An Assassin's Blade: The Complete Trilogy

by Justin DePaoli

  “When we incapacitate their minds,” Amielle said, “they essentially die for a short period of time. Not true death, but the effects are similar. Dead people cannot walk. They slump over in the carts, then” — she touched one of the levers — “a man of the Brimary pulls the levers and the carts roll down the tracks. They crash into the steel dampers, and the doors swing open. The momentum tosses the soldiers out, into the… tear, you called it?”

  “Yeah,” I said absentmindedly, wandering to the middle of the room, where the so-called dampers lay at the end of the tracks. They looked like the wooden braces you’d find inside a wall, only made of steel. They were scuffed, silver scratches marring the gray metal.

  “Careful,” Amielle said. “You’re standing inches away from the tear.”

  I backed up, took in the room for a final time, and walked toward the door. “Do your magic,” I said. “Let me know when it’s finished.”

  “Where are you going?” Lysa asked.

  “I’m not dead. I don’t need to be turned off, shut down, or whatever you want to call it.”

  “You’ll only be affected if your mind is targeted,” Amielle said. “Which it most certainly will not be.”

  I smiled, gave a curt nod, and strolled into the holding chamber, shutting the door behind me. About twenty minutes later, there was a knock.

  Amielle appeared in the doorway, cheeks pale and thin. Lips cracked. I peered inside the room. The carts rested against the dampers, but otherwise the place looked the same as it had when I’d left. Except the conjurers were gone. And Lysa was gone.

  “Someone had to stay behind and help the others through,” Amielle said, addressing my obvious concern.

  I hadn’t thought about that. There had to be a sacrifice, of course — if you need one conjurer to escort another safely across realms, then someone has to play the pawn.

  “The rebellion could use you,” I said. “Ellie wouldn’t turn down a poor excuse for a conjurer, much less one who can make walls jump out of a frozen tundra.”

  A pink blush warmed Amielle’s dimples. A tender smile touched the corner of her lips. “If I could go back… look, Astul. I don’t know why I did what I… I’m sorry, okay?”

  I scuffed the toe of my boot across the stone floor. “Ironically, your mind wasn’t your own. But every time I see your face, I see the woman who butchered my Rots. I can’t forget that.”

  “I would never expect you to forget. But can you forgive?”

  With my hands clasped behind my head, I ran my tongue along the rim of my teeth. Didn’t say a thing. Couldn’t say a thing.

  “So what’s this about a rebellion?” Amielle asked, moving past the awkwardness. She saw me glance back into the room with the tear and added, “If you must leave, I understand.”

  “No. I intend to stay here until I don’t have a choice. It’s all part of the plan.”

  “A plan to…?”

  “Guarantee my freedom. That’s what I told you on the balcony of the Edenvaile keep, and it’s as true now as it was then.” I paused, looking down the holding chamber into the violet gloom of Fragment Zero. Thought I’d heard something — hooves — but nothing appeared. “The rebellion is fighting a war to seize control of Amortis.”

  She tapped her foot, thinking. “And what part does Mizridahl play in this war?”

  I told her my theory, or rather Vayle’s and my theory. Well, bits and pieces of it, not the whole pie.

  Amielle chewed on the premise, then simply said, “I see. Then shouldn’t you be going? I’m sure Lysa and the others are waiting. They will wake soon after crossing over.”

  I curled my fingers around the straps of my burlap sack. “What fun would it be if I departed before having a face-to-face with the very man — sorry, god — I’m attempting to destroy?”

  Her head listed like a hound’s upon hearing a sudden, sharp noise. “You intend to face Arken?”

  I snorted. “Let’s not be silly. I’m an assassin, and a damn good one at that, but I’m no god-killer. Not yet, anyway. All I fancy doing is broaching a topic with him, one concerning negotiation.”

  “He cannot be negotiated with.”

  “Strong words from someone who’s only been in his domain for, what, a little less than a year now?”

  Her nostrils flared. “I’ve seen him. I’ve heard him. He’s—”

  “Spoken to you?” I suggested. “Revealed himself? Yeah, I’ve seen him. I’ve heard him. He’s not that scary once you get past the wisps.”

  That was, of course, a lie. Bastard was like a shadow monster jumping right out of your nightmares and standing before your bed, ready to say Boo! soon as you wake up and right before he devours you.

  “I do wish you luck, Astul. Before I leave… this Ellie, the one you referred to earlier, what does she look like?”

  Er, that seemed like an odd question to ask. “Black hair, caramel skin. Pointy nose. Not much to write home about.”

  “I see. Interesting. I was only wondering — there is a woman among the myths and legends in the books of Lith’s library. Her description matches this Ellie’s, but the books called her Elimori.”

  Instinctively — at least it felt instinctive — I slowly turned away from the entrance of the holding chamber and faced Amielle. “And what did the books say about Elimori?”

  “That she was the Mother of Conjurers. The first one ever to exist.” Amielle smiled. “Myths and legends, though — I’ve read plenty, and few ever seem to be more than fiction. I figured if it was true, she might be here, in Amortis. Where else, after all?”

  So, Ellie, I thought, is this what you are? A beginning? The birth of the conjurers? Maybe I had been wrong about the rebellion. Perhaps Arken didn’t view Ellie and her rebels as a laughable insurrection that a few battalions of Wardens could put down if they grew too bold and willing, but rather a real threat, an honest challenge to his seat upon the throne of Amortis.

  Was Ellie’s mere existence the harbinger of his downfall? Did he need the might of the living realm to conquer her? Food for thought. Questions that needed answers. Ripheneal hadn’t mentioned Ellie in any of his conjectures concerning Arken, but conjectures are rather flexible and oftentimes inaccurate.

  Amielle soon said her goodbyes and claimed she’d go in search of the rebellion. I warned her to give Devous a wide berth. And while I hoped she’d indeed make it without a mob of Wardens ripping her teeth from her gums and sundering her soul from her body, a sense of happiness held me as I watched her leave. As I saw that face flee into the thick, violet air.

  After she departed, preparations for my plan were underway. Which is to say I propped open the door to the tear room with a few rocks from the debris of the collapse, opened my satchel and removed the lone belonging from inside, then had myself a seat about six inches in front of the tear.

  Approximately forty minutes later, two Wardens arrived at the entrance of the holding chamber. They idled there, black eyes of swirling stars fixated on me, three-headed flails jutting with obsidian spikes and diamond shards. If you were to take a knife up their arms and down their chests, across their spines… what would you find? More flesh underneath? A stuffing of steel and gems?

  Two additional Wardens came in moments later, their grotesque muscular frames shadowed by the faint silhouette of a horse-drawn carriage.

  Oh, Arken. You’re so very predictable.

  Of course he wouldn’t send only a couple Wardens here. This fortress was his baby, his ultimate linchpin for the seizure of Mizridahl.

  If there was one thing I’d learned about kings — aside from the freaky stuff, like Braddock Glannondil enjoying mistresses with whips, which is the type of information spies like to hand you when they want to see you shiver — it was that they get too close to their precious plots and schemes. They get attached. And when that happens, you can draw them out by breaking down and sabotaging the moving parts. They get worried, scared, and they come out of their little throne rooms to make sure everyt
hing is going according to plan. And that is when you’ve got them — information that ties them to a certain frowned-upon deed, or if you conceive yourself a king slayer, you’ve got an opening to strike.

  Gods, I’d found, are a lot like kings. Except they don’t die as easily. But they can die. Or so I hoped. Better yet, they can be fooled.

  One of the Wardens tended to the carriage. The man that climbed out was not Arken.

  At least not the Arken I had come to know.

  But as he adjusted his gemmed gauntlets and stamped his feet up the stairs and into the holding chamber, he flashed a serpent’s smile, identical to the one that demonic, wispy-looking motherfucker had flashed Ripheneal at the Prim those many months ago.

  Apparently he wasn’t meditating.

  Arken the man wasn’t quite as depressing and ominous a sight as Arken the shadow. Still not a joyous figure to behold, but I’d seen more intimidating men before. And women, for that matter.

  He was tall and thin, dressed in the very fragment in which he lived: a wardrobe of oppressive blacks and violets, bloodstones for buttons, a cloak made entirely of gems that appeared to have been liquefied, then cooled to a flexible sheet that fluttered up as he walked.

  “You must have a fancy fucking spyglass to see me from your grand city,” I said.

  Arken waded deeper into the holding chamber. The Wardens stayed put, posted like mere guards.

  “Imagine my surprise,” Arken said in a voice that sounded as if it was bleeding inward from all directions, “when I am given a description of a questionable visitor, and that description matches the very man who defied the god of life.”

  The tips of my fingers felt cold, and my chest trembled. Good old ice water flowing through the veins again. “A brief visitor turned escapee. Don’t you wish you could’ve caught me before” — I gave an all-encompassing look around the room — “I rather fucked up your fortress?”

  Arken stopped before the doorway.

  The god of Amortis bore down on me like a bleak winter evening, a crushing sensation that I felt sitting on my chest, squeezing my throat. Fuck if I didn’t feel like a little boy again, watching those fists clench, wincing before the punch even came.

  “I’ve always been one to offer accolades,” he said, “provided they are well-earned. When the fountains of light touched the clouds, I knew you were responsible. I figured you would try to free my conjurers, perhaps even succeed. But I went wrong in assuming you would take them to dear Elimori.”

  I attempted to shrug, but I can’t say if I succeeded, or if it came across as anything more than a limp lift of my shoulders. “I knew you’d catch us.”

  “Indeed, I would have. So, congratulations. A job well done. You must understand, Astul, Shepherd of the Black Rot, that I am not like most gods. Ripheneal and Polinia and all the others, they come from divine lines. But me?” His hand thudded his chest. “I was a man once, who then transcended into something greater. Greater than Ripheneal, even.” A subtle anger began eating away at his calmness.

  “But it’s all a game,” Arken continued, that serpent’s smile of his twisted into a seething, trembling scowl. “And Ripheneal has been part of the game for longer. He wrenched away from me what was promised — the creation of life — relegating me to the domain of death. I will have what should be mine, little assassin, and you are going to help me. Where did you hide the book?”

  I pictured Arken as Braddock Glannondil, a fat man with spittle flying from his mouth as he stomped his feet and threw one of his many memorable hissy fits. It was the only way to endure.

  “Tit for tat,” I said. “I’ll tell you where the book is if you tell me your plans for the living realm.”

  The scowl vanished as a flatness straightened his lips. “The living realm as you know it is Ripheneal’s. It must be razed so that it can be reborn anew. Now, the book.”

  “What do you want with it?”

  His jaw shifted.

  Confidence blossomed inside me. “I have it, right here.” I pulled away from my chest, lifting it up with both hands like a sacred heirloom.

  Arken’s face twitched.

  “And I’ve read it. Well, skimmed it. You need this, because without it, your hopes of razing the living realm can never be realized. Isn’t that right? You think Ripheneal’s weakness is in here, don’t you? And sure, maybe if you upset the balance of all things, show that Ripheneal can’t quite handle you… maybe the Council will elevate you. But you don’t want to risk the alternative. You want Ripheneal dead so there are no questions about whether you deserve the title of god of life or not.”

  Another twitch. “You possess a wealth of knowledge there, Shepherd.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve been told how the game works. Show you’re better than the other guy— whether through strategy, or because you’re simply damn meaner and bigger and badder than him and he can’t do a damn thing about it — and you take the spoils. Look, I get that I’m tempting fate here. I’m not in an enviable position. But without this book, neither are you. So let’s make a deal.” I slid the burlap sack off my shoulder, stuffed my hand deep inside, and produced the book. I held it up, showing him the worn cover. “I give this to you, and you give to me a promise that my life and all those I love and care for will be spared.”

  Arken tightened his into a fist, then relaxed it. “You have yourself a deal, Shepherd.”

  I tossed the book across the floor. It skipped over the door sill, flipping into Arken’s shin. The god of Amortis bent down, touched it experimentally.

  “By the way,” I said, “you’ll find Ripheneal in Fragment Eight. Elimori is holding him captive.”

  The upward snap of his head told me everything I needed to know.

  Gods, I hope you’re ready for this, Ellie. I hope I’m ready.

  I stood, held my breath and stepped into the air. Back to Mizridahl.

  I hoped.

  Chapter 21

  Rain pitter-pattered against the churning sea behind me and sunk into the wet sand beneath my feet. The smell of salt and fish awakened my senses, which were always a bit anemic after passing through a tear.

  A sideways gust carried with it stinging sand, droplets of rain and a feminine voice calling my name.

  I shook my head and stabbed my eyes, trying to shake the fogginess.

  “Astul, come on. They’ll see you.” Lysa was at my side, holding my arm. Rather, yanking my arm. “Come on!”

  I took one step, then stopped, head rising up and up — eyes climbing the sheer, jagged face of a cliff upon which stood a city whose keep walls had been burned the color of soot.

  I’d been on the other side of that cliff many times. Never thought I’d make it back here, though, given the… well, rather unfriendly circumstances surrounding my previous departure.

  The tear had apparently led to the beaches of Erior. What a grand-fuck surprise.

  Lysa urged me along, into a cave carved out of the cliff. Inside, the conjurers gathered, a mob of dark shadows shivering as the wind whistled inside, sweeping along the walls.

  The storm, like most that blew into the coast of Erior, abated quickly. A golden sun shaved away most of the darkness within the cave, revealing tired faces full of uncertainty and fear.

  All but two conjurers were conscious now, including Sybil Tath. She turned away from me when I looked at her.

  “There were soldiers marching up from the beach when we arrived,” Lysa said. “Lots of yelling, I think they were being ordered to move faster. Anyhow, they didn’t see us. I don’t think they were expecting us.”

  “They-a come-a back,” said a conjurer.

  I glanced at Lysa for clarification.

  “Officers, I’m pretty sure,” she said. “A few had come down to the beach, standing near the tear and waiting. Then they said some things to each other, shrugged and left.”

  I put a hand against the craggy entrance of the cave and peered out into the sunlit beach. “We leave here soon as the moon chases t
he sun outta the sky. Not a moment later.”

  While waiting for the sun to set, I explained to the conjurers the plan of action. Assuming we wouldn’t have Grannen Klosh and his joyful band of Red Sentinels nipping at our heels soon as we stepped out the cave, we’d follow the ocean’s edge till the humps of shorerock obstructed our passage. At that point, we’d turn farther inland, where — if I remembered correctly — the shore ramped upward and joined with the high roads.

  Back when Braddock Glannondil’s fat ass had sat on the throne, Red Sentinels would use the high roads as the primary route to Southern Tronen, where they’d often visit and illustrate with bloody swords what happens when lords and ladies don’t pay their taxes.

  Given the ongoing war between the East and Kane Calbid, I doubted the high roads were in use right now. So we’d follow them for a few days, till we came to the River Menth — a narrow channel of water which flowed from the west. It originated — or ended, depending your perspective — about a hundred miles from the Hole.

  Assuming the Brierwall messenger camp still operated a dock on the River Menth, I’d borrow — or steal, I’m rarely picky when choosing between the two — a boat for the conjurers to sail up the river. Once their little boat floated to the very end, they’d climb out, and make the one-hundred-mile trek to the Hole.

  From there, they’d enter the tear, traipse through Fragment Nine into Fragment Eight and, if everything went according to plan, would arrive at the rebellion camp before Arken’s entire force of Wardens, Custodians, and soldiers.

  And that wasn’t blind optimism, either. See, Arken had revealed his hand when he’d acknowledged the reason behind his desire for the book.

  He knew he needed the book to learn how to eliminate life in the living realm. A simple culling wouldn’t do the trick; you can’t possibly hunt down every living man, woman and child.

  He needed to kill Ripheneal. It said as much in the book. End the god of life, and you end the life he’s created. At least, it said that in the edited version that he had his hands on.