Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Then they’re burning a factory—no, a makeshift infirmary, just like the one he’d visited with Tamriel and the others in Cyrna. Agonized wails fill the air as the walls splinter and give out, as the flames devour the soiled sheets and blacken the wooden floorboards Drake and the elves had soaked in alcohol. The wails rise to bloodcurdling shrieks. Then they stop. All at once, the sick fall silent.

  Dead.

  Alarms clang across the city as soot falls from the sky like fat black snowflakes. Drake and the elves under his command emerge from a narrow alleyway to find Firesse and her elves sprinting straight at them, tripping over one another and the uneven paving stones of the ancient street. Firesse is screaming something, her eyes wide in terror and her armor soaked in blood, but her voice is hoarse, her face pale and sweat-slick from using her powers. It’s only when countless Beltharan soldiers in gleaming metal armor spill onto the street behind them, when archers emerge on the rooftops surrounding them and begin picking off the Cirisians one by one, that he realizes what she is screaming:

  “RETREAT!”

  The next time the darkness releases Calum, it’s daytime. The Cirisians are trudging along a narrow forest trail in complete silence, their eyes scanning the woods and their hands on the grips of the daggers sheathed at their hips. The Strykers’ wagon bounces and groans each time it hits an exposed root or rock. When Drake looks back at Firesse and the Cirisians trailing her, Calum realizes the attack in Xilor had cost them a large chunk of their forces. Before, they were nearing a hundred men and women. Now, they’re lucky if they have half that.

  Kaius and his hunters are guarding the rear of the group, Dayna and Adriel stumbling along between them, their wrists bound with thick rope. Calum’s stomach clenches at the sight of their lank, dirty hair and sunken cheeks. They’re alive, but only barely—Mercy’s father’s face is gaunt and pale, his skin waxen and shiny from the poison still flowing through his veins, and Dayna looks like she hasn’t been given food or water in days.

  Just a little while longer, he pleads as he watches them struggle to keep up. Hang on a little longer. He hasn’t dared fight his father’s control since the attack in Rockinver. He needs more time—time to gather his strength, time to plan how he’s going to free Dayna and Adriel—but judging by how quickly and how often the blackouts drag him under, he doesn’t have long until his father’s presence eclipses his completely. Saving their lives can’t possibly make up for every horrible thing he has done to Mercy and Tamriel, but perhaps it’s a start.

  Just before Drake turns forward, Calum sees Dayna reach over and clasp Adriel’s bound hands in her own. Something fierce and defiant shines in her eyes, something which reminds him so much of Mercy that it makes him ache. He’d seen that same fire within Mercy when he’d first laid eyes on her at the Keep. If it’s the last thing I do, he vows to her, his half-sister, I will see them safely home to you.

  Over the next several days, Firesse pushes them to march longer and faster than they have in a long time. Sandori is not far, and now that they’ve abandoned their plans to attack Cyrna—the loss in Xilor had shaken her, and they’d lost too many soldiers to risk another ambush—they pause only to rest for a few hours each night before continuing west. The hunger on her face and the wicked gleam in her eyes are more apparent than ever; they’ve fought so hard and spilled so much blood to make it this far. If Firesse’s plans work, Tamriel’s and Ghyslain’s heads will be decorating the city walls by the week’s end. He doesn’t doubt Mercy’s will join them; Firesse has made it obvious that she has no sympathy for those who stand against her.

  As they approach the heart of the country, two of Myris’s soldiers ride ahead of their force to meet Mother Illynor’s contact outside Knia Valley. When they return bearing a message describing a meeting place outside the little village—a farmhouse a half-day’s walk from the town limits, whose owner the Daughters had slaughtered the moment they’d arrived—Firesse can hardly contain her eagerness, bouncing impatiently in her saddle as the rest of her soldiers trail behind on foot.

  They arrive outside the farm just before nightfall. Mother Illynor and one of her Daughters meet them at the edge of the property, and Illynor’s slitted eyes narrow as they sweep over Firesse, Drake, and their troops. She frowns. “Where are the rest of your soldiers?”

  “We lost several during the attack in Xilor,” Firesse responds coolly, “and Kaius’s troops were ambushed on their way from Harkness.”

  She nods to Dayna and Adriel, still limping along behind the archer. “And those two?”

  “Traitors. Alive only because I have a special use for them in Sandori.”

  Calum tries to ignore the pang of fear Firesse’s words sends through him.

  “Some of the other groups suffered similar losses. That does not bode well for the coming attack.” Illynor raises a brow, her green and gold scales shimmering. “Perhaps I was too hasty in allying myself and my Guild with as ill-prepared a force as your own.”

  Firesse’s hands clench around her horse’s reins. “I’m paying you to fight for me, Guildmother, not to patronize me. What of your numbers?”

  “My Daughters are unharmed, as promised.”

  “Then your concern is misplaced. Between your Assassins, the Strykers’ weapons, and my magic, we’ll breach the castle by midday tomorrow.” She turns to Drake and smiles. “Calum has a plan.”

  He nods and says, “We’ll discuss it once we’ve had a chance to rest. For now, take solace in this: When this war is over, Guildmother, people far and wide will tell stories of the beautiful, fearsome Assassins who toppled a kingdom. You’ll have your riches—your payment from my father’s accounts, and as many aurums from the castle treasury as you can carry—and your rivals across the sea will quake when they whisper your name. You’ll be drowning in contracts from the Feyndaran and Rivosi courts once word of your Daughters’ battle prowess spreads.”

  Mother Illynor stares at him, emotionless as always. Beside her, though, the Daughter’s eyes are wide, a dreamy, almost greedy look on her face. It’s the same expression Mercy had worn when he’d shown her the Trial armor and pledged to help her cheat her way into becoming a Daughter. It’s the hunger all the Assassins share—for battle, for bloodshed, for renown, for perfection. Deep down, below that flat, level gaze, Calum knows Illynor feels it, too. She wouldn’t put such an emphasis on her apprentices’ training if she did not wish them to be the best.

  Slowly, Illynor nods. “Later, then.” She turns on her heel and starts toward the farmhouse, the Daughter trailing her steps like a pup after its master. “Come,” she calls over her shoulder. “Eat and rest. We march at dawn.”

  Firesse, Drake, and the others follow them past a field bursting with colorful fruits and deep green herbs, the long rows of waist-high bushes cleverly irrigated with water from the nearby stream. A stable, a hen house, and a barn line the opposite end of the field, and a line of trees meant to serve as a windbreak shield the house from view until they pass through an opening just wide enough for the Strykers’ wagon.

  Behind him, Faye murmurs, “Wow.”

  The house is huge, rambling, with a wraparound porch and tall pillars to support the second-floor balcony. The land around it is packed with tents, and the Cirisians wandering around stop, cheer, and shout thanks to their gods when they see Firesse at the head of the group of newcomers. Their ‘Blessed One’ has arrived.

  Mother Illynor leads them up the groaning, sagging steps and into the house. It’s easily hundreds of years old; the wooden planks of the walls are faded and weathered around the entryway and main rooms, some peeling paint and pockmarked with termite holes. They pass a dining room and a sitting room, a study, a kitchen, a wide staircase, and about a dozen bedrooms.

  “The bedrooms are for us—you, me, my Daughters, and your commanders,” Mother Illynor says to Firesse. “The rest can pitch their tents outside or join the others in the stables and the barn. With your protective wards, we’ll be out of sight of an
y Beltharan patrols who might wander past.”

  “Has anyone taken a count of the troops?” Myris asks.

  “Ivris’s group has yet to arrive. We’re not sure if they’re alive. As we’ve nearly run out of room, Sienna, Tanni, Aoife, and Giovanna have taken their soldiers to another farm a few miles from here. They’ll meet us here in the morning to go over the plan of attack. All in all, we have just over eight hundred soldiers, including the slaves we liberated along the way.”

  They spend the next hour unpacking and settling into their rooms. When the last of the soldiers are situated and the Strykers are busy tending to worn armor and repairing dulled or broken weapons, Mother Illynor gathers Firesse, Drake, Kaius, and the rest of the commanders in the cool, dark cellar—the only place free of the stifling midsummer heat. Under the light of an oil lantern hanging from the rafter, they examine a crude map of Sandori Drake has sketched on the back of the weathered parchment. He feeds them information about the guards, their schedules, their patrol routes, their training, their arms and armor—every minute detail plucked from Calum’s memory like a fruit ripe for the picking. He answers their questions about each of the neighborhoods and the city gates, where the weakest points of the walls are, the layout of the castle, and where the guards might set up blockades. Calum tries to pay attention, to listen to every precious piece of information about his home that Drake gives away, but within a matter of minutes, the blackness sweeps over him and swallows him whole.

  When he returns, Drake is sitting beside the Strykers on the porch steps, listening to Amir tell some story about their travels in Feyndara. The stars glimmer brightly overhead, and the camp is almost completely silent; everyone is trying to get as much rest as possible before the battle. Drake chuckles softly when Oren scoots forward and picks up the rest of the tale, too excited to wait for Amir to get to the punchline.

  Back already? he whispers, his cool voice tinged with faint amusement. I thought you might be gone for good this time.

  Sorry to disappoint.

  Don’t be. Disappointing me seems to be your only talent—you might as well excel at it, his father sneers. I was hoping you’d come back so I can show you all the cruel little ways I’m going to torture your cousin before I slaughter him. I do hope Firesse lets the king live long enough to watch his son draw his last breath. I want to see Ghyslain break. Seems a fitting punishment for what he did to me.

  White-hot rage rushes over Calum, temporarily replacing the ice-water in his veins. For the briefest second, he can feel the rough wood of the stair under him, the breeze on his face, the fatigue pulling at his body—and he knows what he needs to do.

  Then Drake slams fully into his mind, his fury palpable. Nice try, son of mine.

  I’m not finished yet. This is the opportunity for which he’d been waiting. It’s not perfect, but he’s nearly out of time. They’re a half-day’s march from Sandori. If he’s to free Dayna and Adriel, it must be now. He has no idea how long Firesse’s magic will keep the poison in Adriel’s system from killing him, but he prays that it will be long enough for them to make it to Sandori and find an antidote.

  Calum summons his willpower again and strikes at the bonds holding him captive, but Drake is ready for it. He only manages to let out a small gasp before the shackles of his mental prison clamp down on his mind.

  Oren pauses midsentence. “Are you okay, Calum?”

  Drake shoots him a cocky grin. “Perfect, as always.”

  Amir snorts. Oren returns to his story, but Nerran and Hewlin continue to watch him with matching doubtful frowns.

  So you do have some semblance of a spine, Drake goads. Defying your dear father. You’re much too old to be going through a rebellious phase, don’t you think?

  You will not hurt the people I love, Calum snarls. He can feel the darkness creeping in at the edges of his consciousness. It calls to him, sings to him, and it takes every ounce of his strength not to give in. One last push—that’s all he’ll be able to manage. One last push—and then oblivion. He shoves every last bit of hatred, loathing, rage, and guilt into that push, and he hardly recognizes his own voice when he shouts at his father, I WILL NOT BE YOUR PUPPET ANY LONGER!

  He gasps as the barriers around his mind shatter. His body is his own, at least for a little while. He jumps to his feet, startling the Strykers, and claps a hand over his mouth to hold in the hysterical laugh of shock and relief bubbling behind his lips.

  “What’s going on, mate?” Nerran rises, and Hewlin and the others do the same a second later. “What’s wrong?”

  “I did it,” he mumbles. A stupid, dazed grin grows across his face. “I really did it.”

  “I think he’s finally gone soft,” Amir whispers.

  “He’s cracked,” Oren agrees.

  Calum whirls around and slaps a hand over their mouths, scanning the camp for movement. Firesse had posted guards, but they’re somewhere outside the windbreak, and no one on the inside emerges from his or her tent. He turns back to the Strykers and drops his arms to his sides. “Dayna and Adriel. Where are they?”

  “Perhaps you should sit down, lad. Get some rest.” Hewlin makes to reach for Calum’s arm, but he jerks out of his reach, nearly tumbling down the steps in the process. He’s not used to his body or the way it moves anymore. His heart is pounding so quickly it’s no longer distinct beats, just a constant thrum in his ears.

  “I don’t have much time. Dayna and Adriel—the elves Kaius was leading. Where are they?” As he says it, he feels Drake begin to stir—with a vengeance. He doesn’t have long before his father seizes control. A headache begins pulsing behind his eyes. “Where are they?” he growls when none of the men respond.

  “The hen house, but they’re under guard.”

  Nerran hasn’t even finished his sentence by the time Calum shoves past him and starts toward the opening of the windbreak, being careful not to trip on the tents he passes. He doesn’t have a weapon with him, he realizes—Drake must have left his daggers in his room—so he stops and scoops up the first heavy rock he sees.

  Someone snags his arm just as he nears the opening and he whirls around, lifting the rock on instinct. Hewlin flinches and releases his arm, genuine fear in his eyes. The rest of the Strykers hover a few steps behind him. “Put the rock down, Calum, and tell us what’s happening.”

  “I can’t—I don’t have much time. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done, everything I’ve dragged you into. It won’t make sense to you, but it wasn’t me. Not really. Sort of. It’s my fault, but—” He squeezes his eyes shut, the pounding in his head making it nearly impossible to form coherent sentences. “You need to leave now. You never should have come to the Islands.”

  “We’re not leaving you like this, mate,” Nerran hisses. “You’re hysterical.”

  “He’s having some sort of episode.” Oren wraps his arms around himself. “I know what it feels like.”

  Drake struggles for control again, and Calum gives him a huge mental shove. That pounding. That damned pounding. He creeps to the edge of the windbreak and glances toward the hen house across the field. Two guards stand at the entrance, but in the darkness, he can’t make out anything more than their silhouettes.

  He points to the hen house. “Mercy’s parents are in there. They’re going to die if I don’t get them out right now, so I need you to go back and pretend you never saw me.”

  The Strykers exchange glances, then Hewlin announces, “We’ll help you.”

  “What? No, you can’t. If Firesse finds out you helped free them, she’ll kill you. I won’t let you risk it.”

  “Shut up and let us help,” Nerran snaps. “I don’t know what the hell is happening to you, but you’re clearly in no position to go after them on your own. So, either we all help you, or we drag you back to the house and tie you down until you explain. Your choice.”

  Drake surges again, and Calum winces. “All right, all right. The plan is—take down the guards, free Dayna and Adriel. Improvise. Sor
ry, it’s— He’s fighting again. Come on. Quickly.” He emerges from the tree line and starts across the field, the Strykers trailing behind him, each of them hefting a rock of their own. One of the guards calls something in Cirisian—a question, based on the inflection, but he doesn’t understand a word. Calum cringes. Hopefully the elves in the barn and the stables are too deep in sleep to be awakened by the guard’s shout. Perhaps they’ll think the guards are merely changing rounds and ignore it.

  Creator, I could use some luck right now.

  When they reach the middle of the field, he breaks into a sprint. Every stride sends waves of pain through his skull and nausea through his stomach. The Cirisians cry out again—a warning this time—and lift something in their hands.

  He ducks, and the Strykers follow suit right before an arrow whizzes over their heads. Then they’re running again. The elves drop their bows and pull daggers from the sheaths on their belts just as Calum and the others crash through the last row of bushes. The metal of their blades glint in the moonlight. While Hewlin and Oren take on one of the guards, Nerran and Amir the other, Calum yanks the door of the hen house open and blinks quickly, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. “Dayna? Adriel?” he hisses.

  “We’re here.” The voice floats from the back of the hen house, so soft he fears he’d imagined it.

  “We’re a half-day’s walk from Sandori.” He makes his way toward the back as he speaks, his hands out to keep him from colliding with anything. “Are you strong enough to run?”

  A pause.

  Then, a bitter laugh. “Do we have any other choice?”

  One of the Strykers lets out a grunt of pain, and Calum grits his teeth. They’re master weaponsmiths, he reminds himself. They can hold their own in a fight. It doesn’t make listening any easier, though.

  Something thuds, and there’s a soft whump as a body hits the ground.