House of Assassins Page 3

  This road led to the nearest pass which would take them to Neeramphorn and hopefully, their missing prophet. “I do not have time for this.”

  “I doubt he’ll step aside. He’s ranting like a lunatic.” And that damning assessment came from a bloodthirsty mountain raider with a face covered in tattoos commemorating each of his many battles and murders. It said a great deal about one’s state of mind to be labeled irrational by a Somsak.

  “Return to your brothers, tell them to remain wary, but I will tolerate no repeat of yesterday’s violence against the casteless.”

  “They put their grubby fingers on our horses. The fish-eaters are lucky all they got was a beating.”

  “Do as I say.”

  These particular Somsak were here because they had been secret believers in the Forgotten, and Ashok was the Forgotten’s champion. Since he had killed scores of their brothers to prove it, the normally combative mountain folk never questioned his authority. “As you wish, General.”

  Ashok didn’t like that title, a relic from the Age of Kings. General. It struck him of brazen criminality, boastful and arrogant. It hadn’t been bestowed upon him by proper authorities, but rather by an illegal prophecy. However, he was oath bound to follow the edicts of the prophet, so he had no choice but to accept the archaic rank.

  The scout began riding away, but thought better of it and hoisted his crossbow. “Want that I should stick him from here, and save you the trouble?”

  “No.” The Law declared any member of the warrior caste to be of higher station than he was, and thus deserving of his respect. “I will deal with the warrior.”

  He surveyed the village. It was mostly rough shacks fit only for casteless. Ashok saw no sign of warrior caste insignia anywhere, which was not surprising considering this place was of little strategic value and there was nothing worth defending here. The tiny settlement was too pathetic to be the home of even the lowest of the first caste. There were a few humble homes which would belong to low-status members of the worker caste, but no sign of the occupants. They must have been smart enough to flee into the woods when a large group of armed criminals were spotted riding in. All that remained in the village were non-people, their livestock, and the lone madman.

  It was a sad little place, stinking of dung and smoke, but at least the casteless here had the good sense to hold back, not run up and mob them with religious fervor like had happened in the last village. The Somsak had reacted rather instinctively and viciously to that.

  His second-in-command stopped his horse beside Ashok’s. “You’ve got another challenger, I see.”

  “As long as people believe I still have the sword, the brave and the desperate will keep trying to claim it from me.”

  “I’m passingly familiar with the concept.” Risaldar Jagdish chuckled at his own misfortune. “If I’d never gone to duel you, I wouldn’t have ended up chasing wizards across half of Lok just to restore my name.”

  They’d been opponents once. Great House Vadal had needed to hold someone responsible for failing to stop the unstoppable, so noble Jagdish had received the blame. As a result, a desperate but honorable man had joined a very dishonorable group. Ashok was glad to have the assistance of a warrior of such integrity at his side, but it saddened him as well, because he could imagine no good end for the outcasts who had joined the Sons of the Black Sword.

  “I can tell by that look on your face what you’re thinking. Ashok Vadal may not be able to feel fear, but he bears guilt enough for ten. Don’t worry about it.” Jagdish grinned. “I’ve got a plan. When I get done with these wizards, Great House Vadal will welcome me home with a parade.”

  Ashok was unsure how much of that was bluster and how much was delusion. “I will trust your judgment.”

  They were joined by the spiritual and final leader of their tiny band. “We’re stopping? Excellent. This settlement is yet another opportunity to teach of the Forgotten’s return.”

  “You’ll want to make it quick, priest,” Jagdish said. “There’s only one fool brave enough to challenge Ashok this time, so it won’t be much of a delay.”

  “Eh, I’ll take what I can get. More important than spreading the word is the opportunity to get off this damnable bony beast!” Unlike Jagdish—who was perfectly comfortable in the saddle—Keta was a terrible horseman, so the Keeper of Names practically fell off his mount with a pained groan as soon as it was holding still. Keta’s horse swung its head and tried to bite him, but the priest of the Forgotten grabbed its ear and twisted hard to show it who was boss. “They’re as surly as the Somsak who breed them.”

  The mad warrior hadn’t moved from the road, but was still shouting something unintelligible, gesturing wildly, and brandishing his trophy. From this distance, his armor seemed well maintained, and he wore the white diamond symbol of Great House Kharsawan on his chest.

  A multitude had died by Ashok’s hand over the years, but those had been different than his more recent killings. Their deaths had happened because the Law required it. Deprived of that justification, Ashok was far less comfortable taking lives than he had been before. He would have gone around, but it was twenty miles to the next pass into Kharsawan territory, and that was on an actual trade road which meant it would have a real border checkpoint and soldiers posted. Hardly anyone bothered with this narrow, rocky goat trail. Additionally, this time of year, if they were unlucky enough to catch a big storm, the passes could be closed off entirely.

  Assuming she’d not already been killed by the wizards who had captured her, Thera could afford no more delays.

  “I’ll take care of this so we can be on our way. Risaldar Jagdish”—it seemed a bit pretentious to use the rank for a leader of fifty warriors for their group of just over a dozen criminals, but it was Jagdish’s legal rank—“see to resupply. And keep the Somsak on a short chain. They can’t just loot whatever they feel like. We have no standing to requisition anything, so Keta will pay these people a fair sum in trade. I believe that is how the lower castes do it.”

  “It is, but the rebellion only sent me with so much money!” Keta protested. “I’ll simply explain to them that we’re servants of the Forgotten on an important journey. I’m sure the true believers will be moved upon to aid us.”

  “I’d keep those banknotes handy then,” Jagdish muttered, having no patience for superstitious foolishness or faith in the generosity of hungry casteless. It was difficult for proud whole men to ask their inferiors for things they would normally just take, but Ashok knew Jagdish would follow his orders.

  Ashok dismounted, passed his horse’s reigns to Jagdish, and began walking toward the angry warrior. The non-people began to speak to each other in hushed tones as he passed by. Though he was dressed in a battered old coat taken off a dead miner in Jharlang, without insignia of station or house, everywhere he went now the casteless seemed to know who he was. Their whispers were a combination of awe, fear, and perhaps…hope? He called upon the Heart of the Mountain to temporarily sharpen his hearing. Faint sounds became sharp. They were repeating his casteless name, over and over, Fall. Fall. Fall. Not only did they know his identity, their conversations were about rumors of casteless quarters rising up, the slaughter of whole men, and the alien concept of freedom.

  Rumor traveled fast among the casteless.

  “Fight me, Ashok Vadal! Fight me so that I may claim the black sword!”

  Ashok kept walking toward the warrior, opening his long coat as he did so in order to reach the inferior steel sword that had taken Angruvadal’s place by his side. Whenever he thought of the loss of his ancestor blade, it filled him with anger.

  “I, Fullan Apsorn dar Kharsawan, hero of Banjali, who drove the Thao from the walls of Neeramphorn, winner of five duels, champion of—”

  “Yes, yes, you’re most impressive. Save your breath,” he shouted back. The polite thing to do would be to let the challenger go through his list of victories and accomplishments, but Ashok had a rebel prophet to rescue.


  Fullan seemed a bit taken back, as if he’d been practicing his speech for this moment, but hadn’t anticipated that particular response. His voice was hoarse from all the earlier shouting. “As a bearer you are obligated to duel me!”

  “You are wasting your time and, more than likely, your life.” Ashok continued to crunch along the road. There was a thin dusting of powdery snow over the gravel. It was a cold day, but to a fiery tempered warrior, it was never too cold for a fight. “Angruvadal is no more.”

  At last they were close enough, and the warrior lowered his voice to a more conversational, but still aggressive tone. Perhaps he wasn’t so insane after all. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “It is gone. The sword has broken, shattered on the demon-possessed husk that was once Nadan Somsak in the town of Jharlang a week ago. I have no ancestor blade for you to claim.”

  “No! You’re spinning lies, trying to save your miserable life. Your casteless trickery cannot save you from my wrath.”

  Now that they were close, Ashok was better able to assess his opponent. With long hair gone gray, his face darkened by the sun and crossed with many scars, Fullan was far past his prime. Normally the men who wished to fight Ashok were young, searching for glory, and stupid enough to think they had a chance. The elders were usually wise enough to know better, but this one wore an air of desperation as heavy as his armor. Upon his shoulder was painted the rank of risaldar, a captain of fifty, same as the much younger Jagdish. A rank of medium accomplishment, odd for one so proud, and unimpressive for a warrior of his age.

  This was clearly a man at the end of his obligation to his house. Fullan should be spending his remaining years in peace, with his family, passing on his knowledge to another generation. It would be a shame to kill him. Then Ashok noticed the headless corpse lying in a nearby ditch. That one was dressed in the chain and plate armor of a Kharsawan soldier as well.

  Apparently Fullan had already won one duel today.

  “I am guilty of many terrible things, but lying is not among them. I will show you.” Stopping twenty feet away, Ashok slowly reached for his sword. Fullan instinctively stepped back—because everyone in Lok had heard legends about the destructive power of an ancestor blade—but he didn’t flee. Ashok slowly drew the Thao broadsword free, then held it up so the plain steel could catch the morning sun. “All I have is this ordinary thing. If this were Angruvadal it would devour the light and sear your eyes.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Fullan snarled. “You’re hiding it somewhere. You’ve got to be.”

  “I wish it were so, but Angruvadal is gone.” It pained Ashok to say those words, still grieving for his oldest friend.

  Fullan must have believed him, because as the truth sunk in, his knees began to wobble. “No. I need that sword. I can’t return home without it.”

  “You have no choice.”

  Tears formed in the old warrior’s eyes. He lifted the severed head by the hair. It slowly spun around until Fullan was looking at the dead man’s face. The dead man stared back at him, judging. “Oh, what have I done?”

  “Was he a friend?”

  “One of my students,” Fullan stammered. “Word reached our barracks you might be headed toward this pass, but we got orders from the Inquisition not to intervene. Those masked bastards be damned, I snuck out in the middle of the night to come here to confront you. Only Yash had the same idea, and he’d gotten here first. He was always an ambitious lad. But only one of us could take the sword from you. He didn’t understand that I needed it more. I’ve nothing left to give. No honor left to claim. They’re retiring me, putting me out. An old warrior is good for nothing but teaching children. This was my last chance! Yash was still young, with plenty of opportunities to earn his own glory still. Why wouldn’t he listen? Why wouldn’t he respect his place? I’m senior, the right was mine. Mine!”

  This wasn’t the first time desperation had moved a man to murder, and it wouldn’t be the last. “I am sorry.” And Ashok truly was.

  “We fought to see who should have the right to challenge you. My wife died a long time ago, and they didn’t bother to arrange another for me. I’ve no heirs. No one will remember my name. I gave my life to my house. I couldn’t be usurped by a pup. I…I…” It was unclear if the warrior’s compulsion to explain himself was for Ashok or the dead man. Either way, Fullan’s naïve dreams of becoming a bearer had been destroyed. As he realized that he’d thrown away his honor for nothing, his fingers unclenched, and the head fell in the snow with a thump. Fullan reflexively wiped his hand on his sash. That hand had begun to shake. “What have I done?” Then he let out a wail of frustration and regret. Spittle flew from his lips as he shouted, “What have I done?”

  “You made a terrible mistake which will haunt you the rest of your life. The only question now is how long that life will be. I have nothing you want. Step aside and go in peace. Or continue this challenge, and I will do what is required of me.”

  It took Fullan a few long moments to make his decision, the entire time staring at the head of the young warrior lying face down in the snow.

  “Do not make me fight you, Fullan Kharsawan. I take no joy from it.”

  The old man didn’t look up. “They say Ashok Vadal has killed a thousand men in battle.”

  “The number is higher now.”

  Fullan stared at his hands. “Look at me. I’m shaking like a leaf. I’m no coward. But if you’ve killed so many, then I suppose it’s not shameful to be afraid.”

  Ashok’s own ability to feel fear had been magically torn from him long ago. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “If I can’t return as the new bearer of an ancestor blade, then I’ll at least return as the warrior who slew the foulest criminal in all the land.” Fullan drew his sword.

  Ashok was disappointed, but not surprised. “So be it.”

  He was casteless, not even a real person, outside the Law and certainly deserving no respect from a whole man, but Fullan gave him an official legal challenge anyway. “Offense has been taken.”

  “Offense has been given,” Ashok gave a small bow as he officially accepted the duel.

  With a roar, Fullan came at him, swinging wildly. The sword flashed back and forth, driven with fury more than skill. Ashok would never know if emotions had overcome his senses, or if this was simply the old warrior committing suicide…He simply reacted.

  Sidestepping the attack, Ashok countered. With the turn of his wrist, he jabbed the point of his blade into Fullan’s neck, just below the ear. He calmly stepped back to avoid the flailing which would result. Even deprived of the sword that could rout armies, Ashok was still one of the greatest combatants in the world. His duels seldom lasted very long.

  Artery severed, the blood came rushing out. It took a few pumping heartbeats for Fullan to realize he’d been struck a fatal blow. The warrior crushed one hand to his neck, blood leaking between his fingers, and managed two halting steps before dropping his sword.

  “Even if Angruvadal had not shattered, it wouldn’t have found you worthy. You should never have come here.”

  Staring at Ashok, wide-eyed, Fullan dropped to his knees.

  “I did not want this.” Then Ashok turned and walked away, leaving the old warrior to die alone in the road.

  The poor villagers had watched the duel from a distance. To them the warrior caste were a terrifying force, separate and unstoppable, yet Ashok had just eliminated one of them with ease. He could hear their whispers. The stories are true. The Forgotten has returned. The gods have sent Fall to free us and terrible is his wrath. Fall. Fall. Fall.

  And he silently cursed Keta and his ilk for filling their stupid casteless heads with rebellious lies that would only get them killed. Freedom was a myth. There was Law and consequences. That was all.

  It began to snow.

  Jagdish met him on the way back and passed over a rag. Ashok used it to clean the blood from his new sword. Unlike the old one, this one could rust.

&n
bsp; “That seemed to go well.”

  “It was a waste, like all the others.” At times it seemed like he was the only man in Lok who had been content to stay in the place the Law had mandated for him, so it was ironic that he was the only one denied that comfort.

  “You could have told him the Sons of the Black Sword are recruiting.”

  “He’d already made enough bad decisions for one day…Are we ready to leave yet?”

  “Keta is bartering for feed and rations now, but he got distracted telling stories of super warriors riding flaming ships made of black steel out of the sky to smite demons because his gods love us so very much.”

  Ashok snorted. “Have him make it quick. The Kharsawan man spoke of something troubling. The Inquisition might know we are here.”

  Jagdish flinched. “Oceans.”

  “It may be nothing. It may be something.” Having worked with Inquisitors in the past, he knew they could be very clever. It was possible that they knew exactly where the Sons were, or they could have been saying the same thing at every barracks near every pass in the region just to check for potential collaborators.

  “What’ll we do?”

  Individual Inquisitors weren’t so dangerous—unless it was one of their elite witch hunters—and neither could be compared to a Protector, but any Inquisitor had the authority to draft as many warriors as needed to fulfill their mission. “We will avoid them if possible. If we cannot, my mission doesn’t change. I must find and protect the prophet, no matter what.”

  “I’ll go tell Keta to wrap up his sermon. I’m in no hurry to end up beneath the torturer’s knives.”

  Ashok took one last look at the bodies. Fullan Kharsawan had died on his knees and stayed balanced there, probably held up by the rigidity of his armor. Snowflakes were collecting on his shoulder plates. He knew what the warriors of Kharsawan would say. There was no shame in dying while fighting Ashok the Black Heart. That was a hero’s death. But greedily murdering one of your students to prevent him from taking a chance for glory? Fullan’s name would be forever worth salt water, his accomplishments forgotten.