Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten (Order of Fire Book 1) (7 page)

Zar took a moment to look around for the man that had been tormented by the Snowguards, but saw him nowhere. Instead, the crunch and gasps of two guards came, fleeing the dell.

Zar laughed. The men still seemed to be rather frantic. If they’d only taken a moment to look around they would have seen the beautiful golden camel approaching the swordsman, and not the three deadly archers they might have imagined. But between Zar’s bluff, the noises from Asha’s entrance, and the cries of their fallen comrades still echoing in their minds, it looked as if those fleeing guards were still thoroughly convinced that the archers Zar spoke of were real.

“Good sir!” Zar called, squatting down a moment next to the fallen commander. His dagger was still sheathed in the man’s side, and Zar untied the man’s coin purse as he lay against the earth, breathing heavily.

“Good sir, you may come out. All is settled.” Zar stood up and addressed Asha who had come to stand behind him. “He hasn’t fled too, has he, Asha?” Zar rubbed his hand across her snout.

Asha blinked her long, dark eyelashes before turning her head toward a noise that came from the trees.

“Ah, he is still with us,” said Zar, turning to face the direction of his friend’s gaze. “Come, man, all is well.”

Afar off in the dell, the little man rose up from where he’d been hiding among a patch of ferns. He walked over to the two slowly, still looking a bit shocked, and frequently glanced about the wood as if someone might jump out to attack him at any moment. It wasn’t until he came much closer to the pair that he finally looked relieved, and, seeming convinced the fighting was over, dropped to his knees to express his thanks.

Zar assured the man that he owed him no thanks, and beckoned him to rise. He then turned back to the fallen commander, and squatted once again beside him. “You must forgive me for not telling the complete truth,” he said, turning his head back toward Asha who stood behind him. “It is only one ally—and though she’s quite brave, I must admit she’s never been any good with a bow.”

The man lifted his head and beheld Asha, his face passing from disbelief to disgust in an instant before letting his head plop back down against the earth. His breathing grew more rapid and his body stiffened as he struggled to utter words.

“You! I knew you—”

“Settle down,” Zar interrupted, “or you’ll die before your fate is decided.”

Zar raised his sword and placed the point of his weapon against the man’s throat, and with his blade firmly in position, beckoned the man who had just expressed his thanks to come over.

“Good sir, what is your name?”

The man approached with curious eyes. “I’m Prynner.”

“Good Prynner, not many moments ago this man would have decided your fate with his words. His voice alone would have granted you life or death, or—something in between.” Zar brought his left hand to accompany his right on his sword hilt and tensed both his arms as if ready to puncture the man’s throat. “But now,” said Zar, keeping his blade firm against the man’s throat until beads of blood began to trickle down, “now things are quite different, are they not, Prynner?”

Prynner stepped closer to the spot where Zar towered over the man—stretching out his sword that looked as if it might leap forward at any moment to end the man’s life. “Aye, because of your kindness.”

“I am no more kind than this man is just.”

“You saved my hide today and for that I am in your debt.” Prynner bowed a bit.

“You owe me nothing,” said Zar, still gazing down on the Snowguard. “I daresay such wickedness is always compensated, either now or later—though for you it seems to have come just in time.”

“Aye, it has,” Prynner replied, his tone squeezing every bit of gratitude into each word. “What will you do with him?”

“Well, he would have decided
your
fate,” said Zar, turning to Prynner. “Now you will decide his.”

Prynner fell quiet, looking hard upon the man whose life had suddenly fallen into his hands. The wounded commander began to plead and beg most pitifully, and even threw in mention of gold in his whining. Zar stepped down on the man’s neck to silence him.

“What is your answer?” said Zar. “My arms grow restless.”

“I … I do not know. I cannot make such a decision.”

“Ah, but you can,” Zar replied. “You mustn’t leave the decision to me, for I will most certainly kill him.”

“Friend, I … I’m not certain—”

“Well, you must say something if you want him to live,” Zar insisted. “And quickly. Don’t trust
me
with his life.” Prynner’s face bent with concern, his eyes fixed upon the man that bled into the dirt. He gazed at the man for several moments before looking away, then stood silent with his head down. Zar’s sword moved forward.

Prynner looked up slowly. “Forgive my delay,” he said in a hushed tone as his eyes focused in on the man on the ground.

“Forgive me if I worried you,” said Zar with a smile, “it wasn’t my intention. I meant to scare
him
, not you.” He could see a bit of relief on Prynner’s face as the man realized the guard yet lived, and Zar smiled heartily as he finished cleaning his blade on the guard’s clothes.

“You never planned on killing him,” said Prynner, sounding amazed by the fact.

“I already have,” Zar answered. “He’s losing too much blood from this wound, his back is broken from the fall and he’s probably bleeding within from broken ribs. Tell me, man, what is your occupation?”

The commander let out a yelp as Zar yanked the dagger from his side. He cleaned it thoroughly against the man’s garment as he had done his sword before sheathing it back on his belt.

“I’m a shipwright.”

“A shipwright?” said Zar, moving over to one of the corpses in the dell, and taking gold from the dead man’s coin purse. “Six gold pieces is certainly not all you have.”

“Aye,” said Prynner. “But it’s all I travel with.”

“A smart shipwright, and one that’s quite far from the sea.”

“Another reason I’m especially grateful for your aid today,” the man replied. “I may have never made it home to Bazhia.” The man shook his head while looking at the bodies on the ground, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. “I had just tied up my horse and was going to lie down for a while.”

“Considering the thought that you would have been robbed of your gold and perhaps your life—you still didn’t deem death an appropriate fate for the man. Truly, Prynner, you have a heart of gold.” The swordsman chuckled as he moved on further to the next body sprawled on the ground, scouring over the lifeless corpse like a vulture. “How is it that you are so far from the sea?”

“I was searching for the map to Bruudor’s Keep.”

“Bruudor’s Keep?” said Zar with a laugh. “Bruudor’s Keep is supposedly on the west continent. Why would the map be here in Krii?”

“No one has found the map
be
cause
it’s here in Krii,” Prynner answered, “and no one has found the treasure because they have no map.”

“And you know where this map is?”

“I have my guesses,” said Prynner with a smile.

“Perhaps it is merely another rumor,” said Zar, who had finally finished his scavenging. He seated himself on the ground. Asha moved beside him, rubbing her snout across his back.

“Perhaps,” said Prynner with a shrug.

“Well, whatever you do, take care,” said Zar, “these parts can be dangerous. We should be on our way. The others who fled won’t likely return with more men, but it wouldn’t be wise to risk it.”

“Aye,” Prynner agreed. “Which way do you go?”

“Farther east.”

“Well, gods smile on you, son. It’s back to the west with me.”

“Safe travels,” said Zar. “Better to form a party when traveling these parts. From Snowguards to bandits, a man alone can have a hard time.”

“I know it first hand,” called Prynner, walking through the wood toward a stocky, spotted mount that was leashed to a tree. “But when I find that map I don’t want to have to share it with anyone.” The man smiled as he looked back at Zar, untying the leather rope that secured his horse to the arm of a young tree. “I will not forget this day. If you find yourself near the sea, come find me. If you need roof or ship it’s yours.”

8

Valak had ri
dden into the sweet
scent of wine country. From Snowstone he had followed his mark, heading due south beside the mountains into Lolia, and now on towards the small town of Riianne. It wasn’t often that he came this far south, and he found that he rather enjoyed Lolia’s vast plains and green fields, and of course the vineyards.

Dusk fell as he entered Riianne, and he rode into the town looking just as harmless as the messenger he followed. No one paid either of them any mind. How perfect. It was thanks to the fact that he appeared weaponless to the naked eye, and because of the pallid color of his cloak, of course.

Too many assassins wore black, but gray was far less threatening. Valak had found that black cloaks drew far too much attention, for any rider cloaked in black immediately looked suspect, no matter how well it blended into the dark of night. A black cloak meant you had something to hide and produced an air about you that most folks regarded as
dangerous
. But in his gray cloak Valak had found that not one person ever looked at him twice; the color was far too neutral to mind. He didn’t know whether people mistook him for a common peasant or some nameless traveler, but when he was cloaked in gray he was treated no different than any other person.

And that’s exactly what Valak needed. If the public could see the belts of knives he had strapped under his garments—on his chest, his thighs, and in his boots—he was sure they’d pay more attention.

Riianne was old and its architecture was quite unique. There were no stone buildings—all wood, and every structure was built the “old way,” as they called it. Long planks from hewn down trees were soaked for weeks in water until the wood became pliable enough to bend, and were then shaped into arches which made the frame for the roofs. The arch pieces were fastened to the straight wall planks after being dried and stained with tikri sap to help retain their shape. Once a complete frame was built, the structure was filled in with shafts that were fastened across the wall planks and roof arches. Lastly, clay was packed between the spaces of the shafts to seal it tight against wind and rain. Though it wasn’t the simplest task, Valak was sure, the sky before bowing back down and showing a regal arch.

Valak drifted among these elegant buildings, following his mark most subtly through the town. His new mount wasn’t handling bad at all. It took direction well and didn’t spook easily. It had cost him a lovely piece of gold, but a well trained horse was invaluable. Although he bought a new mount after every job he completed, to Valak, spending gold on a quality horse was never a waste of money.

Valak stopped his horse and looked ahead. He knew where the messenger was headed. After a ride from the capital there would be no other place in Krii a man would stop first besides an inn, and there was only one in Riianne— Sleepy Willows.

If Valak circled around to approach from the west side of the inn he could possibly catch the man while tying up his horse outside. If no one was outside to see, he would leave him dead by the tying rack. He would lead the man’s horse away with him so that when the dead man was found it would look like nothing more than a horse robbery. Then, when he was far away from the town he would sell both mounts and buy a new one.

Valak bid his horse turn a quick and quiet left. Passing a few cottages, he spurred his mount to a trot and made his way around to the west side of the inn. Holding the building in his sight, but not venturing out where he could be seen by his mark, he waited patiently beside a rather large wooden cottage.

It wasn’t long before the messenger approached, hopping off his mount and leading it to the tying pole. Valak crept down from his horse’s back. He slowly moved towards the man from the side—holding the reigns of his mount in his left hand, reaching into his cloak with his right. He pulled a knife from his belt, then relaxed his arm and let it hang calmly by his thigh. Watching his mark from the side, he paid attention to every movement of the man’s body, and wound back his arm over his shoulder preparing to send his weapon flying into his target. He focused in on the man’s back, where a knife sent into his lungs would provide a quiet kill, leaving him with no breath to cry out. If by chance the man turned around, Valak would quickly adjust his target to the man’s face instead. This would provide an even quicker kill—and was far more satisfying.

Valak loved when he approached a mark from behind, his arm raised and ready to send the knife, and his victim turned and looked back at the last moment; as soon as they turned their head he would throw his knife so the person would see him for barely an instant before his blade split their visage. Now that was a perfect kill.

Sometimes he even waited for them to look back or called out to make them turn so he could catch them at that perfect moment, and watch his weapon end their life after taking a quick look into their eyes.

It actually made him feel important—being a ghost as he was—that he played a very special role in all these people’s lives. He was the last person they ever saw.

The sound of light, ginger footsteps coming from behind Valak made him drop his arm and turn in the direction of the interruption. Valak slid his knife up, cupped it in his palm, and turned his wrist to face his thigh, hiding the weapon in an instant.

“Evening sir, are you a traveler?”

Valak turned to address the small boy that stood a few paces behind him. He had probably run out of one of the cottages he had passed.

“Run along, boy,” Valak commanded, turning back towards the inn to find the messenger glancing in their direction. Valak sucked his teeth as the voice of a woman called out behind him.

“Hollis! You know you’re not to be out after dark! Get back here!” A woman ran up, breathing heavily, and grabbed hold of the boy’s arm. “You leave that man alone. Apologies, sir,” she called to Valak’s back.

“None required,” said Valak with a wave of his hand.

He didn’t bother to turn around, but resumed his stride to the outside of the inn and began tying his horse.

The messenger had just entered the inn himself, and Valak tied his mount right next to his on the tying pole. He wasn’t at all upset by the minor setback. After all, it had barely made dark and running into denizens about the town was expected at this hour. It only meant that he would be forced to be more creative with his kill. The messenger had ridden far this day and would no doubt spend his night in the inn, so unless he was content to wait around until the morning to do it, he would have to execute it here—now— in Sleepy Willows Inn.

If he was unable to do so he could always wait until the man’s departure in the morning, but Valak did not doubt one shred his ability to kill the man in the inn. The place would be populated, certainly, but a crowd of drunk and tired men weren’t at all the keenest at noticing when something was awry. Besides, Valak could land his knives
anywhere.
He was quick and he was quiet, and above all he was skilled like no other in the art of throwing knives. He had thrown blades since he was a child, and years of being an assassin had perfected his craft.

Valak opened the door and stepped inside. The smell of food, ale, candle wax, and stained wood from classic Riianne architecture blended into a rather distinct aroma. The place was amply populated—and lively. About two dozen people enjoyed food, drinks, and company on the first floor of the town’s only tavern.

Valak glanced around. Many of the tables in the center of the place were occupied with groups of two or three people sharing baskets of bread and pints of ale. The messenger had found his own little spot and was sitting by himself in the northwest corner from the door. All the other corners were taken to Valak’s dismay, for they would be the best locations in the room for him to operate. There was a small empty table in the northeast center of the room with a clear pathway to his mark—a path for his eyes and a path for his knife.

Valak removed his hood, paid for a mug of ale, and quickly claimed the table he had spotted. There was too much light in the room, and his face was too easily seen, but keeping his hood on any longer in this small town inn would only cause him to look suspicious.

He looked around—everyone minded their own affairs. To the left of him was a scattering of tables with slightly drunk or otherwise engaged occupants. A man and woman shared a sliced loaf of bread and a pint of ale at the closest table to him. The next table boasted a group of four men who had been drinking there for some time, indicated by their loud voices and flushed faces, and of course the several empty pint mugs scattered across their table. The table to the south of that one carried a lone drunk and his dog. To the left of that table was the bar. The two tables north of the bar held groups of three, conversing cheerfully over several mugs of ale. At the northwest table beyond those two tables—the messenger. To the right of Valak there were more tables with drunk or halfway drunk guests, laughing and bantering over food and ale; behind him—the same. Above him, a burning candle was suspended from the wooden ceiling by an ornate vine rope that held a bronze sconce. His hand hung low underneath the table, reaching into his tall boot for one of the knives that were sheathed snuggly inside.

Valak cupped the knife and stood up. Leaving his mug in the center of the table, he walked back over to the bar.

“I think I’ll take a pint,” he said to the innkeeper, resting a piece of gold on the counter.

“Ah, already, eh? Good man, good man, get ‘em a pint!” The innkeeper called to the barmaid who had just returned from bringing bread to a nearby table. The girl quickly shuffled behind the bar, grabbed a pint mug, and squatted beside a cask.

Valak glanced over his right shoulder at the candle that burned above his table, and locked its position. He glanced quickly about the room.

“Does she need help with that?” Asked Valak, motioning towards the barmaid who was pulling the top off the barrel. The barkeep turned his attention to the barmaid. Valak glanced back at the candle—for not more than a half- second—and flung his arm back and up towards the light, releasing his knife with the stroke.

“She’s got it off,” the man replied.

Valak’s body relaxed and his head once again faced the barkeep.

“Here she comes.”

The barmaid set the mug down before Valak and he immediately took a sip. “Ahh, now that’s good ale,” he said, turning his back to the bar and slyly glancing up at the ceiling. He moved his eyes, but kept his head still.

The candle above his table was out—his blade had split the wick from the wax. No one seemed to notice, so Valak took his pint and returned to his now rather dim table area. He had created his own dark corner in the center of the room.

For certain he could still be seen—as plain as day he was there—but without the brightness of the overhead light his face was a blur, his movements indistinct. Most of all the dimness around his table made him even more uninteresting. No one paid attention to the quiet man in the common gray cloak who sat in the dark.

With confidence that he
was
and
would remain
unnoticed, Valak once again reached under the table into his boot for a knife. With weapon in hand he eyed his mark and watched the man as he assumed a variety of different postures. Valak studied closely to see which one would best support a perfect and soundless kill. While leaning forward with elbows on the table and fists on his chin supporting the weight of his head, the man would die and his body would loosen, causing him to drop his hands and fall abruptly forward. His head would plunk against the table and a nearby patron who turned to look would see the fresh stream of blood that exited his wound. To do it while he ate or drank would produce a similar effect, for his lifeless arms would fall with whatever was in his grasp, be it an ale mug or a piece of his meal. But every once in a while—in between chews and gulps—the man would break and sit back, leaning his back against the wall behind him. If he made the kill in this position the man’s posture would remain unchanged. He would be pierced by the knife but would stay leaned back against the wall when he died. As long as the blood wasn’t noticed it would appear the man had one too many ales and had simply drifted off to sleep.

The messenger shoved the last corner of bread between his lips. He chewed with an open mouth for a while before taking a gulp of his ale. Chewing several more times and swallowing hard, he leaned back against the wall and sighed.

Valak brought his right elbow up on the table. He rested his head against his hand which clutched the knife, hiding the weapon against his cheek as he looked toward his mark. The man was still leaned back and had just closed his eyes. Valak took a quick gander at the patrons around him. They seemed busy enough. Judging by their condition, if they were to notice the sudden movement of his arm out of the corner of their eye it would not matter; by the time they glanced his way to see about it he would look normal again, and they would dismiss the oddity if nothing looked out of place. But if they glanced about the inn and noticed the messenger leaned back against the wall with a stream of blood running down his body, there was a chance he might be discovered, and if he was, he would be forced to kill everyone in the room and risk someone escaping. He could afford no such mishap.

Valak lifted his mug with his left hand, shooting his right hand forward and flicking his wrist as he brought the mug to his mouth. The knife flew without a sound and struck its mark, piercing into the man’s neck and burrowing deep. The man’s head rolled down to his left side. The butt of the dagger could barely be seen for his chin covered most of it, but the stream of blood that worked its way down his body was apparent enough. Valak must leave—or find a way to conceal it. He wondered if he could pull off another candle shot from where he was—sitting down.

Valak again surveyed his area. To his right there were two tables with clearly drunk occupants, noted chiefly by the fact that he could hardly make out one word they were saying; the table to the front and right of him was recently vacated, with mugs and baskets sloppily spread about the tabletop; the table directly to the left of him—the couple sharing bread and ale had finished their meal along with their pint, and were now sitting side by side fondling one another affectionately; the next table to the left—the group of four men who had been drinking there were causing quite a ruckus and could be heard over everyone in the room; the table to the south of that one—empty—the lone drunk and his dog had left; and to the left of that table—the bar; the two tables north of the bar—groups of three remained at each, a bit more drunk then before and still conversing cheerfully over several mugs of ale; the northwest table beyond those two tables—the messenger; above the messenger—a burning candle suspended from the wooden ceiling by an ornate vine rope that held a bronze sconce. Valak reached once again into his boot for a knife.