Only a child, already a deadly assassin. . .

Excerpt

Chapter 1

37 aom.

The boy had made the exchange often enough to know that something was wrong this time. He gripped the knot of the burlap sack tighter. His green eyes darted around nervously, taking in every detail. An enemy could spring from any of the numerous empty crates or piles of refuse in these winding back alleys. The boy stopped suddenly, his ears strained for the slightest sound of danger. Silence. The boy released his breath in a frozen cloud with a forced laugh. Nothing but his imagination, he told himself. The bricks and mortar of Wescove were still young and partial to growing pains as they settled into their foundations. A warm breeze played tricks on his mind and he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a dirty sleeve.

He patted the worn dagger at his waist for reassurance as he glanced up at the sky. It would be dark soon. Better to get this business over with before there really was something to worry about. He should be angry with himself, the boy knew. He had already spent too long dicing in the tavern earlier. His father would flay his hide if he took any longer. The boy tapped his foot impatiently. He reached in his woolen coat’s pocket to check his time glass, one of the many things he’d won—or lifted—from some drunk that afternoon. The sand had run out.

The boy cursed. Zano was late. Where in Muspleheim was the fat slob? He had never been this late before. The boy’s sensation of trouble grew. He fidgeted with his dagger. The shrieking of a pair of rats fighting over a piece of rotting fish was all it took to shatter the boy’s failing resolve. Only the fear of his father’s wrath kept him from dropping the burlap sack altogether. Instead, he threw it over his shoulder and ran.

He had barely hit his stride when he tripped over something and went sprawling into a stack of crates. As the dust settled and his ears stopped ringing, the boy pushed a crate off of himself to see what he had tripped over. Bile rushed to his throat and he backed hastily away until he could go no further without developing a talent for melting through brick. The offending object was a pair of meaty legs. These attached to an obese torso. The head was most certainly not attached, its dead eyes staring into the void.

It was Zano.

The boy overcame his disgust, pushing a dirty strand of tangled brown hair out of his eyes. He pulled his ratty cloak tighter about him to stave off the cold. He edged closer to the body, checking for the box of forbidden Langjian Sang’troh root he had come to trade for. It was the crux of his father’s business, trading in the illegal and the forbidden, and if the boy could get two for the price of none, he might be able to keep one of the gold bricks in his sack. Avoiding Zano’s unseeing eyes, he rifled through the dead man’s pockets.

“Yer won’t find anythin’ useful to yer in there, street rat. He’s been picked dry.” The boy jumped with fright and turned to see the terrible silhouette of Randolf with four other men, all from a rival outfit. A giant of a man with a shaved head, a tattooed face and a long braided red beard, Randolf’s blue eyes twinkled with malice as he cleaned his nails with the tip of a short sword he used as a dagger. “Well, well. If it ain’t Whorespawn.”

The boy bared his teeth at the insult that was nevertheless the truth. “How would you know what was and wasn’t in his pockets?” The boy injected as much courage into his voice as he could.

Randolf pulled the cedar box that Zano had always carried the Sang’troh in out of his side pouch. “Seems yer friend ‘ere ‘ad himself a accident.”

“He wasn’t my friend, but stealing from my father will guarantee that the lot of you will have similar ‘accidents,’” the boy said.

“Who’s t’ tell ‘im?”

“Me.”

“Oooh, sorry Whorespawn. I fergot t’ tell yer. Yer not gonna be ‘round t’ tell ‘im. Get ‘im boys!”

The four other men rushed him, but the boy wasn’t going to make it easy. Ducking the clumsy grasp of the biggest of the bunch, the boy planted a foot in his groin that dropped him instantly. Realizing that the gold was worth less than his life (his father would surely contest that point), the boy knew he had to give it up in order to get away. But he did not intend to do so without at least using it to his advantage. He swung the burlap sack over his shoulder as hard as he could, catching another man square on top of the noggin. As the man collapsed—his head split open like a melon—so did the burlap sack rip, sending gold bricks flying everywhere.

Though ducking the lethal deluge, one man had the presence of mind to wrap an arm around the boy’s neck, an ill-conceived idea. The boy bit the beefy forearm and jerked his head about violently until he felt flesh tear. The man released him with a scream. The boy leapt over another’s diving attempt to leg-tackle him and took off down the alley. The three men gave chase while Randolf collected the gold from around his dead companion.

The boy knew these alleys like the back of his hand. He was fast, and with his knowledge of the terrain, he would lose his pursuers in no time. The only problem was, in the panic, the boy hadn’t paid attention to where his legs were taking him. Aye, he knew exactly where he was now: on an alley that ran directly into a dead-end around the next bend. The boy’s heart leapt into his throat.

He prayed there had been some sort of selective hurricane since the last time he had been down this way. But as he reached the high-walled cul-de-sac, he felt his hope slide away. The boy tried all of the back doors to the shops and homes, but they were all locked. He banged on them in vain. There was nothing for it. He ran at the sheer stucco walls, hoping to find some purchase that would allow him to climb.

There was.

The boy was almost to the roof of one of the residences nearly forty feet above when the men entered the cul-de-sac. It was dusk now, and the boy’s dirty cloak provided excellent camouflage from their searching eyes. The men stopped, scratched their heads and cursed his disappearance.

“No way ‘e climbed up outta ‘ere. I can’t even get me fingernails in one of these cracks,” one man said.

Another spat brown spittle. “Tha’s coz yer bitted ‘em all off, shite face.”

“Randolf’s gonna ‘ave our ‘eads, I know that,” the third shivered involuntarily.

“Not if ‘e can’t tell no one.”

“Dead men tell no tales, mate,” the other nodded.

A wicked grin lit all three men’s faces as they drew their daggers and left the alley. The boy let out a sigh of relief. It was only then that he realized how high he was. He was baffled to find that he was hanging onto a crack he could barely see. His sudden panic nearly caused him to lose his grip as he discovered that he was hanging like a bat from a penthouse balcony. Fearfully he scrambled onto the balcony with the ease of a squirrel. How had he done that? It was impossible.

The boy shook with exhaustion and frayed nerves. A giddy laugh that soon turned to racking sobs forced the boy to curl into a ball to alleviate the cramps. The man he had hit was dead, he knew. But it was not the first time the boy had killed someone. Four years ago he had had to kill a man in order to prove his loyalty to his father. His father said the man had informed the magistrate about an illegal shipment of his that had subsequently been confiscated by the port authorities. It had cost his father dearly.

A dagger had been placed in his palm—the sawed dagger he now wore in his belt—and he had been told to kill the man. The boy knew the man from the docks, an old fisherman who had lost his boat in a squall and had been reduced to hired labor. It was not inconceivable that he would do such a stupid thing if the price was right. Still, looking at him bound to a chair and gagged in the gloomily-lit basement of a fish warehouse, the boy felt a swell of pity for the man. Of course, should he decline, it would almost certainly be he who sat in the chair next. And the boy had wanted his father’s approval so badly even then, when he knew it would never come. He had thought that doing it would finally earn his father’s love. Instead, it had only earned him a lifetime of the same.

He could still see the look in the man’s eyes as he’d slammed the knife up under his ribcage. He could still feel the ease with which the knife had punctured the man’s lung. He could still hear his feeble struggles and the way the blood gurgled in his throat before the man had drowned in it. It had taken him a long time to die. Much longer than the boy had thought it would. When it was over, the boy had hidden his revulsion and turned to his father, but the man was already leaving.

The boy hadn’t eaten or slept for days after that. He had walked around in a daze, trying to blur it out. But the streets of Wescove were not a forgiving place, and those who failed to be ever-alert, often didn’t live to regret their mistakes. An openhanded slap from his father that had knocked out three baby teeth had brought the boy back to reality. He had neglected one of his duties—which one, he couldn’t remember—in his stupor and had paid the price for it. From that point on he had tried to never shut his eyes, blinking only when it became painful, and when he slept, he kept his dagger in his hand.

There had been another before this man, but the boy couldn’t bring himself to think about it just then. He dragged himself up and tried the balcony door. Locked. Wearily, the boy took out a rolled leather case and selected two thin tools from it. In a few moments he had the door opened and was moving through the well-furnished bedroom. Almost unconsciously, the boy took a pillowcase from the bed and began filling it with golden candlesticks, crystal and whatever else he could find. Then he moved on to the apartments below.

He slipped down the staircase and out the front door, the families at their dining table or in their sitting rooms unaware of his presence. On the streets once more, the boy clung to the shadows, avoiding alley skulkers and City Watch alike. It was halfway between dusk and midnight by the time he reached the three-story building called The Warehouse that was his father’s base of operations and home. Steeling himself for the storm to come, the boy went in, past two huge guards of some mixed race who eyed him with disapproval and contempt. They were the least of his worries.

It was warm inside, the high-ceilinged common room ringed by three big braziers. Plush rugs and a ridiculous assortment of gold finery adorned every surface. The Warehouse was a place fit to fill a gaudy man’s heart to bursting, but the boy felt cold and empty.

Ebu Natral was a dark man, with a shaved head but for a long black braid from his crown to his waist, a braided moustache that reached his chest as well as a braided patch of hair below his lip. His eyes were a pale yellow, like a wolf’s, and his face was cut from stone. At over six and a half feet tall with tattooed arms as big around as most men’s legs, the boy’s father was the most feared fighter in the underworld of Wescove. Common wisdom held that he was a half-breed—like most of those he employed—but no one was really sure what.

Those cold eyes rested on the boy as he held up his sack of valuables, trying to make himself invisible. Expressionlessly, Ebu Natral emptied out the contents; not a bad take, but nowhere near the value of the gold bars or the Sang’troh. He seemed to be waiting for the rest. The other men—lieutenants and other illegitimate children of Ebu Natral—in the brightly-lit room tensed, sensing the mood in their leader beginning to change, as it was so apt to do.

The boy’s voice was barely a whisper. “Zano’s dead. Randolf and some bully-boys killed him and took the Sang’troh. They ambushed me when I arrived for the exchange. I killed one of them, father, but the sack tore open when I hit him over the head with it and all the gold fell out. I’m sorry, father.”

Ebu Natral’s voice was deceptively calm as he waved to the pile of stolen goods. “And this?”

“Things I stole from the apartments I escaped into. I was trying to recover some of the losses.”

“And this is your story, Whorespawn?”

They boy swallowed hard. “Aye.”

Ebu Natral nodded, then backhanded the boy off of his feet. He picked the boy up by the throat with one huge hand and flung him into a wall fifteen feet away. A groan escaped the boy’s lips as he struggled to lift himself from the carpet, dimly remonstrating himself for getting blood on the fine weaving. His father would not be happy about that. He felt himself being lifted by the back of his impossibly tangled hair. He whimpered slightly, but his father’s fierce growl silenced him. Ebu Natral’s breath reeked of stale beer and swine as he put his face close to his son’s.

“I believe you. But if you fail me again. I will cut your belly open and leave you for the rats in the alley to eat alive.”

“I won’ fail oo, father,” he slurred.

“Good.” Ebu Natral unceremoniously dropped him and strode off to issue orders to his men.

Taking advantage of his reprieve, the boy crawled, then managed to stumble out onto the street. The sentries smiled cruelly as he made his way to the smaller building next door. In front were two more sentries, but these merely shook their heads at his state, allowing him entrance. Inside it was warm and well-lit and the boy took his shoes off so as not to soil the plush carpet. The large sitting room smelled strongly of perfume, smoke, wine, the faint scent of sweat, and sex.

A fat woman with heavily rouged cheeks and wearing a purple dress that left her ample bosom uncovered as often as not, caught sight of him then and rushed over. She clucked in consternation as she knelt to examine him, the look of one who has endured her own share of beatings prevalent in her dark eyes.

“Little Plum, what have you gotten yourself into this day?”

“My fault,” the boy mumbled. “Be alright, Mama Fran.”

“Course you will, Little Plum. Always are.” The Mistress of the Purple Shade dabbed the blood from his nose with a scented cloth. His mother had worked here once—the private escort of Ebu Natral—before she had died giving birth to the boy. Everyone said she was the most beautiful woman in the city, but that her tiny frame couldn’t handle the child of Ebu Natral. Since then the women of the Purple Shade had taken care of him, as they did for all the children born in the brothel. There were several.

Just then two sailors entered fresh from a long cruise. Mama Fran gave the boy a helpless look followed by a light pat on the rump before rising to greet the new customers with a big smile. A pretty young, half-Langjian woman with long black hair and almond-shaped amber eyes descended the stairs and frowned at the boy. He calmed immediately, lost within her strange, entrancing eyes. A feeling like soft cotton covering him in a warm bed crept into his soul, love and longing and comfort. It was an ability she had that she could turn on at will, and the boy clutched at it like a lifeline. She was not dressed as a whore, but even her modest red dress could not hide the lithe figure beneath. She sighed at the downcast boy and held out a red-palmed hand. She was Chu’Lin, the boy’s half-sister. Four years his elder at sixteen, she was more like his mother, having raised him from a babe.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, Little Plum,” she smiled.

One of the sailors spied her slim body and pointed. “Wha’ ‘bout tha’ one?”

Mama Fran took in the situation with one deft glance and shook her head. “Sorry, boys. You don’t want any part of that one, trust me. But I have two I think you’ll like even better…”

Chu’Lin flashed an icy stare at the sailors, turning to let them see the twin serrated daggers nestled at the small of her back. One look at the way her free hand caressed the blades was enough to convince both men of the truth. Chu’Lin smiled, and led the boy up to her quarters. She locked the door and filled the copper tub in the corner with water warmed by a small stove and scented with lavender oil. Ignoring his weak protests, Chu’Lin pulled off his many-times-mended and few-times-washed garments. She cast a disapproving look as several pieces of stolen jewelry and coins fell out (along with clods of dirt and lint) when she shook them out before tossing them in a ridge-sided washing bucket.

Had he been in full-control of his faculties, the boy might have fought to retain his modesty—as he usually did even here—but as it was, his sister easily manhandled him into the tub. She scrubbed his pale skin pink with a bar of scented lye. No amount of brushing (save with a razor) would untangle his mass of dark brown hair, so Chu’Lin settled for washing it twice with shampoo that killed lice and whatever else might be hiding in there. She felt the swelling lumps on his head and felt a pang of pity, but reminded herself that it could have been much worse for a son of Ebu Natral. That he had even lived this long was testament to his skill—more than a few hadn’t—and the fact that he had done so without the cruelty and heartlessness of his siblings made it all the more remarkable. The quiet serenity of his mother, Mama Fran had said once.

Chu’Lin looked into the boy’s large green eyes, the eyes everyone said his mother had given him, and saw something more there than in most men, let alone boys. She couldn’t describe it, but it was entrancing. That it was noticeable only when the boy’s defenses were down, as now, was tribute to his strength. This was a boy who could not be broken. A boy who never made the same mistake twice. She remembered when he had been younger, he had been the object of much bullying because he was smaller than the other beefy sons of Ebu Natral. But slowly, he had somehow learned and adopted their moves until they could no longer beat him without five or more to hold him down. All of Ebu Natral’s sons and many other neighborhood toughs had learned not to attack the boy they called Whorespawn without the necessary back-up. Small and despised though he was, the boy was respected. It was what made them alike, for she was the only daughter of Ebu Natral not serving in the Purple Shade or married away. She, too, was respected. And feared.

Chu’Lin stroked the dazed boy’s face gently, nestling his head on her breast. She sang an old Langjian song her own mother had sung to her to him to calm him, and felt his tensed muscles finally relax, letting him know he was safe, at least for a little while. She stood him up to towel him off and the boy’s face went red. She looked down and saw that the shoulder strap of her dress had slipped off, leaving one of her breasts bare. She laughed, then looked curiously at the boy. Even in a brothel he remained pure. It was yet another thing they had in common, and not by any design of her own. This boy was simply different. She felt a stab of fear that he would not live to see his potential fulfilled, and resolved then and there to remedy it in the only way she knew how. She pulled her shoulder strap back on and tipped his chin up with a finger.

She kissed him gently, so as not to start his lip bleeding again, then took his hand and led him to her cot, where she tucked him in.

“Sleep now, little brother.”

Chu’Lin drew one of her daggers and inspected it. “I have work to do.”

_____________________

“J’rael,” the soothing voice of the boy’s mother whispered. Though he had been less than a day old, he remembered it as if it were yesterday. Her green eyes had flared with pain, her blond hair plastered to her forehead by sweat. She had smiled weakly one last time before exhaling her life. The boy had always known that it was his true name, even if no one else but Chu’Lin did. And he would never speak it aloud. It was all he had of his mother left in this world.

Or was it? His mind flashed to the scene in the alley. He had been hanging upside down from a virtually flat surface. The only people he knew who could do that were the Elves. And though everyone seemed to have forgotten—she had been a whore, why would they remember?—his mother had been a Hafalf. Combined with whatever his father was, it was not unthinkable that J’rael could have some sort of magic, except that half-breeds almost never did. Could he do anything else? he wondered. He would have to try.

“J’rael.” Chu’Lin gently shook him awake. J’rael opened his eyes, then shut them and groaned immediately as the morning light reminded his head of the beating it had taken. “Wake up, little brother. You have your pick-up routes to complete and I have to get some sleep.”

At the mention of his duties, J’rael flew out of bed and into his clean clothes. They felt odd, he thought. And he smelled like a girl. He wavered slightly as the blood rushed to his pounding head, but Chu’Lin steadied him, handing him a cup of bitter-tasting willow-bark tea for the pain. He slammed it with a grimace, then wolfed down the jelly and cheese roll she offered while filling his many hidden pockets with his ill-gotten wealth. Chu’Lin smiled indulgently at the boy as she brushed a few crumbs from the corners of his mouth.

As J’rael hurried down the streets to the business quarter that paid protection money to his father—the City Watch was worse than useless in this part of the city—he noticed several sidelong looks at him from the people of the neighborhood. He caught his reflection in a shop window. He was cleaner than he had been in a long time—plenty of time to remedy that—his lip was swollen and split and one of his eyes was puffy and black. Perhaps that was it.

But soon his sensitive hearing caught snatches of conversation. The incident in the alley was rampant rumor by now. J’rael stopped into a tavern to hear what the sunrise drunks had to say about the matter, taking care to remain out of sight. As he crouched beside the door jamb, the boy heard two men discussing his exploits.

“—even the big one, Randolf,” the one with the raspy voice was saying.

“Randolf? He’s as sturdy a fighter as I’ve seen,” the higher-pitched man said.

“Makes no difference as I hear tell. That boy Whorespawn seen them boys kill ‘is business ‘sociate and went t’ Hela’s Hands on ‘em. First one ‘e kills with a single swing ovis bag, see. When it breaks, now, ‘e gets real mad an’ draws ‘is dagger an’ cuts two o’ the buggers from hip t’ sternum, mate. Randolf, now, ‘e’s a cagey feller, as yer said, mate, but e’ knows better’n t’ mess with Whorespawn, see. ‘E turns ‘round t’ run, but Whorespawn ain’t got an ounce a mercy in ‘is little bones, so ‘e picks up one a them dead blokes’ daggers an’ flings it right inta Randolf’s fuckin’ spine, killin’ ‘im instant like.”

“But wha’ ‘bout the gold, mate? I heard ‘e lost it.”

“Gave it t’ the poor as I hear tell.”

“Ebu Natral’d kill ‘im!”

“I’m thinkin’ twas a plan atween ‘em mate. Streets’ goodwill an’ all that. Plus make a statement t’ their rivals, wot?”

“I’ll be a Frost Giant’s firebrand. Tha’s clever, mate. No wonder ol’ Ebu Natral runs the docks, ey?”

“Aye…”

J’rael slipped back onto the street. Killed four people? Idiots. He had been lucky to kill one. The others had probably tried to rob Randolf and two of them had paid for it with their lives before the third had gotten lucky and caught the big man in the back and made off with the goods. And Ebu Natral planning it? That would be the worst bloody plan ever! Idiots. He noticed people giving him a wide berth and nodding respectfully. Damn it all! This just wouldn’t do! How was he supposed to rob anyone when he couldn’t even get within five feet without them turning to stare?

He was in for an even bigger surprise when he reached the business quarter. Where he would usually have had to enter each business and wait while the owners hemmed and hawed over the price and complained about their earnings, this time it was far different. The proprietors met him in front of their shops with their bags ready. They nodded when they gave him the weekly payment. Several times there was too much. When J’rael tried to give it back, they said it was for him.

The other collection boys—his contemporary siblings—usually formed a tight group to discourage robbers as they returned from their pick-ups. J’rael was usually left out of this, having to fend for himself on the way home. But today the others actually waited for him, and formed a tight circle around him as they went back. No one would hassle them with Whorespawn among them. Brothers that had before given him grudging respect now showed open admiration. All attempts of his to rectify the story were loudly drowned out by the juvenile bravado of his brothers.

Seventeen in all, the sons of Ebu Natral were a force to be reckoned with in Wescove, and these younger eight aimed to further that reputation. Bastards all, and many of mixed-race, they were a motley group that the higher citizenry shunned but the back alleys of the city respected. Ebu Natral had no care for any of them, even the eldest who were his lieutenants. But they were free labor and more loyal than slaves. His eleven daughters went to the Purple Shade when they were old enough, or were married off to merchants for a cut of their profits.

All except for his fourth daughter Chu’Lin. She was an assassin of no small repute in Wescove. Dark and beautiful, she was the only one of Ebu Natral’s daughters he acknowledged, though that was as far as he would go. She was rarely seen outside of the Purple Shade, where she stayed to keep a low profile unless she was on a task for her father. Until today, she had been the only one of his siblings who ever treated him kindly.

His other brothers huddled around to hear the tale of his daring duel the night before, but were drowned out by each other’s exaggerated stories of what they thought happened. J’rael was still in shock at this new development, and so was content to let his few words take on a spectacular life of their own. They reached the warehouse rapidly, but silenced immediately as they entered, because importantly, Chu’Lin was with the two eldest lieutenants and Ebu Natral. All four turned to look at the jostling boys, but most notably at J’rael. His stomach turned to a knot and he knew the rumors had reached his father.

He stepped forward quickly. “Father, I—”

“It seems you were untruthful with me last night, Whorespawn.” Ebu Natral cut him off. “I sent three men to find out what happened and we found not one body, but four. Now either you’re modest, or just stupid. Chu’Lin says the former. I’m inclined to agree.”

“Father, it’s not—” J’rael tried again.

“So I think to myself, why would a son of mine tell me this lie? And then I think, where in Hel’s Shinning Plains is my fucking gold and Sang’troh? So then I realize you never told me how many men were with Randolf. So, how many men were with Randolf, Whorespawn?”

“F-four, father.”

“Four,” Ebu Natral nodded at Chu’Lin, who pulled a severed head out of a dirty satchel by the hair. “Is this the fourth?”

J’rael’s stomach lurched as nodded. “Aye.”

“I think you didn’t want to admit that you let this wharfscum make off with my property. I can understand that. It would embarrass me, too. I should strip the skin off of your back for lying to me, but I’m in a good mood today.” He indicated the stack of gold bars and a mostly-full box of Sang’troh.

“I caught the idiot trying to sell it in the market last night.” Chu’Lin rolled her lupine amber eyes. “Sorry for taking your kill, little brother.” She twisted her black lips into a wicked smirk.

Ebu Natral turned to his two lieutenants. “Take these street rats into the vault room and settle up the pick-ups with accounting. Whorespawn, you stay here.”

“Aye, father.” The two fraternal twins shepherded the boys out of the room. “Move it, runts.”

J’rael gulped, fearing the worst, but he caught Chu’Lin flash him a sly wink.

Ebu Natral looked at him with his frightening eyes. “Chu’Lin says she can turn you into a passable assassin. I have my doubts, but I’m short on that particular skill at the moment, so you’ll do until I find someone better. You’re useless to me as a thief, as you know by now.”

J’rael nodded dumbly, not trusting himself to speak. Ebu Natral nodded, then dismissed them with a wave of his hand. As soon as they were alone in her private quarters, J’rael turned to Chu’Lin to confess, but she simply shook her head.

“I know, J’rael. You’re good, but you’re not that good. Not yet anyway. Randolf was no pushover. The only reason those wharfscum even won is because he didn’t suspect their betrayal. Stupid. Betrayal is the name of the game, little brother. Those same brothers who were patting your back today would put a knife in it tomorrow if they thought it would advance them. You’ve lived this long without them, no gain to be made by changing it now. Besides, assassins don’t have time for friends.”

“You really think I could be an assassin, Chu’Lin?” The prospect both frightened and exhilarated him. It was a marked step up from his current position, but far more dangerous, and scary besides.

“What do you think?” his sister shrugged. “Can you kill without being in fear of your life?”

J’rael looked down, biting his lip before answering finally. “Aye. I think so.”

“I think you have the skills, but we’ll see if you have the desire.”

“Thank you, Chu’Lin. I won’t let you down. You’ll be proud of me.”

“Follow your heart, not orders, and I’ll be proud of you.”

J’rael nodded. Little did he know how true her statement would one day be. Unless he became too valuable. It was a fine line to walk.

_____________________

Chu’Lin had seen J’rael fight on many occasions and had observed his talent for using his opponents’ strengths against them, but even she was shocked at the rapid transformation he made from street rat to accomplished swordsman. His ability was a mirror reflection of the best moves from anyone he had ever fought. It was not instantaneous, but she could literally see where his technique changed after a sound beating. He never made the same mistake twice. But in sword play, there were thousands of mistakes to make, and J’rael made it a painful point to learn every one. No matter how bad he got beat, he never gave up or asked to quit. She was impressed, to say the least.

Occasionally, she would send him out to take out a random street rat or alley skulker just to test his willingness. It was cruel, she knew, but that was the world in which they lived. Ebu Natral respected money and strength. They had little money, so strength was the next best thing. The more valuable J’rael was, the less likely he was to die.

_____________________

It was three months after they had begun their training that Ebu Natral decided to test the boy. He never stopped testing his underlings, not even Chu’Lin. He had met with her privately to discuss J’rael’s progress.

“He is a gifted student, father. A few more years and he’ll be a Blade Master, for sure,” Chu’Lin said.

Ebu Natral shook his head. “I don’t have a few more years to wait. I’ve been waiting for a lucrative deal to conclude with the head of the late Randolf’s outfit, and now it has.”

“Grunyon?” Chu’Lin asked. “You intend to seek further retribution?”

“Of course.”

“How do you wish it done?”

“Publicly.”

“It will start a war.”

“I intend to take out his eldest son, as well. The remnants will mill about in confusion long enough to crush them without further incident.”

Chu’Lin nodded. It was a large, difficult task, but she enjoyed challenges. “Tell me when and where.”

“The docks at dawn. He’ll be at his pier. Have Whorespawn kill Grunyon’s son.”

“But father, he’s not ready!”

“No time like the present, no training like the real thing. Rather poetic, don’t you think? My son will kill his.”

“Or get killed trying.”

“Either way. See to it.” Ebu Natral dismissed her. “Oh, and I have sent all you will need to your quarters.”

Chu’Lin left, knowing it was useless to argue the point. She ruthlessly crushed the swell of anxiety that threatened to overtake her. J’rael was not a boy any longer in any sense but age. He had survived the harsh streets of Wescove and was no novice with a sword. And though he was still incredibly young and small, his heart was big enough to compensate. The assassin felt all of her misgivings melt away as she reached the rooftop and found J’rael practicing the Blade Katès. Gods! The boy never stopped practicing, she thought fondly and was surprised at the emotion.

Chu’Lin had made it a point to create an emotional barrier between her and everyone else when she had first been taught the Blade Katès by her mother. With the rest of her bastard siblings, it was no hard task, for they were either heartless and cruel, or disgustingly weak. But J’rael was different, she had always known that. Quiet and withdrawn, the boy nevertheless seemed to be the focus of attention when he was around. Chu’Lin had tried to ignore him, for the isolation in which she kept herself was all that allowed her to do her job without breaking down from the horror of it. Some kills were easy, deserved even. But some were not, and it was those that kept her up at night. But in the violent world to which they had been born, the solitary hunter was the only one that afforded the slightest bit of satisfaction and retribution. That was why she had taken in J’rael, because she saw herself in him and so much more. He was her redemption.

“Time to put those skills to work, little brother,” she said softly.

J’rael froze, searching her face for clues. “But, I am not ready. You said so yourself.”

“Sometimes the only way to become ready is to do what you are not ready for,” Chu’Lin took his hand and led him back to her quarters. Once inside, she disrobed until all she was wearing was a formfitting black linen body suit. She began strapping weapons to ankles, wrists, hips and other places J’rael studiously avoided. She then donned an ankle-length, blood-red leather overcoat after which she slipped on her sword and bow quiver at her back. Her black hair was braided tight before she wrapped a black cloth around it and then her face until only her eyes were visible.

Chu’Lin saw that J’rael was spellbound by her transformation. He knew that it was his sister beneath all of that, but all he could see was the assassin people in the city spoke of in whispers when they thought none could hear. The eyes she turned on him were like the coldest night now. And the warm hands he had held only moments before were instruments of death. He flinched unconsciously as she took hold of him, but his training, and her familiar touch calmed him.

Chu’Lin sized him up as she threw off his patchy cloak and dirty clothes. The boy was skinny and pale as the moon. She found the gear Ebu Natral had promised on her bed and tossed it to J’rael. Rather than inspect it, the embarrassed boy just seemed happy to have clothes to put on. He dressed in similar garments to hers, though Chu’Lin had to help him with most of the hidden weapons. The overcoat left for him had been hers when she was younger and fit him passably, but this one was midnight blue. After she had wrapped the black cloth around his face and slipped the quiver of arrows on his back, Chu’Lin went to her dresser and pulled a red-silk bundle out. She handed it to J’rael with the ceremony of one warrior to another.

J’rael’s eyes widened as he unwrapped the gift. It was a simple black-scabbard housing a straight, single-edged sword with a round, unadorned crosspiece, called a nin’ja. He looked up at his sister with wonder, for it was just like hers. Chu’Lin smiled as she strapped it to his back, then rested her hand on his cheek.

“Little brother, this night will be a difficult one for you. But it may also be a just one. An assassin’s first kill is a special one, but for you it will be even more so. I am to kill the one who signed the order for those men to kill you. And you are to slay his son, the lieutenant who sent them. Tonight we will strike the first blow of many that will sound the death knell of Grunyon’s outfit. Tonight you will earn the reputation that now precedes you on the streets. Tonight, you will become an assassin.

“But heed my words, little brother. There is no glory in what we do. There is no honor. There is no recognition. Only pride.” Chu’Lin pointed to J’rael’s heart. “Disaster and guilt lurk outside always, J’rael. So lock your heart up and throw away the key. For if you open that door, even for the briefest instant, they will infect you like a disease and slowly cut away at you until you are naught but an empty husk. This world may not have been made for people like us, little brother, but we can mold ourselves to it in the only way that lets us retain what makes us special.” She pointed to his heart once more. “This.”

Chu’Lin straightened and grabbed both of their bows. “Now then, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Read more about The Chronicles Of Shiverdark Book One: Of Kings And Dockrats and Dane Rourke HERE.

Copyright 2010 Dane Rourke. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.