The Shadow
&
the Blood Assassin
The Shadow & the Blood Assassin
Dark Hunters
Volume II
By Angelo Tsanatelis
Published by Saphire Realms
Copyright 2012 Angelo Tsanatelis
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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This ebook is a work of fiction. Though some towns, cities, locations and historical persons may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences are the product of my imagination or my own interpretation of a historical figure and should not be considered a faithful likeness.
More books from Angelo Tsanatelis
In the same universe
The Living Sword Chronicles Book I:
Origins -
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/52770
More books from Angelo Tsanatelis & Saphire Realms
The Living Sword Chronicles Book II:
The Lodge & the Tribe -
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/87992
Discover other titles by Angelo Tsanatelis at Smashwords.com:
Songs of Sorrow- http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53039
Songs of Loss- http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53037
The Dark Notes Book I- http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/66489
& also by Angelo Tsanatelis
Published by Saphire Realms
The Rootless- http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/56295
Dark Hunter series
The Ghost of the Cazador- http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/96907
The Shadow & the Blood Assassin
Table of Contents
Chapter One (Secrets in the shadows)
Chapter Two (A killer’s face…)
Chapter Three (The Blood Assassin)
Chapter Four (Redemption of the damned)
Prologue
April 10th, 1796 AD Cairo Egypt.
The insect, probably an Egyptian Praying Mantis, had turned its stem-like body towards her, the compound eyes following her breathing, its labrum rising slowly in an imitating manner.
What are you doing here?
It was a legitimate question. Squashed in the narrow passage that led to the mansion, she revisited the whole ordeal. He could be lying; she said to herself, the man is a first-rate cocksucker figuratively and literally. There is nothing he won’t say given the right stimulus. Her back was already complaining from the exertion and the tunnel seemed unending, a dark narrow place no sane person would ever squeeze himself into willingly.
I have to eliminate the danger.
But was that, answer enough?
She’d thought her old life was left behind, a foul secret the last seven years had erased forever. She was a new person now, she had a life of her own and she had Peno, her treasure. The Mantis was gone, but she could still feel its many eyes locked on her, questioning. Accusing.
It’s your fault still…
Her front teeth almost cut her lower lip as she bit at it to avoid cursing her silent inquisitor, a fruitless attempt as she did anyways, the word escaping her mouth the moment the sudden bright light hurt her eyes.
Fuck.
There was no more tunnel. She was there.
Take a walk, inside a life’s dismembered heart
Play thy part;
Be merciful to the souls that died,
because of our Master’s crazy plan
Only thee can;
With despair but wit a sense of care,
reach the caves rotten mouth
And then… kill the King of Doubt.
-
The King of Doubt,
Taken from the Songs of Sorrow,
Volume II by Angelo Tsanatelis.
=
Chapter One
(Secrets in the shadows)
Monsieur Poisson kept his washed out blue eyes on her, his mouth half-open showing two rows of fast decaying teeth in a pretense of a smile. Suddenly the wide veranda of his estate in the outskirts of Cairo seemed too hot, the air heavy and tasteless and she shifted in her chair trying to keep her face void of emotions.
“I think you are mistaken Monsieur.” She told him, noticing that despite the wrinkles that age had brought to his face, he still possessed part of that old arrogance and his next words proved just that. She didn’t like him then and she despised him even more now.
“There was a time I would have you flogged for these words, but you know that I suppose. Our era brought an astounding change in my fortunes…’ he stared at his hands for a moment, his fingers covered with many rings as if to reminiscent on past glories before continuing ‘but the peasant revolution ruined a perfectly built situation for me, so I guess I’ll have to bare with your likes. It is very unfortunate.”
She wasn’t going to pity him.
“My name is Jemila, I am a widow of a wealthy Bagdad merchant, I know not of this woman you are talking about Monsieur.”
His disgusting smile grew a little bit more at her words.
“That is a beautiful name Madame, unfortunately it is not yours, but you can continue I gather, to use it, if it’s more to your liking. There is no doubt in my mind that your real name is… or was- whatever, Vicare, you were a skilled Hunter of the Lodge for many years, until you’ve disappeared on them during the revolution along with your lover, a certain Alquino Miranda. Where is this fine gentleman really? I wonder if he is still around, in a way I owe him my life. But I guess you know all that. There is no need pretending anymore, I am not an enemy.”
“You are not?”
“No.”
“And this Sheikh is?”
“I’m afraid that is the truth.”
The hell it is. But then again she couldn’t just leave this one go under the rag.
“Let us pretend for a moment, that I am the woman you claim I am Monsieur, why warn me? Why not let the matter run its course, can’t see it being your business, my well being that is.”
“In a way I feel I owe him one Vicare. And since I’m unable to locate him, I decided to return the favor to a person that was then close to him. I like to pay off my debts Madame.”
No you are not. You are a lying son-of-a-whore of royal descent, a sodomizer and a pedophile. She decided to drop the act.
“How did this Sheikh came with this knowledge? It is not that I advertise my existence and Cairo is a very big city.”
“People talk.”
“People… as in you?”
“That would not be the case, I’m afraid you have left many enemies behind you Vicare. People that would still prefer you were dead after all these years, powerful people.”
The Lodge. Were they still at her trail, closing in like bloodhounds for the kill? His next words disrupted her thoughts and she snapped her head up to meet his eyes.
“You must think of the boy. It would be a grave shame to be left without a guardian in this harsh world of ours.”
It was these words that led her to the dark tunnel two days later.
-
April 3rd, 1796 AD, Arabian desert near the Great Bitter Lake.
The Syrian went for his knife, his right hand disappearing under his robes only to appear a second later holding a curved Jambiya which he tried to throw towards him with a swift move.
He could have shot him using his flint pistol and ridden himself of the trouble, but that would have created a far greater danger after solving him this one. Attract no attention or something as close to that as it is possible. It was not his motto though it could have been, he guessed; but he had changed a lot of things these past years, keeping himself constantly on the move trying to stay more alive than dead, amongst them a lot of his old habits. It was a good strategy nevertheless to help him get through this night, he thought as he flew the few meters that separated him from the man, the knife passing him by and continuing its journey towards the point where his jump had originated.
The horse neighed desperately behind him as the sharp blade plunged in its neck deep, but before he had the chance to ponder on it more, his shoulder met the Syrian squarely on his face, breaking his nose and they both went down on the still warm desert sand. For a moment they just lay there an inseparable mix of limbs with the Syrian’s hurt cries slightly louder than his own pained grunts.
Then his right hand holding his own curved knife reached for the man’s throat and silenced him forever. A strange quietness fell over the dark desert almost immediately; the only sound that of the blood gushing from the open sore. The eyes of the Syrian were goggling him and had a glassy quality about them, but he read no accusation in that death stare, only a mild surprise.
“You yellow-livered pig,’ he cursed him as he jumped on his feet using his hands to rid himself from the dust that had nested on his clothes. ‘you’ve just cost me a perfectly fine stallion.”
He looked around trying to locate any of the dead man’s friends but he could neither see nor hear anyone. After a brief search of the man that had ambushed him produced only the minimum of coin in reward for his efforts, he reluctantly admitted to himself that this was a poor kill.
“By the Gods!” he exclaimed loudly and trying to control his tempers he pressed himself to start walking towards the carcass of his horse to retrieve his bags, for what appeared to be from hither a long journey on foot.
He heard the horses approaching ten minutes after he had started his descent from a large sand hill, his legs sinking in that ground like he was walking on deep mud and he had to duck, face first in it, to avoid being seen by them. The men passed him by, riding with a purpose and after a while they had left him behind. Four of them, he counted, probably looking for him and he started following them from an ever increasing distance.
It was fruitless to try and catch a rider on foot and he knew it, but they would have to stop eventually for the coming night and so he stubbornly went on after them even when the sound of galloping had disappeared completely.
An hour later the glow of a strong fire far in the horizon rewarded his persistence and guided him towards what appeared to be their night camp. It had taken him another half an hour to reach them, the deep night by then had arrived covering the desert in darkness. He approached the camp from the east keeping in mind to avoid making any loud sounds and stopped a couple of meters from the horses, pondering what his next course of action would be.
He had almost decided to steal one of the animals and make a run for it when one of the unknown riders stood up suddenly and addressed one of the others. The man, probably standing on guard in the shadows the small fire couldn’t best, answered back, his words stopping him shy of cursing himself for not noticing him sooner standing a few feet from his hideout.
“…he will take care of the woman; told me so himself, we must concentrate our efforts on locating El Cazador, remember the Persian was certain that he rode out hours before us arriving in Jafera.”
“Where is Nazim though? He was supposed to wait for us and I ain’t seen a sign of him yet. I don’t like this business.”
“What’s to like? On my part I much prefer sticking to what we were told—”
His friend didn’t let him finish.
“Don’t tell me you believe what they are saying about him, it is ridiculous.”
The man had approached the fire and now he could see his face. Another Syrian, he thought. Why were these cutthroats looking for El Cazador? Was he staying in the town he’d left the previous day and he’d missed him?
The man, he had originally failed to notice upon his approach to the camp, shrugged his shoulders as if he had heard his thoughts.
“Better not to find out whether or not the rumors are true, I say. Better find the other bastard and skin him.”
He could relate to that. The whole exchange had picked his interest enough to change his mind. No stealing of the horses then, he thought letting his bags silently on the sand beside him. He breathed the night desert air in through the nose, half closing his eyes in the process and held it.
Not only, he corrected himself.
There, that was better.
April 10th, a villa in Cairo
The Sheikh was present alright, standing in the garden of his roman style villa and talking with a man that had his back completely turned on her. The garden was richly illuminated by many oil lamps and torches, overflowing with many exotic flowers, the rich aromas making the air heavy.
She reached for her crossbow; No reason to delay things further, a girl’s good luck can only last so much. The string made almost no sound, oiled well as it was from the previous night and went into position. The bolt followed in place soon after, the familiar weight of the old weapon bringing her a sense of calm and security as it always had. She’d done this many times in the past, she thought and she aimed it at a point below the Arab’s chin.
Take a small breath, Alquino whispered in her ear and she could almost feel him standing next to her, his sensual hypnotic voice, barely audible to anyone else, hold it for a second, exhale slow.
For a brief moment she was back at the Lodge’s training grounds, years ago, when everything was much simpler.
Then fire away.
She pressed the lever.
At that moment the man talking with the Sheikh turned his head towards her as if he’d sensed the danger.
Which of course was impossible;
The bolt traveled the length of the garden, reached her target in a fast second and disappeared into the man’s neck. The Sheikh’s words were cut abruptly and blood shot out of his mouth staining the other man’s clothes. But the stranger didn’t seem to bother, without any panic he started walking fast towards her as if he knew where she was.
Which in turn was extremely perilous;
Feverishly she reloaded pressing another bolt in the stirrup and almost without aiming she fired on the approaching man. Again he reacted prematurely as if he knew or could see what she was doing and half turning he managed to avoid the bolt. A sword had appeared on his right hand as he was now running towards the opening of the tunnel from where she had entered the villa.
Fuck me.
Another bolt went in the stirrup but this time she held her hand. She let him come within a couple of feet and then immerging from the darkness, fired at him almost at point blank. This time she got him, squarely on the chest and threw him back several feet. The man growled like an animal and tried to dislodge the bolt, pulling at it with his free hand.
Jesus.
She had already reloaded and without blinking she put another bolt through his stomach. The man collapsed on a parterre of blue lotus which he completely destroyed underneath him and remained motionless.
Good riddance, she thought, feeling her heart trumping in her chest from the adrenaline.
From inside the villa she heard people waking up and soon after loud male voices calling out for help. She decided to leave while she still had that option and turning her thoughts into actions, started moving towards the wall surrounding the garden. Putting the weapon on her back she jumped hard for its edge using both her hands to make a grab for it. The sharp stone-finish of the wall hurt the skin of her hands at the palms but grinding her teeth she pulled herself up and then jumped down into the dark street.
She started running the moment her feet hit the ground.
April 3rd, the Arabian Desert.
The blade of his knife plunged to the hilt just below the Syrian’s left ear and the man fell on the grainy sand like a sack laden with logs. Already moving fast he cleared the camp fire with a large jump and swung one of his curved swords against the second rider. The man had his mouth wide open perhaps in the process of alerting the others and his blade stopped that, cutting him above the Adam’s apple. Blood gushed out of the wound and as the man brought both his hands on his neck, a gurgling sound, something that was neither a cry for help nor of pain came out his bloodied mouth.
Move, he advised himself. Admire your handiwork later.
The first of the two sleeping riders was already on his feet, his dazzled eyes searching, still trying to pick out friend from foe. He seemed to solve the problem rather quickly, probably because he was the only shadow still standing straight and his right hand came up holding an Italian flintlock pistol.
By the Madonna’s cunt…
But cursing, albeit mentally, didn’t seem to bother the Syrian. He pulled the trigger and although he dived for the ground, a burning in his left shoulder informed him that he was hit. Growling inside his mind, like a dog kicked hard in the nuts, he rolled on that god-awful sand, some of it entering his half-open mouth and stopped some feet away from the man.
“I’m gonna rip your heart out!” The rider yelled at him and begun approaching with large strides hefting a large saif in his right hand.
He probably just threw away the pistol, how many weapons does this guy carry to his sleep anyway?
He was running out of time and he still had one more villain to deal with.
That’s just fucking great, he whined, testing his left arm. But fortunately it was not a serious wound and his spirits were lifted. He unsheathed his second sword and waited patiently for the Syrian to make his first move.
In reality he didn’t have to wait at all. The man came at him like a storm on a clear summer sky, yelling at the top of his lungs which was all fine and in a way kind of poetic, but utterly needless in this situation.
Sidestepping calmly to the left, he avoided the first blow, that could have cut him in half had the man succeeded and then buried his sword into the assailant’s unprotected side, the bullet wound bothering him a little as his blade pierced cloth and skin, then went through the man’s kidneys ruining them.
Pulling the blade out, he kicked him on the back and sent him on the ground. Without losing his concentration he turned, pinned his sword on the sand and pulling his pistol out of his belt he aimed it at the last rider, who was slowly getting up holding a long knife.
“You will drop that,’ he’d spoken to him calmly, but his heavy baritone voice, made his words even more threatening than he intended them to be perhaps a bit too much; the rider seemed to weight his chances. ‘and then remain perfectly still.”
The man reached to a decision. The long knife made a muffled sound as it hit the desert sand between his legs and he allowed himself to breathe for the first time since the battle had started.
He half-smiled pleased. The air tasted sweet.
-
An hour or so later…
“If you’re hoping for the clattering of hooves, you’ll be disappointed.” He said to the tied up Syrian and watched his nervous black eyes return on him. Then the desert wind blew again and the sand stung his own eyes forcing him to lower his head for protection. He waited for the wind to die down, his right hand fingers clenching the nipper, a metallic taste in his mouth. When the moment came he dipped in the sore, searching stubbornly for the lead ball, grimacing and sweating but staying his tongue. The pain in his shoulder grew exponentially with every move of the crude instrument until finally he located his target and pulled it out cursing the name of every god he remembered in three languages.
“It’s a pity my friend missed.” The man threw at him and he took a deep breath before answering him.
“You should be more concerned for your own skin.” He told him.
“You won’t kill me; you would’ve done it already.” The man sounded confident at least. Instead of answering back he examined the bloody nipper for a while bringing it in front of his face witnessing his prisoner confidence slipping away with every passing second. After he waited enough, he gathered himself up and threw another coal in the fire. There wasn’t much of a light anymore and he had run out of wood. But it’ll have to suffice.
“I overheard your friends talking earlier,’ he started saying while approaching the tied up man. ‘about how you all fine gentlemen had a plan on capturing… or perhaps it was killing, a certain El Cazador. I want more details.”
“I know nothing.” The Syrian said quickly.
“Something tells me that is not true.”
He brought the nipper closer, its steel tip almost touching the man’s nose.
“But then again I was always wondering what’s with the pairs—”
“Pairs?”
“You should really let me finish my sentences; I was saying that… and it’s perhaps simple to your eyes, but bare with me, have you ever wondered why man has two ears for example? Or two eyes, two kidneys, a couple of hands and so forth?”
The Syrian opened his mouth to answer but he cut him off.
“I will let you speak later, you’ll have to be enduring for a while longer. Let me return now to my argument, if one could describe it as one that is, why two? Why not three or four? What will happen if a man was to lose suddenly or in a matter of, let’s say hours, all these dual organs? What will happen to him really? You see I have so many questions I wish answered my friend,’ he opened the claw of the nipper for emphasis ‘but seeing as I am a generous individual and all, I was in the mind to ask you only of your ambush plans. Of course I could always lose my patience and decide that I should quench my thirst for all that knowledge presently.”
“I will tell you whatever it is you wish to know.” The man said quickly.
“Of course you will. Now, El Cazador.”
“We didn’t even know that name before he appeared.”
“Who did?”
“The Sheikh brought him to us—”
“Us meaning, your merry band of dead friends?”
“Yes. He said, the Sheikh… said, that he, this newcomer, is a very skilled assassin. A master Assassin to help us kill the Shadow. He referred to him as an Assassin of the Blood.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I have absolutely no idea, but I can tell you this much. That thing ain’t an ordinary man.”
He was telling the truth, what he believed was the truth anyways. But still…
“Do tell me. How did you come to know of this Shadow?”
“Everybody in our profession does. He was in Jafera the day before we arrived, he murdered a French officer there, along with his wife. El Cazador, that is what the stranger said his name was though. The Hunter.”
“But you know him by that other name yes?”
The man nodded with his head, certain of his answer, which immediately created a problem for him, seeing as he was the one that had ended that French bastard in Jafera. But he wasn’t El Cazador and for that he was certain.
“Your friend spoke of a woman.” He murmured, his mind still perplexed with this new knowledge.
“The newcomer mentioned her first. He said that wherever she is, El Cazador is. A pair… you could say.” The Syrian finished, his own last words probably making him a little uncomfortable, which was the least of his problems.
Unbeknownst to him, he had but a handful of minutes to live.
Tops.
He searched the dark desert around them, but only emptiness greeted him. They were alone. Moving slowly ahead a couple of strides, he put his left hand on the Syrian’s shoulder in a gesture of gratitude. His other hand had disappeared behind his back in a move he had executed a thousand times in the past.
“You’ve been very cooperative.” He said to him genuinely and the man sighed relieved. Then his right hand returned making the opposite journey back, the nipper already replaced in that sheltered moment by his trusty Jambiya, its curved blade razor sharpened, cut the soft neck skin, slashed deep through human meat like it was butter. Hot blood gushed out, painted his arm to the elbow, stained his clothes, its rich aroma reached his nostrils as he inhaled deep, engrossed in the ritual of the kill and of something even more sinister but equally enthralling.
You’ve found her, his mind screamed to him. A strange twist of luck had brought you the best news you’ve heard in years. And then the scream became too much for him to contain and it escaped his lips, thundering in the empty night desert that surrounded him, like the roar of a hurt lion.
-
April 11th
“Mother, did you go out during the night?” the boy asked. His voice startled her, the sun hurting her eyes as she opened them somewhat violently, the edge of the night’s exertions not yet gone from her system.
“I had something to take care love.” She said wrapping her arms around his small body in a tight hug.
“Was it difficult?”
Suddenly she was at a loss for words. The boy turned in her hands, her muscles still strained complaining, a reminder that she wasn’t a young girl anymore.
“Peno?” she checked playing for time.
“Having to do all the work by yourself.” The boy added and she exhaled relaxed. “Not having a man around.”
“Baby you know your old mamma is a tough cookie. Besides what use do I have of a man, don’t forget I have the means to support myself and you, right?”
The boy’s eyes locked on her seriously. It was a good imitation at least from his part and she cracked a smile at his expression.
“A woman can’t be without a husband.”
“Is that what the Mudarris are teaching you, these days?”
He seemed to think about it for a moment or two.
“Yes. The other boys are talking about it also. I don’t like it.”
That’s my treasure, she thought. Worrying about my reputation.
She planted a noisy kiss on his forehead causing the boy to let out a shriek of fake annoyance.
“Don’t do that Maa, come on, I’m not five!”
“Of course you are not. You are six.”
“Almost seven.” He corrected her fixing his long straight black hair using both his hands.
“Well then young man, why don’t you go ahead and ask the servants to prepare a bath for your old mother? Maybe one for you as well you smell like a horse or perhaps we should share, like when you were little. What do you say?”
“By the Prophet Maa! That’s gross!”
Then he was gone, his small legs carrying him fast towards the kitchen.
-
The hot oily water massaged her body softly, hunting away the tiredness and helping pained muscles recover some of their strength back. She poured another bottle of aromatic oil in it and then her hand went at a point above the dent on her neck and stayed there for a moment. Her fingers traced the barely visible scar that was running her throat, the memory of that injury still burning in her memory. As were all the others. One on her right shoulder, healed far better where the blade had entered her body than its exit point, a gross dark round spot of hard skin was still hurting her when the weather changed and the rain season came. But the worst of her injuries were inside her head. Images of slaughter, of men and women begging for mercy or cursing her whole lineage as she put them to the blade. She had done terrible things and had let even worst nightmares happen when she could have prevented them. That was what the Lodge had offered her. A new life in exchange for her soul.
But then a miracle happened. A life of violence and her brutal demise that was sure to follow was erased. Transformed by a random act of savagery and a badly executed plan of revenge. Live, Alquino had said to her before he went the way of all flesh, you deserve it. Her eyes fell on his crossbow, the silver finishing of the lethal weapon caught the sun rays and shone brilliantly. Ever there, never out of sight, like her blades, the tools of the trade had followed her in this life, as if to remind her always that everything could end the next moment.
But now she had so much more to lose and while she would half-heartily agree that her life didn’t worth all that much, there was a life she wouldn’t haggle, not for all the coin in the world.
Her eyes closed, eyelids heavy from the sleepless night, the warmth of the water helping on that department and soon her mind was traveling to the lands of the old continent where she left her heart and her youth, bargained all on a sinful night at the hands of a very old man.
The lights around her dimmed ominously as the sun hid from the sky behind dark clouds. A chill blew in from her open garden window but she was fast asleep by then and she wasn’t disturbed by it.
She slept soundly like a baby till the early hours of the morning, secure at the knowledge that she had protected what was precious to her.
Which was true…
-
But every day brings a new devil into this world. Some will even argue that at times it brings many more.
Silence is never void. Silence hides death.
(Latin translation)
-
The Hunters of the Old Lodge
Taken from, the Lodge & the Tribe
(The Living Sword Chronicles Book II.)
By Angelo Tsanatelis
-
Chapter Two
(A killer’s face…)
April 12th
The Cairo streets were filled with people, amongst them many Imperial soldiers, Napoleon’s African Army that was stationed at the outskirts of the city. He grimaced showing his discomfort, didn’t care much for the French.
He tied the horse he’d kept, after he sold all the others the previous day to a travelling merchant for a nice price, outside of what appeared to be a clean tavern, converted probably by the French for their own convenience. He sighed heavily; they were times he really missed Europe.
The place was packed with all kinds of customers, Muslims and Europeans. Egyptians, Africans, Moors and a number of French they created a colorful crowd into which he blend easily. He stopped at the bar and met the eyes of the keeper, a fat Egyptian, with light brown eyes and dark skin.
“I need a room.” He growled and then cleared his throat loudly and added somewhat more polite. “Water and a good drink would be nice on top.”
The man threw him a large bronze key, which he caught midair.
“Has a barrel in it. The water is clean… enough. Grab one of the wine bottles in front of you if you fancy a drink. It would be four coins.”
Why you rat-faced son-of-a-pig! There went a third of the money he had gained from that merchant.
Grimacing displeased he paid him and grabbing a bottle which he hopped wasn’t vinegar, started heading for the top floor of the tavern. A balding man passed him by, followed by an effeminate, but nonetheless pretty young man and his mind clicked as if he was supposed to remember him and he stayed still for a couple of moments trying to locate the memory. He didn’t, which ruined his mood even more, so grudgingly he started up the stairs to the second floor.
At least the room was nice. But he guessed that after sleeping in the desert for two weeks straight, any room would seem that way to him.
“No judgment on the room yet then.” He said to himself as he undressed.