Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “Help,” he croaks, reaching a trembling, bloodied hand toward Drake. His eyes are wide, bright with fear. “Help me.”

  He falls and does not stand up again.

  He couldn’t have been a day over fourteen.

  Faye appears beside him, speckled with blood. “The elves are losing,” she shouts to him over the sounds of steel meeting steel. She ducks under the arc of a Beltharan’s sword and dispatches him with a flick of her wrist, a throwing knife embedded in his jugular. “You could run, Calum.”

  “If only it were that simple,” Drake yells back.

  The Cirisians are slowing, tiring and dying quickly. They aren’t used to battles. Despite most being adept fighters—lashing out and dancing back so quickly Calum can hardly keep track of them—they’re better suited to Island skirmishes than fights in an open, unprotected field. When Drake pauses, searching for another target, he realizes that Faye is right—the Cirisian troops are dwindling. They still outnumber the humans, but Firesse is rapidly losing more soldiers than she can afford. The once-green field is now littered with bodies, blood and gore leaking out and turning the earth slick under Drake’s feet.

  The rebellion could die right here, right now, Calum realizes with a burst of hope.

  Then a scream rings out over the chaos—raw, piercing, filled with pain and rage—and Calum recognizes the sound of one of Firesse’s guttural, ancient incantations.

  For a moment, nothing happens.

  Then, slowly, the corpses around him begin to rise. They clamber to their feet, their eyes empty, and attack the nearest Beltharan soldiers.

  “What the hell?” one of the humans gasps a second before his reanimated comrade shoves a sword through his stomach. A few yards away, an elf with a gaping wound in his stomach slashes at a soldier’s arm, cutting through the bone just below the elbow. The human screams and slips in the blood-slick grass in his attempt to retreat. He clutches the stump of his arm to his chest, his cries of pain swiftly cut off when the elf drags his blade across the man’s throat.

  The slaughter is happening all around him. The Cirisians and the dead work together to dispatch the horrified, terrified Beltharans, who can do nothing but gape as their fallen friends turn their blades on men they had fought beside not five minutes before.

  Just like that, the battle is won.

  The Beltharans are dead.

  Across the field, surrounded by her horde of living and undead soldiers, Firesse lowers her sword and wipes the blood from her face. Her hair is clumpy and matted with it, but her eyes are bright with victory.

  “T’veja,” she says, her voice carrying over the unearthly silence which has settled on the battlefield. Leave us.

  One by one, the undead soldiers drop to the ground. They make no sound except for the soft whump of their bodies hitting the earth.

  Slowly, the Cirisian survivors gather in the center of the field, studying their leader with a mixture of terror and reverence on their gore-coated faces. “Blessed,” they murmur to one another. “Myrbellanar’s Chosen.”

  Firesse smiles at them. “We . . . We did it,” she says, her trembling voice raw and full of amazement.

  Then her eyes roll back in her head, and she collapses.

  16

  Calum

  Kaius scoops her up in his arms, cradling her gently. “Archers, gather every weapon you can find. Gods know we need them. Fighters, search for survivors among our fallen. Slit the throats of any humans who are still alive. The rest of you, return to Fishers’ Cross and tend to the wounded.” His expression is cool, collected, but Calum can see the effort it takes to maintain his calm façade. Firesse’s breathing is shallow. Her face, tucked against his chest, is pale under the layers of blood and grime. “You,” he says as he brushes past Drake, “are coming with me.”

  “Yes, sir.” He helps Kaius pull Firesse onto his horse—one of the few they’d found in Fishers’ Cross after the attack—then mounts his own. They ride as quickly as Kaius dares, and soon burst through the doorway of Firesse’s house.

  “Clear the table.”

  Drake does as he says, shoving bowls and papers to the ground, then the archer gingerly lays Firesse down on the kitchen table. Kaius hardly seems to breathe as he begins removing her armor, searching for a wound. Calum does not fail to notice that the elf’s hands are trembling.

  Kaius swears under his breath, fumbling with one of the straps. “I can’t tell how much of this blood is hers.” When he finally loosens the strap, he tosses the chestpiece aside and runs his fingers across her ribcage, her stomach, her sides. “She’s unharmed,” he sighs a moment later. “Not so much as a scratch on her.”

  “The magic made her weak, then?” A shudder goes through Calum. Summoning Drake and Liselle from the Beyond had been intimidating enough. Now that she can turn the fallen soldiers against the Beltharans, now that she can raise an army who cannot fall to blades or arrows, how could the Cirisians possibly lose?

  “She wasn’t supposed to risk it yet. The ritual she uses to wield Myrbellanar’s abilities draws her closer to the other Old Gods, but she’s still mortal. Our bodies were not intended to contain the power of deities.” He lets out another string of curses. “She may die.”

  And, hopefully, her rebellion with her. Without her magic, they would never stand a chance against the Beltharans.

  Someone knocks on the door.

  “Na t’enja,” Kaius snaps, stepping in front of Firesse.

  “I don’t speak Cirisian,” Nerran calls as he opens the door, “so I’m going to assume that means ‘enter.’” He freezes the second his eyes land on Firesse’s still form. He takes in the blood coating her, the table, and Drake and Kaius, his nose wrinkling at the coppery tang in the air. “Is she dead?”

  “No.”

  He nods, his gaze never straying from the girl. “I came to tell you we’ve run out of iron. We can’t craft anything new unless we find more in another town.”

  Kaius dismisses him with a wave. “We’ll find some.”

  “Okay. And . . .” Nerran turns to Drake then, studying him as if he’s not quite sure he recognizes the man standing before him. “May I have a word in private?”

  Drake follows him out into the street. As soon as they are out of Kaius’s earshot, Nerran whirls on him. “Care to explain this?”

  “I explained everything when you arrived in the Islands. You know why I have to help her.”

  “You’re willing to do all this to avenge your father? Look at you, mate!” He gestures to the blood and dirt caked on Drake’s boots, the scratches in his armor, the shallow gash in his arm. “Who are you?”

  Drake rolls his eyes, a lazy grin playing across his lips. “Don’t play that game. You know me.”

  “I know Calum Vanos, a smug, charming, promising young smith. He’s my friend. I don’t see him when I look at you.” He runs a hand down his haggard face, scrubbing at the blond stubble along his jaw. “I understand that you hate the king. What he did to your father was despicable—unforgivable. But leading an army to his doorstep? You would really shed so much innocent blood for revenge?”

  No! Calum cries, desperate to make his friend see the truth, but his traitorous lips do not obey.

  “I do what must be done,” his father says instead.

  “Don’t do that, mate. Not with me. Don’t pretend you’re blameless in this.” Nerran points an angry finger down the road, where Firesse’s soldiers have begun to trickle into the village. “Is killing Ghyslain worth risking all these people’s lives? Is it worth all the people who have already died?”

  Drake narrows his eyes, and Calum can feel his father’s patience reaching the end of its rope. “It is worth these people’s lives and more.”

  Nerran staggers back as though struck. “Hewlin was right. You’ve changed.”

  “Maybe I’ve been like this all along. Maybe I was only pretending before. Maybe I missed my calling as an actor.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry
, mate. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner.” He starts back toward the house the Strykers share, then stops. “I didn’t just come to tell Kaius about the iron,” he says without turning back. “I saw you ride back and thought you might want to know that Oren’s okay. He’s resting now. I guess the stress of traveling with the Cirisians is really getting to him.” Without waiting for a response, he crosses the street and slams the door to the Strykers’ house behind him.

  Drake watches him leave, then turns toward the cliff overlooking the village. Beyond the lip of the bluff, a spot of orange light shines faintly in the distance—the fire Myris’s fighters built to burn their dead. Black smoke rises into the night sky, blotting out some of the stars.

  Two elves shuffle past him, their heads bowed as they whisper in Cirisian. Dayna clutches the bandages wrapped around her chest, the white linen stained red from a wound near her ribs. Despite the fatigue on Mercy’s father’s face, he supports Dayna’s weight as she hobbles along beside him, trembling violently. Do you recognize them? Calum whispers to his father. They were your slaves once. After you helped murder Liselle, after you died, they fled to Cirisor. They survived. They’re not yours to torment anymore. When Dayna looks up and meets his eyes, he could swear she sees past Drake and looks straight at him.

  Firesse wakes early the next morning and sends Kaius to gather her generals—Drake, Myris, and the other Firsts—in her house. They arrive to find the window shutters latched, a lone candle burning on the kitchen table. Its flame casts long, shifting shadows on the floor as Lysander paces.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Firesse says, but she’s too exhausted to put any bite behind the words. She’s slumped in the chair at the head of the table, the light from the candle sharpening her features, deepening the hollows of her cheeks. Kaius and Myris flank her on either side, wearing identical worried expressions.

  “That was a slaughter. That should have been a slaughter. What you did with those—those things . . .” The First shudders and drops into a chair. “That was unnatural.”

  “I know. It nearly killed me.”

  “You cannot try it again,” Kaius blurts. “Not until you regain your strength. It was foolish enough to attempt it last night—”

  “I did it to save my men,” she interrupts with a sharp glare at the archer. “I would do it again if the situation demanded it.”

  Kaius frowns but remains silent.

  “How many dead?” Drake asks.

  “A third of our forces,” Myris replies, her mouth set in a grim line. “No Beltharan survivors. We’ve bought ourselves a little time, but the king will soon send more soldiers. We must be better prepared for the next battle.”

  “The next battle will end us!” Amyris argues. “I’ll not allow some girl to bring about the decimation of all our clans. We should return to the Islands and pray the king does not purge our land when he learns of the massacre of his men.”

  “Some girl?” Firesse echoes. “Some girl who raised the dead to save your hide?” She pins each of the Firsts with a glare. “I should think you’d be grateful, yet here you sit, suggesting a retreat. What will you do when the king sends his soldiers to our Islands? Will you cower before his men while they slaughter your families? Will you stand aside while they rape and enslave your women?

  “Turning back is not an option. We fight and win, or we retreat and forget the crimes they have committed against our kind for generations.” She pushes to her feet with a grimace. “But you are correct. No matter how much my soldiers train, they will never be able to match the Beltharans’ prowess on the battlefield. We don’t have the numbers or the time. Fortunately, I did not come here to conquer the king’s land. I have no need for battles or sieges. I came here to avenge our ancestors and to free those who still bear the bonds of slavery.

  “When the Daughters arrive, we are going to divide our forces. Each of you shall lead a troop of soldiers and Assassins.” Her lips curl into a smirk, a hint of that mischievous sparkle returning to her bloodshot eyes. “We’re going to deal the king a blow he won’t soon forget.”

  Two days later, flecks of ash still fall like snowflakes from the sky—remnants of the bodies the fighters burned after the battle—and cover the village’s dirt road in a light dusting. When Drake leaves the house he shares with the Strykers, he catches a glimpse of the shore, the sand and shallows tinged black with soot. He is halfway to the workshop when a shout rings out from somewhere beyond the bluff. A cheer follows. Moments later, hoofbeats thunder down the road.

  “Donahe-jva!” the rider yells. “The Daughters have arrived!”

  The soldiers who had been training beside the docks wander over, craning their necks for a glimpse of the infamous Assassins. Curious elves have begun to line the lip of the cliff and gather along the road. Hewlin and the Strykers file out of the workroom, blinking against the bright sunlight. Oren spots Drake and waves him over.

  “I never thought they’d actually come,” he whispers when Drake approaches. “Between our weapons, Firesse’s powers, and the Daughters’ skill, they might actually stand a chance of making it to the capital.”

  That what I’m afraid of.

  “Is what they said about the battle true?” He swallows and lowers his voice. “She can raise the dead?”

  “That’s not all she can do,” Hewlin murmurs.

  Across the street, Firesse steps out of her house, Kaius trailing behind her. She has regained most of her strength, but Calum doubts she’ll risk using her powers anytime soon for fear of losing more than just consciousness. As she goes to speak with the scout, the Cirisians and liberated slaves she passes bow their heads in respect. Since the battle, they’ve begun calling her ‘Lo Benii’—the Blessed One.

  A few minutes later, fifteen Daughters ride into the village, led by a cloaked figure who can be none other than Mother Illynor. Half of the Assassins are disguised in roughspun tunics and patched linen pants, like the poor workers who till the fields of the agricultural sector. The other half are dressed as merchants, driving wagons laden with fruits and vegetables, dried meats, bolts of fabric, and brightly painted wooden toys. A disguise—and a clever way to make coin along the road.

  Illynor dismounts her horse with a grace uncharacteristic of the Qadar. When she lowers the hood of her cloak, her green, brown, and gold scales glimmer in the sunlight. At a flick of her wrist, the Daughters dismount and gather behind her.

  “Firesse really thinks fifteen Assassins will turn the tide of the war?” Nerran asks, then hisses when Amir elbows him sharply.

  “Keep your voice down, lest you find yourself on the pointy end of one of their swords. You’ve seen the way they fight.”

  “Mother Illynor,” Firesse says loudly, grinning. “I am honored you have decided to join our war against the mad king.”

  “As you should be.” The headmistress of the Guild casts an appraising eye over the girl before her, then the elves watching from the sides of the road and the top of the cliff. A few straighten their shoulders and stare right back at her, while others wither under her heavy gaze. “Let us speak in private.”

  Drake leans against the counter in Firesse’s kitchen, watching Firesse and Illynor study each other from opposite ends of the table. Kaius, Myris, and the other Firsts mill about in silence, waiting for one of the women to speak.

  “Now that you’ve joined us—” Firesse begins.

  “How old are you?” Illynor interrupts. Her slitted eyes flick to Drake. “Calum did not mention in his letter that we’d be following a child into battle.”

  “Old enough to know what must be done to protect my people.”

  “Just ensure that your ambition does not make you rash.” She leans forward, propping her elbows on the table, and turns her attention to Drake. “You visited my Keep at spring’s-end, did you not? You brought me a contract from the king you now seek to destroy.”

  “Yes,” he responds curtly. “Long ago, he hired your Assassins to kill my father, and I want revenge.�
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  “So long as you keep your sights set on Ghyslain, and not on my Daughters. Business is business—we were paid to complete a contract, so that’s what we did. Speaking of business,” she says, glancing back at Firesse, “my girls are not your soldiers. They shall remain under my command. You and I are partners—equals. When we reach the capital and deliver you your mad king, you’ll pay us the rate you promised in your letter and we’ll go our separate ways.”

  “I thought only royals were allowed to buy a contract on another royal,” Ivani says, piping up for the first time. “Cirisor has no ruling house.”

  “Under normal circumstances, that is true. But these are hardly normal circumstances, wouldn’t you say? This is war,” she says. “This brings me to my next condition. When we arrive in Sandori, I want Mercy. She is not to be harmed in the fighting. After we kill the prince, I’ll deal with her myself.”

  Kill the—? Calum’s world tilts on its axis. Tamriel is alive? H-He wasn’t killed by Lylia? But Firesse said—

  She lied to you, Drake responds coolly.

  Why? Dangerous, dangerous hope blooms within him. If he can somehow break free of his father’s grasp, warn Tamriel what is going to happen—

  It’s easier to gain control of someone whose spirit is broken, along with his body. You’ll always belong to me, my dear son.

  I used to think so, but you’ve just given me someone to fight for.

  Firesse’s voice cuts through their silent conversation. “Agreed.”

  Drake shoots upright. “You promised me the prince.” Images flicker through Calum’s mind—his father’s memories from before he’d been summoned from the Beyond. Tamriel had been Drake’s price for helping her in the war; what better way to take his revenge on Ghyslain than by forcing him to watch his only child’s life slowly bleed out?

  “As long as Tamriel Myrellis is dead before we leave the capital, I don’t care who deals the killing blow,” Illynor concedes. She raises a brow to Firesse. “What is the plan?”