Reaching down, I grab the assassin by the wrists and pull him into the closest alleyway. He struggles well enough, despite the magical suppression, and I know I don’t have much longer until the spell effects wear off.
I kneel, as much from my wounds as anything, and press my attacker against the ground with my weight, cupping his mouth with one hand and gripping his wrists in the other. I relax my mental hold and allow the channel between myself and the Void to flow. Black energy with pale, green ribbons begin to stream from the assassin’s body into mine—a rush of death and life all in one.
He continues to struggle and attempt to scream, but I stifle it with my palm, crushing his lips into his teeth and pressuring the jaw sideways until the contortion makes it impossible to create more than a faint wail.
I can sense the energy of his life draining into me, filling me with vitality and healing my wounds. Like a potent balm, a cool sensation strips away the pain in my body and leaves it tingling. As I strengthen, my would-be assassin becomes weaker and weaker. The longer I open the conduit, the faster and easier the flow. I feel almost welcomed by it, as though I could exit my own body and deliver myself to the Void as well.
Then, suddenly, the sensation abates and I find myself alone in an alley, gripping a corpse.
I spend a minute searching the body for any clues as to who this man is, if he was hired by someone else, and, even better, why. I find no such evidence, just a dead man. I remove his hood to see if the man is someone I recognize. He is a little on in years, perhaps in his forties, and quite wiry and lithe looking. Sunken cheeks and a couple missing teeth tell me he’s no high-brow assassin.
I don’t know him.
Returning to my room, I light the lamp and look around the room. Should I leave? Clearly someone knows where I am staying and wishes me dead. With any luck, it’s only the now-dead assassin who knows my location, but it’s too much to ask that he is also the one who wants me dead.
Could he have been sent from afar? He looked local enough, but perhaps the client is from elsewhere. I quickly scan through my life history for anyone who might be inclined to have me killed.
Though my family had me exiled, there is little reason they would want to follow up with a harsher punishment—especially forty-three years after the fact.
A loose thread from the Qufazd Haiun, perhaps? Who would even care about any of that four decades afterward? Boss Taaj is long dead, no doubt, and his successor is probably also dead. I can’t imagine a third or fourth boss in the gang’s succession would care to track down a supposed-rival after this amount of time—I’m clearly not a danger to their operation.
The prospect of an ex-slave, still fixated on me from the years I spent on those ships capturing men and helping to sell them as slaves all along the Shattered Coast, seems quite unlikely. While I do have a distinct appearance, and a chance sighting thousands of miles away could ignite old wounds, the odds seem quite slim. I keep it on the list and keep reviewing.
The Duke of Osceny could be sore about my resignation as his sovereignty’s lore keeper. I didn’t exactly tell him I was leaving, and I did keep some things I wasn’t supposed to. I just can’t imagine that the small nation still exists. The Free Realm’s League is an endless war, with conquest after conquest changing the lords and borders on an almost yearly basis. As a loose federation of states, the Free Realms League is the only place I have encountered that actually has laws detailing mandatory forfeiture of holdings in the event of a ruler’s death, not to mention all the odd rules they have about inheritance. Still, nobles have been known to cultivate deep hatred from even small slights, so I don’t take it off the list of considerations.
If my association to the fallen House of Indreth has been discovered, there is a real chance that a bounty has been put out on me, even after twenty years. Dromaticans do not tolerate anything having to do with Demons on pain of death. Since I had been researching demonology in the employ of the house, even without knowing it was a capital crime, I will not be exempted. I left just in time but, perhaps, it has caught up with me. Definitely a strong contender.
There’s no chance the lizardmen are mad at me, or that the assassin could have been hired by goblins. I mostly kept to myself and tried to not make any enemies while living in Nodkis, but really anyone here could have decided to quietly have me removed, as unlikely as it is. It probably isn’t the Adventurer’s Corps or anyone in the party. I would be both surprised and not surprised if Val Maxis were the one responsible. It seems quite unlike him, but old wizards are known to be enigmas.
Could it be the shady dealers of the spellbook I purchased trying to tie up a loose end? Or maybe they prefer to do business by selling, killing the buyer, reselling, and repeating. No repeat business, but no lack of goods to sell. Robbing is much easier, less involved, and would net the same results, but most criminals aren’t exactly masters of logic.
Perhaps it is merely the most likely culprit, the unknown person who spied on me the last time I was in town. I will need to do more to protect myself.
I begin to gather my things but stop. Two assassins won’t come for me in one night. This room is safe for the remainder of the night. I put my things down and assess my wounds. Draining my attacker improved all my wounds—fully healing the slice across my calf, chest, and thigh. The puncture on my thigh, however, and the initial slash on my forearm, cut deeply and are crusted over with blood. Redness and swelling tells me that I will need to seek healing in the morning but, for now, I apply an antiseptic tincture that stings much more than receiving the wounds.
My gorget continues to be more than mere ornamentation, as I note that the intruder went for my chest rather than my neck. This is the reason I tolerate wearing it at all times, even when sleeping. I will never allow myself to be as vulnerable as the day my throat was slit open in ritual slaughter. The Zer Khaldun who allowed himself to be fooled into being sacrificed surely died that day, so now only I, and the great scar across my neck, remain.
I check the condition of my dagger. Holding my dagger at my waist, instead of underneath my pillow, appears to have been very effective. I was able to intercept a potentially fatal blow, but I can’t help but critique that I took a severe wound in the process. A bracer for my forearm might be a good investment if I am to expect repeat assassination attempts while I sleep.
I try to sop up some of the blood in the room with the blanket, but it barely absorbs anything. The pools on the floor and mattress have already seeped in and are sticky to the touch. I flip the mattress over and pull out my own blanket from my travel pack, then douse the lamp and settle in to much needed sleep. I’ll clean the room in the morning and the innkeeper will be none the wiser.
I do not dream.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
Follow @LieseAdler