An Assassin's Blade: The Complete Trilogy

by Justin DePaoli

  “Move,” I barked. “I’ve still got one last bit of business with this frozen kingdom before I leave.”

  Chapter 30

  With the collapsed wall of Edenvaile a good mile behind me, I crossed my arms and watched as forty mules dragged twenty wagons full of glittering gold through the snow. They slogged their way toward the Hole. A handful of Rots accompanied them.

  A pair of feet crunched through the ice behind me.

  “Have you spoken to Braddock?” Vayle asked.

  “Briefly.”

  Braddock, along with a small battery of Red Sentinels, had marched into Edenvaile a few nights ago, chasing those monstrosities of fire that burned the sky and dropped cocoons of conjurer reinforcements onto the battlefield. Apparently they were the remnants of an army that had fled his and Kane Calbid’s forces.

  “He went on about his proposition,” Vayle said, “to unite the realm under one crown. I’ve heard Patrick is very interested.”

  I locked my fingers behind my head. “Mark of a good king there, make you feel he’s interested in whatever you wish to talk about.”

  “Only the king of Icerun at this moment. But I don’t imagine he won’t make a claim for the throne of Edenvaile.”

  “Of course he will,” I said. “He’s got the support. And he doesn’t want a fractured, war-mongering North made up of ten different claims. Kane Calbid will claim the South, no opposition there. Eaglesclaw will be unstable — especially since the Rots managed to spur a rebellion of Edmund’s bannermen — but it’s good to have some instability. It’ll make the Rots a pretty coin.”

  Vayle pointed her chin at the lethargic caravan in the distance. “Speaking of coin, how much did you take from the Edenvaile vault?”

  “Four times what I was promised,” I said, grinning. “After all, we did a lot more than just discover who assassinated Vileoux Verdan.”

  “He’s to die tomorrow,” she said. “Along with the others, even Mydia, who seems to have had little part in this.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said, rubbing some warmth back into my frozen hands, “I’ll be fifty miles away from here. Will my commander be joining me?”

  Vayle rubbed her tired eyes. “I do not mean to cause inconvenience, but I am in dire need of a month away from everything I’ve ever known.” Her chapped lips remained parted slightly. She drummed her hand along the leather of her thigh, eliciting a consternating tune. “Ah,” she said, pushing a deep breath out. She shook her head and flashed me a frustrated grin.

  “It’s fine. I don’t need to know everything, Vayle.”

  “You deserve to,” she said. “I, er—” Her hands revolved around one another, trying to churn the words out. “You know I’ve never accepted a job unless it resulted in justice. An assassination must be in good faith. I thought this war would end in the greatest capture of justice I’d ever experienced. And… it did, in a way. But, Astul, I…”

  I reached out and held her hand. “It’s all the dead, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes were closed. “The snow hasn’t covered them yet. And the cold, it… I thought it would—”

  “Cover the rot?” I suggested.

  Her teeth sawed across her lip. “I can still smell them.”

  “I know,” I said quietly, closing her fingers inside my palm.

  “I just, well — I feel very strange.”

  “Am I going to lose you?” I asked.

  She swallowed and looked up, eyes reddened and moist. “Let me go away for a while. I’ll return. I promise.”

  After the lengthy silence, Vayle regathered herself. “And you? Where will you go?”

  “I made a promise to Tylik that we’d rectify the small problem with the guard who burned his toes off.”

  “What problem is that?”

  “That he still has his toes.”

  “You may want to get there quickly. Braddock, Dercy and Patrick are organizing a large force to sail for Lith soon. Well, in the general direction of where they believe Lith lies.”

  “First I’m paying a visit to my brother’s grave.”

  “I didn’t think you believed in talking to the dead.”

  “It’s my brother, and on the off chance the dead have ears, I suppose a, er… well, a brief hello wouldn’t be out of order.”

  Vayle embraced me tightly, patting my back. “Stay safe. I’ll see you back at the Hole soon enough, I promise.”

  As my commander fled back toward Edenvaile, I felt cold and empty. Funny thing that, since I had enough gold to buy a kingdom, had earned myself a reputation as the death knell of the conjurers, and hell, I’d accomplished everything I set out to do: preserved my freedom and the Rots’ way of life. Thing is, this grand chase had ended. Throughout it, my nearest companion was Death. And now? Now I was safe and secure. The adventure and the peril had fled from my life, and I… well, I missed them.

  And that was why I made plans to go visit my brother. Not to say hello to the dead, as I’d told Vayle I would. No, morbid curiosity drove me. Or perhaps less curiosity and more hope. A hope that I could recapture the adventure and the peril. A hope that maybe there was something greater and more dangerous out there than the conjurers. A hope that whatever words I would say at my brother’s grave wouldn’t fall on the ears of the dead.

  My eyes fell to the hilt of my sword, still smeared with a small chunk of gelatinous blood from Rivon’s belly. I spat on my finger and wiped it off, till the blade ran clean with black ebon.

  The Miscreant

  An Assassin’s Blade, Book 2

  Copyright © 2016 by Justin DePaoli

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This one’s for my parents, who have always encouraged and supported me.

  Chapter 1

  Empty graves and cold rain and yapping crows do not make for a happy assassin. All I’d wanted to do was come here and commend my brother’s corpse for being a good boy and staying put, unlike other corpses on Mizridahl. And then I’d find a tavern and take a couple mugs of ale to the face while I forgot all about the gossip of grave robbers.

  Instead, I stood before an empty grave near a crow who didn’t know how to shut the fuck up.

  There was supposed to be a body here. I remembered this particular place very well, because I’d stood here and shoveled through three feet of wet mud in order to bury my brother. And it seemed that sometime between then and now, either he’d been reintroduced into the world of the living, or someone had taken his corpse.

  Neither of those two options brought me joy. Anton wasn’t the only victim, though. When I’d hightailed it out of this slaver camp seven months ago, crunchy stalks of grass had loomed tall over a bunch of twisted limbs and bloodied bodies. Mostly slavers, and a handful of slaves who’d gotten themselves caught between the Black Rot’s swords. But now? The land was as spotless as a pie pan after Braddock Glannondil got through with it.

  The crow cawed at me again, from within a dying tree whose leaves had been stripped.

  I crouched down and inspected a wagon wheel faintly imprinted in the mud. Could’ve been the grave robber I’d very much wanted to talk to. Or, just as likely, a passing tradesman. Since I wasn’t trained to sniff out trails like a hound, this detail wasn’t any help.

  But I had trained myself to drink and to hold conversation with drunks and to be merry, and there was a tavern within twenty miles of here. Gossip about grave robbers travels quickly, as I’d already discovered, so I got back on my horse and rode toward the swamp. After crossing it, I eventually came to a busy village that sold anything you could ever want and would quickly procure what they didn’t have.

  At least, that’s what the guy who asked how much I wanted for my saddlebags told me.

  The tavern straddled two rock ledges. A short,
suspended walkway of stone connected you to either side. Only place to drink to your fill between Vereumene and Crest Point, the barkeep claimed. I knew for a fact that wasn’t true, but I don’t argue with those who provide me ale.

  Tables filled in as night drew darker in the East, and before long you couldn’t shuffle your feet to go outside and take a piss without bumping into shoulders and elbows. Even got a face full of damp beard at one point.

  Wooden mugs thudded off tables. Deep-bellied men ho-ho-hoed, and some hee-hawed, and some shrieked with laughter. By midnight, there’d been two fights, a man who’d shat himself, a woman who’d bared it all on a bet, and a talking bird. A sticky dew of ale and questionable liquids glistened along the floor, sucking at boots as the drunks wobbled out into the warmth of an overly hot summer night.

  I hadn’t heard a bloody thing about grave robbers. Heard lots about a good-for-nothin’ fat uncle, a tanner who couldn’t tan his own hide, and a whole host of other complaints. But nothing about corpse digging.

  And then the door shuddered, and steel clangored, and in walked a troop of heavily armored men who, if I had to guess, were in charge of transporting their lord’s entire arsenal of weaponry. Each carried three swords, the heavy sheaths dragging down their belts like a drooping branch of soggy pine needles. They wore furs and leathers and mail. Plate was strapped around their shins and wrists, and leather skullcaps covered their heads. Personally, I’d have opted for steel on my head and leather elsewhere, but these guys didn’t look the type to put much emphasis on thought.

  The fat one threw his weight around, knocking into stools. He dragged an empty table out from the wall, its legs screeching across the floor, and had himself a seat. The others joined him, and they all ordered ale and stuffed their mouths with piping-hot bread fresh from the hearth.

  As they drank, they talked about nabbing a corpse fucker. Intrigued, I grabbed a chair, placed it by the big man and nodded my head.

  “Corpses and fuckin’,” I said, “I hear that right?”

  “Who the fuck’re you?” the fat man said. His knuckles turned white around the handle of his mug.

  “Someone interested in dissecting grave robbers. So did I hear you right?”

  “We’re gettin’ ourselves one tonight,” the young man across put in. His nose curved one way and pointed the other, and one of his eyes rather floated about aimlessly.

  The fat man grasped the wool draping my arm and shook me to attention. “I asked who the fuck’re you?”

  “They call me the Shepherd.”

  “Shepherd?” Lazy Eye asked. “What d’ya shepherd? Sheep?”

  I leaned back and stuck my thumbs inside my coat, peeling it away from my belt. “Boys, do I look like I shepherd sheep? I’m a hired blade. Been asked to off the head of a grave robber ’round these parts. You know of him?”

  The fat man stabbed a finger into his chest and said, “He’s ours.”

  “I prefer working smart,” I said, “not hard. By all means, bathe your hands in all the blood you want, but do you mind if I tag along? I like to confirm my kills. Reputation is everything, after all.”

  The three mulled this proposal over, trading glances and shifty brows.

  “Another sword can’t hurt,” said the one who’d been silent so far.

  “What’re you bein’ paid?” asked the fat one.

  “Eight coins,” I said. Since I wasn’t actually being paid shit and I knew exactly what kind of leverage he was vying for, I wasn’t about to cheat myself out of more money than I needed to.

  “Gold?” he asked.

  “I don’t work for silver.”

  “Then we want half. Fair’s fair, for takin’ you along.”

  “Hard bargainers, hmm? Fine. Four coins for the three of you.”

  The fat man stared hard into my eyes. “Upfront.”

  “First, you’ll tell me your plan. I need to make sure I’m getting my money’s worth out of you.”

  The scowl on his face deepened, then he laughed and took a big gulp of ale, using his beard to wipe off his mouth. “Been plottin’ this corpse fucker’s stealings since my boy’s body gone missing from his grave. Every ninth night, he makes a pass through the gravelands up north a little ways. That’s when the bodies go missin’. Just before dawn is what we figure. Gravekeeper makes his rounds till ’bout that time, then shacks up for the morning.”

  I fingered the purse inside my pocket, then tossed four gold coins onto the table.

  The fat man smiled, revealing a face full of crowded yellow teeth. “Name’s Chipper. That there’s Gimmon, and—”

  “Quip,” said the lazy-eyed one.

  “Well, Chipper, Gimmon and Quip — we’ve got ourselves a few hours before we need to depart. Let’s drink. It’s on me.”

  I flagged down a bar hand and ordered the table four mugs of the strongest stuff this place had. As the bar hand scampered back the way he came, behind Chipper, Gimmon and Quip, I excused myself to take a piss.

  I touched the bar hand’s shoulder and whispered, “Nine parts water, one part ale for me.” I slipped ten coins into his hand and went outside to relieve myself.

  When I came back, Chipper was going on about how the mugs here were too small. I told him you can only bitch about that kind of thing if you manage to take an entire mugful to the face without coming up for breath.

  “Like this,” I said, offering him a demonstration. I filled my stomach with nine parts water and one part ale, slamming the empty mug onto the table.

  Chipper seemed like a man who wouldn’t take well to being outdone at anything, least of all drinking. Determined, he licked his lips, grasped the mug with both hands and threw his head back.

  Barely halfway in, he coughed up foam and spit onto his beard.

  “That’s a failed attempt,” I said. “Wanna give it a try, Quip?”

  Quip homed in on the mug with his one good eye, rubbed his hands together and gave it his best — which was not good enough. He got all red in the face, and veins were swelling in his neck as he tried keeping his throat open and the ale flowing, but in the end he threw himself forward and shoved his mug across the table in defeat.

  Gimmon also tried, and also failed.

  “I’ve got another game to play,” I said. “It’s a little easier. Learned this one while—”

  “Wait a damn minute,” Chipper said. He snapped his fingers at the bar hand. “Fill ’er up! I’ll not be outdone by a fucking sellsword.”

  Attempt number two ended with another beardful of foam and spit. So did attempts number three, four and five. Attempt number six was a spectacular disaster, resulting in the entirety of the mug missing his mouth.

  Gimmon and Quip tried their damnedest to keep pace during all of this, but by the seventh round, their heads hung and their eyes looked like slits. Chipper appeared to be having an out-of-body experience, head rolling forward and snapping back as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally, his face fell onto the table and he began slobbering.

  Quip and Gimmon rested their heads on their arms, and before long they were snoring and slobbering. And that’s when I took my leave. I hoofed it northward, wanting to arrive as silently as possible. Chipper said it’d take less than an hour on horseback, so I figured two hours or so on foot would put me at the gravelands in time.

  Chipper and his pals probably meant well, what with their intention of revenge. But I needed this grave robber alive and well, not lying in a field with his head rolling away. Information is far more helpful than blood.

  The grave keeper passed through once, but he didn’t see me tucked away in the boughs of a tree. As the black sky began peeling away and revealing the soft layer of a predawn blue, a heavy fog poured in across the gravelands.

  And through that heavy fog emerged a snout, then a pair of ears, then the full body of a horse. The morning croaked and it creaked as a wooden wagon lolled along.

  I held a few small branches back, offering myself a clearer view. Trees a
re wonderful places in which to stake out, but you do have to contend with obscuring leaves, creepy-crawlies and the occasional bird who thinks your hair is a great place to raise her babies.

  The horse planted her feet in stiff mud and sniffed the air, rocking the wagon to a stop. Out of the seat of the wagon swung a few uncoordinated limbs that looked like uneasy saplings trying to withstand the brunt of their first storm.

  I squinted as the figure stooped to the ground. Was that a fucking pig in his arms? Rather chubby and squat, curly tail, flat snout. Certainly looked like a pig, a young one. Sounded like one too, snorting its way across the field.

  It stopped and smashed its front hooves in front of its face, snorting gleefully. The figure, cloaked in a cowl, tugged on the reins of the horse, bringing the wagon to the pig. Then there was a clank, and soon after, dirt was excavated.

  The gloomy outline of the tall man or woman — couldn’t yet tell — hunched over, then stood upright and flung a shovelful of dirt away from the newly made hole.

  He carved out a long rectangular plot and then dug deeper, about three feet down. Throwing the shovel aside, he knelt and stretched his arms deep into the hole. A few tugs and a couple grunts later, a hand emerged. A fleshy hand, mostly, although it looked like the kind of flesh that had a tendency to slough off if you weren’t careful with your grip.

  A four-letter word rasped into the early morning: Fuck.

  Well, at least I knew what gender I was dealing with. The man struggled with the corpse, letting the dead, decomposing body get the best of him. He went at it again, this time grabbing an ankle. He huffed and puffed as the weight of bones and maggots shifted uncooperatively in the grave.

  I wondered. Was this how my brother had gone? Not willingly, but with a struggle, intent on resting in peace?

  After a while, the grave robber finally lifted the cadaver up and out. Things dropped from the body. Wiggly, slimy things that tunnel into dirt and rotting flesh alike.