Decoy (Assassin's Rising Book 1)

by S. B. Sebrick

  Suddenly I wish I hadn’t toyed with them so much, Kaltor thought. Never realized my life might depend on them someday.

  Across the prison they felt more Varadours draw on their power. "The prince has engaged the other group," Honmour said, knowing a few of the town watch were Sight Seekers, devoid of that sixth sense. They let their eyes shine with sky-blue power, regardless, and Kaltor did not stop them. A clear-minded Sight Seeker could easily turn a fight in your favor against untrained opponents.

  "Think the prince will be alright?" one of the Stunts whispered.

  "His sword is Sage-forged," Kaltor said offhandedly. "I’m sure he’s fine," Even the town watchmen seemed to take comfort from that statement. Honmour glanced toward him grimly. No words were necessary. He knew that look.

  Unless Melshek has another power up his sleeve we’re not aware of.

  They rounded the corner and faced a partially open door blocked by tables and chairs in a thick, makeshift barricade. Two black-veined faces peered through the crack, eyes red and swollen, re-doubling their efforts as they saw fresh prey waiting on the other side.

  With each push, the barricade shifted an inch or two. Honmour and Kaltor each stood against a wall, their weapons drawn and turned to the Stunts.

  "Take them out," Kaltor ordered.

  Their first wave hit wood, stone, and open air. The Stunts’ trembling fingers could barely notch their next arrows, and the door was half open by the time their second volley took flight.

  The fattest attacker took arrows to the side and the chest, falling to the ground, trying to pull the arrows out without success. I see Honmour got those hooked arrows as well, Kaltor noticed.

  As the door widened further, Kaltor and Honmour gasped in surprise. The last frenzied man made it through the door, dropping a body he’d carried over his back, full of arrows. He managed to climb over a table and two chairs before one of the Stunts made a clean shot through his throat.

  Abyss take them! Kaltor swore. Only two—

  "The prince is taking on all of the remaining convicts right now," Honmour realized aloud. "These two were a decoy to split our forces," Stunts and watchmen alike paled in shock at the realization. Jensai’s face flashed in Kaltor’s mind, along with the little girl Perversion he’d fought and broken at the excavation site.

  Not the prince too! he vowed.

  "Move!" he ordered. "Take down that barricade! We’ll flank Melshek’s men and tear them apart!" In the space of a few heartbeats a dozen hands hurled furniture aside, prying the door open in moments.

  A small pile of bodies lay at their feet, having been used to protect the others from the archers on the wall. Glancing out the door tentatively at first, in case of ambush, Kaltor led the charge around the corner and onto the second-story balcony connected to the prisoners’ cells.

  Just as they reached the entrance to the second hallway, the air heaved with a familiar blast. Black mist burst through the hallway, windows, and even into the sky through a few chimneys, blinding the archers on the roof.

  Fighting the familiar disorientation and nausea, Kaltor struck blindly into the dark, holding onto the door frame to steady and orient his strike. Something crashed into his chest, hard. The force of the blow threw him upward, over the balcony, and into the clear air.

  Even as he fell he heard the claws climbing a wall deep in the mist. Skin vision warned him of the approaching rocky courtyard, and despite the mist’s affects he managed to tuck his body into a roll and dispel the majority of the force of his decent.

  Despite his training, the air rushed from his lungs and his back and his arms ached from the impact. Even as he rolled to his feet he heard someone cry out from the rooftop and saw a body burst through the dark cloud, blood streaming from her wounds, bow cast aside. He had to roll away to avoid the corpse as it landed with a sickening crunch.

  "Kaltor!" Honmour called, he and a few other Stunts lining the balcony of the second level. "You’re slowing us down. Jump!"

  Easy for you to say, Kaltor thought. You didn’t just fall fifteen feet! Among the howls and clash of steel in the corridor within the fading mist a woman screamed. Selene! he thought, an odd, unexpected panic filling his chest.

  "Go help her!" he ordered, stumbling toward the column. Honmour nodded, calling to the Stunts and rushing down the corridor.

  With a burst of restorative power Kaltor hobbled to the column supporting the second-story balcony. Grimacing against the wounds in his arms and back he leapt up, caught hold of a cold fence rail in each hand, and shifted his weight from one hand to the other, swinging his body up a few inches at a time as if the rails were two ropes.

  The sounds of battle in the hallway quieted suddenly. Then a mournful silence took shape within those stone walls. No cries of victory or calls for relief. The black mist dissipated, leaving a blood trail where Melshek had climbed the wall and escaped moments before. What’s just happened? His paranoid mind displayed thoughts of a Stunt torn in two, or Honmour with his throat ripped out. His body trembled so violently he nearly fell to the ground again.

  Please tell me they’re still alive! Once he was high enough for his feet to hit the floor, he jumped onto the second story’s cold stone surface and bolted down the hallway.

  Black blood and broken arrow shafts lined the corridor for the first dozen feet. Bodies of prison guards and their attackers littered the floor, some torn and cut beyond recognition. He passed a pile of broken furniture, table legs, and bench boards reduced to kindling after more offensive uses.

  Melshek was more resourceful this time, he observed. He even used the guard’s own barricade against them as a shield so his men could get close enough for the killing blow. "Battleborn?" he called.

  "Here," Honmour called from around the corner. Kaltor followed the hallway’s curve and saw the rest of the carnage where the prince and his guards had met with the rest of Melshek’s troops. The last of his black-blooded men lay writhing on the ground as their veins solidified.

  Nearly two dozen other prisoners had been thrown against the wall on either side, tossed away once their bodies were too damaged to even use as a shield. A number of them lacked arms or legs, and some still held makeshift weapons, sliced apart cleanly at the hilt.

  That would be the prince’s handiwork, he thought jealously. What I could do with a Sage-forged sword! But where is he? Or the other half of his guards, for that matter?

  Selene sat among the Stunts, a wooden table leg in her mouth while one of the prince’s guards stitched up a nasty wound in her side. A few of her daggers still protruded from their enemies. Her bow lay next to her snapped in two, though arrow shafts protruded from the hearts and heads of two corpses nearby.

  She is well trained, Kaltor conceded, reading the tracks and occasional blood spatter. It looks like she fought them off with arrows alone after they broke her bow. I’ll have to remember that tactic for later.

  "Is there anything we can do for you, my lady?" the youngest one asked.

  "Help heal her!" another one cried, jumping forward. He and the other three Varadours grabbed onto her arms, head, and even legs, trying to contribute to the healing process. Her jaw clenched in pain, immobilized by the guard stitching her wound closed.

  All she could do was grunt angrily at the extra attention. Honmour stood aside, sword in one hand with a bemused grin on his face. They seemed a little too concerned for her wellbeing. Wow, Kaltor thought. They’ve forgotten their training that quickly.

  "Will the Battlescorned survive?" Kaltor asked.

  The Stunts froze, staring back at him in shock. Their eyes danced from Kaltor, to Honmour’s shaking head, and finally to her dagger handles of various colors.

  Lucky she was too wounded to start charming them right off, he thought. She would have turned them on each other in a heartbeat. Realization struck, and they scrambled to get out of reach of those daggers, some even tripping over bodies as they fled.

  "Where are the rest of the soldiers?" Kaltor
asked.

  "Tending the wounded," a soldier said, his voice hollow and eyes vacant. Kaltor did a quick count of the corpses. All the convicts were accounted for, strewn against the stones alongside three of the prince’s guards.

  They held out well against so many, he thought. Something glistened on the ground at the soldier’s feet, and he finally noticed the blood oozing from the man’s armor. He met Honmour’s eyes and nodded toward the wound.

  "How many are well enough to be healing others?" Honmour asked, putting his hand on the soldier’s shoulder. Kaltor’s skin tingled as his friend drew on Varadour energy so close by, stopping the bleeding in the soldier’s chest.

  The guard bit off the thread as he finished sowing Selene’s wound shut. His breathing slowed but remained deep during the treatment. "Just two."

  Honmour nodded to the Stunts. "Help the wounded with the healing. Focus on those near death first," The Varadours nodded and headed down the hallway, the Sight Seeker among them pulling out a set of pins similar to Gereth’s.

  Selene glanced the guard’s way, expression thankful as she spit out the table leg, her tooth marks cut deeply into the material. She and the guard lay their heads back against the wall, gasping for air as all their power went into tending their internal injuries.

  "Take it easy," Kaltor said in a comforting tone, patting the soldier on the shoulder. "The prince is a powerful Varadour. He’ll heal your men well."

  The guard looked up at him in surprise, bit his lower lip with a quiet moan, and stared at the floor. Kaltor gasped and glanced at Honmour, recalling Jensai’s wounds the day they fought Melshek. "Let’s go!" he said. They rushed down the hallway, listening for the whispering of healers hard at work.

  "You remember the poison, right?" Honmour asked. "From when we tried to heal Jensai?" Shouts of frustration echoed from the keeper’s quarters on their left, where a large amount of Varadour energy surged.

  "Healing will be useless if they don’t clean the wounds first!" Kaltor agreed, sprinting forward to push open the door. "He’ll bleed to death while they’re trying to use their power to heal him! The Sight Seeker needs to bind his wounds tight and let his body–" The sight awaiting them silenced his words before they could escape from his lips.

  The prince lay pinned down against the keeper’s table. A guard on either side held his arm and shoulder against the top of the table, shouting at the Stunts. Two of them stood on either side of the table, with the Sight Seeker standing in between them with his back to Kaltor.

  From over the man’s shoulder he saw the prince’s lifeless eyes staring back at him. Then the Sight Seeker shifted his stance and he saw what remained of their patient’s throat and chest. Honmour pushed past him, shouting instructions.

  We’re too late, Kaltor thought. I know those eyes. Those wounds— It’s exactly how he killed Jensai. That was his plan all along. Kill Prince Tyran— his own brother— and now to take the city.

  The realization hit him in a wave of mind-numbing despair as a second pair of lifeless eyes joined Jensai’s. Kaltor shut the door behind himself and walked numbly toward the entrance. His pace was slow, empty. From his belt he drew out a whetstone, spat on it, and started sharpening his daggers. The shriek of stone on metal seemed oddly appropriate.

  He stepped into the entry hall, looking from the corpses to the front doors, which were partially ripped from their hinges. Reviewing the battle in his mind, he retraced his steps, retrieving his arrows and throwing blades. Turning back toward the prison’s interior, he recalled the dual thundering upon the barricades.

  He used a decoy to split our forces, Kaltor thought, then swarmed the prince’s guards with his men and turned into that creature for the final blow against his own brother. A few archers, led by a member of the town watch, entered the hall and started sorting through the bodies. The keeper’s lay among them.

  Outside, the sound of hundreds of horse hooves captured his attention. Kaltor left the building, walking down the stairs to face the regiment the prince had ordered mobilized earlier. The officer in charge of that detachment rode toward him, flanked by his banner holder and a bugle man. "You there!" he called. "Tell the prince we have arrived. What happened here?"

  "Call together your generals and advisors," Kaltor said simply, his tone lifeless and defeated. "The prince is dead."

  Chapter 15

  The entire city of Shaylis sprawled out before Kaltor. He sat upon one of the fortification’s highest parapets protecting the northern guard tower. Enhanced vision gathered, then receded from his eyes as he focused on various parts of the city, memorizing the layout and trying to recall all the pieces of the broken day leading up to Prince Tyran’s death that morning.

  In the distance, he could see a few Stunts running along the rooftops, invisible to the untrained eye as they blended in with their surroundings. Whatever Melshek’s become, he thought, he’s been planning this for a long time. Every step is a trick with a way to escape built right in. He’s outsmarted us with every plan.

  Sleep was impossible. Yet he could barely stand, his eyes blinking with exhaustion. Hundreds of people lay dead now because he’d ignored the warnings about the vault. The memories challenged his stupidity and his incompetence. Those corpses were unfeeling, but pleading for revenge. Yet, with each effort to appease them, more people fell in Melshek’s wake and the glares of failure multiplied.

  What if I ran? With Master Taneth’s training they’d never find me. His fingers ran across the brand on his collar, recalling the symbol forever burned thereon. I could run, never Blood Break, and live a long life.

  A horn sounded beneath him. A second regiment took up positions along the outer wall. Thin streams of people weighed down with food, water, and valuables lined up at each of the castle’s entrances. Dozens of guards stood at each gate, pausing to examine each person for signs of what they called the Abyss’ Touch.

  Most thought it was a disease of some kind. Only the council of advisors, military leaders, and assassins knew the truth. Could I outrun this? he wondered indecisively. Without a Remnant’s help, would they be able to stop him? Or would Melshek’s hold just continue spreading from here?

  Staring into his hands, he thought of his first fight against Melshek. He reviewed every counter attack, the quick-healing body and poison-filled claws. Then he thought of his extra training days with Taneth in the mountains. Those were the only times that he had been able to exert his full strength as a Remnant.

  He compared the two abilities and combat styles in his mind. They were two different powers from the most renowned era in history. I don’t know if I can beat him, he realized. Even if I Blood Broke and used my full power, he could kill me. Even if I did finish him, how could I hide it from every nearby Varadour? My secret would be known.

  A hooked rope flew up next to him, lodging into the corner between a flat stone and a merlon before tightening. "Thought I would find you up here," Honmour called, climbing up the wall to his friend’s perch. "I sent the Stunts to scout out the city for any surprises. They’re fast enough to get out of there if there’s trouble."

  Kaltor nodded, looping his own hooked rope around his palm and elbow for the fifth time before letting the hooked end plummet over the edge of the roof. "Thanks, Honmour," he said. "I know I wasn’t much of a leader back there."

  Honmour laughed, earning an angry but confused glare. "You’ve always been just as step ahead of us, Kaltor," he said. "You’re a prodigy of sorts. You’re the best assassin Taneth’s ever trained. To be honest, it’s nice to see you have typical leadership issues. Only reliable when things go your way," Putting his hands behind his back he stretched, sighing luxuriously.

  I suppose I could kick him off the wall, Kaltor considered. The rope’s still there. I’m sure he’d catch himself and then leave me alone.

  He glanced out over the city again, coiling the hooked rope around his elbow and palm of his hand for the sixth time. Then again, Honmour is the only one here who still smiles
at me. Everyone blames me for being outwitted by Melshek. Why didn’t we just stick together at the prison?

  "Melshek slept with the amulet before he assaulted the camp," Honmour announced. "Gereth spoke to Rivatha again. He got a few more details out of her," From behind the folds of his leather armor he pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "You’ve learned firsthand why Master Taneth chose to raise assassins over soldiers."

  Glancing his way, Kaltor swung the hooked end of the rope in an idle circle. "What are you talking about?"

  "You pitted a large force against something you knew nothing about," Honmour explained, pushing the list into his hands. "Read it for yourself. I’m tired of doing all the talking. I added a few details, though. See what you think," Slinging the coil of rope over his shoulder, Kaltor unfolded the paper, eyeing the simple list in hastily scrawled ink.

  "Must recuperate after every major exertion,’" Kaltor read aloud, looking out over the city. Let’s see. His first exertion was at the vault. He was fast enough to elude us until he stopped at the merchant’s camp long enough for us to catch up. It couldn’t have taken him that long just to kill them. He must have needed to rest. He paused at that thought, intrigued.

  "Can only maintain control of victims over a few hundred yards." Pinning the list against the top of his leg with one hand, he pulled out a dagger and starting flipping it into the air, feeling a small glimmer of hope peek out past those haunting eyes in his mind. Honmour smiled, patted his friend on the shoulder, and looked out over the city, his eyes following the courses of the Stunts.

  Kaltor eyed the second point and saw ‘web women’ scrawled at the end of the sentence. "That last one I killed at the entrance," he recalled. "The others around her died right after she did," He thought back to that moment. "She had spider web-shaped marks on her mouth."