Decoy (Assassin's Rising Book 1)

by S. B. Sebrick

  Fortunately, Tyran misread his expression. "Don’t worry," he said comfortingly, leading them across his study toward the door, "I’ll take it from here. You have done well today, Battleborn," He opened the door and turned to one of his guards.

  "Please escort the Battleborn to one of my spare rooms," he said. The guards nodded, their glares toward the assassin-in-training softening a bit. "He is not to be disturbed until I send a messenger to wake him. After that, send a messenger to the family of Jensai Battleborn to inform them of their loss. Take them a year’s worth of his wages in gold coins as a small token of our thanks for his service."

  As one soldier entered the room, sword sheathed at his belt with a torch in hand, the prince turned to Kaltor and said, "It’s the least I can do for your friend’s sacrifice. Sleep well, Battleborn. I will summon all my councilors to the castle within the next few hours and send someone to wake you."

  "Thank you, Prince Tyran," Kaltor said with a bow, too numb at his reckless use of Remnant power and the sudden image of Jensai’s empty, dead stare from that morning to continue arguing. "Thank you for the reprieve."

  "Use your power to Deep Sleep," Tyran suggested. "I will only be a few hours and then will need your services for another full day. Regenerate quickly," With a snap of his fingers the second guard saluted and followed the prince down the corridor. Kaltor’s guard escorted him in the opposite direction. Without a word the man deposited him at the door of his quarters and continued walking.

  After the attack the night before, Kaltor decided not to disrobe to sleep. He set aside some of his equipment, but kept his belt and its two daggers beneath his pillow, with his notched bow beneath his blankets. Lighting a candle, he rinsed himself in a washbasin at the corner of the room until his reflection looked somewhat presentable, clean of sweat, grime, and dirt.

  A bare knuckle rapped against the door and a small, red-haired serving girl leaned in. "Do you require anything else, Battleborn?"

  Kaltor waved her away. "Just knock before you wake me tomorrow."

  She nodded, shrugging uncaringly and closing the door as she left.

  Now he just had to repair the fatigue enveloping his body. As he settled down atop the bed, drawing on a bit of power to leave his body deeply relaxed but his mind easily awakened, he sank into unconsciousness. We will fix this, Jensai, he promised. We’ll stop Melshek tomorrow.

  I just hope I don’t awake to another assassin’s blade in the morning.

  *****

  Something felt— off.

  If I sprinted all the way to Shaylis to be king, why aren’t we in the castle? Melshek wondered from his seat at the tavern.

  Granted, after the long run and the friendly spar with Kaltor’s friends, he did need rest. But why did the woman order him back to the poorest part of town, next to the prisons, to drink some ale and flirt with a barmaid, instead of going straight to Prince Tyran and being crowned king? Everything seemed blurrier than before, too, but he assured himself it was simply the quality ale taking effect.

  Again the soothing voice of his Queen whispered in his mind. Her tone was firmer this time, impatient. "We must start with the people," she said. "Once the people are on our side, we will greet your friends and Prince Tyran himself with warm smiles at your coronation. Then we will go to the capital and demonstrate this power to your father. Won’t he be proud?"

  Melshek smiled, taking a deep swig from his pint.

  After years of treatment as the littlest pup of the royal litter, standing before his father with the kingdom on its knees before them— the thought made his skin tingle with excitement like a thousand insects crawling across his skin.

  Soon, I will be king.

  Chapter 13

  The door to Kaltor’s room burst open, blinding his eyes in the sudden onslaught of light. With a blink of skin vision he rose from his bed, drew back, and fired his bow. At the moment of release he recognized the plain clothes of the unarmed serving girl.

  More importantly, her skin was free of the black blood of the nightmares he’d spent the brief evening coping with. He’d managed to miss her face. Unfortunately, her hair was down at the time, catching in his projectile’s serrated edge and pinning her to the wall.

  "Did I not tell you to knock first?!" Kaltor exclaimed, taking a deep breath as he pulled his belt from beneath his pillow.

  "I did knock!" the girl huffed, pulling on her hair tentatively. "Are you crazy?!"

  Didn’t know I was that fatigued— need to be more careful. "So you just beat the door open when a Battleborn lay sleeping inside? Do you have some kind of death wish?"

  "The prince needs you in the war room," she replied with a pout as she continued to pull carefully on her vibrant red hair without success. "I was told if you aren’t there in two minutes they’ll shave my head."

  That may be preferable if I have to cut your hair free, Kaltor thought.

  "Two minutes?" he asked. "What’s the rush?"

  "They’ve made arrangements for the prince to visit Melshek at the prison."

  "The prison?" Kaltor said in surprise. "What could he have—" In a flash he was at the wardrobe on the opposite side of the room, grabbing the rest of his equipment. Of course! he lamented. Hundreds of strong, combat-capable people. But how did Melshek get in? I suppose that part is obvious.

  "Take me to the war room," Kaltor ordered, leaving the cloak behind.

  The serving girl crossed her arms and grunted something beneath her breath he doubted was complementary to his character. Rolling his eyes he walked over and ripped the barbed shaft from the wall. She turned to leave so fast that he had to step back a pace to avoid getting whipped by her hair.

  Most servants know to be quiet, nod, and follow orders, Kaltor thought, eyeing her suspiciously as she turned to the right and headed down the hallway. Why do I feel like I work for you instead of the other way around?

  "You’re not used to serving others," Kaltor observed aloud. "What’s your name?"

  She glanced over his shoulder angrily. "Selene," she answered. "Now come along, the prince shouldn’t be kept waiting any longer," The hall curved, leading them up a steep flight of stairs. Selene climbed them two at a time, and a flash of Varadour power emanated from her to maintain the pace.

  Interesting, Kaltor thought. She’s a Varadour, but did not instinctively use her power when I shot at her. She has a lot of self-discipline for a lowly serving girl. He recalled her expression when he fired his bow, her eyes honed onto the projectile, watching with calculation, not fear. He glanced up at her as she led him up the stairs, assessing the damage to the right side of her hair.

  "I would be happy to trim your hair for you," Kaltor offered. "Just to make your right side even with—"

  Selene’s foot exploded outward, forcing him back a step as he dropped his cane in surprise. Varadour power surged through her as she leapt onto one wall of the stair and pushed off at an angle, bouncing to the opposite wall like a jackrabbit from the Abyss itself.

  From somewhere beneath her dress a dagger slipped into view and she threw her full weight down the stairs toward his head. With a similar burst of power, Kaltor ducked and sidestepped, catching her foot with his free hand but misjudging the force behind her jump, sending them both tumbling down the stairs.

  Somehow she managed to connect her elbow with that all-too-tender region between his legs, sending him crumpling into the fetal position as they rolled. Despite his distress, he still managed to see the dagger thrust coming, catching her wrist and twisting the blade free as they finally rolled to a stop at the base of the stairs. He landed on his belly, breathing heavily against the cold, dirt-covered castle floor.

  Even as her weapon clattered uselessly down the hall she leapt atop his groaning frame, wrapping her thickly muscled legs around his throat, cutting off his air supply. He reached for his throwing blades, but she caught his hands and leaned all her weight forward, pinning them to the floor.

  Pushing aside the pain, he slid bot
h hands along the ground beside his head and pushed his hips upward, drawing on Varadour power for an intense burst of strength. He threw her head-long over his shoulders so that she lay on the floor as he stood up. Though his lungs burned for air and his head swam, he managed to pick her up. She quickly spun, wrapping her arms around his throat instead, forcing him to spin her against the wall.

  Selene gasped from the pain, her grip weakening as the air rushed out of her. Her body surged with Varadour power as she tried to hurl her opponent against the wall as well, but he deflected the blow with enhanced strength of his own. In the end they both tumbled back toward the stairs, Kaltor carefully guiding their path just enough to ensure she took the brunt of the collision.

  The stone steps smashed against her head, finally shattering her hold on his throat. Varadour energy rushed through her, keeping her conscious and trying to heal the wound.

  Wonderful, sweet air rushed back into his lungs. He rolled away from her, his vision sharpening just in time to see the dagger she held only an inch from his face. He froze, her torn dress leaving the brand above her right collarbone quit obvious.

  The mark of a Battlescorned.

  "Master Taneth is getting sloppy," Selene said, rubbing her shoulders and wincing in pain. "You were far too easy to catch off balance."

  "You’re the one bleeding," Kaltor countered.

  "And you would have been dead!" Selene snarled, waving her dagger in his face before sheathing it beneath her dress.

  How many of those does she have under there? Kaltor wondered. Sitting up, keeping his back against the wall as he breathed, he dispatched healing energy to seep into his more heavily damaged tissues.

  "Pretty sure I can survive a dagger thrust," he grumbled angrily.

  Selene shot him a dirty look, "Who said it was a normal dagger?"

  He paused at that thought. "Poisoned, huh?" He glanced toward her dress where she concealed her weapon. Will the Gods never tire of punishing me? he wondered. To be beaten by a Battle-scorned in an open fight— that’s not even their area of expertise! It’s supposed to be ours!

  Clutching her head, Selene rose to her feet, putting her other hand against the wall to steady herself. Clear liquid ran from her nose as if she had a cold. Signs of a concussion, he realized. If I wait a few hours the damage could become quite severe—

  "Should have just tried to kiss you and held you at knife point from there," Selene admitted. "They say our job is to finish the fight before it even starts," She started working her way up the stairs, one at a time now.

  "Of course, because that tactic’s never been tried before," Kaltor replied sarcastically, rising to his feet and retrieving his cane. With some effort he resisted both the temptation to use it for support and retaliation. "Let’s get to the war room."

  They made it to the top of the stairs before Selene sank to her knees. "My head’s swimming," she gasped. "Can’t quite get a handle on the wound," Her eyes were unfocused as she directed her attention inward, trying to instinctively find the cracks in her skull.

  Grumbling at the Gods, the Abyss, and especially at the Battlescorned at his feet, he kneeled down next to her. "It’s a concussion," he admitted angrily, reaching for her head. "They can be difficult to heal on your o—"

  She slapped his hand aside, perked her head up and sighed in relief. "Yes, I found the wound. Give me a moment to patch up the bone."

  Kaltor stared at her in dumb surprise. A few moments? She can heal that fast? What kinda training do they put these women through?

  Yet, true to her word, Selene was back on her feet in under a minute.

  From the stairs they walked halfway down the next hallway, entering the third room on the right with a nod to the guard stationed there. Many parts of the castle were adorned with tapestries, carpets, and the like. This room was not one of them, each wall displaying maps, letters, and books related to their nation’s security.

  A few wall ornaments were hung in place, mostly experimental weapons, armor, and the like still awaiting royal consideration. The candle sticks along the wall and next to the table threw shadows in every direction, but a glance outside at the faint light attested to dawn’s steady approach. A guard stood in each corner of the room, ceremonial armor glistening in the constantly shifting light.

  The prince and a handful of his advisors stood around a circular table, the face of which was carved to provide a three-dimensional representation of the city and the surrounding countryside. A couple red-tipped pins protruded from the wood, marking key locations and events. A large scroll was rolled across the table, the architect’s plans for what Kaltor assumed to be the prison. The men glanced his way as Kaltor entered, the advisors looked only mildly interested, but the prince seemed genuinely happy to see him.

  "I see you met Selene," he replied with a coy smile. "I felt your powers emanating from the stairs. Did you two enjoy yourselves?"

  "Immensely," Selene said dryly. "My first time facing a Battleborn. I see what you meant about him still being in training, though. Not too much of a challenge."

  Prince Tyran and his council smiled at some inside joke. Kaltor considered throwing secrecy to the wind, embracing his full power, and beating them all senseless there on the spot.

  Perhaps the prince read in Kaltor’s eyes the tempest of rage brewing. "Yet you, Selene, are the one with the head wound," he added. Selene crossed her arms and pouted angrily.

  Prince Tyran laughed, though his advisors muttered at him to stop, their faces full of worry as they glanced toward the assassins. It was always wise to avoid antagonizing someone who specialized in untraceable poisons. "We might need your help with this, Selene," he admitted. "Feel free to change your clothes and join us."

  "Thank you, Your Majesty," Selene spat with an overly dramatic bow before leaving the room, slamming the door behind her a little harder than necessary.

  "Join us, Kaltor," the Prince said with an unusually white smile. He wore a simple tunic and trousers, his battle armor lying atop a chest in the back of the room. "We need to know what exactly we’re dealing with."

  "What do we know so far?" Kaltor asked as he walked up to the table and eyed the map entitled ‘Shaylis Prison’. At least they’re bringing me into the planning session, he thought contently as he committed the map to memory, trying to ignore the sharp pain racing through his pride. This could save a lot of lives if we can stop Melshek before he gets a firm hold.

  "Melshek was found ransacking a tavern only a few streets from the prison," the prince said, lifting a portion of the architect’s plans to reveal the tavern, marked with a small, red-tipped pin. "The town watch said he kept rambling about being a king and figured he was either drunk or crazy, so they threw him into the prison. An hour ago they reported—"

  "What?" Kaltor snapped, stepping forward adamantly, causing the advisors to take a step back. "You’ve known Melshek’s location for an hour and you didn’t come find me? How long has he been in there?!"

  "Almost the entire night," one guard announced from the far corner of the room. "I was dispatched to report here when the inmates started acting strangely."

  By the Gods! Kaltor swore inwardly. The same amount of time he was in the tavern back at camp. With a snort of disgust he smacked his cane on the table. "What were you all thinking?!" he demanded. "After this long, half that prison must be under his control!"

  "Only the inmates," the prince said, raising his finger in warning. "My first order was to seal the prisoners off completely from the rest of the prison and have archers standing by at all the lookout posts. They are contained, Kaltor."

  The prince put a comforting hand on the assassin’s shoulder. "I know you want revenge for your friend’s death. I can understand that," He waved his hand toward the map. "I didn’t want you rushing in there before I could contain the situation. Now we can go in with an organized force and deal with him accordingly."

  Selene re-entered the room, covered in thick leather armor, her hair tied into a b
un and shoved under the back of her breastplate. Interesting.Battlescorned usually stay in the shadows or political battles. They don’t often go to the front lines in battle array. He glanced toward the prince. Is she trying to convince someone she’s better than both assassin schools combined?

  A bow and quiver hung over her shoulder like Kaltor’s, with a variety of daggers around her belt and sheathed around her arms and legs, with handles of different colors. A different color handle for each kind of poison, he recalled. I have to remember that.

  "Did I miss much?" she asked.

  "Just getting filled in on the situation," Kaltor replied grumpily. "What’s your next step then, Your Majesty?"

  The prince sighed. "Why is it that you Battle-whatevers only show respect when you have a problem with authority?" He drew his saber. The blade was not forged of steel, but something much darker. "You recognize this weapon?" he asked.

  Kaltor and Selene looked at each other grimly. We definitely need to work on our people skills, he thought. Out loud he said, "It’s a special sword. Grown by a Sage, I believe," Great, he thought sarcastically. Now we’ve really upset him. That blade could cut through steel, armor, bones, and a small layer of stone in a single swing.

  "Very good," the prince said, swinging the blade through the air. In the poor light the weapon’s black blade cast the illusion of fading in and out of existence. "Respect me, obey my orders, and you will never experience it first-hand."

  He sheathed the weapon, turning back to his advisors. "Have the 3rd Regiment sent to the prison to back up the local guards," he ordered, pointing toward the town hall on his map. "And advise the town watch of what’s going on, in case things get out of hand."