She was rapidly becoming adept at walking where most of the Fellein would never consider going. There were exceptions, of course. One foolish man had spotted her and tried to sound an alarm. His body was found at the docks a few days later.
They moved quickly and as they moved the rains started again. That was a blessing and a curse alike, but one she took in her stride. The rains were cleansing. The rains also tended to make many of her targets run and hide as if they might melt were the water to strike them.
The men she was after this time would likely not care. They were cutthroats and scavengers. They were godless murderers who killed for profit.
In short, they were fighters.
She could respect that.
The rains came down harder, chilling the air and soaking her clothes to her body. The cloak she was wearing was light, but the water made it cumbersome. There were advantages to cloaks, but those were lost quickly if the fabric was sodden. The cloak came off and was set in the alleyway nearest their destination. Kallider kept his cloak on, shoving the watery wings of it back away from his arms.
Her skin was paler than his, and so she chose to hide most of it behind a thin veil. The fabric was little more than gauze, but hid her nose and mouth away. Shadows were a blessing of the gods, as were most things. Taking advantage of those blessings was part of a lifetime of training.
Kallider moved ahead of her and examined the ground carefully. While he did that she surveyed the alleys and streets along the edge of the docks. As expected, the rain had driven most people away.
The exceptions were the ones coming off the small ship that was currently unloading cargo and passengers alike.
A red-haired man with a predatory grin was holding court with the City Guard in the area. He had a hat in his left hand and she could see by the way he carried it that he was concealing something: very likely a small blade, to help him out of a mess if the negotiations failed. She had been among the Fellein long enough to understand that he was bargaining with the Guard. For the right amount of coin they would look the other way. She wasn’t completely certain of all that was gained by the action until she accessed her host’s memories. No taxes or levies paid on the materials brought into the city and no one learned of the passengers and what they were doing there.
She already knew about them. The gods had demanded their deaths. That was enough for her.
Kallider stayed exactly where he was, waiting for her signal.
She made him wait for several long minutes while the man smiled and talked of how many coins he would have to give up.
Finally, after too long spent soaking in the rain and watching her targets gather and prepare to move on, the City Guard with the most rank on his shoulder held out his hand and watched while the negotiator offered several small silver pieces.
Time at last to do what the gods demanded.
The thought brought a smile to her face.
Captain Callan shook his head and avoided spitting with only the most meticulous self-control. He’d have been better off dealing with brigands on the road than the City Guard. At least the brigands were honest about their intentions.
Still, he was being paid handsomely enough, he supposed.
Seeing the attackers was purely an accident. His eyes drifted toward the alleys as he considered which way to a good pub. It was a walk, but the Broken Oak had excellent wine and clean beds. He wanted a clean bed in the worst way. Also, their whores were almost as clean as the beds.
The Brass Key was closer, but many of the sailors making deliveries went there first. As a result the place tended to be a bit filthier, much like his crew.
He was looking toward the Broken Oak when he saw shapes moving. They were dark and they were fast and if there had been any breeze at all he might have thought them shadows or even a bit of dust caught the right way, had it not been for the steady pelt of the rain.
A brave man might have called out a warning. A good man might have done the same. A truly heroic soul might even have run to the aid of the passengers he had delivered to the port.
Callan walked back toward his ship and gestured at his lads, letting them know that trouble was heading their way.
The lads, being wise in the ways of their captain, continued their work.
Callan got himself back on the deck of his ship as quickly as he could without offering any sign that he had seen anything at all. His first mate, Vondum, was already preparing for any possible trouble.
The cargo had been delivered. That was all that was required of Callan. The rest was not his concern. The bodies of the men he’d delivered would still earn him the rest of his coin. Even if it did not, the goods his crew was currently moving and guarding would take away a portion of the sting. A small portion, granted, but still.
The shadows moved again and Callan watched them without looking in their direction. His father had told him the best way to observe the world was to never look directly at it. His father had been a very wise man when he wasn’t drunk to the point of unconsciousness.
One of the men he’d dropped off looked toward the moving shadows and grabbed for his sword, letting out a cry of alarm.
The first of the dark shapes stepped in close to the swordsman, close as a lover, and then moved on. The sword fell from the man’s hand and a moment later the man fell to his knees and then on his face.
By that point both of the shapes had engaged their enemies.
Callan had brought twenty men into the area. They were there for the sole purpose of working for his employer, who in turn worked for someone else. That was all he wanted or needed to know about them, aside from the fact that they were there in secrecy. He had kept his part of the bargain. No one had heard from him about their arrival and none of his lads had yet had a chance to get drunk and chat away.
Still, someone knew and that someone wanted the mercenaries dead.
The first shadow moved fast and stayed low, but managed to get cut just the same. The second man the shadow approached was dead in an instant, but the third struck with a small throwing blade that shimmered in the vague light before disappearing into the shadow’s belly.
There was no noise from the one that got cut. The one that had thrown the blade, however, let out a powerful scream as his hand was cut away from his body.
That was enough to warn the rest. They turned quickly from their individual discussions and tasks and worked as a unit, backing toward each other in an effort to build a unified defense. No one would cut them from behind if they were careful.
They were not careful enough. The second shadow form was smaller and slipped inside their guarded area before they finished establishing it.
While they were fighting against the first dark shape, the second moved among them, slipping between bodies and striking with terrifying efficiency.
Callan had seen the Guntha in action. He had watched soldiers and sailors from nearly every port in the world. But he had never seen the level of efficient brutality that came upon his charges. While he watched on, they were chopped down, some from the larger shadow, others by complete surprise, as they were attacked from behind.
Callan put two fingers in his mouth and blew out a shrill whistle. As one his men stopped their work and moved back to the ship. They moved quickly, while the shadows were otherwise engaged.
Vondum held his crossbow to his side and clutched at the small wooden carving of Lalos he wore around his neck. Callan did not believe in gods, but he threw his own prayer to the god of travelers, just in case it might help.
Twenty men died in short order, but not one of them belonged to Callan’s crew. That was a victory in his eyes.
The shadows did not stay around, but ran back into the rain-soaked alleys and, if he were lucky, away from his existence forever.
Vondum stared at the bodies as the rain continued. Blood flowed from the corpses and into the waters soaking the docks. More of it ran between the boards and spilled into the river. It was too dark to study the r
ain for any possible portents, though he suspected a few of the lads were likely trying.
“What were those?” Vondum’s voice was strained.
“From what the Lady Tataya told us, those might be the enemies we’ve been hearing about.”
His first mate looked his way with a shocked expression. Finally he spoke. “Might I suggest we move to the other side of the continent? I don’t think it’s safe here any more.”
Callan wished the man were joking. He also agreed with the sentiment.
“Finish unloading, then we disperse for the night. I have to talk to our employer about this one.”
“Need someone watching your back?”
Callan nodded his head. The negotiation was likely to go poorly. He intended to walk away from it with his head still on his shoulders. “Aye, but I think I have someone in mind who can help me with this one.”
Vondum didn’t ask and Callan volunteered nothing. It was best sometimes to know as little as possible about a plan. Sometimes people got themselves caught and questioned and there was no doubt the City Guard would be calling on the Inquisitors about this one.
The Inquisitors were a problem, but only if they could link the bodies to his ship, or any of the illegal merchandise he’d just brought with him. That was why he needed to handle this particular situation as quickly as he could.
That, and there was a lady he wanted very much to see while he was in port.
They went their separate ways in a matter of moments and Swech looked back as Kallider began to falter. He was dying; there would be no saving him if she did not go back immediately and offer him aid.
She continued on.
Ultimately Kallider mattered no more or less than she did and the Daxar Taalor would decide his fate. If he better served them by living then he would live. If he better served them by dying, then he would die and the consequences of his death would have their impact as they surely must.
She recognized that he was of Imperial blood. There would be repercussions.
Swech closed her eyes and listened for the voices of the gods as she called to them with her prayers and told them what had happened and what she believed.
She opened her eyes quickly when she heard the sound of someone coming closer.
Swech did not strike. There was no need to kill anyone who approached her, only those who were a threat.
Jost was not a threat. She was a friend.
The younger woman was covered from head to toe in black. She was here for the same reason as Swech herself: to serve the Daxar Taalor.
“I have missed you,” Jost said. She lowered her head for a moment, but never took her eyes from Swech.
“Later, when we have finished with the night’s work, you and I shall discuss what has happened in my absence. For now I need your help with this.” She pointed to Kallider, who still breathed, though barely. “For now, help me.”
Swech looked down at Kallider and drove her dagger into his temple. His death was swift.
A moment later Jost gathered the man’s feet and she captured him under the arms and they lifted his mass.
Getting him back to the place where she and Kallider had killed the assassins was easy enough. The people from the boat were moving crates and bags of supplies away from their ship in a hurry and did not take the time to look around. Even if they had, there would have been little to see as the rain continued to come down in a heavy cascade.
Leaving the body where they wanted it was easy enough.
He would be found. His death would serve the Daxar Taalor.
All was well with the world.
Jost waited until they were well away from the bodies before she spoke again, using only hand signals to convey her message. “I do not like the way you look. I prefer your true face.”
Swech nodded and eyed her friend, responding in similar fashion. “I do what I must to please the gods.”
Jost chuckled and moved with her, graceful and silent. They moved among the shadows and remained unseen by any save the occasional rodent.
It was good to have the girl with her again. Jost was a reminder of home and she needed that. The gods must have sensed it, for surely they had answered her prayers. The Daxar Taalor could be so very kind.
The waves thundered around him and Andover Lashk did his best not to drown.
He could no longer be certain how long he had been in the waters, only that he was still alive, and had endured the crashing and beating that the water threw at him.
He was cold to his bones and his muscles ached. His eyes burned with the salt from the ocean waters. His head ached from the knowledge that Wheklam had filled his mind with. Though he had never been on the ocean or even to the edge of any of the great seas, he understood tidal currents and the location of the islands and continents that covered much of the world. There were other lands as vast as Fellein that had never been spoken of in his lifetime and he knew now that they existed and how best to get to them.
That was Wheklam’s gift to him. He merely needed to survive it. The weight of his cloak had been too much and so he let it go. The weight of his weapons had been substantial, but he kept them. The hammer was long gone, but one did not cast aside the gifts of gods easily – at least he was fairly certain one did not. He was still working on understanding the proper way to deal with deities, and at the moment he was trying to understand how to deal with them when they threw him into waters without end.
A particularly large wave lifted him higher than he’d been in a while and Andover saw land ahead. The soil was dark and rocky and looked barren. He did not mind that notion in the least.
His first thought was to push for the land and so he did, but he did it carefully. He was not a skilled swimmer; in fact he barely understood how to tread the waters as he was doing now. Small strokes seemed the way to go and so he paddled with his arms and kicked with his aching legs.
There were several times when he was absolutely certain that the strip of land was coming no closer. When those times came on hard and fast he would stop for a moment and allow himself to simply float and breathe.
He heard a voice calling his name, or rather he thought he did. It was hard to hear much of anything over the sound of the surf as it ground itself into the sand and soil again and again. His eyes looked around but saw nothing but more water and a growing strip of land. And so he continued on until, finally, he felt the ground beneath his boots and he could once more stand on his exhausted legs.
The sun was like a furnace as it beat down on him and he welcomed it after the bitter cold of the ocean. He shivered and his breaths came in laboring gasps. He spit a dozen times in an effort to get the brine out of his mouths but there seemed to be more of the stuff.
Mouths. The one he was born with and now three Great Scars. The marks left on him by the gods were silent for the moment, but he knew they’d start talking again soon. Whispering, mostly, softly enough that only he could hear them. He found the sounds oddly comforting.
There was no one on the shoreline that he could see, no one who could have called to him or would have had a reason to do so.
Looking carefully, it only took him a moment to understand that he was on the other side of the volcano’s pit. Here the ground sloped at a gentler angle. He looked behind him and was scarcely surprised to see that the ocean was gone.
A few hundred feet away a deep cavity led downward into the heart of Wheklam and even now he could feel the heat, what he had mistaken for the sun on his back before. Fumes and smoke rose from the crater and, even as he stared, he could feel the heat from the volcano drying the sodden fabrics he wore.
No ocean. No sea. Part of him was stunned. Most of him, however, was coming to accept that gods did not follow the same laws. If Wheklam wanted an ocean, then an ocean appeared.
Or perhaps it was all in his head and he was suffering a fever dream. He found he preferred the notion of gods.
There was no sign of Delil.
Just to be certain he c
alled for her, his voice echoing off the sides of the volcano.
Because he didn’t know how long he was supposed to stand inside the volcano, he let his instincts lead him toward the edge far above. Perhaps Delil was up there. He’d find out soon enough. Whether she was there or not, he knew he had to move on. There were time limits to consider.
If Delil was not there she would have to follow after him or go her own way. He wanted to be with her. He did not need to be with her. He had met with three gods and had four more to meet with before his promises were properly kept. A man was only as good as his word. He intended to be a good man.
Andover Lashk did not consider how he would have reacted to his current situation only a month before. There was a time that would have been foremost on his mind – that, and the image of the a young lady named Tega, who for a brief time was the center of his universe – but those times were gone. That Andover was gone.
Metal is forged in the heart of a furnace and tempered and shaped.
Drask Silver Hand would have been the very first to point out that there were seven forges in the Taalor Valley and that the Daxar Taalor were adept at shaping their weapons.
The City Guard handled many things. They could even, one assumed, handle an occasional murder. The story was different when the bodies numbered over a score and when one of them belonged to a member of the Imperial Family.
Callan watched the spectacle unfold from the comfort of his ship, and looked toward Tataya with a worried expression. “You can see why I called you, yes?”
The reason was obvious enough to Callan. Twenty of the bodies belonged to those who had traveled on his ship. The young man of imperial blood had apparently been killed by those twenty men. All of that might have been an inconvenience or a major dilemma, but none of it mattered to Callan as much as the man standing above their cooling bodies and ordering the City Guard to do his bidding.
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