The Misbegotten (An Assassin's Blade Book 1) (15 page)

Reality slipped from my grasp.

There was turmoil within my soul. I could feel it. What did it mean?

I was standing now. No, leaning against a wall made of glass. A warm resplendent glow chased away the darkness and thawed the glacier air.

The voice pricked my mind. It’d changed again. It seemed nearer, a physical manifestation. It sounded familiar.

“I’m happy you came to your senses.”

I wiped a hand over my face and blinked away the sweat from my eyes. I was suddenly in a glass chamber, and at the forefront of the chamber stood the queen of the conjurers.

“It
pleases
me that you came to your senses,” Amielle said.

She was wearing a long, flowing dress cut from the finest silk and embellished with rubies and glittering gems. Her beauty weakened my knees, and I knelt before her as she placed herself in front of me.

She offered her hand, and I took it willingly. Eagerly.

Holding her fingers gingerly, I kissed the top of her hand and bowed to my queen.

“I’ve always had a thing for sensible action,” I said.

Amielle smiled a charming smile and stuck her nail beneath my chin, lifting me to my feet. She placed a parchment in my hand and fitted me with two daggers. She threaded whispers into my mind. She armed me with a brilliant scheme.

She kissed my forehead. “The Black Rot will forever have a place in my world. I promise you. Now, off. You’ve a king to kill and a world to change.”

I
rode
upon a fire that raged over a churning sea and under roiling gray clouds. Not even a downpour of rain could extinguish the flames that wrapped around the bird’s body and colored its wings in a magnificent orange glow.

The phoenix sped across the wide expanse of ocean at speeds unimaginable to my mind.

The jagged coast of Mizridahl appeared before nightfall. The mystical bird carried me over the Twin Mountains that spanned the southern stretch for hundreds of miles and beyond the Hush Forest, where the trees gather so densely, your voice is muffled into a whisper no matter how loudly you speak.

Soon after twilight streaked across the sky, the phoenix made its controlled descent. What did it look like from the ground? A meteor? Death and destruction sent from the gods?

The bird of fire swooped downward at a speed so fast, the uneven earth seemed to vault itself upwards at us. Small campfires burned between what must’ve been hundreds of pitched tents. Bodies moved between them; they looked like tiny dots at first, and then ants, and then a mass of waving limbs pointing weapons to the sky.

Arrows whistled past me. The phoenix twirled effortlessly between the barbed tips, spiraling downward, quickly approaching the enormous camp bristling with banners featuring a grinning jackal placed against a crimson sky.

Men poured from their tents like bees from a hive, bunching into uncoordinated groups.

The phoenix slowed and made itself perpendicular to the ground. It landed softly on the outskirts of the camp.

The arrows stopped flying.

I patted the bird’s head, its flames retreating as my hand neared, and clambered down.

Steel armor clangored as Glannondil soldiers rushed toward me, their swords drawn.

An uncomfortable sensation jabbed at my mind. I felt like something was very wrong. Fortunately, the discomfort was quieted when a fat man pushed through the oncoming drove of soldiers with the confidence of a king.

He came to an abrupt stop. “Astul? You’re fucking me.”

“I’ve returned,” I said.
I’ve returned?
I thought.
That doesn’t sound like me. Where’s the moxie? Where’s the zest?

“Gods,” Braddock said, waddling my way. He slapped his thick hands on my shoulders. He inspected me closely. “You’re alive, are you? Brain still in your skull, legs attached, hands aren’t cut off — I’ll be bloody damned.” Grinning, he added, “Don’t ever tell anyone I was happy to see you.”

“I escaped with one of their birds,” I said. Reaching into my pocket, I produced a tightly folded parchment. “And their plans for war.”

Braddock’s eyes widened. He urged me to follow him with a waving hand. “Come.”

We walked past orderly rows of Glannondil soldiers. Some stared at me in amazement as if I’d returned from the dead, while others clenched their swords and kept a close eye on the phoenix, who pruned wild flames from her feathers. They extinguished into chalky smoke as they fell to the ground.

Braddock led us into a large tent. Inside, candles burned and massive maps were flattened across tables. He took the parchment from me and unfolded it across one of the tables.

“What is this?” he asked, pointing to the various diagrams written in red ink on the map.

“If I were a guessing man,” I said, “probably their route to war. Or perhaps they simply enjoy drawing red lines with arrows pointing to the kingdoms of the major families. What do you think?”

There it is
, I thought,
now you sound like yourself.
Problem was, I still didn’t
feel
like myself. Anytime I’d ever seen the pale, chubby face of Braddock Glannondil, a dash of annoyance and a hulking scoop of hatred had embedded themselves within me. I faintly remembered how it felt, but it seemed now, as I sat across from the king of Erior, apathy overtook me.

Why?

“They can’t possibly have the numbers for this kind of attack,” Braddock said, leaning over the map studiously.

“Numbers are something
we
don’t have. Let’s see what we
do
have: a boy king skipping across Mizridahl to dole out justice for perceived wrongdoings. An idiot in Edmund Tath, who’ll follow him. And Dercy Daniser, a king who refused to march on a lord for acting out on a claim to the throne. Oh, and the Gate of the South is wide fuckin’ open now that Serith is… well, wherever I put his body. The conjurers don’t need numbers when we are as fit for a grand war as you are for a skimpy dress.”

Braddock’s eyes narrowed on the map. “Dercy will help us,” he said confidently. “He prefers to avoid trouble, but there’s no avoiding this. Chachant and Edmund, on the other hand—”

“Are likely going to war with you if Sybil doesn’t reach her lover in time.”

Braddock nodded. “I’ve been told all about Sybil Tath.”

He sighed. The gears were turning in his thick skull. Soon, smoke would begin billowing out of his ears and his eyes would turn red and he’d cackle maniacally as his overly complex scheme would come to life.

A throaty sigh rumbled through the tent. Braddock peeled himself away from the map. “I need time.” He turned and added, “Go find one of my servants. They will give you a bed and a bath.”

A bed and a bath? How lovely. I trusted Braddock would make his decision soon, so I didn’t press him further. Soon he would decide to march — whether to Watchmen’s Bay in an attempt to enlist the Danisers, or back to Erior in hopes he could turtle and withstand the assault. Didn’t much matter where he marched, simply that he did. The march would tire his men and strain his supplies. And just before he reached his destination — that point where morale is at its lowest and food comes in the form of grass and seeds — I’d kill him. The mighty army of Erior would fall into disrepair, and my queen would be happy.

As I sought out a servant for my bath and bed, I couldn’t help but admire the vastness of the Glannondil war camp.

Red tents were sprawled out for a mile in each direction. Mules and horses chugged along beaten paths between the tents, pulling wagons full of food, weapons, armor and clothing. Most of the soldiers were idle, sitting with their knees up to their chins or lying on their backs and bullshitting with one another in front of the campfires that raged beneath a starlit sky. Some sat in wide circles, with women behind them sifting through their hair, searching for fleas and ticks and lice.

Suddenly, a voice blared from behind me. “Back from the dead!”

The hairs on my neck sprung to their feet. I spun around and shook my head in disbelief. “Never felt better,” I said.

Wagging a skin of wine and swaying happily, Vayle approached me with the smile only a drunk woman can offer. She slapped my cheeks. “Look at you. Alive! Did you convince those flaming birds to bring you back?”

A harrowing pang needled my head. Pressing on my temples and grimacing, I said, “Something like that.”

Vayle put her hand on my shoulder. “Astul? Are you all right?”

Something’s wrong with me
, I thought. But that wasn’t what I said. What I said, with the conviction of a priest declaring his god is just and true, was, “I feel fine.”

And the pain vanished.

But the faint perception I was suffering from emotional malaise did not.

The Black Rot’s second-in-command stood before me — my best friend stood before me — and I was forced to feign a smile. Relief and joy should have washed over me, but there was nothing. Just a cold, unmistakable emptiness.

Vayle eyed me suspiciously. She seemed to sober up instantly. “What did they do to you?”

“They imprisoned me. But I escaped. The Rots”—I paused, feeling compelled to do so for effect—“they weren’t so lucky.”

“They understood the risks,” Vayle said. “And we’re still fifty strong. Those… things, they didn’t take everyone.” She took a swig of wine. “Would you like to see them? I have them patrolling the wilderness, searching for conjurer spies.”

The world around me spun sickeningly, tossing me into crushing consternation. Sundry worries proliferated in my mind — worries I couldn’t quite grasp or understand. It was as if a parasite was in there, rooting around, and suddenly came across something he found to be quite alarming.

“That’s good that they’re alive,” I said.

Vayle regarded me coolly. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

I slapped her leather jerkin. “I just need a bath and to lie down for a while.”

She tongued her cheek. “Right.”

A woman in a stained dress walked past. Vayle grabbed her by the elbow.

“Miss, please get this man a hot bath. He’s in desperate need.” Reaching into her pocket, Vayle produced a coin and offered it to the woman.

She put her hands up and shook her head. “No, ma’am. That’s not necessary, promise.”

“Take it,” Vayle said. “I don’t care how the Glannondils treat their servants; the Black Rot is a respectful bunch.”

Unfamiliar generosity scooped the corner of the servant’s mouth up into an uneasy smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Vayle scrutinized me with narrow eyes, and then she turned and went off. I watched her until I couldn’t see her wobbly footwork any longer, which was the exact moment she slipped inside Braddock Glannondil’s tent.

I
nside a vaulted tent
, the servant helped me out of my clothes. She brought in cauldrons from outside and poured scalding water into a round copper tub sitting on casters.

After filling it halfway, she guided me over like I was a wounded soldier incapable of finding my way. Steam undulated from the frothy water. I lifted my foot and cautiously dipped a toe inside. A scorching warmth shot up my leg and enveloped me in what was possibly the most relaxing sensation I’d ever felt.

I settled into the copper tub, stretching out as much as the limited space allowed. The servant took a hard bar of soap mottled with bits of flowers and herbs and dabbed it into the water. Then she gently rubbed it up and down the front of my body. Dirt and grime and other unsightly filth washed away into the tub, muddying the water.

She held my wrist in her soft fingers and rubbed the soap up my arm.

“Smells divine,” I said, closing my eyes and inhaling the swirling steam into my lungs.

She said nothing, although I imagined she was smiling and nodding along.

When she finally did speak, her voice was soft and apologetic. “Sir, can you please lean forward? I must bathe your back.”

I was going to explain that I was not at all a sir, but I figured what the hell? I’d roll with it and enjoy the pampering.

So I leaned forward, and waited for her to smooth the tension from my shoulders.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

Finally, she spoke. “Um. I am sorry. I… must get more soap.”

She scampered out of the tent, arms flapping. Almost as if in a panic.

That was mildly concerning, but hot baths have a way of making you forget about your worries and allowing you to enjoy the moment. And it was a fabulous moment.

Until the servant returned with Braddock Glannondil and Vayle in tow.

“Have your mothers taught you anything about privacy?” I asked.

Braddock’s sword clangored against his armor. He knelt down beside the tub and threw a heavy hand into my shoulders, lurching me forward.

“What the piss are you—”

He stabbed a fat finger into my back, and I yowled as a searing pain burned my flesh.

“Taken,” Braddock said, as if he was reading a page from a book. “Find L. Rabthorn.”

Once again the world around me churned. Candles flipped upside down and waves rippled across the surface of the tub. Voices became muddled, as if their hosts were underwater.

“Smarter than he looks,” Braddock said. “Get him up. Bind his hands and ankles, and bring him to my quarters. I’ll fetch Lysa.”

Any control I might have had over my body was mysteriously wrested away. My body thrashed about as someone grabbed my arms and hoisted me out of the tub. My body snarled and kicked and cursed as they pinned me to the floor. My body spat and swore and swung my legs at them as they tied a rope around my wrists.

My body did all of this, without conscious input from my mind. Something impelled me. Something controlled me.

It is a terrifying feeling trying to scream, only to discover that whatever has invaded your mind has managed to mute your conscious voice. You do what it tells you to do. You show the emotions it tells you to show. You say what it tells you to say.

A blurriness sealed over my eyes. When it dissipated, I found myself lying on a table, arms and ankles bound. A leather strap stretched tightly across my stomach, preventing me from rolling off.

“You don’t have to do this!” a woman cried.

“She damn well does,” Braddock said.

“He’s right,” another woman said stoutly. “I would save everyone if I could. I know the terrors of it all.”

She appeared before me, a familiar face.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

I spat in her face, which elicited a solid fist punching itself squarely into my stomach.

“Don’t do that!” she said. “It’s not his fault.” She leaned down and soothed a hand across my forehead.

My body suddenly entered a calm and tranquil state.

My eyes were closed, but still I saw her face. It came and went, returning for brief moments.

A sense of weightlessness claimed me. Slowly, my mind drifted away. Far, far away, where neither dreams nor nightmares, neither worries nor pleasures could seize it.

I fell into a deep, calm stupor, but I was strangely aware time was passing by. An awful lot of time seemed to pass me by when finally I could feel the warmth of my body once again.

I awoke a different man. That is to say I awoke with the absolute impression I was Astul, Shepherd of the Black Rot, and not some imposter.

But there was a problem. A woman was crying hysterically, bent over on the floor. She cradled a girl in her arms.

Not just any girl, but Lysa Rabthorn.

She looked dead.