by JD Franx
Bending down, he locked eyes with the slaver and smiled. “Asalm,” he whispered. Unable to break free from the hypnotic gaze passed to Pok through a very long line of Elderblood, Lircang smiled an idiotic grin as drool slid over his quivering lip. “Open your mouth, dead man,” the assassin added, his voice vacant of emotion. Though Lircang trembled with the effort of trying to fight the hypnotic command, his bottom jaw slowly fell. Pok pulled a thin, six inch bamboo tube from inside his dark coat and slid the razor-sharp point under the slave master’s tongue. As a single fear-filled tear wept its way down Lircang Yorcali’s cheek, Pok gently pushed the poison-tipped weapon to a depth of one inch into the slaver’s flesh. The untraceable venom, drawn from the stinger of the rare Salt Flats GrandScorpion, raced through Lircang’s blood until it stopped his heart—five seconds later.
As Merethyl watched Lircang die, she could not help but wonder the repercussions of Sythrnax’s death warrant against Yorcali. The slaver was old and had mellowed considerably with age. His son, Kyro, however, was young and a very dangerous man. The real power behind Yorcali’s operations for many years had been Kyro. Lircang’s Legacy—all he owned—money, men, power. All would pass to the youth upon his return to Dasal. It made the dangerous young man even more powerful.
Merethyl’s extensive contacts had not been able to locate the young man or learn what he had been up to, but an overconfident egomaniac seldom kept secrets. She shrugged it off; it was now a minor inconvenience for a group of her assassins already hunting a traitor in the Elloryan Forest. Once turned to a new focus, they would kill the younger Yorcali long before he left the Southern Kingdoms.
Sending others to do what should be done by oneself was considered breaking one of the Broken Blade Assassins’ most sacred decrees. Sending other assassins after Kyro Yorcali could turn out to be a mistake.
But Merethyl shrugged it off. She never made mistakes.
Chapter Eighteen
“To be forced to raise a child marked by the most sinister of evil is a burden that should not be wished on anyone. I will curse my dead brother every day until I finally see him for myself in the fires of Perdition, and then I will curse the bastard in person. My family have been under the threat of death for eleven years now, thanks to his putrid little spawn. He even had the balls to give her our mother’s name. Cassandra. I hope Mother curses him daily as they both suffer in the fires of all Nine Hells.”
Crissa Daniels,
Personal journal entry, 5025 PC
CAIRN’S WOODS, FREE LANDS
The forest flashed by under the young girl’s feet as she leapt from branch to branch and tree-to-tree. She moved with the skill and grace of a hunting predator. Her toes barely touched the wood of each limb she landed on. Her hands never slipped and her feet never stumbled as she moved through the trees high above the ground; only a true hunter would have detected the subtlest of movements overhead.
Cairn’s Woods was her own personal refuge. She knew every tree, every branch, and almost every single leaf for miles around the town, and she spent every second she could in what she considered to be her forest. The animals knew her well and had stopped running from her years ago. Even the mother bear that lived in the caves up the mountain trail would no longer growl at her presence. Though try as she might, Cassandra still could get no closer to her cubs than ten feet before the mother snorted and lead them away. But they never ran, and she never gave chase.
Cassandra lived in the village of Cairnwood, about five days’ ride north of Dasal. It was a respectably-sized town for the area, and like Dasal, it belonged to no king or country. The town was one of the last that still existed in the remains of the old Dwarven Kingdom. The area surrounding it was forest and mountain; with the town situated in the foothills of the Dwarven Mountains. The town’s economy was dependant on the timber provided by the massive forest and the mining that was done in the hills and mountains.
The Greystone River that ran through Cairn’s Woods from the mountains to the west of town moved the timber to the city of Samitor in Yusat in a matter of only five days. The strongest and bravest of the town’s people worked the lumber trade. The river runners who escorted all the lumber to Samitor for sale were responsible for defending the lumber and themselves during the journey.
Mining was the town’s only other resource. Iron, coal, and a few veins of gemstone were mined in enough quantity to keep Cairnwood’s economy stable and the town itself growing in size, even if at a turtle’s pace.
The main reason most of the miners stayed in Cairnwood, however, was for the slim chance that they would once again come across more of the volcanic glass that would sell for triple its weight in gold. Only Orotaq blacksmiths had the knowledge that could turn the glass into obsidian weapons; shiny, black blades that never needed sharpening and powerful bows that never broke. Bows no normal man could even string, let alone draw. They shot twice as far as the best Elvehn longbows and could penetrate plate armour to a depth of twelve inches.
Obsidian weapons were almost unheard of south of the Black Hollow Peninsula where the Orotaq made their home. Most black glass that was found made its way to Black Hollow by way of Talohna’s black market. Two of Cairnwood’s most elite traders were permitted dealings with the Orotaq directly. They were the only exception. Anyone else who entered the Black Hollow peninsula never returned.
Cassandra, or Cassie as most of the townsfolk liked to call her, had lived in Cairnwood since she was almost two years old, brought there when her mother and father died. She lived with her uncle and aunt in a small house in town. A miner, her uncle was the last to find a vein of the precious black glass. Two years ago, he had found it down a deadhead shaft, and the proceeds from the sale to the Orotaq had given him the money to build his own house, a luxury few in Cairnwood had. However, he was now on the coal crew, working in the dirtiest and most dangerous of the mines. For almost two years after his discovery, he had the easiest of jobs trying to locate new veins of glass, but eventually everyone was forced to earn their pay for the town, and the town was paid by what came out of the mines, not by looking for what might be there.
Cassie’s aunt was one of the town’s herbalists, the best, in fact. With no wizards living in Cairnwood, natural and herbal healing as well as minor surgical knowledge was all the town had. Herbs, roots, and other remedies helped all ailments, from cuts and infections to easing the miners’ lungrot after years in the deep earth. Cassie would sometimes tell her aunt about the rarer plants she would see when out in the forest, but it was a place her aunt and uncle did not like her to be.
They fed her and gave her a bed in the corner of the kitchen at night, but they had two of their own children and mining with the coal crew paid very little, healers made even less. Both boys were younger than her. Ben was eight and Bastion six. They were good boys, Cassie often thought, but they were boys nonetheless. They liked to tease her or pull her long, strawberry-blonde hair, and they constantly tried to follow her around, but they were never mean and they never hurt her.
Cassie always had food, but she often noticed her cousin’s plates were usually heavier than hers, even though they were younger, and Cassie was required to do all of the house chores to pay for her keep. If she was seen sneaking off to Cairn’s Woods, she was given more work to do. The boys would try to pitch in and help, knowing she longed to go to the forest if she finished early. She loved them for it.
This day, Cassie had managed to sneak off after lunch. She knew when she got back her aunt would take the switch to her backside, but it would be worth it. For now, the wind and fresh air filled her with energy as tree limb after tree limb passed under her feet with ease. Burning with the need for oxygen, her arms and legs ached, but as she breathed faster, her lungs supplied the need to her agile young body and the discomfort disappeared. It caused an increase in her speed and the ground flashed by twenty feet below her. The thought of slowing or falling was never a concern.
Cassie lived for these moments,
like she was meant for more than being a miner’s wife or a town herbalist. Though her father had been raised in Cairnwood, no one would talk about him or her mother. Even her aunt and uncle refused to speak of them, saying only that she was better off where she was. She knew only that her father and her aunt had been very close as kids growing up together. Her aunt had said so one night when she though Cassie was asleep. Her aunt got angry whenever she asked about either of her parents, but it was something Cassie desperately wanted to know.
No matter what her aunt said, Cassie refused to believe the rest of the world was not worth seeing and experiencing. She felt in the core of her soul that her mother and father would have wanted more for her. She sometimes imagined that she had a great destiny to fulfill, as she dreamt of someday helping people in need or fighting dangerous monsters and evil people. As she raced through the trees, changing heights and speeds, she imagined she was an Elvehn scout, gliding through the trees defending her forest from creatures of darkness. It would not be long before she would have to return home so she laughed out loud and pushed herself to greater speeds, her spirit singing with the smell of the forest and the thrill of her movement.
Many times, Cassie spent the whole night out in the forest, but winter refused to relinquish its grasp on the lower elevations of the Dwarven Mountains, so the nights remained too cold to stay away from home. With chores that still needed to be done back home, she started to head back, travelling through the trees the entire way. Over two miles passed before she noticed the heavy smoke coming from her village, and still Cassie had not touched a single toe to the earth. Had she done so or had she been travelling on the ground, she would already be dead.
Cassie headed to the west, still in the trees, knowing she could get into town by staying hidden up in the trees. Heavy movement on the ground reached her ears, coming from the edge of town, but the setting sun and the village walls prevented her from seeing who they were. The smoke and screams coming from her village told her the movement she was hearing belonged to people who were far from friendly.
Her final jump over the wall and into the massive oak tree on the north-western edge of town by the village square confirmed her fears. Everywhere she looked, people were running and dying, chased and dragged down by massive black hounds. People she knew and talked to everyday screamed and died as she watched. When bright purple and red lights flared on the southern edge of town, she knew she had just seen magic used for the first time in her life. More magic sizzled, lighting up the south by the front gates with pale blue. Cassie snuggled down into the big oak tree for comfort, hoping she would not be seen as the noise of baying hounds reached her ears.
She could see the majority of the town from her hiding place up in the oak tree. The attackers were giant men, some close to eight feet tall, but most were well over seven. Their skin had a pale blue sheen. Cassie whimpered lightly as she realized they must be the Orotaq. Living just south of the Dwarven Mountains, the Orotaq were the town’s boogeymen. Growing up as children, her and her cousins were told if they didn’t behave, the Orotaq would come and eat them. BlackHollow Peninsula was north and west of Cairnwood, beyond the Dwarven Mountains, but as far as Cassie knew, no one from Cairnwood had ever actually seen even a single Orotaq except for the village traders. Tonight, the whole town was seeing a lot of them. They were everywhere. She had never been so terrified in her entire life.
Staying hidden in the tree, mere minutes passed before she saw her aunt and uncle with both her young cousins running across the square in front of her. She yelled to get their attention, and when they stopped, she quickly climbed down the oak tree to join them. Landing on the ground for the first time in hours was a mistake. Cassie looked up just as a speeding arrow pierced her uncle’s throat. A scream of horror escaped her lips as he stumbled and fell to his knees. Blood sprayed from the front of his neck only five feet from where she stood. The boys sobbed, realizing their father was dead. Her aunt cried as she knelt by the body, desperately trying to hold her husband as the last of his life fled.
Too terrified to move, Cassie flinched as a hail of arrows whistled by, cutting people down whether they stood or ran.
Even though in a daze of shock, she heard her aunt scream at her. “This is your fault, Cassandra. If you hadn’t yelled for us to stop he would still be alive...”
Her aunt’s scream turned to sobbing and Cassie mumbled. “I... I’m... sorry,” she managed.
The apology only seemed to enrage her aunt further. “Just like your cursed mother, never caring for anyone but yourself,” she screamed even louder. “There is not a single shred of your father’s blood in you, all of it from that vile bitch...” Her scream was suddenly cut short.
Cassie winced as warmth and wet slapped her face. She opened her eyes in time to see three feet of blood-dripping iron sword as it was pulled back through her aunt’s chest. Her dead body fell to the side as her aunt’s blood ran into Cassie’s eyes.
Cassie blinked through the gore in an attempt to clear her sight, before she grabbed the boys and ran. The laughter of the giant, blue-skinned man who killed her aunt followed after her. With the boys screaming hysterically, Cassie pulled them both along with her. Doing her best to avoid more of the giant men, as well as dodging the black phantom-like hounds that hunted the town’s residents, she raced to the north-side gate. It was broken, shattered in the initial assault, but it lay wide open and her heart pounded at the prospect of freedom. With a jolt to both her arms, the boys yanked their hands from hers and she realized they were no longer crying.
She spun around as both of her cousins fell to the ground, their small backs littered with black-feathered arrows sunk to the flights. The monstrous Orotaq male covered in branded flesh who had killed her aunt, stood only feet away. The shiny black bow fell to the dirt with a clatter as he drew the black sword once more. Tears coursed down Cassie’s blood stained face and she fell to her knees knowing she was going to die.
She bowed her head in defeat, not wanting to see it coming, and sobbed, realizing for the first time that she’d been born to die in the blood-soaked streets of Cairnwood and not for something far greater like she had always dreamed.
DASAL
Seifer Locke stormed out of Salisar Pollondo’s sprawling estate located on the northern end of the mansion district in Dasal. Kit was right on his heels. It had been their second stop at a city councillor’s home in the last hour. The first visit had gone much better. Having spent an hour convincing the City Guard council to stay Lircang Yorcali’s death sentence, Seifer and Kit moved on to the City Council. Nessedra Vantaur’s residence was closer, so they had stopped there first. It took little time to convince her that overruling the execution order so that Lircang would reveal the location of Seifer’s fiancée, Katarina Desolla, was a fair deal. The Desolla family name was well respected throughout Talohna. Salisar, however, disagreed, adamantly. Without a unanimous vote from both councils, the execution decree stood.
“What now, Master?” Kit asked, as her shorter legs struggled to keep up.
“If Yorcali is going to die anyway, then I’ll beat Katarina’s location out of him. Sooner or later, he’ll break.” Fifteen minutes later, the two wizards were back at the barracks. Kit opened the heavy, metal-crossed door and stepped inside. The familiar tang of blood and magic hung in the air.
“Master?” Silence drifted on the dead air and both noticed that the three guards were nowhere to be seen.
“Shit,” Seifer snapped, as he dashed for the far dungeon door. “Kit! Check on Dahlea.” Seifer raced down the stairs, not bothering to check if his apprentice had listened. Jumping the last few stone steps into the dungeon, Seifer’s hands lit up with a flash of bright blue electricity. It snapped and popped, darting out and dancing on the moist air permeating the cells. Already positive of what he’d find, he crept around the corner of Lircang’s open cell and spotted the still body. With his senses pushed as far as he could and nerves drawn tight, Seifer turned his back
to the dead man and eased past the slaver’s cell to check the others, looking for the killer. The cells past Lircang’s held another stilled body, the criminal’s throat had been cut, but the empty cells hid no assassin.
Quieting the magic in his left hand, Seifer returned to Lircang’s cell and pushed the iron door the rest of the way open. The squeal of the hinges grated on his rattled nerves. He knelt at Lircang’s side, but could see very little in the dark. Closing his eyes, he let his esoteric senses float from his body. His eyes snapped open as he felt a flicker of life.
“Skipta Bal.” Barely more than a whisper, Seifer’s spell transformed the lightening in his right hand, changing it into a ball of bright fire. The flames illuminated the cell as if the sun shone overhead. With his left hand, Seifer rolled Lircang’s body onto its back with a wet smack. His senses told him the spark was gone.
“Come on, you bastard. Wake up!” He slapped the slaver, twice, but the body remained still. “You fucking bastard. Leave it to you to get killed with your secrets. Damn your sorry soul all the way to the gates of Perdition.” The heavy door at the top of the stairs opened, and though he couldn’t see her, Seifer felt Kit descend into the dungeon. Light from her lamp moved across the floor outside the cell.
With nothing more he could do, Seifer stood to join her. A shallow nod from his apprentice told him that Lircang’s Madame, Miss Dahlea, was also dead. He shook his head and cursed. A clawed hand dug into his calf with enough strength to make him swear a second time. He spun and looked down. Lircang Yorcali was holding on to him as if the DeathGod’s reapers were trying to drag him to the deepest pits of Hell. Seifer bent back down and grabbed Lircang’s crud-covered shirt, pulling him closer, wrinkling his nose at the stench.
