Olympus RPG Blog

He was bleeding memories.

It was a bizarre sensation – cool without being cold yet warm simultaneously, while being both draining and fulfilling, all at the same time – and Gabriel watched as another rainbow of color broke free from his body before dissolving into nothing. He felt different but could not explain why. His skin crawled, as if it was too small for his body, and the dragon-mark tattoos itched and burned and froze. Something was wrong…

It would be so easy to just give up. He was bleeding and aching and so very, very cold. Snow hung heavy in the air around him, blanketing the woods with white. Biting wind curled through the trees, cutting through his sodden clothes as if they were not there. The surviving ambusher was gone along with his allies, confident that Gabriel was dead and that he was safe from retribution. No one would care or even notice if he let the cold take him and right now, it would be so very easy …

Gabriel blinked and fought back the urge to shiver. Of course there was something wrong, he snarled at himself. He was dead. They were all dead. He didn’t know how the others fell … no, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d seen Gestlin die, trapped in the grip of that beast that killed them all. And then, it had seized him, tore at him, ripped him apart…

Kneeling before his father’s cooling corpse, Gabriel fought the urge to just give up. There was a whimpering man behind him who held the secrets in his heart but Gabriel wondered … was it worth it? He could simply kill the man and vanish into the multitude of people in this wretched town, could forget that he had ever been an Auditore or that he possessed a certain skillset. Disappearing into the crowd would be so very easy and he would no longer have to struggle …

At his side, Merasiël shivered, though he didn’t know why. She was still gripping Angrist tightly and, while a part of him felt strange seeing someone else with the knife, Gabriel did not regret passing it on to her. If nothing else, he’d seen a flash of actual emotion on her face and that alone had been worth the gesture. It had not been a smile, but God help him, he would coax one out of her yet.

He stood quietly on the hilltop, concealed by trees heavy with leaves, and stared down at the crumbling ruin now swarming with activity. Auqui was dead. He’d seen the boy fall, seen him buried under stone and masonry, and the part of him that had kept him alive for so very long whispered that a strong man could survive such terrible injuries. Gabriel shook that away and concentrated on his next step. Auqui was dead and his damnable bishop yet lived. Challenging a man with that much political and spiritual authority … it was to court death and Gabriel was tired of this chase, tired of this life. It would be easy to turn away, to vanish into the populace. He could go elsewhere, Araterre perhaps, or that rumored Sahud far to the north. No one would know and it would be so easy.

“I feel … strange,” Rainald murmured, though even that was louder than it should have been. He waved one hand around, frowning at the after-image of light and color left in his arm’s wake. Mendel murmured something – it may have been a curse or a prayer; with how strangely the priest had been acting, Gabriel did not know which was more likely – and Magnifico danced a strange little number before pronouncing something Gabriel did not understand in that overly elaborate style of his. Gestlin and Dane stood apart from everyone else, frowning. They were all staring at the whispers of lost dreams and forgotten memories.

“You look like you want to quit,” his father whispered to him from twenty-five years earlier. The madness that would send them fleeing from Craine was three summers away and the rest of Gabriel’s family yet lived. “When life becomes difficult, everyone wants to quit. They look for the easy path, the one that provides the greatest reward for the least amount of work. So what you must ask yourself, Gabriel, is whether you wish to be like them or if mean to take the harder path.”

No. Gabriel’s hand automatically sought out the weapon at his side. The familiar sensation of the rapier’s hilt grounded him, reminded him of who he was. Surrender? Bah. Had he surrendered when facing that beast in the water with only Angrist to strike with? Had he surrendered when they stared at hills black with Vasar? Yield, hell. He had just gotten here.

In the snow, aching and bloody and wounded, Gabriel ground his teeth together and kept walking. Three months later, he would kill the crossbowman who had tried to murder him.

Staring at his father’s body, Gabriel thrust aside his grief and honed it into a weapon. He would leave this Caithness town in four weeks time, leaving behind nineteen bodies and one missing lordling who would never be found.

Concealed by the trees, Gabriel turned away and took the first steps on a new hunt. It would take him to the Fortress of Tears where he would earn his dragon-mark and then across Megalos to far-distant Serrun where he would become the Angel of Death.

And in the land of the dead, surrounded by listless ghosts and the only people in this world or the next he considered friends, Gabriel Auditore straightened. By God, he would not quit now. How did that quote go? Into the shadow with teeth bared, screaming defiance with the last breath, to spit in Satan’s eye on the Last Day.

“There,” someone called out. It was Dane, of course, with his eyes that could see the wings of a gnat at a hundred paces. He was pointing at an impressive structure atop the hill. Every ghost stared at it, expressionless faces somehow betraying their … longing? Yes. Longing. They had given up. Gabriel frowned as he glanced around. Well … this certainly looked like the Shadow to him.

Perhaps … perhaps it was time to begin screaming defiance.

“Let us go say hello,” Gabriel declared with a smile.

A cleaved head no longer plots.

The Northern proverb uttered by Rainald kept rolling around in Gabriel’s head, even as he climbed down the rope ladder, although he knew that he should be focusing on the task at hand. It was a statement that was both simple and yet obvious, and something he would have to keep in mind for the future. How many of those he’d encountered in the past had returned to haunt him because he held back from finishing them or erred by not finding a way to end them as they deserved? Gabriel scowled. Zabka was certainly one…

Eight Years Ago

They were arguing again.

It was the usual disagreement – his student wanted to join the fighting and he had forbade it – but there was a touch more anger in Auqui’s voice than Gabriel had recalled hearing of late. Anger and sullen defensiveness, neither of which should have surprised him, not with Auqui having entered those difficult years where he was no longer a boy but not quite a man. For his part, Gabriel was too exhausted to deal with this nonsense at the moment, not to mention hungry and cold and sore. All he wanted to do was find his blankets, curl up underneath them, and forget this day ever happened. Such a thing was not feasible, not with tonight’s planned raid against the Vasar’s lines.

Though there was no ice on the ground, winter had not yet completely lifted its icy grip from the Huallapan land, which should have given them a massive advantage over the Vasar, but thus far, they had yet to take this damnable Hive. Coordinated assaults by the crusaders were a thing of the past, with the leaders of the rebels and royalists factions both jockeying for overall command. Lives were being spent liberally – the older knights especially seemed more interested in dying heroically than actually accomplishing anything useful – and senseless attacks were ordered on an almost hourly basis. Though he’d long ago sworn off returning to old habits, Gabriel was seriously considering assassinating some of the more intransigent fools in command on both sides just so someone else could lead.

“No,” he said in response to Auqui’s latest entreaties. “You are not ready.”

“I’m better with a sword than half of these fools!” the boy retorted fiercely.

“More than half, I’d wager,” Gabriel replied with a tired smile. “But you are still reckless and too confident by a large margin.” He held up a hand to stop Auqui’s next line of reasoning. “Your leg still has not fully healed,” he pointed out, which immediately caused the boy to flush in embarrassment, “and I well remember how you gained that injury.”

“I could have handled it,” Auqui muttered sullenly.

“If Dane had not shot it,” Gabriel retorted, “that bug would have killed you.” He did not bother pointing out that Auqui was not even supposed to be in that particular skirmish, nor that the boy had ignored explicit instructions to stay out of it, mostly because his student too often only heard what he wanted to hear. Instead, he took a seat on the large rock that Rainald had declared ‘the singing rock’ … though what that meant, no one but the Northerner knew.

“This is not fair,” Auqui said. “When you were my age,” he began.

“When I was your age,” Gabriel interject calmly, “I was arguing with my father who kept telling me that I was reckless and overly confident.” He smiled softly, intent on remembering those days instead of the ones of terror and fear that came later. He was about to add more when he noticed the approach of a man he had little desire to interact with. “Your grace,” he greeted as Bishop Zabka drew closer. A lifetime of Catholic teachings drove Gabriel to his feet but he did not offer to kiss the man’s ring nor did Zabka offer it.

“Sir Gabriel,” came the calm reply. The honorific still felt uncomfortable, though even the royalists had taken to treating him as a knight, no matter that the status was bestowed upon him by Lord Wallace. “And … Auqui, is it not?” His pronunciation was wrong, but only slightly.

“It is … your grace,” Auqui replied, stumbling over the title. The boy’s Anglish was still heavily accented, but he improved daily and it was certainly better than Gabriel’s Huallapan and quite frequently, more comprehensible than Rainald’s attempts at speech. Together, Gabriel and Auqui had developed a curious pidgin tongue that used both of their native languages. Zabka’s eyes widened slightly.

“You speak Anglish well for one of your world,” he began before looking back to Gabriel. “The Church has need of translators, my son,” he said before he glanced back in the direction he just came. Gabriel followed the line of his gaze to a larger group of tents – a handful of armsmen were watching over a cluster of Huallapans while a pair of harried-looking priests visibly struggled to communicate with the former slaves. “Would your young student be so kind as to assist us in our time of need?”

“May I, Master Gabriel?” Auqui had slipped back into his native tongue and the eagerness pulsed off him like a living thing. “I want to help and this could be important!” Gabriel almost frowned – he saw through Auqui easily enough. This was an opportunity for the boy to strut around in front of his fellow Huallapans and be the focus of their awe since he was clearly a warrior and not just a fisherman. Had anyone but Zabka been involved, Gabriel would not have hesitated to give permission, but with this man …

“Go,” he ordered after a moment of consideration. “Be back before dusk,” he added as Auqui’s grin lit up his face. The boy nodded and then turned away, almost instantly falling into the arrogant strut that was Cat Crosses the Courtyard. His limp spoiled it a little, but only to Gabriel’s expert eye.

“Many thanks, sir knight,” Zabka said as they both watched Auqui attract exactly the kind of attention the boy sought. “My flock were ill prepared for this crusade so this will assist tremendously.” Gabriel said nothing, though he did offer a slightly nod. “We began poorly, I think,” the bishop said abruptly. Gabriel gave him a flat look.

“You tried to have an innocent woman murdered because you thought she was a witch,” he replied in as cold a voice as he could manage.

“For which I have sought atonement and absolution,” Zabka stated. “I have asked for the Lord’s forgiveness for my sins.” His gesture encompasses the whole of the crusader host. “Is any man or woman here without sin?” Gabriel observe none of the expected tells that would see in a man speaking a mistruth, but then, an exceptional liar would know to hide such a thing and if there was anything he’d learned in his nearly thirty years of life, it was that men of Zabka’s station were often such exceptional men.

“And yet, your grace,” Gabriel said slowly, “I find that I mistrust you.”

“An honest reply.” The bishop smiled. “And understandable to one who has known only conflict.” He glanced away. “I remember you,” Zabka said abruptly. “From Craine.” His expression darkened. “And I remember well Abbot Publius’ sins … may God have mercy on his poor, tormented soul.” He crossed himself and, automatically, Gabriel followed suit. The bishop eyed him for a moment. “We have similar goals, I think,” he began, “and I would not wish to have us as enemies.”

“Goals?” Gabriel gave him a look. “My only goal is to train my student to become the best swordsman he can be.” For a long moment, the bishop was silent.

“An interesting application of your particular talents, scion of Auditore,” he said. “We shall speak again, my son.” He made the sign of the cross before Gabriel. “Go with God,” he added before turning away.

And, exhausted by a day of bitter, harsh fighting, Gabriel let him go, not entirely registering the implications of the bishop’s use of his family name. He might have even puzzled it out if given a moment to relax but Dane’s approach distracted him.

“Come with me,” the archer ordered. “I have need of your eyes.”

“You cannot have them,” Gabriel replied. “I am rather attached to them, actually.”

“I think I know how we can get into the Hive,” Dane said in an irritated voice. He was hiding it well, but to those who knew him, there was no hiding how insulted he was over not being allowed to command due to his birth.

“Well, then,” Gabriel said as he straightened. “You have my attention now.”

The stench of blood was still thick in the air.

Gabriel leaned heavily against a shattered stone column, trying very hard to ignore the throbbing agony in his leg. After all, with how close they had just come to dying, with Magnifico grievously wounded, Rainald missing an eye and Radskyrta dead, it would seem the height of folly to complain about a simple arrow wound. He scowled. Four of the five hostiles were dead, the fifth missing … and Gabriel still didn’t know what this nonsense had been about.

“Here.” Merasiël drew alongside him. Like nearly everyone else, the elf was badly injured. Automatically, Gabriel shifted slightly to give her room so she could get off her feet, which seemed to irritate her at least a little though the slight grimace of pain she made when she took the offered seat hinted at injuries worse than he thought. Wisely, Gabriel held his tongue and waited. She offered one of the strange-looking pronged weapons to him. “Thought you might want to look at this.” Gabriel accepted it, tested its balance for a heartbeat, before finally grunting softly. It reminded him of a main gauche, though he would be the first to admit that he had only rarely used a parrying dagger. By his calculations, it had been almost twenty years since Father first showed him the basics with such a blade and, though he had used one infrequently throughout the decades since, he was long out of practice with it. Abruptly, he realized that Merasiël was studying how he held the weapon – what was the bloody name of this thing again? – and a flash of amusement stabbed through him despite the grim circumstances. Of course she had an ulterior motive. Didn’t everyone?

“A sai,” Gabriel said suddenly. “This is called a sai.” Merasiël gave him an impatient look and Gabriel offered her a tight smile. “My father taught me to use a weapon like this. It was a parrying dagger.” That certainly drew her attention, but she was a connoisseur of knives, so was that any surprise? “I am somewhat rusty, but once my leg is attended to, I will be happy to show you what little I know.”

“There is something wrong with your eye,” Mendel was telling a seated Rainald. The monk looked somewhat the worse for wear himself, but was still seeing to the injured.

“This thing?” the burly Northman exclaimed loudly, jabbing a finger toward the practically-empty socket. “Gone! Like Odin!” He frowned darkly. “Hildra will not like, I think maybe.”

“Who is Hildra?” Merasiël murmured under her breath in Elvish. Gabriel grinned and responded in kind. If for no other reason, he enjoyed having Merasiël around because it let him use Elvish. It was such a beautiful language…

“His wife.” He twirled the sai around one finger, then casually swapped it to his other hand with an expert flourish. Yes. This would be a nice weapon to use. “You would like her, I think.” Automatically, his eyes returned to Radskyrta’s unmoving form.

And he remembered.

Six Months Ago

He was not sure how he had been roped into this.

Walking alongside Cometes, Gabriel listened to the unintelligible gibberish that passed for a language among Rainald’s family. Hildra was driving her cart with expert skill while somehow managing to keep the two boys under control with little more than a stern look or sharp word. Clearly, it was some form of magical ability he did not comprehend.

“I take Uncle to monk-healers,” Rainald had said some hours earlier. “Go with family to village for me. I owe you favor.” Hildra had exchanged some forceful words with her husband, but had finally agreed after several long minutes of loud argument. It was so very strange to see the big Northman back down from such an unassuming woman and, if he was honest, Gabriel would have to admit that was at least most of the reason he’d agreed. Any woman who could make Rainald obey her had to be an impressive lady. Besides, he very badly needed to replenish his own travel rations and a mug of decent ale (or, since this was Caithness, flavored piss that passed as such) would not be unappreciated.

So here he was, several miles out of a village he didn’t know the name of and wondering if there was any way he could convince Hildra to pick up the pace. He was on foot and moving faster than her damnable cart.

As the terrain smoothed out, Gabriel could not shake the feeling he had been here before. There was something terribly familiar about this place, something … ah. Yes. He, Rainald and Dane had killed a handful of deserters near here some years ago. There should be a collapsed windmill somewhere nearby, although that had been six or seven years ago. It might have collapsed entirely by now. He frowned. Zabka had pointed them to this place. Had that been part of his grand scheme even then?

The road curled through the woods, drawing closer to the small village, and Gabriel immediately felt familiar instincts begin tingling. They were being watched. He fell into Cat Crosses the Courtyard without thinking, noting immediately how Hildra broke off her comments in mid-sentence. Very softly, she called out his name in that curious accent of hers, but he ignored her. Where? Where were they, dammit?

Six poorly dressed men carrying rusty axes and swords stumbled out of concealment. None of them had anything resembling actual armor – one carried a battered, much abused shield that probably could not protect the man from a stiff breeze, and the rest wore tattered rags that might have once been clothes – but they had numbers. Had he been alone, Gabriel would have not hesitated to attack but his eyes darted to the cart and the three inside. Rainald would be displeased if he let harm come to them…

“That’s close enough,” he said flatly as he took a ready stance in front of Cometes. With an almost casual gesture, Gabriel flicked his cloak back, exposing the burnished gauntlets bearing the dragon-marks upon them. Here, so deep in Caithness territory, it was a toss-up whether any of these men even realized what they meant, but at the very least, they’d see he was both armed and armored. “Take another step and I will kill you.”

The calmness of his words, the casual confidence in his posture, and the fact he wore steel upon his chest when they did not gave them pause. One of them – the nominal leader, Gabriel guessed – glanced back and forth between his men and the cart, before licking his lips.

“We only want the cart,” the man said. His expression darkened when he looked at Hildra. “And the woman,” he added as he took a step closer.

So Gabriel killed him.

After so many years of dealing with hardened warriors and deadly Vasar, these men were no more dangerous to him than a blind and dumb ten year old wielding a wooden practice blade. As Gabriel sprang forward, his father’s rapier whispering free from its scabbard, the men reacted with open surprise that turned abruptly to panic when they saw their ‘leader’ suddenly stagger back, his throat opened by Arc of the Moon, and Gabriel flowed through the forms like water rushing down a mountainside. Kissing the Adder dropped another of the men and Kingfisher Circles the Pond batted aside a wild swing from a panicked defender, leaving the fool wide open to Mongoose Takes a Viper. A fourth man fell, his body pierced through by a spear – so, Hildra was not totally useless in a fight, then – though he was not dead, and then the fifth shrieked as Gabriel disemboweled him with Snow in High Wind. At this, the sixth would-be robber turned to flee but Gabriel barely hesitated: the familiar weight of Angrist fell into his hand as he twirled in place and he hurled the elven blade with every ounce of his strength. It was a lucky shot – he’d simply hoped to strike the man, perhaps to slow him down long enough for Gabriel to reach him and finish him with the rapier, but in mid-step, the would-be bandit stumbled over a half-buried root. Angrist punched through the back of his skull with a meaty thunk. The man staggered forward another three steps before spilling forward onto his face. He twitched twice, and then a third time when Gabriel summoned the knife back to his hand.

“I did warn you,” Gabriel said as he drew abreast of the one with the spear through his belly. He was still squirming in agony and had no time to do more than jerk in agonized surprise when Gabriel thrust his father’s sword into the man’s heart. He twisted the rapier, then pulled it free. “Good throw,” he remarked calmly as he pulled the spear free before glancing up toward Hildra. She had retrieved another spear and a battered old shield. To Gabriel’s surprise, the oldest boy who could not be more than five was off the cart, armed with a knife, and ensuring that the fallen would not be getting back up. He should have been horrified, but Rainald’s casual acceptance of violence over the years implied a far less civilized upbringing.

Says the person who killed his first man when he was little older than this boy, Gabriel mused darkly. He frowned before tossing the spear back to Hildra.

“Safe?” she asked as she snatched the spear out of the air. Or at least, he guessed that was what she said. Her accent was even thicker than Rainald’s. Her eyes quickly tracked across the fallen men, then back to Gabriel. This was the first time, he realized, that she’d seen him do more than simple form practice and if Rainald was any indication, Northern warriors were accustomed to skirmishes made up of long, protracted exchanges that relied more on strength and toughness than anything like precision.

“Safe enough,” he replied with a nod and a shrug. If she understood him, he had no idea – how exactly did she intend to negotiate with the townsfolk? – but he guessed she understood the gist of his intent as she snapped another order to her eldest son and he went to work checking the corpses for valuables. Naturally, he found nothing of use – these bandits had been desperate to have struck like they did – but Gabriel simply watched, his attention more focused on their surroundings in case there were more of these fools than those on the ground. The forest was oddly quiet, so if there were any more, they were wisely staying hidden. He yawned.

“Ready?” he asked when the boy had rejoined his mother at the cart. They’d thrown the rusted weapons into the back, possibly to sell, though Gabriel doubted they would get much for them. Hildra gave him a pointed nod and flicked the reins. The sullen-looking pack animal snorted angrily and set off. Gabriel glanced at the bodies before him once more, then gave the forest another look. He was almost certain that there were others watching now.

Before he realized what he was doing, he’d dug a handful of silvers from his purse and tossed them onto the ground. Cometes blew out an irritated (or perhaps amused) breath as Gabriel climbed into the saddle.

“See to these fools,” he called out. “And reconsider this life. You’ve seen how it ends.”

One day, Gabriel mused, that would be him in the dirt, bleeding out.

But not today.

“Not today,” he murmured as he stared at the corpse that had once been a friend. Merasiël gave him another sidelong look and Gabriel forced a smile on his face, no matter that he did not feel it. “You’re holding it wrong,” he said. “Ease up on your grip. Yes, like that. Better?”

“Better,” she replied with approval.

After a moment, Gabriel began to suspect that she was intentionally trying to distract him from his darker thoughts – he had been thoroughly useless during this fight thanks to that damnable force dome and the dead archer, and because of that, Radskyrta was dead; it was taking every bit of his self-control to hide the rage swimming in his belly, rage that was focused almost solely inward – but he did not call her on this, even if it gave lie to her oft-stated lack of concern about the feelings of others. Merasiël was far more layered than she pretended to be. But then, aren’t we all? Gabriel mused briefly before turning his focus back to the elven woman before him.

He would find a way to repay this kindness, one way or another.

Though it had been already cured thanks to Gestin’s magery, the smell of the beast’s poison was still rank in Gabriel’s nose. He could not help but to scratch the rapidly fading scar on his cheek. It itched fiercely – was that a side effect of the magical healing or something he was simply imagining? – but he thrust it away and gave the dead beast another look. The head of a lion, a goat and an asp? Gabriel shook his own head in disgust and glanced around.

Rainald was muttering darkly under his breath – he had been late to the fight for some reason, though Gabriel knew not why – and Radskyrta was standing off to one side, visibly elated over having survived yet another fight. As was so often the case, Dane was silent as he watched their surroundings, but Gestlin more than made up for that with his incessant rambling about everything and nothing simultaneously. At the moment, the strange wizard was attending Merasiël – so, she too had been bitten; Gabriel gave her a quick once-over to ensure she was otherwise uninjured … apart from her pride, of course, before letting his eyes continue their transit. Mendel and Magnifico were discussing the other dead creature even as the clown’s two dragons tore it apart. Gabriel watched the large beasts for a heartbeat longer before looking away once more.

And still, the stench of poison would not go away. It was so very like…

Twenty Years Ago

His blood was still hot, his temper frayed, but Gabriel swallowed the rage and struggled to find control.

Four of the would-be murderers were already dead – two others had fled when the fight turned poorly for them, but Gabriel recognized their faces and knew where they would run to – but a fifth was on the floor, moaning over the stump that had once been his sword hand. He was too deeply in shock to flee, but still, Gabriel did not turn his back to him, not even as he knelt before the dying man twisting and turning on the filthy cot.

The murderers had struck without warning, smashing through the doors of the hovel Gabriel shared with his father and attacking with a ferocity that was unexpected. Here, in this tiny little hut, tucked in the slums of this miserable town, it had been harsh, bloody knife work, though Father had drawn the family blade near the end, after they had felled two of the slayers. That had not been enough. One man had managed to penetrate Father’s defenses with a lucky strike.

And the poison on that murderer’s blade had almost instantly dropped him.

“Gabriel.” Father’s voice was harsh, tortured, strained. His muscles twitched and spasmed. Ligaments groaned at the strain. Father was weeping tears of blood even as crimson poured from his nose and ears. Gabriel tightened his hold on the family blade, casting a sharp, fierce glare at the prisoner, before leaning closer to his father. “Need you to be strong,” Claudius Auditore hissed through clenched teeth. “Remember promise.” At that, Gabriel nodded tightly, even though he had no intentions of obeying it. A year ago, when they first came to this place, this miserable, stinking town where they could keep their heads down, his father forced him to swear he would seek no vengeance against the Megalan houses who had been behind the death of their family. Father groaned again – he clearly tried to say more, but the pain was too great – and Gabriel inhaled deeply. He fought for control, clawed for the Void where he could feed his every emotion.

“I will be strong, Father,” he murmured as he set aside the family sword. He drew his long knife, trying hard to not shake. This poison was known to him, after all. The Widow’s Kiss, it was called, and if the victim was not hurried on to the Afterlife, they would linger in unspeakable agony for days, sometimes even weeks on end. This miserable town barely had a church worthy of the name and the priest who ran it was a lazy drunk who could barely craft a passable sermon, let alone heal deadly poison.

“Do. It.” Father rasped. Gabriel hesitated.

And then, he pushed the blade home.

Long moments later, after the light had gone out of his father’s eyes, Gabriel forced himself to his feet. He turned to face the cowering man on the floor. The would-be murderer’s gaze instantly locked onto the bloody knife in Gabriel’s hand and he paled even further.

“You and I are going to have a discussion,” Gabriel said coolly. “This will not be over quickly,” he continued, smiling at how the man tried to press himself back even further against the hovel wall. “You will not enjoy this. But I will know the truth of who sent you here and why.” Words began tumbling from the man’s lips, names and places and amounts, and Gabriel listened quietly, intently, until the confession faltered. “Not enough,” he said darkly, gesturing toward the still form of his father. “Not enough by half.”

He set fire to the hovel when he departed, burning his father’s corpse in a manner the northern barbarians would approve of, with the bodies of Claudius’ slain arrayed around him. The blaze spread quickly, consuming the small house and quickly spreading to the other homes here in the slums of this Caithness town. It pained him to do this – the fire endangered hundreds of innocents, but there had been seven or eight such blazes this particularly dry summer, so everyone was well prepared for another – but he needed the cover it provided to escape undetected. Enraged grief thumped through him, but he clung to the last tatters of his self-control. There would be time to mourn later, when he was not in this damned city that stunk of horses and shit, when he was not hunting the fools who should not have accepted this contract.

His father’s sword was at his side and three of the poisoned dirks were safely secured in protective scabbards designed for this sort of thing. He intended to return these weapons to their proper owners, blade-first, and then…

And then, he would turn to Megalos. There were men and women there who needed killing.

Behind him, alarm bells began to ring.

Auqui.

Standing on the deck of the Gleaming Endeavour, his hands gripping the railing tightly, Gabriel stared at the Templar who had bared his head and revealed his identity. Shock had rooted him in place, had stolen every bit of his strength, and he stared at the boy … no. He was a man now.

And he stood with the enemy.

Fury chased the surprise, overwhelmed it, seared it into nothing. Gabriel tightened his hold on the ship’s rails, aware that Dane and Mendel were both quizzing him, having recognized the figure on the beach as well. How was this possible? How was Auqui still alive?

How?

Four Years Ago

On the first day of summer, atop the crumbling ruins of a long abandoned fortress that dominated a lonely stretch of beach, Gabriel Auditore faced his lost student.

The day was glorious – wind that smelled of rain caressed his face while gulls circled overhead, intent on the many fish that danced in the bay, and the feel of the warm sun just now peeking over the distant mountains that dominated the far horizon was pleasant – and Gabriel inhaled the soothing scents. This interminable hunt had dragged on for so very long that he no longer knew quite where he was anymore; this abandoned keep could be Megalan, or might have paid homage to the masters of al-Wazif, or perhaps even belonged to Cardiel. None of that mattered, though. The hunt was finally over.

He did not have long to wait. Auqui, wearing leathers rough with wear, approached slowly, each step deliberately placed upon the decaying stone walkway that loomed over the beach many yards below. The facial scar Gabriel had given him an eternity ago had healed nicely – one could only see if one knew it was there – and the boy moved with an easy grace hinting at lethality. Seeing the hint of facial hair was jarring and a solemn reminder that the Huallapan was no longer a boy. He wore no armor and carried only a long, thin rapier at his side. Gabriel turned to face him and bent his head formally.

“Auqui.”

“Gabriel.” The lack of an honorific stung, but Gabriel thrust it away, buried it under a layer of icy control. “You should not have come here.” Auqui’s faint accent was barely noticeable, but the cold anger in his eyes could not be hidden.

“I sought a reckoning,” Gabriel replied softly. He met the boy … no. Not a boy. He met the young man’s eyes. “Did you kill her?” he asked. There was no need to identify Kira, not by name, not to Auqui.

“No,” Auqui said simply before frowning. “But I made no effort to stop those that did from murdering her.” Rage swelled and Gabriel swallowed it, concentrated on control. His emotions vanished into the void. “She learned of my master’s plans and had to be dealt with.”

“Your master.” This time, it was Gabriel’s voice that could have cracked ice and the fleeting half-smile Auqui gave him was mocking. “Is he here?” Gabriel asked, his eyes flicking to the crumbling ruins. “I would greatly like to greet him as he deserves.”

“He is not.” Again, Auqui offered that mocking smile. “His business is elsewhere.”

“So. There is only us.”

“As it should be.” The boy dropped his hand upon the sheathed weapon at his side. “Will you do me the honor of discarding your armor?”

“You stood aside and let those men torture and murder her,” Gabriel replied tightly. “I owe you nothing.”

“Then let us be done with this, Master,” Auqui snarled, his blade whispering free. He glided forward, too aggressive by half as always, but Gabriel was waiting, his father’s sword glinting in the sun. The Kingfisher Circles the Pond met Courtier Taps His Fan. Back and forth they danced, the sharp shriek of metal against metal echoing through the air. Watered Silk batted aside The Falling Leaf. Stones crumbled underfoot as the ancient bridge shivered and trembled under their weight. Gabriel fought the instinctive urge to use The Mongoose Takes a Viper – how often had Auqui seen him use it? – and Two Hares Leaping met Striking the Spark.

Gabriel’s footing faltered slightly upon the rocks and Auqui pounced. Kissing the Adder sparked off the elven corselet and the boy grunted with frustration before throwing himself into a diving roll as Gabriel nearly took his head with The Heron Spreads Its Wings. His apprentice was back on his feet by the time Gabriel had recovered his footing and they circled once.

No words were offered.

Auqui came in low – The Kingfisher Takes a Silverback – and Gabriel caught the attack with Branch in the Storm, redirecting his onetime student’s longer blade away before countering with Black Pebbles on Snow. Blood flew as the Auditore family blade scored a glancing cut and Auqui snarled at the pain. He came on strong once more – The Dove Takes Flight followed by a very rapid Lightning of Three Prongs – but Gabriel flowed away from the assault, springing up and over the onslaught. Rocks fell free as he pushed off of the side, smashing into fragments on the beach below. He landed lightly and instantly retaliated with The Wolf Lunges. It was a rare form, one that he’d used only a handful of times, and the hilt punch caught Auqui completely by surprise. Blood streaming from his nose, the boy barely managed to evade the follow-up overhand strike.

Again, they circled.

Gabriel could see the doubt beginning to creep into his former student’s eyes. They had exchanged a dozen blows and already, Auqui was bleeding from multiple wounds. Neither were particularly life-threatening, but the fact that Gabriel had avoided using any of the more advanced techniques was something that could not be ignored. That, better than anything else, betrayed the depth of his anger at his student. This was meant to be humiliation and Gabriel noted the very instant comprehension sank in.

He gave Auqui no time to rest and came in fast – Threading the Needle, another simple strike taught to students very early – and then batted aside a surprisingly sloppy Parting the Silk. Anger trembled on the edge of the void, but Gabriel pushed it aside. River of Light very nearly took Auqui’s arm and, as the boy met it with Kingfisher Circles the Pond, Gabriel let slip his fury.

And then, he really attacked.

Back Auqui fell, offense abandoned in the face of Gabriel’s determined onslaught, but it was not enough. Snow in High Wind gave the boy another bloody stripe across the chest and Bundling Straw badly injured his left arm. Their blades clashed once more and in Auqui’s eyes, Gabriel could see fear. It should have given him pause, should have stayed his hand or urged him to mercy.

It did not.

Mongoose Takes a Viper came faster than it ever had before and he felt the sudden, all-too familiar shiver of his father’s sword sinking through flesh. Auqui gasped.

“Requiescat in pace,” Gabriel murmured as the boy staggered back, his own weapon sliding out of her nerveless fingers and clattering to the stone. Stepping back, he let Auqui stagger back, dark blood staining the boy’s jerkin and pants. The stone masonry shivered once more and Gabriel had just enough time to throw himself back before the entire section Auqui stood upon collapsed.

Without a sound, the boy vanished from sight, tumbling down among the falling stone.

A quartet of arrows striking the stone masonry around him was Gabriel’s first warning that Auqui had lied about being alone and he grimaced at the sight of the archers now manning the ruined battlements of the fortress. There were only a handful, but he had seen how much damage even a single well-trained bowman could do, especially as there was no way for him to reach them! He risked a quick glance over the side – Auqui wasn’t moving and was at least partially trapped by stone debris; a fall from this height would likely not kill, but with the bridgework collapsing around him? – before kneeling quickly to retrieve his onetime student’s fallen rapier. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it spinning toward the nearby ocean as he backed away, eyes flicking between the archers and the unmoving form below. The wise option was to retreat. Arrows continued to rain down around him but he was clearly out of their effective range at the moment. Descending to give his betrayer the Widow’s Kiss would give them a chance to drop him. And there was still at least one other man who needed to die. He looked once more at the unmoving body below him. Yes, Gabriel decided. Auqui was dead.

“Requiescat in pace,” he repeated before turning away.

He never looked back.

With a loud clash of metal, Rainald met the guard’s attack with his own shield and held. There were two of them, armed only with what could be donned rapidly and still with sleep crusting their eyes, plus the Templar and the crossbowman. Merasiël was already in the great room, having tumbled past one of the soldiers, but Gabriel’s attention was on the Templar. He was holding his weapon aloft, lips moving in what could have been a prayer but was more likely as spell. Gabriel grinned wolfishly – this was just like fighting the Vasar all over again.

Well … almost.

Eight Years Ago

The hills were black with bugs.

They flooded down toward the vanguard from both sides of the mountain pass, their great legs eating up vast distances in great chunks. War horns – human, elven, dwarven, Huallapan – sounded as the crusaders fell back into practiced formations. Already, flags were flashing as the commander of this host – Sir Dane Sardock – issued rapid commands and instructions for placement. The slap of bowstrings echoed around them and hundreds of charging Vasar stumbled as arrows slammed home. Enough of the creatures fell that their surprise assault was blunted just long enough for the last of the crusaders to fall into place.

To Gabriel, the noise of the battlefield was of little importance. He focused on control, mentally envisioning a flame as he fed all of his emotions into it. Around him, the soldiers of the infantry formation he was ostensibly in command of shifted anxiously, muttering and grumbling with poorly concealed fear. More than a few glanced in his direction – he was, Gabriel had to admit, the least armored of them, though to a man, they had witnessed his lethality in battle – and he let their gazes wash over him without visible reaction. Here, in this place, in this moment, none of that mattered. Inhale control. Exhale emotion.

“Hold!” the serjeant bellowed, his words resulting in the soldiers firming up their shield wall. In all matters, he was the true leader of this company, not Gabriel, and no one thought otherwise. The Vasar drew closer …

Boom. The bugs smashed into the braced pikes and spears with a teeth-rattling crash. Blood and ichor flew as the creatures struggled to overwhelm them. Men screamed. Metal clashed against chitin. The screams of wounded and dying warriors, human and not, filled the air like a shrill cacophony.

And still, Gabriel stood, unmoved, unreacting, unyielding. His eyes flickered over the Vasar’s numbers. Where? This many could not be controlled easily. So where? There!

He sprang forward, using the bent back of a soldier kneeling to reload his crossbow as a springboard to hurdle up over the shield wall. Cries of surprise rang out behind him as he landed in the middle of the Vasar formation, rolled forward and then darted up. He twisted around one of the bugs, spun around another, and kept running. A moment later, he reached his target.

The Alpha shrieked and hissed in surprise as Gabriel attacked. He opened with Arc of the Moon and the bug threw itself back, narrowly evading his decapitating strike, and then tried to retaliate with its glaive. Gabriel caught the surprisingly light weapon thrust with his rapier, expertly redirecting it into the dirt. With the bug momentarily out of position, he flowed into a favored strike. The Mongoose Takes a Viper put the creature even further out of place and his rapid follow-up thrust punched through the armored chitin. Again, the Alpha shrieked, though this time it was in pain, and the Vasar it was psychically connected to visibly trembled. Even as the bug staggered back, Gabriel struck again with Snow in High Wind – ichor flew as the Alpha dropped to its knees. It had just enough time to look up at him before The Thistledown Floats on the Whirlwind took its head.

Instantly, chaos erupted amongst the Vasar attacking his unit. Some went insane with fury, attacking anything, including their allies, within range. Others simply froze in place and stared stupidly at the crusaders who were killing them. Yet others simply continued on with what they were already doing, in some cases utterly ignoring their now insane brothers stabbing at them from behind.

It was … glorious.

“Push now!” the serjeant roared. Spears and pikes and swords flashed. Gabriel eyed the results, nodded, and flowed forward, his sword dancing. Stones Falling Down the Mountain became The Tower of Morning. The Leopard’s Caress crippled the leg of a bug, opening it up for Kissing the Adder. The Falling Leaf caught a glaive attack, and he slid easily into Watered Silk, leaving behind another twitching corpse. “Well done, my lord!” the serjeant exclaimed as Gabriel almost leisurely flowed from Lightning of Three Prongs to Low Wind Rising. The soldiers advanced another step, allowing him to step back behind their shields. He glanced to the west where Rainald was assigned and smiled – the North-Hammer was in the midst of the battle, laying about with that ridiculous hammer of his, but it seemed he too had opted to target an Alpha at the first opportunity. On the other side of the northman, the unsmiling elf woman, Merasiël, was attached to another formation, but they were too distant for Gabriel to see.

He shook his head, pushing the random thoughts out of his mind, and went back to work. There was killing to be done.

“You dance the forms well,” a dark-haired stranger said later that evening. The camp was in a jubilant mood – the Vasar ambush had cracked like a nut thanks to expert placement, and the thunderous approach of the Royalist detachment led by that mountain of a man, Malfoy, had sent them scattering. There had been casualties, of course, but they were few compared to what could have been and the field was littered with slain bugs. Even better was the sheer number of local Huallapans present who had witnessed the decisive victory. They chattered with awe and excitement, many already pleading to join the army.

“Not well enough,” Gabriel admitted with a scowl. His arm still stung from where a Vasar glaive had eluded his defenses and scored a cut. Mendel had given it a look and then ordered it wrapped, but was too busy with the truly wounded to waste his magical skills upon such a tiny scratch. Rainald had mocked its very existence – loudly – and then tried to convince everyone within hearing distance (and some beyond) that he could have held the bugs himself.

“So say we all,” the stranger said with a smile. He was wearing the arms of a Megalos footman, but bore a single-edged long-blade that curved slightly instead of the usual broadsword so prevalent in this army. The man stood with both hands clasped at the small of his back, but at a simple glance, Gabriel knew he was in the presence of a true blademaster. It was in the man’s posture, the easy, poised way he stood, or perhaps the cool composure in his eyes. Likely a combination of them all. “Who trained you?” the man asked.

“My father,” Gabriel replied. “He never formally tested for dragon-mark and died before he could finish my training.”

“By what I saw, Friend,” the dark-haired man said, “you have seen to that yourself.” He unclasped his hands and offered one. “I am Gaius, late of Quartedec.” The gauntlets upon his arms bore the unmistakable sigil of a dragon-marked master of the sword and the tattoo upon the back of his ungloved hands.sparkled in the sun.

“Gabriel, late of Wallace.” He clasped the man’s hand. “You are far from Quartedec, Master Gaius,” he added.

“I was traveling through Caithness when this expedition was assembled.” The master flashed a smile. “What sort of swordsman would I be if I made no efforts to join it?” His eyes flickered with amusement the moment he saw Auqui practicing nearby. The dark-haired half-elf girl who had somehow attached herself to them both- Kira, Gabriel thought she was named – was there as well, watching with those laughing eyes of hers. “You have students,” Master Gaius said with something undefinable in his voice.

“The boy lost his father some years back,” Gabriel replied slowly. He frowned – Auqui was being sloppy with the forms again; he would never be as good as he wanted if he didn’t learn to focus! – and continued carefully. “Instructing him … he and I feel into this arrangement by circumstance, not intention.” Master Gaius nodded. “The girl … she has asked to learn the blade but I have not answered.” Girl. Was it accurate to call her thus? She was half-elf and could easily be twice his age.

“Still,” the dragon-marked master said, “your name is well known within the camp. The men of Caithness accord you the respect of a blademaster.” Gabriel dipped his head slightly in simple acknowledgement of this fact.

“Kill enough of them and even Caithnessers will take note,” he replied wryly, earning a short bark of laughter from the blademaster before him. “I was about to have dinner,” Gabriel added. “Would you join me?” The dark-haired man shook his head.

“Alas,” Gaius said, “I have other duties to attend.” He drew his weapon in single, fluid move, falling into a ready stance even before the blade was out. For his part, Gabriel had already spun away, his own weapon whispering free of its scabbard. “Let us see if you are worthy of the acclaim I hear,” the dragon-marked man said. He flowed forward.

And they began to dance.

Never in his life had Gabriel been this hard-pressed, not even when he’d first touched a sword and his father began to instruct him. The Kingfisher Circles the Pond narrowly batted aside Courtier Taps His Fan. Master Gaius was faster than anyone he’d ever faced, even those damnable dark elves, and the whole world constricted to this single moment. Twisting the Wind met Kissing the Adder. Sounds fell away, leaving only the void. Ribbon in the Air nearly disemboweled him, but Watered Silk almost took Master Gaius’ left eye. They circled.

“You dance the forms exceptionally well,” the older man said. “I had my doubts with that shorter blade …”

He attacked even before he was finished speaking – Lightning of Three Prongs – but Gabriel was retreating, slipping sideways to counter with The Mongoose Takes a Viper. It slid past Master Gaius’ defenses and would have struck home had the blademaster not twisted away desperately at the last instant. Again, they circled.

“What is this madness?” someone who sounded a great deal like Wallace bellowed. Gabriel gave Master Gaius a questioning look and the older man nodded slightly. Together, they stepped back from each other, lowering their blades in smooth, practiced motions that almost mirrored one another, and finally bowed slightly.

“A test, Your Grace,” Gaius said. He sheathed his sword. “I wished to see the talents of your young knight firsthand.”

“By trying to kill him?” Wallace was glowering, though most of the warriors around him looked either bored or annoyed that he’d broken the contest up. Rainald was definitely irritated and stood in a ring of men that Gabriel knew to all be inveterate gamblers. Money had not yet changed hands and now seemed unlikely to do so.

“Without challenge,” Master Gaius said simply, “one cannot test their limits.” He bowed his head quickly, first to Wallace and then to Gabriel. “Another time, young blademaster,” he said with another smile before gliding away with an easy grace that hinted at lethality.

“Many apologies, my lord,” Gabriel said, directing his words to Wallace and successfully pulling the man’s attention away from the departing Gaius. Departing from a man of his rank without seeking his permission could be considered as something of an insult – the fact that Gaius chose to use the arrogant saunter that was Cat Crosses the Courtyard indicated it was obviously intended as such – but Gabriel did not want Wallace to act without thinking. Again. There was already enough trouble with the royalists, especially if the rumors about the lord and that Simonton merchant girl had any basis in truth; they didn’t need to create even more trouble with the much needed Megalan mercenaries. “I will see that this does not happen again.”

“Damned fools,” Wallace muttered as he stomped off. He was flanked by Dane who offered only an amused shake of his head, and a moment later, Gabriel stumbled back a step when Rainald stabbed a meaty finger into his chest.

“I lose much silvers on you,” the burly northman grumbled. Gabriel blinked.

“We did not finish our duel,” he said.

“Five moves and dead,” Rainald retorted, gesturing sharply with one hand that held up four fingers. “Less probably, then with the dancing off and stealing more of my deads.” He glared halfheartedly and Gabriel frowned, mentally translating the big man’s words into something understandable.

“Your deads,” he repeated. “Your kills?”

“Yes, this. You know I mean this. Next time, making better, lítillbróðir.” He walked away, bellowing for someone to break out the ale in that ground-rattling voice of his. Or perhaps he was asking for the privy. With his accent, sometimes it was difficult to tell.

The feel of eyes upon him drew his attention and Gabriel almost winced at the too-bright gaze of Auqui. As before, the boy was staring at him with stars in his eyes, so desperate for glory that he refused to look at the hard work still ahead. Try as he might, Gabriel still had not instilled in the lad the understanding of what it truly meant to be a blademaster. The constant work, the fanatical devotion to the Art, none of that sank in. All Auqui saw was the end result and he wanted it now.

“Snow in High Wind!” he snapped, suddenly cross. To his credit, Auqui responded quickly enough and with adequate grace so as to not entirely look the fool, but Gabriel scowled as if disappointed. “Arc of the Moon!” he ordered as he drew closer, his critical eye noting the weaknesses in his student’s form. The young woman, Kira, drew her own weapon and followed Auqui’s lead – she had a natural grace and speed that the boy needed to work for, but her inexperience with the stances resulted in sloppy forms – and Gabriel blew out another frustrated breath. “Terrible,” he muttered, including both of them. “One quarter speed,” he said as he assumed the ready stance himself, nodding when they did the same. “Cutting the Wind,” he instructed as he flowed into the proper stance.

There was a lot of work to do.

It was strangely enjoyable working alongside someone else.

Gabriel ghosted through the shadows outside the Order compound, three or four steps ahead of an equally silent Merasiël. This would require knife-work in the dark and there was no one in this band of theirs he trusted more for that. Rainald and Dane were fine in open combat, and the casters invaluable at so many other times, but here? Now? He much preferred the company and skills of someone who understood the meaning of stealth.

They reached the wall without incident and Merasiël gave him a questioning look that he answered with a sharp nod. Being the taller of the two, Gabriel laced his fingers together and half-crouched. A moment later, Merasiël was there, her foot in his hands, and he heaved up. She scrambled over the wall with barely a sound, and Gabriel followed, using as a springboard one of the many wooden stands normally populated by vendors during the day. He touched down in the shadows of the stable a heartbeat later, noting without surprise that Merasiël had already drawn Angrist. Seeing someone else carry the weapon that had belonged to him for nigh on a decade was … odd but necessary given her lack of supplies. Besides, it did not mean anything. It was merely a temporary loan. Yes, she was attractive and of elven ancestry and they shared more similarities than not, but that didn’t mean … he wasn’t …

Oh. Oh, dammit. Not again. He shook his head in slight disgust and focused on the mission ahead of them. There would be time to evaluate this later. He wanted to scowl. Well, at least he had not humiliated himself in front of her as he had when he first met Miratáriel so very long ago…

Twelve Years Ago

He was being watched.

His first instinct was to reach for his father’s blade, but Gabriel shoved the reflex aside and continued his slow plod forward. By his admittedly muddled reckoning, Harkwood was close and with these ridiculous Caithnessers still trying to murder one another in this senseless rebellion, it stood to reason that the small city would have scouts deployed, especially if the rumors were true about the new elven defenders augmenting the guard. If he was honest with himself, that was one of the reasons he’d decided to strike out for Harkwood following that catastrophe at Blythe – in his four and twenty years, he’d only seen an elf in passing or at a distance and curiosity, ever his bane, set his feet upon this path. Abruptly, Gabriel scowled. It was not as if he had anything else to do at the moment.

The feel of being watched never waned as he continued along the well-trod path that should have been a road but most certainly could not be considered such a thing even by the most liberal of definitions, though Gabriel was too busy trying to keep from grimacing with each step he took. His entire body ached, but it was the poorly healing wound in his side that concerned him the most. He had taken it during the mad retreat from Blythe, when the townsfolk fled screaming before the reptilian onslaught and the few men capable (or willing) to stand in defense of their homes broke before the attack. Few were as lucky as he – Fat Tom, his employer, was dead as was every other member of the merchant’s guards – and for that he was thankful. He simply wished the pain would stop.

Did Saurians poison their blades, he wondered as he continued his slow walk? Or even clean them? Filth from poorly cleaned blades could kill a man as quickly as steel. He had done what he could after escaping the battle, but the ragged gash was hot and inflamed. God, but it hurt. He needed a healer. How many days had it been since Blythe? How long since he saw Fat Tom swallow a yard of steel and die screaming? How much time since he escaped those maddened lizards, descending upon his lamed horse to devour it like starving beasts? All of the days blurred together now – he remembered the many fleeing refugees, scattering in all directions, and the screams of the dead and the dying, and the smell of death and blood and shit.

Wait. He smelled blood now. His reflexes, dulled by exhaustion and pain, finally began to rouse and he started to reach for his father’s sword.

“I would recommend against that, warrior,” a melodic voice instructed him. Seeming to materialize out of the very woods themselves was a distinctly feminine form, though he could not see her face, not with that dark hood covering her head and the sun so low in the sky. She carried a bow of exquisite craftsmanship and at a glance, Gabriel could not but to admire her visible grace. It was as if she floated across the earth instead of walked. Never before had he seen anyone move that well, not even his late father who was as close to a blademaster as any man could be without bearing the dragons. He shook the thought away and tried to focus through the haze of fog in his head.

“I’m heading toward Harkwood,” he said through a thick tongue. His head was swimming and he was so hot, which made no sense. Spring was only just beginning and he had not pushed himself that hard today.

“Then you are walking in the wrong direction,” the woman said. She nodded back the way he came. “Harkwood is that way and nigh on two nights travel.” Gabriel frowned, glancing back. Had his fever so dulled his wits that he missed a turn? Where did this trail lead? “You are injured,” the woman said as she glided toward him. This close, he could make out her face – she had strong features, with cool, hazel eyes that studied him with a calculating gaze. There was something distinctly non-human about her appraisal of him. She was an elf, he realized.

“A scratch,” he murmured in response. “Pay it no mind.”

“Scratches do not stink of infection, warrior,” the elf said wryly. ”Come. The day dwindles. I have a camp nearby. We shall attend your wound and upon the morrow, I shall take you to Harkwood.” She turned away, as if his obedience was a fait accompli, and after a long moment of consideration, Gabriel followed. If he truly was lost as it would seem, then having a local escort was a very good idea. Damned Caithnessers. Why could they not place signs or markers as Megalos did?

They passed the source of the blood he smelled on their way to her camp – it was a trio of dead orcs, each with twin arrows standing out of their chests. Their throats had also been slit and, by the look of one of the three, they had died hard. Gabriel paused briefly, examining them with open curiosity, and the woman gave him a look.

“You act as if you have never seen the dead before,” she said in a light voice.

“Not dead orcs,” Gabriel replied. “Men, yes, and Saurians as well, but I’ve had few dealings with orcs.”

“Then I envy you,” she said. There was a volume of grim history in her voice and Gabriel wondered who she had lost. “Come,” she ordered sharply.

Her camp was expertly concealed and located in a very defensible location just within an immense but mostly hollowed-out tree. There was only the one bedroll and the impression he immediately got was one of order. The ring of stones surrounding the small fire formed an almost perfect circle, the three small pots were arranged from smallest to largest, even the bedroll was tight and square in terms of placement. Gabriel took this in, noting how the woman unstrung her bow, then placed it in the very center of her blanket, going so far as to nudge adjust it slightly though he could not for the life of him see what she changed.

“Saurian,” the elf woman said as he was fighting against a sudden urge to just sit down for a week or five. “You said Saurians.” She pushed her hood back, revealing hair the color of ripe wheat. “You come from Blythe, do not?” Gabriel nodded as he eased his own travel pack to the dirt, grimacing as his muscles pulled at the fire at his side. He noticed her frown but it did not register for absurdly long moments. His head began to pound and his vision swam. Did he have any water left? He was suddenly unbearably thirsty.

“I was there when it fell,” he muttered. “I am Gabriel.”

“Of Megalos, by your accent,” the elf mused. “My name is Miratáriel.” She added something else, something liquid and long and impossible for him to repeat, let alone comprehend, and Gabriel blinked again. Was that her entire name? Merciful God, that had to be hard to say fast. He paused, opened his mouth to reply and, without thinking, offered her his hand, intending to thank her for her hospitality.

That, as it turned out, was a mistake.

The movement pulled at the wound in his side and what had been a small fire erupted like an inferno. He felt something tear – likely his poor attempts to stitch together the injury – and the sudden, unexpected pain drove him to his knees with a gasp. A cool hand touched his forehead and he heard Miratáriel speak from a hundred leagues away.

“You’re burning up!” she said and Gabriel tried very, very hard to smile.

And instead, he threw up on her boots.

The Order of Talos. Just the very name set his blood aflame, but Gabriel swallowed his fury, focused on control and did his very best to keep from gritting his teeth. He was only partially successful – Merasiël shot him a second glance, as did Rainald (who also gave him a questioning frown) and even silent Dane looked his way – but thankfully, Gestlin asked a stupid question, distracting the others long enough for the moment to pass. By the time the discussion came back to the Order, he was ready.

“They are responsible for Auqui’s fate,” he said simply, which was certainly true enough …

Four Years Ago

Even before he reached Whitehall Tower, Gabriel knew something was wrong.

It was the stillness in the air, the taste of death and blood that was so terribly familiar to him, and his natural instincts went into high alert almost immediately. He slid out of the saddle without thinking and gave Cometes a sharp hand gesture; the charger obeyed immediately, slipping into the concealing copse of trees where he could stay hidden. Not for the first time, Gabriel was grateful for the horse’s abnormal intelligence – this required stealth and the charger was ill equipped for that.

He found the first body just inside the tower grounds. The man was dressed in browns and greens of shades clearly intended to act as camouflage with the local terrain, but the bloody ruin that was the skulker’s throat clearly spoke of Kira. Ever since she’d begun learning the sword from him, the half-elf woman had favored throat strikes, which Gabriel found to be too messy. From where he knelt, in the shadows cast by the bell tower, he could see three other corpses. His instincts were screaming at him – entrance by the main path was suicide – so he retreated and swung around to one of his alternate routes. It was a narrow foot-path that curled up the primary hill and vanished into one of the larger archways. From there, he crept up the rudimentary steps carved out of the rock and exited into the stable. Inching forward, he lurked silently there for another long moment.

An owl hooted.

Freezing in place, Gabriel strained to find the source of the noise. One of the first things he’d done upon coming to this place was to familiarize himself with the local wildlife. Talon had even visited briefly and, after a week lurking, had provided a list of the animals in the immediate area. Owls were not among them.

A second owl answered the first and moments later, another man wearing the forest greens and browns slipped through the main gate (or rather, where the gate would be if he ever got around to building one.) This man was armed with a crossbow and wore a wide-bladed knife that was almost a shortsword at his side. A second man joined him, this one emerging from the kitchen. Both had a hard look to them but from the way they were trying to watch everything at once, Gabriel had to guess that they were spooked.

“What news?” the second man asked.

“Cristof has ordered us to pull out,” came the quick reply. “The assassin was sighted in Wallace the day before yesterday. He should be here tomorrow.”

“And that fool is just now letting us know?” The second man whistled sharply and immediately, another pair of men appeared in the doorways of the small fortress. “Gather your gear,” he ordered. “We’re leaving.”

The urge to act warred with the need for more information, and Gabriel grimaced. Were these men not armed with crossbows, he would think nothing of charging them and putting them all to the sword, but the crusade against the Vasar had showed him how lethal even poorly trained commoners could be with that weapon, so he remained hidden, watching quietly as the four rapidly assembled for departure. Their dead they left where they were – one stripped the corpses of purses and necklaces, but did not bother with their arms – and they filed out of Whitehall bare minutes later.

Gabriel was moving even before they were out of sight. He sprinted toward the stairs that led to the living quarters, keeping low and silent, and ducked through the smashed doorway to find another pair of bodies. As before, these two wore crimson smiles and he paused briefly to give one of them a second look. He knew this man but from where? It was of no matter. Pushing open the door to the main bedchamber, he froze.

Kira was there.

She was seated in her favorite chair, staring at nothing. At a glance, Gabriel could tell that she was dead – a quartet of crossbow bolts stood out from her chest and her throat had been cut – and for the span of a single heartbeat, his entire world narrowed to just her. She bore signs of physical abuse – not rape, but torture and plenty of it. They’d wanted something from her. His eyes narrowed. Auqui. Where was Auqui? He spent long minutes scouring the whole of the tower, but found no sign of the boy.

He caught up with the four men easily enough, but held back his murderous desire to simply pounce on them. Instead, he ranged around them, relying on his superior knowledge of the local environment and his own not inconsiderable talents at stealth. They helped him more than they knew, being so intent on speed that they neglected caution. Up the treacherous hill paths they went, feet pounding. It was tough going and the slowest of their number fell back.

So Gabriel killed him.

It was easy enough to accomplish – the murderer’s chest was heaving like a bellows and his head hung so low that he never saw death’s approach – and it momentarily assuaged the raging torrent of fury swimming in Gabriel’s heart. He slid behind the man, whipped Angrist free of its scabbard at the small of his back, and slit the man’s throat. It was messy, but he could do this for Kira. Clamping his hand over the dead murderer’s mouth to prevent him from crying out, Gabriel then plunged the elven knife into the man’s back. Once, twice, again. He felt his foe go limp and let him crumple to the ground.

None of the other men even glanced back or heard their companion’s death.

Gabriel waited until they were out of sight to quickly pat down his still dying victim. He tossed the crossbow and knife aside, divested the man of a coinpurse, and even tore a small crucifix free, but there was nothing on this fool that stood out. The necklace was of high quality – he had never seen this particular design, but that wasn’t a surprise – but wrought of simple copper; beyond that, the man wore no adornment. Shaking his head, Gabriel rose.

And resumed the hunt.

By the time he caught up with the remaining three, it was clear that they had finally noticed their brother’s absence. Speed was abandoned in favor of defense and the men moved slowly, crossbows strung and at the ready. Gabriel paced alongside them, his dark travel cloak concealing him, but he made no further move against them until night fell.

Dawn found him sitting among their corpses, clutching the three identical cross necklaces in one hand and a bloody knife in the other. The last of the men had already breathed his last and it was his words that made Gabriel tremble.

“Went with the master,” the man had gasped through the pain of his injuries. Before Gabriel started, the murderer had been confident he would never break, claiming that his faith in this … Order of Talos would grant him strength. The Order, he’d claimed, had already cleansed him of weakness and would lend him the fortitude to resist anything.

It hadn’t.

Gabriel rose, expression cold. His fury now battled against his fear – Auqui was still alive. No matter their many disagreements, the boy was still his responsibility and God help him, Gabriel had no plans in failing that. He would see to Kira’s body – she deserved that much – and then, he would hunt down every last one of these bastards. If they were so eager to meet God, then he would arrange the opportunity. This he vowed.

Three months later, he would look upon Auqui for the last time.

Mercy.

The demon had pled for it in the last moments of its foul existence on Yrth and, though he concealed his thoughts behind the usual veneer of sardonic amusement he showed to the world, the sheer audacity of the plea still infuriated Gabriel. Mercy? He had little left. And for a demon? There was none at all.

Seated in his usual place upon the prow of the Gleaming Endeavour, he silently continued to study his father’s sword for any hint of damage that might need attention. The blade gleamed in the moonlight and he bit back another scowl. This was the only mercy he had left – a quick, clean death. It would have to be enough for the tyrant that ruled over this bitter existence.

The bells of the cathedral began tolling, the sound so horribly familiar that the memory was almost a physical blow.

Fifteen Years Ago

“Mercy must always be our goal,” the abbot pronounced from where he stood before the assembled monks and Gabriel felt the truth in those words. He knew it was not the case but it sincerely felt as though the white-haired old man was speaking directly to him. Had this monastery not given him shelter and succor when he needed them the most? Had they not accepted him into their ranks without question, without once asking from what he ran? When he fled from Lady Licia’s house with her false denunciation of rape still ringing in the air, the whole of Craine had seemed to be on his heels and the Church gave him sanctuary without hesitation…

“Let us pray,” Abbot Publius intoned before leading the entire assembly in their devotions. Gabriel’s voice was strong and he felt as though this was where he was meant to be. God had set his feet on this path and at long last, he had found peace. Outside, the sun had begun to slide behind the hills and darkness stretched out to encompass the land. Winter was fast approaching and, from the taste of the air already, it looked to be a fierce one. And yet, for the first time in a long time, Gabriel did not look at the night and think of how best to use the shadows.

“Brother Gabriel,” the abbot called out once the service was concluded and the monks were filing from the chapel, intent on their nightly ablutions before they retired. “A moment, if you please,” the white-haired man said with his kindly smile. Gabriel said nothing – he was but a mere lay brother, after all, and speaking was not necessary – instead bowing his head slightly and waiting until they were alone. “Close the door,” Publius instructed. “I have a task for you, my son,” he said once Gabriel had done so. “You are aware of our nightly patrols?”

“I am, your grace,” Gabriel replied. He did not quite understand the purpose behind it – six monks, garbed and hooded in white, would walk the streets of Craine every night. They sang no hymns, sought no donations, offered no prayers or blessings, and simply … walked, torches held aloft, as if to ward off the night. According to the other brothers, it was an ancient tradition, but none of them could explain the reasoning.

“Good.” The abbot smiled. “I would have you accompany them tonight. Your skills may be needed.”

The words caused Gabriel’s blood to run cold. His skills? Did the abbot know who he was, know what he had trained for years to do? No, that was not possible. His father had been the only one who interfaced with the Houses. He had given no family name when he entered the monastery and his father’s sword was hidden away where no one would find it. There was no way the abbot could know.

“You might need this,” Abbot Publius said as he reached behind the altar and drew out a familiar item.

Father’s rapier.

“Do not let any but the patrol see this instrument,” the abbot instructed as he offered the sheathed weapon. “We are men of God, after all, and they must not think we stray from the path of righteousness.” He waited, the rapier held out.

Gabriel … hesitated.

Since before he could walk, he had wanted to be that blade’s master but in the years since his father passed, it had seemed a heavy burden. Now, he feared that would be too heavy. His concern and confusion clearly showed on his face as the abbot offered another warm smile.

“Consider this a test, my son,” he said. “The path you have chosen is not an easy one and we must know if you have the fortitude to see it through.” Relief thundered through Gabriel then – a test! He understood. The abbot wanted to ensure he would not fall back upon old habits when facing a challenge, that Gabriel’s faith in God was absolute.

He took the rapier.

Avoiding notice as he made his way through the cramped dining hall that led outside was easy enough for him, even though he was so out of practice at clinging to the shadows. Brothers Donalt and Greigor were arguing again, which was enough of a distraction for many of the other monks that they barely even noticed his discreet exit. The sullen one, Zabko or Zerba or something, glanced briefly in his direction, but Gabriel had exchanged fewer than ten worlds with the man in the last year so he was unsurprised when the brother went back to his stew.

“You’re late,” a gruff voice stated when he slid through the door. There were five monks waiting, hooded and garbed in white as he was, but Gabriel did not immediately recognize them. One was tall enough to be Markus, but the Northlander who’d found God had been sitting next to Donalt. Gabriel had no opportunity to reply as a lit torch was thrust into his hand and the others set off. Irritated, he shifted the rapier down from he’d strapped it on his back before quickly darting into the night to catch up with the other monks.

An uneasy silence seemed to accompany them as they wound their way through Craine. To Gabriel’s surprise, they avoided main thoroughfares, opting for crooked alleys and rough-hewn side streets. The few city guards they saw hurried along, ducking their heads or saluting awkwardly before scurrying away, and a ball of ice formed in Gabriel’s stomach. Automatically, long dormant instincts and reflexes stirred, forcing him to fall into Cat Crosses the Courtyard. It looked to be an arrogant saunter, though in truth, his entire body was poised and ready. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“Here,” the man who was not Markus said as they drew up outside the main cathedral. He turned to Gabriel. “Find the bishop. Kill him. And plant this device near his body.”

Gabriel blinked.

He was very aware of the eyes of the other five men, as well as the tension in their bodies. They were waiting to see his reaction and his instincts screamed that the order had been no jest. The large monk was holding out a cloth badge that bore Duke Bran’s sigil. An assassination of the city’s highest member of the clergy with such incriminating evidence … there would be blood in the streets. Civil war. The pieces fell into place for him and he almost scowled. Abbot Publius would no doubt help quell the madness, regardless of whether the duke fell or not, and in gratitude, the Church would no doubt elevate him to oversee the diocese that was now empty of its former master.

“No,” he said softly. “I will not do this thing.”

They attacked without warning or hesitation. Hidden blades flashed out, the steel reflecting in the bright moonlight, but found nothing but air as Gabriel had already thrown himself back. He hit the ground, rolled, and came to his feet in a single, flowing motion that became an all-out sprint almost before he was fully upright. There were sharp cries of surprise that pursued him, but he ignored them as he continued his headlong dash for the nearest alley. Feet pounded behind him – they were close but losing ground thanks to his speed – and he could hear grunts of exertion from those who had spent more time indoors than out.

He reached his target five or six steps ahead of his closest pursuer and opted for continued evasion. Using the corner of one building as a springboard, he jumped up toward the roof of another, his fingers howling with discomfort as he found a grip and hauled himself over the edge mere heartbeats before the nearest would-be murderer could reach striking distance. The clatter of metal against stone echoed loudly in the night – one of them had thrown their knife but missed – and Gabriel fought back the urge to cry out an insult. Instead, he scrambled to his feet and darted forward once more, heart thudding with both fury and fear.

The urge to retrace his steps to the monastery and give Abbot Publius a red smile roared within his chest, but he ignored it as he vanished into the darkness. Was it mercy? Or simply self-preservation? Bereft of his Assassin, the abbot would no doubt sound the armcry and perhaps even raise the whole city against him. It was not entirely out of the question that the others would still carry out their foul deed and then seek to pin the murder on him. That thought gave him pause, and he circled back around to the cathedral, using the ‘thieves’ highway’ upon the rooftops  to avoid returning to the street, where he found a host of armed guards spilling out of the magnificent church. There were even a quartet of Templars and they surrounded the angry-looking bishop.

“You are sure it was he?” the man asked in a fierce tone that carried even at this distance. One of the Templars nodded. “Then send a squadron. Bring me Publius’ head.” He scowled. “Along with the rest of his body, if you must. I would have … words with that upstart.” Gesturing, he turned back to the cathedral. “Should he resist, then you have my permission to be merciless.”

Gabriel slumped back against the stone roof and greedily gulped in air. He looked up, begging silently for a sign. Anything that might show to him that he had chosen the correct path.

Rain began to fall.

“Mercy,”Gabriel murmured, his eyes still locked upon the straight, shining blade of his father’s sword. The demon had pled for mercy. And Gabriel had given it to him. “Misericordia,” he corrected himself, slipping into Latin.

Yes. That was a good name. As good as any.

He smiled and went back to work with the whetstone.

Craine.

The smell of it was so damned familiar, even though almost twenty years had passed since he last walked these streets. Even as Gestlin nattered on, saying absolutely nothing that was of importance, Gabriel was lost to the memories. He did not realize until it was too late that his feet had once again led him by his old home. Thankfully, the wizard beside him seemed ignorant of his distraction as he continued to ramble about … what? Was he talking about rabbits? No matter. As long as he paid no attention to Gabriel’s expression.

Nothing remained of his old home, though that was no surprise, not with how he and Father left it so very long ago. This was the first time since then he’d dared to even set foot in this neighborhood – when last he was in Craine some sixteen years back, he’d given this entire side of the city a wide berth. Gabriel grimaced at the new house there – the stonework was all wrong; the roof was in that new style which was so unattractive, but the smells … they were still the same despite the years…

Twenty-Two Years Ago

The ring of steel against steel woke him.

Gabriel was already out of his bed, his legs tense and his muscles taut, long before his brain realized what was happening. He heard the grunts of men dying, of blades slicing through flesh and cloth, of hurried orders called out by unfamiliar voices. Fear coursed through his body as he hesitantly reached for the sheathed half-sword hanging off of his bed. He had just pulled the tiny rapier out when his door exploded.

Father was there, blood streaming down his face, and he danced away from the blades of two heavily armored men – with a flourish that Gabriel recognized as Kissing the Adder, his father dropped one of the men, and then twirled away from the other warrior’s fierce counterstrike. Overbalanced, the murderer had to throw himself to the ground to avoid Father’s spinning strike.

The man never saw Gabriel.

His rapier thrust was a simple one – Eel Among the Lily Pads – but the blade sliced through the man’s pants with immediate results. The murderer cried out in shock and pain, recoiling away with such speed that it tore the small rapier from Gabriel’s hand. Terror lanced through Gabriel then as the man gave him a dark look – he had no weapon! – but Father was faster, smoother, more dangerous. He flowed back into position, the rapier flickering faster than the eye could follow, and the wounded man’s cry turned into a startled gurgle as the elder Auditore cut his throat.

“Get your boots, boy,” Father ordered sharply. “Quickly now!” His voice was harsh and cold, but Gabriel could see the pain in his eyes. He wanted to hesitate, wanted to ask questions, but the fear that threatened to turn his bowels to water instead gave strength to his muscles. With deft fingers, he pulled on his boots and then, at Father’s quick head gesture, donned the traveling cloak. “Stay close,” Father instructed as he glided out of the room. Gabriel followed.

Beyond, in the wide dining hall, there were a dozen bodies, all armored but unmoving. The sharp smell of spilled blood hit him at once and Gabriel barely bit back the urge to vomit – he swallowed the hard lump in his throat as he followed Father toward the study. There too were corpses, all wearing black and gray. Gabriel had no eyes for them.

Because his mother was here as well.

She was on the floor, half leaning against Father’s desk, staring sightlessly at him, and Gabriel automatically cried out in horror when he saw the crimson staining her dress. Two crossbow bolts stood out from her chest and the expression on her face was one of surprise. He took a step closer to her, his mind reeling, but Father caught his shoulder with his free hand.

“There’s no time for tears, lad,” he said through clenched teeth. Abruptly, Gabriel realized that Father was also bleeding – he had a crossbow bolt in his belly as well, but somehow, was still moving. “Grieve later,” Father ordered. He led the way to the secret passageway concealed by the fireplace, pausing momentarily to snatch one of the oil lanterns from where it hung just within. With a flick of his wrist, Father sent the lantern tumbling toward the shelves on the far side of the study – it shattered with an explosion of glass, hurling oil in all directions and, almost instantly, fire sprang up. “Requiescat in pace, my love,” Father murmured as he backed into the tunnel. He triggered the release and, with the soft sound of muted gears turning, the fireplace rolled back into place, leaving them in the darkness broken only by the faint light of the other lanterns.

“Father…”

“There is no time,” came the immediate response. “We must away from Craine as quickly as possible.”

“You’re wounded,” Gabriel began before blinking. “Claudia,” he said as he glanced around. “Where is my sister?”

“With the Lord now,” Father said grimly. He began limping down the narrow corridor.

The flight from Craine was a nightmare of madness, blood and death. They emerged from the concealed tunnel into the city proper, but found a handful of men waiting for them. Father danced the forms brilliantly, killing three before they even knew of the danger they were facing, and then slew the remaining two in a blink of an eye. Gabriel’s fear gave way to anger and, when reinforcements arrived, he fell upon them fiercely, the raw fury of his attack making up for his poor form. One, he killed outright – an exceedingly sloppy Mongoose Takes a Viper – and the other, he slowed long enough for Father to draw close enough to stab him through the eye. These men also were given to the fire, though this time, it was Gabriel who threw his lantern. The blaze grew rapidly – it had been a dry summer and there was too much straw here – and they fled into the darkened alleys as the hungry flames crawled up the building that was the Auditore ancestral home.

Father led him through the back streets and alleys that were a veritable maze. They paused briefly to dress his wounds – Gabriel could not help but to notice how hot his father’s skin was – and then pressed on, evading the watch with almost casual ease. To his surprise, Father angled not for the gates, but rather the docks where he entered a darkened warehouse that jutted out over the river. Inside, there were several boats of varying size and he pointed to a small skiff clearly meant for but a few. Into the boat, Father tossed several items taken from various hiding places within the warehouse – several oilskin cloaks, a heavy bag that had the look of traveling supplies, several long poles that Gabriel thought to be for fishing – and then climbed in awkwardly.

“Keep low and silent,” he ordered once they had both donned the darkened cloaks. He pushed them away from where they had been moored and the fast-moving current carried them free. Rowing was not necessary, not with the flow of the river so swift, and with the moon high in the sky, they raced to western river-gate. It was closed, of course, but only for large vessels – a small fisherman’s boat like this was easily maneuvered through the narrow gaps. There was even a watchman who did not bother stirring from where he crouched atop the river-gate, though Gabriel suspected the man was actually asleep.

Gabriel looked back as Craine fell away from view. The adrenaline and the terror were beginning to wane, leaving only a frightened, cold boy of fourteen. Father was murmuring something that had the sound of a prayer and Gabriel was suddenly struck by how tired the man looked.

Put away your childhood, he told himself. Raphael, his elder brother, now a score of months dead, had told him to do that once, and the words rang true. Yes. It was time to become a man.

“I can steer,” he told his father as he crept toward the tiller. He knew only the basics of boatmanship, but right now, they were simply allowing the current to carry them. “You should rest, Father.” It was only logical.

Because they had a long way to go.