by Joseph Lallo
“I'm through killing, and I'm through worrying about being killed. I love the art of the assassination, but I hate the act. Why do you suppose I never went after the Lain Trial myself? Call me a coward if you must, but I won't take a side again.”
“You'd send him in there alone?” Fiora said.
“I am not sending him in there,” Leo said.
“He's your friend and he needs your help,” she said.
“Is a friend someone who rescues you when you get into trouble, or is it someone who helps you avoid the trouble in the first place?” Leo asked. “Not that it matters. Anyone who could remain dedicated to a lost cause on the other side of a mountain even after four years in a veritable paradise is far too stubborn to listen to good sense. So if you need help plotting, planning, training, or anything of the like, ask. But my allegiance to you ends at the border of the arena.”
“That is your choice,” Shadow said. A breath of wind drew his attention to the north, where shortly there came into sight his adversary in this task, Sama.
The man walked with the heavy, plodding footfalls of someone unconcerned with stealth. He was not even dressed in his uniform; instead, he wore the unremarkable tunic worn by those residents with no current focus to their training. It was a rare sight on anyone, and rarer still on Sama. He approached the group and stepped face to face with Shadow.
“I understand you have been as busy as I have these last few days. Preparing. Good. That's good. I'll leave you to it, but first I want to thank you. I have been waiting for a chance to earn this title for more than six years. I've got a host of other masteries, but this one has always eluded me. It will be good to have it behind me and try something new. Pity I'll have to kill you to do it, but obstacles exist to be overcome. Good luck to you. But better luck to me,” he said.
With that Sama departed. Fiora watched him go.
“I'll admit I was a bit conflicted about helping you, since it meant I was working against someone else,” she said. “I'm less conflicted now.”
#
The month passed swiftly. Much of the time was spent collaborating with Leo to determine what strengths the others Sama had recruited might bring to the trial. After a week, Croyden delivered a “rough blank” of the weapon he was working on. It was the same length, weight, and balance as the planned piece. With it, Shadow could practice how best to use the weapon—but he did so sparingly. Sama and his allies were everywhere, and every moment spent practicing in full view of them was tantamount to revealing his strategy.
It wasn't until nightfall the day before the trial was to take place that Croyden sent for Shadow. The malthrope stepped inside the master's shop to find the completed sword laying on a cloth on his worktable. Fiora was with him, looking more than a little fatigued.
To call the piece exquisite would fall well short of doing it justice. It was a single-edged blade. The blunt edge was mostly straight, while the cutting edge swept with a minor curve toward a subtle wedge-shaped point three-quarters of the way along the arm-length blade, then curving back to a point. It had a single-handed grip, covered with braided leather and ending in a flat pommel. Most striking about it, though, was the finish. The whole of the blade and hilt was soot-black, not the slightest gleam or shine glinting on its surface.
“It is remarkable,” Shadow said. “It doesn't even look like metal.”
“It isn't!” Fiora said eagerly.
“What is it?”
Croyden waved his hand vaguely. “The nearest I could offer you by way of comparison is pottery.”
“Won't it be brittle?”
“More brittle than iron or steel, perhaps, but with a harder, sharper edge. I've reinforced it where necessary. You asked me for a weapon that could match any that Sama might carry. This will do it, and without a shine to betray you in the darkness. An assassin's blade.”
Shadow swiped it experimentally through the air. Sure enough, it performed just as the sample one had. He would be able to use it well. He looked over the almost featureless surface and discovered, barely visible at the base of the blade, two small marks. They were handprints, and below them was a trio of intricate lines of text. The first said “For Luck,” and the others were a language he couldn't read.
“What is this?”
Fiora blushed slightly. “Oh, uh . . . I had to touch the blade to focus enough heat, and my hands left a mark. I decided to write you a little message, too. The last bit is a pair of spells of protection. Not much, but enough to knock away a fireball or two. I thought you might need them.”
“I am not usually one for blade enchantments. Pending the effectiveness, perhaps I'll have to look into it,” Croyden explained.
“I'm very proud of that, Mr. Malthrope, sir,” Fiora said, “so take good care of it. And I hope it takes good care of you.”
Shadow nodded, taking the peculiar open-backed scabbard that Croyden had designed to accommodate the unique shape of the blade and strapping it to his hip. The weapon held in place securely, but slid free without effort. It was, without a doubt, the finest weapon he had ever held, and the finest thing he had ever owned. The question was: would it be enough? In one day, he would know.
Chapter 28
At sunset, Shadow approached the edge of the very place that had given him his first real taste of what Entwell was truly like. Now he would step into it for what may be his last waking moments. Waiting for him were Master Weste and Sama. Though neither had been instructed to do so, each combatant arrived alone, and each was carrying his equipment in a pack rather than in plain sight. Though they were out of sight, the scent of the squad of recruits that Sama had assembled was heavy in the air, the one trick up his sleeve that he couldn't readily hide.
“You have both had the same time to prepare, and you are both well aware of the rules,” Weste said. “Once you both step into the arena, the trial has begun and there can be no backing out. One of you will die; if history is any indication, we may lose you both. If you choose to step inside, you will be greeted by Azriel. She will share a few words with each of you alone, then conjure up the field of play. It will be entirely of her design, and no one else has any knowledge of it. You will each appear at opposite sides of the battlefield, and the trial will end when one of you finishes the other and leaves the arena. At any time during the trial others may enter. They all agree to the same terms and may render aid to either combatant, but to earn your title you must be the one to deliver the killing blow. Is that understood?”
Both combatants nodded.
“Very well. May the best of you emerge and be honored at trial's end.”
The opponents shared a long, final glance before each stepped inside. Just as it had when he first made the mistake of stepping inside, the world vanished. Shadow stood in a featureless black void, the air around him cool. A patch of the darkness wafted away, and Azriel was standing before him.
“Welcome back. I had a feeling I would see you again. You've come a long way since the terrified, half-starved beast who entered this place not so long ago. Entwell has treated you well.”
“It has.”
“A blue moon has come and gone since you entered this place. I don't suppose you were a part of the ceremony.”
“I had not reached the proper level of mastery.”
“Pity. I suspect we would have learned a great deal if you had. As the proctor of this exam, I am required to judge you without bias. However, I freely admit that of the two of you, I believe that you have more to offer us. Fight well, Shadow. More hangs in the balance than your title and your life.”
Her words were still hanging in the air when she swept away and the battleground began to take shape. First came a gentle glow in the sky. It swirled and contracted until it formed a brilliant full moon. The light spilled across the endless black, painting highlights on the nothingness. The shapes of walls and streets began to emerge as though they had always been there. Gradually, a city emerged: tight, cramped streets framed out by buildings
taller and narrower than anything Entwell had to offer. Everything was built of dark gray brick and stone, weathered and rounded with time. It reminded Shadow very much of the port town of Sarrin.
When the setting had asserted itself, the world around it began to come to life. Perfect stillness was replaced by a fierce, ripping wind that shifted constantly. Dense black clouds wreathed the moon, thickening into a threatening thunderhead and cracking the air with the roll of thunder. Rain began to hammer down upon the conjured city, and thus the scene was set. The battleground would be a deserted cityscape in the midst of a horrendous storm.
There was a brilliance and an insanity to it. Entwell seldom experienced anything but perfect weather, no doubt due to the influence of the many elemental wizards who called it home. As such, neither Shadow nor Sama had been trained under these conditions. Furthermore, the chaotic wind made tracking difficult, and the constant drumming of raindrops made hearing anything more subtle than a falling tree nearly impossible. In the unfamiliar setting and inclement conditions, any advantage provided by Sama's years of additional training was hampered just as surely as that provided by any of Shadow's keen senses. The playing field was leveled, leaving only raw talent to decide the victor.
Shadow drew in a breath. The rain and wind were confounding, but his nose had not been rendered completely useless. It told him enough for him to know that there wasn't anyone near enough to be a threat just yet. That meant he had time to ready the meager equipment that he had chosen to bring. He pulled open his satchel and revealed the tools he would use to preserve his own life and take that of his foe.
There were nine throwing daggers fitted into three short belts. He affixed one to his right arm and one to each leg. Next came a coil of strong, thin cord, and finally his blade. It wasn't much, but he knew that he was outnumbered and out-equipped. If he was going to survive, he would have to rely upon the speed and agility inherent to his kind, and that meant staying light.
It was the work of moments to fit his equipment, and then came the task of finding his foes. In the few moments that it had been falling, the rain had already coated the smooth stones of the architecture into a hazardous and slick deathtrap for a climber. It would be much safer and simpler to stay to the streets and alleys, and it was for that reason that Shadow knew he dare not do so. With care and speed, he found the safest handholds and scaled the face of the building, keeping to the hidden walls facing other buildings in cramped side streets and only climbing as far as the second or third floor. The moonlight was only strong enough to see with any clarity in the brief moments when a crack in the fast-moving clouds slid by, but to be standing tall upon a rooftop during such an instant might reveal his location to everyone in the city.
As he moved, silent and sure, he felt the tension and exhilaration begin to rise up in him. The thrill of the hunt mixed with the fear of being hunted. As he had been taught, and as he had trained himself to do, he took the best of the sensations and rejected the rest. His senses became sharper; he became more alert. The endless patter of rain began to settle into the background, and through it he could hear the stutter and shuffle of anxious steps along a narrow ledge.
He could hear, far below him, a girl chilled to the bone by the falling rain. Deena. She was close, much closer than he normally came when tracking, which meant he was in real danger of being seen or heard. He called to mind what he'd learned of her over the years. Like him, she favored “the high road,” taking to the trees and rooftops to gain an advantage. In the early years, she'd focused on long, thin blades, but as their training began to entwine, she'd begun to shift her interest.
He slid forward toward the front of the building and for an instant he saw a black-clad figure clinging to the side of the building across the street. It was her, he was certain. Hers was the scent that seemed nearest, and her tiny frame was unmistakable. In a flick of motion she vanished from sight. It meant she had seen him. He didn't wait to react, sliding backward three long strides and reaching up to haul himself to the next level. Below him there was a light metallic plink, a dart striking the stone wall just below his heel. A fraction of a second slower and she would have struck him. He couldn't waste any time. The glimpse he'd earned of her told him precisely where she was, but the more time that passed, the less useful that information was. She would be moving, seeking a fresh vantage for another shot with her blowgun, or else hoping to flank him and put her blade to work.
Down the side of the building he slipped, bounding from one wall of the narrow alley to the other, dropping a floor each time, and finally to the street. He kept his ears turned to the shadows that had most recently hid the first of Sama's recruits. What little he could hear of her came in tiny clatters of stone or scuffs of shoe. It wasn't enough to target, but enough to know he was still on her trail, and that she was retreating. The jingle of metal scattering along the ground prompted him to leap to the sill of a window. The barest glint of light across the ground betrayed the handful of jagged metal caltrops Deena had scattered. Shadow didn't slow, now scrambling and springing from sill to sill, ledge to ledge, keeping the pressure on Deena to keep her from having a moment to ready her more potent weapons. There was the sharp crack of wood and suddenly the sounds he pursued disappeared. She'd slipped inside one of the buildings, smashing her way through the shutter of a window to do it. Shadow heaved himself toward the source of the sound and in a few moments spotted the broken window.
When pursuing a warrior of similar skill and training, moments like these were more often than not the difference between life and death. Deena had taken a calculated risk by entering the building. Breaking the window, she gave away her position and presented Shadow with a choice. He could follow her through the window, but that would mean that for a brief moment he would be framed in the window against the comparatively brighter moonlight—an easy target. He could break through another shutter, but that would alert her to his position. He could take the time to enter silently, but that meant delay, distraction, and the opening for a counter attack. As she was not the target, he could leave her and continue to pursue Sama, but that would leave a known threat active and nearby.
One could deliberate for hours on such a choice and still not make the proper one—yet, in this case, even a few seconds of thought would create a lethal delay.
Shadow drew one of the throwing blades from his leg and drove it into the crack between the shutters of the window beside the one she'd entered, using his own momentum to force the slatted wooden doors open with a violent slam. A dart hissed through the air, passing through the open window, but Shadow was not there. He'd continued forward, slipping in through her window. By the time she'd realized what he'd done, he was inside and hidden in the pitch-black. He crouched low to the ground. His lungs were screaming for air after the burst of activity, but he forced himself to breathe in slow, silent breaths. He knew that she was doing the same somewhere in the darkness.
Outside, the wind wailed and the rain poured. Inside, each kept stone-still, waiting and listening. His sharp eyes began to adjust, but the interior of the building was crowded with tables and chairs, cupboards and chests. It was a fully-furnished, though uninhabited home, and that meant there were countless places to hide. Training and discipline can hone a body in astounding ways, bringing to bear a thousand techniques to eliminate any trace of sound. Some things, though, cannot be helped. Each of them had been in the pounding rain moments before, soaked to the skin. Now they were inside a dark, sheltered building . . . and the rain was beginning to run off of them. He filtered out the sound of rain and focused. Beneath him he could hear the soft tap of drops falling on wood. To his left, just on the other side of an open doorway, he could hear the same noise.
He made his move, covering the space between them in a single dive. Deena had been ready, stiletto swiping through the air, but he rolled aside and caught her hand by the wrist. He held tight to it and circled around behind her, pulling the arm cross her chest and wrenching her wris
t. The weapon slipped from her fingers—but, as if from thin air, she produced a second in her free hand and attempted to skewer his leg. The blade cut a deep slice across his thigh, but he managed to catch the wrist with his other hand and lever it up behind her back. She made a brief and concerted effort to shatter his feet with her heel, but he managed to sweep the legs from beneath her and take the pair of them to the ground, hard. The impact dazed her just long enough for Shadow to muscle her arms behind her and wrap a few loops of cord around them.
“What . . .” Deena said, the haze beginning to clear. “What is this? What are you doing?”
Shadow didn't answer. He simply continued bind her hands, then moved on to her feet. When she was securely bound, he pulled the pouch from her belt. It contained her blow gun and three more darts. He sniffed the point of one. She'd tipped them with a potent sedative, something that would have put Shadow to sleep so that Sama could be the one to score the kill. Shadow secured it to his own belt and hauled her to her feet.
“Where is Sama and what is his plan?” he asked, voice low and stern.
“I am a warrior. I have pledged my aid to Sama. I will not betray him or endanger his mission,” she declared in defiance.
“Would you die for him?”
“I would die for the honor of the mission. It is what I was trained for, and it is what I was born for. Do what you must. There is no shame in falling to a superior foe.”
“This is not your battle. This is a trial. A test. You would die for a test?”
“It is a mission, regardless of the purpose. I would gladly die if it was the difference between success and failure. Kill me if you must. It is your right. I knew the risk when I agreed to help him.”
Shadow looked out the window. “I have a better use for you.”
#
On the other side of the battleground, Sama was huddled with three of his fellow stealth apprentices in what he'd determined to be the most defensible position with the best vantage. It was the bell tower of what, if this had been a real place, might have been the town hall. It stood as a spire, sticking high above the rest of the city. Most of the streets led directly toward it, meaning that from the four main windows one would have been able to see along them to the very edge of the city if the darkness and rain hadn't made seeing more than a few streets away impossible.
