The Shadow's Ward

by Eric Angers

  Torture was not Vastian's specialty, but it did become necessary at times. That is why he learned the quickest most brutal methods of extracting information, things he could accomplish on the spot with little preparation. He took no pleasure in it, and wanted to be through as soon as possible.

  "You're going to tell me where to find J," it was a simple statement, telling his captor what he wanted, spitting it into his ear.

  To his credit, the defector did not struggle, not yet. "You should just kill me, you know I'll never talk."

  The knife at his throat was gone, cutting through the air with a whipping sound, slicing the back of his legs like a bread pudding. He collapsed and Vastian held him upright, dragging him to a chair and dropping him in it. "Now, you will never walk. A master assassin, you will live your life out on beggars row, hoping for scraps of pity. You can do that blind, deaf, and dumb if you wish, or tell me where J is. And when he will strike."

  He allowed him some time to think, the slow realization of actually being left alive as a cripple setting in. Damn near tears welled in the assassins eyes. Just as well have taken a smiths arm, or a bird's wings. "It's too late," he began, "he's gone, you'll never find him now, and the emperor dies tonight. You can't stop this, it is the next evolution of the brotherhood."

  Vastian sliced his throat for him. "You betrayed everything the brotherhood stood for. This death is too good for you." But it was death that he wanted. If he hadn't spoken, Vastian would have been forced to follow through and then leave him alive, but the assassin wished for death, so he spoke. It wasn't much, Vastian knew that after Jaerr left this particular man would know little. All he did was confirm that it was to be tonight.

  There were plenty of extra clothes, even some weapons, in the bedrooms to put together a fitting wardrobe for the midsummer ball. You could always count on assassins to have plenty of disguises and knives. Leaving the way he came, he informed the innkeeper the man upstairs was sleeping and not to disturb him, pressing a gold coin into his hand. There was only one more stop, to see if Norgaard had returned.

  Chapter XVI

  Norgaard

  The sun hung low in the sky, the air already cooling to a comfortable level. It was late, but at least he had something, if it was not already too late. Norgaard arrived back at the designated tavern and entered to the sound of music, a bard playing “And The Dragon Comes.” The patrons were all dressed in blue with yellow flowers upon their breasts, and he realized most everyone outside had been as well. There was a celebration going on, he realized, probably something marking the beginning of Summer. In Sundsvall, it was marked by a festival of mud since the snow and ice had melted and rain began to fall in all but the highest peaks. The sounds carried all the way to the small second floor room they had rented. It was the largest the inn had on offer, but it was still fairly modest, room enough for two single beds, a desk and chair and a small bench with cushions along the far wall. Vastian was not there. Damn. Norgaard hoped his master was making some progress, but what if he wasn’t? Was Norgaard supposed to try to stop this? Or flee before the chaos erupted? No, if Vastian did not return before sundown, Norgaard resolved to go through the tunnel himself. The music had stopped, the inn was actually silent.

  “I’ll go,” he told himself, “I’ll stop it.” Norgaard turned to go and came face to face with a large man dressed all in black, there was a sudden sharp pain in the side of his head and everything went dark.

  Norgaard’s head was spinning, there was the vague sensation of pain in his left temple. He blinked his eyes, trying to regain his surroundings, everything seemed so far away. Slowly the darkness receded from his vision and the room came into view, if a little blurry. His hands were bound behind him, he was in a chair, hard, wood. A black clad figure stepped into his field of vision. He was dressed in all leather, knives and pouches strapped all over his body, a sword on his back. He was an exceptionally bulky figure, his face an olive complexion, features hard like granite and his expression severe, like the permanent scowl of a hawk. He moved purposefully, smoothly but with the coiled tension of a viper. It was the same way Vastian had looked to Norgaard once he had let his guard down, no longer projecting himself as an old man. This was Jaerr. He strained as it dawned on him what that meant, his bindings only tightening with his struggles.

  “Welcome back. Norgaard, isn’t it?” Jaerr began. “Ah ah ah, no use struggling.”

  Norgaard looked up, eyes burning. “What do you want with me?”

  “You’re Vastian’s new pet project,” Jaerr smiled briefly but it melted away to a frown, “every time he gets a new toy he forgets. His. PLACE!” A blade seemed to just appear in his hand. Norgaard knew that he was just too fast to see, as he himself had become. The slash at Norgaard’s leg was just as lightning quick, the gash appearing almost from nowhere, burning. He opened his mouth in agony but refused to allow himself to scream.

  "You can take a cut. But I don't care if you scream, boy, I'm not trying to make you scream, although you will before I'm done. No, I'm here to send a message. One he should have learned the first time. He can't get out, and everyone you let in your life is a liability."

  Norgaard strained against his bindings once more, "We'll beat you.. He will beat you."

  To that, Jaerr simply laughed, "oh I don't think so, did he never tell you about me? I'm a little disappointed, I thought I meant so much more to him. I was always the faster, the most ruthless. I was the best between us. There's nothing to stop this. Vastian should have joined me."

  "You said he should have learned the first time, what do you mean?" Norgaard asked, trying to buy time for Vastian to show up or so he could get free.

  "Vastian was good, no doubt," Jaerr said, slashing the other leg, "but he became distracted. He was ignoring contracts, losing us both the favor of the Dead Men. I was cleaning up some of his jobs, but I had to get him back on track, away from that little whore he'd found."

  Norgaard's face twisted, the corners of his eyes strained and collected tears he could not control. "It was you? You killed her? Just to get your friend back? You did all this for jealousy?!"

  Jaerr balled up one fist and struck him then, dislocating his jaw. There was anger behind those eyes, but in tight control, the assassin used his anger, much like Norgaard's childhood friend Anders. Odd that he should be thinking of Anders now, of all times, the one closest to him, who had betrayed him. Perhaps not so odd. Excruciating pain erupted from his side, jaerr knife stabbing in beneath his ribs. Norgaard drew in his breath then let it out slowly, calming his brain, even though his wounds were a white hot fire. No air escaped the new hole jaerr had made for him, his lungs were intact. He had seen it as a child, a man taking a bull's horn to the chest, his breathing turned ragged, bubbles formed in the blood, it sprayed when he inhaled. Jaerr was a trained assassin, he was picking his placement carefully so as not to kill Norgaard. Did he mean to leave him here for Vastian to find, to slow him down?

  "It's not jealousy to save a man from himself! He needed my guidance. He would throw away the entire guild just as he had the mantle! Given so much, taking it all for granted. He had to be reminded. He has to be reminded again.. I bear the mantle now." Jaerr concluded with a series of blows to Norgaard's body, not bothering to avoid the knife wound. He beat Norgaard savagely then, and cut him to the point of bleeding out but not beyond. Norgaard's head swirled, but somehow he knew Jaerr meant to leave him alive. Vastian would find him, Norgaard would not let him win. Even if his eyes were mostly swollen closed. He lost consciousness.

  Vastian returned from the palace with a spring in his step, though he was hesitant to celebrate just yet. He had not caught Jaerr, and until he did, the empire was in jeopardy. He held out hope that Norgaard had found a lead they could follow, but if not, they may have to warn the empire more directly and risk execution. The only other option might have been to find some Dead Men loyalists and set up a guard detail. The only sure way though, was to find and eliminate the threat. The
inn was empty when he arrived, odd. Blades filled his hands suddenly and he moved cautiously inside. No, not empty, just silent. Patrons lay face first on the table, red stains coagulated beneath them, sticky drops held tightly to the underside of the wood planks, threatening to fall to the floor with a gust of wind. But not all, some of them had started to run, and fell in their places running toward the doors. His mind snapped. Norgaard! His legs carried him, bolted him up the stairs to the room at the end of the hall. The door was half open, swaying slightly in the breeze from an open window. When he saw inside his heart jumped, Norgaard was slumped in front of the window, hanging from lashings at his wrists. His legs had given out on him so he hung limply, unable to touch the floor with his knees. He was beaten, bruised and bloody, mean gashes on his legs, arms, hands and face. This was Jaerr's work. Vastian rushed to his friend's side, cutting away the ropes that bound him up and having to catch him as he fell. He was breathing, slowly, but at least he lived. Vastian began to try to move him to a bed but Norgaard protested weakly. Still clutching a bloodstained crumpled parchment in his hand, Norgaard pushed it into Vastian's chest.

  Norgaard whispered to him the location of a secret entrance to the palace. Then he said as loud as he could, "Go! Don't let him win."

  Vastian wanted nothing more than to stay with Norgaard, help bandage him up and ensure the man he'd come to trust did not die. It had been a long time since Vastian had trusted, had let someone in, and it was happening all over again. No. Not this time. Norgaard had survived long enough to give him what he needed to end this, and he was going to honor his wish. And he left him there, bleeding on the floor, hopefully not to die.

  Chapter XVII

  Vastian

  Breathing heavily, Vastian raced down the corridor at speed, leaping over traps, careening off of walls and nearly flying through the air to avoid the devious array of traps in the underground maze. All he could think about was Norgaard and how he left him behind, ordered him to stay behind to be more precise. How would he fair back there, alone, dying, with Jaerr’s men about? In reality, he was thinking maybe his student would have been better able to navigate this maze of traps and obstacles to reach the target first if he had not been tortured as he was. Vastian’s own age was catching up to him, his breathing labored, his reactions slow and sloppy; it showed on his body, cuts and scratches from the arrows and blades of near misses. He was keeping up with his nemesis, though Jaerr was having no trouble, not a scratch on his body. The now leader of the Dead Men was in better shape and better practice than Vastian, having not stopped working for the Dead Men for years since Vastian abandoned the creed. He cursed himself for getting soft, for letting his senses and reflexes be dulled by complacency. Because of his own failures he was letting the man who hurt Norgaard get away.

  The hallways here ran parallel, with no way to enter one from the other and a different set of traps at different intervals in both. Iron bars lined the adjoining wall, interspersed with stone columns every 15 feet. The traps in one corridor, once triggered, could follow through to the other, an added measure of security. This path inside was seen to be the biggest weakness in the palace’s defenses, yet the most difficult for a layman to infiltrate. For skilled professionals, it was still a difficult, if not impossible task, but a far cry easier than to penetrate the well lit and guarded rooftops and courtyards surrounding the inner fortress. These corridors led directly to the Emperor’s chambers, a convenient escape route when under conventional attack. They were long enough to get past any siege and secret enough that it shouldn’t have even needed traps. The Brotherhood should never be underestimated, however.

  Vastian glanced to his right and caught Jaerr watching him as well. They ran, eyes burning through the other’s not bothering to watch their steps ahead, only intent on the other and reaching the Emperor first. It was conceivable that either one of their corridors could end in a dead end, with so little information to go on. Vastian had to take that chance, he also had to take the chance that he was good enough and fast enough to get there first, warn the emperor, rouse the guards and put an end to Jaerr’s plot. If not, he might be forced to face his old friend, and he wasn’t sure he was capable, in body or mind, of killing him. Fire breathed through the halls and they both dove beneath it, rolling on the other side and coming up quickly as arrows shot low across the floor. Vastian landed on a pressure plate that he was already sure would be there, either on his side or Jaerr’s, and sprung himself backward away from what would be a poison dart trap ahead. With that out of the way he moved onward, now behind Jaerr by at least 20 feet. He hoped nothing else would cause him to fall behind, and that he could avoid any more slashes across his body.

  So many things could go wrong and he would have to rely on his decades of experience and training to carry him through, yet again. This gauntlet reminded him of a job early in his career, in the Qafir Desert, chasing after artifact hunters. Back then, he was caught in a similar maze of traps and pitfalls, following a Kadori artifact hunter in the employ of the King of Adahar. It was some symbol or other that could have given the king a way to channel his people’s hatred of Phelandir. It didn’t really matter to Vastian at the time. All he was concerned with was he had some competition, and a job, but the competition was more important. He had to prove himself still, had to show the Dead Men he was just as good as this professional. No. That he was better. There was always someone better.

  He could remember the musty smell, the color and feel of the sandstone bricks, the burning of his lungs as he tore through the halls at full speed, or maybe that was just how he felt now. Cobwebs lined the upper corners and sand pooled around on the floor, unsettled only by the footfalls of the first two men to walk those halls in hundreds of years. Down there, he was half expecting skeletons and mummies to come crawling out of tombs to stop them, but he had to focus his mind, put that aside and worry about the uneven and unstable surfaces beneath his feet. He had been far behind his prey and was unable to concern himself with stealth, lest his quarry get to the artifact and find another way out. It would be his mistake. The hunter was aware of the assassin and he was not alone. Vastian realized his fault when he felt the club slam into his chest, all air leaving his lungs and ribs cracking. It would be his fortune or misfortune that the club snapped in half from the force of the blow, leaving his attacker unarmed. Vastian tumbled backward to the ground and the assailant threw down the handle of his club and leapt upon him, a second man stood close by watching, brandishing his own club and a dagger. His mind took a few moments to recover, and in that time, the artifact hunter landed good solid blows to Vastian’s face and kept him pinned to the hard sandstone. This was his element, however, close quarters, and his training taught him to have knives everywhere, ready for anything. While the man atop him thought he had his arms pinned down, in reality he was keeping his hands near one set of knives, which he withdrew and cut at the man’s legs. He shrieked in pain and shifted his weight enough off balance to allow Vastian to roll and throw him off. He bounded to his feet and confronted the armed man who had moved in but hesitated when he saw the knives. Vastian gave his own knives a look, then threw them down, drawing a pair of larger curved blades in the southern style. The other man got to his feet and turned to run; Vastian threw his offhand knife end over end into his back, dropping him. The other saw his opportunity, yelled and lunged in, swinging his club wide while forgetting to simultaneously attack with his dagger. Vastian stepped inside the swing and cut it off with his body while he stuck the man in the stomach, opening him up like a fish. The dagger fell to the ground, and his body went limp, his eyes glazed as he stared into Vastian’s, the warm blood trickling down the blade onto his hand.

  A sick pleasure washed over Vastian and a smile touched his lips. He worked the blade through tissue and organs and touched the spine; the lifeless body shivered in his arms as he slid over the bones and felt a small crevice, the spot where two vertebrae met. He pushed through, severing the spinal cord and comm
itted the act to memory. Then he let go, and the body fell limply to the ground. Never miss an opportunity to practice, or to have fun.

  His breathing was ragged, a wheezing sound coming from his chest and only now could he feel his cracked ribs rubbing against each other as he moved over to the other hunter, face down with a knife in his back. This time, Vastian was quick about it, retrieving his knife and cutting the throat to be sure of the kill, then he moved on in pursuit of the real target. He would opt for stealth this time, allowing the hunter to think he’d been killed, to give him a false sense of security. This time, the kill would be quick, clean, and calculated. He couldn’t afford a fight, not in this condition.