Free the Darkness (King's Dark Tidings Book 1) (55 page)

The Raven inclined his head and simply stated, “It is so.”

“My men?” the Grandmaster asked.

“Will live,” The Raven replied.

The Grandmaster’s eyes flicked to one of his men who came
limping across the courtyard, if it could be called such. The man nodded once in
affirmation and made a few nearly imperceptible hand gestures as he moved to
stand at the foot of the steps facing the visitors. The stony face slipped for
merely a moment as surprise caught in his eyes. While the Slips were surely
trying to kill him and the thieves, Rezkin was not permitted to kill even one
of the assassins lest he fail the Gauntlet. Had that occurred, the full might
of the guild would have descended on him until he was dead. Rezkin could
possibly escape the encounter with his life, but the other three would surely
be lost.

“You did not draw even once? Such was beyond the
requirements of the test. It was only necessary to preserve their lives,” the
Grandmaster stated.

“I might have drawn if I felt it necessary,” The Raven
remarked as though the task had been effortless.

“Men do not survive the Gauntlet. Men do not bring along
friends
,”
he drawled disdainfully as his eyes flicked to the thieves again. “Men
certainly do not feel it
unnecessary
to draw a weapon.”

“
I
am the weapon,” The Raven immediately responded,
partially out of habit. “And, still, here I stand,” he said spreading his hands
toward the ground. With the slight motion, a number of Slips who had gathered
around the perimeter flinched and drew their weapons. The Raven smirked at
their overreactions, none of which went unnoticed by the Grandmaster. “But,
this was not the usual Gauntlet,” The Raven commented offhandedly. “Your
numbers were too great.”

“And, yet, they failed to stop you,” the Grandmaster
observed. With only the slightest tilt of his head, he indicated the woman who
stood a slight distance from him. “We have visitors.” The woman was clad in
black like her comrades – the ones Rezkin had encountered during the
“walk” – except that she wore a scarlet mask that not only covered her
lower face up to her eyes, but also wrapped around her neck and over her head
like a hood.

“Adana’Ro,” The Raven stated affecting a perfect Ferélli
accent. “Do’grelah, Secrelé,” he said with a slight bow in the woman’s
direction. Her dark eyes flashed with interest, and she inclined her head in
acknowledgement of the formal greeting. The scarlet hood identified her as a
Secrelé, one of the leaders of her sect.

 The Grandmaster did not question how The Raven knew
anything about the Hall’s numbers, and if he was surprised the man knew of the
Adana’Ro, he did not show it. “They wished to participate,” the Grandmaster
said. “When they arrived this morning and news of your infamous deeds reached
their ears, they volunteered to enhance your experience on the Gauntlet.”

Enhance
the man had said. Leave it to assassins to
find spirituality in a deadly test of
Skill
and fortitude, which is
exactly how they viewed it. The Gauntlet was supposed to be not only a test of
the body against an indomitable foe, but also a spiritual awakening that could
be appreciated in one’s death.

“I am honored by the Adana’Ro…and by the Hall, that you
should see me as such a worthy opponent,” The Raven replied with more than a
hint of sarcasm. His words were appropriate and respectful, but his tone
conveyed that he did not believe the excuse for a moment. If they had truly
approved of him walking the Gauntlet, they would not have permitted outside
interference. In truth, he knew the Grandmaster desired his death all along,
but since Rezkin had prevailed and done so in excess of the rules, there was
nothing to be done except see it through.

“You did not arrive without incident,” the Secrelé commented
in Ashaiian laced with a heavy curling accent. Her eyes flicked to the
red-fletched dart protruding from the warrior’s shoulder.

Without bothering a glance, The Raven reached up and plucked
the dart from his arm. He sniffed it once and then flicked it aside. The red
fletching and the scent of suraceous poison both indicated the dart belonged to
an Adana’Ro. Rezkin had noticed the dart earlier but did not bother to remove
it since he needed a moment to study the tiny but deadly weapon. He would have
to mentally review the battle later to determine when he had acquired the
accessory, since he seemed to have missed it the first time – a major
failure on his part. It was no matter. He was immune to suraceous poison.

“A minor inconvenience, not worth the effort of avoidance,”
The Raven said with a wink and a cheeky grin – a charismatic show of
confidence affected after hours of practice in the mirror. It was like watching
an opponent’s feet, shoulders and eyes in a battle, his masters had said. Wars
could be won by attitude and expression alone. Although he could not see her
face, the Secrelé’s eyes seemed to flash with humor.

“You seek to challenge me?” questioned the Grandmaster in a
flat tone. He might as well have been asking if The Raven wanted a cup of
water. Actually, Rezkin would have appreciated a cup of water, but it would be
poisoned.

The Raven cocked his head curiously and said, “If I must.”
He waited until the Grandmaster opened his mouth to speak and said, “However…I
propose a trade before we begin…as a show of good faith, of course.”

The Grandmaster was once again surprised. The Raven’s stoic
demeanor in the face of the Gauntlet and resulting challenge were
unprecedented. Even when he had walked the Gauntlet long ago to acquire the
position of Grandmaster, he had not had such unwavering fortitude. “A trade?
What could you have that I should desire?”

“Only this,” The Raven replied as he launched a dagger at
the Grandmaster.

The Grandmaster snatched the dagger from the air and called,
“Halt!” before any of his people returned the volley. The Grandmaster examined
the black and blue silk-wrapped hilt and silvery blade etched with a raven in
flight. “Why would I desire
this
?” he asked derisively.

A blade magically appeared in The Raven’s grasp. He held the
dagger by the tip, its blade and hilt standing erect for all to see. The hilt
was wrapped in scarlet silk, and a giant ruby gleamed within the golden pommel.
Along the blade was etched a stylized fox chasing a serpent. It was the
Grandmaster’s dagger, a symbol of his station. “In trade for
this
,”
Rezkin announced.

The Grandmaster’s chin dropped just enough to leave his lips
parted in surprise. “How did you get that?” he asked, but he already knew the
answer, for he never allowed the blade to leave his person.

“I took it from beneath your pillow while you slept,” the
Raven remarked. The Secrelé’s head whipped around as she practically gaped at
the Grandmaster with her eyes. “When did this occur?” she asked in her thickly
accented Ashaiian.

“Last night,” replied the Grandmaster. “The dagger was
missing when I awoke. It must have been someone in my House,” the man grumbled.

The Raven shook his head and said in a somber, sonorous
voice, “I am not sure which is more disconcerting, Grandmaster. That a perfect
stranger could break into the
Black Hall
, into your very bedchamber, and
steal your dagger from beneath your pillow while you slumbered, no less, and
then leave again without anyone ever suspecting; or that one of your
own
,
a lifelong member of the Hall, was not only capable of the same feat, but
betrayed you to a complete stranger.”

“I would have to agree with The Raven, Grandmaster,” the
Secrelé remarked as the Grandmaster’s eyes swept over the potential betrayers
in his courtyard.

“I will put your mind at ease, Grandmaster, and give you my
solemn word that I did, in fact, commit the offense and that none of your
people were involved. Although, one of your men may have been rendered
unconscious for a time after an unfortunate encounter with a stranger in the
forest,” Rezkin added.

“Uratel, is this the man?” the Grandmaster barked.

A man stepped forward from the crowd of onlookers. He held
his arm close to his body, and from the awkward angle, it appeared to be either
broken or dislocated. He studied The Raven critically and then bowed stiffly
toward the Grandmaster. “I cannot be certain, Grandmaster. It was dark, and I
did not get a good look, but the techniques and skill I have witnessed this day
are much like my assailant last night.”

The Grandmaster’s jaw clenched before he replied. “Very well.
You are excused for last night’s failure, Uratel. It is now obvious that you
were confronted by a far superior opponent,” he said, his words clipped with
irritation. Uratel bowed again and then nodded in respect toward The Raven. No
resentment or anger resided in the man’s gaze, only acceptance. He was probably
just thankful that Rezkin had left him alive and whole during both of their
encounters.

“What is it to be, Grandmaster? Shall we settle this?” The
Raven inquired. His voice seemed but a whisper, yet it carried to all.

“If you seek leadership of the Hall, then it must be so,”
the Grandmaster stoically replied.

“I do not challenge you for your place as Grandmaster. I
have no time or patience for mundane operations.” The Grandmaster narrowed his
eyes at the stranger, no doubt taking offense to the idea that his position as
the head of the entire Assassin’s Guild could be called
mundane
. The
Raven continued, “I have bested your Slips on the Gauntlet, even with your
numbers swollen by a
Cueret
of the Adana’Ro,” The Raven said as he bowed
once again to the scarlet-hooded woman.
Cueret
, which translated to
Court
in Ashaiian, was the Ferélli term used by the Adana’Ro for a unit of their
members who were sent out on special assignment. It usually consisted of four
to eight members, depending on the task. In this one, Rezkin had identified six
including the Secrelé.

“Then what do you seek, Raven? Your message said you would
come to claim the guild,” the Grandmaster replied.

“So I do,” Rezkin answered. “I do not seek to own your
place, I seek to own the Hall. I want for no less than the fealty of the Black
Hall. I seek the fealty of the Riel’sheng,” The Raven stated with authority.

The Grandmaster’s eyes widened. “Few know this name, even
amongst our own members. You may not seek my position, but you would have us
serve you. The Black Hall serves no one but those we choose to serve for
profit.”

“Then profit under my rule by keeping your lives,” The Raven
responded.

“Then the challenge must be met. Do any here besides
The
Raven
seek to challenge
me
?” the Grandmaster asked the gathering.
Although the Slips were fairly beat at this point, a challenge for position
would not be carried out until all parties were hale. No one stepped forward,
though. From what Rezkin had gleaned, none of the other Slips were even close
to the Grandmaster’s
Skills
, and only one of the Masters might have
challenged him. But, anyone challenging the Grandmaster at this point would
then have to meet Rezkin’s challenge, and no one seemed eager to do so.

“None within the Hall challenge me,” the Grandmaster stated.
“All present recognize my authority. You have walked the Gauntlet and
prevailed. I accept your challenge, Raven, and the outcome will determine if
the Riel’sheng will answer to you or if you will be dead.”

The Grandmaster descended the few steps to the courtyard. A
couple of Slips came forward to usher Rom and the small-men to the perimeter.
Rom appeared to be gripping the young ones so tight Rezkin was concerned they
would lose circulation in their hands. Neither was struggling against the big
man, though, so they must have been fine. They were all three staring wide-eyed
and anxious at the proceedings. After all, the outcome of this battle would
determine whether
they
lived or died as well.

Now that Rom believed The Raven to be a demon, though, he
was not sure if he should root for the Grandmaster to dispatch the creature
back to
H’khajnak. It would be forfeiting his
and the boys’ lives, but their sacrifice would save the world from a
demon
incarnate.
In the end, Rom admitted to himself that he was not so altruistic and decided
he would rather live.

The Grandmaster unsheathed the longsword at his side. It was
of similar design to the dagger Rezkin had acquired from the Grandmaster’s chambers,
a matching set. It was gold and jewels, the flashy kind of sword used as a show
of elevated station, not to be used in stealthy dispatching of contracted hits.
Flashy or not, it was a magnificent master blade that was every bit fit to be
wielded by the Grandmaster Assassin or a warrior king. As far as Rezkin knew,
the blade had been used by every Grandmaster since the guild’s inception.

Rezkin allowed his hood to fall back, but he kept his will
focused. His masters and always purported the power of mind over matter, even
in those without the
talent
. They pressed him to always stay focused on
the image he wanted others to remember of him, whether it be noble or street
sweep. In this case, the young warrior did not want to be remembered at all, so
he focused his will on appearing average and unassuming. It was not enough to
want
others to believe it so, especially with individuals who had trained most of
their lives to recognize faces, even of those attempting disguise.
He
had to believe it, as well, and now Rezkin
knew
he looked no different
than any other man in Ashai.

A few flicks of his wrists, assured that no one was focused
on his visage anyway. The wicked but graceful blue swirls of the Sheyalin
blades reflected the amber rays of the setting sun. Audible gasps escaped the
observers, and the Grandmaster paused in astonishment and shocked admiration.
“Sword Bearer,” he whispered. The man’s surprise was quickly replaced with
disbelief and then anger. “Where did you get those? You are no true Sword
Bearer. We would have known had a new Bearer been raised.”