The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (8 page)

As the moments passed, it appeared there would not be any. Perhaps Zain had guessed wrong in what the armorer was about. Perhaps Faldron was here for sport, and just didn’t understand the sign of the red. Perhaps, despite the dim light that glowed through the shuttered windows of the inn’s lower level, the place was deserted.

Then the door cracked, and that light spilled briefly onto the threshold. When the light disappeared, Faldron was gone.

Zain waited awhile longer, attuning his eyes and ears to the night around him. No new sounds came from within the Hive; no new flames were lit.

When confident that the vanished smith would not be coming out directly, Zain dashed forward from his cover, clutching his scabbard to keep the blade from rattling. In a crouch, he scurried across the empty street and up to the side of the Hive’s slatted exterior. The drumming of his heart echoed in his ears with accelerated rhythm. The thrill of the hunt.

Skulking along a bed of withered flowers, the commander crept toward the nearest window from which a muted light shone. The paned glass was in need of cleaning, but was clear enough to show him the inn’s common room. Peering closer, he caught his first sign of movement—there, behind a counter against the far wall. A man appeared, fetched an oil lamp from a sagging shelf, and was gone.

Zain smirked. Orru. He’d heard that the butcher had taken over management of the Hive, but had forgotten it until now. He didn’t bother trying to track the dealings of all the various whoremasters in this city, just those with whom he had direct business.

Was it Orru with whom the armorer was trading? Zain didn’t think so. More likely, the butcher was merely facilitating some other meeting. That might explain why the Hive had been shut down for the evening.

He was about to surrender this rather limited vantage point and seek another when Orru returned, his lamp alight, and headed upstairs.

Zain looked around, eyeing the balcony that skirted the second floor outside. Every inn of this nature worth its coin was equipped with at least one means of hasty egress, and if memory served, the Hive was no exception.

The commander left his window and went searching for the hidden ladder. He found it behind a rotted woodpile. Obvious, to anyone in the know, since the Hive had no hearth. Each room contained a small coal stove, but relied for the most part on the flush of drink and activity to keep its patrons warm.

Zain’s soft-soled leathers made scarcely a sound as he ascended the weathered rungs to reach the platform above. Just as he did so, the light of an oil lamp filled the window nearest him. Zain started and flattened himself against the wall. His heart beat frantically now as he waited for the alarm. But there were no cries, no hustle. Just the quiet rustle of windblown leaves.

He realized, however, that he could not stay in this position. The lamp was most likely a beacon, a signal for someone who might or might not be entering through the front door. Remain here much longer, and he would certainly be exposed.

He skittered like a roach from the revealing signal light, until he reached the corner of the building and had followed the balcony in wrapping around its side.

The commander paused. He needed to get closer to that room, yet dared not do so by sneaking inside. But the Hive had two kinds of rooms. Those that offered absolute privacy were located in the cellar. These lacked windows of any sort, and no doubt had an escape route of their own. Zain, however, had always preferred the upstairs rooms, which had windows in the walls
and
in the ceiling.

Leaping from the rail to catch the edge of the gabled roof, Zain hoisted himself as quickly and noiselessly as he could manage atop the slanted bed of shingles. Keeping to the front side of the building, opposite the slope on which the lighted window was found, he rolled patiently and quietly toward the far end. Leaves and needles clung to his clothes, and, along with a layer of moss, helped to cushion his approach. The boards beneath creaked, but not so loudly as to be a concern, especially when he believed the rooms below to be empty. Once he’d gone about two-thirds of the way over, and had aligned himself with where he thought his target on the other side to be, he settled onto his stomach and crawled carefully toward the peak.

He missed his target by a dozen paces, and was glad that he did. For just before he crested the roof’s peak, a dark shape alighted at the very spot for which he’d been heading. It did so almost like a bird: weightless, soundless. Zain froze, chilled from the inside out. A window entry he had anticipated. But what manner of unsavory character descended upon his cohorts through the roof?

The commander held his breath as the cloaked shadow figure turned its cowled head from side to side. Then it held perfectly still, and Zain feared he’d been spotted. An unnatural dread filled his gut, coring him like an apple. Had he not lost his capacity to move, he might have fled.

With a muffled crunch of shattering glass and splintering wood, the shadow thing disappeared. As soon as it had gone, Zain’s terror lifted, and he scrambled forward to see what had become of it. In truth, he already knew, else he’d not have dared to pursue.

Along the rear side of the building, one for each room, were a line of eyebrow arches in the roof plane. Faint light spilled from only one of these—the one in which the window had been broken and the shadow had gone.

There was a deep, flustered cry—Faldron’s, he was sure—before the light
flicked out. What could explain that? Perhaps they’d gone to another room. But no, the light had died suddenly, as if extinguished. Besides, he could still hear Faldron’s voice, quieter now, but there just the same. Perhaps the shadowy newcomer insisted upon absolute darkness in which to conduct its affairs.

Zain’s dread fascination grew.

That fascination, however, did not warrant a potentially bloody encounter with whatever creature—man, woman, or beast—Faldron had called upon this night. While inching closer to the open dormer window, Zain made sure to shield his body behind the adjacent arch, avoiding the area beneath which the conspirators held their council—so that the crunch of his movements would not be heard. As a consequence, their gossip escaped him. But he could pry that from Faldron later, if necessary. Some things weren’t worth the risk.

A cold wind probed the folds of his cloak, seeking to slow the pulse that kept him warm. Hunkered against its chill touch, Zain waited for the secret meeting to draw to a close. Once it did, he had every intention of following this shadow figure—from a distance, of course—to see what he might learn.

Faldron’s hushed account went on for quite some time without interruption, more recitation than conversation. Not once did Zain detect the voice of the other, if indeed it had one. From the night without came the occasional clop of a distant horse or the echo of a drunkard’s merriment. In this far-removed quarter, at least, the city slept.

His level of attention was starting to sag, his sharp mind drifting, when he heard the scooting of a chair. He perked at once and ducked lower against the protective dormer. There was the sound of footsteps, the closing of a door, and silence.

Zain waited. Had the shadow exited by a different route? He started to look, then stopped himself. That was exactly what a hunter did, outlast his prey, wait for it to show itself. The parallel almost made him laugh. Which of the two was he?

It was not until he heard the slamming of the Hive’s front door that he craned his neck to peer around. There was no sign of the shadow. Quickly he scampered across the roof’s peak and down the other side. Faldron was shuffling toward the stable. Orru, when finished locking up, did the same. The pair stopped briefly to share a grumbling exchange, then disappeared within. A moment later, each was on his separate steed, and headed off in separate ways.

Zain sank back on his haunches, feeling a slight twinge of regret. He’d missed his chance to gather anything more this night. He should have known that anyone who would go through as much trouble as the shadow had to enter a place unnoticed would not leave the same way. Or maybe he had just flown away on the wind like smoke.

Either way, the commander’s disappointment was assuaged by an even stronger sense of relief. There were safer ways to study strangers than to track them through the city streets. With Faldron, he knew what he’d been up against, but this other had caught him completely by surprise.

No matter, he assured himself, delaying for good measure a few moments longer before dropping from the roof and heading for the balcony ladder. He could still rely on Faldron. Maybe even Orru. One way or another, there was clearly more to uncover here, and he intended to do so—just in case it was something he might twist to his own advantage.

As he made off to retrieve his waiting mount, he felt the stars, like the eyes of a bird of prey, watch him go.

M
ORE OFTEN THAN HE COULD REMEMBER,
Xarius Talyzar had killed a man as a matter of precaution. Every now and then, he let one live for the same reason.

The spy on the roof of the Queen’s Hive was not Faldron’s. The assassin could see that just by watching the man’s furtive movements around the building’s exterior. More likely a flea picked up by the armorer somewhere along the way. A nuisance rather than a threat. But Xarius tolerated neither.

He went straight for the roof, cutting off the spy’s approach to the lighted window. His purpose was not to confront it, but to startle it, then gauge its reaction. Had it scampered off in fright, it was probably of no concern. Instead, the insect had held its ground.

It had come no closer, however. The assassin’s abrupt appearance had made sure of that. He’d marked its skittering movements even while listening to Faldron’s account, making sure it did not venture near enough to see or hear anything. He’d made no mention of it to the armorer. For all his subtlety, the mistrustful smith might have ended their meeting then and there.

One thing at a time.

Afterward, given Faldron’s report, the insect’s presence became much more meaningful—or utterly inconsequential, depending on its identity. If a stray rat seeking crumbs, it was of no concern. If someone who might alert the king of the assassin’s presence, it would have to be exterminated.

For that reason, Xarius had lingered until the spy departed, watching to see if it had friends—potential witnesses—before he questioned and then killed it. When it flashed by in the lighted pool of a street lamp, the assassin took a long, studied look. What he saw surprised him, and justified his decision against rash action. He knew this man, this Commander Zain, if only by repute, which complicated his decision.

Zain was Rogun’s man, and Rogun was no friend of the king. There was scant chance, therefore, that he was rushing back to the palace to warn Torin of suspected danger. However, he was powerful enough and devious enough to have spun this entire web, or to have designs that might otherwise conflict with the assassin’s own.

After all this time, Xarius was not about to take that chance. He could already guess what his employer’s reaction to this news would be. This was
the opportunity they had long been waiting for. Best to confirm the truth and remove any potential complications here and now.

He was still mulling over his options when the skulking commander dashed in through the rear of a confectioner’s shack whose walls and roof listed dangerously. As swift and silent as the man’s own shadow, Xarius slipped up to the leeward side.

“Sir. Did you learn what you needed?”

“Not near what I’d hoped. That fool armorer is plotting something, and with dangerous company, but I know not what.”

“Shall we report to General Rogun now, sir?”

“No.” A saddle creaked, and a horse tamped and whickered. “Not yet. Let me work on the matter until we have something worth bringing to the general’s attention.”

They rode swiftly through the door, Zain and his lone companion. The assassin could have felled them both, but let them go. Zain was an outsider in this, and Xarius’s own identity remained a mystery. Better that he let the commander live and avoid the undue attention his death might bring.

The decision weighed on the assassin for some time, though his doubts were alleviated by the expectation of what this all meant. A strange turn, but one that worked in his favor. For nine weeks he’d been stuck in this ruin of a city, relegated to the role of lookout, commanded by his employer to sit and observe and do nothing but mark the movements of the young King Torin—a test of patience such as he had never before endured. All of a sudden, it would seem that was about to change.

He blew forward on a billowing wind, a vessel slipped from its moorings to sail the dark, placid waters of night. None saw him as he passed by the few rabble who crossed his path at this late hour and in this quiet sector. Within moments, he had returned to the district in which he’d made his home, an area that had unofficially been cordoned off for the pariahs of even this society—the deaf and dumb, blind and maimed, disease-stricken and mentally infirm. To Xarius, these shunned vermin were no more or less disgusting than the rest of those who rotted within the walls of this city. He lived among them as a matter of convenience, having found that such individuals tended to be isolated and withdrawn, with far more respect for one’s private business than those of rank or basic privilege.

When he came upon the sewage duct, he reached out with all his trained senses, searching for anyone nearby. Only then did he pick the lock of the grate and duck inside. Without a torch, he ran along the narrow ledge that rimmed the enclosed channel, keeping clear of the sluggish and foul-smelling river current, kicking aside squealing rats and bits of debris. Every now and then, moonlight slipped through another gated service portal. Judging by the cracked and festering condition of the tunnel, most had gone too long unused.

At last he came to a break in the tunnel that opened into a spacious alcove. He had no idea what the area had originally been used for. A staging ground for crews or their equipment, perhaps. More recently, it had been home to a
flock of lepers whose only other choice had been exile from the city. When one after another of their companions had started to die off—not as a result of their ailment, but due to severed windpipes—the rest had decided that life in the country might not be so bad.

It was but one of many temporary shelters in which the assassin lived. His needs were small. He had no possessions and needed no comforts. He found that he kept a sharper edge by denying himself even the most basic luxuries. His only companions were his blades and quarrels, his only friend the darkness.

Squatting in the center of the dust-covered alcove, he scraped about until he’d lit a small fire within a ring of stones. It didn’t take much; even a candle’s flame would do. He then pulled a pouch from his belt and reached for a pinch of the dried-skin powder inside. Xarius did not pretend to understand how it all worked; nor did he care to. As a result of their devastating nature, the arcane arts had been abandoned by man centuries ago. They certainly held no interest for him.

A sprinkle was all it took. The fire hissed and guttered, and its smoke turned black. Xarius recoiled slightly from the stench of burning flesh.

Within moments, an image took shape within the vile curtain of smoke. The image of a man. Elder brother to Torin and son of Sorl. The onetime crown prince and then king of Alson.

Xarius Talyzar,
the wizard greeted.

He did so without voice, using instead the assassin’s sign language. And though his image was but a sixth of his true size and made of wavering smoke, his motions were clear.

Good news,
Xarius signed in reply.
Our little bird prepares to leave the nest.

When?
Even through the smoky image, Soric’s eagerness was manifest.

At dawn. Better still, he is heading your way.

The assassin proceeded to relate all that he had gleaned this evening from their hired mole. He skimmed briefly over that which did not matter—the rumors of bestial races on the prowl, ancient spirits unleashed, and the unknown history of the Crimson Sword. He focused instead on the result. Torin, he who had usurped Soric’s throne in the wake of the Demon Queen’s failed conquest, would be setting forth at once with only a small party, boarding a vessel, and sailing westward across the ocean.

Directly into their hands.

The wizard’s initial reaction was even more gleeful than Xarius had anticipated. Understandable, given Soric’s obsession, and that they might have waited months or even years for a lesser opportunity.

Xarius’s own enthusiasm was quickly quelled, however, by the wizard’s secondary response.

Give chase, my midnight falcon. But make no move to sink your talons unless I signal otherwise.

What?

I wish you to observe only. Alert me to any changes in his progress. You will not seek to capture him, is that understood?

The wizard’s signals had become rigid and harsh. Xarius replied in kind.
I’ve been waiting for this as long as you have. You’ll not deny me now.

You had your chance, remember? You failed to bring him to me then—and that when he traveled with but a single companion and without the weapon he now carries.

Soric’s reminder was a slap in the face. All of a sudden, the dancing flames felt cold compared to those that scorched his cheeks.

I will arrange for another to handle delivery. You will follow from the rear to help guide my hand.

Then you will find another,
Xarius fumed.
I am a hunter, not a lapdog.

You will do as I say.

Or I will kill him myself, here and now, and end this pointless charade.

You will not! Or I swear by all my powers, Talyzar, you’ll be next.

The assassin felt his nostrils flare. Had the wizard been standing before him, he might have taken his chances and unleashed his hand. As it was, there was little he could do.

You cannot run far or fast enough to escape me,
the wizard warned.
Do not think to try.

Too late for that, Xarius thought, but kept it to himself.

It will all be over soon,
the other continued, seeking now to smooth his raised hackles.
And your sacrifices will be well rewarded.

Indeed, it was these rewards, more than any of the wizard’s threats, that had kept the assassin chained so long. Until recently, Soric had been the perfect master, with deep pockets and a long leash. The only thing Xarius enjoyed more were the tasks themselves, tasks that challenged him, and which were free of moral restraint. From the outset, theirs had been an ideal arrangement.

But all of that had changed—overnight, it seemed—with the ill-fated hunt for the wizard’s younger brother. For it was then that each had become distracted by his own obsession. Soric, of course, was consumed with his need to exact revenge upon the upstart king, for reasons to which even the assassin was not fully privy. Xarius, meanwhile, cared nothing for the whelp one way or the other, except in how he might be used to gain access to his own bitter rival. Had he not believed Torin might make for the perfect lure, he never would have agreed to this otherwise wasteful expenditure of his time and talents.

Our agreement stands,
the wizard promised.
When Torin is mine, I shall lend whatever assistance you may need in hunting down Kronus. Do not unravel on me now, so near the end.

The youth’s name, even unspoken, rankled Xarius to his core. He resisted the urge to reach for the scar the other had left with him as a result of their last encounter, to trace its raised length and swear death to he who had placed it there. An obsession that was every bit as unhealthy as the wizard’s, he knew. But like the wizard, he didn’t care.

Am I to sever loose strands?
the assassin prompted.

Soric’s image smiled.
Our work here is finished for now. Do as you deem necessary.

Xarius bowed in acknowledgment. A small concession, but at least it was something. A residual twinge of regret swept through him at having allowed Zain and his companion to escape, now that he knew for certain his time here was coming to a close. If nothing else, their deaths might have lent him some small measure of satisfaction on this most inauspicious night.

But that was too dire an outlook, the assassin realized, as the oily black smoke burned away and the wizard’s summoned image drifted into the ether. One way or another, he was ready to move on. He’d been idle for too long, constrained to gathering gossip while his skills eroded from lack of use—a hobbled raptor left with only its sight. Although he was not yet free of the wizard’s tether, this next exercise would at least allow him to stretch his wings.

Nevertheless, he squatted before the dying flames for some time, simmering in frustration. Dissatisfied with having sat around for as long as he had while his ultimate quarry escaped him. Aggravated by the wizard’s negative assessment of his abilities. Xarius Talyzar, the Shadow, was a patient man. But that patience had worn thin, leaving him exposed, as naked as a soldier without his armor. It was a discomfiting feeling, and he knew of only one way to resolve it.

Kicking aside the failing embers, he took hold of the hilt of his saber and made his way back out into the night.

“C
ONGRATULATIONS
, F
ASON.”

The young Evhan let slip a crooked smirk of pride and gratification. To hide it, he looked down, fingering the ropes of office that had just now been bestowed upon him.

But Allion would not deny him this pleasure, even under these grim circumstances. The lad had made it known from the first day of training that this was his goal, and had ever since labored tirelessly—and with an infectious intensity—to make that dream a reality. He had been a wonderful influence, not only on his fellow guardsmen, but upon his leaders as well. Allion could think of no one more deserving, and he clapped the young man’s shoulder in approval.

“The promotion is well earned,” the former captain assured him. “I’ve no doubts that you are ready.”

Nor did Evhan, he noted. The new Fason grinned fully this time, although the scar upon his cheek caused his face to retain its lopsided appearance.

“I will fulfill the duties of my office with the utmost faith and fidelity,” the young man swore.

Young man. The lad was two years older than himself. “I’m confident you will.”

One of the double doors to the assembly hall lurched open. Both men turned at Marisha’s approach.

“Sir?”

“Dismissed, Captain,” Allion agreed.

Evhan saluted, right fist covering his heart, before taking his leave. On the way out, he bowed to Marisha, who dipped in curtsy.