Assassin's Shadow (Veiled Dagger Book 2) (3 page)

Morning came, and Rothar said goodbye to the huntsmen. The clan bid him a fond farewell and promised to watch after Taria until he returned, which he promised would be soon. Peregrin and Taria rode with him a while as he began his trip back to the King’s City.

“What do you suppose the King will have you killing next?” asked Peregrin with a sly smile.

“I don’t know, rats perhaps,” he answered.

“Has it ever been any different?”

At Taria’s request, Peregrin headed back to the camp alone. Before he left he gave Rothar a pouch filled with dry leaves.

“Dried Quietus,” he told Rothar. “I figured it would be easier than seeking out and packing fresh leaves. You can use it on your blade or… for whatever you need.”

“Very clever, thank you.” Rothar said goodbye to his friend.

When Peregrin was gone, Taria climbed down off of her horse. Rothar did the same and the two embraced.

“Do not be gone too long, Rothar,” she said. “I have waited many years to be rescued by you, I do not wish to be left waiting again.”

“I will be back before you know it. It will be a pleasant change, retrieving you from someone that does not want my head on a platter.”

Taria put her arms around Rothar and kissed him. She would never know it, but it was the first time anyone had kissed the King’s assassin.

***

Rothar and Stormbringer cut an efficient trail through the twisting vines and massive trees of the Banewood. The sun was high and cut just enough light through the thick canopy for the duo to ride in comfortable shade and adequate light.

The Banewood had been much more quiet since the demise of Brath and, subsequently, his men. Other gangs had retreated deeper into the wood, fearing unseen evils. Had they known that the Southland scourge had been defeated and the ogres were free and no longer working for the late Duchess Miranda, they would know that they were as liberated to rob and harass as they had ever been. But the smaller gangs of the Banewood had little contact with the King’s City, and it would be a time before they learned of the new climate.

Nearing the edge of the woods that bordered the City, Rothar heard a scraping sound coming from above. He halted Stormbringer and observed a small rain of tree bark falling nearby. He looked up just in time to see a figure hurtling down upon him.

The falling man struck Rothar and knocked him off Stormbringer’s back. Rolling and springing to his feet with dagger drawn, Rothar watched the man drag himself up from the ground and begin clutching at Stormbringer’s saddlebags.

“You have it, you must have it!” the man said.

“I have nothing of yours, vagrant,” Rothar said. “Be gone, before I lay you open.” He approached the man with his dagger raised.

“You have it, you have it!” the bedraggled looking wretch pulled a pouch from one of the compartments. “You have it!”

The pouch was the one that Peregrin had given Rothar, the pouch containing the dried Quietus.

“Take care with that, old man,” Rothar said, lowering the dagger and raising his other hand in caution. He could see that this poor soul did not mean to do him harm, but was searching for something, and in error had seized upon the deadly plant.

“I knew you had it! Thank the stars!” the man screeched, and to Rothar’s horror, he began to dump the contents of the bag into his mouth.

Instantly, the man fell dead. Rothar walked over to the body, his eyes were wide open with a look of ecstasy and his hands still clutched the half-empty pouch.

Rothar sighed. Suddenly, the man gasped and sat up, only to collapse back again, spine rigid. Again, he lurched forward and blinked, then the life went out of him and he lowered to the ground.

Rothar shook his head and rolled the man over, shaking him. The dried Quietus fell out of the man’s mouth and he finally fell eternally still.

A queer thing,
thought Rothar.
Something so deadly, that fights death so effectively.

He propped the dirty old man up against a tree and searched his pockets. There was nothing to indicate from where the man came or who his people were. Only a dull knife, two small coins and an odd, round piece of parchment with a star on it. In the center of the star was a white representation of an eye. It did not look like any symbol that Rothar had ever run across in all of his travels. He tucked the note into his pocket. Perhaps the parchment would help someone find his family.

Rothar heaved the man onto Stormbringer’s back, took the horse by the reins and began walking into the King’s City.

***

King Heldar fiddled with his beard and shifted his weight in the throne. It was not a day when his subjects came to give adoration and plead for aid, so he was restless, sitting in the empty throne room. He would rather be in his chambers with his Queen, or in the dining hall, sampling dishes, but he had been summoned.

Finally, Rothar made his entrance and approached the throne.

“Stop bowing, Rothar! I’ve told you!” he barked, albeit in a rather good natured manner. “What brings you to me? I hear you have brought a dead man into my City, yet I do not remember dispatching you for any such cause. So, what is the meaning of that?”

“Your highness,” Rothar began, “I did not kill the man, but rather he killed himself, by accident it seems.”

King Heldar tried to hide his annoyance, for he held a deep regard and affection for his assassin.

“Since when do you come to me with accidents?”

Rothar took advantage of the empty throne room and climbed the stairs to sit on the small throne to the right of King Heldar. No principal advisor had been appointed since the death of Feril, at the hands of Harwin. The King said he would be in no great rush to fill the position, and was more than willing to leave the seat empty until someone proved their wisdom and trustworthiness tenfold.

“It is the nature of the accident, and the anonymity of the man, that gave me cause to call on you,” he said. Rothar recounted the incident with the man in the Banewood, and how he willingly tried to eat the Quietus. He finished his story by telling the King about the odd paper card in the man’s pocket.

“I know nothing of this star,” King Heldar said, handing the piece of parchment back to Rothar. “But I will say, this man’s behavior is quite odd. Perhaps he was from Blackwater?”

Rothar stifled a laugh. It was not surprising to envision that a man of such bizarre acts may be from the backwards fishing village where the self proclaimed “King” Sleeth had lived before Rothar fed him to the sea.

“I cannot imagine that a man in his state could travel so far,” Rothar explained. “I am sure he is from your City, I only wish to know why he attacked me in such a way, and then ended his life in an even more peculiar fashion.”

King Heldar waved a hand in the air. “It is true that we would all like to know what causes madness, so that we can avoid it at all costs,” he said. “But this is not a task for your talents, Rothar. Go home and rest. You have not seen a proper night’s sleep in longer than I care to think. I will call for you if there is any real danger facing my people. Until then, do not worry yourself with the affairs of madmen.”

Rothar looked at him wearily. “The affairs of madmen are my meat and bread, you know so much is true.”

King Heldar sighed. “Perhaps, perhaps. However, I want to see you rested. Go home.”

With that, King Heldar stood up and walked out of the throne room. No formalities were necessary between old friends.

Rothar left Stormbringer at the castle stables. The horse had been through a lifetime of strain over the last few days, and Rothar imagined that his horse deserved a royal rest.

Walking though Witherington, Rothar nodded to all the people that he knew. Bester, the butcher, was in front of his shop cutting up chickens. Fara, the candlemaker, said hello to Rothar as he strode by. Harwin was beating a chunk of molten iron into submission, and stopped his work as Rothar approached.

“I must assume that you showed the desert how to bleed,” the blacksmith said as he reached out to grasp his friend by the arm.

“I only showed it how to smolder, but it will do. Taria is well,” Rothar said.

“Very well! Very well indeed!” Harwin exclaimed, his eyes bright.

“And how is Esme faring?” asked Rothar.

“Well you should see for yourself,” said Harwin, and called for his daughter.

Esme, dark haired and keen eyed, hurried out from the back of the shop. Rothar noticed that she still carried the old dagger he had given her in a sheath on her hip. Harwin must have retrieved it during the aftermath.

“How are you feeling, Esme?” asked Rothar. The little girl had been through such a horrifying ordeal.

“I am so happy to be home, “ she replied. “And how are
you
feeling?”

Rothar chuckled. “ I always feel the same way, Esme, just fine.”

There was a twinkle in Esme’s eye. “No, Rothar, you feel different now. I can see it.”

With a giggle, Esme ran back into the rear of the shop. Rothar turned to look at Harwin.

“What have you been telling her?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Harwin shrugged his shoulders. “I swear!”

Rothar feigned a scowl.

“Esme is very good at reading people,” Harwin insisted. “Maybe she is on to you.”

The blacksmith broke out in laughter as Rothar flushed red. With a fluttering laugh, Esme scampered back into the rooms at the back of the blacksmith shop.

After she had gone, Rothar asked Harwin, “Has she been recovering well from her captivity?”

Harwin’s face turned a little more serious. “As well as I could have hoped, I suppose. She does wake in the night, calling out, but she swears she is well.”

Rothar nodded. “Perhaps you should pay a visit to Ariswold and get something to help her sleep, just for the time being.”

“That is a good idea, I shall do that.”

Rothar continued on down the market street, weaving a meandering trail towards his humble home at the edge of Witherington. The people here all knew his face, though very few had knowledge of what he did… what he was. If he chose to take advantage of the King’s good graces and the doors that could be opened to him, Rothar would be welcome in the highest houses of nobility, but he preferred Witherington, where the people were genuine.

As he passed a row of shops, a huddled mass on the edge of the street suddenly reached out and grabbed his boot. Rothar looked down to see a sweating and dirty face, staring up at him pitifully from the pile of soiled rags. The face was of a young man who could not have been more than twenty years old, though the weariness in his eyes made him look much older.

The young man seemed to be pleading with Rothar, though no words came from his mouth when he moved his lips, only wheezings and whimperings. Rothar wondered if the poor wretch was hungry, and stepped into one of the shops to buy him something to eat.

Returning with some fruit, bread and a large hunk of dried meat, Rothar held the food out to the man, who snatched it away greedily. After examining the food, however, the man cast it down onto the street and reached his hand out again, rubbing his fingers together in a gesture that asked for money.

Rothar walked on. If a starving man did not desire food, he had no desire to pay for what else he may want. Turning at the next cross street, Rothar headed north towards the sounds and smells of the Witherington stables, where the merchants and farmers kept their horses while they did business in the city.

A loosed horse came galloping down the street towards Rothar, sending peddlers and villagers scrambling this way and that, for fear of being trampled beneath it’s hooves. Rothar moved out into the middle of the lane and spread his arms wide. He did not move aside or retreat as the horse approached. He simply motioned calmly with his hands and maintained eye contact with the beast. The horse slowed and stopped before Rothar, allowing him to take the reins and lead him back.

Upon arriving at the stables, Rothar found the place in great confusion. It seemed that the horse he returned was not the only one to escape, for someone had left a gate open.

“It was that dirty mongrel that I chased out of here this morning, I am sure of it,” shouted the stable keeper, dragging a stubborn mare back into her stall. “He was slinking around and eyeing the horses. I knew I did not like the look of him.”

Rothar led the escaped steed into an open stall.

“A horse thief, you assume?” he asked the stable keeper.

“Aye, but not a professional, I can tell you that.”

“How so?” Rothar inquired.

“He looked as though he could barely climb atop a horse, let alone ride one,” he replied. “He shook and trembled, like a tavern wretch.”

Rothar looked around the stable yard. The dusty ground was pock marked with hoof prints everywhere, no human footprints could be discerned.

“What do you suppose this is all about?” the stable man asked, bending over to pick something up out of the dusty soil. He handed it to Rothar, a small scrap of parchment with a star printed upon it in black, and in the center of the star was an eye.

Rothar looked at the paper, then removed the other from the pocket of his cloak - the one he had found on the assailant in the Banewood. The two notes were identical.

“What does it mean?” the stable man asked. He was peering over Rothar’s shoulder.

“I do not know,” answered Rothar, “but I think I am going to find out.”