Assassin's Shadow (Veiled Dagger Book 2) (6 page)

Rothar found the tree easily enough. As crude as Ariswold’s map was, Rothar knew the Banewood as well as anyone in the kingdom. He had suspected that he knew the location of the hollowed out tree even before the map was sketched.

As a child, traveling with the huntsmen, Rothar and his friend Peregrin had committed to memory the location of countless landmarks. One particular tree had always stood out to them. The ancient oak was one of the tallest and most massive in all of the Banewood, and it had been made all the more remarkable by the fact that lightning had struck the trunk in some far off time, burning out the core and leaving a cavity that was large enough for five men to stand inside.

This was the very tree that Ariswold’s map led Rothar to. Walking inside the trunk brought many memories back for Rothar. The place had been no good as a hiding spot during their childhood games, since every soul familiar with the Banewood knew of the tree, but it had served well as a sort of sanctuary for the boys whenever they camped in the area. Rothar and Peregrin had laughed and told stories in the shelter of the scorched wood, and it was there that they had made a blood oath to always defend one another, even at the risk of death.

Now, so many years later, Rothar searched about the inside of the trunk, which had once seemed like a cathedral to him. In the back of the hollow he found what he had expected to find: a small wooden box, marked with the star and eye. The box was filled with enough Obscura to drive a man to dire devices, by Rothar’s reckoning.

Back outside, Rothar stashed the box in Stormbringer’s saddlebag, along with the one he had taken from Ariswold. He wondered how many boxes and pouches of this infernal evil may be found all about the King’s City… or perhaps, how few, judging from the desperate and degraded state of the rioters the night prior.

Taking a long length of rope from the cinch on Stormbringer’s saddle, Rothar headed back into the hollow. After several minutes of expert work and a little help from his horse, he built a very strong and exceptionally well-hidden snare trap within the trunk of the tree. A large sapling, some distance off, provided the engine for the snare. Anything that came within the hollow and stepped on the concealed trip rope would be snatched up into the air and left to dangle helplessly. Rothar stepped back to admire his work, and hoped against hope that the mysterious poison peddler would come alone.

Once the trap was set, Rothar mounted Stormbringer and rode back to the King’s City. He needed to brief King Heldar about all that he had seen and heard, and he wanted to ask his Highness to send extra men into Witherington to continue to restore order.

Coming upon Witherington from the Banewood, Rothar was somewhat relieved to see that the fires were nearly all put out. A gray sheet of smoke hovered over the homes and shops. The day was windless so the shroud sat, unmoving, illuminated by the midday sun.

The more violent and destructive rioters had been housed in the castle dungeons, but the majority had been released with a severe warning and maybe a boot in the rear. As Rothar rode through the merchant part of the town, he was surprised at just how quiet it was. Many of the shops that had gone untouched by the flames had not opened their doors even still, and hardly a soul moved about on the usually bustling streets. Rothar surmised that the night had been long for everyone, and nerves were ragged. People were in need of rest.

Still, voices came from behind many a closed door and curtained window. Low, muffled voices, hushed conversations broken up jarringly by maniacal laughter, groans and cursing. Stormbringer stamped tensely and Rothar rested a hand on the hilt of his broadsword, but they rode through Witherington without incident.

At Castle Staghorn, Rothar found that the guards had been doubled since his last visit, two days prior. It was clear to tell which sentries had been working through the night, their eyes were heavy and they moved with a greater effort. Rothar thought about how it would be better to send them home. Oftentimes, an exhausted guard is worth less than no guard at all.

Rothar requested an audience with the King and was admitted into the throne room at once. Heldar sat upon his throne, looking as beat as his guards. Queen Amelia was by his side. Rothar noticed she was dressed in mourning clothes, and he thought about the stable boy.

“Rothar,” began King Heldar, his voice heavy with fatigue. “Please tell me that you are getting to the bottom of this debacle. My men tell me that most of the maniacs arrested were carrying items with that same infernal star on it that you found in the ashes of my stable. What is the meaning of all this?”

Rothar bowed to Heldar, mostly because he knew how much it annoyed his old friend.

“There is a trail, your Highness, and I intend to follow it to it’s end.”

Heldar and Amelia listened as Rothar recounted the events of the past two days. The King shook his head when he heard about the state that Ariswold was in. The King had never met the apothecary face to face, but, on Rothar’s recommendation, he had often used the old man’s concoctions to treat various ailments, and to no small success.

Leaning forward, King Heldar spoke frankly to Rothar. “Do you know that I had men and boys scaling the walls of the castle garden all night? One even snuck past the guards and made it into the Great Hall. They were throwing stones through all of the windows. We had to move to inner quarters.”

Rothar had to bite his tongue. The King was his oldest friend in life, but he was still the King, and the King must be respected.

“It sounds awful, your Highness,” he said, nodding towards Queen Amelia, then adding, “I am sure you have heard that matters were quite severe in Witheringrton as well.”

Heldar sat back, and let out a long breath. His resigned expression told Rothar that he got his point.

“So much senseless destruction,” said Heldar. “I do not care to ever look out of my window and see another night like that.”

“Nor I, Heldar.”

“So, what do you do next?”

Rothar had turned and was preparing to leave. He glanced back at the King and Queen.

“For now, I must wait,” he said.

“Wait?” asked the King, clearly displeased. “Wait for what?”

Rothar was walking away when he answered.

“To catch a rat.”

Before leaving, Rothar took the opportunity to walk the grounds of Castle Staghorn to survey the damage done. There were a great many broken windows, but aside from that, it was mostly trampled flowers and ivy pulled down from where the rioters had climbed the outer wall.

Walking in one of the lavish gardens, Rothar heard a slight rustling in the foliage nearby. Expecting a rabbit, he was surprised to find a young woman, extremely disheveled, huddling in the shrubbery. Rothar recognized her, she worked doing weaving for a rug maker in Witherington.

She gasped when she saw Rothar, but she did not try to run. He could see that her leg was badly injured, and she could not get up. She was clearly a user of the Obscura, and was in withdrawal. The woman trembled horribly and was soaked with sweat. Her eyes were red and swollen. Rothar also noticed that she shied away from the sunlight when he moved the branches aside to look at her.

He knew that if he turned her over to the castle guard, she would be thrown into the dungeons with the maddest of the rioters, and she hardly seemed violent, only scared and injured.

Rothar looked around and saw there were no sentries in the area. He turned back to the young woman and put a finger to his lips, reaching out with his other hand and helping her to her feet. She winced and let out a small cry, but collected herself quickly. Rothar pulled one of her arms across his shoulders and steadied her, helping her keep weight off of her injured leg.

Quickly but quietly, he guided her towards one of the small, locked gates in the outer wall of the castle garden. When they reached it, Rothar withdrew his dagger. The woman started to pull away as fear lit her eyes. Rothar shook his head slightly and dug the tip of the dagger into the keyhole, twisting hard. The gate popped open and he led the wounded girl out into the empty street.

Rothar gave a whistle and within seconds, Stormbringer appeared around a corner. Without a word, Rothar helped the woman onto the stallion’s back and they rode off casually.

Once they were a distance from the castle, he spoke to the woman.

“Where is your home?”

She was quiet for a long time, though her lips were moving. It was as though she were trying to remember how to speak. Finally, with a dry and cracking voice that sounded as weak and pitiful as she looked, she answered.

“In the rug shop… I live in the back of the rug shop.”

Rothar shook his head in dismay. He had seen the rug shop burn to the ground the night before.

“Have you any family that can care for you?” he asked.

The woman said nothing, but began to weep softly. Rothar had his answer.

Under normal circumstances, he would have put her off at one of the boarding houses in Witherington and instructed the master of the house to give her a room, paying for it himself. But Rothar had passed the houses earlier that day, and the sounds coming from within made him feel that they were not places for a frail and broken girl.

Harwin and Esme were in a safe house in the north part of the city, but the room he had arranged for them was too small as it were, and he did not wish to risk endangering Esme with the presence of an unpredictable and unfamiliar addict.

Rothar resigned to take her to his home until he could arrange for her to be watched over by someone who would make sure she stayed away from the Obscura.

As they rode, he asked her, “What is your name?”

It took a moment for the girl to retrieve her identity from her own mind.

“Allette.”

“And, if I may ask, how did you come to be in the state that you are in?” Rothar knew that he would have to be delicate in speaking with her, but this woman may be able to help him in his quest.

“It ran out,” was all that she said in reply.

“What ran out?” asked Rothar, feigning ignorance.

“The ladder.”

“Ladder?”

“Yes, the ladder to heaven,” she said, her voice a broken murmur. “It was everywhere, and then it was gone, and we were all dying.”

A sensation was forming in the pit of Rothar’s stomach. It was not fear, for Rothar had killed that emotion long ago, but it was a feeling that this mysterious “Obscura” was much more powerful than even Ariswold had understood, in his altered state.

They rode past a row of squat, humble cottages. A faint, acrid smell hung in the air. Rothar would have attributed the odor to the smoldering structures nearby, but Allette straightened up and sniffed at the air like an animal. Suddenly, she threw one leg over Stormbringer’s neck and dropped to the ground, dashing towards one of the cottages, seemingly oblivious of her injured leg.

Without any command from Rothar, Stormbringer circled around tightly, cutting off Allette’s path. She ran face first into the horse’s side, crumpling to the ground.

Rothar climbed down and tried to help her back to her feet, but she began screaming and thrashing at his face with her hands.

“Let me go! Let me go! They have it in there! There is a ladder in there!” she shrieked.

Doors were beginning to open and glassy eyed heads hovered in them, tendrils of white smoke escaping their noses and grinning mouths.

“There is nothing in there but misery, woman!” Rothar shouted.

All at once, Allette went limp, her exhaustion and wasted body betraying her rage. Rothar lifted her onto Stormbringer’s back and remounted, casting a deadly look at the addled villagers, who were now shrinking back into the darkness of their dens.

Rothar took Allette home.

Taria crouched silently in the inky darkness of a Banewood thicket. It was early morning, and dew drops still hung heavy on the foliage, wetting her clothes and skin if she moved at all. Just as the sun was beginning to filter meekly through the dense landscape of tree trunks, a snapping twig announced the arrival of her quarry.

A large elk stepped onto the game trail thirty yards ahead, and Taria smoothly brought up her bow and drew back, taking aim at the majestic animal. Before she released the arrow, Peregrin reached from behind her and put his hand on her elbow, moving it ever so slightly to one side, correcting her aim.

Taria loosed the arrow and watched it whistle through the air, striking the elk right behind the shoulder. The animal leapt once and disappeared, crashing through the underbrush with the sound of a dozen reckless men.

Taria stood up and stomped her foot. “I cannot believe I lost him!” she complained.

Peregrin laughed. “Oh, I do not think you lost him, not yet at least! Now for the fun part: tracking the kill!”

“The fun part?” Taria asked, raising an eyebrow coyly. “I thought the eating was the fun part.”

“Oh, it is all good fun!” answered Peregrin, and the two laughed together.

Walking to the spot where the elk had been shot, Peregrin showed Taria the first blood spots. They moved in the direction in which the animal had ran and followed the trail of blood deeper into the Banewood. Shortly, Peregrin stopped, pointing out the blood to Taria, and let her track the elk on her own.

Peregrin greatly enjoyed having Taria with the clan. She was skilled with the horses, friendly with everyone, and prepared for them exotic meals that most of them had never tasted, not to mention, she was very beautiful to look at.

Several huntsmen had proclaimed their love for her already - half jokingly, and Peregrin took care to remind them all that she was only a guest in their midst, and Rothar would be coming for her in time. At times, Peregrin even had to remind himself of this.

“What do you think I will do when I go to the city?” Taria asked as she carefully scanned the forest floor for elk blood.

“I suppose you will do whatever you choose to do,” Peregrin answered, unintentionally pert.

“What kind of an answer is that?” asked Taria with a grin. “Do you not see me as being suited to any one thing more than another?”

Peregrin was apologetic. “No, no, that is not true at all. I am just saying, you are a very able woman, and you will do well at whatever you choose to do.”

Taria found another spot of blood and the two changed course slightly. Happily, the elk had veered away from a black swamp and opted for dryer means of escape, apparently scrambling up a steep rise.

“Perhaps you will not want to do anything,” Peregrin said. “Rothar does well enough, you could simply stay home and wait for him.”

Taria stiffened slightly and breathed in through her nose.

“No,” she said. “It would be too much like before, too much like Rama. I have been a kept woman long enough. I wish to have a job to do, money of my own. Freedom.”

“I am very sorry, Taria. I, of course, did not mean it like that.”

“I know. It is alright.”

At the top of the hill, they could hear heavy breathing coming from a cluster of small pines. Approaching carefully, they found the elk, down and panting hard. Peregrin pointed to a spot behind the animal’s ear and Taria finished the beast.

“Very good, Taria. Now you can pack him back to camp,” Peregrin joked.

On a small strip of paper, Peregrin wrote out instructions to where they were and tied it around his falcon’s leg. The raptor flew off to deliver the message to the men waiting back at camp. Within a half an hour, there would be a handful of men there to help butcher and carry the elk back to Heaven’s Falls.

Taria and Peregrin sat on the hill and watched the sun rising over the Banewood.

“This land is so beautiful,” Taria said, dreamily. “You are very lucky to get to live here.”

“Indeed, but I have known no other life, so to me, this is the standard by which all other beauty is judged,” replied Peregrin.

He was not looking at the sunrise, or the forest, he was looking at Taria, and she sensed it. Turning to him, she said, “You are an irreplaceable friend, Peregrin. It gives me great joy to be reunited with you after all of these years. I am happy that we are having this opportunity to get reacquainted before I go off with Rothar.”

She placed her hand on his. He looked at it mournfully. She would always be Rothar’s.

In the distance, Peregrin caught site of the huntsmen, approaching on horseback at a surprisingly fast pace. The clan never moved so recklessly through the Banewood unless there was a matter of some urgency.

Peregrin stood up.

“Is there something wrong?” asked Taria, reading the concern on his face.

“We shall find out soon,” he replied.

In a few moments, a half dozen riders approached. Their horses were lathered and panting. The men looked grave. Leading the group was an older huntsman called Briar. Peregrin’s falcon circled high above the horsemen.

“Should I be afraid to ask, what brings you in such haste?” said Peregrin.

Briar’s face was drawn and his eyes looked sad and haunted. Taria was not yet familiar with the man, and wondered if he always looked that way.

“It is about the men who went scouting to the east…” Briar replied, trailing off as a wind from the north kicked up and swept across the hills.

“Yes, what of them?” Peregrin asked, impatiently.

“Two horses returned to camp today, just a short while ago…” Briar was having difficulty finding his words. “One of them still carried it’s rider… dead… stabbed through with a spear.”

Peregrin bowed his head. Taria saw his lips move as he uttered a quick prayer for his clansman. When he looked back up he asked Briar who it was they had lost.

“It was Nester, son of Hale.”

Peregrin nodded sadly. “A good young lad. And what of the other horse?”

Briar swallowed hard. “No rider, but there is a great amount of blood.”

Turning to Taria, Peregrin explained. “Eight men went out to scout the eastern forest for herd movements. We expected them back a couple of days ago.”

Violence against the huntsmen in the Banewood was not unheard of, but it was extremely rare. Occasionally, some upstart band of thieves would tangle with the clan, but only once, for they were all quick to learn that the huntsmen were nothing to be trifled with. All in all, the huntsmen lived in relative peace with everyone, so something like this was quite unsettling. At least two hunters had been, at the very least, grievously wounded. Most huntsmen considered themselves more likely to die by the claws of a bear than at the hands of any man.

“I am taking you to the King’s City,” Peregrin said to Taria.

“The City? Already?” Taria asked, her voice a mixture of excitement and confusion.

Peregrin was slow in response.

“Yes, I am afraid I must insist,” he said. “Huntsmen are being attacked and killed, and I can not risk having you hurt. I swore myself to protect you, and I believe the best way for me to do that right now is to take you to Rothar immediately.”

“But he is not prepared for me,” Taria half-heartedly protested.

“He is going to have to be,” Peregrin answered. “He is a man of creative means, he will find a way.”

Peregrin gave instructions to the riders. Most of them were to head east, with reinforcements, to search for the other six scouts, but two of them were to retrieve Taria’s belongings and bring them to the City.

“We leave at once,” he said.

Before they parted ways with the riders, Peregrin asked Briar, almost as an afterthought, “Who’s horse was it? The riderless one?”

Briar was turning away, and his voice trembled as he replied.

“Canus.”

***

Riding westward through the Banewood, Taria asked Peregrin who Canus was, although she felt as though she already knew the answer.

“Canus is, or was, Briar’s only son,” said Peregrin. “And woe to the man that harmed him, if Briar ever gets a hold of him.”