Space Assassins: The Complete Series 1-5, page 7
But the people of Xymotz were a tight-lipped bunch, and it took several hours of cajoling and buying rounds of drinks, all under the guise of Alasnib the trader––one of Hozark’s favorite personas for this sort of infiltration and intelligence gathering operation––before he managed to learn the likely whereabouts of the one man fitting that description.
Of course, the drunk had not told him so outright. Even inebriated, which took quite a lot for the hard-drinking locals, they were a cautious bunch. Even the smallest nuggets of information were only gleaned by careful listening rather than outright spilling of details.
Fortunately, Alasnib, while a heavy drinker himself, was also protected by a most unusual spell. One that displaced whatever went into the caster’s mouth and deposited it some hundred meters away. It might have seemed odd to any bystanders who witnessed alcohol appearing out of thin air down the road, but for Hozark, this little trick allowed him to match shots with his new friends, yet remain entirely cold sober, though he appeared to be anything but.
“Thass enufff,” the Wampeh slurred as he unsteadily rose to his feet, swaying like a reed in the breeze. “I’ve gotta pishhh.”
“Hurry back. We’ll watch yer drinksh for ya,” one of his sloshed companions said with a thick tongue and bloodshot eyes.
Hozark stumbled through the doors and out onto the street, where he made a weaving path toward a dark side alley. Once there, he slumped against the wall, carefully taking in his surroundings and ensuring none were watching. With the coast clear, he shifted his attire, shed the disguise, and carried on toward his destination under a new persona. A sober one, at that.
The building he’d been steered to was a squat structure near the waste processing area set out at the edge of town. The smell was surprisingly foul the closer he approached. Normally, that would be expected, but with all of the magic at work, there was simply no way the casters would have overlooked so simple and minor a thing to remedy with their years upon years of castings.
No. This was intentional. Someone was making the area unappealing for a reason. And he had a very good idea whom that someone was.
The doorway seemed a straightforward enough affair. A set of two slabs with worn pads for one’s hand that pivoted them inward easily with a push, revealing a five-meter-long hallway with a pair of glowing sconces on each wall. Hozark was about to step inside when he paused, his Ghalian senses tingling. Carefully, he stepped back, studying the pattern on the floor. Red rune lines were faintly raised from the surface of the tiles.
“Clever,” the assassin said with an appreciative grin, then pulled the doors closed from the outside. He then applied a gripping spell to the push panels and pulled the doors open rather than push.
They hesitated a moment, then swung outward. And the raised runes embedded in the tiles were no longer visible. A misdirect trap, it seemed. And one that was mechanical in nature. Open the doors the wrong way and you would fall victim to the magical runes once you stepped inside, the passageway leading you to the normal-seeming, yet incorrect, corridor. Open them the correct way, however, and you had free passage to an otherwise hidden passage.
The Wampeh stepped inside and closed the doors behind him, moving carefully to the end of the hallway where the newly revealed door lay. If the first ward was any indication, this might take a while, and it would require all of his attention.
The interior of the building was warm. Warmer than would be expected for such thick walls. Then he noted the slight decline of the path he was following. He was descending, heading deeper beneath the surface, where the protective spells were the strongest. The heat from the planet’s core was seeping through, it seemed, but nothing deadly. At least not yet. Not from the planet itself, anyway.
A trio of deadly magical wards threatened to separate his head from his body as he moved past a low-hanging tapestry. Yet another trap, and one that sent him diving and rolling out of the way of the cascading magic until he arrived at a seemingly safe spot at the center of the chamber he’d taken shelter in.
But it could not be so simple.
The heavy stones of the floor began falling away, dropping dozens of meters to a pit below. But they didn’t crash on the bottom, Hozark noted as he raced across the portion of the floor that had stayed intact. There was a narrow, but passable path to the far doorway, should he but make a dash for it.
But something held him back. A glimpse of extra darkness in the murky depth at his feet.
He squinted his sharp eyes and focused hard. Yes, there was something down there. And more than that, there were several somethings. Stones, it seemed, and darker than the ones from the floor above. So dark as to be nearly invisible to the naked eye. Again, the Wampeh smiled in appreciation.
“Very well done,” he said with an approving nod as he jumped not across to the pathway out, but down to the hidden stepping stones below.
It was a long way down, and the descent tested his reflexes to the max, but Hozark was sure of foot, and in short order had scampered across the stones to the well-hidden passageway’s dark entrance.
The smell of magic was stronger here, he noted. But he refrained from striding into the corridor in a victorious rush. No, that would be the undoing of many, he suspected. But Hozark was not many. He was a Wampeh Ghalian, and one of the Five, at that. He paused and reached out with his senses, not for the obvious magic around him, but, rather, for the hidden.
“Ah, yes. There it is,” he mused as a faint tickle caught his attention. “Masterful.”
Hozark stepped forward to the threshold of the passage but paused. Eyes closed, he reached out with his left hand, his senses guiding it to a slender gap between the stones in the wall. He slid his index finger inside and depressed the magical release lever.
Lights flooded the chamber as the fallen stones soared back to their original location far above and the treacherous floor transformed into a smooth and safe expanse of immaculate tile.
Hozark turned and looked across the now illuminated room. He felt the eyes on him before he’d even turned, of course, but he knew better than to spin suddenly. To do so would be rude in this person’s house.
A short man with wrinkled, deep-violet skin stood at the far end of the room, smiling at him with dancing golden eyes. Now that he was no longer masking his presence, Hozark could feel the power wafting off of the ancient man. He was far older and far more powerful than expected. But he possessed something far greater than mere magic. Something his birthright could not afford him.
The knowledge and skill acquired with years upon years of hard work.
And given his elderly appearance, and that in spite of his magic, Hozark guessed the man had been at it a very, very long time.
Chapter Thirteen
“Master Orkut,” the Wampeh said as he strode slowly to the middle of the chamber and kneeled, bowing his head, exposing the nape of his neck as he did so.
It was an utterly wrong thing to do in any remotely hostile situation. And for a Wampeh Ghalian, one who had the opposite drilled into him since his youth, it felt even more so. Hozark couldn’t remember the last time he was so vulnerable. Yet, for this man’s services, he must humble himself. He had come seeking the greatest of the Ghalian-affiliated swordmiths still living, and this was simply the way it had to be done.
Orkut said nothing, merely stepping forward on short legs, slowly walking to the kneeling man. Hozark was much taller than he, yet kneeling like this, they were now on somewhat even footing. That didn’t mean it was not still dangerous for the assassin.
Yes, he had proven his worth by successfully passing the myriad wards and traps protecting the building and the man housed inside, but now there was one final test.
The blade maker himself would judge him. And only if he was found truly worthy would he even consider taking up the challenge of making a new vespus blade.
The violet-skinned man stopped in front of the kneeling Wampeh and reached out with his right hand. His crafting hand. His power hand, for his kind channeled their energies in a circular, flowing manner within their bodies. Left hand for healing, right hand for power. And sometimes, death.
Orkut gently placed his hand on Hozark’s exposed neck, running it along the length from his shoulders to his hairline. The assassin marveled at just how hot the man’s palm felt on his skin, unlike so many elderly whose touch was cold, as if they were already halfway into the grave.
The swordsmith unexpectedly pricked his skin with a nail, drawing a small drop of blood, yet the Wampeh did not flinch. The master craftsman uttered a whispered spell as he studied the blood. A moment later he smiled.
“You may rise, Hozark of the Wampeh Ghalian,” the man said.
“Thank you, Orkut,” he replied. “Your tests were very well thought out. Challenging. Elegant in their design and execution. You have my deepest respect for your skills.”
“Oh, you need not flatter an old man, Wampeh. I know my skills and do not need my ego stroked.”
“I assure you, that was not my intent. Merely to state appreciation for your work.”
“Hmm,” was all the shorter man said, and that with a little grunt. “Hands.”
Hozark held them out. Orkut took the assassin’s hands in his own and turned them over, studying every inch of them, all the way to the elbows, with the eyes of an expert before letting them fall back to his sides.
“A vespus blade, eh?”
“I would not seek you out in your home otherwise.”
“And you know what it is you ask of me?”
“Yes. And I am prepared to pay your price, whatever it is. The Wampeh Ghalian always make good on our debts, and my word is not only my bond, but that of my order.”
“Oh, I’m quite aware of that,” the swordsmith replied with an amused little grin. He then stood still and stared at the man before him.
Hozark had years and years of experience ignoring the scrutiny of others. It was what had made him such a talented infiltrator and efficient killer. But something about the way the man was looking at him made him almost shift and fidget with discomfort. Almost. He was a master for a reason, and controlling his emotions and impulses was a vital part of it.
Again, Orkut smiled, and the sensation lessened.
Ah, another test, I see, Hozark realized. The silence, however, continued.
“What do you need of me to begin, Master Orkut?” he finally asked, unsure if he was doing the right thing by speaking.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s what I said,” the blade maker replied. “I observed you this whole time. How you moved as you approached my home. How you moved when in disguise plying the townsfolk with drinks.”
“You were there? How did I not see you?”
“I have my ways,” the elderly man said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “And I watched how you maneuvered your way through my wards and booby traps. Yes, I know you quite well now, I think. Well enough to craft you a most deadly blade. One that once in your hands will move as if a part of your body itself.”
Hozark couldn’t help but appreciate the man’s talents. He had not only seen him coming long before the assassin had even sensed his magic, but he had also crafted his traps and diversions with a second, ulterior motive in mind. A two-fold purpose for his tests.
Any who would wield a vespus blade would have to possess great skill, but to have one crafted new, especially for them, well, that simply wasn’t done anymore. They were always handed down from teacher to pupil, or inherited upon the demise of another. But this was different. His would be a blade forged specifically for Hozark. And the master craftsman had studied him well.
Hozark reached to his waist for the heavy pouch of coin. “I have the payment in full, as is customary,” he said.
“Stop,” Orkut replied, fixing his golden gaze upon the Wampeh once more. “I have heard that you now fight the Council of Twenty.”
“You know the Wampeh Ghalian do not take sides.”
“No, of course not,” Orkut said in his least convincing tone. “And I also hear that you seek to eliminate Visla Horvath.”
“How did you know––?”
“I have not reached my current age without making more than a few friends of my own,” Orkut replied. “With Emmik Rostall gone––your handiwork, I assume?”
Hozark nodded.
“As I thought. With him gone, and Visla Tumertz stepping in to fill his shoes, Visla Horvath is preparing to expand his influence, and greatly at that. The Council has always been a thorn in the side of free men, but these times are becoming even more dangerous. Greed and lust for power is threatening all but the most stable of systems. This chaos they are causing is even threatening my own home and those I hold dear.”
“But none would dare attack Xymotz.”
“No, dear Wampeh. I mean my home. The place I am from, but can never return to, lest I put my heirs at risk.”
“I was unaware you had any.”
“And that was intentional,” the swordsmith replied. “But I am old, and someday my line will take up my mantle.”
“They possess your gift? Your power?”
“My youngest does, yes. And I’ve trained him well.” He fixed his eyes firmly on Hozark’s. “I tell you this in confidence, Hozark of the Wampeh Ghalian, and I expect you to keep this secret until my demise. Until then, he is safe. And if no Ghalian requires another vespus blade, then it is my hope my youngest may live his life quietly, and without fear of the Council learning his true skill.”
“Your secret is safe with me. You have my solemn word and vow. On my blood and the blood of my line.”
Orkut nodded once. “Your mission aligns with my own desires, Wampeh. Put away your coin. Kill Visla Horvath and stop the Council’s spread, and that is payment enough.”
“Thank you, Master Orkut.”
The violet man quietly uttered a portal spell, opening a small, magical path to the surface. The amount of power such a spell required was incredible, and for him to have cast it so easily, he must have been sitting on a wealth of Ootaki hair or some similar power store to do so. But Hozark knew better than to inquire.
“And the sword?” Hozark asked.
“You may return to your vessel. Inform your orbiting friends to standby a little longer. And in the meantime, go see the sights if you wish, what few there are on this rock. Or don’t. The choice is yours. In any case, your sword will be ready in three days.”
Hozark bowed deeply before the swordsmith, who replied with a little nod of his head, then strode through the portal back to the surface. All there was to do now was wait. And waiting was something he was an expert at.
Chapter Fourteen
Orkut was as punctual as he was skilled at his craft, and precisely three days later to the very hour the agreement was made, a heavyset woman in a long cloak arrived at Hozark’s parked craft.
The Wampeh was waiting nearby, watching her arrival from the safety of his shimmer cloak. It was not that he didn’t trust Orkut. He did, and with his life, if need be. But caution was the Ghalian way, and he was going to be absolutely sure none had followed the courier. And, so far as he could tell, none had.
“I’m here with your delivery,” the woman said into the ship’s apparently open door.
She called out, but she did not step inside. A wise choice, as there was only a single warning spell in place before the more aggressive wards would kick in. The woman’s voice was pleasant, and somewhat low in register. From what he could hear, Hozark thought she must be about thirty or so, though sounds could be deceiving. But there was something else about her. A whiff of power. And very, very familiar at that.
“From which training house?” Hozark asked, walking toward her after first shedding his shimmer cloak.
The woman turned with an utterly unsurprised look on her pale face.
“I thought you might be nearby,” she said calmly, her pointed canines shining through her grin. A Wampeh. And a Wampeh Ghalian, at that. This was a sister of the order bearing his weapon. “It is a pleasure to see you, Master Hozark. You likely do not remember me. It has been many years since you visited the training house on––
“Oobanta,” he replied with a hint of a grin of his own. “You trained on Oobanta, under Master Tiskan.”
“Yes. Before he fell.”
“A great loss to the Ghalian,” Hozark said. “Though he lived a long and productive life. You were in Teacher Galdoh’s cadre, were you not? Demelza, if I recall correctly.”
“I was,” she replied. “You remember me?”
“I remember those worth noting. And you most certainly had potential. A talented caster, as I recall. Tiskan spoke highly of your abilities. I was pleased when I learned you had successfully completed your training and became a full-fledged sister in the order.”
Demelza was a Wampeh Ghalian, and her emotions were entirely under control. But in that moment, just for a split second, she could almost feel a flush threaten to rise to her cheeks. Praise from not only Master Tiskan, but Master Hozark as well? It was enough to fluster a lesser woman.
The weight in her hands suddenly garnered her attention. Dropping to one knee, she held out the carefully wrapped oilskin package to its new owner. Whatever it was, it was surprisingly light for its length and shape.
Hozark stepped forward and gently took the sword from her and began undoing the bindings. He paused, sensing the magic in his hands, and smiled.
“Oh, Orkut. You outdo yourself,” he said appreciatively, then muttered a series of disarming spells.
It seemed the master swordsmith had taken precautions that only the sword’s intended owner would sense. On the surface, there was no trace of the wrappings’ true contents. And should any other foolishly attempt to claim its contents for their own, there were more than a few deadly wards in place on the innocuous-looking parcel.
