The Shadows of Grace (32 page)

“What Eschaton are left?” he asked the wizard. “Brug? Delysia? If I go, who else remains but you?”

Tarlak waited until Haern exited, then turned and slammed his fist against the wall.

“Damn it all!” he shouted.

“Should we stop him?” Harruq asked.

“No,” Tarlak said. “We’ll leave him be for now. Our first priority is protecting the priests here. We’ll have to see just how bold Hayden is. For now, we keep all of you here, to be safe.”

“We will not cower here,” Bernard said. “There are people who need to hear Ashhur’s word, now more than ever. If we have to risk our lives, so be it.”

“You’re right,” Harruq said, grinning at Tarlak’s surprise. “And I know how.”

Within the hour, the remaining priests of Ashhur spread throughout the camps of Neldar. Their reception was phenomenal. Tired men and women, who had suffered loss and death of friends and loved ones, found ears to listen and hearts willing to comfort and forgive.

“They are so many,” one of the priests said as Bernard swung by to check on him. “And we are too few.”

“Do what you can,” Bernard told him. “You can’t do more than that.”

Tarlak watched them go about the camps, grinning.

“Clever,” he said to Harruq. “If Hayden tries to kill any of them, publicly or in secret, he’ll earn the ire of the people Queen Annabelle’s welcomed with open arms.”

“And it’ll mean he came into our camps to do it,” Harruq added. “Giving Antonil valid reason to confront the queen.”

The two quieted, each pondering over the same thing.

“Haern…” Harruq began.

“Will come back to us,” Tarlak said. “He’s just hurt, like he has been many times before. He’s not turning to Ashhur for comfort, not this time. He wants his own comfort, and that’s why he’s going to stay hurting. We’ll wait for him, and we’ll welcome him back when he comes.”

The halforc shifted uncomfortably. “You sound like Jerico.”

Tarlak chuckled. “I’m no paladin, and I’m no priest. Not everyone has to be one or the other. Sometimes Ashhur needs regular people to show other regular people that this life isn’t as impossible as it seems.”

“Guess so,” Harruq said. “So Ashhur doesn’t forbid drinking and womanizing?”

“Nah, he does,” Tarlak said, smacking the halforc on the back. “I’m just hoping he lets me slide on those.”

H
aern leaped across the rooftops, his gray cloaks a blur in the night. He kept his sabers sheathed, not risking a bit of starlight glinting off their blades to reveal his presence. Hurrying along the ground nearby was a cloaked man. He held no torch, and showed no weapon.

“Why so nervous?” Haern whispered to himself. “What is it you hide?”

He jumped down into an alley, sprinted around a few houses, and then leaped into the air, landing on the roof of a small home. The roof creaked under his weight. His prey heard the noise and spun, and as her hood fell low he realized he chased a woman. She had long red hair, and her right eye was scarred shut. With her one good eye she winked at him before continuing.

“I should have known,” Haern whispered as he ran. “What are you up to, Veliana?”

He traveled roof to roof in pursuit. Without a noise he descended upon Veliana, his sabers drawn. Veliana was ready. She curled into a ball and rolled, Haern’s sabers’ slamming the dirt behind her. She spun about, dragging one knee across the ground to halt her momentum. Out came her daggers.

“Why does the Ash Guild want the priests dead?” Haern asked.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Veliana said. She lunged. Haern batted aside her first two stabs, jumped over her sweeping kick, and then kneed her in the face. As she fell back her daggers twisted and jabbed, scoring a hit across his arm. She landed on her hands, arched her back and pushed, landing on her feet out of reach.

“The priests of Karak,” Haern said, sprinting after her. “I’ve seen your handiwork.”

“Are you so sure it mine?” she asked. She suddenly dropped and spun. Haern grunted as her kick connected with his ribs. He prayed that none were broken. He tried slashing at her face but she was already gone. He chased, slashing again and again but her nimble body weaved side to side, her daggers parrying away any cut she could not avoid.

“We do what we must to survive,” Veliana said. “Just like you.”

Haern pressed further, but she seemed bored with him. As his sabers veered at either side of her neck she clapped her hands and vanished. He staggered forward, cutting air. From atop a nearby house she laughed at him.

“Take a good look around this city,” Veliana said, brushing her hair away from her face. “Tell me where we could fit in, and then wonder why. You’ll find your answer.”

“You put everyone at risk,” Haern argued.

“The city will survive or it won’t,” the lady said, saluting him with a dagger. “What we do won’t change that in the slightest.”

And then she was gone. Haern grumbled and swore. He had gone easy, trying to bait information out of her. Instead he got puzzles.

“Where would you fit in?” he asked the night. He pulled the tie from his hair, letting it fall free around his face and shoulders. Come the morning, he was determined to answer that very question.

H
aern trudged toward the castle. The road was a vastly different sight than when they first arrived. Vendors lined each side, selling food, weapons, and various types of alcohol. Hundreds of people milled about, heading to or from home, buying, and selling. Many were from Neldar, attempting to buy comforts with the meager coin they carried. Haern weaved through them, watching for the telltale signs of a thief. But every time he saw two people bump into one another, he saw no hands slipping into pockets. What he did see, though, were priests of Karak roaming the streets, offering greetings to those that passed by.

“No thieves,” Haern wondered after an hour. “How the Abyss is that possible?”

He found a vendor selling daggers, his booth tidy and small. Haern approached and smiled.

“How goes the day?” he asked as he picked up one of the blades.

“Well, as well goes,” the vendor said. He was a large man, his gut matched only by the size of the muscles on his arms. “Name’s Greg. I run a smith not too far from here.”

“These are well-made,” Haern said, and he meant it. He put one down and picked up another, pondering an addition to his arsenal.

“Just toys, really,” Greg said. “I’m out here just to promote my name, let a few see what I can do. My best work is at my shop, not this crowded market.”

“Veldaren was the same way,” Haern said, eyeing a beautifully carved dagger, its hilt and blade slightly curved for throwing. “The shops made the money, the booths just sold the junk. And then the rogues took half of it, of course.”

He chuckled, all the while trying to gauge the reaction of the merchant.

“Same as here,” Greg said, smiling. “But that depends on what you mean by rogues.”

“The thieves’ guilds,” Haern said. “Though I suppose tax collectors could be called the same.”

Greg laughed. “Too true, my friend. But there are no thief guilds here in Mordeina. Them priests you see running about, they’ve made them extinct. If you’re looking for fun in the wrong way, you won’t find it in this city. Stealing, whoring, they’re both punishable by death. Plenty are too scared to even get drunk, lest they do one of those two and end up hanging.”

“You know,” Hearn said. “I’ll take this dagger here. Looks like it’ll fly true.”

The assassin dumped a handful of coins into Greg’s hand, triple the value of the dagger.

“Hope you got what you wanted,” the merchant said, chuckling.

“Aye,” Haern said as he bowed. “I did.”

H
e sat atop the roof of the temple to Ashhur, content to be near without them knowing. The day was warm, its bright cheer in stark contrast with Haern’s somber reflection. Before him were two options. They were simple and clear. He could return to Tarlak, apologize, and accept his decisions as he always had. Or he could murder the priests of Karak and trust the Eschaton to protect the priests of Ashhur.

He knew what he should do. He should explain to Tarlak he had only found Karak’s priest while searching for members of the Ash Guild. The priest had been brutally beaten. He would have lived, but Haern had not given him the chance. He had buried his sabers into his throat and taken his life. It wasn’t murder. It was mercy.

“Why, Tar,” Haern wondered aloud. “Why is it you keep letting them live?”

Tessanna, Qurrah, the priests of Karak in Veldaren… all should have died long before they caused the trouble they did. How many lives had they lost in return? Brug, Jerico, Aullienna, Delysia…

The assassin buried his face in his hands. He should have saved her, but instead made a terrible mistake. He’d killed lesser priests instead of slaying their high priest from the start.

“No,” he said. “No. Not me. Not my fault.”

Haern stood, his sabers shaking in his hands. Priests of Karak had killed his beloved Delysia. So he would kill the priests of Karak. He would not complicate it, not water down the simple truth. If the Ash Guild wanted to kill the priests to make room for a legitimate thief guild, then so be it. As far as he was concerned, they were his allies.

Leaping off the building, he did his best to banish the last brutal image in his head, that of the word ‘Tun’ carved across Delysia’s forehead.

He slept the rest of the afternoon. As nightfall arrived, he slipped out, trying to decide his best strategy. He could find Deathmask and offer to join him, or work alone, killing the priests as he found them. In the end, he decided to remain alone. If he encountered Veliana, the twins, or even Deathmask, he’d decide about joining them then.

He stalked about the temple to Ashhur, curious if dark priests would try to harm the building while it was unoccupied. The priests of Ashhur all slept in the Neldar camps, and he hoped they would be safe there. For the first two hours, he saw nothing. Occasionally a guard wandered by, bored and tired. Haern fought down his impatience. The night was long, and he had plenty of time.

Halfway through the fourth hour he heard shuffling footsteps. He leaped from his spot in the shadows to a roof nearby and peered down. Three priests of Karak hurried down the street, all carrying large clear bottles filled with an orange liquid. Haern frowned, not recognizing the liquid. He glanced down the street, where the temple waited unguarded. A chuckle nearly escaped his lips. If Tarlak wanted to play politics, then he would give him some ammunition.

He followed the three, crossing from roof to roof without making a sound. When they stopped before the temple and uncorked their bottles, he watched. The first hurled the bottle, and with a loud crack it shattered across the door. The orange liquid burst into flames, a deep red fire that spread frighteningly fast. Haern drew the dagger he had purchased earlier in the day and grinned. The second priest hurled his bottle, splashing the fire-flame atop the roof, setting it ablaze. The third lifted his bottle, preparing to throw it, when he heard a brief sound of whirring air, and then the bottle exploded in his hand. The liquid showered his arm, burning his flesh and robe. The priest dropped to the ground and screamed as he rolled.

Haern landed before them as the two priests tried to help their third.

“Priests of Karak,” the assassin said, drawing their attention. “I want you afraid. I want you knowing you’ll die. You don’t deserve a quick death.”

He drew his sabers. The two priests reached for their holy symbols, spells on their lips, but Haern was faster. He activated the magic of his ring and teleported, reappearing less than a foot in front of them. He kicked the first in the face, turned, and stabbed a saber through the hand of the other. The screams of the third priest faded as he choked on smoke that filled his lungs. Most of his robes were gone, and his skin was horribly burned. Haern shook his head. If the priest lived, he’d be in horrible agony the rest of his life.

The other two however…

“I have seen your face,” said one priest as he sat on his knees. “You will pay dearly for this.”

“Is that true?” Haern asked. He killed the other, all the while staring at his accuser. “You’ve seen me murder now, too. What punishment should befall me by Mordan law?”

“You will be executed,” the final priest said. “Filthy dog of Neldar.”

Haern kicked the priest in the face a second time. Blood shot from his nose, and he collapsed on his back whimpering.

“Let me tell you something,” Haern said, whispering into the priest’s ear. “You’ll need to either tell them what I look like, or see me with your own eyes and declare my guilt. But what if you can do neither?”

He drew out a small dagger and thrust it into the priest’s eye. As the man screamed he pulled out the dagger and mutilated the second eye. Haern spat, no sympathy in his heart for the shrieking man.

“You’ve done worse to me,” he said, standing so he could place his foot on the man’s forehead to hold him still. “You and your brethren. You can be their warning, wretch.”

He pulled out the priest’s tongue and cut it off with his dagger. He tossed the severed tongue to the dirt. Coughing and gagging, the priest turned to one side and spat out pools of blood.