by Ben Hale
One woman hacked at the limbs and didn’t see the root rising like a scorpion tail at her back. It struck once, and the body flew all the way into an entrance tunnel. The remaining survivors turned and fled, only two making it to the exit, the third caught by another root as it wrapped around his throat, extinguishing his life.
“Urindilial,” Seth called, “it’s over.”
The splinters of wood calmed and withdrew back into the roots, the bark sealing again. Shadow released his silver reaver and the shadows returned to the darkness, leaving him standing between a trio of dead killers.
The sudden calm settled upon the hall as the roots finally stilled, and dust stopped falling from the ceiling. Shadow turned a circle, his eyes sweeping the still forms, but none of the thieves were among the dead.
“Care for the wounded and deal with the dead,” Seth said, and the thieves parted. Many reached out to touch a nearby limb, expressing their gratitude to the tree that had saved their lives. Then the guildmaster crossed the space to Shadow.
“Guildmaster,” Shadow said wryly, “do you have to antagonize everyone?”
“Shadow,” Seth said, a smile beneath his beard, “your arrival is most welcome.”
One of the roots passed over Shadow’s shoulder, and a flower blossomed at the end. The flower caressed Shadow’s check before falling into his hand, and then the wood retreated, the grain a slight shade of red.
“Urindilial,” Shadow said, “you flatter me.” He offered a bow and blew the limb a kiss.
Seth grunted in amusement. “It appears I’m not the only one happy to see you.”
Shadow swept his hand to the nearest root. “It is me that is happy to see such beauty.”
The red tinge returned to the tree, and Seth laughed. He clapped Shadow on the back and gestured to the dead killers. “What brought you here? Did you follow them?”
“Coincidence,” Shadow replied. “I wanted to speak to you regarding an item I seek and happened to see Gendor’s arrival. I was inclined to intervene.”
Seth noticed one of his thieves waiting, a woman with the mark of a master thief, and gave a hand gesture for her to continue caring for the thieves in his absence. Then Seth motioned Shadow toward a darkened alcove. When they were out of earshot, Seth’s smile faded.
“These are troubling times,” he said.
“Like assassins wanting the allegiance of the Thieves Guild?”
“We aren’t exactly friends with the assassins,” Seth said, pulling on his beard. “But they’ve never displayed antagonism against us. This is the first time an assassin has attacked one of our guild in ages.”
“When did Gendor first ask for your loyalty?” Shadow asked.
“Three weeks past,” Seth said.
When Wylyn arrived.
The timing could not be a coincidence, but how were they connected? Realizing there was more at play than he’d first imagined, Shadow considered what the assassins had to gain with Wylyn’s arrival. He doubted the entire guild was involved—the woman that led the assassins was too honorable for that. But Gendor? The man’s thirst for coin had no end, and Shadow knew he’d wanted to expand the guild for some time. Had he sought to do so without the knowledge of his guildmaster?
“Did you know Gendor had recruited others?” Shadow asked.
“First I’ve seen,” Seth said. “There are plenty willing to kill for coin, but the Assassin’s Guild has always been selective, only taking lives because they deserved to be taken.”
“You sound like you admire them,” Shadow said.
“I wasn’t always an old dwarf,” Seth said. “And when I was a child I dreamed of becoming an assassin. Alas, I was better with a lockpick than an axe.”
“So who are they?” Shadow asked, gesturing to the dead men and women.
“Guildmaster!” one of the thieves called. “This one’s alive.”
Shadow and Seth hurried to the fallen man, arriving as his mask was removed. The man’s features were scarred from combats, his eyes hardened from bloodshed. His features were Talinorian, so he was likely former military.
“Fetch a healer,” Seth said, and the thief scurried off. Then he bent over the man. “What’s your name?”
“You are fools,” the man said, coughing. “And your fate was sealed the moment you refused Gendor’s offer.”
“Why?” Seth asked.
“Because the ancients have returned,” he said, grimacing in pain. “And we have been waiting.”
“Who’s we?” Shadow asked.
The man met Shadow’s eyes and he thought he would refuse to respond, but the man managed a dark smile. “The Order of Ancients has sought the return of our masters for eons, and now that time has arrived.”
“What does this Order have to do with Gendor?” Seth asked.
“The Order commands,” the assassin said. “And we are its Bloodsworn.”
“Not this time,” Shadow said, motioning to his other fallen companions, a smirk playing across his lips.
The dying man glared at Shadow. “You think to stop an ancient? They created us, and they created magic. They are our masters.”
“Not my master,” Shadow said.
“You will die like the rest, fragment.”
Shadow blinked in surprise, shocked that the man knew his identity. Few knew of him or Draeken’s origin, and to hear the truth from an assassin’s lips inspired a disturbing amount of doubt. The man’s lips curled into a sneer.
“Since your birth you have fought against an unseen foe, and now you find yourself surprised. You are known to us, as are your brothers and your protector. Enjoy your final days of freedom, guardian.”
The man’s body relaxed in death, a disturbing smile still on his face. Shadow rose to his feet, his thoughts leaping to the other fragments, and the chilling truths the assassin had shared. If an adversary did know of the fragments, they could all be in danger.
“Of what did he speak?” Seth asked, his voice uncertain.
“Rumors and suspicion,” Shadow said, flashing a disarming smile. He turned from the body and walked past the healer that had arrived too late.
“He called you a fragment.”
“He’s a dead assassin,” Shadow said with a snort. “And apparently one that serves a rogue member of the Assassin’s Guild.”
Seth nodded, but his gaze remained uncertain. “Why did you come here?”
“I need a map of the locations built by the ancient race,” Shadow said. “It is an unrelated matter.”
Seth glanced to the dead member of the Order of Ancients. He did not seem convinced. “Our archives were in Keese,” he said. “Then the Ravens forced us out and took our guildhall.”
The dwarf’s features tightened, and Shadow saw the emotion written on his face. The Thieves Guild was under siege, with assassins demanding their loyalty, and a rival guild taking their territory.
“I’ll see what I can do about the Ravens,” Shadow said.
“Why would you do that?” Seth asked.
Shadow grinned. “Because it will be fun.”
“You can’t do it alone,” Seth said.
“I always work alone,” Shadow replied. “Good luck with Gendor.”
Seth looked away to answer a question from one of his thieves. “Where do you intend to start?”
Shadow turned to his elemental form, and like dissipating smoke, faded into the darkness beneath a limb. Seth looked back and his voice faded. He turned about, shocked by Shadow’s sudden disappearance.
“How does he do that?” the dwarf muttered.
From above him, Shadow slipped away. He climbed upward, and entered the ascender Gendor had used. The ascender rose through the tree and came to a halt at the back of a storeroom in the queen’s castle. Slipping into a throng of cooks, he passed through the castle’s great hall, pausing to steal the queen’s crown from off the gilded pillow. Depositing it on the chair of a duke, he walked to the castle gates, reaching them just as men began shouting. Whil
e the flustered duke was surrounded, Shadow departed into the upper city, his thoughts on the Order of Ancients.
Chapter 5: The Angel of Death
As Gendor exited through the banquet hall, the servants paid him no mind, but one set of eyes watched him depart. From a perch above the chandelier, a woman watched, her scowl deepening.
Lorica’s hand reached for the sword on her back, her calloused fingers wrapping around the hilt. She yearned to pull the blade free and drop it on the departing assassin, to cut him down and watch him die in the midst of shrieking servants and shocked guards. But killing another member of the guild was forbidden, and doing so would invite the condemnation of all the assassins. Even having her sister as guildmaster would not spare her life—at least without the right evidence.
She reminded herself of her purpose and released the hilt of her sword, allowing Gendor to depart unharmed. She settled back into her perch, wondering why Gendor had visited the thief guildhall.
Strictly speaking, Lorica should not be following Gendor at all. But Lorica had quietly watched the assassin for years. Three weeks ago he’d disappeared, leaving his contract unfulfilled.
Gendor had never failed to complete a contract, but he’d simply departed. A week later he’d appeared in Keese with the Ravens. Lorica had tracked him to Ilumidora, where it appeared he was meeting with the Thieves Guild.
She frowned, wondering why an assassin would seek a meeting with the Thieves Guild, especially when the guild was being hunted by the Ravens. Lorica suspected it was only a matter of time until the Ravens replaced the Thieves Guild, but that wasn’t her problem. Her problem was Gendor.
From her perch on a ledge behind the chandelier, Lorica continued to ponder Gendor’s behavior. Her vantage point, hidden behind the light of the great hall, could not be seen from below, affording her visibility and secrecy.
She withdrew the small coin from her pocket and traced her thumb across the skull symbol. Normally the coin looked like any other, but the skull had pressed outward from the metal, as had seven tiny blades around the surface. It was a summoning, one that required the entire guild. Gendor was obviously returning to the hall in Herosian, and a tremor of excitement ran across her flesh. A full council would be a perfect chance to reveal what she’d learned and confront Gendor, and finally exact her vengeance.
She stepped off her hiding spot and jumped down to a balcony overlooking the hall. Just as she landed, she spotted a new arrival. The striking man exited the kitchens and passed the banquet table. He deftly stole the crown, a brazen act that would merit losing a hand if not a life, and then deposited it on the chair of a duke. His smile was smug, and Lorica nodded her approval when the banquet hall erupted in shouts. Using the same commotion, she descended the wall and slipped out a side door. Curious, she stepped onto a balcony of the castle and watched the man depart across the bridge leading to the city. Guards closed on him and he raised his hands, and then evaporated like smoke, his body passing through them and materializing on the opposite side.
“Catch me if you can,” he said.
The guards charged him, but the man slipped into the crowd and disappeared for good. Lorica found a smile on her face and shook herself, squashing the spark of attraction. He was probably just a thief with talent.
Lorica jumped from the chandelier to the nearest balcony and then descended the steps to the great hall. From there she slipped to an exterior balcony and leaned over the drop. A trio of enormous limbs held the castle aloft. Other smaller branches curved their way through the interior, supporting the upper, segmented portions of the structure.
A shout came from behind and she knew she’d been spotted. She ignored the rushing guards and leapt the railing, spreading her cloak wide. The material reached outward, the light catching it and spreading it further, morphing into wings.
The wings spread wide, shimmering in the light, beautiful and regal. She banked away from the fall, the wings pulling on her body so she soared across the lake. She relished the wind in her hair and then pulled her cowl over her features.
“The Angel!” someone cried, recognizing her from the bounty posters.
“The Angel of Death!” another shouted, and soon soldiers converged upon her, pushing their way through the crowd.
She banked upward, slowing as she streaked for the outer wall. Arrows reached for her, but she was moving too fast. As she approached the battlements, she closed her wings and spun, spinning over the wall and beyond the city.
She spread her wings again and soared into the trees, twisting and turning as the shouts faded behind her. Lorica continued to fly, outstripping the lightcast birds that were sent to follow. The small entities had eyes linked to their casters, allowing the elven guards to track their quarry, but she flew beyond their reach and then dropped to the earth.
She landed hard and dismissed the wings, and the threads of light folded inward, merging back into an innocuous cloak. Pulling her hood back, she departed the elven kingdom, all the while watching the trail at her back.
She could have escaped the city without becoming the Angel, without being seen. But she wanted Gendor to know she was there, and he would rightly assume she was following him. It was a warning, the only one he would get before she sank her blade into his corrupt little heart.
She turned away from the city and worked her way northward. Reaching the road, she traveled west, leaving the elven kingdom for Talinor. Now that Gendor knew she’d been in Ilumidora, he would be cautious, and she needed time to get to Talinor and speak to her sister. All the evidence she’d gathered would be for naught if she couldn’t speak to her sister before the council began.
After a week on the road she reached Herosian, capitol city of the Talinor. Built in seven rings expanding from the central castle, the city did not compare to Ilumidora but it had its own beauty. The central circles were known for their rich occupants and grand estates, while the outer rings contained factories and homes for the common folk.
Arriving deep into the night, she made her way to a small entrance reserved for the military, and a guard in the guild’s pocket ushered her through the outer wall. Once inside the city, Lorica made her way to a castle.
Built by the Verinai before their fall, the castle sprawled across an enormous area. Its walls were the thickest in Lumineia, it’s battlements armed with dwarven ballistae and elven enchantments. But not even the king knew of the giant chamber hidden beneath the fortress, the birthplace of the Titans.
Lorica made her way to the moat that surrounded the castle and paused, eyeing the battlements above. Darkness had settled in and the outer wall was illuminated by large light orbs, the light failing to breach the water of the moat.
The water came from Blue Lake and flowed into a myriad of canals and streams throughout the city, including the moat. Lorica eased herself from the darkness and descended to the water, where a small eddy had formed.
The curl of water looked like any other, revealing an obstruction underneath. But instead of a stone, it hid a box of air, with an illusion for a lid. Lorica fumbled for the handle and then lifted the section of water, reaching in to retrieve the contents.
The pile of parchment came with a handful of memory orbs, the balls glittering dully in the moonlight. Two of the memories were her own, while a third came from a dying man, a simple guard that happened to witness Gendor with a group of shadowy figures. Gendor had taken his life, but not before she’d convinced him to share the memory. Others came from other witnesses.
She collected the parchment and the orbs before retreating up the embankment. She’d hoped to have a lot more evidence before forcing a confrontation with Gendor, but she had enough, and couldn’t stand to let him live another day, not after what he’d done.
On impulse she veered away from an entrance to the assassin guildhall and made her way east, toward the seventh ring. It was late, but like many of the factories in Herosian, workers labored throughout the night, refining exports of ground flour, precio
us stones, and woven cloth.
The streets were nearly empty, only a handful of wastrels wandering about. A patrol of soldiers passed, but their gait was relaxed, their attention on the tale being told by one of their own. Like just another shadow, Lorica passed them by and ascended a sloped street to a weaver guildhall.
The dark structure sat empty, the weavers gone home for the night. She came to a halt on the threshold and looked up to the single spire, breathing in the scents of cloth and dust, scents of home.
Adjacent to the hall stood a ramshackle home. The paint on the walls had long since peeled away, leaving graying wood. The windows were cracked, and a hole in the wall suggested an animal had burrowed beneath the foundation.
“I’m sorry I haven’t visited much,” she murmured. “I know I said I’d come back often, but I believe I’ve finally found your killer.”
She thought of the search, of the decade spent hunting, and now finally she was ready. All the evidence, everything she’d gathered, all pointed to Gendor, and she was done waiting. She’d become an assassin to find Zenif’s killer, and it was time for Gendor to pay for his crime.
Lorica leaned against the railing and sighed, her thoughts shifting to the man who’d displayed such magic in Ilumidora. A smile spread on her face, barely visible beneath her cowl, and she faced east.
“I saw someone today,” she said. “I think you would have liked him, even if he was not a weaver. He had magic I’ve never seen . . . and he was very attractive.”
She chuckled lightly as she imagined Zenif’s voice, his deep tone that inspired trust. Whenever she favored another, Zenif would be there to interrogate him. Although he’d chosen to be a weaver, he had the air of a warrior and could intimidate even hardened soldiers with merely a glance.
A flicker of movement caught her attention and she whirled, her sword appearing in her hands. But the figure that stepped out of the shadows was dressed in dark, supple armor and a matching cloak. When she removed her cowl, the features looking back at her were similar to her own.
