Wrath of the Broken One

By Shawn E Crapo

Wrath of the Broken One begins the story, when Garret is rescued from certain death by a mysterious Thyrean assassin who apparently has a price on his own head. Garret's new mentor, Etanos, will teach him not only the tricks of the trade, but the skills that will eventually earn him the nickname Scorpion.
However, he will also learn the most important lesson of all; that no matter how skilled the warrior, there is always someone better--especially among those who are born of darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Necropolis Digital Art Publishing
• Release date: Dec 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005778323

Shawn E Crapo

Shawn was born in Fairfiled, CA in 1971. As an avid fantasy reader, Shawn had attempted to develop a fantasy story of his own for several decades before finally finishing his first novel, Onyx Dragon.He now lives in Indiana, where he works as a freelance artist, musician, web designer and electrician.

Book preview

Chapter One

Swords were scattered on the floor of the smith’s shop. Smoke hung still in the air, broken only by the light breeze that blew through the open windows. The walls were florid with the dim light of the dying forge, giving the entire shop a warm, almost ethereal glow.

The smith lay snoring on a wood and leather couch against the back wall, a flagon of wine lying on its side on the floor beside him. He was a large man, not particularly old, but not that young either. He was balding, somewhat portly, and dressed in the clothes in which he had toiled the entire day.

In the doorway there stood a black figure, still and silent, staring intently at the man that slumbered away before him. He did or said nothing; he merely watched the man as he slept, standing like a statue as the forge crackled in its final sputters of life.

The smith opened his eyes, seeing the stranger in the doorway, and snapped awake. He quickly produced a dagger in his soiled hand, sliding off the couch onto his feet. The stranger calmly held out his gloved hand, palm down, in a gesture of peace. The smith swayed back and forth, still drunk, unsure of whether the man was a threat.

Calm yourself, the stranger said. His voice was deep, smooth, and commanding.

Who are you? the smith slurred. What are you doing in my forge?

The stranger reached up to slide back his large cowl, revealing a bald head, a short and sparse beard, and deep-set blue eyes.

That is not important, the stranger said. But you need not worry. I am only here to seek your help.

The smith looked him over, lowering his dagger, but remaining cautious. I know your kind, he said. You’re an assassin.

The stranger smiled slightly, nodding his head. That is correct, he said. But my job is already done. As I said, I am here to seek your help.

The smith scowled, shaking his head in disbelief. What do you want, then? And what is that accent? You’re not from around here?

The stranger smiled again, clasping his hands behind his back. Also correct, he said. I am from Thyre.

What is an assassin of Thyre doing in Gaellos? the smith asked.

Again, the assassin said, not important.

The assassin reached into his cloak. The smith stepped back, his eyes focused on the assassin’s face. The stranger produced a dagger from a hidden pocket, holding it up by its blade.

You are Joran, correct? he asked. The finest smith in all of Eirenoch?

The smith cocked his head curiously. Aye, he said. You’ve heard of me?

The assassin chuckled. Your reputation precedes you, sir.

He stepped forward, handing the dagger to Joran in a quick, smooth motion.

Joran took it, holding it up in front of him. His eyes widened as he studied its beautiful black blade. It was perfectly formed, forged in such a way to give it a swirled finish that shimmered before his very eyes. It was like looking into a pool of fine, pure oil.

This is a blade of Khem, Joran said. An obsidian blade; used by the assassins there. Where did you find this?

It was left at a residence, the assassin replied. One where I was contracted to be.

You mean you were there to kill someone, Joran said, not asked.

The assassin nodded slightly. When I arrived, he said. The contract had already been fulfilled, and this dagger was there, still embedded in the… mark’s heart.

Mark, Joran repeated skeptically. So what do you want from me?

My sources tell me you can identify a blade’s origin by its appearance. You have already answered my question. But can you tell me if there is anyone in these lands that bears a blade like this.

The smith shook his head. No, sir, he said. I have never seen one up close. No one here would carry one of these, nor would I ever forge one.

And why is that?

Joran scowled again, this time scratching his chin. It is bad luck to work with this material. It takes your skill with it, they say. Whoever forged this was very skilled, though. It was definitely a man of Khem. But judging by the quality and effort put into it, I would wager the poor fellow has no skill left. A blade like this would have taken much of it.

The blade appears to be some kind of glass.

It is, Joran said. But with the right spells, it can be worked like metal once the basic shape is formed by knapping; like flint.

The assassin nodded. There are writings on the cross guard, he said. Can you read them?

Joran studied the blade carefully, squinting at the writings. The language of Khem, that is. He shook his head. I cannot read it. There is only one man I know of who can read this.

And who is that?

Prince Maedoc, Joran said. He is versed in many strange things; magic, old languages, artifacts.

The assassin chuckled. A future king interested in magic?

Rumor has it he has no interest in the throne, Joran said. If you need to read this, then show it to him.

The assassin held out his hand, and Joran returned the dagger to him.

I thank you, Joran, the assassin said, bowing his head graciously. And I would thank you not to mention our encounter.

No reason for that, Joran said. But I would appreciate a little… compensation for my services.

Of course, the assassin said, reaching into his cloak again.

Joran stepped back slightly, wary of the assassin’s movements. But the stranger produced a small ingot, and handed it to him. Joran took it happily, biting it with his crooked teeth.

Adamantium, he said excitedly. I’ve been looking for some of this.

Use it wisely, my friend, the assassin said. And I apologize for disturbing you at this hour.

Joran smiled, bouncing the ingot in his hand. No problem, sir, he said. It was worth it.

The assassin bowed his head in respect. Good evening sir.

He left quietly, closing the door behind him. Joran stood for a moment, admiring the quality of the ingot he had just been given. Behind him, the door to his residence opened, and he turned to see the small face of his young son.

What are you doing up, Angus? he asked.

The child rubbed his eyes, smiling up at him. Hungry, he said.

Alright, son, Joran replied. Let’s get you fed and then back to bed. You’ll need your rest if you’ll be takin’ over the forge someday.

Angus giggled.

***

Etanos reflected on his encounter with Joran as he strolled down the darkened street. The smith had confirmed what he had already known about the dagger, but there was still the mystery of the writings upon it. As far as he knew, there was no one anywhere outside of Khem who could read Khemite. The fact that the crown prince himself was well versed in it was surprising.

Despite his dislike for royalty—for obvious reasons—going to Prince Maedoc was likely his best bet. Traveling to Khem was a bit too much just to have someone read a few words on a dagger. But, no matter what the words read, one thing was clear; there was a Khemite assassin here in Eirenoch, and that assassin wanted Etanos himself to know it.

That angered him greatly.

Chapter Two

Garret knelt on the kitchen floor of the convent, scrubbing intently at a single spot that had been bothering him for some time now. The cook stared at him strangely, almost lustily, as she admired his corded arms and back. Garret knew she was watching him, and knew what was going on in her head. He rather enjoyed toying with her at times like this.

He had always found it amusing.

You’re going to burn a hole in my back, he said, not bothering to look up.

He heard Helga chuckle and return to her pot to stir the thick soup that boiled inside. He smiled to himself, knowing that she would still take a peek every once in a while as he scrubbed.

You know, Helga said in her thick northern accent. That spot has been there since you arrived. I don’t think there’s any chance of getting it up.

Garret dropped his brush, leaning back on his knees and slumping. You’re probably right, he said. I’ve been working on it for an hour now.

Well, don’t let me stop you. Feel free to keep scrubbing if you wish.

Garret grinned. Later, perhaps, he said. For now, I think I’ll just go back to my room and polish my blade.

Helga chuckled loudly for several seconds before Garret realized why. He covered his face, shaking his head in embarrassment.

"That was not a euphemism," he said.

Helga kept chuckling, stirring her pot as she did so. Garret stood and grabbed his shirt, walking away without another word. He passed a few of the younger children who were having snacks at the tables, smiling at them in a friendly manner. They each looked at him as if he was an older brother to be admired. That was how they perceived him, and that was how he treated them.

See you later, Garret, a small boy said, smiling.

Garret mussed the boy’s hair with his hand, and then donned his shirt as he left the kitchen area. Outside, the Headmistress was coming down the hallway, looking him right in the eye. Apparently she had been looking for him, as she gave him that familiar smile of relief.

Garret, she said. I’ve been looking for you.

I’m sorry, ma’am, he said. I was helping out in the kitchen.

The Headmistress smiled, clasping her hands in front of her. In any case, she continued. I was wondering if you could go to the market for some ink. All of my couriers are busy, and the other children are far too young to be traveling by themselves.

The other children?

Of course, he said. It would be my pleasure.

She smiled again. Thank you, Garret. I know it’s difficult for you to always have to do these things, but I do appreciate it.

It’s no trouble, he said. Really, I don’t mind. It’s good to have something to do, and I owe it to you for all of the things you and the sisters have given me.

She smiled then, showing Garret that loving expression he had grown to admire. Speak no more of our help, Garret. Your father was a wonderful man who helped our temple in every way you can imagine. It is the least we can do to repay his kindness.

His kindness has been repaid, Garret. I assure you. It is I who should be repaying you.

The Headmistress lowered her gaze, showing what looked like an expression of guilt. Well, she said. The time is coming for you to move on. You’re a young man now. Even though the children look up to you, it’s no good for you to stay here. You are a wonderful young man of many skills. Don’t waste them all serving our needs. You owe us nothing. Helping parentless children is why we are here.

Garret pursed his lips, nodding in agreement. I will stay as long as I am needed, he said, but no longer. I promise.

Two vials of ink, please, she replied, walking away.

He watched her as she went, smiling crookedly at the way her hips swayed.

***

After retrieving his blade from his room, Garret made his way through the crowded streets of Gaellos on his way to the market. He passed through the various sections of town, admiring the diversity of the classes, and the way they acted toward each other. He had always noticed the lack of animosity between the higher class and the common folk. Unlike other cities that he had heard of, Gaellos seemed more united and friendly—for the most part.

There were those in the upper classes that held themselves to higher esteem, and treated those below them as cattle. Some of the local lords were this way; and almost all of the nobles. But that was a fairly common thing, no matter where one looked.

He passed a tobacco shop, where several well-dressed gentlemen were sampling the local leaf. The merchant, who had set up a booth outside his shop, graciously allowed them to congregate and converse. It was a good business tactic, Garret knew; one that would draw the finest of customers.

He sniffed the air as he passed, closing his eyes and taking in the aroma. The smell of certain tobacco blends was comforting to him, as his father had been a pipe smoker. He remembered sitting on his father’s lap while he read to him, giggling as rings of smoke shot out from his father’s bearded lips.

The thought always made him smile, and miss his father as well. He had been taken too soon; before Garret was even five years old. His memories were cloudy, but what always stood out in his mind was the day the local constable came and told him that his father had been killed at the local mill. Though Garret was too young to really understand, he knew then that he would never see his father again.

It was a thought that still made him weep to this day.

Garret! the tobacco merchant called to him.

Garret turned, seeing Taen wave and smile his toothy smile. He waved back, chuckling to himself as he saw the man’s face. If there was one thing he could say about Taen it was that the man had all his teeth—and then some.

Good afternoon, Taen! he called back.

Tell Helga to stop by sometime, Taen said. I’ve got something to show her.

I bet you do, Garret thought, grinning. I sure will, sir, he said.

He continued on, reaching the town square in a matter of minutes. The parchment shop was on the opposite side, just around the large fountain that dominated the square. He had always wondered why the town had placed such a pointless structure there. The water was always too warm to drink, and usually stagnant.

What a waste of someone’s money.

He circled the fountain to the right, passing the smith’s shop. He saw Joran there through the open door, pounding away at something with his big hammer. Little Angus was out front, drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick as a scruffy-looking dog watched and erased everything he drew. Garret laughed as he saw the boy chase the dog away in frustration.

Keeping his eyes on the antics, he didn’t see the nobleman whose path he had crossed. He narrowly missed running into the man, lightly brushing his sleeve with barely any contact. Still he felt his arm being grabbed roughly. He turned his head to see the angry face of the noble’s personal guard. His right hand went instinctively to his blade.

Watch where you’re going, boy, the guard scolded him.

Garret pulled his arm away, glaring at the guard. He loosened his grip on his blade, but kept his hand there. My apologies, sir, he said, stepping away.

The guard reached out to grab him again, but Garret sidestepped, leaving him to swipe the empty air. The man reached for his blade, prompting Garret to unsheathe his own. Garret was much quicker.

It’s alright, Baern, the nobleman said, stepping between the two. Garret recognized him as Lord Daeglan. He apologized. No harm done.

Garret sheathed his blade, relaxing his posture but keeping his guard up. The nobleman pushed his bodyguard away, but the man continued to glare at him, apparently insulted at Garret’s superior speed.

You’ll have to forgive him, the nobleman turned and said. He’s over protective, and a bit zealous.

Garret shook his head, silently turning and walking away. He didn’t want any further contact with the two men. He hated nobles, and hated their bodyguards even more. Just the look on the nobleman’s smug face was enough to send him fuming, and the guard’s attitude made it even worse.

It was a beautiful day, and he had been enjoying it up until now. But all he could do was grit his teeth in anger and continue his task. It would do no good to act on his anger, but he knew he could easily take the guard if need be.

He looked back, seeing that Daeglan had engaged in conversation with another man. The guard, however, was still glaring; scowling at him with a murderous look in his eyes. Garret shot him a sarcastic grin, prompting the man’s scowl to tighten even more. The guard drew a finger across his throat in a silent threat, and then turned back to his master.

Garret ignored the gesture, ducking into the parchment shop and pausing to allow his heart to slow to a more civilized pace. The guard had gotten to him. Though he didn’t know the man—had never met or even seen him before—Garret’s reaction had been one of hatred. How dare that stranger grab him by the arm? Who did he think he was?

He’s nobody, Garret said in his head. Pay him no never mind.

What do you need, son? the shop owner asked from behind the corner.

Garret turned quickly, mildly surprised. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and approached the counter, hoping that the color of his face wouldn’t give away his mood.

I need two vials of black ink, please, he said, for the sisters.

The man nodded and turned to search his shelves. He was an old man, obviously one who had spent his life as a scribe. His hands were gnarled by years and years of writing, and his palms were stained with ink of various colors. Even his back was bent, probably from countless decades of sitting hunched over a desk.

Black, did you say? the man asked.

Yes, sir, Garret said, putting his hands on the counter.

The shop owner continued to peruse his stock, moving the various bottles to the side and humming off key to fill the silence. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and set the two vials on the counter with a toothless grin.

Here you are, young man, he said. I’ll expect payment by the end of the week.

Garret took the ink, stuffing the vials into his pockets. The man paused to study his face, and Garret met his gaze with a questioning look.

Are you alright, son? the shop owner asked. You look a wee bit frustrated.

Garret lowered his eyes, nodding politely. Yes, he said. I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.

The man gave him a skeptical look, but changed the subject. Give the sisters my best, then, he said, and you have a good day.

Garret smiled. Thank you. You too.

He turned and walked away, but he could feel the man’s eyes on him. He seemed like a nice enough fellow, but probably wouldn’t understand Garret’s anger if he mentioned the reason for it. Nobody would; at least not a shopkeeper.

The street was still crowded when Garret emerged. He took a quick look around to see if the noble and his guards were anywhere near. Not seeing them, he rounded the fountain again, this time sticking to the store fronts. If he spotted the guard, he could more easily duck out of sight that way. Not that he was afraid of the man, but he had no desire to draw any attention to himself or risk doing anything that would make him look bad.

Garret kept his hand on the pommel of his blade just in case. If the guard saw him, he wanted the man to know that he was willing to fight for his honor. He was no coward, by any definition of the word. He would defend himself—and anyone who couldn’t help themselves—to the death. He had spent years practicing with his blade for this very purpose. His years at the convent had taught him that there were people who needed protection; his protection. There was no one else to defend those children, and he had always considered himself their guardian—from the time he was able to swing a blade.

As the need to blend in became more urgent, Garret decided that taking the alleyways back to the convent was his best bet. Taking one last look at the square, he turned left between two shops and hurried into the sheltered road behind them. Here, he could traverse his way back without being in the open. The rows of buildings would provide some cover.

There were few people here, only a wandering pauper or two. He nodded respectfully as he passed them, keeping his eyes on the areas ahead. It was only when he reached the temple section of town that he began to feel insecure.

Garret turned into another alley heading toward the convent. It was only a few blocks away at this point, and he could make it there without going back onto the main streets. Still, he felt a strange sense of being watched. Maybe Daeglan had dismissed his guard, and now the man himself was wandering town watching him.

He ducked behind a stack of boxes and leaned against the wall. His heart pounded for some reason he could not fathom, and he felt compelled to look in every direction. To his left, there was a man in long robes standing on the opposite side of the street. He had just come from that way, and hadn’t seen him standing there before.

Garret studied him carefully. He didn’t appear to be watching him directly; just standing there casually with his arms folded and his gaze directed at the rooftops. He didn’t appear to be a man of Eirenoch; his skin was slightly darker, and his beard was of a style he had never seen among the people of this land. It was simply a small tuft of hair on his chin, with no mustache or sideburns.

His robes were odd, as well. They were multi-layered—like a priest’s robes—yet Garret could tell the man wore leather armor beneath them. Only thieves wore leather armor as far as he knew; thieves and rangers, perhaps. This man was definitely no ranger.

Garret suddenly felt a twinge of fear. The stranger looked dangerous, to be sure, and he wanted no part of it. He ducked out of his hiding place, walking close to the wall as he headed back toward the main street. The alley widened somewhat, becoming more of a courtyard where four buildings met. There, out of one of the side alleys, the offending guard appeared.

Garret stopped, gripping his blade as the man strolled toward him. Two others stepped out of the remaining alleys to join him, and the three glaring men came right in his direction. Garret drew his blade, crouching slightly in preparation.

So you draw against me again? the guard said, stopping and gripping his own sword, showing a smug smile.

The others drew their blades and stepped to the side. Garret looked at each of them in turn, taking note of their positions and what weapons they carried.

You bring two others to stand against me? Garret asked. Are you such a coward that you cannot intimidate me own your own?

The guard’s smile vanished, replaced with a look of rage. Garret had insulted him greatly.

Good.

I should cut out your tongue, boy, the guard said. A smart mouth like yours needs to be silenced.

Have at it, then, Garret taunted him. Or you can send your friends to do it for you.

That did it. The guard growled in rage, whipping out his blade and charging him. Garret crouched lower, shifting his feet to gain the leverage he needed to dodge. The other two guards charged around either side of him. He was surrounded.

The main guard swiped clumsily, swinging back-handed in a blind rage. Garret easily dodged, spinning to block an attack from the guard on his right. He countered with a spinning kick to the chest, turning again to block a second attack from the first guard. He jumped back and to the side, countering with a slash and side-kicking the other guard in the chest again. He heard the man curse as he was knocked back onto the ground.

The third guard charged, attacking with a thrust of his sword. Garret spun to the side, slashing the man’s triceps, drawing a groan of pain along with it. He quickly jump kicked the man in the back, sending him sprawling into the dirt. Garret backed away, standing in a ready position as the main guard glared.

It seems I’m quicker than all three of you, Garret said, grinning.

You insult not only me, the guard said, but my men as well. Lord Daeglan will have your head.

Garret laughed. I hope he sends someone better to take it, he said.

"How is this for better?" the guard taunted, snapping his fingers.

Other men melted from the alleyways, surrounding Garret and the three guards. They were not dressed in uniforms, but the typical garments of criminals; leather armor and cloaks that concealed them from head to toe. He had seen them before. They were brigands and bandits who robbed peasants on the highways and made life difficult for honest merchants. They were extortionists, thugs, and thieves.

Nice choice of friends, Garret mocked him.

The guard lunged with his blade, his face twisted in a grimace of rage. Garret spun to the side, backslashing in an upward attack that laid open the man’s cheek to the bone. The guard howled in rage, dropping his blade and clutching his open wound.

"Kill him!" he shouted.

The thugs charged all at once. Garret sheathed his blade, turning and leaping onto the wall of a nearby building. He grabbed the window sill and pulled himself up, digging his boots into the rough area between stones. Behind him, he could hear the brigands shout and curse. He ignored them, climbing upward as fast as he could, and disappearing over the eave.

He rolled to his feet, crouching as he ran to the roof’s peak. He stopped as he crossed over it, looking back to see the heads of a few of his pursuers appearing over the edge. He smiled, turning and leaping across the gap to another building. He ran as fast as he could, varying his route to avoid leading them right to the convent. He could easily lose them, he knew, and would have fun doing it.

His only worry was losing the ink before he got home.

***

Etanos had watched the boy from a nearby rooftop. He had climbed up after the boy had spotted him, and hidden behind a chimney to observe the scuffle. He was highly impressed with the boy’s skills; not only at fighting, but climbing and eluding as well.

Through his many years as an assassin, Etanos had trained quite a few promising young fledglings, as he called them, but none of them compared to this mysterious young man. There was something about him that Etanos liked. Perhaps it was his enjoyment of the chase, or the way he taunted his foes. Either way, the assassin felt the need to meet this young man. Perhaps he would help him get rid of this obstinate guard and his criminal cronies, maybe offering him training or an apprenticeship.

He smiled at the thought. His order could use more men like this young boy, and he was skilled enough to take to the training well. His only concern was whether such a lifestyle would be suited for the boy. Would it take away his sprit? Would it change the way he looked at the world?

The guild needed heroes, not simple murderers. It needed people who could distinguish between a noble contract, and the simple greed of a potential employer. It needed dark knights of justice.

It needed this boy.

Chapter Three

What have you done, Garret? the Headmistress asked.

I didn’t do anything, Garret replied, leaning against the door frame of her office. He attacked me for nothing more than not watching where I was going.

The Headmistress sighed, shaking her head as she sat at her desk. You know you can’t interact in any way with the bodyguards of nobles. Those nobles, especially Lord Daeglan, are nothing more than criminals.

"Then it’s about time someone did stand up to them, Garret insisted. They do nothing to help the people. All they do is rob them and threaten prosperity. The king knows this, I know this, and you know this."

Yes, yes, she agreed. But it is not our place to do anything about it. Not in this way, at least. That guard could have killed you, and now you have drawn attention to the convent.

The king has done nothing to change things, Garret insisted. "Maybe it is up to us. Who else will stand up for the law?"

The Headmistress folded her hands in front of her. There is a reason the king’s hands are tied, she said. He cannot engage them directly. Such a tactic would show dissent among the nobles. The king must do things according to law, too.

Then maybe we should just get rid of the nobles, Garret said.

The Headmistress sighed. That would be ideal, she said. But they must be dealt with through the proper channels. You have no idea how much power they hold. Their own troops are fiercely loyal, and the king would be hard-pressed to use military tactics against them.

If their troops are loyal, then they too are criminals, and enemies of the kingdom.

The Headmistress stood, leaning on her desk. She hung her head low. That may be, she said. But when the king feels the time is right, he will do something. Until then, we must trust in the Great Mother.

Garret shook his head, sighing in resignation. I admire your faith, Helena, he said. I really do. But the Great Mother can’t protect everyone. Your order is small, and you have no warriors. What happens in the future if criminals decide to turn their attention to the temples of Gaia?

The Dragon will protect us, the Headmistress said. For to serve one Firstborn, or the Great Mother, is to serve them all.

There have been no priests at the temples for thousands of years, Garret reminded her. We must find other ways. But you are right; I may have drawn attention to the convent.

Helena nodded. Everyone knows you serve us. None of them are willing to lie to Daeglan’s guards.

Don’t worry, Garret said, pushing away from the door. "I won’t let anything happen to the children, or the sisters."

The Headmistress smiled warmly. Though Garret could detect skepticism in her smile, he knew she had faith in his resolve. She knew he would protect them to the best of his abilities—whether he owed them or not.

Garret nodded slightly, leaving the Headmistress to her duties.

***

His name is Garret, Joran said to Etanos. He was raised by the sisters of the Order of Gaia. Why do you ask?

I find him interesting, the assassin replied. His skills are impressive.

Oh, now, Joran protested. He’s a good boy. He doesn’t need to get involved in your business.

Etanos smiled crookedly, raising a brow. And what business do you think I am in?

Joran shook his head, stuffing a working blade back into the fire. Come on, he said. I knew your business the moment I saw you.

Etanos folded his arms across his chest, turning to look out the window of Joran’s shop. You have it all wrong, friend, he said. "Our guild is not about murder. We are warriors of justice—knights, if you will. We