Assassin's Winter: Veiled Dagger, #3

By Jon Kiln

In the King's City, peace reigns. That is until, a rebel faction, simmering under the surface, finally rises with deadly consequences. Setting off a series of bombs in random locations, they seek to terrorize the populace, causing mayhem and mass destruction.

 

With their very way of life under threat, King Heldar, accompanied by Rothar, agrees to meet the rebel leaders, seeking resolution.

 

But when another explosion takes the life of someone close, Rothar realizes there can be no peace, and the only option left is blood.

 

A fast-paced, full length, heroic fantasy novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Kiln
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223498582

Book preview

Chapter 1

Brick by brick and board by board, the merchant village of Witherington was rebuilt by the very same hands that had torn it down.

The charred remains of homes and shops was loaded into ox carts and hauled to the edge of the Banewood. The toppled stones of the old foundations were sorted and stacked again as the town rose from the dust and rubble that were all that remained when the people had, in a sense, returned from the dead.

A great many villagers had fallen into addiction when a mysterious substance called Obscura had been introduced to the population. When the drug was available to smoke, the people were docile, giggling, drooling buffoons, thinking they were on a ladder to the gods. When the Obscura disappeared, the people went stark raving mad and looted and burned their very own neighborhood before amassing in the highborn streets of the King’s City to pull the nobles into the streets and ransack their homes. It was only after a replacement potion had been concocted and distributed that the rioting stopped. Then, slowly and carefully, the people were weaned off of the substance, and began to be able to see what they had become, and what they had done to their home.

Progress in the affluent parts of the city was swift, as the Dukes and nobles hired crews of craftsmen from Witherington to rebuild their lavish edifices, which slowed reconstruction in the dusty streets below. However, in time, life in the city of King Heldar began to return to normal.

Damages to Castle Staghorn were the first things to be repaired after the rioting ended, and King Heldar had taken the opportunity to make improvements, including an expanded royal courtyard adjacent to Queen Amelia’s personal garden. The new courtyard was built and christened in the honor of the stable boy who had died in the fire at the royal stables, whom Queen Amelia had cared for very much.

It was to this courtyard that Rothar was summoned one sunny autumn afternoon.

King Heldar sat in a tall oak chair at one end of the courtyard with Amelia by his side, making the whole scene seem very much like the throne room inside of Castle Staghorn. Adding to the similarities was the empty chair to Heldar’s right, a seat that had once been filled by the shrewd and conniving Duke Feril, until he had been dispatched into the world beyond by Harwin the blacksmith.

King Heldar greeted Rothar with his usual gracious bravado as Rothar bowed and kissed the Queen’s hand.

How are things in Witherington, my good man? Heldar asked. My people tell me that the city has been reborn.

Rothar nodded. Your city, in all its parts, is recovering, Your Highness, he said. You should take a tour for yourself and see.

King Heldar looked briefly embarrassed. Yes... yes I know, he muttered. It is just that... Amelia has been so skittish since the attacks on the Castle, you know.

Of course, replied Rothar. My apologies.

He bowed again to Queen Amelia and noticed that she was rolling her eyes at her husband. Rothar suspected it was not simply the Queen who was apprehensive about leaving the fortification of Castle Staghorn.

Anyhow! spoke King Heldar, again boisterous. That is not what I have called you here to speak about! I have asked you here to offer you a new situation, Rothar.

Rothar raised his eyebrows, his green eyes glinting suspiciously at his old friend, the King.

A new situation, you say? I have no complaint about my current situation. Do you?

Of course not! Of course not! shouted the King. Do not be ridiculous! You have served me well... perhaps too well at times! Heldar stopped to chuckle darkly. But, that is the reason for all of this. You have earned a promotion.

King Heldar gestured coyly at the empty chair to his right. I think it is time that you come sit next to me, old friend.

Rothar smiled sadly and was quiet for a time. Then he shook his head and spoke seriously. The castle is no place for me, Your Highness. It has not been for many long years. I have told you that before.

King Heldar’s face fell and he looked gravely disappointed, though not altogether surprised.

Do you not want to come in from the cold, Rothar? he asked. I can put you in charge of my guard. You can rest. No more fighting, no more people trying to kill you.

Old friend, spoke Rothar, you would not bring a wild dog into your home and board it with your purebred hounds, would you? Besides, I do not believe there will ever come a day when there is no one interested in killing me. I have, as you said, served you well, and by nature of my work, that makes me a marked man until the day I die.

Heldar looked dejected and Amelia patted him on the hand as she spoke.

If you will not accept the position, could you at least make us a recommendation?

Rothar smiled. Now, that I will do.

King Heldar looked again hopeful. Have you someone in mind?

I do, Your Highness, but you may have to make some concessions.

Such as? asked Heldar.

How do you feel about birds of prey? Rothar inquired.

That is a very strange question, Rothar. What are you getting at?

Rothar approached and sat in the chair next to the King. Peregrin is never without his falcon.

King Heldar sat back, webbing his fingers in front of him. The huntsman? Would he be interested?

I can make you no promises, nor can I speak for Peregrin, but I do believe that he would benefit the Kingdom in such a role. I know of no better man, said Rothar. But know this: he will not want to live at Castle Staghorn. Peregrin is a huntsman first and always. He will want to stay with the clan. If you are willing to let him wander, he will always be reachable when you need him. I have always found it to be so.

Heldar was silent for a time, studying the backs of his hands. Song birds fluttered and called in the lavish garden. It was beautiful and peaceful and Rothar felt terribly out of his element. However, he knew that Peregrin could find happiness in this type of service to the King. A man of action, the huntsman had accompanied Rothar on more than one deadly mission in the past, and he was a man of high morals and strong ideals, a perfect paradox to the conniving and cowardly Feril who had once claimed the seat.

If he will have it, King Heldar said at long last. The seat belongs to Peregrin.

***

In the cool of the evening, Rothar climbed the steps to the Fountain of Allette. The brand new structure had been erected on Trotten Lane, which had long served as the imaginary line that separated Witherington from the rest of the King’s City.

The fountain, a beauty to behold, had been conscripted by King Heldar and erected in the honor of Allette, the reformed Obscura user-turned-apothecary who had devised the formula that saved the kingdom, before she was slain by a crazed addict.

The Fountain of Allette was actually several small fountains, arranged around one large fountain in the middle of a massive stone platform. A dozen steps led to the surface of the mesa-like platform, and when one sat upon the edge of any of the fountains at sunset and gazed out over the growing Witherington skyline, they could watch the whole scene turn scarlet in the failing light.

The sight always made Taria think of Allette, her short-lived friend, and Rothar knew that this was where he could find her on this evening. The Southland beauty, jewel of the desert, sat motionless on the wall of the largest fountain, facing the east, her shadow long in front of her. She was somehow dainty and deadly all at once, leaning back on slender arms, tattooed fingers barely touching the water behind her.

Rothar cleared his throat as he approached, though he was certain that Taria had already sensed his approach. The woman did not move, nor did she jump when he placed a hand on her shoulder. She merely reached up and placed her small hand on his large one.

I saw Peregrin’s falcon flying to Castle Staghorn, she spoke. What type of news do you suppose it bears?

Rothar allowed himself a rare, satisfied smile. Good news, he replied. For everyone.

Chapter 2

Morning in Witherington brought the sounds of progress. The people still labored to resurrect their home, making it better, stronger. Workmen hustled about the streets and shouted to one another, weaving between herders and merchants, dodging cattle and sheep. Life in the King’s City had all but returned to normal, and Taria was pleased to get to know the city in all its candid glory.

At first intimidated and uncomfortable in the city, it had taken Taria a time to adjust to life away from the wilds of the Banewood or the harsh, sun-bleached realities of the southern desert. However, after she witnessed the undoing of her beloved Rothar’s home, she had thrown herself whole heartedly into its repair, and in doing so, she had become ingratiated as a part of the city.

Rothar had insisted that he was well taken care of, and Taria need do nothing but relax and enjoy life, but she had rejected the notion that she would simply sit around all day and await his return.

I have been a kept woman for long enough, she had told him. I want to live a normal life. I want to be in the world.

Rothar had reluctantly agreed, on the condition that she take a job with someone he knew and trusted. She had fallen quite naturally into work with Esme, the daughter of the blacksmith Harwin. Esme had a talent for working with wood that could not be taught. She had made the handle on the dagger that Rothar had been carrying since he killed the lecherous merchant Sleeth, and her abilities had only grown since.

Taria had taught herself to paint as a child in the badlands. She had learned from the old women of the clan how to seek out special roots, barks and insects and to dry and crush them into powders that could be used to make a myriad of colors. As a young girl, she had enjoyed painting the landscapes she saw around her. No human on earth could see the beauty in the arid desert more clearly than a Southlander, and even among Southlanders, Taria’s eye was especially keen. She could use the paints to make the scorching red of the evening sun come alive against the stolid rock canyon walls of her childhood home, or exhibit the placid blue of a rare oasis pond.

Taria and Esme had joined their talents and began selling trinkets from a small booth in the front of Harwin’s shop. They dealt in all manner of carved creatures and figures, each painstakingly formed and beautifully painted.

One day, Taria told Rothar to stop by the blacksmith’s shop. She said that her and Esme had something for him. In the afternoon, when Rothar returned from one of his many quick forays into the shadows about the kingdom, he appeared before the booth in Harwin’s storefront.

Both Taria and Esme were present at the booth that day. Even though Rothar was clearly very weary, and some tiny speckles of blood were barely visible on the side of his neck where he had failed to wipe them off, he greeted Taria with a genuine smile.

I see you have returned from the east in good time, she said. Rising and embracing him, she subtly wiped the blood from his skin. I trust your business was successful.

Rothar noticed that she was cleaning up for him, and looked momentarily embarrassed, but the moment passed.

As always, Taria, he replied.

Taria loved that Rothar never called her my love, or my dear, simply Taria. It was enough of a sentiment for her, and was absent of all pretense.

Now, said Rothar, shaking off his fatigue and feigning annoyance. What have you called me here for? My time belongs to the King, you know? I doubt if you can afford this.

Taria and Esme both laughed. Their laughter was joined by a deep, booming guffaw. Harwin came out of the shop, his face darkened with soot and sweat, arms covered with leather gauntlets, a long, leather apron wrapped around his waist. He had been working about stoking the fire.

You tough-talking son of a vulture! Harwin roared. Imagine if the whole kingdom knew that you would rather hold court with these two ladies than with Heldar himself!

Who would not? Rothar replied, chuckling at his friend’s jibes.

Harwin and Rothar embraced, a noisy collision of leather and chainmail.

Go ahead, Harwin said, turning to Esme and Taria. Show him what trouble you two have been up to!

Esme and Taria looked at one another. Taria nodded to Esme. Go ahead.

Esme knelt behind the counter and withdrew an object wrapped in burlap. The parcel was long and narrow. She handed it to Rothar with a wide smile and no explanation. She had never been a girl of many words, and since her abduction and captivation at the hands of Duchess Miranda, she had spoken even less.

Rothar unwrapped the folds of cloth to reveal a gleaming broadsword. The blade was flawless, clearly the work of Harwin. Rothar tested the edge with his thumb. It was as sharp as the devil’s tongue. As impressive as the blade was, the real beauty was below the cross guard. The hilt was identical to the grip of the dagger that Esme had given him, with roses carved over a mosaic of bones. The difference with this weapon was the striking colors, no doubt added by Taria. The petals of the roses were crimson as blood, the bones behind looked gray with death. The perfect weapon for the perfect killer, just enough hope and righteousness to justify the blood-spattered life that he lived.

Rothar had always favored the dagger, but the broadsword was also an indispensable weapon, and his old sidearm had seen much use and ended many treacherous lives. It was battered, beaten and entirely utilitarian. He would gladly retire it and carry this beautiful and deadly weapon.

You two, he said to Esme and Taria. You never fail to show me more kindness than I deserve.

There’s more, Taria said, waving aside his gratitude. She took the sword from Rothar and gripped it in front of her. She twisted the pommel and pulled, revealing a tiny dagger, hidden within the hilt of the broadsword.

Ingenious! exclaimed Rothar.

It is Taria’s design, said Harwin. She is quite clever, but I need not tell you that.

Indeed, replied Rothar. Well, the two of you have outdone yourselves, I must say.

Rothar slid the small dagger back into the hilt of his new broadsword. It fastened in with a sharp click.

You look weary, Taria said. Why don’t you go home and rest?

Rest, Rothar chuckled at the notion, but Taria gave him a look. Yes, of course, I have some things to tend to at home anyhow, and Stormbringer could use some respite.

Horses are not the only ones who must recover their strength, Harwin interjected. Get some sleep, old friend, I am sure the kingdom will still be here when you awake.

Rothar reluctantly agreed and again thanked the women, patting Esme on the head and embracing Taria quickly before heading back out into the dusty street. While he had come to realize that he cared very deeply for the southern woman, he was still not a man given to public displays of affection. He mounted Stormbringer and steered the massive black stallion towards the eastern edge of Witherington, where he kept a humble home on a slight rise in the land that separated the merchant village from the Banewood.

As he climbed the rise, the noise of the city faded, but did not altogether disappear. It was the way he wanted it, and it was representative of his relationship with the King’s City. He was in it, but not of it. He was the protector of the Kingdom, but would never allow it to be his benefactor.

Rothar led Stormbringer to the small lean-to shack that served as the horse’s stable while at home. He did not tie the stallion as there was no need to. He gave the animal food and water before heading into the house.

The small dwelling was tidy, as it had been ever since Taria came to the King’s City and had taken up living in his home. There was bread on the table and flowers in a vase. Rothar sat down and tore off a chunk of the bread. He sat, chewing, marveling at how, for the first time in his life, he had let someone close enough to him that he would eat the food they laid out for him without wondering if he was being poisoned. He had long since realized that Taria was, inevitably, the only type of woman he could ever let in. She, like him, had seen much evil and cruelty in her time on earth; and she too was deadly and calculating. The difference was that Taria had maintained her sense of faith in the world, while Rothar had long ago concluded that the world was mostly filled with evil men.

Chapter 3

Night was falling over the King’s City, and Witherington had grown quiet, save for the songs of crickets and mothers singing their children to sleep in their humble new homes. Taria closed up the booth at Harwin’s shop and paused for a moment to warm her hands by the still-glowing furnace. Harwin and Esme had retreated to the living quarters in the back of the shop to have supper and turn in for the night, and Taria had stayed to lock up.

She watched the street in front of the shop as the last of the day’s workers shuffled home; hired workers who were just making their way down from the wealthy streets of the upper city, where they spent their days restoring the opulence that had been torn down by their neighbors, brothers, sisters, or perhaps even themselves.

After a few minutes she slipped out into the street and headed home. She kept to the shadows and moved in silence, even though she did not need to. It was one of her favorite things to do, really, to be unseen, to let darkness cloak her and to watch the world that did not know it was being watched. It was a hobby that went back to her time as a young girl in the southern desert. When night fell over the hot sands, the people of Rama, as with all the other settlements, would take advantage of the cool of the night and revel in the makeshift streets. Great battles were fought in the stone ringed arena, and the festivities would last long into the night. Little could be done