An Assassin's Blade: The Complete Trilogy

by Justin DePaoli

  “I’m not bringing foul play to your village,” I told them. “Promise.”

  “Wha’ your friend look like?” one of the men said.

  “Like me, except with a pair of tits, chocolate hair and a much kinder face.”

  A head nodded at a leaning building with a big barn door.

  “My thanks,” I said, walking past them. They subtly drew their shovels back, prepared to wallop me in the skull if I had any tricky business in mind.

  A couple knocks later and the barn door slid open a smidgen.

  “Huh?” said the voice inside.

  “I’m here for a friend. Chocolate hair, name’s—”

  The door screeched on its rickety track, sliding open the rest of the way. A gaunt man with thin ropes for hair splayed along his shiny head welcomed me in with a toothless grin.

  “’Nother sleeper, Nan. Gots ourselves another sleeper. Come in, come in! Must be freezin’ out there dressed like that.”

  “Clearly I enjoy the pain, huh?” I said, shuffling inside.

  “Name’s Igrid, that there is… Nan, where the hells are ya?”

  “I’m ladlin’ the damned stew out here!” hollered a woman. Then a grumble. “’Cause no one else will.”

  Igrid rolled his eyes. He went to say something, but paused as the woman fussed for a second time.

  “Mr. Watchman of the damned door. Actin’ like we have a line out there.”

  “Are you done, Nan? Huh? Are you finished? Can I talk to the young man yet?”

  The thickness of marital silence hung in the air.

  Igrid cupped his mouth, leaned in and whispered, “Pain in my arse sometimes. Listen, young man, I believe you’ll find your friend dreamin’ of sheeps and sunshine right now, but you’re free to wait here till she wakes. If it’s a room you’re wantin’, Nan and me, we’ve got the cheapest beds from here to Edenvaile. One standard gold piece buys you a good night’s rest and a bowl of stew. Throw in another and we’ll pour ya a couple mugs full of mead too.”

  Igrid and Nan’s house was homely, if nothing else. Warm scents of onions and mutton and seasoned broth drifted along. Candelabra were affixed to the walls, little flames reaching up the red ocher paint.

  “You get many visitors here?” I asked, reaching down to untie my boots.

  “Plenty know about Igrid and Nan’s Nest of Rest. And don’t you worry ’bout that. Ain’t nothin a mop can’t fix. Keep your feet on you. It’s winter, for goodness sake.”

  I smiled. Always best to make a good first impression, the likes of which vary depending on who you’re trying to impress. Igrid seemed like the kind of man who wouldn’t give me much trouble, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  “Tell you what,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “How about ten coins? I don’t need a bed, but a bowl of broth would be great. And the extra coins, they’re for you and your wife to enjoy. Also, if we could keep this visit between us — no one else needs to know about it, yeah?”

  Igrid flattened two fingers to his eyelids, pulling them shut. “Ain’t seen a thing, young man.” Then he leaned forward again, hand cupped around his mouth, and added, “Been married forty years. I know how to keep a secret or two… hundred.” He winked.

  He led me into the kitchen, where the apparent Nan was sitting at a table, spooning a red stew into her mouth. She had a wholesome appearance to her — not sloppy like Braddock Glannondil, but rather full and happy.

  Well, maybe happy wasn’t the right word. Perhaps content. She looked at me, then back at her food without so much as a nod. You and I could get along just fine, I thought.

  Igrid ladled me a bowl of stew, and I had a seat at the table, across from Nan. A couple hours later — during all of which I’d endured a burn in my chest the likes of which not even eating peppers right off the stem had ever inflicted — Vayle stumbled out into the kitchen. Nan and Igrid had since retired upstairs and told me to knock on the stair banister if I needed anything.

  My commander blinked a long blink, as if she thought I might be a sleep-induced apparition.

  “You look like you just fucked all your cares away,” I told her, noting her tangled hair whipped about her sweaty face, burning cheeks and wrinkled clothes.

  She squinted at me, then shook her head. “What are you doing here?” Apparently it was too early in the morning for snappy comebacks.

  “We need to talk.”

  She gave a fuck-me sigh and shuffled her feet lazily over to the small cauldron suspended over a hearth that glowed the orange of dying embers.

  “It’s still warm,” I said. “I had my fourth bowl an hour ago.”

  She grabbed a wooden bowl from the counter. “Your fourth?”

  I shrugged. “What? I was hungry. Ready to hear my escapades, dear Commander? Or should I say, Mrs. Undlow? Oh, that’s why you look like such a hot mess. Dreaming about Manrick in… naughty ways, were you?”

  “Astul, your mouth continues to open, and you know how annoying that can be.” She glared at me, then filled her bowl and had herself a seat. “Manrick would not provide supplies unless I offered him something in return. So I offered him myself.”

  “Hell of an offer.”

  “Yes. And once he discovers my true intentions, I do not believe he will be on friendly terms with the Black Rot anymore.”

  “Well, I’ve got bad news on that front. Supplies aren’t needed anymore.”

  Vayle had her spoon at her lips, pausing. She sighed, opened up and swallowed the red-sauced stew into her belly. “What did you do?”

  I drew back as if insulted. “Me? I didn’t do anything. Aside from free conjurers, meet with Arken, convince the goddess of nature to work for us and lose every bloody conjurer I freed.”

  She sniffed. “It would seem supplies are most needed, then.”

  “I’m not saying they aren’t needed. I’m saying we don’t have time to prance all over Mizridahl and secure them. Arken is taking the war to the rebellion. I expect he’ll arrive shortly.”

  “Define shortly.”

  “Hopefully no sooner than two months, but probably not much longer than that. He’ll want to gather the entire might of his army; that takes time. He won’t risk Ripheneal getting away.”

  Before she could mouth that god’s entire name, I explained to her everything that had transpired.

  At the end of it all, my commander — ever the strategist — guessed my plan of action.

  “Your desire for Rovid to find a wraith was twofold, wasn’t it? Expedite the arrival of supplies by opening a tear, but if things went unexpectedly, you’d have him close every tear. Seal Arken off from this realm.”

  “Good thought,” I said, “but no. Can wraiths even close tears they open? I’m not sure. Anyhow, quite the opposite. We’re going to bring Arken into this realm.”

  Vayle twirled her spoon around in the empty bowl. “You’ve gone mad. Good. It’s informative to know where you stand.”

  I clapped my hands. “Oh, come on. Where’s the optimism my commander’s always been known for? It’s not as mad as it seems. Well, it is, but only if we don’t execute properly.”

  “Explain.”

  I threw my elbows onto the table and rubbed my hands together. “Arken wants Ripheneal about as badly as, I don’t know, you want lemon-infused tea. So we take the god of life through a tear that comes courtesy of the wraith Rovid ideally finds. Arken follows, and where’s it take him? To Vereumene, where you and I have helped assemble an army who the goddess of war believes is fighting for her.

  “But the armies of the North and East, of the Verdans and the Taths, will move forth and crush the armies that come through the tear with Arken. With his military battered, that leaves the god of Amortis exposed. And the exposed — gods or not — are easy targets, aren’t they?”

  Vayle licked some broth off her spoon. “I would very much like to know the answers to two questions.”

  I leaned back. “Ask away.”

  “How will you find Riphenea
l? And suppose you do — how will you convince him to follow this mad plan of yours?”

  I threw my hands on the table. “So, er, a funny thing happened back in Scholl. Actually, soon as we entered Amortis in search of Lysa. The old chap began fingering my mind.”

  “Ripheneal?”

  “Yeah. Ripheneal. Met with him in the flesh shortly thereafter.” Over another bowl of soup, I told her everything that had transpired.

  She sat in silence for a little while after, digesting both soup and a bounty of new information. “End the creator and…”

  “And you end his creations. Right, right. I don’t know what it means. Certainly not literal. Probably nothing at all. I asked Ripheneal, and he didn’t explain further. He acted like it was a ploy to drag Arken into our trap. Anyway, given the circumstances — mostly my failed attempt at procuring an army — I think Ripheneal will be quite fine with this change in plans. He’ll agree to it, I’ve no doubt.”

  She tongued her cheek and rapped her nail on the table.

  “You don’t seem convinced,” I said.

  “Two questions bother me.”

  “Answers can remedy that.”

  Vayle lowered her leg. She leaned forward, a rare glimpse of intensity in her furrowed brows. “What happens if the god of life is killed?”

  I scratched my neck. “I, uh, imagine nothing in particular, aside from the Council the gods refer to needing to choose another god of life.”

  “Or,” Vayle said, “Ripheneal is telling the truth.”

  “Not a chance. It’s a ploy.”

  “Your certainty is not convincing, Astul. It reeks of fear.”

  No one knew how to annoy me better than my commander. The woman had a penchant for tying together all possible loose ends, but this was nonsense bordering on absurdity.

  “If his statement is true,” I said, “if the death of the god of life results in the end of his creations, why wouldn’t that be in the book already? Why would it need to be added into the duplicate book? Surely death and its consequences have crossed Ripheneal’s mind before.”

  The wooden spoon clanked against the bowl as Vayle fiddled with it. “I suppose. But consider this. You masked your true intentions when ending the reaped and Occrum. And so too did Lysa. What stops Ripheneal from doing the same?”

  “It’s a damn ploy, Vayle.”

  “That’s fear. And you know it.”

  I shoved my hands into the table, scooting my chair back. Then I sat there in silence. Anger in its most petulant form — a realization that made me look at my commander and offer a meek apology.

  “I appreciate your strategic outlook,” I said, “but our choices here are limited.”

  Vayle smiled warmly. “I think it’s a fine idea, Astul. But let us try to keep Ripheneal alive, above all else. Just in case.”

  I wasn’t about to confess, but keeping Ripheneal’s heart beating wasn’t the outcome I looked forward to. The gods and goddesses had proven to me that they were a blight, and blights need to be eradicated.

  “Moving on,” my commander said, “Jesson Tath and Patrick Verdan as war allies? Seems unlikely.”

  I pointed at her. “That’s where you and I come in. Jesson Tath can thank Patrick Verdan for his continued existence. I wasn’t there when Braddock, Patrick, Dercy, Jesson and the others convened after the war against the conjurers ended, but from what I heard, Braddock wanted Jesson to renounce the Taths’ sovereignty and relinquish his rightful title as king as consequence for Edmund’s part in the war. Patrick was the voice of dissension.”

  “You and I must have heard whispers from the same people,” Vayle said.

  “A favor like that would earn you quite the debt, wouldn’t you say?”

  Vayle folded her hands together. “Indeed. A debt in the form of puppet strings, perhaps? Is that what you’re thinking?”

  I snapped my fingers in recognition. “Puppet strings and Patrick Verdan is the puppeteer. Jesson will do what he says. And I happen to know a way to convince Patrick Verdan to do what we say.”

  Intrigued, she cocked a brow.

  “Darvin Fausting. Remember him?”

  “The recipient of the poison we purchased.”

  “That’s the guy. He’s taken Icerun from Patrick who, I forgot to mention, is quite tired of the kingly bullshit and wishes to retire to that bloody mountain of ice and snow soon. If Patrick marches up there and takes Icerun back from Darvin, he’ll throw the North into a civil war. But if Darvin were to perhaps perish at the hands of, let’s say, an assassin, then—”

  “We hand Icerun back to Patrick,” Vayle supplied.

  “And we give ourselves a debt to call in.”

  She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “It may appear suspicious to Northern lords and ladies. But I have a fair handle on Northern affairs, and the death of a lord with big ambitions likely won’t cause more than a ripple.”

  “That’s my hope. So what do you say, Commander? Death in the North, part two?”

  She crossed her arms on the table, held my stare for a while, then grinned. “I believe for me this is part three. And if you count our history of assassinations in the North, it may well be part forty or fifty. Oh well. If it takes us closer to an exit from world affairs, then let us go.”

  I had my hand in my pocket, thumb stroking sleek glass. I hoped the poison Slenna had kindly given me would work as well as she’d claimed.

  Chapter 25

  The best things in life are simple. Take wine, for example. All you need is some good grapes and some fermentation and you’ve got yourself a dandy drink which’ll take all your worries and escort them away.

  Political assassinations, on the other hand, have about as much in common with simplicity as a chicken has with a cow.

  Getting Darvin Fausting to drink some venom with liquefied vossifos seeds might result in the end of his living days, but it would do little to move his populace out of Icerun. One of his underlings would step up and assume his role.

  So what would force an entire people to evacuate their new homeland? Unfortunately for my conscience, the answer was death in massive quantities.

  Vayle and I landed amid a storm of wind and ice pellets. With a bit of mindful instruction, I forced the phoenix around to the anterior of Icerun, landing him on the small island of snow and ice that led into the shallow cavern that was Icerun’s dungeon.

  We barely sunk our boots into the snow before torches sprung headlong into the black night. Nocked arrows advanced toward us, mingling with the glint of silver swords.

  A man in furs and mail threw his heavy weight around, shoving aside archers and guards to get to us.

  “A bloody phoenix?” he said, gloved hands on his hips. “Well, don’t that just sound like a fuckin’ conjurer.”

  I peeled back my coat that I’d bought from a messenger camp on the way there and lifted my sword out of its sheath enough for the sliver of black ore to meet the authoritative bastard’s eyes.

  “Does a conjurer carry ebon blades?” I asked.

  The man wrenched his sword from its scabbard and gave it a slow whirl, pointing it at Vayle and me. “Far as the North’s concerned, assassins and thieves belong in the same piss jug as conjurers.”

  I chuckled, looked at my commander and said, “You think if he knew who we really were, he’d bend the knee? Probably crawl over here and kiss the head of my cock, spittin’ thank-yous and sorry-sirs all the while.”

  That made the big bad man all red in the face, got his mouth scrunched up and had him picking at his goatee.

  “Astul, Shepherd of the Black Rot,” I said. “And my lovely Commander Vayle. We’re here to speak with your… whatever you call him. Lord, King, Baron — Darvin Fausting.”

  “I,” the man said, slapping his mail breast, “will be the judge of who sees who. Disarm yourselves, now.”

  Vayle crossed her arms. “I’m afraid it is Black Rot policy for Rots to keep themselves armed at all times.”

  General Brute st
raightened himself, looped his fingers around his belt. “Then my boys will take pleasure in undressing you.”

  A couple eager swordsmen pushed ahead, but their crunching through snow and ice came to an abrupt stop as I flashed them the serrated tip of an ebon blade.

  “I suggest we come to an agreement,” I said. “We’ve information that your dear Darvin will be taking his last breath in approximately two days. Pay us enough and we might tell you who’s plottin’ his death. Or don’t and instead imprison us. See where that gets you. Ever fancied having a lord die on your watch? Chaos tends to be born that way.”

  The man stroked his goatee. His eyes checked side to side, uncertainty twisting inside him. “It’s the middle of the damned night…”

  “We can wait until he awakes,” Vayle said.

  A warm sigh wisped away from his mouth. “He may still be…” His voice trailed into nothingness. Then, “Come. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  I sheathed my sword and showed him my palms with a smile.

  Darvin Fausting was most certainly still awake. The plump marble moon was hanging on the early side of midnight, hardly the middle of the damned night as the man claimed. Lords and ladies this far into the gelid cold tended to keep late hours anyhow, thanks to a habit involving the nightly consumption of wine and mead and ale that permeated most of the North. History was filled with tales of wasting livers and early deaths among the Northern nobility.

  The domineering officer brought Vayle and me to the amalgamation of stone that was Icerun’s keep. We waited inside, among the long fire pits that burned warmth into a place where fire had no natural habitat. Logs hissed and crackled as servants placed fresh, dried timber inside the pits.

  Officer Asshole went off to fetch Darvin Fausting. A small company of guardsmen kept vigilant eyes on Vayle and me, although we were allowed to move around freely within the… what exactly did they call this room?

  “The roasting room,” I told Vayle. “Sounds like a proper name for a place like this, yeah?”

  She crouched before a rectangular fire pit cut into the stone floor, warming her hands. “Please don’t ever call it that. You sound like a twit. It’s the great hall.”