Category: Fantasy Publisher: Mirror Images Publishing
ISBN-10: 1468072102
Type: Fiction
Pages: 152
Copyright: December 11, 2011
ISBN-13: 9781468072105
Shade has grown into Doljinaar's most widely feared assassin, heralding from the black forests of Jui-Sae. A tale of pride and villiany, Shade stakes his life and reputation against a powerful crimelord to prove once and for all that he is the true killer of killers...
Shade has grown into Doljinaar's most widely feared assassin. A Dark Elf, trained in the black forests of Jui-Sae, he was once part of the elite caste of assassins known as the Unseen. A tale of pride and villiany, Shade stakes his life and reputation against a powerful crimelord to prove once and for all that he is the true killer of killers. How long can one assassin hold off wave after wave of monstrous foes until he falls victim to his own deadly waiting game?
"An action-packed ride of dizzying blades and jaw-dropping foes. So grab a mug of ale, sit back and duck if you see any flying glass. Roll up your sleeves and join the brawl to end all bloody bar room brawls."
*Available in hardcover, paperback, EPUB, MOBI and PDF formats.
Excerpt
An excerpt from Waiting Game, Chapter
Five: Of Truth Worth to the Order
The screams of horror echoed down the eerie black corridors of the Sada’Korum. Shade did not let the screams break his concentration. This place was always filled with screaming, of the living or dead one could never tell. He had simply learned to drown out the din of it all and focus on his goal of ascending to the most elite ranks in all Jui-Sae.
The ancient and abandoned Faelin dungeons had been reclaimed in recent decades, converted into the Unseen’s secret training facility. The Unseen who moved in shadow and killed in shadow kept many secrets. The clueless masses living on the surface above were ill-prepared to do the deeds necessary to keep their forests safe, so the Unseen concealed their methods from foe and friend alike. Such were the ways of the Unseen. The young recruit was proud to serve the order that enabled the rest of his midnight kingdom to live in peace.
Shade’s chiseled youthful frame glistened with sweat. He sparred barefoot with his training partner in the arena the ancient wardens had once used to pit murderers and thieves against one another for their own amusement. The pit was illumed by the low flicker of thousands of black candles, which filled nearly every riser to the highest stand of the old underground arena.
Shade wore nothing but a thin loincloth over his groin just like the other first year recruits and yet he felt no shame. Veteran trainees stood in the audience heckling and poking fun at the fresh bloods, but no one dared mock Shade. He was a natural. He danced around the pit floor with a lethal elegance, performing the exercises to such jaw-dropping perfection that his partner scrambled to keep up. He put even the other so-called shining potentials to shame.
Shade saw other members of his class stumbling out of the corner of his eye. One by one they cried out and crashed to the floor, clutching their bloody feet. He heard the trainers crack their whips. His classmates cried out in anguish. The whips cut deeply into their backs and they had to scramble back to their feet, lest they face the wrath of additional lashes.
He watched as another bumbling bastard son of Duke Qitaar stepped on a hot coal. The bastard screamed out as the coal seared into his flesh. Shade gracefully spun around another clumsy rich boy who sat bitterly yanking pieces of glass and barbs out of his foot. The trainers had scattered the floor with shards of obsidian glass, barbs and even hot coals.
An Unseen’s movements must betray no mistake. They must move in complete silence. ‘I must be aware of every step,’ he thought, repeating his master’s words, ‘snap not even a twig, brush not even a leaf…that is the bar I strive for.’
Shade glared hotly at the other highbred pit trash. He began to see them through his master’s cold dark eyes…their every mistake; their every inexcusable weakness enraged him. What pampered, simpering weaklings! You are supposed to be the pride of Jui-Sae! He only wished his master, Lord Sadora, was present. The Shadowlord would weed out more of the fodder. He would take pleasure in executing these spoiled rich boys of no worth to the order! Shade’s eyes flooded with hatred. ‘You know nothing!’ he thought accusingly, ‘Nothing of the honors granted you by right of nobility!’ If only his master had not gone to convene in his study with his head servant who had just returned from a journey.
Shade brought his wooden training dagger up and clinked with his sparring partner. He spun around. They touched parrying daggers as well. It was on the second spin that he caught a look from another recruit Savanesse. Shade had trained himself to need no one, not since his mother died all those years ago. He did not burden himself with relationships, but part of him had to admit he liked the daring young nobleman. Savanesse was the closest thing Shade ever had to a friend.
Savanesse’s long wavy indigo hair fell across his heavily pierced face. He brushed the hair out of his eyes. The balled earring he wore on his left ear jiggled in mid exercise. Savanesse was the rightful heir of the monstrous Shaltanoan Estate, but he shirked his life of privilege. He had a propensity for foreign jewelry and wild living, much to his parent’s chagrin. The house of Shaltanoa was so rich that it boasted it owned half of Jui-Sae. Savanesse could have easily avoided the war and lived a life of fat privilege, but he lived best among the dregs. He was more at home in taverns and brothels than in any of his family’s sprawling estates.
Savanesse’s emerald green eyes twinkled back at him. Shade noted a distinct twinkle of concern in his friend’s gaze. Savanesse made no noise, but Shade read the words off his lips. He could see the words as clear as day, ‘He knows!’
Shade felt as if his friend had just stabbed him through the heart. He found it difficult to move. He kept in step, but his heartbeat pounded in his ears. He nearly lost control. He glanced at the wide open gate, the only tunnel that led out to the surface above. His every instinct screamed at him to run. His eyes swept around the pit. Of course, he should have known! His rival, Jeshrim, was missing. The jealous pig noble had been using the considerable resources of his highbred upbringing to dig into Shade’s past. Shade would no longer be welcome here. The penalty was death and yet he lingered still.
The recruit kept in rhythm carrying out the motions that his very blood had been poured for until now. ‘Run, Shade,’ his every instinct screamed at him, ‘run!’ He had no place here anymore, but where would he go? What did he have to go back to? Back to Nefar to wallow in the mud? He clashed blades with his training partner. He spun backward demonstrating the pinnacle of lethal grace and perfect form. He caught another alarmed glance from Savanesse urging him again to flee.
Shade shook his head and smiled back at his friend. If he would die, he would die here and proud among his shadow brethren. He would not belittle himself to running and force his master to chase him down like a dog. His blood chilled over. His Elvish ears picked up the approaching sound of hard leather boot heels walking purposefully across stone. His master must have descended the spiral staircase and was making his way down the entry hall to the training pit. It was too late now. There was no escape. There was no mistaking the angry footsteps of the dauntless Shadowlord, but his master’s steps rung uncharacteristically loud. ‘He must be really angry,’ he thought, ‘for the Lord of the Shadows betrays no sound.’
Shade never broke out of exercise, even as other recruits paused to cast curious glances over their shoulders at the entryway. They quickly fell back into step. The wounded scrambled back to their feet, grunting through the pain.
Lord Sadora emerged from the shadows. He appeared to almost glide across the floor like a wraith, a tall eerie silhouette lost in the gloom. He seemed to carry the shadows with him. His chilling violet eyes burned from underneath the cowl of his black hood. Shade would never forget those cutting knife-like eyes. They were so sharp they pierced the memory. They glowed so hot and deep they would be forever burned into his darkest nightmares. He gulped.
The collective breath left the training pit. The recruits’ tense faces sweated harder, gritting their teeth, as they struggled to keep pace. The trainers intensified their lashes, pounding out a renewed rhythm of punishment.
Sadora’s cold steel voice cut through the shadows, “Halt!”
Every Unseen froze and stood at attention. All noise instantly vacated the room. Shade saw several recruits trying madly to control their edgy trembling, to emit not even the slightest creak of worn leather. The room went so silent that Shade could hear the steady dripping of sweat as it hit the floor. He thought he smelled urine on one recruit. He knew they were all praying…praying that their master did not find in them any shred of displeasure.
Lord Sadora’s eyes swept the room, causing every heart to shudder, until they finally settled on the mostly unlikely recruit of all. The Shadowlord frowned fiercely. He stalked directly towards Shade.
Shade did not move. Those burning violet eyes bore into the secret corners of his shivering soul. He could feel their penetrating power as they pierced his spirit. Time slowed down to a crawl. He heard the click of his master’s heel on every stone. His knees had the overwhelming urge to buckle, but he restrained himself fast. The tall hooded form stopped in front of him. Shade gulped. It might as well have been the Grim Reaper himself, for this dark entity also collected souls.
Sadora pulled back his hood and looked Shade full in the face. The Shadow-lord’s glowing violet eyes highlighted the hard cut yet soft angles in his strikingly handsome features. He had a dark devilish appeal to him, but his admirers had a nasty habit of disappearing. His long slick black hair had been drawn back into a ponytail. He wore hard leathers accented by a lordly violet cape. His breastplate bore the image of a single eye set into the palm of an open hand—the emblem of the Shadowhand Division. The Shadowlord’s lips curled into an unflattering frown as he looked Shade up and down.
Shade stood at attention. He betrayed not even a shred of weakness, nor even a sliver of panic or fear. He did not take his eyes off his master. He heard the shuffle of several far more clumsy footfalls behind the Shadowlord. He had hardly noticed the few others who had entered with his lord, so commanding was Sadora’s daunting presence. Shade did not look, but he saw his master’s hooded servant, Wormin, out of the corner of his eye. Wormin led a captive over to him by a brown twine rope which had been tied around the neck.
The captive had an empty potato sack pulled over his head. He wore a filthy frayed tunic that stank of a familiar dung. He was no Unseen, a peasant from the looks of him, as filthy as a mud-wallowed hog. Shade had a sneaking suspicion he knew the captive’s true identify. The Unseen Order blindfolded all visitors to the Sada’Korum in an effort to keep its location secret.
Shade also saw Jeshrim scramble behind their master, but he kept a safe distance. He crossed his arms and grinned brazenly at Shade. His long curly black hair fell across his smug highbred features. His crimson eyes glowed like fine wine, but he was drunk with the power of his influential family. He always had a crazed look in his eyes. Jeshrim’s face glowed in triumph. He poured his smirk on a little too thick. Shade could only imagine his satisfaction. Jeshrim would soon be rid of his rival and become their master’s new star pupil. Too bad Sadora’s new protégé was doomed to only be a cut above mediocre.
Shade ignored him.
Lord Sadora finished his cold appraisal. He stalked over to the prisoner. He pulled the sack off of the Faelin’s head with an undisclosed disgust.
An old Faelin geezer blinked and gaped around. His mostly toothless mouth hung open and he drooled dumbly. He gawked about like a frightened old housecat tossed into a pit of dogs. He had gray hair, another sign he was not nobility for highborn Elvish hair tended to grow more illustrious with age.
Shade recognized the Faelin at once, Dumley, one of the countless beggars that plagued the street corners of his old hometown. The fool would never make it out of here alive. Jeshrim’s contacts must’ve lured him from Nefar under promises of vast riches no doubt. Too bad Sadora would squash him like a bug before he risked a rat like Dumley selling the location of the Sada’Korum to the next bidder. It wouldn’t matter that the old geezer was dumber than a sack of rock.
Sadora pointed at Shade and asked bluntly, “Is this him?”
“Aye, that’s him, I’d recognize that boy anywhere,” Dumley nodded, “he grew up among thieves. Bastard son of a harlot barmaid in fact.”
Jeshrim beamed even brighter.
Wormin pulled the bag back over Dumley’s head. He yanked the twine hard around the neck. Dumley groaned, but kept his lips clamped.
Lord Sadora marched back over to Shade. “And what have you to say to this grave accusation?” he demanded, “You lied. You are not Selvan from the noble house Saquinarian? You are just a lowly commoner from Nefar?”
“I am,” Shade said proudly, “I moved unseen among those who move unseen.”
“Speak plainly, boy! You know what’s at stake!”
Shade took a deep breath, puffed up his chest. “I know.”
Sadora glowered at him in disbelief, as if every fiber of his spirit hated the derailing knowledge of this horrible truth. His voice drew out like a blade, “You understand then the due penalty for any common blood that pollutes our ranks?”
“I do.”
“So be it!” the Shadowlord spat. He whirled around in a flash. “Then receive the due penalty for your weakness!” A dagger was already in his hand. Lord Sadora struck with such unfathomable speed Shade barely had time to react.
Shade turned slightly, but felt the sting of a dagger slide deeply into his left pectoral. He felt blood gush from the wound and wash down his abs. He staggered but held his ground in mind-reeling pain. He struggled to stave off the flooding unconsciousness. He felt shadowy spirits wrap their cold icy fingers around his soul. He felt their tug and pull, dragging his spirit down into the realms beyond the grave, but he refused to let death take him.
Everyone gasped.
Sadora yanked the blade coldly out. More blood flowed, but Shade stood. His master stared at him in staggered shock. Never before had this happened in the history of his rule! Never had Sadora failed to deliver a killing blow. Every student he had purged from the order had simply keeled over and died, but not Shade.
Shade’s glowing yellow eyes glared back at his master like a pair of quenchless flames. He ground his teeth and pushed through the waves of blinding pain and faintness. He had managed to turn the deathblow aside just far enough that it had missed a vital organ.
Lord Sadora’s violet eyes smoldered in rage. How dare this lowly peasant embarrass him in front of his order! He struck again, this time so swift and confident that he would surely kill Shade. Clash! He blinked. It took a moment to realize that steel clashed against steel. Shade had managed to not only draw one of his master’s own daggers, but deflect the second thrust altogether. But how? Even whiter shock ghosted across the Shadowlord’s face.
Another collective gasp echoed throughout the chamber.
Sadora caught his breath, but his blood boiled. He trembled in uncontrolled anger. He uncorked the full measure of his bottled rage. He delivered the final strike.
And then Shade did the unthinkable. He not only managed to parry his master, but strike him back across the jaw with a swift backhand.
The crowd of Unseen cried out in shock.
Lord Sadora turned his shell-shocked face back to Shade. He reached up and dabbed his finger on the blood that trickled down his cheek. His violet eyes blazed with anger, a storm crackling in their midst, but suddenly they softened. Shade thought he could actually hear the thunder, he thought he could actually see the lightning disperse in his master’s eyes. He stared up in throbbing shock as his master’s sharp features relaxed.
Sadora sheathed his dagger and turned to the rest of the order.
Every eye remained held in thrall.
“Mark well this night, Shadow Brothers,” Lord Sadora said softly, “for here before us stands a Faelin of true worth to the order.”
*****************
Shade woke up suddenly. He clutched his bleeding chest. He had to stop the bleeding; he had to stop it before he bled out. He slipped his hand under his leather breastplate. He dug his fingernails into his skin until he felt pain. A slow realization hit him that his chest was dry. He was not even wounded.
The assassin blinked and looked down. He relaxed his grip and the pain subsided. He realized he was not in his home forests, but in a crude stone hut. His dreams had been invaded by a memory he thought he had safely locked away. It all had seemed so real. It had all been so clear, so powerfully visual, like it all had just happened yesterday.
Stone hut! The assassin snapped fully awake. He jumped up and hit his head on a leaning slab. He rubbed his sore skull. His eyes swept wildly around the primitive dwelling. The undead, he had been fighting the undead! The interior of the stone hut whirled around in his head, toppling his already shaky orientation. His heart sounded like a mallet pounding loudly on his eardrums. He felt like he was going to faint. He looked around, but only the stark rays of dawn’s early light slipped through the cracks and crevices in the stone hut.
He breathed out a long sigh of relief. He was alone. The night had passed and he lived. He stumbled a few steps and dusted off his old leathers. The blood that flooded back into his left leg felt like the pricking of a thousand needles. He must have slept on it. His experience with the undead had made him feel mortal again. They had almost killed him. It had been too long since he had been so close to death’s door. He didn’t like it. It shook his fortress of confidence.
Shade staggered over to the door and paused. He did not feel like himself. He felt awkward, clumsy. A sliver of doubt pricked away at his carriage. He felt its sting nibbling away at his ordinarily callous composure. He feared another horde of wretched undead awaited him outside. Above all, he feared his consciousness being left intact when that mindless hunger sunk tooth and nail into his flesh. He froze. Could he really do this? Could he really cut the head off Lewd’s syndicate? He had already nearly died and he hadn’t even reached Kurn. He felt like a whipped dog.
The assassin stared hard at the old hide door flap. He watched as it blew in the wind. The doubt in his blood boiled away replaced by a burning disgust for his own inexcusable weakness. He reached under his armor. He traced his finger along the scar Sadora had given him all those years ago.
“No, one stands up to Sadora,” he recited to himself, “I did.”
Shade brushed the flap aside. He peered out onto the sunny Ruins of Garrlohan. The wind whipped the yellow Bullgrasses, but the dead city of Jahaeddra laid still and silent. He saw the carcasses—the bones and the rotting corpses of the undead who had pursued him, but they did not rise. Xzoron’s ragged moaning still hung on the air, but he ignored it. He stepped back out into the ruins. Nothing rose. He grinned brazenly. “No one kills Warlord Lewd,” he said aloud, his words dripping with a familiar confidence, “but I will.”
The second book of the trilogy, The Chronicles of Henry Roach-Dairier, this volume will be enjoyed by astute 10 or 11 year olds as well as adults. A reader does not have to read To Build a Tunnel First to understand this volume.
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