Shadow Blade, page 1
Shadow Blade
Chris Barili
Shadow Blade
Copyright © 2018 Christopher T. Barili
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
Trade ISBN: 978-1-61475-952-2
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61475-953-9
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-61475-981-2
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Cover design by Janet McDonald
Cover artwork images by Michelle Johnson,
Blue Sky Design
Kevin J. Anderson, Art Director
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Published by
WordFire Press, an imprint of WordFire, LLC
PO Box 1840
Monument, CO 80132
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Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers
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WordFire Press eBook Edition 2019
WordFire Press Trade Paperback Edition 2019
WordFire Press Hardcover Edition 2019
Printed in the USA
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Contents
Book Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
If You Liked …
Other WordFire Press Titles
Book Description
Ashai Larish is an assassin from the brutal Denari Lai order. Religious zealots, Denari Lai are kept loyal through an addiction to the same magic that makes them unstoppable. They have become the main weapon for the nation of Nishi’iti, and in a hundred years, they have never failed.
Until now. Ashai just has to kill Pushtani King Abadas Damar and his daughter/heir, Makari. He infiltrates the king’s inner circle, putting him in the perfect place to strike. Only the venerable Captain Bauti of the Royal Guard, whose love for Makari is well-known in the palace, suspects Ashai of anything.
Except Ashai has fallen for Makari and cannot complete the hit. When a second Denari Lai strikes, Ashai finds himself fighting for Makari’s life instead of taking it. To make matters worse, the order cuts him off from his magic, leaving him weakened and in withdrawal.
Meanwhile, far north, in the Pushtani mines that border Nishi’iti, a slave named Pachat learns that his love, a hand slave to Makari, has been killed by a Nishi’iti assassin. His grief ignites a rebellion, with him as the leader of the other miners. Urged on by Nishi’iti Special Forces, the rebellion sweeps across the borderlands, threatening to erupt into all-out war. Yet all Pachat wants is to avenge his beloved’s death, so he walks away from the rebellion to seek his lover’s killer.
As Pachat makes off for the capitol city, Ashai is forced to rely on the capitol city’s organized crime gang. Despite his best efforts to hide it, Makari discovers Ashai’s true identity, and suddenly, he finds himself without her love, without his faith, and without the Denari Lai. Ashai finds himself alone at rock bottom.
Can Ashai kill the second assassin and win back Makari’s love? Will Pachat gain the revenge he so lustily seeks?
Dedication
For Mireille. “So as you breathe life into my heart, breathe also wisdom and strength.” Je t’aime.
Chapter One
No one ever noticed Ashai. In his business, being noticed got you killed. So he kept his black hair trimmed just below the ears, flowing free in the style popular with Pushtani men. His nose had been broken once, but its jagged bend was not unusual among these men, who often tussled over matters of honor or family. He wore the long, tan robe of a cloth merchant, nothing more. Though he could afford them, he didn’t wear expensive perfumes, nor did he allow himself the luxury of fine jewelry. A simple leather band wrapped around his right wrist—a plain adornment for a plain man. He looked like the average Pushtani, blending in despite having only lived in Dar Tallus two years. No one here knew his true identity. Nor his plan.
They wouldn’t until he spilled blood.
The sun hung low in the eastern sky, but already, Central Square baked in its heat. Summers here oppressed a man, body and spirit, the heat baking the trash piles and sewage in the streets until the stench assailed the senses like a foul army. When it rained it merely made the heat muggy, and brought out mosquitoes as big as Ashai’s fingers and biting, yellow flies. Yes, with its squat two-story buildings, dark cobblestones, and throngs of people, Central Square acted like a frying pan, grilling up merchants, beggars, and nobles alike.
Ashai slipped through the crowd, angling and sidling at a steady pace, not slowing, despite the packed street. He passed within a finger-length of rich merchants, commoners, and soldiers smelling of sweat inside their bulky armor. The last would have gutted him had they known his true identity. But they marched past, blissfully ignorant.
It helped that he drew lightly on the tiny stream of power his God provided him, taking in its strength and portioning it out to his mind, body, and face. He saw events before the average man, as if time moved slower for Ashai, so he moved through the crowd like it stood still. His features shifted slightly with every step, making it impossible for any two people to describe him exactly the same. Even the deep brown of his eyes—the mark of a Nishi’iti—changed every other step: blue, then green, then gray. Never brown. Not here, where Nishi’itis were beaten on sight. Never brown eyes.
Nishi’s power also improved his senses, feeding him bits of conversations, detecting scents only dogs could smell, keeping him alert for any sign of danger.
He stopped outside a spice shop, breathing in the aromas of cinnamon, crushed hot pepper, and Nishi’iti Snow Spice, which made his mouth water. Ashai had grown up on Nishi’iti streets much like these, only without the heat. Or the wealth.
But he lived here now, in the capital city of Pushtan. He no longer slept under bridges or wagons, but in a small flat atop his humble fabric shop. A shop he’d paid for himself, with money he’d earned as a cloth merchant. All part of an elaborate cover story, years in the making. And that cover was so perfect; it was like it had been fated since his birth. Even his Nishi’iti name, “Azha’i,” made the transition to the Pushtani version simple.
Nishi always provided.
The crowd milled about like sheep, ringing the fountain in the center of the square. Waiting. For her.
These fools ignored their gods and worshipped a mortal woman. A woman marked to die.
Ashai studied the street entering the square from the north. Princess Makari would come from there for her weekly bout of helping the poor from the safety of her carriage, where the filthy masses couldn’t touch her. On occasion, she would step from her coach onto the broiling cobblestones and mingle with her people. Today would be one such day, if her patterns held.
He’d seen her many times, always from afar, and yet her beauty always stunned him. He almost regretted that he would kill her.
Almost.
Out of nowhere, the stench of rotting flesh hit him like a wall of refuse. He glanced to his right, following the odor. There, weaving through the crowd, was a bent, filthy man, with hair like a rag-mop and rags on his back. When his gaze met Ashai’s, his eyes flashed silver.
“Nishi strike him.” Ashai risked the Nishi’iti curse out loud to protect himself from the foul creature. Shiners were people who fell prey to back alley magic—potions or powders or spells that gave them a contaminated kind of power that mimicked Nishi’s gift. But once the corrupted magic sunk its teeth into a victim, it never let go. Most went mad and killed themselves. Survivors were marked with the glow in their eyes for all to see. Abominations.
The first time Ashai had seen a shiner, he’d left the man’s corpse on the snow-swept side of a Nishi’iti mountain. He’d never seen one in Dar Tallus. Until now.
The shiner turned and slipped off into the crowd, probably sensing Ashai’s true power and fleeing.
Relieved, Ashai stole a furtive glance to his left. A few feet away, a boy of fourteen shifted from one foot to the other, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His mud-colore
Ashai wondered for a moment if he’d chosen the right boy. It had taken just a few copper pieces and a pinch of magic to convince the young thief that the princess’s purse made an easy target. Just a gentle nudge, a wordless suggestion, and the young man had smiled at the prospect of stealing from well-guarded royalty. Had Ashai applied a bit more magic, he could have convinced the boy to kill her, or die trying. But Denari Lai did not let children do their killing.
Denari Lai, Shadow Blades, Holy Death—no matter the name, Ashai’s order did not just kill. They instilled terror, toppled nations, and destroyed power. Their legend had so grown, that one Denari Lai assassin had forced a foreign king to withdraw troops from Nishi’iti territory just by leaving one of their gleaming midnight daggers on his pillow. The king still died of course—his blood served as the wax that sealed their message.
Denari Lai were hand-chosen by their leader, the Chargh Lai, and fiercely loyal to their God, Nishi. It was his power that gave them the skills to take life in his name. He let them touch him, and in return, they would kill their own children if Nishi condemned them, so long as they spilled no innocent blood.
A commotion near the entrance to the square told Ashai the princess had kept her schedule again.
The boy had noticed, too, as he stood stock still, his emerald eyes staring at the entrance. It would have looked suspicious had every other pair of eyes not been turned that way, as well. Yes, Makari’s people loved her. They would mourn her death for weeks. Months, even.
The crowd parted as Royal Guard soldiers in blue armor, helms gleaming in the morning sun, opened a path through the crowd. Trumpets sounded, and a cheer rose from the assembled rabble, rattling Ashai’s teeth.
Makari had forgone the usual carriage and royal gown. Instead, she rode into the square atop a white gelding. Leather armor, glistening in black and deep blue, clung to her body, covering every inch of her own pale skin with a hardened carapace. Her midnight-colored hair flowed behind her, and her sky-blue eyes shone as she surveyed the gathered crowd. At her side rode a fortress of a man, dressed in blued chain mail, a long sword swinging at his hip. Captain Marwan Bauti, Commander of the Royal Guard, had accompanied his princess this morning. An unexpected complication.
Behind her walked a dozen servants, all carrying baskets of bread. She’d never done that before.
Things had just become unpredictable. Too many variables. Ashai looked for the boy, hoping to wave him off, but the lad had disappeared into the mass of bodies.
Ashai’s gut twisted.
He looked again at the princess, and to his relief, her purse hung at her belt. He hadn’t expected it to be there while she wore armor, but she couldn’t toss coins to the poor without it.
He caught sight of the boy weaving through the mass of people and followed him. If he couldn’t stop the thief, he’d have to improvise.
Makari stopped amidst the throng, her guard fanning out around her, Bauti at her side. She sat tall in the saddle, scanning the sea of people. When her eyes reached Ashai, they locked with his, and his heart stopped. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t. Her gaze held him fast, and for that frozen moment, Makari dominated his mind and his heart, blocking out all else. Then her gaze moved on, and Ashai let out a breath, confused.
He shook himself and moved forward again until he stood just a few paces behind the thief. He felt the tension radiating from the boy as nervousness swept his thin frame. Still, his exterior remained placid, as smooth as the surface of a mountain lake. Perhaps Ashai had chosen the right boy after all.
Makari raised a single, leather-gloved hand and her subjects fell silent. Her voice rang through the crowd.
“Citizens of Dar Tallus, I apologize for my unladylike attire, but I came directly from my sword lessons with Master Bauti, and did not want to keep you waiting while I changed into some stuffy gown designed to impress other nobility. You’re working people. Your time is more valuable than royal vanity.”
The crowd cheered, and Ashai didn’t think any of them—at least not anyone male—objected to the form-fitting leather. While it protected everything vital and left no skin exposed, it clung to her shapely legs and accented her long, elegant neck. He’d never been this close to her before, and had to look away to avoid offending his God.
He took a deep breath. There were new variables—armor, Bauti, and now bread.
He had to focus, but her beauty continued to drag his attention from the details.
“If you will have me,” Makari said, “I will walk among you now, and offer help to those in need.”
Swinging a leg over the saddle, she dismounted. Bauti joined her, moving to her left shoulder. His hand rested on the pommel of his long sword. Servants carrying baskets of bread stood behind them both.
The boy edged forward and Ashai tensed. He drew a thicker strand of magic, extending his senses further. He could hear the thief breathing now, feel his pulse. He smelled the bread, mingled with Makari’s sweet perfume, and the stench from the gutters behind them. He tasted the metal of the coins inside her purse.
The thief worked his way to the head of the line to receive bread, his left hand out, his right hand hanging at his side. Ashai drew within five steps.
Makari turned to receive the first loaf of bread and when she did, the boy’s left hand reached for her purse, the right flicking a small blade from his sleeve.
Time seemed to slow as Ashai closed. Three steps. The boy grasped the purse and brought the blade up.
Two steps.
Bauti saw the blade, but reacted too late.
One step.
As the boy sliced the purse strings, Ashai reached him and time returned to normal.
Ashai jumped in front of the knife, knocking the blade upward with his arm, feeling the cold metal bite through his robe and into the flesh of his forearm.
“Knife!” Bauti yelled, shoving Makari behind him.
Ashai allowed his facial features to relax and stop shifting. The thief’s green eyes opened wide just as Ashai snatched the knife from his grasp and applied a tiny trickle of magic to his mind, blanking out the boy’s memory of him.
Bauti crashed into Ashai, knocking him aside.
“No, don’t!” Ashai yelled.
But the captain thrust his sword into the boy’s chest. The thief’s green eyes opened wide, his mouth forming a circle. Then Bauti jerked his blade free, spraying blood across the cobblestones, spattering Ashai’s face. The boy crumpled to the ground, a gurgling sound escaping his lips as his blood pooled between the cobblestones.
Ashai jumped to his feet and rushed Bauti, rage sweeping through him, but the remaining guards drove him to the ground, pinning him down and taking the small knife. Then they twisted his arms behind his back and hoisted him to his feet.
“He was but a boy!” Ashai shouted, straining against the guards.
“And he tried to kill the princess!” Bauti yelled back.
Ashai opened his mouth to reply, but never got the chance.
“Release that man!” Makari stormed toward them, her eyes blazing blue fire. She gripped a curved dagger in one hand. “Release him now!”
