Assassin's Shadow (Veiled Dagger Book 2)

by Jon Kiln

  Ariswold must have looked perplexed, because Rothar stood up and led him, somewhat gentler now, to his own front door. The apothecary’s place sat on a rise, overlooking Witherington, with the rest of the King’s City beyond.

  Ariswold put his hand over his mouth. The morning was not foggy, but choked with the smoke of a hundred burning homes and shops. Shouts and crying could be heard from the streets below, and horses and goats ran loose in the streets.

  A realization set in: through the night, as he had sat and smoked, lost in revery and hallucination, the very substance he was clinging to with such greed and passion was tearing his city apart. He wondered how many friends and loved ones had lost their homes, their livelihoods… or their very lives in the chaotic mess below.

  “I had no idea…” Ariswold trailed off.

  “Help me find out where this is coming from.”

  “Yes, Rothar. We must put an end to this.”

  Chapter 13

  Rothar followed Ariswold back inside. He was very weary, the night had been long. Rothar had been all over the city, helping injured villagers, organizing a group of men to aid in fighting the rapidly spreading flames, and finding safe haven for Harwin and Esme. It was not until some semblance of order had been restored and the men began to contain the fire that he had come to visit Ariswold.

  He demanded that the apothecary tell him how he had come into possession of the potent drug.

  “It is quite a queer thing, really,” the old man began, fidgeting in his chair. “I was out in the Banewood, a fortnight or so ago. I was collecting supplies and a man appeared in the wood.”

  “What did he look like?” asked Rothar.

  Ariswold squinted his eyes and looked at the ceiling. It seemed as though he were trying to retrieve memories from some unseen place in the heavens.

  “I could not see him well, dark as the Banewood is. Also, his face was veiled.”

  Rothar thought it significant that a man would travel in the wood with his face covered. People in the kingdom seldom covered their faces unless necessitated by work or illness. It was considered very suspicious to hide one’s identity in such a way, and Rothar only did as such when he was out on a kill.

  “His skin seemed dark, but not the color of sand, like a Southlander,” Ariswold continued. “Darker than that, like a bay horse. His eyes were black and sly. What was also odd was that he knew my name and vocation.”

  “He called you by name, but you did not know him?”

  “I am quite sure I did not, but he knew me. He said, ‘Are you not Ariswold, storied apothecary in the King’s City?’”

  “Very flattering,” said Rothar.

  “Indeed.”

  Ariswold had commenced to gently rocking back and forth in his chair, his hands clasped between his knees. Rothar could see that the drug was wearing off and leaving the old man in an agitated state.

  Ariswold continued, “He gave me a box of the herb, and told me that it was a powerful medicine. I asked him what it was intended to treat, and he said ‘anything.’ I told him that there was no plant in the world that could cure anything, and he said that I was wrong. He told me that there was no ailment, great or small, that could not be forgotten by smoking a pinch of the herb.”

  “Do you know what it is made of?”

  “I have not been able to ascertain, and the man would not tell me. He only said that the plant did not grow in the Banewood, that it grew only one place in the world.”

  “Where?” asked Rothar.

  Ariswold sat still a moment and looked at him queerly. “Do you think he would have told me that?”

  Rothar said nothing.

  “He told me to take the box with me and use it to treat my patients. If they were pleased with the results - and he assured me they would be - I could return to the same spot in the Banewood and more would be waiting.

  “I decided he was mad, so I took the box to appease him and came home. The next morning I awoke with a bit of a pain in my head. I decided to test the man’s claims, for what harm could it do?”

  Rothar looked at Ariswold pityingly.

  “Lo and behold!” Ariswold was suddenly animated. “I was swept into such a state that I not only forgot that I had a pain, but I believe I forgot I had a body at all!”

  The old man was grinning maniacally. The rapturous swing from sullen and contemplative to impassioned and crazed was unsettling.

  “I felt as though I could touch the heavens, though I never left my seat!” he continued. “All of that first day I reveled and smoked behind my locked door. And I tell you, Rothar, I tell you with all sincerity… I believe I touched the very face of God!”

  Rothar sat silent, baffled and angry all at once.

  Finally, Ariswold seemed to come back into himself. His face fell and his shoulders slumped, his eyes darted about the room. A shudder shook the old man’s slight frame.

  Rothar finally spoke. “And did you ever go back for more?”

  Ariswold jolted a little and looked up, as though he had forgotten that Rothar was in the room.

  “Oh, yes, yes.” he stammered. “Twice I did.”

  “And the man met you?”

  “The man? No, no.” Ariswold said. “He leaves the box in the hollow of an old tree.”

  “Do you leave him payment?”

  “Payment? No, he never asked for anything…”

  Rothar leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.

  “And did you not find that odd, Ariswold?”

  The old man frowned, the wrinkles on his face deepening. He glared at Rothar. There was a dark essence in his eyes that Rothar had never seen there before.

  “He is a kind man, Rothar,” Ariswold growled.

  Rothar pointed out the window, towards the smoldering city. “Kind indeed,” he said.

  Ariswold’s face changed again, sadness and regret returned. Rothar felt as though he were watching two people trading places in front of him.

  “Draw me a map to the tree,” Rothar told the apothecary.

  Reluctantly, Ariswold scrawled out a crude map, detailing the spot in the Banewood where the hollow tree stood. When he was finished, Rothar folded the map and stood up.

  “Eat something and go to bed. Lock the door, put out your sign, and stop being such an old fool,” he said, and turned to leave. Before he reached the door he stopped and turned again to Ariswold.

  “Did the man say what the herb was called?” he asked.

  Ariswold looked up at him and let out a long breath before he answered.

  “Obscura.”

  ***

  After Rothar had departed, Ariswold was still for a while. He could not stop thinking about the people in Witherington and on the opulent hills above. How many had been given the Obscura? How had they gotten it?

  His nerves were rattled and his heart was pounding. His hands would not stop shaking. He needed something to calm his tormented soul. He reached for the box.

  Where is the box?

  The box was not on the table where he had left it. He began to rush about the rooms of the house to no avail. He overturned the table, the chair.

  It was gone.

  Standing alone in the middle of his chambers, the old apothecary began to scream.

  “Rooothaaar!”

  Chapter 14

  Rothar found the tree easily enough. As crude as Ariswold’s map was, Rothar knew the Banewood as well as anyone in the kingdom. He had suspected that he knew the location of the hollowed out tree even before the map was sketched.

  As a child, traveling with the huntsmen, Rothar and his friend Peregrin had committed to memory the location of countless landmarks. One particular tree had always stood out to them. The ancient oak was one of the tallest and most massive in all of the Banewood, and it had been made all the more remarkable by the fact that lightning had struck the trunk in some far off time, burning out the core and leaving a cavity that was large enough for five men to stand inside.

  This w
as the very tree that Ariswold’s map led Rothar to. Walking inside the trunk brought many memories back for Rothar. The place had been no good as a hiding spot during their childhood games, since every soul familiar with the Banewood knew of the tree, but it had served well as a sort of sanctuary for the boys whenever they camped in the area. Rothar and Peregrin had laughed and told stories in the shelter of the scorched wood, and it was there that they had made a blood oath to always defend one another, even at the risk of death.

  Now, so many years later, Rothar searched about the inside of the trunk, which had once seemed like a cathedral to him. In the back of the hollow he found what he had expected to find: a small wooden box, marked with the star and eye. The box was filled with enough Obscura to drive a man to dire devices, by Rothar’s reckoning.

  Back outside, Rothar stashed the box in Stormbringer’s saddlebag, along with the one he had taken from Ariswold. He wondered how many boxes and pouches of this infernal evil may be found all about the King’s City… or perhaps, how few, judging from the desperate and degraded state of the rioters the night prior.

  Taking a long length of rope from the cinch on Stormbringer’s saddle, Rothar headed back into the hollow. After several minutes of expert work and a little help from his horse, he built a very strong and exceptionally well-hidden snare trap within the trunk of the tree. A large sapling, some distance off, provided the engine for the snare. Anything that came within the hollow and stepped on the concealed trip rope would be snatched up into the air and left to dangle helplessly. Rothar stepped back to admire his work, and hoped against hope that the mysterious poison peddler would come alone.

  Once the trap was set, Rothar mounted Stormbringer and rode back to the King’s City. He needed to brief King Heldar about all that he had seen and heard, and he wanted to ask his Highness to send extra men into Witherington to continue to restore order.

  Coming upon Witherington from the Banewood, Rothar was somewhat relieved to see that the fires were nearly all put out. A gray sheet of smoke hovered over the homes and shops. The day was windless so the shroud sat, unmoving, illuminated by the midday sun.

  The more violent and destructive rioters had been housed in the castle dungeons, but the majority had been released with a severe warning and maybe a boot in the rear. As Rothar rode through the merchant part of the town, he was surprised at just how quiet it was. Many of the shops that had gone untouched by the flames had not opened their doors even still, and hardly a soul moved about on the usually bustling streets. Rothar surmised that the night had been long for everyone, and nerves were ragged. People were in need of rest.

  Still, voices came from behind many a closed door and curtained window. Low, muffled voices, hushed conversations broken up jarringly by maniacal laughter, groans and cursing. Stormbringer stamped tensely and Rothar rested a hand on the hilt of his broadsword, but they rode through Witherington without incident.

  At Castle Staghorn, Rothar found that the guards had been doubled since his last visit, two days prior. It was clear to tell which sentries had been working through the night, their eyes were heavy and they moved with a greater effort. Rothar thought about how it would be better to send them home. Oftentimes, an exhausted guard is worth less than no guard at all.

  Rothar requested an audience with the King and was admitted into the throne room at once. Heldar sat upon his throne, looking as beat as his guards. Queen Amelia was by his side. Rothar noticed she was dressed in mourning clothes, and he thought about the stable boy.

  “Rothar,” began King Heldar, his voice heavy with fatigue. “Please tell me that you are getting to the bottom of this debacle. My men tell me that most of the maniacs arrested were carrying items with that same infernal star on it that you found in the ashes of my stable. What is the meaning of all this?”

  Rothar bowed to Heldar, mostly because he knew how much it annoyed his old friend.

  “There is a trail, your Highness, and I intend to follow it to it’s end.”

  Heldar and Amelia listened as Rothar recounted the events of the past two days. The King shook his head when he heard about the state that Ariswold was in. The King had never met the apothecary face to face, but, on Rothar’s recommendation, he had often used the old man’s concoctions to treat various ailments, and to no small success.

  Leaning forward, King Heldar spoke frankly to Rothar. “Do you know that I had men and boys scaling the walls of the castle garden all night? One even snuck past the guards and made it into the Great Hall. They were throwing stones through all of the windows. We had to move to inner quarters.”

  Rothar had to bite his tongue. The King was his oldest friend in life, but he was still the King, and the King must be respected.

  “It sounds awful, your Highness,” he said, nodding towards Queen Amelia, then adding, “I am sure you have heard that matters were quite severe in Witheringrton as well.”

  Heldar sat back, and let out a long breath. His resigned expression told Rothar that he got his point.

  “So much senseless destruction,” said Heldar. “I do not care to ever look out of my window and see another night like that.”

  “Nor I, Heldar.”

  “So, what do you do next?”

  Rothar had turned and was preparing to leave. He glanced back at the King and Queen.

  “For now, I must wait,” he said.

  “Wait?” asked the King, clearly displeased. “Wait for what?”

  Rothar was walking away when he answered.

  “To catch a rat.”

  Chapter 15

  Before leaving, Rothar took the opportunity to walk the grounds of Castle Staghorn to survey the damage done. There were a great many broken windows, but aside from that, it was mostly trampled flowers and ivy pulled down from where the rioters had climbed the outer wall.

  Walking in one of the lavish gardens, Rothar heard a slight rustling in the foliage nearby. Expecting a rabbit, he was surprised to find a young woman, extremely disheveled, huddling in the shrubbery. Rothar recognized her, she worked doing weaving for a rug maker in Witherington.

  She gasped when she saw Rothar, but she did not try to run. He could see that her leg was badly injured, and she could not get up. She was clearly a user of the Obscura, and was in withdrawal. The woman trembled horribly and was soaked with sweat. Her eyes were red and swollen. Rothar also noticed that she shied away from the sunlight when he moved the branches aside to look at her.

  He knew that if he turned her over to the castle guard, she would be thrown into the dungeons with the maddest of the rioters, and she hardly seemed violent, only scared and injured.

  Rothar looked around and saw there were no sentries in the area. He turned back to the young woman and put a finger to his lips, reaching out with his other hand and helping her to her feet. She winced and let out a small cry, but collected herself quickly. Rothar pulled one of her arms across his shoulders and steadied her, helping her keep weight off of her injured leg.

  Quickly but quietly, he guided her towards one of the small, locked gates in the outer wall of the castle garden. When they reached it, Rothar withdrew his dagger. The woman started to pull away as fear lit her eyes. Rothar shook his head slightly and dug the tip of the dagger into the keyhole, twisting hard. The gate popped open and he led the wounded girl out into the empty street.

  Rothar gave a whistle and within seconds, Stormbringer appeared around a corner. Without a word, Rothar helped the woman onto the stallion’s back and they rode off casually.

  Once they were a distance from the castle, he spoke to the woman.

  “Where is your home?”

  She was quiet for a long time, though her lips were moving. It was as though she were trying to remember how to speak. Finally, with a dry and cracking voice that sounded as weak and pitiful as she looked, she answered.

  “In the rug shop… I live in the back of the rug shop.”

  Rothar shook his head in dismay. He had seen the rug shop burn to the ground t
he night before.

  “Have you any family that can care for you?” he asked.

  The woman said nothing, but began to weep softly. Rothar had his answer.

  Under normal circumstances, he would have put her off at one of the boarding houses in Witherington and instructed the master of the house to give her a room, paying for it himself. But Rothar had passed the houses earlier that day, and the sounds coming from within made him feel that they were not places for a frail and broken girl.

  Harwin and Esme were in a safe house in the north part of the city, but the room he had arranged for them was too small as it were, and he did not wish to risk endangering Esme with the presence of an unpredictable and unfamiliar addict.

  Rothar resigned to take her to his home until he could arrange for her to be watched over by someone who would make sure she stayed away from the Obscura.

  As they rode, he asked her, “What is your name?”

  It took a moment for the girl to retrieve her identity from her own mind.

  “Allette.”

  “And, if I may ask, how did you come to be in the state that you are in?” Rothar knew that he would have to be delicate in speaking with her, but this woman may be able to help him in his quest.

  “It ran out,” was all that she said in reply.

  “What ran out?” asked Rothar, feigning ignorance.

  “The ladder.”

  “Ladder?”

  “Yes, the ladder to heaven,” she said, her voice a broken murmur. “It was everywhere, and then it was gone, and we were all dying.”

  A sensation was forming in the pit of Rothar’s stomach. It was not fear, for Rothar had killed that emotion long ago, but it was a feeling that this mysterious “Obscura” was much more powerful than even Ariswold had understood, in his altered state.

  They rode past a row of squat, humble cottages. A faint, acrid smell hung in the air. Rothar would have attributed the odor to the smoldering structures nearby, but Allette straightened up and sniffed at the air like an animal. Suddenly, she threw one leg over Stormbringer’s neck and dropped to the ground, dashing towards one of the cottages, seemingly oblivious of her injured leg.