The Trials Of Ashbarn ( Book 5) (4 page)

Both mentally and physically exhausted, she dragged
herself back to her room. While slipping into her favorite blue dress and white slippers, she eyed her comfortable bed longingly. With half a mind to ignore Azek’s request and throw herself on the mattress, she reluctantly left her room, her curiosity winning out over fatigue.

After creeping through the palace halls, Ilirra eventually made her way
outside. There stood Azek in a faded red shirt and a pair of plain brown britches. With a silent gesture for her to follow, he began walking down the steps. He moved quickly, forcing her into a light jog to catch up. Moving briskly side by side, the two walked in silence through the dark streets. Of course Ilirra was full of questions, but she knew this man too well to bother asking. Besides, her head spun as if she had been drinking. It was clear the daily stress and lack of sleep were taking a toll.

A white carriage
approached them from the opposite direction. It rocked back and forth in time with the uneven street stones. A dark-haired boy of fourteen or so peered through the glass while it slowly rolled by. Ilirra made eye contact, smiling at the boy. His eyes widened at the sight of the Queen strolling down the street like some commoner. She watched as he turned, then began frantically shaking whoever slept next to him.
Poor boy,
she thought.
No one will ever believe him
. And why would they? The Queen roaming the streets at night, with a single man for protection? Preposterous.

The ni
ght air was cool, but not so much as to be uncomfortable. Spring was fast approaching, and winter’s bite was diminishing by the day. The waning moon shone through the cloudless night sky. Gleaming stars twinkled brightly against the black canvas. The cool air and gorgeous night sky helped to snap Ilirra from her dull state of mind. A sorely needed distraction indeed.
It’s beautiful. Why don’t I walk at night more often
?

“Over there,” pointed
Azek.

Caught up in her surroundings, Ilirra had nearly forgotten why she was out here in the first place.
She followed his gaze to an old shack across the street. The rickety building may have been painted at one time. Looking at the splintered old planks, some even rotting, it was hard to tell now. She wondered how a structure so clearly neglected was even still standing.

A young man
wearing a black wide-brimmed hat that covered his eyes sat under the roofed porch leaning back in an old chair. Chewing a long piece of grass, the blond-haired man hardly seemed to notice them. But despite his looking unaware, he began lightly stomping one heel against the wood as they approached.

In the blink of an eye
, Azek bolted across the street. He grabbed the man’s knee while raising a hushing finger to his lips, shaking his head
no
. The young man swallowed hard then looked away, nodding his understanding. Reluctantly, he rose from the chair and sidestepped the door, allowing them passage. Azek turned back to Ilirra and motioned for her to follow. She obliged, really wondering what had been going on behind her back...and for how long?

Azek patted the young man on the shoulder before entering the old shack. For someone who had blown his job at standing watch, the young man didn’t look particularly upset.
If fact, he appeared rather amused.

There was no fr
ont room or hallway to speak of, only a long, dimly lit stairway descending into darkness. The thick air was humid and musty, a stark contrast from the cool night air. Azek took Ilirra’s hand and they began their descent. Even though they moved along at a steady pace, a mouse would have made more noise.

When they neared the bottom, Azek raised a hand and slowed his steps.
They could hear the muffled grunts and thuds of practiced combat. Azek rounded the corner, then moved silently across the empty room. Despite the blackened cobwebs that clung to the ceiling, dozens of footprints tracked across the dusty floor—further evidence this abandoned shack was not all that abandoned. His back to the wall, he inched across before peeking through a glassless square opening. There might have been a window once, but it was hard to tell now. The grunts and groans were clearly coming from this second room. He motioned to Ilirra, who tiptoed around and glanced through from the other side. Her jaw swung open like an iron gate.

A thin
, gray mat covered every inch of the floor, making shoes unnecessary. A very large man stood shirtless and barefoot on the center of the room. Various faded scars crisscrossed his chest and shoulders. He wore nothing but a pair of loose-fitting black pants and a hooded black mask that hung down below his chin. The chilling attire gave the giant the likeness of an executioner. The man’s thick arms and back glistened with sweat, reflecting the dim light from four lanterns hung from the high ceiling. His stance was low and powerful, legs spread wide with his elbows planted on his knees.

He was surrounded by other shirtless men
, also wearing the same black mask and pants. All were barefoot and most were seated on the floor, legs crossed. Although not nearly as big as him, each was lean and well muscled. Hardened bodies seemed as if carved from wood, physiques chiseled from repetitive daily training. All were sweaty, most still breathing heavily, proof of their recent activity. The big man spread his hands out to either side, then pointed out three individuals. “You will not always have a weapon in hand, so you must become a weapon. Dangerous and deadly, even with your bare hands. You three, come,” the big man grunted.

“Morcel,” Ilirra whispered to hers
elf. She was already sure it was him. After all, there were only so many men that size walking the streets of Taron. But now, hearing his voice, she was certain.

Without hesitation, t
he three men rushed fearlessly across the mat. With similar height and body types, they were extremely difficult to tell apart. The two at Morcel’s back left their feet and soared through the air, while the other dove hard at the giant’s knees. The man going low was promptly met with a hard knee to the face. A whirling elbow knocked a second from the air, while the third’s flying kick struck home. He caught Morcel in the back of the shoulder with a fierce blow that would have floored any other man. But the force only made the giant stumble a few steps.

Morcel rolled his
numb shoulder to relieve some of the tightness. “Good,” he grumbled in a low, gravelly voice. The other two were already back on their feet. He eyed the three, circling like vultures. “Just like I showed you. Attack as a single unit and you cannot be stopped, no matter how big or skilled your opponent. Let’s go. Again!”

As if reading each other’s thoughts, the three exploded at once into a frenzied assault.
Morcel whirled about with impossible speed, his forearms and wrists intercepting fists and kicks with hollow, meaty smacks. His feet pivoted constantly as he stepped forward, backward, then shuffled to the side in an endless circle in a strategic dance, its purpose to always keep two attackers within sight.

Howev
er, the three soldiers were highly skilled and well disciplined. They shifted from side to side, keeping no more than an arm’s length between them. Caught in the frenzied dance, they never once collided or got in each other’s way. The perfect spacing made their attacks that much more effective. Whichever two ended up facing Morcel would simply unleash an all-out assault with sharp pinpoint strikes that would have decimated a lesser foe. But even so, they knew not a single strike would find its mark. Not against this foe. But that was never the intent...

Morcel’s arms pumped and
whirled, blocking blows with blinding speed that belonged to a man half his size. But no matter which way his feet shifted, the soldiers made sure one man was always at his back. While the other two occupied the giant with their vicious onslaught, the third could attack from behind. As good as Morcel was, he was no match for this calculated assault.

The man behind threw a hard punch at the back of the giant’s neck. Morcel’s head fell forward
, spittle flying from his mouth. Recovering quickly, he whirled about, launching a wild backhand. The assailant ducked as it whooshed over his head, missing him by a hair. Morcel grimaced as fire shot up the back of his leg. He dropped to one knee. The man who kicked his leg quickly coiled around Morcel’s neck. He pulled the giant backward, squeezing his neck like a python.

The other two leaped on top of the giant, snatching his hands.
Before he could react, both of Morcel’s arms straightened, then snapped out to the sides. With tight grips on his wrists, thumbs facing upward, the two assailants drove their hips into his elbows. His arms trembled from hyperextension, threatening to snap at any moment. 

In a flash
the mighty warrior had been immobilized, stretched out flat in a human crucifixion. With both arms trapped in tight armbars, all his air being choked out, all he could do was stomp his foot in submission. The three released him, then rolled backward onto their feet. They stood at attention, arms at their sides. Morcel sprang back up. The giant removed his hooded mask and rolled his neck with a series of pops and cracks. But for a man who had just lost a sparring match, he looked pleased. With a large, toothy grin splitting his face, he dismissed them to go sit with the others.

While walking back, one of the men pulled up the bottom of his
hooded mask and spit a wad of blood on the floor. The wad contained more than one tooth. Spitting again, he raised the mask a little higher. “Do not remove it,” came the call from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at Morcel then lowered it back down.

The giant gazed
around the room, his bright green eyes piercing and unsettling, yet displaying no lingering anger from his defeat. “Good work today, men,” he said at length. “You all took another step and proved once again you are not to be doubted or underestimated. They dare to call you the ‘soulless’ and claim you have no place in our society. Well, I say damn them all. I would rather fight by your sides than an army of thousands. Forget who you once were. That long road of suffering and despair has led you to this moment. Your new lives start now, and the world will soon know who you are.” His wide, toothy grin returned. “The darkness is coming. This much we know for certain. And when it dares to enter the world of men and war is upon us...it will be met with the purest savagery ever seen. The mountains will shake, and gods themselves will look away, trembling with fear. The ‘soulless’ will no longer be ridiculed and scorned by society. They will be saviors...”

A
zek led Ilirra back up the steps. They hurried out the door, heading back towards the palace gate. Once able to gather her thoughts, Ilirra broke the silence. “By the gods, what did I just see? And why did you deem it so important that I witness it?” Azek marched on, ignoring her. “Answer me, damn you!”

Azek stopped
with a sigh and turned around. “It seems you lack the patience of a ten-year-old,” he said calmly. “So I suppose we will now have this conversation in the middle of the street, in the dead of night, no less.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“
Yes, this is indeed much better than sipping tea in a warm room. Fine, so be it.”

Her lips tightened
, but she allowed him to continue.

“
They call themselves ‘The Watchdogs’—a secret unit who train day and night under the tutelage of Morcel.”

“I was under the impression you
recently relieved him of his duties,” she said dryly.

“So I did. But that mutual decision w
as made in the best interest of—”

“Then what the hell was that!” she interrupted, pointing back the way they came.

He shrugged and looked off into the distance, clearly unshaken by her growing impatience. “Although the big man’s fighting prowess and weapon skills are nearly unmatched, he is too unpredictable to hold rank in my army. Too...chaotic and lawless to be trusted with such responsibility.”

“Yet you’ve allowed him to take command of this elite team. T
hese...‘Watchdogs.’”

“I did nothing of the sort
,” he said, holding up his hands innocently. “Morcel is not enlisted anymore and no longer answers to me. I have no authority over him or the Watchdogs. They are vigilantes, not recognized by any branch of our army. They answer to no one.”

“
And how many are there?” she said. “I saw perhaps two dozen or so.”

“I’m not completel
y sure. Fifty? One hundred, perhaps? He works with them in small groups. They take shifts, so I’ve never seen them all at once. And because they remain anonymous, even amongst themselves, it’s very hard to be certain.”

“Why is that?” she said, sounding particularly interested
. “If they are working as a team, why hide their identities? Especially from each other.”

Azek crossed his
arms. “I wondered the same thing at first,” he said, gazing back towards the worn-out structure. “It turns out that is also part of their discipline. They are taught to fight as a single unit and not to think of themselves as individuals. They hide their faces because their former identities no longer hold meaning. All that matters now is their loyalty to Morcel, and each other. Their old lives are dead.”