Assassin's Edge: Veiled Dagger, #5

By Jon Kiln

A mysterious fog encroaches on the Banewood, and a bloody threat emerges from the Southlands. With danger coming from two fronts, Rothar and his allies must act fast to neutralize the dangers to the Kingdom.

 

As Peregrin and Daralis investigate the fog, Rothar ventures once more into the badlands to face their ruthless new leader.

 

What they discover may mean the end of everything they hold dear. But this foe does not realize that the wrath of the royal assassin is unlike any other man's. And even the worst evil cannot withstand the deadly edge of his blade.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Kiln
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223043799

Book preview

Assassin’s Edge

Veiled Dagger: Book Five

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by Jon Kiln

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

Chapter 1

It was autumn, and the Banewood had transformed into a spectral display of color that rivaled the palette of any painter. Golden hues combined with yellow and orange, blood red and warm amber. The sunlight, which normally could not penetrate the Banewood’s impervious canopy, filtered through and took on the colors of the foliage, bathing the forest floor in a glow that seemed almost ethereal.

It was in this light that Rothar stood face to face with Taria, before the massive hollow tree where he and Peregrin had played as children. Around them was a small gathering of close friends. Peregrin, the huntsman; Harwin, the blacksmith, with his lovely young daughter Esme; Rankus of Randoon, King Heldar and Daralis, the newly reconciled daughter of his Highness.

The only other person in the gathering was Willem, the High Priest of the King’s City, and close personal friend of King Heldar, one he knew to be particularly discreet in manners of the heart. Willem was asking Taria a question, the same one that he had already asked Rothar, and when she said, I do, the whole gathering erupted in cheers.

***

The merrymaking was kept to a minimum. After all, it was a secret betrothal. Well before nightfall, Rothar and Taria were alone in the home that Rothar had long since kept at the edge of Witherington, the humblest part of the King’s City, the home that would now be hers as well.

Rothar sat back in a comfortable chair next to a table that bore a half hazard stack of books and maps. He watched Taria move about the house, from the kitchen to the den, to the bed chambers and back again. A constant flow of movement. Not a flurry, but a smooth and silent current, like a swift stream.

You should sit and rest, Taria, he said with a grin. You mustn’t wear yourself too thin.

Taria laughed at this. You know that this is leisure for me, don’t you?

It was true. Taria had spent most of her life enslaved by Bakal, the cruel chief of the Southland desert tribe, until Rothar had freed her and slain Bakal. Life in the house of Rothar surely must have felt like rest in comparison to the duties she had carried out in the desert heat.

No matter, he said. Come sit with me.

Taria came and stood before Rothar. He put his hands on her waist and moved them together over her stomach, parting her cloak and exposing the round curve of her growing belly. He leaned forward, touching his forehead to her stomach, eyes closed.

Where do you suppose I should sit, my dear? Taria asked, a glint in her eye. You have laid claim to the whole chair.

Rothar spun her by the hips, quickly but gently, and lifted her to rest on his lap. The Southland woman laughed and laid her head back on his shoulder, taking a deep breath and settling into him.

So, husband, what do we do now?

Rothar sighed, his gaze upon the distant horizon out the window. He had never in his life imagined that he would take a wife. His occupation, by its very nature, did not lend itself to betrothal. As secret assassin for the King of the Realm, Rothar moved in the shadows and left no tongue to tell of his dealings, and only a select group of people knew his business. Taria, however, had changed all of that. Friends since childhood, the two had reunited when Rothar had traveled to the desert on a mission for his Highness, and after he rescued her, she had come to live with him in Witherington. The two had battled and bled together in the months since, and she had helped him put down more than one foe. Now, she was with child, and much to his surprise, the thought did not bother Rothar. In fact, he found himself to be rather pleased. After caring nothing for himself, for so many years, he had learned to love another, and now that love was being expounded.

Tomorrow, I will start work on a room for our child, he said. But now, we relax.

Ah! exclaimed Taria. This, I have to see! The mighty Rothar, letting down his guard!

Rothar chuckled, but his eyes were grave as he shook his head.

"I said relax, he told her. I may never let my guard down, and that is a promise. He laid his hand on her stomach. To both of you."

As darkness crept over the kingdom, Taria finally obliged Rothar and lay down to sleep. As he listened to her breathing becoming more and more rhythmic, he watched out the window, a red evening swallowing the sky.

Turning his eyes to Castle Staghorn, Rothar could see a light burning in the highest tower, and he knew that Peregrin was at home. The huntsman had taken on quite the task, accepting the position as King Heldar’s right hand and most trusted advisor, a responsibility that had taken Peregrin out of his home in the Banewood and placed him in the castle. He had already proved himself equal to the task, however, and in doing so was finding that he could exist in the city, when the King’s needs required him to do so. In the morning, Peregrin would leave to convene with his brethren in the woods for the season. His presence was requested for the autumn hunt. Rothar would be sure to see him before he left.

When all of the light was gone from the sky, and the only sounds were crickets chirping and Stormbringer snorting in the darkness, Rothar left his post by the window and lay down with Taria. Her skin was warm as he slid into bed beside her, and he wondered how he had never missed the sensation of a body in bed for all of those years.

Somewhere in the place between wakefulness and deep sleep, Rothar saw his child, somehow grown to an age of about four or five. It was a handsome child, dark haired and lean, with Taria’s olive skin and Rothar’s keen eyes. The child played in the grass, some child’s game that grown people can never quite comprehend, eyes down and imagination completely engaged by whatever whimsy he imagined before him. But in this dream state, Rothar caught his breath as dread struck his gut. In the periphery all about the child were shadows that exuded evil intent. The malicious specters formed a perfect ring around the oblivious youth, a circle that slowly contracted, closing in closer and closer, with Rothar immobilized, paralyzed, helpless.

Chapter 2

Before the sun first lightened the eastern sky, before the rays of light streaked through the honey colored canopy and bathed poor Witherington in golden morning, Rothar sat upon the rise at the edge of the meadow that separated the city from the forest. A ways off, Stormbringer grazed quietly, nosing at the tender meadow grass. As the heavens changed from dark gray to a deep purple, songbirds began to wake and sing a mournful tune, as though they knew of some unforetold misfortune that was approaching.

Rothar had always thought little of such dark portents, and no black bird had ever circled his head. Yet, somehow, as he grew older and perhaps wiser, he knew better than to dismiss all superstitions, for there was always a measure of truth in every tale. But today, he would not be troubled by the songs of birds. A beautiful morning was on the way in, and the smell of cook fires started to come to him on the breeze. Witherington was waking.

Suddenly, Stormbringer wheeled around, his muscles taught and eyes alert, pegged on something in the grass before him. Rothar rose and hurried over, but before he was halfway to the steed he could see the cause of the horse’s panic. Hovering above the tassels of meadow grass, green and broad, was the head of a serpent, coiled and ready to strike.

Rothar hushed Stormbringer, though the horse was silent, motionless, stoic. Moving between the horse and the serpent, he kept his eyes on the snake. A black tongue flicked out from between tightly drawn jaws, tasting the air, menacing. Drawing his dagger, Rothar crouched low, meeting the gaze of the serpent. The snake recoiled, pulling its head back further, then was perfectly still for what seemed like a long time. When the animal struck, snapping forward, Rothar flicked his blade though the air before him with a snap of his wrist. The serpent’s body dropped to the earth and writhed horribly, its head landing several feet away, mouth still agape, obsidian eyes unseeing, unblinking, now lifeless.

Good man, Stormbringer, Rothar said, stroking the side of his horse’s neck. Good eyes, old friend.

A black shape cut through the morning sky overhead. A falcon, wings stretched wide. Rothar recognized it as one of Peregrin’s birds, trained to deliver and retrieve messages. Today, however, no note was tied to the bird’s leg, and it sought no man, for today bird and master were returning to the Banewood. Rothar climbed into the saddle and turned Stormbringer to canter towards a place further down the meadow, where the wide and dusty road came through the center of Witherington and ended at the grassy expanse.

As he had expected, the dark shape of a man on horseback was barely visible coming up the way. The sun was still low enough to allow for misty shadows between the shops and homes along the humble road, and Peregrin moved like a ghost through the sleeping city. As he drew nearer, Peregrin took notice of Rothar and raised an arm in greeting.

Stealing away before daybreak, I see, Rothar said when the huntsman had ridden to within earshot. That is a wise decision. King Heldar will not be up for a while, so he cannot beg you to stay. He gave Peregrin a mischievous grin, which the latter returned.

He knows I will be back in due time, Peregrin replied, Hell, he made me swear to it! I have promised to winter at Castle Staghorn, once the fall hunt is over.

What’s that you say? Rothar said in mock surprise. You are willingly giving up living in the frigid forest all winter? Sleeping in a tent? For the ghastly warmth and comfort of Staghorn?

Peregrin let out an exaggerated sigh. Aye, His Highness begged and pled, what was I to do?

The two men laughed, but Rothar knew that his friend was only half jesting. Peregrin had been born and raised in the wood. Winter was a part of life, and the huntsmen greeted it with grim determination and not a one was ever heard to complain about the cold. Wintering in the King’s City may be a warmer proposition, but it was certainly not a decision that Peregrin made lightly.

Rothar offered to ride with Peregrin for a spell, and the huntsman said that he would be happy for the company. The sun was beginning to show above the tops of the trees, and it seemed it would be an unseasonably warm day. When the two riders reached the edge of the Banewood, a light fog could be seen deeper in the wood, where cool air loitered in dark pockets.

They set out on a trail that meandered to the north, as Peregrin had learned that his kinsmen had made camp there to wait for his arrival. Once he had joined the rest of the clan, they would begin a migration southeast, following game for the duration of the autumn.

So, is Taria feeling prepared for motherhood? Peregrin asked.

As much as a women like her can, I suppose, answered Rothar. The most difficult thing for her is rest. She is not accustomed to leisure, and it is all I can do to make her sit down for a spell.

Peregrin chuckled. No climbing trees for Taria, not right now.

Yes, but you try telling her that, laughed Rothar.

Somewhere nearby, a twig snapped. Suddenly, a dark shape exploded from the underbrush next to Peregrin’s horse. In the time it takes to blink an eye, the huntsman had his bow drawn, an arrow notched. Rothar had drawn his longsword just as quickly, and both horses had calmly and quickly wheeled away from the threat.

The deer was barely more than a fawn, and was tangled around the back legs by a knot of vines. It seemed it had bedded down in the thicket and had been spooked by their approach. The two men relaxed when they saw what had made the commotion. Rothar dismounted and approached the quivering animal with patient care. When he was near enough, he reached out and severed the vines with his long blade. The deer kicked off the remains of its tethers and disappeared into the wood with a leap.

You should head back now, Peregrin said as they stood staring into the forest where the deer had gone. You have duties at home. No slipping away for adventures in the wood, he joked.

The two old friends bid one another farewell until the winter, and Rothar remained a while by the thicket, watching Peregrin as he seemed to dissolve into the forest in the mythical way that only true huntsmen could.

As he turned to ride back, he felt a peculiar pulling sensation somewhere deep within his consciousness. Peregrin’s words rang in his ears. No more adventures? Regardless of how he felt about anything, he doubted that that was true.

Chapter 3

As Rothar crossed the meadow in return to Witherington and the King’s City, he could see the small figure of Taria waiting for him on the other side. He prodded Stormbringer into a gallop, hoping that nothing was awry.

Is everything all right? he asked as he approached her. He vaguely realized that his voice betrayed him and he sounded more worried than he liked.

Taria smiled. She clearly was more pleased with his harried state than he was.

I am fine, darling, she said, as he lowered himself to the ground before her. But your banner is flying.

She was referring to the red banner that King Heldar ordered flown from the peak of Castle Staghorn whenever he was in need of Rothar. It was an old method, but with Peregrin returning to the Banewood taking his falcons with him, antiquated methods would have to do. He shielded his eyes and peered west in the direction of the castle, and could barely make out the tiny tongue of crimson, lapping at the breeze.

It seems your holiday may be over, Taria said, a sad smile playing across her face. Pity. I still had much for you to do.

Rothar grunted. Well, let us wait and see what His Highness wants before we make any conclusions. At any rate, I promise you that I will back in your employ, post haste.

He helped Taria onto Stormbringer and the two rode to the house together, where he left her with promises to return before supper. With that, Rothar rode off westward through Witherington.

For being a humble neighborhood of shop keepers and peasants, Witherington was a tidy and quaint gem, mostly due to the great care and pride that the residents had committed to rebuilding the village after it was attacked and mostly leveled by the explosive ordinance of the Black Cloaks. Handsome shops stood next to stout new boarding houses. Modest homes dotted the wide, dirty streets. Livestock wandered through the lanes, half-heartedly herded by adolescent shepherd boys with their heads in the clouds and their eyes on the young maidens who churned butter or mended garments on shaded doorsteps.

Rothar, as was his habit, rode with his head down and eyes alert, calling no attention to himself, but politely regarding those who noticed him and made eye contact. He was, of course, recognized throughout the King’s City and Witherington, but his true vocation was a well-kept secret. There had always been whispers about his identity, as he could be seen entering and leaving Castle Staghorn at all hours of the day and night, but most of the people simply assumed him to be an advisor or even merely a humble messenger in King Heldar’s service.

As midday approached and the sun rose high, Rothar and Stormbringer crossed Trotten Lane, the unofficial border between Witherington and the King’s City proper. The terrain changed from sunlit dirt streets to a tree-shaded cobblestone lane, and the homes tripled and quadrupled in size immediately after he had passed the Fount of Allette.

Here, he was not regarded as he was in Witherington. In fact, he was seldom even noticed, a fact that was just fine with him. The dukes and lords that lived in the fine manors of the upper city were far too concerned with their own affairs to take notice of the black cloaked rider that so often moved through their midst, even though he had saved their city and even their very lives