Decoy (Assassin's Rising Book 1)

by S. B. Sebrick

  They left in a hurry, he decided. Without even pausing to tend to their food. But where did the blood come from? Did the Perversions really pour spoons full of blood on these tables? It was an eerie thought, but he could not restrain the feeling that he was missing something pivotal.

  Honmour uttered a cat-like hiss, waving toward the hallway to their right connecting the common room to the back rooms. Then Kaltor caught the scent, too. Dried blood and burned flesh. What in the name of the Gods—he thought.

  Their eyes moved along the floor, his heartbeat accelerating as his hands trembled. A path was literally clawed along the wooden panels in the floor and even along the walls. Thin trails of red and black blood led back along the hallway to the base of the stairs, along with small shining particles on the floor.

  Those are torn finger nails, he realized as he fought against the urge to vomit, envisioning the scene before him as only an experienced tracker could. And a blood trail leading upstairs.

  Liquid fell behind them, landing with an eerie drip. They both whirled around, weapons raised. The kitchen and tavern lay empty as before. Again the sound echoed, out of place in the silent scene like a single rain drop on a cloudless day. They crept forward, using their skin vision to examine their surroundings.

  Then they saw it.

  A small drop of blood fell from the ceiling, joining the pooling blood gathering on the first table. Another fell in the kitchen to join its comrades on the floor. Another onto the fire place, as if the building itself were crying blood.

  Kaltor realized that what he’d thought were darker discolorations in the wood on the ceiling were pools so thickly saturated with blood that the liquid had actually soaked through the floorboards of the second story, dripping onto the remains of the first.

  He could not have spoken if he’d wanted to, his voice busy trying to bury itself in his stomach, every part of his body wanting to flee from the gradually unfolding scene before him. But he could not turn his eyes away from it. What’s waiting for us up there? he thought. Do I even want to know?

  They looked at each other, then back down the hallway, and gulped in shared, quivering determination. Slowly, they followed the trail of blood, torn hair, strips of fabric, and fingernails caught in the floor boards. Fearing a black-blooded Perversion at every side-door, they opened each room one at a time, listening intently for anything louder than a rat’s paw-step.

  Most of the beds were still neatly folded, with a pack of someone’s equipment nearby, but no signs of an attack to explain the smell clogging up Kaltor’s nostrils. The occasional drip of blood behind them set their senses further on edge. Kaltor gripped his daggers so tightly he wondered if they would fuse permanently with his hands.

  They reached the base of the stairs, where two candlesticks had been ripped from the walls. Their remains lay along the stairs in battered pieces next to an odd mixture of black and red blood, as if an artist were in the process of mixing the colors with a shattered brush. Numerous footprints muddled the tracks here, making any patterns difficult to discern.

  Someone fought very desperately here, he thought. They glanced up the stairs, catching glimpses of torn flesh and hair from where the dragged bodies smacked against the steps as their captors dragged them along. The rails alongside the steps were torn from their wooden foundations, their broken remains covered in blood and even chunks of flesh.

  People were beaten, then dragged up here very quickly, he surmised. It’s amazing anyone managed to grab those candlesticks at all. He knelt down next to the first stair, glancing at the floorboards. There was blood smeared along the edges, like someone had stomped on another’s fingers as they held onto the stair’s floorboards.

  Honmour advanced first, crouching down in front of the candlesticks. With a gesture that said "clean person", he pointed to the red blood stains and torn hair on the edges of the objects, wooden fragments still evident from where they were ripped from the walls. Oh, Kaltor corrected himself. The Perversions used them against their victims.

  The stairs led to another set of rooms, with the largest of the chambers at the far end, above the tavern’s kitchen and entrance. The trail of blood and torn wood lead straight into the large main room, with smaller trails from the adjoining quarters along the hallway running into the main one like streams joining a river. Again, Kaltor and Honmour worked their way along each room, in case of ambush.

  Broken chairs, overturned beds, and an occasional blood-spattered wall met their eyes. The gruesome odor intensified. The scent grew so thick Kaltor wondered if it could possibly suffocate them from its intensity alone. The silence tore at his conscious mind. How could anything so violent leave so little sound in its wake?

  They reached the final room, its door a few inches ajar. The handle was torn from the wood. Honmour pressed his sword tip against it and slowly pushed. Kaltor led the way in a stealthy crouch, daggers ready to deflect any surprise attacks. A wave of decay and gore assaulted their nostrils before their eyes could even register the scene.

  "Stupid enhanced smell," he groaned aloud as they stumbled to their knees.

  "By the Gods!" Honmour gasped. "Do you see this?!"

  "Of course," Kaltor grunted. "I don’t think it’s over, either."

  A large table covered in bloody pillows lay before them, raised a few extra inches into the air by a wooden box under each table leg. Eight bodies surrounded the table on four sides in pairs of two. Their hands and feet were bound in the fetal position, held up by spears impaling them and running into the floor. Their faces attested to the agony they had endured. Their foreheads were branded with some kind of marking.

  For the first time in his life, Kaltor regretted his training at reading signs and tracks. Every scrape of blood on wood, each fleck of gore, told the story to his eyes again and again. He followed the bloody trail to each of the eight bodies, reading the blood spatter from their fingertips where they’d struggled against their captors, the largest one raising his spear over their heads.

  Each Perversion had pivoted toward the table with each new victim. Some had even kneeled in subservience, worshiping their new master. Their movements had been hesitant, though, as if interrupted every so often, but they’d persistently turned back toward the table with every successfully caught victim.

  Large chunks of human remains littered the walls, soaking the floor in blood. These tracks told their story, as well. Those who’d died before they could be speared were torn apart, as if by the Perversion’s frustrations, and then tossed aside. Some, however—a particularly burly arm or mailed fist—were nailed into the walls, like trophies. Not all of the remains were those of adults.

  The bodies are arranged around the table, just like they were at the vault, Kaltor realized. Whatever did this is alive and repeating what happened there. This is no disease.

  "I’ll check the back exit," Honmour said, hurrying from the room. "Whatever or whoever was lying on that table didn’t stay there."

  He’s right, Kaltor realized. And none of these bodies are Melshek’s— he glanced at the remains littering the floor and the trophies nailed to the walls. I think.

  "Go," he ordered.

  As Honmour searched the back of the tavern, Kaltor left through the front of the building to face Gereth and Rivatha’s worried stares. Their eyes glowed blue as they examined him. "I’m fine," he said, sheathing his daggers. "Whoever was causing this moved on about an hour ago, judging by the blood."

  "What?" Gereth asked. "‘Whoever’? It’s a person we’re after? Are you sure it’s not an illness of some kind?" Kaltor quick relayed the altar scene made to imitate the vault.

  "No sign of Melshek or the amulet, then," the Sight Seeker muttered aloud, staring at the ground in thought.

  "Well, there was," Kaltor admitted. He glanced Rivatha’s way and winced. "It was branded into the foreheads of the altar victims. I remember that symbol. I saw it in the vault yesterday."

  Hurried footsteps crunched on the hard ground behi
nd him, sprinting around the building and grinding to a halt before their small group. "The tracks are Melshek’s," Honmour reported grimly. "They run off to the east!"

  Silence filled the street, interrupted only by the sound of the survivors in the distance. There was only one reason for going east. By the Gods! Kaltor thought. He’s going to do the same thing in Shaylis. There are tens of thousands of people there.

  "Honmour," Kaltor said. "Get Jensai while I go get our gear."

  "With pleasure," Honmour answered bitterly, disappearing into the night, drawing on his power in bursts to get Jensai’s attention. We have a new target to assassinate, Kaltor thought grimly. Our first one, and only the Gods know what he’s capable of.

  Chapter 10

  "Shouldn’t we have caught up to him by now?" Honmour gasped as he leapt over a log.

  "Save your breath," Kaltor suggested. "He is a trained Varadour, after all."

  "That amulet must have done something to him, too," Jensai grumbled as he led the way, eyes glued to Melshek’s tracks. Honmour glanced toward Kaltor and nodded his head in agreement with their friend’s assessment. The morning sun cut through the wind-punished trees above, as if trying to shroud their quarry’s trail in ever-changing shadows. It was usually a three day journey to Shaylis by wagon. Melshek’s pace threatened to do it in one.

  Whatever was done to him has increased his strength and endurance considerably. Even for a nobleman, most Varadours can’t go this long at a full sprint. Conserving breath was not the only reason to avoid speaking. There was much to consider.

  What’s he going to do when he reaches Shaylis? Kaltor thought. Will we even be able to beat him at all? He recalled the strength and power of those affected back at the camp. The image of those children leaping six feet into the air for his blood left a particularly deep chill in its wake.

  We just have to hold him off for a few days, he assured himself. Gereth, Krin, and Master Taneth will gather everyone they can. The thief I caught may get the help of the Bandit Lords, even! With any luck, we’ll have a small army to help contain Melshek’s Perversions. Despite the encouraging thoughts, his pace lacked the determination it usually held.

  I can’t let them know how I feel, he thought as he glanced toward his friends. We can’t turn back. Let them think I chose it out of bravery or duty. He recalled his argument with Gereth, knowing only a Remnant’s power could have opened the vault.

  Why did I give in to you? he mourned. We could have found a way to survive without opening it. Nothing we can get from the vault is worth this! Next time I won’t be so blind to my feelings when the warnings are so clear.

  The ground thundered beneath their feet as their magically sustained pace held them at a full sprint. Within his trained heart, he felt that immense wellspring of Varadour energy feeding his body. His comrades, however, already showed signs of over-exertion. Though their pace held, their hands trembled as their bodies sacrificed the nurturing of their arms for the endurance of their legs.

  We’ll need to stop in a few minutes, Kaltor decided, or they’ll be useless when we reach Shaylis, and they might start suspecting that I’m not a normal Varadour.

  With a grunt of surprise Jensai pushed through the brush, stumbling onto a wide dirt road. "This must be the h-highway to Shaylis," Honmour surmised. "He must h-have gone east th-hen," He pointed down the road to their right with a trembling finger. "We’re go-oing to kill him before h-he gets there, right?"

  Jensai and Kaltor bit their lips, looking at each other nervously as they sucked air.

  "Honmour," Kaltor said. "We don’t even know what he’s capable of. At most we can follow him and keep him from repeating the tavern scene, but—" Jensai nodded emphatically in agreement.

  "What?!" Honmour shouted hands on his knees as he gasped for air. "Do you know how many people are in Shaylis? He could tear the entire city apart in days! We can’t give him that chance!"

  Abyss’ might, I forgot he has family there! Kaltor recalled, feeling a stab of shame for forgetting something so vital to his friend’s life. Can I even trust him to not do anything stupid if we keep following Melshek? Then again, he glanced at Jensai. I doubt we can take him alone. We need a third man, just in case.

  "Well, either way we need to stay close to him," Jensai cut in, raising his hands like Master Taneth did sometimes when mediating disputes between Stunts. "We learn as much as we can from his tracks and decide how to take him when we’re closer."

  Honmour sighed and nodded, his breathing growing steadier by the minute. Kaltor smiled at Jensai gratefully. Thank the Gods Jensai is so good with people. We have to focus and stay together to get this done, whatever it is we decide to do.

  "Well, he’s definitely heading east," Kaltor said, changing the subject as he knelt down to examine the tracks more closely. Jensai and Honmour joined in behind him, their eyes soaking in the tension in the print’s toes and the ball of the foot.

  "He’s hungry and frustrated," Jensai observed, pointing toward the next track’s odd pivot. "And he keeps looking over his shoulder. He’s afraid he’s being pursued."

  "Not too surprising," Honmour said. "Not after the attack last night," He knelt down beside Kaltor. They both gulped nervously as Honmour pointed to the right side of the print.

  I know, Kaltor thought grimly. These tracks don’t show any sign of fatigue. Whatever this thing is, Melshek’s powers have been greatly enhanced by it.

  "The attack last night must have been a decoy," Jensai decided. "He hoped to cripple the only force aware of his existence."

  Honmour stood up quickly and started to pace anxiously, letting his power return with quick but controlled breaths. "Strange, isn’t it? Most noblemen I’ve met would’ve just sent a letter claiming they had to leave due to unforeseen circumstances. Too bad he’s not a traditionalist." The anxiety in his eyes hamstrung what little mirth he could conjure up.

  "That’s a good question," Kaltor said, returning to his feet. "He could have pretended all was well ‘til Rivatha went to sleep, slipped out in the night, and headed toward Shaylis then," He stood up from the first track, eyeing the rest for any new details. "It would have taken us longer to realize the need for pursuit, especially if he’d left a note excusing his quick departure. So why the blood bath?"

  "Speaking of which," Jensai said, pointing further down the road. "Do I smell smoke?"

  "Someone tried to burn the camp down," Honmour reminded him. "Add that to your personal odor from running in front of me all day. Of course you smell smoke!" Kaltor chuckled, more at Honmour’s feeble attempt to seem unshaken than at the joke’s actual merit.

  Jensai rolled his eyes at his comrade’s sarcasm, pointing further down the road. "Are those wagon tracks?"

  They jogged down the road a dozen paces, letting their stores of Varadour power recover. As they rounded the next bend, they saw the smoldering clearing. A wagon lay in pieces beneath a few flames still struggling to live. Trinkets, cooking utensils, furs, and the like were scattered across the field, along with two black-blooded bodies and two regular ones, all incinerated beyond recognition.

  "He works fast," Honmour observed bitterly. "Another trait most nobles aren’t familiar with."

  "A small merchant venture," Kaltor said, looking over the wreckage. "Probably a family trying to relocate," He crouched down by the remains, flipping over a few of the smoking objects. "A peddler, probably. His wares seem pretty random. Nothing specialized."

  "No altar here," Jensai said, leaning heavily on the butt of his spear. "He was in a hurry to leave," He jerked his head toward the back of the clearing. "His tracks go cross country again. He really doesn’t like roads."

  "Wait a minute," Kaltor said, following Melshek’s tracks with his eyes. "This took him almost an hour?" He stopped at the forest’s edge and tried to grin triumphantly, despite his sweaty palms and worried voice. "He can’t be more than ten minutes ahead of us!"

  Jensai and Honmour locked eyes for a moment in a silent q
uestion of each other’s state of fatigue. They both stood straight and Kaltor felt their powers activate. The tracks dove right through the thickest portion of undergrowth. Jensai pushed into it first, keeping his spear before him as he ran, in case their quarry tried a surprise attack.

  As they rounded a thick pine, a loud snap echoed through the trees and a severed portion of Jensai’s spear sailed over their heads, trailing a few drops of blood. Kaltor caught a glimpse of a sapling with a knife tied to a now-broken limb. Where did Prince Melshek learn to set traps like that? he thought. We’ll have to travel a lot slower now, much more cautiously. Do we have the time?

  With a groan of frustration, Jensai tossed his broken shaft aside, recovered the tip of his weapon, tore a tree branch from the adjacent pine, and quickly fashioned a replacement. "Of course I had to bring my best weapon," he grumbled aloud. "‘Simple guard mission,’ they said."

  "Ironic, that we’re hunting one of the men we’re supposed to be escorting," Honmour pointed out, hacking a tree limb free with his short sword. "Make sure to feel your way as you run," He raised his branch overhead, motioning at its usefulness for setting off traps safely, as Jensai’s mishap had demonstrated so effectively.

  Turning to the pine, Kaltor caught a glimpse of Melshek’s next track and paused. "He’s slower now," Tearing a limb free, he twisted one of his daggers from his belt and resumed their pace, trimming smaller protruding twigs and sharpening the tip as they ran.

  "Looks like he’d rather deal with us here than at Shaylis," Jensai said. "We should be close to the city soon, if I remember the maps right. Mind if I borrow one of your shoulder pads?"

  Kaltor groaned. "I don’t understand whatever this thing is or what it wants, for that matter," he admitted, pulling the leather pad of throwing blades from one bicep. "Why not disappear into the city and hide among ten thousand people? That would truly put us to the test."