King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three (4 page)

He fought with the awareness that they held back. Perhaps it was Bregan shielding part of his vulnerability, but they could have worked that. The Kobrir took every advantage they could. He had faced them before, and barely lived to tell about it. But they had to know, even as he and Bregan protected each other, the two men also hampered each other’s full movement. The assassins had to know that, and waited to use it. But why did they wait?

Sword and daggers bit and clashed. Hisses of pain were sucked in and muttered warnings grunted out. He sheathed his sword in favor of another dagger. He’d never used a shield, he wore scarred and supple leather vambraces to protect his forearms, and dagger work, wet work, seemed to be the only way to beat the attackers back. They would take him down. No two of them fought the same, and he no sooner mastered the rhythm and attack of one when he would drop back and another step into his place. They were growing canny. His thoughts scattered before their strikes and blows. He took another Kobrir down before he found time for a second, deep breath. If he had been hurt, he did not feel it, would not until later. His pulse pounded in his ears, loud but steady, and he could feel the warmth of kedant coursing through his veins.
That
told him he had been hit, at least once, but he no longer had the sensitivity that many Vaelinar had. He’d been shown his vulnerability and he’d fought it, building up a slow but definite immunity to the venom which had been particularly virulent once. If the Kobrir had thought to lay him low, they missed their bet. The veiled and shrouded being in front of him dropped back on his heels, retreating, as if reading his thoughts, and he took the precious moments offered to recover his stamina.

The inside of his right arm quivered a bit with the strain. He shook it to loosen his muscles. Blood splattered off him as he did. It ran into a black-crimson runnel in the hard-packed dirt. He could feel Bregan at his back, trembling from boot to shoulder. Was it weariness or fear? Either way, Sevryn couldn’t blame him. He’d never had such a number of assassins come after him so relentlessly. He’d fought them before, though never in such numbers, and they would retreat rather than assault a target futilely. This time was different. It would not halt until he was either dead or he had killed all those mustered against him.

Bregan jostled him roughly, with an inhaled hiss, and Sevryn broke their stances to whirl about. Three Kobrir snarled and ranged against his sword mate, like war hounds worrying at a breach, seeking to bring him down and leave Sevryn standing alone. Bregan dropped to one knee, his braced one, shielding the good leg and letting the golden metal brace of the bad one act as a shin guard and more. He, like Sevryn, had gone to hand daggers in place of his sword, for the Kobrir pressed him close and desperately. To kill him was one thing, but to kill those he loved and that Lariel had put under her protection, as she had all the citizens of the western lands, was another. Anger filled Sevryn, a hot anger that fed new blood to tired muscles and nerves, surging inside him like an irresistible tide. He would ride that anger as long and far as he could.

Sevryn filled his left hand with both of his fighting daggers to reach inside his vest for his throwing knives. One, two, three, they left his fingers with growing accuracy until the last thunked home, centered in one of the revealed eyes of the Kobrir on Bregan’s left. The veil fluttered as he hissed out in pain, and fell with a truncated wail. A man down with the Kobrir did not always mean death, but he knew this one would not rise again.

Fighting stopped a moment. He had assassins at his flank who froze as if listening to silent instructions. The heated beat of his own heart filled his mind.

Then Bregan pivoted on his heel, bringing around his braced leg, the leg covered from mid-thigh to calf within a golden, enruned cage designed and crafted by Vaelinar hand. He swept his leg out, catching Sevryn behind the knee, sweeping him to the ground.

Kobrir swooped over Sevryn, covering him, pinning him down as the trader began to back away. He paused. Bent. Whispered in his ear. “I’m sorry, Sevryn Dardanon. Very sorry. The Gods spoke to me and I had to listen. They’ve awakened, finally! Awake! They told me to bring you here.”

Then Bregan’s voice was gone, shouldered away, the trader dragged off by Kobrir hands, his heels digging a groove into the alleyway dirt before he twisted free and took to a run; then all Sevryn knew was many, many hands upon his body, hands like steel claws.

Another dry breath upon his ear, grazing his cheek, carrying the scent with it of a drug that tickled at his memory, a drug he should have known, but which he could not place, and why in God’s name did he think now of drugs and Gilgarran’s teachings about drugs and spying when he was about to die and he should be thinking of his Rivergrace and the sorrow he would be bringing her? His heart ticked once, twice, and the killing blow did not fall.

Instead, the Kobrir at his neck said, “We were betrayed.” Breath sprayed hot on his face. The low husky whisper continued. “We know the secret of the death of life. We were brought here to kill you, but we now break our contract. We honor your mother, and we have been shown you must live. As you love your soul and those of others, come find the king of assassins. Find him and find answers. Or your Rivergrace is lost. Her sister is lost. The queen to whom you are sworn is lost. And more.” He dropped a pair of handcuffs into the grime of the alleyway where they smoldered as if newly forged. A second item, a thin shiv of unique make with a D stamped on its slender hilt followed.

And then they all disappeared like the black smoke of which they seemed to be made, black smoke with hands as hard as obsidian. He tried to look for them, and his vision blurred. Sevryn groaned as he tried to rise to give chase and could not.

He knew nothing more until someone kicked him in the shoulder.

“S
TAY IN THE GUTTER this close to the tavern and they’ll be pissin’ on you, lad.” Tolby Farbranch reached down to Sevryn whose ears rang as he looked upward uncertainly. Stunned, he hadn’t moved for . . . how long? Sevryn blinked as the rough and callused hand reached down and pulled him to his feet. He fought for his balance, and the grip shifted to his shoulder where it stayed, fingers biting into the flesh beneath his light armor. Tolby had come from the fields, it seemed, for he smelled of grape leaves and late sun, and he wore his short sword and a wickedly sharp pruning hook tucked into his belt, a man as solid and welcome as a good rock wall at his back.

Sevryn patted his old friend’s hand. “I think I already have been. You should have been here earlier.” He stomped one foot and then another, steadying himself. He’d been unable to do anything but lie still while the Kobrir retreated, and then his thoughts had addled on him. Who would think to mention his mother to him, a woman gone and long thought dead? She had to have gone to dust long ago, born of Kernan blood that lived a tenth of the lifespan of the Vaelinar. She had to be long gone . . . but not forgotten, and why remembered by the Kobrir?

Sevryn couldn’t understand why they had refused their Kill. The knowledge that the assassins had turned on their contractor . . . impossible! He’d still be lying in the alley effluvium if Tolby hadn’t rousted him, his thoughts spinning a cocoon about him. A glint caught his eye.

He bent, scooping up the handcuffs and dagger before Tolby’s sharp gaze could spot them and palming them inside his shirt. “Nutmeg? Grace?”

“A little shaken and their mettle is up, but they be fine. Hosmer is standing guard.” Tolby’s mouth curled. “Sorry I missed th’ action.” A caravan guard in his youth, Tolby Farbranch could more than hold his own. He dusted Sevryn off. “Grace said there were two of you?”

“One fell back.” Sevryn wiped his nose and mouth with the back of his hand. “Let’s see how he fared.”

“You did for the others?”

“As well as I could.”

Tolby nodded and said gruffly, “That’s as well, then. I won’t have killers after my daughters.”

“Hosmer can hold them?”

“With his brothers.” Tolby shifted his belt on his hips. “I will feel a bit better after we send word to th’ queen.”

“Soon as I check on Trader Bregan.”

“He stood with you?”

“For most of it.” Sevryn did not part with more detail than that as he surveyed the alley. Tavern first, but if the trader had well and truly fled, he’d not catch up to him for a few days, not until things were settled here. Tolby fell in step with him as he strong-armed the tavern door open, a structure of solid wood, smelling of beer and raw hard liquor, and smoke. Few enough faces outlined by sooty lamplight turned to squint warily at them in the doorway. He saw no sign of Bregan. A low growl of disappointment escaped his throat. He shouldered the door shut before muttering, “Bregan turned tail on me.”

“There will be a season for that one,” Tolby said.

“Without doubt.” His temples throbbing, Sevryn attempted the street, Tolby in step with him. His head cleared more with every step. “Rivergrace will be wanting to know where we are.”

“Oh, she knows where we are. She’ll be wantin’ to know what trouble we’re in.”

Sevryn smiled in spite of himself. He would be held accountable for his actions, and he did not mind it. Despite his shortness of stature, common to all Dwellers, Tolby nearly matched him stride for stride. At the farmhouse, Keldan, the youngest Farbranch, met them at the front door with a wry grin, saying only, “Things are quietin’ a bit.” He brushed his dark hair from his eyes, his longish wavy cut reminding Sevryn of the hot-blooded elven horses the Dweller so admired.

Nutmeg was the center of attention. She sat, her feet up, her face scrunched in consternation over the display of concern as Lily moved back and forth between her and the kitchen. Rivergrace perched on a stool nearby, a cleaning rag in one hand and her sword in the other, taking slow, deliberate wipes along the blade, her head bent in thought. The moment the two men stepped in the room, her face came up and her gaze fixed on Sevryn, searching, and then she relaxed into a smile.

Nutmeg put her hand up at Tolby. “Now, Dad, don’t be yelling at Grace for putting me on the ground. I was a prize target before that.”

“Mmmmm,” her father said, leaning over to kiss one, then the other on the cheek. He turned to Hosmer. “Two different groups of assassins, or am I wrong in my thinking?”

“No, you’re right. The Vaelinars swept in first and they would have taken Nutmeg if you had not been here, Sevryn.”

“Ild Fallyn?”

Hosmer, a shorter and stockier version of his father, shrugged. “Not wearing th’ black and silver, but that would be a fair guess, we’re all thinking. What we cannot guess is who the Kobrir came after.” Not a question outright, but Hosmer locked his gaze on Sevryn.

He did not answer, thinking that the Kobrir might not have been in Calcort at all, save for his drawing them there. But he could not be sure. Their targets had been many and their contract broken. Had he just proved too costly and they changed their minds? Or was finding the king of assassins a deeper trap? The handcuffs tucked away inside his shirt smoldered, and he thought of Rivergrace and the faint scars about her forearms from just such a binding when she was a child, cuffs commissioned and used by Quendius to enslave her and her family. His jaw tightened. Grace blinked up at him as if she’d caught that in his face, and he reminded himself how sensitive she was to him now. It was the way they were meant to be. He dropped a hand to her shoulder and squeezed it lightly.

She put her weapon and cleaning cloth away briskly. “We have to get word to Lariel.”

“Pigeon master is at the nor’eastern quarter, near the curve of the river, edge of the lanes. Night is falling, but he can still set them on their way. I’ll come with you,” Hosmer offered, tugging at his City Guard’s tunic, the rest of his uniform consisting of cuffed horse boots over plain trousers. His light brown hair curled down to his collar, and his expressive hazel eyes darted a look between his father and Sevryn.

“Good, then.”

Keldan bounded to his feet and out the door before anyone could suggest he go saddle the horses. He held all three mounts by their reins when Sevryn drew Rivergrace out to the courtyard, Hosmer on their heels. Keldan’s face warmed at Sevryn’s raised eyebrow. “I had ’em ready.”

“Indeed. That, or the tack appeared out of thin air.”

Keldan gave both the tashya-bred horses a muzzle rub before giving Sevryn his reins and lending Rivergrace a leg up to her saddle. The hot-blooded creatures arched their necks and snuffled the palm of his hand eagerly as if still searching for the sweet-grain he must have fed them earlier. They tossed their heads in disappointment at finding his hand empty. Grace took up her reins gently.

Keldan lit a hand torch and passed it to his brother, for the other side of the city, like this quarter, would be dark on the fringes, night having fallen well and truly. He opened the courtyard gate to wave the mounts through.

The City Guard had already gathered the bodies that they could find and were carting them through the streets to the city surgery as they rode past. Rivergrace looked down to the carts, where cloaks and tarps covered the dead.

“No Kobrir.”

“No. They always take their own.”

Her mouth tightened slightly. “The one Vaelinar who lived but briefly made sure he could not tell me who sent them.”

“But it must be obvious,” Hosmer remarked. “Vaelinars opposed to Queen Lariel. It has to be the Stronghold of ild Fallyn.”

“And you’d likely not be wrong, but proving it would be nigh impossible. The ild Fallyn are as shrewd as they are treacherous.”

“So nothing will come of this.”

“For the moment. They have tipped their hand, so Lara is forewarned, and that has some worth.”

“Surely you can mark them as ild Fallyn, somehow, some way. Would not their bloodline give them away? Ears? Eyes?”

“While it’s known that the ild Fallyn breed true, it’s also known that they take in many half-breeds. Those are most likely the ones trained and sent, for if they had sent true of their line, we might not have stood so easily against them.”

“Why?”

“The ild Fallyn can levitate,” Grace told him. “That’s how they build their Ways, and how they built their Stronghold. Tressandre or Alton could have crossed lanes in a single bound and been on us before we scarce knew they were there.”

The torch he held wavered slightly in his hand. Then he shook his head slowly. “It’s a wonder any of you are still alive.”

Her mouth quirked. “I am only by the grace of your family.”

He dropped his reins to grip her skirted knee. “That’s not what I meant!”

“No, but it’s true.” She clasped the back of his hand before moving it aside gently as their horses bumped shoulders in the lane. “Which brings to mind . . .” She turned to look at Sevryn. “It might not be ild Fallyn. It could be Quendius.”

Did she sense the cuffs he had hidden away? “It could.”

Her brows knotted a moment. “He would have sent Narskap to oversee it.”

“Narskap died at Ashenbrook.”

“So it was said, but no one has found the body.” She stroked the neck of her horse. “No one has seen Quendius either, although signs of his movement have been found. He would have taken Narskap back, if he could have gotten his hands on his old hound.”

She did not call Narskap father, nor would she, although he had been, in another lifetime. Now the being burning inside out with his Vaelinar magic could hardly be called human, or alive, he thought. The man she’d known as her father, Fyrvae, had not existed in decades, not since he had failed in his escape from the mines of the weaponmaker, and the loss of his wife and child had broken him. He watched Rivergrace’s face as she absently tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear. So young, still, her journey from the underground caverns of her escape having been put in suspension, held in the arms of a Kerith River Goddess until released tens of years after onto the flood-swollen waters of the River Silverwing which had carried her and her tiny raft past the apple orchards of the Farbranch family. Because of her, the Farbranches had eventually had to flee their ranch and take up residence in Calcort, but their hard work and shrewdness and family bonds ensured they would succeed.

Hosmer held their horses as they reached the pigeon master’s coops and home. The smell of bird dung drifted on the damp night air, Rivergrace wrinkling her nose as she stepped into the front lobby of the home with Sevryn.

A Kernan, smoking his pipe in the corner, as he set the wing of a bird, put both his charge and pipe down carefully. He moved to the counter fronting his lobby. “Business, is it?”

“Yes, and we’ll need nightfliers. Word must go out now.”

The Kernan nodded. “Distance?”

“We’ll need three teams. To the Istlanthir hold on the coast, to Larandaril, and to the Vantane House in the north.”

The pigeon master sucked on his lower lip for a moment. “That’ll be pricey.”

“Coin does not matter. Speed and sure arrival does.”

He nodded in understanding. “I have but seven birds who can manage those routes.”

“And we’ll need six. They will be sent back when rested.”

The Kernan flushed briefly. “Oh, I have no doubt your lords will see right by my birds. No doubt.” He drew out six containers, with fine slips of paper for the messages to be written upon, and quills and ink. He turned his back on them, saying, “I’ll get my fliers.”

Sevryn inked the warnings to Tranta and Bistane and Lara quickly, passing them to Grace to be blotted and rolled into the copper tubes. Spare messages, but he wrote more to Lariel using the shorthand he and the queen had developed over the years for the work he’d done for her. Rivergrace filled her slender hands with the tubes, and let out a small cry when the pigeon master came back from his coops. One of the birds on his arm was a silverwing. It cooed when it saw her, putting its head out for her finger to stroke. He did not know the affinity of such creatures toward Grace, but it existed and he could not explain it. Some Vaelinar had the Talent for animals, but her Talents were Water and Fire. No. This perhaps was born from her association with the Kerith Goddess, or her years with the Farbranches at the edge of the wilderness, or perhaps merely from the goodness of her heart.

“She goes to Larandaril?”

“Aye. That’s her range.”

Rivergrace stroked the bird’s head one last time. She handed him the tube Sevryn had marked for Lariel, and its twin for the next bird.

The other five fliers were skyhawks, nightfliers who also ranged in the day, and whose wider wingspread and deeper chests marked them as longer-distance birds. Each had a paint smear upon its head: blue for the coastal regions and green crossed with white for the Vantane hold. Sevryn would ordinarily marvel that a pigeon master in Calcort had such messenger birds for those routes, but with the Raymy invasion and battle at Ashenbrook, and the subsequent military maneuvers throughout the Vaelinar and Galdarkan forces, it only made sense that communication would be necessary. He and the pigeon master fastened the tubes to the birds’ legs quickly, and then the Kernan sent them winging into the night.