Assassin's Chant, A Dark Fantasy Novel: Assassin's Song, Book Two

By Michael Cairns

What if the past never leaves you, no matter how far you run?

Aryan’s come home. But he’s too late. All his training and all his skills can’t change something that’s already happened. As the guilt worms its way deeper into him, he leads the others from the ruins of Sceal out into the Wildlands as their quest begins.
Meanwhile, in the present day, Hallish is under attack. An army of walkers the likes of which Rechek has never seen is flowing down from the mountains, an unstoppable wave intent on striking the walls of the great city and pouring straight over them.

The friends are divided, but the screams of the dying drag them back to Hallish. But will they be on time? And what can they do even if they are? To Aryan, though, the attack brings hope. Because now he has proof. The Stone is still out there and still being used. And that means he can find it.

Assassin’s Chant tracks the friends’ journey from the Yard, through a decade of trials that brings them closer together, yet pulls them apart. From the peaks of the Mountains of Loss, to the deep caves of the Assassin’s Guild, the walkers are never far away.

Continue the journey! Click buy to dive deeper into the world of the Assassin's Song...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Cairns
• Release date: Feb 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781909699410

Michael Cairns

Michael Cairns was born at a young age and could write even before he could play the drums, but that was long ago, in the glory days - when he actually had hair. He loves chocolate, pineapple, playing gigs and outwitting his young daughter (the scores are about level but she's getting smarter every day). Michael is currently working hard on writing, getting enough sleep and keeping his hair. The first is going well, the other two...not so much. His current novels include: > Young adult, science fiction adventure series, 'A Game of War' 1. Childhood dreams 2. The end of innocence 3. Playing God 4. Breathing in space 5. Escape 6. Gateway to earth > Urban fantasy super-hero series, 'The Planets' 1. The spirit room 2. The story of Erie 3. The long way home >Paranormal horror post apocalyptic zombie series, 'Thirteen Roses' 1. Before (Books 2-6 due for release in spring)

Book preview

Part One

436 AL

Tast

Hallish

The snow was melting. It was one of the most pathetic things he’d ever seen. The soot-coated streets of Hallish were emerging from winter and the accompanying illusion of purity it brought, leaving it just as filthy and run down as ever. It also made walking anywhere a nightmare, the raised walkways that lined the streets now icy and perilous.

Tast left the hostel as the morning sun crawled reluctantly over the mountains and lit his way to the castle. He’d walked this way every day for the last two weeks and, every day, he’d stopped before he got there. He’d duck down an alleyway, or into a shop, and wait for his pulse to steady.

They would recognise him, and no amount of pleading to see her would change the outcome. Even now, as his feet trudged the familiar path, he knew his journey would end with the same outcome. But he walked it anyway, because whatever he liked to think, he had no choice.

The castle was huge. The word didn’t come close to giving a fair description of what lay before him, but he’d got bored of coming up with new superlatives every day. It was a messy confluence of styles and pieces, a tower here, a block there, shoved together like the architect had vomited it onto paper and handed it over before anyone could argue.

What tied it together was the dirt that caked the stone walls. Just like every building in Hallish, the smoke that poured from the oil refineries left its mark on the castle, turning the pale grey stone a mottled black.

The queue was long today. More people coming to petition the Lady. Or just stare at her. There was a rumour she was looking for a husband, someone to sit beside her on the throne. Tast paused, setting his back to a building, and watched the guards. Did he recognise them? Were they the ones who had chased them out of the castle a few weeks ago?

He sighed and pushed himself away. This was it. He wasn’t leaving, not today. Today he would go in and speak with her, get it done. Then he would leave Hallish and never come back, and not miss it in the least. He set his face, mouthing the new accent as he strode to the end of the line.

He waited. His palms were sweaty, his eyes twitching back and forth. The line moved. Slowly. An hour later, with his nerves all but shredded, he stepped up to the table placed outside the massive arch through to the courtyard.

‘Name?’

‘Elist Santhorben.’ The Southlands accent came easy, and sounded, though he thought so himself, not too bad.

‘Reason for petition?’

‘I have come this way to speak with Lady Saffron on a manner of some great impor—’

‘Reason for petition. Keep it simple.’

He looked down his nose at the man, but replied. ‘Trade links.’

The guard looked up at him for a moment, eyebrows raised, then pulled out another document and scanned it. ‘Trading what?’

‘Steel, from Lalistria. The best steel you will find this side of the Spine.’

‘Be lucky to find any the other side, wouldn’t you?’

The guard pored over his list, then raised his eyebrows again. ‘You’re in luck.’ He handed him a small piece of paper and waved him through. ‘Show it at the desk. You should be seen in the hour.’

Tast nodded and pomped his way through. Despite the sweat, he was beginning to enjoy this role. More importantly, though, he’d found something out. Saffron was preparing for war. Despite Selthan’s death and assuming she did actually want to buy steel, she was gearing up for war.

There was something else, also, something even more interesting. She was keen on trading links with the South, which was odd as that was where she claimed to be from. So either she wasn’t talking to her father any more, or her lies were even deeper than they’d thought.

If it was the latter, there was even less reason for him to be here than he’d thought. He sighed and glanced around. He was being watched, his fancy jacket drawing looks. He pulled his shoulders back and cleared his throat. This wasn’t about Tast, but Elist, at least until they were face to face.

He presented the card within the courtyard and was waved straight through into the castle. The Great Hall was, in marked contrast to their previous visit, almost entirely empty. He was met by a steward, a short man, who led him down the hall towards a door at the far end. Tast glanced left at the door he knew led down to the cells, and shuddered. The chances of ending up back in there were pretty high at the moment.

‘I say, you’ve come a long way?’ The steward was talking to him.

‘I’m sorry, what?’

‘Well, you’ve come a long way.’

‘Indeed I have, indeed I have. But we are keen to forge new ground, just as we forge our swords. The world is changing and one cannot sit still, not even for a moment.’

The steward’s eyes were already glazing over and Tast allowed himself the slightest smile.

‘The Lady takes audience in the private chamber. It’s far more conducive to actually getting things done.’

‘Yes, I must say, I rather expected to be meeting with Lord Selthan. I was most distressed to hear of his demise, very sad. Fortunate that he married when he did, don’t you think?’

The steward paused, eyes fixed on the ground, then resumed walking. ‘Very fortunate. Fortunate for Hallish, really, to find a Lady with ideals so closely aligned with her husband’s. She will bring Rechek together like no one before.’

‘Really? That’s wonderful news. Our trade link may be the first step to doing that, perhaps?’

The steward glanced at him, faintly mocking smile on his face. ‘I’m sure when her army heads out to fight the walkers, she’ll remember today as the moment it all started.’

Tast puffed his chest out and painted on a proud smile. The steward rolled his eyes and tapped gently on the door before which they’d stopped.

‘Come in.’

The steward stepped in and raised his voice, affecting a far more educated accent. ‘My Lady, I have outside a merchant by the name of Elist Santhorben. He wishes to speak with you regarding trade of steel.’

She said something he couldn’t hear, but he caught the response just perfectly. ‘From Lalistria, my Lady.’

Moments later, he emerged, and waved Tast in. He stepped through the door, turning to close it before she could see his face. When he turned back, Saffron gasped and, before he knew what was happening, had a crossbow cocked and resting in her lap.

‘My lady, please, give me a moment.’

She stared, mouth quivering just slightly, the tip of the bolt never leaving his chest. ‘Tast, one thing I’m sure of is that you require considerably more than a moment.’

She sighed, leaning back in her seat, eyes fixed on his. He stared, drinking in the sight he’d missed so badly in the last month. She was lovely, even more than he remembered, and power suited her. Her clothes fit to a tee, the dress just low enough to make men think of things other than business.

He was thinking of all sorts of things when she cleared her throat. ‘Yes?’

He jumped and blushed, then sat down. He had no idea what to say. Despite wanting this moment since the day she’d betrayed them, still he had no clue what to say. ‘I wanted. That is, I need to know something.’

‘Why I set you up?’

He chuckled. ‘Not at all. That strikes me as obvious. Who better to blame than an assassin and the recently deposed king of Selen?’

‘And you.’

‘Well, yes, and me. But I’m no one.’

She shook her head. ‘You aren’t no one. You’re what we call the patsy, the one who made it all possible.’

He blushed again and ground his teeth together. Not going so well so far. Deep breath. ‘I needed to know whether there was anything between us, really.’

Her mouth dropped open for a second, then she threw back her head and laughed, the crossbow slipping into her lap from her open hand. His face got hotter, but his fists clenched and he knew exactly what Aryan would do in a situation like this. It was only as he snatched the crossbow and spun it around to face her, that it occurred to him Aryan would also know what to do next.

The laughter stopped and she stared at him, head moving from side to side. ‘Let me set things very straight. One, there was nothing between us, in any way. You were sucked in, my poor gullible Tast, by my breasts and, ironically considering your trade, my acting. Two, the crossbow is the wrong choice. How do you intend to leave here after you’ve shot me?’

He smiled, slipping back into his role, the better to ride out the weight that had descended on his heart. ‘My dear lady, you think I came here alone, to a place from which I escaped only a few weeks ago? I may be gullible, but stupid I am not.’

He settled back in his chair, broadening the smile and watching her. She was trying to decide whether he was telling the truth, but his acting was considerably better than hers, and she had an entire kingdom fooled.

‘Tell me,’ He said, ‘Just for interest. Where do you come from?’

She sneered. ‘Selen, of course.’

‘Because that’s the only place worth coming from.’

‘Exactly. I’m from Selen and look at me. You’re from Selen and you’ve got a crossbow pointed at me, so I’d say it’s a fairly good place to start your life.’

‘You don’t think Hallish is a good place to finish it, though.’

She winced, just enough for him to smile again.

‘What are you doing, Saffron? Why are you here?’

She smiled sweetly. ‘Didn’t you know? I’m going to rid the world of the walkers.’

‘No, you won’t. Someone who does that doesn’t kill her husband and frame the people who saved her life to do it. And besides, Selthan was already doing it. He wanted exactly what you claim to want.’

Her jaw was clenched and she glared at him. He chuckled. ‘You are truly beautiful, my lady, truly. I’m so glad I traveled here, all the way from sunny Lalistria, just to gaze upon your face.’ He stopped smiling. ‘Now, last time, before I shoot you, why are you here?’

‘You won’t shoot me.’

Dammit, she was right. He’d been trying, for the last minute, to choose a leg, something that wouldn’t kill, just disable her, but even that was proving too difficult. ‘Why are you here?’

She laughed, shaking her hair around, and wearing that sweet smile again. ‘You’d love to know, wouldn’t you? Nosy was how she described you. It appears she was right.’

‘She? Who?’

But he already knew and, from the look on her face, the meeting was coming to an end. ‘Get up.’ He snarled.

She just looked at him. He lunged out of his seat and shoved the crossbow at her so the bolt cut through the front of her dress and drew a line of blood across her perfect neck. She squeaked, scrambling away, and he thrust his face into hers. ‘You don’t love me, you know Lissa, and you’re sitting on the most powerful army in Rechek. You really think I won’t shoot you?’

Their eyes met and, for just a moment, he believed he could do it. It was enough. She scrambled up as he backed away.

‘Where’s the exit? There’s another way out of here without going through the front. Where is it?’

‘I’ve heard the kitchens are good for escaping through.’

He growled and pushed the crossbow closer, the tip of the bolt pressing against her side. He suddenly longed to pull the trigger, to mar the beautiful skin he could see through the tear. He clamped his jaws together and took a deep breath. ‘Where is it?’

She gave him one final glare before turning and leading him from the room. Beyond lay a bed chamber and he paused, gazing at the rumpled sheets. She was kneeling to the right of the bed, where a small door had just swung open.

She glanced back, like she was about to say something, then turned away and led him through the door. He followed her into the tunnel that lay beyond. It ended in another door that opened onto a small courtyard, with a stable to one side and a door set in the opposite wall. Saffron pulled a key from around her neck and slotted it into the door, pulling it open.

Beyond lay Hallish, covered in slush and waiting for him to step into it. And away from Saffron for the last time. He turned back to her, seeing the familiar mouth, twisted now, but still beautiful, and the promise-filled eyes. ‘Come with me. You don’t want this, not really, come with—’

‘Are you actually stupid? I have no interest in you whatsoever. You are nothing, absolutely nothing. Unless you count being a handy person to blame for the tragic death of my husband.’

She almost spat the last word. He wasn’t sure whether it was the way she looked at him, that showed she meant every word she said, or the thought of her being with another man, that made him snap. He dashed across the ground between them and slammed the crossbow across her head. The stock caught her square on the temple and she dropped to the ground.

He stepped back, looking at the Lady of Hallish lying unconscious before him. He looked at the stables and tried to decide just how stupid it was. Then he realised he didn’t care. It wasn’t about love now, he wasn’t that stupid, or deranged. But whatever she was doing here wasn’t what she claimed, so taking her into the mountains and leaving her there wasn’t a bad idea for anyone’s sake.

He opened the door to the stable and found one, very-well groomed and well-behaved horse, which he saddled in record time. Leading it out into the yard, he hoisted her up and over, grunting with the effort, but enjoying the thump her face made as it struck the edge of the saddle.

He pulled a blanket out of the stable and covered her, then mounted. Glancing back at the door to the castle, he wondered how long he’d get. Not long enough.

He led the horse out into the streets of Hallish. The shouts rose not long after, but by that time, he was in the back of the city stables, binding her hands, feet and mouth, and wondering how the hell he was going to get her out of the city. And what Darryl was going to say about it all.

Aryan

The Mountains of Loss

He lashed out, wanting to laugh at how feeble the blow was, but finding tears creeping into his eyes instead. It kept the walker at bay, but only for a second. It returned and lunged, filthy hands clawing at him like the gnarled branches of a tree. Only its leaves were nails, sharp and ragged and bearing all manner of diseases.

It was like the one he’d dispatched the previous night, mouldy and barely standing. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t move and the blood loss had settled in nicely, numbing everything aside from his face and chest.

He’d tried, at some point in the night, to reset his arm, but he was too weak now. The only saving grace was the cold. The blood had clotted, then frozen, and the wound was as sterile as it was ever going to get.

His sword lodged deep in the walker’s chest, but the creature kept moving and squirming, trying to get at him. For a moment, he thought it’d succeeded as its claws brushed his cheek.

He couldn’t go like this.

He roared and shoved his sword, pushing it back, and it slipped.

Its feet went out from under it and it fell, face first, into the snow. It rose up moments later and now he did laugh, though it wasn’t that funny. The poor bastard had fallen onto the blade of his sword and wore a line of black ooze from forehead to chin, where it had sliced open its face.

It scrambled away and Aryan grabbed the hilt of his sword. It tore free and he let out a long breath in relief. The walker attacked again, throwing itself at him. He set his sword against his chest with shaking hands, just in time for the creature to impale itself. The sword carved straight through its chest and it slid down it, near enough to attack him.

The claws swept out, one catching him on the chin and tearing the skin open. The other struck his shoulder and was stopped by his leather armour. If he hadn’t been so numb, he’d have been panicking. But everything seemed slower, calmer, somehow, so he settled for trying to get his face out the way.

It must have looked piss-funny to anyone watching, both of them flailing around, completely helpless. But for all that, the bastard was no less deadly. The next claw got him on the ear, tearing the top off and sending blood streaming down into his neckline. The walker went crazy at the smell, thrashing around on the sword, arms smashing Aryan in the face.

He had seconds to end this. He needed this bastard thing dead so he could could die peacefully in the snow. He let go of the sword and the walker fell atop him, heavy and reeking. He dug frantically at his belt, hauling forth his knife. With the last of his strength, he dragged it out from beneath the walker.

The teeth were at his throat and he bucked, twisting and squirming to keep it from biting as he went to work. He sawed back and forth across its neck, chopping through the soft, rotten skin with an arm that was going to give up at any second. One tooth from the walker scratched his skin and he screamed, thrashing with legs that refused to work.

Finally it went limp and the weight pinned him to the snow. He dropped the knife, gasping and sucking in cold air. Sweat covered his forehead. He thrashed and struggled, panting wildly.

Stop.

He ground his teeth together and forced his limbs to stillness. Stop.

Walkers loved the cold, but the body lying across him was warm. Warm enough to bring some semblance of life back into his limbs, life he’d need to get out of here.

He lay still, taking shallow breaths and trying to keep the stench from overwhelming him. Its lips were pressed against his throat and he found himself thinking of Lissa. The comparison was both absurd and horribly accurate, so he giggled. The sound frightened him more than the prospect of the approaching night.

It had to move, before he went mad. He could handle freezing to death, but he wasn’t going mad before. He moved his legs, gasping as he felt the burning in his toes that meant feeling was returning. He dragged his knees up, grabbed hold of the walker, and heaved.

Very little happened. He tried again and again and, on the fourth, or maybe fifth try, he succeeded, shifting the weight to one side until it tipped off. He dragged himself out, trying to keep his left arm free. It caught as the walker brushed against it and the jolt sent a burst of fire down his arm, and set his head spinning.

He sat up, sucking in the thin mountain air and staring at the dimming light on the snow. It was beautiful. It was also very bad news. He looked at his arm, wincing at the bone thrusting out into the air. First things first.

He shoved the collar of his tunic into his mouth, bit down hard, and grabbed the bone. Another deep breath and he shoved it back in. The sound alone would have made him vomit, had he eaten anything in the last day, but the pain knocked him out and he tumbled sideways.

The cold woke him minutes later. The blood was flowing from the wound again, but it wouldn’t for long. He rested his hand over the hole and closed his eyes, the words for the spell coming to him as he spoke. It would wipe him out, but he had little choice. It was this or die from blood loss in the next half hour.

The tingling began and he watched, amazed as always, by the red glow that emerged from beneath his hand. He lifted it and stared at the skin. The tear was gone leaving only a twisted red scar. He flexed his hand and sighed as it moved naturally. The bone within was knitting, the magic still working, but he would need to care for it over the next few days and not become careless.

He stood and the world spun. He set himself and stayed upright, just. Then the pins and needles began as life returned to his legs. He collapsed with a whimper into the snow and ground his teeth as the pain got worse and worse. It was as though someone was stabbing him with tiny hot knives, up and down his legs.

He rolled onto his back and rubbed first one leg and then the other, as hard as he dared, and, though it made the pain no less, he felt he was doing something. The light was dimmer still, the sun disappeared behind the massive peak opposite, and the valley below was in total darkness.

He got first to his knees and then stood, swaying. He stayed up this time and looked down on the body of the walker. Beneath it lay his sword and, without it, he was even more lost. He groaned, bent to the body, and shoved, turning it slowly until the hilt of his sword appeared. He dragged it free and wiped it against the tattered clothes on the corpse.

He was alive.

He had a sword.

And he was in one piece. He could work with this. He staggered back up the side of the mountain, following the tracks torn by him and Master. He thought about his horse, lying shattered far below, and swallowed the lump clogging his throat.

He took a few more steps until he found a stone upon which to rest. Constellations, he was hungry. He stood, then froze as he heard voices above him.

‘We stay here the night, then?’

‘Yes. If we don’t see him tonight, he’s definitely dead.’

‘Oh come on, he’s already dead. He went over the cliff, you heard his horse.’

The voices were cultured, at least one carrying a southern twang. These were the assassins chasing him and they were thorough enough to have not already ridden for home. His shoulders slumped and he sighed. It might have been funny, had he not been so bloody hungry.

They might have food. He crouched and shuffled awkwardly through the snow. He managed a few steps before his legs cramped and he dropped to his knees. They would have horses as well, which was the only chance for him getting off the mountain alive.

He was supposed to be going to the Assassin’s Guild, but all he could think about was a warm bed. And some wine, ideally both. He turned over, sitting with his legs thrust out before him, and massaged his thighs. As he dug his thumbs in until he whimpered, he listened to the conversation.

‘She’s going to be happy. You know what that means, don’t you?’

There was silence from the others, before the man spoke again. ‘It means we get more jobs. And with how much she’s paying us, I like that idea very much.’

‘And hey, any chance to see those tits again can’t be a bad thing.’

This comment was met with the predictable laughter and ‘manly’ joking that made Aryan wince. How long had these three been out of the Guild? His legs were feeling better so he pulled them up to his chest and thrust them out again. He repeated it until he felt certain he could sneak closer without losing balance.

The snow had an eerie haze that came with twilight, as though it was glowing, lit from within. He stayed low as he wound between the rocks, sticking to the path he and Master had made. He was amazed there was anything left of him. At one point, the track went straight over a set of jagged rocks that should have ripped his spine out of his body.

They had a fire, which was the first mistake they’d made. It wasn’t cold enough to need one and their night vision would be shot. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, folded it, and tied it around his eyes. He stared across the space between them and saw the dull shapes of three men sat around the fire.

The detail was low, but no more than when night fell completely. They would see nothing from staring into the fire. He looked down at his hands, themselves only dull shapes, and wondered whether he could do this.

He’d killed his first assassin last night and now he was contemplating killing another three. But it wasn’t that he was worried about. The real concern was taking them down without passing out, or tucking into one of them. He’d been around walkers far too long. But he was so bloody hungry.

He turned away, slipping back between the rocks, until he was out of sight. He dug through the snow until he found mud, which he smeared on the blade of his sword.

He pulled out his knife and did the same, then tucked it into his belt. The other challenge would be not using his left hand. He wasn’t ambidextrous, not quite, but the inclination to use it without thinking would be strong.

He pushed back up the slope until they came into view. They were talking about ‘her’ again, and the more they did, the more he thought he knew her. He stayed back, listening, waiting for the name. In the end, it wasn’t the name that did it.

‘Yeah, working for the queen’s pretty good, all things considered.’

‘And we got to kill Aryan. I mean, who gets to say that?’

‘No one, you prat, because he isn’t dead. I mean, he is, but no one killed him before us.’

Aryan smiled. Either they’d had too much wine, or were dumber than he’d thought. This was getting easier every minute. Then he thought about who the queen was and realised he was shaking. She’d sent them. Lissa wanted him dead bad enough to send four assassins after him.

Was he the only one she wanted dead? Who killed Selthan? He’d assumed it was Saffron. She was pretty good with a blade and had plenty of motivation. They hadn’t found out how he died, but suddenly, Aryan was desperate to know. Was Saffron a lucky recipient of fate, or was she somehow part of it? And if that was the case, why would Lissa want to kill Selthan anyway?

Tast had been hell-bent on speaking to Saffron, but if this was all some plan of Lissa’s, he was walking straight to his death. He swore, muttering under his breath. How stupid could the three of them be? He sniffed. It was four now, of course, with Darryl’s whore along for the ride.

He gritted his teeth and shook his head fiercely, as though he could disturb the thoughts and send them falling forgotten into the snow. It didn’t work, so he focused on the firelight ahead. He had something else to distract him for now.

He left the safety of the rocks and crept silently across the snow. He was walking with the wind behind him and they had their backs to him, oblivious to his approach. His sword was still. The shaking had gone as his mind turned to his work.

Aryan had decided which one the leader was and headed for him. He was two metres away when one of the others shifted and raised his head above the sack that kept him warm.

‘Hey, shut up. You hear something?’

A classic line if ever there was one and a clear sign to abandon the sneaky approach. Aryan launched himself and the one who’d spoken spotted him, a shadow in the darkness, and shouted.

His target began to turn, which was why the sword entered the side of his face instead of his neck. It smashed through his jaw and exited the other side, tiny shadows of teeth dropping onto his sack. He screamed, loud enough for Aryan to wince, before he pulled the sword back and opened his throat.

The assassin dropped into the snow, the blood a darker shade of black in the evening light. Aryan faced the other two and nodded as they backed away. He lifted his sword, bringing it to bear.

‘Best lesson I ever learnt. Never assume anything.’

‘We didn’t, we were waiting.’

‘Yes, thanks for that. I’m both hungry and, thanks to you, in need of a horse. Which reminds me, which of you bastards is it with the crossbow?’

Both men glanced at the corpse bleeding out at his feet and he felt the slightest flicker of satisfaction. Not that it made Master any less dead. He hurdled the body, leaping close to the fire. All he could see were shapes, but they were enough, and his sword lashed out.

He caught the first man in the chest, through the seam of his armour, and split it open. His opponent responded with a lightening-quick parry, then riposted for Aryan’s heart, but his eyes were still fire-filled and it fell short.

Aryan lunged, drove his opponent’s blade out of the way, and shoved his own through the same spot on his chest. Ribs cracked beneath the point, but it went no further, and he jumped back, collecting himself.

He swayed. He had one more attack in him, maybe two, but no more. The assassins were thinking now, spreading apart to come at him from both sides. The one he’d wounded had a hand to his chest, but his sword arm was steady.

With a roar, he threw himself at the wounded one. His sword lashed out. At the same moment, the other lunged, both blades flicking towards him. One caught his armour, but the other dug deep into the seam at his waist and he hissed.

He buried his sword in the other man’s chest, driving through the cracked ribs and into his lungs. He fell back, mouth flapping, and Aryan spun and dropped, leaving the sword where it was. His last attacker was nothing more than a shadow, and he was moving, but the knife flew from Aryan’s hand. The hilt sprouted from his attacker’s eye socket.

He staggered back, dropping his sword to clutch his face. Aryan watched, not having the faintest idea what he’d do if the man attacked again. There was a moment where both stood, frozen, staring at one another, before his attacker collapsed, his other sword hitting the snow.

Aryan’s head sagged and he took a long breath. The world spun and he climbed to his feet, going for the saddlebags the three men had been using as backrests. He dug through one, found food, and shoveled it down until his gut hurt. Then he crawled across the snow to the nearest sack, climbed in, and slept.

Miskil

The Mountains of Loss

Hallish was filthy. The snow was mostly gone, leaving the streets dressed in a thin layer of black slush. From up on the mountain, the people looked liked dots, tiny dots weaving to and fro on the walkways, going about daily life as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

How soon things would change. He giggled, tapping his hands against his legs, drumming his thighs in a gesture that had become entirely unconscious. His children were impatient, he could feel it. Not that they’d know it as that. For them it was just a shift in hunger, a step up from the muted need he’d kept them at. He was letting the control slip, readying them for what lay ahead.

He’d flown down into Hallish the previous night to listen in pubs and houses, tasting the atmosphere, and everywhere talk was of only one thing. The new Lady had disappeared. Kidnapped, some said, killed, others.

He didn’t know the truth of it, nor did he care. The only difference it made to him was that the city guard might be distracted, which could only help. But from up here, he could see the armour-clad dots stood atop their posts, same as always.

It didn’t matter either way. He settled himself a little tighter into his spot, rocks rising on both sides, and plugged the gap in front of him with walkers. He was cocooned and safe. With a deep breath, and barely a thought, he lifted his spirit free of his body