An Assassin's Blade: The Complete Trilogy

by Justin DePaoli

  A cough, mouth still closed. He bunched his hands into fists, began shaking them erratically. As the poison would scald the inside of his mouth into raw blisters, he’d begin choking.

  The pain would soon overwhelm him. He’d try to spit it out, but his strength would wane — a sole finger pressing against the bottom of his chin could hold his mouth closed.

  The toxic vapors would soon suffuse into his cheeks. That’s when the eyes would start watering and the nose would start burning.

  He’d cough again, this time unable to stop. The liquefied camadan seeds would slosh against the back of his throat.

  The agony unbearable, he’d swallow. Maybe not on purpose… but maybe so.

  All of this came to pass, right down to that first swallow. He clawed madly at his belly, probably trying to scoop out all the fat and muscle, excavate a hole for the poison to flow out.

  But it was trapped. Trapped and bubbling in his stomach like boiling water, the liquid eating, seeping through the walls… cooking his liver, kidneys and all those wonderful organs.

  Everything living, dead and godly has a weakness. And Arken’s was simply opening his mouth too wide.

  He gasped for a last breath, and when it did not come, he expired from this realm… from all of being.

  I stripped that bastard of his armor and dragged his naked corpse down the hill. A few minutes later, he lay on the spine of the phoenix, and we ascended toward the heavens.

  The Wardens had obviously been slain, because along the path that led from Vereumene marched an army of rabid men who wanted revenge for the death of their creator.

  I circled above them. With a shove of my elbow, Arken fell from the phoenix and tumbled to the horde below.

  Chapter 33

  I sat beside my commander, sloshing wine around in my mouth. The want, the desire for Arken’s blood on my tongue persisted, despite the madness relenting hours ago.

  “You know,” I said, sighing, “I don’t get it.”

  “Perhaps it’s not for you to understand,” Polinia said. The goddess of nature had a bird’s-eye view of the insanity that had unfolded. Or more accurately, an owl’s-eye view.

  I shook my skin of wine. Good for another two or three swigs. “Not about” — I struggled for the word to describe the situation that had taken place — “that. Funny enough, I think I get that, y’know? In an abstract way, anyhow. We, I mean his creations, were connected to him, yeah?”

  “I was not privy to the secret,” Polinia said. “But it would seem so.”

  “Why us?” Vayle asked.

  I snapped my finger. “Precisely what my commander said. Why us? Why play a game? You’re telling me Ripheneal couldn’t have lured the god of Amortis to the living realm on his own? Staged his death without our intervention? Outcome would’ve been the same, yeah?”

  Polinia tugged at her bark necklace. “And that would prove man could command his own domain? No. It would prove he relied on gods once more. Why play a game? Because the only way to win is to play, Astul. The Council is ever watching. In your scenario, Arken would have won as fairly as one can in such circumstances. The Council would have intervened… severed the tie between Ripheneal and his creations. Arken would have been elevated to god of life, I promise you.

  “The stakes are grand, but the game is fair. Prove you deserve the spoils, and you will reap them. And today, mankind has proved its worthiness. Today, you are each your own gods.”

  Well. I couldn’t help but grin at that. My grin faded, though, as I recalled that faint illumination of life that had glinted in the dying embers of Ripheneal’s eyes when I told him of the plan to take him through the tear, to lead Arken on a wild chase that would end with his death.

  I wondered… was that his hope all along? Did he know I had little chance of assembling an army to unseat Arken in his own realm? He knew I’d have to come up with an alternative solution, one he had no hand in… and thus, one that could convince the Council the inhabitants of this world did not need gods.

  “Tell me something,” I said. “This game — does it have a name?”

  Polinia smiled. “You may call it… mm. Life. Goodbye, now. It was, after everything, a pleasure.”

  “You can’t leave me dangling like that. Who’s the goddess of nature have an appointment with that she has to leave so quickly?”

  She folded her hands and placed them in her lap. “The world is in your hands now.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Not all questions need answers. Goodbye, Astul, Vayle.”

  Up and away flew a snowy owl, till she and the powdery clouds above became one.

  I dumped the rest of my wine down my throat. “Gotta hand it to Patrick,” I said, nodding at the assembly of officers from the East and the West and the North, gathered round the tents, striking their respective deals. “Made for one hell of a king.”

  Patrick Verdan had challenged the Glannondils to accept an armistice, which, after an appearance by Grannen Klosh himself, an agreement was found amid the bloodshed and slaughter.

  Funny what happens when man is left to his own senses and not manipulated by gods and goddesses. If Grannen had declined the truce, he may well have dismantled Patrick’s and Jesson’s armies, but his own forces would have suffered catastrophic losses.

  Word would’ve gotten back to the Northern lords who didn’t participate in Operation Sink the East that their king had been slain. They would’ve rallied together, marched on the walls of Erior. The highlords of Inen vying for Dercy’s crown would have caught wind that the world was on the cusp of a great war. Seeking to establish themselves as a dominant power, they’d probably band together, then settle for individual spoils after the war ended.

  Minor families would have attempted to become great families. Great families would have been ink marks in the annals of history. It’s the kind of thing a newly crowned king such as Grannen Klosh would do well to avoid.

  Vayle took an arrow-headed stone and mindlessly scraped it along the ground. “So. Miss Lysa Rabthorn knew all along, did she?”

  I looked Vayle hard in the eyes, blinked a couple times, then had myself a merry little laugh.

  She cocked her head. “I did not expect you to take it so well.”

  “We had a heart-to-heart before I skedaddled outta Amortis. And she offered me her goodbyes, just in case, she said. In case somehow the tears would cease to exist after introducing Arken to his grave.” I laughed again. “Lysa Rabthorn. Ever the trickster, that one.”

  Vayle stood, climbing down from the mound. “You taught her well.”

  “That I did,” I said, voice trailing off. That I did. “You know, I think I’m finished.”

  She lifted a brow, intrigued.

  “I’m retiring,” I explained. “You’ve gotta go out while on top, yeah? Can’t top assassinating a god, can you? I’ve always fancied myself a fisherman if the Black Rot ever dissolved. What do you say, Commander — be my first mate?”

  Vayle crossed her arms. “So ends the Black Rot?”

  I nodded slowly. “So ends the Black Rot.” I withdrew my ebon blade, ran my finger up the spine, then tossed it away. “So ends the Shepherd. I’ve lost far too much, Vayle. It’s time I begin again. Anew.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “With you, of course.”

  She put her hand on top of mine. “Oh, I suppose. Under one condition. You must call me Admiral.” She grinned.

  We began walking toward Vereumene.”

  “You don’t even know how to sail a boat.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “I’ve paddled one before, I’ll have you know.”

  “A fisherman in a paddleboat? Do you intend on catching minnows?”

  “All I’m saying is I have experience.” I paused. “I’ll be back,” I said, turning around and jogging off.

  I returned with my ebon blade in hand.

  “Just in case,” I said.

  Vayle smiled. “Just in case.”

&nb
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  About the Author

  Justin DePaoli called Pittsburgh home for twenty-one years, but now lives in Kentucky with his fiancee, stilt-legged German shepherd, two cats, and a company of fish.

  Beginning his career as a freelance writer, he now writes fiction full-time.

  When he's not writing, he enjoys playing guitar (quite horribly), running, lifting, playing video games, and spending time with his fiancee and menagerie of pets.

  For more information:

  @justindepaoli

  DePaoliwriting

  www.justindepaoli.com

  jdepaoliwriting@gmail.com