The Ascent (Book 2) Page 15

  “If I knew how to send you back, I would.”

  The Defiler’s gaze locked onto Farouk’s amulet, as if it were transfixed upon its golden surface. The gem in the center began to glow, seeming to sense the Defiler’s presence. Farouk looked down at it, grasping it and holding it out in front of him.

  “This is not the way,” Farouk said. “This is a talisman, not a gateway.”

  Still, the Defiler remained fixed upon the trinket, slowly inching its way toward Farouk to be closer to it. Farouk held the amulet further in front of him, gazing in wonder as the Defiler’s aura changed to one of hope and anticipation. Its sadness was slowly melting away, as if the amulet gave it an escape. Farouk could not fathom this event. Why would the Defiler feel safe in the presence of an object that was meant to negate the beast’s power?

  Still, the Defiler’s claws reached out to the amulet, inching ever closer. Farouk held it up higher, level with the creature’s eyes. His breathing became labored again as the claws came closer, his fear building and threatening to cause him to flee. Yet, he remained still, braving his possible end.

  And then the amulet came to life.

  A bright blue flash emanated from the gem within, blinding the Druid. When the light subsided, he saw shimmering blue tentacles of energy reaching out toward the Defiler, gently wrapping themselves around it. The Defiler relaxed even further, as if in the comforting arms of a mother. Within seconds, the wisps of blue had completely engulfed its form and began to draw back within the amulet. The creature’s body seemed to stretch and warp, deforming in time and space, becoming incorporeal. The blue wisps pulled the beast into the amulet’s depths, bringing with it a feeling of warmth and comfort. Farouk sighed in relief as he felt the creature’s contentment. From its point of view, it seemed that it was going home, being fed and comforted.

  When the last of the blue energy had disappeared, the amulet became lifeless again. Farouk was left alone with only the faint glow of his staff to light his surroundings. He sat for a moment, trying to make some sense of what had just happened. Where did the Defiler go? Why did it believe the amulet would take it home? Why was it different from the others?

  These were questions for which the Druid needed answers, and Jodocus, it seemed, would be only one who could provide them. He would have to commune with the land to find his mentor, and use what power he had to summon his aid. For now, he would return to the tower and do some research on his own.

  Farouk stood, taking one last look at the clutter of remains around the lair, and turned to leave. The Druaga had moved up near the lair to wait for him, and was now crouching outside. Farouk joined him, taking a knee to speak to him at eye level.

  What happened? I do not feel the Defiler’s presence anymore.

  “I am not entirely sure, my friend,” Farouk replied. “The Defiler was drawn into my amulet. I am not sure why or how.”

  The Druaga nodded, saying nothing, and handed Farouk his sword.

  “Thank you,” Farouk said. “I must return to the tower and attempt to summon Jodocus. I need answers.”

  I understand. Good luck to you, Druid.

  The Druaga departed quickly, melting into the fog. Farouk strapped on his sword and began the trek back to his tower. The events that had just occurred would haunt his mind until he returned and was, at least, able to try to find the answers. He hoped he could successfully find Jodocus, however, as the master Druid would have more knowledge.

  Either way, Farouk would find the answers.

  Garret stayed off the pathway as much as he could, not wanting to draw the attention of any passersby. Along the way he spotted several small cottages and shacks, mostly empty or barricaded, and the occasional traveling merchant. When the way was clear, he returned to the road to get a fresh view of the caravan’s tracks to ensure they didn’t stray from the path.

  Around five miles from the inn, the road split. To the north, the road continued wide and mostly well-kept, but a smaller road branched off and headed east. The caravan’s tracks followed the smaller road deeper into the woods. Whatever this stranger had set up down this road, it would be well hidden. From the looks of the path, it was, or had been in the past, a private pathway to a home or inn. Now, it was in a state of neglect; weedy, rocky, and with bare roots protruding from the dirt.

  Garret wondered how the caravan even managed to get their wagon through.

  Returning to the brush, the assassin crept silently toward his goal. The old road was long and winding, weathered by decades of rain and snow; barely passable by a wagon’s standards. However, there were more and more signs of previous occupancy along the way. Old sign and fence posts still remained at the side of road, dry rotted and decayed. One sign seemed to outlast the weather, though. It was a single, barely legible sign that read, Trading Post Ahead. No doubt there would be at least one building, Garret reasoned. But the Jindala preferred their tents to old, wooden shacks. They would have erected a large tent for the nobleman, and several smaller tents around it.

  Tents were a lot easier to infiltrate. Just a dagger to the wall, and Garret could be inside.

  As the trading post grew near, he could hear the faint voices of Jindala guards echoing through the trees. He took cover behind a birch, straining to see ahead, and waited. Four guards appeared, walking in formation and chattering in their native tongue. These were no doubt another rotation of guards to be stationed at Jax’s inn. In time, once he rescued the innkeeper’s daughter, these guards would have to die.

  Now was as good a time as any.

  As the group passed, Garret slipped out of the underbrush and fell in step behind them. His padded boots were soundless in the dirt, and he followed close enough for them to feel his breath. He drew his daggers, planning out the best means of attack. Suddenly the guards slowed as a deer crossed their path. Garret spun his daggers to face outward, and took a step forward, plunging them into the necks of the rear guards. They were both stunned as the blades severed their arteries, and dropped their spears before plunging forward into the ground.

  The two remaining guards spun quickly, spears ready, yet fully caught off guard. Garret quickly sheathed his daggers and drew his katana, wasting no time to charge. He grabbed the spear tip of the guard to his right and jabbed his katana into the man’s gut. The other guard dropped his spear and reached for his own sword, but his draw was cut short as Garret withdrew his katana and spun around to impale him through the side.

  Garret stared into the man’s eyes as the life drained from them. He pulled his katana out, letting the guard slump to the ground. He glanced around in every direction to ensure that the scuffle had not been seen, wiping the blood off of his blade with the fallen soldier’s tunic, and returned it to its scabbard.

  The elimination had been successful.

  Garret quickly dragged the guards one by one into the brush, covering their bodies as best he could. When he was satisfied, he continued his trek forward, picking up his pace as he neared the post.

  As he had guessed, the Jindala had set up their tents. The trading post itself had not been used, but had been disassembled to be used as fire wood. All that remained was the rotting skeleton of the modest trading post that had once been the home of a trapper and trader, now defiled by the presence of a wasteful and decadent group of foreigners who cared nothing for the land. Such an insult made Garret’s blood boil. No doubt the Jindala had murdered the trader, or at least driven him off from his home. He would be avenged.

  Garret circled the camp, noting the numbers of guards that wandered the grounds. There appeared to be six of them outside, and an unknown number inside one or more of the tents. Their leader would no doubt have guards of his own inside his luxury canvas palace. The odds weren’t in Garret’s favor. At least not in the daytime. But Twyla’s plight could not be ignored. He would have to make his move soon, or the girl would suffer horribly. That was a certainty.

  Nevertheless, he decided to wait until dark, ready to act immediately if
there were any sign of trouble. Dusk was only an hour or two away, so the wait would not be long. He would settle in the brush, blending in with the shadows, and await the right moment to strike.

  Very soon, he decided, every man he now laid eyes upon would meet his end. And none of them would ever see it coming.

  Prince Eogan led the small squad of Jindala warriors along the Eastern shore. Their view of the sea afforded them a glimpse of the ships en route for Faerbane. The fleet would arrive soon, and the Prince would finally meet his grandmother, the Prophet of Khem. His mother, Queen Maebh, had promised that the meeting would be an uplifting experience for the young man. The Prophet would test his soul, his resolve, and would no doubt deem him worthy of the crown, and of service to the great Lifegiver. Eogan’s anticipation was nearly unbearable.

  Even more unbearable was the great prospect of laying eyes on The Lifegiver’s most powerful warriors, the Enkhatar. The legends he had read about them intrigued him, and he longed to be in their dark presence. His own soul was dark and cruel, and the Enkhatar, to him, were a force to be respected and emulated. He would model himself after them, and be the greatest king Eirenoch had ever known. The Lifegiver would ensure it.

  “My Prince,” his captain began, “We have wasted enough time along the coast. We know the fleet is coming. We should continue our search for Khalid.”

  Eogan turned to glare at the Jindala captain, his cold blue eyes piercing the man’s soul. “We will continue when I say we continue,” he said. “Is that clear?”

  The captain swallowed. “Time is running out,” he protested. “We must find him before the Prophet arr—”

  Eogan’s clawed gauntlet shot out, grabbing the man by the neck, piercing his flesh. The captain gurgled as the blood spurted from his opened throat. Eogan pulled his gauntlet free, bringing a large chunk of the man’s throat with it. The captain fell off of his horse, crashing to the ground and convulsing as his life drained away. Another Jindala, Kassir, laughed. The remaining soldiers backed away, looking on horrified.

  “Do you find something amusing, Kassir?” Prince Eogan demanded.

  “Death is always amusing, my lord,” he answered, still smiling as his companions looked on terrified. “Especially when it is messy.”

  Eogan smiled. Now this was a man he could deal with. Kassir’s lust for blood was as great as his own. He would make a great captain.

  “Well then,” Eogan said, nodding toward the dead man on the ground. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

  Kassir smiled even wider, knowing his future was set. As Eogan’s captain, his bloodlust would be satiated, and his faithfulness would be richly rewarded.

  “I am proud and eager to serve,” he said.

  “Good,” Eogan said. “I expect you to follow my orders to the letter, and to stand at my side in battle, should it occur. Let my age be no indicator of my skill or power. Do you understand?”

  Kassir nodded, saying nothing. Khem’s past kings had been much younger than Eogan; some as young as six. At fifteen, Eogan was considered a man in Kassir’s culture. His age was nothing to be concerned about. Besides, Eogan’s lust for blood and power were admirable. He would be no weakling. He would rule with an iron fist, and spread the will of The Lifegiver through force. Such thoughts pleased the captain.

  “Come then,” Eogan said, replacing his finely etched helmet. “The sun is beginning to set. Now we continue.”

  Garret waited patiently as the sunlight faded. The forest slowly went from an orange hue, to blue, then finally, black. Only the light of a few torches inside the brightly colored tents lit the area, giving the trees a strangely multicolored glow.

  The assassin moved quickly, darting from his hiding place to the nearest tent. He heard voices inside; two of them. The occupants were casually conversing in their bedrolls, unaware that death was hovering near. Garret unsheathed his dagger, quietly poking it through the canvas and peering inside. He saw the two men, unarmored and in strange white gowns. They were reclined as he thought, relaxing in silk sheets spread across several cushions.

  He spied the doorway, which was clearly in their view. Entering that way was not an option. He poked his dagger back through the hole, deciding he would enter through the wall. The dagger slid almost soundlessly down the canvas as it cut through. He kept his eye on the men, making sure they were not aware of the sound. When the hole was large enough, he unsheathed his other dagger, slipping through the opening with his two blades ready.

  The guards did not see the glinting steel before it plunged into the backs of their necks. Each of them grunted with surprise, stiffening up as their spines were severed. Garret carefully pulled the daggers out one by one, being cautious not to make any noise. When he was satisfied the way was clear, he moved to the entry and lifted the canvas flap enough to peak out.

  No one stirred outside. The torchlight revealed nothing but trees and more tents. Perhaps the guards were around the other side of the camp making their rounds, or were tucked away hidden somewhere shirking their duties. The area looked clear.

  Garret crept outside, keeping in the shadows that danced around the camp. He went to the next tent and listened for any voices inside. There was nothing but silence. Not wanting to risk leaving a sleeping guard behind to awaken later, he looked inside the flap. The tent, though furnished, was empty. Satisfied, he moved on.

  The next tent glowed with the light of a single candle or lamp. The shadow of one man was seen against the wall and Garret saw that his back was to the door. He drew his dagger and quietly slipped inside, keeping his eye on the oblivious occupant. As he crept up behind the man, he noticed the smell of incense that overpowered the small area and filled it with a light mist. It was an unpleasant scent, reminiscent of urine or ammonia. Gasping, he continued his approach.

  Garret reached around the man’s head, cupping his hand over his mouth and pulling him back against his chest. The man grunted, reaching up to grab Garret’s arm. The assassin plunged his dagger into the man’s neck, just underneath the jaw, and pushed his head forward to prevent the blood from spraying the tent’s walls. He held tightly as the man struggled, bracing his feet and slowly lowering him to the floor. Seconds later, the Jindala was still.

  Garret scanned the tent quickly, trying to find some clue as to why the man was alone. From the looks of the tents, they were set up to house two men apiece, yet this guard was by himself. His partner was probably outside, either relieving himself or doing his rounds alone. Realizing it was most likely the former, Garret swiftly removed the dead man’s robes, dragging him to the shadows at the rear of the tent. He donned the man’s robes, pulling the collar up around his neck. Fortunately, his hair was roughly the same tint of gray and about the same length. He sat in the man’s chair, with his back facing the doorway, and waited.

  Several minutes went by. Garret sat motionless, tapping his fingertips on the wooden table before him. His right hand held a dagger, poised to strike at the other guard when he entered. When he finely heard footsteps outside, he stopped tapping, breathing deeply in anticipation.

  The guard behind him mumbled something in his native tongue. Garret tensed up as he heard the unfamiliar, guttural language. The mumbled came again, this time in the form of a question, it seemed. Desperate, Garret raised his left hand, waving it in a beckoning motion. He heard the guard sigh sharply, opening the door flap aside to enter. Garret turned, seeing the guard enter and look up, his eyes wide with terror. Garret smiled, flinging his right back to throw his dagger. The guard barely had time to draw a breath to scream. The dagger buried itself in his chest with a loud thunk. The guard swallowed and grunted, looking down at the protruding blade as he slowly went to his knees. Garret stood to retrieve his dagger, pausing to let the guard slump forward before pulling it from his chest.

  As Garret sheathed his dagger, he looked to the rear of the tent where he had hidden the body of the other guard. He reached down to the guard he had just killed and grasped him by the s
houlders. He then pulled him into the shadows and piled him on top of his companion, letting his body flop awkwardly on its side.

  Dropping the robe, Garret headed for the doorway, peering out and listening for the other guards. When the way was clear, he darted to the next tent. He crouched near the canvas and listened. Nothing. The doorway flap was closed, and no light was on inside, so he peeked in quickly. The tent was empty, save for two bedrolls, an empty table, and a small pile of clothing. Satisfied, he crept toward the remaining small tent. This, too, was empty, meaning the rest of the guards were either elsewhere in the camp or were with the leader in his larger, more elaborate tent.

  He looked around for a large tree to climb that would give him a view of the entire camp. There was a large birch near the center of the camp next to the old trading stand. Taking one last look around him, he dashed across the pathway to the tree. The closest branch was nearly ten foot off the ground. Too high to jump, especially for a man his age. He crouched, reaching into his pack for his climbing claws. Along with those were attachments to his boots, which could be easily slipped over them. He donned the attachments and the claws, testing to make sure they were sturdy, then stepped onto the trunk of the tree.

  The climb was easy, as the trunk was mostly straight. He quickly reached the lowest branch, hefting himself onto it, and climbed as high as he could. There, he hugged the trunk and looked around at the camp below. All was quiet. There were no signs of any guards patrolling the camp. Only the dim light of several lamps inside the main tent could be seen. He made a mental count of all the guards he had seen and slain. The count seemed correct. He had killed four guards earlier in the day, and four inside their tents. That was eight total, out of five tents. That left one more tent’s worth of guards. Two more. No doubt they were the leader’s personal guards.

  Seeing no point in remaining in the tree, he climbed down quietly, and slipped back into the shadows for safe measure. The large tent was open, and he could clearly see inside. Though no one could be seen. He approached slowly, keeping in the shadows, and stopped a ways outside the entrance. He could see the two guards inside, standing on either side of the main entrance, their pikes in hand.