Assassin's Shadow (Veiled Dagger Book 2) (8 page)

“Quite a thing, is it not, the drug peddler using our old haunt to stash his wares?” Peregrin spoke as he and Rothar rode through the darkness.

“I suppose it is as good a place as any,” answered Rothar. “I am glad for it. It made it easy for me to rig the snare.”

Pergrin laughed. “I suppose that was nostalgic! How many animals do you suppose we snared in the hollow of that old tree?”

“I could not venture to guess, but hopefully there will be one more to count by the time we get there.”

The night was cool and there was only a sliver of a moon which cast no light through the thick canopy of the Banewood. The horses moved slowly, picking their way along a narrow trail that led to the spot where the old tree stood.

After riding in silence for a time, Peregrin spoke again. “What kind of evil do you suppose we are up against, Rothar? There have been bad herbs in the Kingdom before, but this is unprecedented. How do you think it may be connected to our missing kinsmen?”

Rothar did not answer at first. He had been turning these very questions over in his head since they had left his house, in part because it was his duty to do so, and also because it was less confusing than trying to navigate the landscape of Taria’s emotions.

“The Obscura, or the Ladder or what-have-you, is very powerful in that it takes away a person’s willpower when they are using it, but it seems to magnify their willpower when it is withdrawn.”

Peregrin grunted. “It is the yearning of addiction. I once knew a huntsman who made Fire Lily tea every day, to help with a pain in his head. The tea worked, and he drank more and more of it. Eventually, he was chewing straight Fire Lily all day long, and he was worthless to us, so we asked him to cease. He tried to stop, and he went nearly mad. It was as though he had forgotten how to function without the lily.”

Rothar grunted in agreement.

Peregrin spoke again. “What truly does not make sense to me is what you said about the peddler giving the Obscura to Ariswold, free of charge. What does anyone stand to gain from that?”

“That is perhaps the most unsettling part of this whole situation, Peregrin,” said Rothar. “The drug is a means to an end for whoever is providing it, and apparently that end is not money.”

“But what then, if not money?”

Rothar let out a breath. “I have a theory about that. I believe what I have witnessed in the King’s City over the last several days was a test.”

In the darkness, Rothar could tell Peregrin was looking at him. He continued.

“The City was flooded with Obscura, countless men and women were using it, and then it was gone, all at once. The people went mad, fought soldiers, stormed the castle, they burned half of their district down. Then, just like that, the drug was back, and the people were appeased.”

“I suppose, in a way, it is good that it is available again,” Peregrin said.

“In a way it is, because it gives me some time, but I know that the peace will not last. The drug will be withheld again, and the violence will be worse than before.”

“So, you think someone is using the Obscura to push the people into revolt?” asked Peregrin.

“Even more,” Rothar answered. “I believe someone is planning to use the King’s own subjects to dismantle his capitol city and drive out the King and Queen. Once that is done, the one’s who set this plan into motion will come forth and take the King’s City, and from there, the Kingdom.”

The pair rode in silence for a long time before Peregrin spoke again. “Time may be very short indeed.”

***

Shortly, they came to the place where the ancient tree stood, haunting in the near complete darkness. Before they had even a light to see by, it was evident that Rothar’s snare had been effective. Strained breathing could be heard coming from within the hollow.

Peregrin lit a torch and they entered the tree. A figure hanging above them started to struggle. The man wore a long, black cloak that, in his upturned state, hung over his head and shoulders and made him look like a giant bat.

Wordlessly, Rothar reached up and felt inside the folds of black fabric. Finding the man’s hair, he grasped it and nodded to Peregrin, who notched an arrow in his bow and severed the rope that suspended the man. Rothar held on to the man’s hair and prevented the figure from landing directly on his head and being knocked needlessly unconscious. He wanted the man awake for what was to come next.

The cloaked figure landed and immediately started flailing about, trying to pull his garment down so he could see who had captured him. Rothar pinned the man’s arms down with his knees and nodded to Peregrin, who snubbed out the torch in the dirt. Complete blackness dominated the cavernous trunk of the old tree.

“Who are you?” Rothar growled, leaning close to the man’s face in the darkness, letting him feel his breath and know how close he was.

“Who asks?” hissed the man. He spoke clearly, but with a strange accent, and there was a clear malevolence in his tone. He did not sound afraid, only incensed. This was not a man accustomed to being on the losing end.

Peregrin spoke next. “He asked you a question and I recommend you answer it.” He was walking in a circle around the inside of the trunk as he spoke, and the way his voice echoed created a sense of vertigo. “My friend is very impatient and does not suffer fools.”

“Suffer you will!” the man shouted. “You will become slaves!”

Rothar allowed himself a dark laugh. “You must be lost.”

Shifting his weight suddenly to his right knee, Rothar felt the man’s left shoulder pop out of it’s socket. The man growled fiercely in the blackness.

“You do not know who you trifle with,” Rothar whispered.

The man spat, but Rothar was leaning back, and the projectile missed it’s mark.

Now Peregrin had stilled and was kneeling close by. “I implore you, stranger, for your own sake, tell us who you are.”

The man’s heavy breathing slowed a little as he seemed to try to calm himself.

“Mortez is my name, and you have no reason to detain me. I have no money. I am only a traveler in the wood.”

“What are you doing in my tree?” asked Rothar menacingly.

“Your tree?!” Mortez cried, then checked himself. “I… was stopping to rest when I was taken up in your trap. I will have you know that I have been hanging in here for more than a day.”

“Well then,” Rothar said. “You must be very hungry.”

Rothar could feel the man nodding his head in the darkness. “I am!”

“Let us look around and see if we can find you anything to eat.”

Rothar took a short length of rope from his belt and tied the man’s wrists together, as Peregrin relit his torch. For the first time, they could see the man’s face. Mortez was much as Ariswold had described him. He was dark complected, but in a way unlike the Southlanders. He was darker and his eyes were nearly black. Mortez’s hair was raven and short cropped, his neck and shoulders were broad and he wore a neat black goatee. Rothar immediately searched the man for weapons, finding two short bladed daggers.

“Odd weapons for a pilgrim,” he said. “Now, let us have a look around.”

Rothar stood and began to pace about the hollowed tree.

“Here’s something,” Peregrin said. “Perhaps he can eat this?” he picked up a small wooden box from the dirty ground, on top of the box was a picture of a black star with an eye within.

Mortez’s eyes narrowed when he saw the box, but he said nothing.

“Ah! Let me see that!” said Rothar enthusiastically. He took the box and opened it. “Yes, this will do. We have found your supper, Mortez.”

Mortez shook his head, but Peregrin grasped him from behind and squeezed his face, forcing his mouth open. Rothar opened his water flask and crammed a handful of the Obscura into the man’s mouth, leaning his head back and pouring water down his throat before Peregrin forced his mouth closed again, holding it tight and plugging his nose.

Mortez struggled and snorted, but eventually had no choice but to swallow the clot of herb. Rothar and Peregrin immediately repeated the process, again and again.

When the box was empty, Peregrin let loose of Mortez, who fell over gasping and gagging on the ground.

Peregrin walked over to stand beside Rothar and they watched the man as he glared back at them.

“You have told me what happens to people when they smoke it,” Peregrin said quietly to Rothar. “But what happens when someone eats it?”

“I have no idea,” Rothar replied.

They stood for a long while, watching the man as his movements changed and his expressions evolved. For a time, Mortez seemed to be in advancing stages of physical pain. He doubled over and groaned, clawing at the dirt with his bound hands. Shortly, the agony seemed to subside and he became quiet, staring up at the dancing shadows on the hollow walls, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead and upper lip.

“Shall we question him now?” whispered Peregrin.

“Wait,” replied Rothar.

A small smile began to creep across Mortez’s lips, and his eyes started to gleam ecstatically, though he still looked at nothing but the space above him. His muscles relaxed and his breathing slowed to the point where the rising and falling of his chest was barely perceivable. Mortez began to emit a low hum from somewhere deep within his chest. The sound seemed to be in correlation with his shallow breathing. Suddenly, he opened his mouth and emitted a gasp as his eyes grew wide. The gasp was followed by a tittering laugh that echoed around the inside of the chamber in a ghastly way.

“Now,” Rothar whispered to Peregrin. “But like this.”

Rothar quietly walked over and stood directly over Mortez, so that he was directly in the man’s line of sight. Mortez continued to stare up with rapt attention, but it was unclear if he was looking at Rothar or through him.

“Mortez!” Rothar boomed. “Do you know who I am?”

Mortez jolted and sat upright, keeping his eyes now on Rothar, his demented smile gleaming in the torchlight.

“Yes… yes, I do!”

Rothar looked over his shoulder at Peregrin, who was standing with his mouth agape in the shadows. Turning back to Mortez, Rothar continued in a lower voice, but still authoritative.

“How does a mere mortal reach a place where they can speak to me and see my face?”

Mortez stammered in reply. “The staircase! There is a staircase my Lord! It reached down to me and I climbed it!”

“Madness,” muttered Peregrin.

Rothar shot him a look.

“A staircase you say?” Rothar went on. “I created no such staircase? Who built it?”

Mortez was silent. He tore his eyes away from Rothar and seemed to be doubting the apparition, hesitating. The skin of his face was beginning to turn an unnatural shade of purple.

“Who built it?!” Rothar thundered.

Snapping his gaze once again up at Rothar, Mortez was supplicant. “The Reapers, my Lord!”

“Why did they create an affront to my solitude?” Rothar asked.

Mortez paused again, looking fearful. Rothar knelt down close to the trembling man. He spoke softly. “Tell me, and I will let you enter my kingdom.”

Before he spoke again, Mortez reached out with a shaking hand and gently touched the side of Rothar’s face. When his fingers brushed Rothar’s stubbled cheek, Mortez’s eyes welled up with tears. Veins bulged out at the man’s temples and his breath started to come in short bursts.

“They betray you, oh Lord. They seek to gain wealth and power on earth, so they send your subjects climbing to your heavens, only to let them come crashing back down to earth, weak and broken. Please do not let me fall, Lord. The Reapers will kill me for failing. Take me into your kingdom, it is the only place where I will be safe from their wrath.”

Peregrin whispered from the shadows, “Ask him where they are.”

Mortez jerked his head to look in Peregrin’s direction. “Who is there?” he shouted, his voice cracking. “What devil is lurking in the darkness?!”

Rothar tried to hush him and asked, “Where are the Reapers? Where are the enemies of God?”

Mortez did not look back at Rothar, but continued to fixate on the shadows where Peregrin stood as he answered, “In hell.”

With that, the dark clad figure of Mortez sank to the ground, his eyes rolled back in his head, a final gasp of breath leaving him.

After a long silence, Peregrin spoke.

“If only we could follow him, we might find these Reapers.”

Taria was tired. It had been a long day of hunting, and she had followed it up by traveling half the night. The woman, Allette, had avoided her as she moved about Rothar’s house, putting away her meager belongings that had been delivered by the huntsmen.

That was alright with Taria. She felt she had nothing good to say to the pathetic creature, who tiptoed about with her head down and her hands clasped in front of her. Rothar had been noble enough in helping her, but Taria noticed the way the woman looked when she saw Rothar embrace her, and she felt it was her duty to make it clear the way things stood.

She found Allette sitting on the bed - Rothar’s bed.

“I am going to sleep now,” Taria said.

Allette spoke without looking up. “Very well, goodnight.”

When Allette did not move from the bed, Taria cleared her throat loudly. Allette looked up, realization came over her and she stood. “Of course, I am sorry,” she mumbled apologetically.

Taria said nothing in reply, only removed a few of Allette’s personal items from the bed and handed them to the woman. With that she laid down on the bed, covered up and doused the lantern. She could feel the woman standing in the dark next to her for a long moment, and suddenly questioned the wisdom of her actions. The house was full of weapons, and Allette had spend much more time here than she had. Was she going to be stabbed in her sleep?

Taria realized that she would not be sleeping a wink that night, but she had committed to this display, and her Southland blood would not permit her to show fear.

Allette moved away from the bed and began putting out the other meager lights in the house. Taria watched through hooded eyes as the woman made up a crude bed on the floor in the adjoining parlor, spreading out a thin blanket to lie down on and rolling up a tattered old dress for use as a pillow.

Taria felt a twinge of guilt deep in her stomach, but this woman had come too close to the man that she had waited her entire life for, and nearly lost her head for.

In the darkness of the house, all was quiet except for the soft sobs of Allette in the parlor.

***

Sleep did eventually find Taria that night, and in the morning she awoke pleased to find that she had not been murdered. She looked to the parlor to see that Allette was not there, and there was no sign of her makeshift bed. She wondered if the woman had taken a hint and moved on in the night. The thought instantly made Taria feel bad. Rothar had thought enough of this woman to look after her. Taria would certainly not be making a good beginning to their life together if she drove her out into the streets. She leapt out of bed and hurried to the parlor.

Taria was relieved to see the Allette’s belongings were still in the house, folded and stacked neatly on a wooden chair in the corner of the parlor, but the woman was nowhere to be found. Nearly heading out into the King’s City to search for the waif, Taria realized that she had no idea as to the lay of the land and would certainly be lost in no time. She sat down to worry about the frail young woman.

She did not have to worry long, however, as the door of the house swung open and Allette walked in, carrying two freshly butchered chickens and a basket of eggs.

“Oh, you are awake!” she said. “I was hoping to have breakfast cooked already, I am very sorry. I hope you do not mind waiting.”

Taria was taken off guard.

“Yes, I am up… but you do not need to prepare anything for me,” she said.

Allette looked at her with repentant eyes. “I really must,” she said. “Rothar has showed me so much kindness, there is no way that I can ever repay him, and he will not accept repayment, anyhow. But I can see he loves you, so I will serve you.”

Allette sat down on a stool and began plucking the chickens.

Taria felt ashamed. She had spent most of her life as a servant girl, and the mere thought that this woman would serve her nearly broke her heart. She walked over to Allette and held out her hand.

“Give me one of those chickens,” she said.

***

After the two women had cooked and eaten breakfast, they sat in the parlor and began to compare stories of their childhoods. They were both were so very different, yet there were strands of commonality between them. Allette was born and raised in the King’s City and had a crippling fear of horses, yet, like Taria, she had never known her father and never understood her mother. The two women were staunchly independent, yet, hopelessly romantic. Taria was shocked to find that, as the day wore on, an affinity for Allette began to form.

Later in the afternoon, Taria and Allette were startled by a sudden and incessant tapping at the window. A large bird perched outside and was staring in at them.

“That’s Peregrin’s falcon,” Taria exclaimed.

Opening the front door, Taria let the bird hop in. She knelt down and untied the small note from around his leg. Reading it, she said to Allette, “Rothar needs us to check in on Ariswold, the apothecary. He is quitting the drug, like you, and Rothar thinks you may be able to encourage him. Do you know where we can find him?”

“I do, his place is not far from here,” Allette said.

Taria wrote a new note and attached it to the falcon. “Off to Peregin and Rothar,” she said, and the bird took off.

The women gathered up some food and set off to see Ariswold. When they arrived, the home of the apothecary was dark, but the door was unlocked.

Stepping inside, Taria called out, “Hello? We are friends of Rothar. He asked us to come visit you.”

It was dark and morose within the house, and the women began pulling back the curtains to let the light in. Allette turned from the window and let out a scream. Taria spun and followed Allette’s gaze. An old man dangled by his neck from a rope that was tied to a rafter. His hair was long and white, his eyebrows were wild and bushy, and he was long dead.