by Ben Hale
It was late, but not so late that the taverns were empty. Curious to exploit what he’d learned from Indra, he made his way to a group of taverns in the sixth ring, an area known for being frequented by soldiers.
He paused at a guard tower and cast a line of shadow to a window, using it to slip inside. Several beds were in the room, and he retrieved a guard uniform from a chest next to one. Then he fastened a web of shadows across both men’s faces, so that when they awoke, it would feel like they had a spider on their noses. Smiling to himself, he slipped outside and dropped to the earth to don the persona.
He entered a tavern called The Dented Helm and settled at a table with a group of officers. Slurring his speech, he demanded answers about the killers that murdered his father. One of the officers looked at him with disdain.
“And who killed him?”
“The Bloodsworn.”
The word echoed in the suddenly quiet room, and several officers recoiled, a trace of fear on their faces. Others at nearby tables stood and ambled out, as if the mere mention of the Bloodsworn would invite retribution to all present.
“Hold your tongue, man,” one officer hissed. “You know our orders.”
“They killed my father,” Shadow yelled, and stumbled to the door. “I mean to find them and show them the edge of my blade!”
They retreated from him like he had a ravenous plague, and Shadow disappeared into the alley. When he was out of sight, he straightened and a smile appeared on his face. At the next tavern he repeated the performance, and then the third, where he was unceremoniously tossed into the street.
Shadow rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from his trousers, and then retreated into the darkness next to a shuttered brickmaker’s shop. From there he scaled to the roof and chose a perch that gave a view of the three taverns.
As he waited, he cast a ball of shadow and tossed it into the air, morphing it into a spinning blade. Catching it, he sent it twirling again, the deadly dagger spinning through his fingers like a coin.
Time slipped by and Shadow grew bored, his thoughts drifting to Indra. The woman was interesting, and he found her courage appealing. She’d been surprisingly forthright with information, making him wonder what she would do if he arrived at the end of her watch. Just as he began considering returning to Indra’s post, he spotted a knot of shadowy figures appearing at the end of the street.
Four in number, they strode with purpose, obviously headed toward the castle. Another appeared from the darkness, and then another. Soon there were a dozen. Shadow frowned. He’d kicked a beehive, but this many was unnecessary.
Then a new figure appeared, one of the soldiers that had been present in The Dented Helm. Wringing his hands and twitching, the man darted into the street and whispered to the leader of the group. Too far away to hear the entire conversation, Shadow heard enough to realize the man was an informant, so Shadow slipped to the adjacent roof to listen.
“We have other business this night,” the leader said, his voice deep, hard.
“Will I still receive my payment?”
The silence was deafening, and the man scurried away. Shadow expected the men to laugh, but their discipline did not waver. When the informant was gone, another of the cloaked figures stepped closer to the leader and lowered his voice.
“We cannot afford to let the guards speak without repercussion.”
“Secrecy is our weapon,” another intoned, her cowled head bobbing.
The leader motioned to the tavern. “Be quick about it. The council has already begun, and we must meet with the others.”
The man nodded and separated himself from the group. He entered the tavern, and for the second time that night, the patrons fell silent. A moment later he exited and followed Shadow’s track to the other two taverns. The rest of the Bloodsworn continued to advance down the street, where they met the seeker.
“Your blade is dry,” the leader said, his tone disapproving.
“The man has departed,” the seeker said, bowing his head in apology.
“Probably sleeping in a ditch somewhere,” a woman said.
“We’ll kill him after our work with the council is complete,” the leader said. “We have waited decades for this moment. We shall not turn aside.”
The group fell into step and worked their way down the street, their path taking them into an abandoned warehouse, where a secret entrance in the basement permitted entry into a network of tunnels. Their robes whispered against the stone, sending rats scurrying away in fear, all the while, a flicker of movement appeared at the back of their number. As the Bloodsworn made their way toward their target, a new figure had joined the group, his cloak not made of cloth, but of shadows . . .
Chapter 8: A Fallen Guild
Shadow followed the Bloodsworn into the underbelly of the city. They were all cloaked and cowled, their gait purposeful. Shadow wanted to listen, but none spoke, and there was an air of stillness about them, of killers approaching their prey.
An abandoned sewer, the tunnel curved downward without fork or turn, gradually descending into the earth. Occasional light orbs provided illumination, and Shadow made certain to keep one of the Bloodsworn between him and the light, which would rob his cloak of solidity, and strip him of anonymity.
He drifted among them, allowing the shift of position to grant him access to their ranks, where he used the proximity to learn about his foes. As the cloaks parted, he caught glimpses of matching warrior garb, with many bearing the hallmarks of battlemages.
One was a light mage, his sword hilt glimmering with enchantments. Another carried a small crossbow, the bolts marked with the symbols of fire. The handle was unique and hand-crafted, suggesting the woman had built and enchanted it herself. Oddly, all were human, and he wondered if the Bloodsworn did not like the other races.
The group slowed, and Shadow drifted to the back, melting into the darkness of the tunnel. At the lead, the man reached into his cloak and removed a silver mask, an unspoken order that the others followed.
The mask was solid, even over the eyes, suggesting light magic was threaded into the material so the wearer could see. The features of the mask were dispassionate and cold, the face of one with no fear, no compassion. It was the mask of one who wanted the victim to know their end had come.
“We are sworn to the spilling of blood,” he said.
“For the ancients,” the group intoned.
The leader nodded, and then turned the corner, leading the group into a giant cavern. Shadow stopped on the threshold, his gaze lifting to the massive space. Directly beneath the king’s castle, the secret chamber was as large as the citadel above.
A small stream entered the chamber from one corner, feeding the lake that dominated the chamber. An island sat in the center of the lake. A giant statue, easily fifty feet tall, stood on a pedestal in the center, the warrior muscled and armored, its features visceral.
Seven towers ringed the pedestal, each bearing a single flag that faced the statue. Shadow realized the number, and recalled Elenyr describing a location with seven towers, the refuge of the Assassin’s Guild. He frowned as he recalled Gendor telling Seth of a summons to an assassin council.
Shadow noticed a light coming from the base of the statue and peered at the opening. Then he realized that the footstool of the statue contained a room, likely a council room where the assassins could gather.
He stepped off the stairs and fell, casting a thread to slow his descent. As he dropped into the chamber, he spotted the group he’d followed lining up behind one of the towers, using it to hide their approach. Then Shadow noticed the others.
More Bloodsworn had entered the chamber from other entrances, and they surrounded the island, each group gathering behind the towers, many joining the group Shadow had followed. As shouts came from within the council room, Shadow heard the distinct sound of a blade being drawn.
Shadow dropped to the base of the bridge and sprinted across in shadow form, little more than a strea
k of darkness. He reached the group and came to a halt, just as the Bloodsworn charged into the open—only to be met by two newcomers.
Fire and Mind.
Shadow came to a halt when he spotted his fragment brothers barring the entrance, battling the horde of Bloodsworn. Fire cast a pack of moordraugs out of fire. At ten feet tall, the beasts had circular jaws with teeth all the way down their throats. The fearsome entities charged, swallowing cloaked figures like they were an afternoon meal.
Mind had his sword in hand, and fought with unparalleled skill, his blade deflecting sword and arrow, magic and might, weaving a pattern of death against the killers that sought to get past him. He knocked a spear high and then spun beneath the shaft, snapping the wood and catching the remainder before hurtling it at the wielder. The woman ducked, and spun—into Mind’s next strike, his sword piercing her frame even as another fell, the broken spear having entered his heart. Their bodies hit the ground in unison.
Despite the skill of Mind and Fire, Bloodsworn leaked through the opening, entering a chamber where the sounds of battle echoed. But if Elenyr was absent outside, that meant she was likely inside.
Shadow came to a stop, his eyes sweeping the battlefield. He could dive into the fray, but with so much fire and light, he would be a liability to the other fragments. Or he could strike from the outside, giving them an advantage without their knowing it. The tactic appealed to him, so he ripped a cloak from a fallen Bloodsworn and swung it about his shoulders before diving into the midst of the attackers.
He had a blade in hand, and shouted like one in battle, but in the other hand he held a whip of shadow. A trio charged Fire’s flank, and Shadow sent his weapon out, striking at their feet, making them stumble. Fire heard them hit the ground and whirled. He spotted the trio and smashed his hammer into the earth, blasting them all backward, their cloaks burning.
Shadow avoided a rampaging moordraug and kicked one of the Bloodsworn in the back, knocking him sprawling. Then he touched the curve of a bow, the arrow releasing and driving into the fallen man’s back. The archer stared at the buried arrow in dismay, her distraction costing her dearly when a moordraug approached her from behind, its jaws closing above her frame, her scream lost in the din.
Shadow smiled and joined a troll that had a floating bow above his head. The weapon had two arcs, and it fired on its own, suggesting a sentient weapon. The troll caught the jaws of a moordraug with his hammer and held it open, allowing the bow to fire a bolt down its throat. The bolt exploded inside, sending smoke and cinders out the now slack jaws. The moordraug detonated, sending fire and smoke blasting outward.
Shadow used the smoke to leap into the air and catch the floating bow, dragging it to the earth. It struggled so he released, and the bow leapt into the smoke, whirling to take aim at him. It fired three bolts, each passing through the shadows he’d created to impact groups of Bloodsworn, knocking cloaked bodies flying.
The troll scowled and the crossbow turned about as if hunting. Before Shadow could be spotted, he blended into a group charging Mind’s flank. He cast a handful of long daggers, and sent them spinning into the cloaks, pinning them to the ground. The leader was yanked backwards, while others merely stumbled, their cloaks tearing. Mind stabbed the first in the chest and then kicked him into the others, knocking them all sprawling.
Another figure burst from the interior, followed by a dwarf. They were not dressed as Bloodsworn but they joined them regardless, and Shadow recognized Gendor and Thorg, an assassin known as the Dark Dwarf. The man and his companion spun, barking orders for the Bloodsworn to close ranks. As the last of the moordraugs disintegrated, the Bloodsworn gathered. Then Elenyr and two female assassins joined Fire and Mind at the chamber’s threshold.
With the conflict now stilled, Shadow realized he was at risk, so he slipped backward, working his way out of the circle of Bloodsworn assassins. He paused in his retreat when he noticed a trio of Bloodsworn rushing around the pedestal. On impulse, he turned to follow.
As Gendor gathered his ranks, the three Bloodsworn dropped small spheres onto the ground, each pulsing a red dot. Spaced out around the giant statue’s pedestal, it was obviously an attack, but what did they intend?
Shadow shrugged as he realized it didn’t matter and began collecting the spheres. He gathered seven before shouts of alarm came from the front, and then he attached the seven spheres onto shadow squirrels. The little rodents skittered into the mass of Bloodsworn. Shadow slipped to the corner of the council chamber and listened to the conversation.
“Your army will die with you,” Loralyn snarled.
Gendor released a mocking laugh. “Only two of you remain. And even with the Hauntress, you cannot stop me, or the master I serve.”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Fire wiped the blood from a cut on his cheek, flames licking at his fingers. Shadow stifled a laugh, grateful for Fire’s belligerence.
Gendor glowered at Fire and raised his hand to reveal a small, spherical object. He touched a rune on its surface and it glowed to life. Then he tossed it toward Elenyr, his sneer one of disdain. Gendor and his Bloodsworn retreated, the soldiers tossing other spheres onto the ground around the council chamber. They all glowed into life, growing brighter by the second.
“You are a relic from a dead age, Hauntress,” Gendor said. “And it’s only fitting you die by another ancient weapon.”
“Go!” Elenyr barked. “Inside!”
The group sprinted into the council chamber and Fire summoned a wall of flames, closing off the doors and forming a barricade. Shadow retreated, darting away from the council chamber and the strange glowing spheres.
Shadow had given himself plenty of space, or so he’d thought. The explosions rent through stone, sending Shadow tumbling between two towers and into the water. Dazed, he clawed his way to the bank and watched the Bloodsworn stumbling to their feet, confused and angry at the craters in their midst, those caused by his shadow squirrels.
Then a great groan echoed in the cavern, and Shadow looked up to see the Titan teetering. In a creaking of stone, it tilted to the side and fell, crashing into the outer wall and sliding into the lake. Water fountained upward before settling, revealing the crushed pedestal. Where Elenyr and the fragments had been . . .
A rare sense of concern ignited in his heart, and Shadow scrambled forward. To his relief only a portion of the pedestal had caved in. The north side, the part where Shadow had removed the spheres, remained intact, while several craters were now visible in the space where the Bloodsworn had stood. With half his army dead, Gendor ordered the remaining Bloodsworn to depart, and the cloaked figures swept away.
Gendor surveyed the damage with a smile of triumph that Shadow yearned to erase. Torn between following and searching for Elenyr, Shadow watched the Bloodsworn leave. Then his choice was made for him when a grinding of dirt signified someone had survived. Shadow hurried to the edge of the fallen building. Elenyr, Mind, and Fire all emerged, as did two members of the Assassin’s Guild, but the first carried the second.
The assassin laid the inert body on the ground, and then crumpled to her knees. Silent tears dripped down her cheeks, only visible to Shadow from his vantage point. The agony and rage were palpable on her features, and when she looked up, Shadow recognized her as Lorica, the Angel of Death.
“Sister.” Lorica’s voice was barely a whisper. She looked to Elenyr, her eyes desperate. “Do any of you have healing magic?”
“We do not,” Mind said softly.
Lorica cradled her sister’s head, and the dying woman reached up to clasp her hand. “You must rebuild the guild,” Loralyn said. “The assassins must continue.”
Shadow drifted as close as he dared, drawn to Lorica’s grief. He’d seen many die, but the anguish on the assassin’s features seemed to strike at his soul, and he could not tear his gaze from the dying woman.
“I can’t do it without you.” Tears dripped onto the fallen assassin’s chest. “I’ll get you to a healer. Th
ere’s enough time.”
Elenyr grimaced in helplessness, and Shadow realized there wasn’t enough time. Loralyn would die, and her sister could only cling to her final moments. Mind and Fire were also quiet, their silence a mark of respect that normally Shadow would have broken. But this time his desire for mischief had waned, and he disliked the strange ache in his chest.
Loralyn smiled up at her sister. “You have always been the strong one.”
“That’s not true and you know it,” Lorica said.
“Rebuild the guild,” Loralyn repeated, her voice fading.
“Gendor’s guild is too strong,” Lorica said.
“It is not the Bloodsworn you must fear,” Lorica said, her eyes flicking to Elenyr. “It is his master. Be wary, for the Order of Ancients has risen . . .”
Loralyn’s body relaxed in death, and Lorica screamed her rage, the primal sound reverberating in the chamber. Elenyr reached out and placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder, but Lorica jerked free of Elenyr’s grip.
“You must leave.”
“We can help you against the Bloodsworn,” Mind said.
“Your help got my sister killed.”
Elenyr glanced to Mind, and Fire shook his head. Elenyr sighed and motioned them away, and the trio retreated to a bridge. Shadow watched them depart, uncertain if he should reveal himself or continue watching Lorica.
Shadow had intended on joining the other fragments, but then he realized they still had not acknowledged his presence, giving him a rare opportunity. As Elenyr and the other fragments disappeared into a tunnel, Shadow eased back into the darkness, and waited for Lorica to lift her sister into her arms and trudge away. In silence, Shadow fell into step behind her and followed her from the ruins.
Chapter 9: Trapped
The assassin carried the body of her sister to one of the seven towers, the one bearing the flag of the star. She eased the door open and entered, and Shadow slipped through the gap, darting into the rafters before the door shut. From his perch he watched Lorica gently lay her sister on the bed.
