled through the air and buried themselves into the men’s spines, such as they were.
Kirag watched with satisfaction as the two men collapsed, dead.
“Lesson number one. You are in Azazel’s employ. You have been given an opportunity to advance. Don’t insult him by not giving your best effort.”
The second lesson came that evening. They had set out from Azazel’s tower immediately, but as the sun dipped to the horizon, Kirag gathered the troops around him.
“We have another half day’s travel before we arrive at the training camp. As you know, slavers travel throughout the plains of Trimoria seeking those who are unaware and unprepared. Part of being in Azazel’s employ means that you are never caught unaware.”
The men looked at each other uncertainly.
“Set up for camp, but instead of a camp for twenty soldiers, create a single campfire for three. Elect three among you to stay at this camp and attend the fire. The rest of you, create cold camps one hundred yards away. Make your selections now.”
The soldiers argued about cold rations and quarreled over who would have an opportunity to remain at the campfire. They settled their disagreements by drawing lots, and once they established the warm and cold camps, Kirag assembled them again.
“The men in the warm camp will need to remain alert through the night. Slavers usually attack in the early hours before dawn. You can easily imagine that a campfire with three soldiers will seem a tempting target.”
The soldiers who’d won the privilege of attending the warm camp now looked down at their drawn lots with regret.
“Men, we have two distinct advantages. First, the slavers will not expect more than a dozen soldiers pouring out of the inky blackness of the night. Second, they are slavers. This means they are trying to take you alive, not kill you.”
Kirag smiled. “We don’t have the same restrictions. I expect you to kill them. Settle in for the night, and be prepared.”
The camp was quiet, but the tension could be felt on the wind. Kirag watched from his chosen observation point. The campfire would be visible for many miles, and he was confident it would attract slavers. They were like fleas on a blink dog—they seemed to be everywhere.
Tonight would be the soldiers’ first test as Grubs. He’d given them the strategy. It was now their job to execute.
Kirag stretched his senses to hear anything out of the ordinary. One of the men in the cold camps had developed a snore. But within moments, the snore stopped rather abruptly. Maybe the other men in that group weren’t complete idiots after all.
Hours passed, the night deepened, and still Kirag stood watch, sensing, listening.
Just prior to the coming of dawn, he heard the crack of a twig. His superior night vision—another benefit of his mixed heritage—revealed six human-shaped silhouettes sneaking past, followed by a seventh outline that hulked over the others.
Great, an ogre. These soldiers aren’t prepared to fight an ogre.
As the humans formed a circle just outside the firelight, the ogre stood back from the group. Kirag slowly pulled his sword from its scabbard and crept toward the giant.
The six slavers moved as one, throwing nets on top of the three men at the warm camp. Instantly, the war cries of the soldiers from the cold camp echoed through the darkness, and they fell on the attacking slavers.
Before the ogre could react, Kirag slashed his greatsword across the tendons behind the ogre’s right knee, separating them with a sharp series of snaps. The behemoth collapsed on his useless leg, and Kirag rammed the tip of his sword into the ogre’s now-exposed neck, pressing down with all his weight. Blood fountained from the wound.
The ogre slammed a fist into Kirag’s chest, sending him flying through the air and struggling to breathe. But Kirag was not dissuaded. This wasn’t his first time fighting an ogre, and certainly not the first time he’d been hit by one.
He laughed as the ogre attempted to stand. The behemoth was too stupid to realize that he’d already been defeated. As he looked down at the useless leg now disobeying him, blood continued to pulse forth from the precisely placed wound in his neck. That was the death blow.
Sure enough, in moments the ogre sagged and crumpled, never to rise again.
Over at the warm camp, the soldiers were celebrating. All six slavers lay dead or dying.
They’ve done well.
As the bedraggled collection of Grubs approached the outskirts of one of his training camps, Kirag noted the dim reflections of light signals from guttered lamps. The Grubs had been spotted by the camp scouts. And these novice soldiers seemed to have no idea.
Kirag smiled as he hung back to let the troops continue down the path. A valuable lesson was about to be reinforced.
Be ever vigilant.
They emerged from a mountain pass, revealing campfires a half mile away. And in the dry expanse that separated the Grubs from the camp were the telltale signs of disturbed soil.
Again, Kirag saw this, but the Grubs did not.
The soldiers quickened their pace in anticipation of the possibility of a warm meal. It was only as they reached the trap that a few of them spotted the unnatural ripples in the terrain and hesitated. But only a few; the vanguard marched ahead, oblivious.
One of the more alert men in the rear called out a warn
ing, but at that very moment a resounding crack broke the air and a half dozen men screamed as the ground underneath them collapsed. Clouds of dust exploded out of the hole, and then a shroud of silence fell.
Kirag walked to the edge of the hole with the rest of the men. The soldiers who had fallen were now impaled on sharpened wooden stakes that gleamed with fresh red blood.
“Vigilance,” Kirag said. “If you aren’t looking for things out of the ordinary… if you ever trust that you are safe… you will die.”
A collection of black-clad Talons trotted toward them. The Talon in the lead had a pair of obsidian daggers tucked in his leathers and wore a necklace with the hourglass symbol of Azazel.
He halted before Kirag and saluted. “Lord Kirag, welcome to the training camp— ”
“I am not lord anything, fool, and don’t forget it. It’s Kirag or sir. Next time you call me lord I’ll test out your daggers on your hide.”
The soldier blanched. “Yes, sir!”
“Your name is Glendale, correct?”
“Yes, sir!”
“I’ve brought you some new Grubs to train. After today’s training, I’ll have a special mission for the Grub who proves himself. You and I will talk first thing tomorrow morning. I want to hear what you think about these Grubs and get your recommendations.”
Glendale saluted. “Yes, sir! I will put them through their paces!”
“They are yours to do with as you will, I’ll be back in the morning for our talk.”
Glendale turned to face the soldiers. “Gather up! You will address me as sir. You will never call anyone of rank by their name. Forgetting yourself will earn you ten lashes.”
As Glendale continued with his instructions, the Grubs looked at each other nervously.
Kirag took the opportunity to scout out tomorrow’s path. As he moved away, he heard Glendale’s voice behind him. “You have lots of bleeding to do before you die or qualify to wear your leathers. Get moving!”
Kirag carefully avoided the traps on the approach to the camp. It was a couple of hours ahead of the rising of the sun on their second day in camp. One of the Talons perched midway up the cliff nodded down at his superior, alert even to Kirag’s stealthy intrusion.
Good.
He continued to move softly, stealthily, as he approached Glendale’s tent. The lead trainer, too, was not taken by surprise.
“Good morning, sir. I can hear your approach.”
Kirag grinned. “Glendale, if you weren’t alert, I might have entered your tent and slit your throat.”
The soldier lifted the flap of his tent and waved him in. “I don’t doubt it, sir.”
Kirag chuckled. “I suppose the throat-slitting will have to wait. Let’s talk about the Grubs.”
Glendale struck flint on steel and lit a small fire, and he and Kirag sat cross-legged on opposite sides. “What would you like to know, sir?” Glendale began. “They are undisciplined and out of shape. But most of them have some promise and should survive the training.”
Kirag scratched at his freshly shaved face. “You said most of them. I presume some of them are likely untrainable then?”
Glendale nodded.
“No concern. I need a Grub today that you don’t mind losing. An untrainable would be fine for that.”
A smile crept across Glendale’s face. “Garog’s your man. He’s large and strong, but stupid. I don’t believe he can be trusted as a Talon, and I would never want him in my Duo.”
“Garog it is. Lead me to him.”
Glendale led Kirag through the Grubs, left to sleep as they could on the bare ground. There was no stealth now, and the men scrambled out of the way, clearing the sleep from their eyes.
But their target was not so quick to wake. In fact he continued to snore, rather loudly, oblivious even as his visitors walked right up to him.
Glendale kicked Garog’s feet. “Wake up, Grub!”
That woke him. The soldier bolted upright, banging his head on the wagon he’d slept beneath, and looked up at the two men standing over him.
“Sir?”
Glendale snapped his fingers in the man’s face. “Don’t look so dazed, it’s an embarrassment. Kirag has a special mission, and you’ve been chosen to participate.”
Garog looked at Kirag with frightened eyes. “Y-yes, sir.”
Kirag looked the man up and down. “You are dressed adequately; you will not need anything else for this mission. Follow me.”
He turned and walked back through the camp without even looking to see if he was being followed. But he certainly heard Garog’s clumsy scrambling behind him.
Yes, this one would do nicely.
It’s time to visit Mother.
Daylight broke through the clouds as Kirag walked a treacherous trail etched into the side of a cliff, Garog was huffing behind him. Kirag knew this path well; he had run up and down it thousands of times in his youth. It was remote, far from civilization, but that was just how his mother liked it. She was very ogre-like in her need for solitude.
Which was probably best for everyone, considering her tendency toward violence. Kirag had learned early on to avoid her except at meals. Even other ogres avoided her. They thought she was crazy, as she spent much of the day muttering to herself or talking to creatures that he was fairly certain weren’t there. Not that Mother cared; even if they allowed it, she would have refused to be a part of an ogre tribe.
And now Kirag had to risk his mother’s fury once more. It was the only way he could think of to approach Azazel’s impossible task of finding unknown strangers who could be anywhere in Trimoria at any time. Mother had the uncanny ability to see distant events that hadn’t yet occurred.
But she rarely entered one of her trances without first having exerted herself in some extremely violent manner. Which was why Kirag had brought the Grub.
He wasn’t entirely sure if Mother was aware of her trances. They just… happened after particularly violent outbursts. The first time Kirag observed one, he had been the object of that outburst. He had made the mistake of asking Mother if he could have any brothers or sisters. After she beat him to within a glimmer of unconsciousness, she fell into a stupor, only partially aware of him, and he learned of this strange power she possessed, though he never spoke to her of it afterward.
Now, as he crested the cliff, he saw the cave that had been his childhood home. He knew his mother was inside—it was rare that she would be hunting at this time in the morning, and besides, he detected her scent.
He turned to watch Garog dragging himself to the top of the cliff. The Grub was clearly exhausted, despite his size and strength, and looked utterly bedraggled. Kirag sneered in disgust. The man was a waste of flesh.
Kirag held a finger to his lips in a sign to remain silent, then pointed to the cave. “I lived in that cave as a child.”
Garog squinted at the cave, then looked at Kirag stupidly.
“Within that cave is a chest that has a special weapon,” Kirag continued. “It is in the deepest section of the cave, and I don’t believe I can squeeze into that section anymore. Go in there and drag that chest out here.”
Garog nodded with a sly, greedy smile.
He found a suitable stick, tied a cloth around its end, and lit it with some flint and steel. Then, holding his torch aloft, he crossed the distance and entered the cave.
Kirag strolled after him and waited outside. Within seconds he heard Garog’s cry of alarm and his mother’s familiar bellow. Then came ripping noises, and Garog’s last gurgling breaths.
Kirag stepped into the cave. The torch had guttered out after falling from the brute’s hands, but his eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. His mother knelt before Garog, or what was left of Garog. Parts of him were scattered about. But Mother now remained still, her lips moving, her eyes darting back and forth.
It had worked.
“Mother, Azazel has asked me to find strangers who don’t belong in Trimoria. Where do I look for these strangers?”<
br />
Mother’s eyes closed, and spittle frothed at her lips. She swayed silently.
Soon a light emanated from within her. She stopped swaying and blinked rapidly. “Trouble from the Imazighen.”
She swayed again. The light brightened. She stiffened. “The elves,” she growled. “The elves are trouble.”
More swaying. Now the light took on a sparkling effect. “The swamp,” she said. “Trouble from the swamp.”
And with that, the light dimmed and disappeared. An inky blackness filled the cave, and Mother shivered and collapsed, asleep among the offal.
Kirag crept from the cave. He hadn’t learned much, but it was something.
At least know he knew where to look for these strangers.
Learning Elven Secrets
Arabelle wore a billowing robe and kept her hood raised as she was escorted to Maggie’s tent. Her handmaiden was stitching some of the silks she’d bought for her mistress earlier.
Maggie looked up and smiled widely. “Oh, Princess! I found some superb material today. I should be able to finish a couple of new dresses for you by the end of the week.”
Arabelle gave her friend a knowing smile. “Did you find Hassan?”
Maggie blushed brightly. “Hassan? What do you know about him?” Her face fell. “Oh—you aren’t looking at him too, are you? Do you think your father would approve?”
The princess snorted with laughter. “No, Maggie, I’m not interested in Hassan. However, if you are, I believe you might have some competition. It seems many of the girls have their eye on him.”
Maggie leaned closer. “I know, but I have an advantage.”
“Oh?”
“I overheard Hassan in the market today talking with a weaponsmith about needing a proper sheath for his staff. Evidently he’s having trouble finding one, since so few people regularly wield a staff as a weapon. So…”
Agent of Prophecy Page 5
