The Keeper and The Dragons Ch. 18-19

Chapter 18

The Desolate, Oldtown

The assassin, known as Wraith, sat on a makeshift cot in one of the many apartments she had scattered around Oldtown. This one was buried deep in the catacombs. It was a miserable place, more cave than room. It was safer than most. She had set up many bolt holes just like this one over the years.

She figured she had a day, maybe two, before she'd have to move on.

Now that she was alone, she allowed her mask to slip, revealing strikingly exotic features. Deep lavender eyes, Silver-white skin, her was hair a deep shade of ebony so dark it appeared to absorb light. She appeared to be a teen in certain lights, mid-twenties in others. In reality, she was an asrai-halfling with the talent to make herself any appear any age and any species. Unlike others of her species, she had no vanity. The uncommon beauty of her eldritch features was one more weapon to use, along with the other tools of her trade. She'd had so many names she'd lost the memory of her real one. She cared little what others called her. As far as she was concerned, naming a being was an attempt to own them. And over the years, many had been desperate to own her, from her very first caretaker, who had stolen her and her sister from a long-forgotten home to a host of others. Master had seen her potential and took her off the streets when she was twelve years old. Master had refined her into a killer without peer. Her skills were his legacy, with one exception, they were the only thing that mattered to her.

After hundreds of successful contracts, she had many enemies. Enemies that would pay good coin to see her lifeless body thrown into a renderer's vat down in the shambles. It was dangerous beyond belief to shelter at any place for long. Assassins did not retire in her world. They ran until they made a mistake, then they died.

She'd gotten herself into a mess. The stupid bitch got in the way of the star that was meant as a miss, a botched assassination. No was supposed to be harmed. The job was to sow mistrust, not death. Now that mistake was going to draw Lachlan Quinn to Oldtown. He was sure to come after a call from his precious Amazons.

Over the years, the assassin had spent a good deal of time brooding about Lachlan Quinn. She'd fought him three times; had beaten him twice and lost once. That one loss was enough for a lifetime of regrets.

"Mother Goddess, please damn the stupid bitch. I hope she suffers," she snarled in the darkness.

A thought stuck. Master had always counseled her look at both sides when faced with a dilemma. Could this be a bit of serendipity? Why not? He was just a human, no matter how much the troll women trained him. She had beaten him twice before. Why not end him? If she were successful, The Dökkálfar Sidhe would reward her every whim. They would force the Brotherhood to return her son.

The door to her room burst open under the assault of two massive trolls.

"Our Master would like a word, assassin."

Even then, she could have escaped. Mere brawn was no challenge to someone of her skills. But she had a new purpose. She nodded agreeably, grabbed her pack and followed the two huge beings out the door and into the rat warren of tunnels that led out of the Desolate.

Too late. She felt the slave torc snap around her neck.

Chapter 19

Eastmarket District, Oldtown

Venwraek, the renegade Daoine, sat with his burn-scarred face twisted into a frustrated scowl as he gazed at the ancient scroll lying on the marble table in his suite of rooms. It had taken him and his brother centuries to acquire it—scores of decades of chasing down rumors and false leads in two different realms. Now he had it. He had power beyond imagining at his hand—and he couldn't access all of it. The frustration of not being able to decipher the language of the scroll more quickly was slowly driving him insane. His goal was in reach. He would be satisfied with nothing less than the throne of Queen Uonaidh. Ever since he had been banished, the lust to rule Alfheim consumed him. Now it was close at hand. If he could master the elder god's spell-craft, none could stand against him.

His damnable brother. It had been his part to master and decipher the writings of the mad monk who had channeled the ancient demonic blood spells and listed them in ancient Ogham in the tattered scroll in front of him. His fool of a brother had insisted on playing with the Shadow Walker and it had gotten him dead. What was worse, it had cost the lives of the two demon-kind sorcerers who were there to teach him how to cast the scroll spellcraft.

He brightened. Silverbirch's minions had provided a sliver of optimistic hope. Mayhap, the fates had turned his way for once. The Dragon bitch had conveniently brought to Oldtown the very person he needed to work on the scroll. The Hex witch.

A knock sounded.

"Enter."

His two servants ushered the assassin into the room. They had done what he asked, even managed to torc her. Even to him, a being whose race was known for its beauty, the female was beautiful.

The female, despite her beauty, seemed dull and helpless.

This was the assassin feared by all? Is she ill?

"Be seated half-blood." The name coming from a full a full-blooded Sidhe was a contemptuous insult.

She didn't react. After she had seated herself, he realized she was nowhere near as attractive as she first appeared. Had those idiots grabbed the wrong being?

" I understand you came out of retirement to work for Silverbirch?"

"Yes, Master."

"You do work with the Brotherhood? Are you one of their number?"

"Master, if I were, I would never talk about it. As you know, the brotherhood guards its secrets. As it happens, I am not." She spoke in a monotone. He had to strain to hear her.

"Are you ill?"

"No master, I think I am just tired."

"What hold does the brotherhood have on you, assassin? They have given you to me, but I need to know if you will perform."

The Daoine calmly watched as she struggled to refuse to answer. The pain of disobedience forced her to her knees, but in the end, the torc forced a reply.

"He has my son," she finally gasped out.

He walked over, grasped her chin and raised her face so he could see her eyes. The flash of quickly shuttered hatred warned him. He moved desperately away from her. The silvery needle hidden in her palm just missed his face.

The torc reacted, transmitting a jolt of pain that caused her to convulse and lose consciousness.

Sweating, panting with panic at how easily she had fooled him, the Daoine gave her unconscious body a vicious kick.

"You will serve me, assassin, or I will break you totally. For this insult to me, your son will serve as well. A slave, perhaps in one of the Dökkálfar copper mines for the rest of his miserable brief life."

He called for his guards, "Strip her and check her for weapons. She can wait in the cellar until I have a use for her. She seems capable enough to take on Lachlan Quinn."