Zihark was resting, nursing an oncoming headache from the dune-heat when he heard the city crier's voice float in from below.
"Assassin on the loose!"
He grunted, and closed his eyes, uninterested. He'd taken care of his fair share of assassins before, and it wasn't his favorite job. Messy, dangerous, involved more traps and muddy tracking than straightforward duels. Money was tight, but not that tight. (He hoped.)
"Prince Rafiel reported to be safe after attempt on life-!”
Rafiel?
The Queen’s heron?
Knuckling a hand in an eye socket, he groaned, half from the headache, and half from the realization that he was going to be pulled into this mess whether he liked it or not. The missing stump on his right-most finger throbbed in agreement; it was always an omen after that fateful day in Ashera’s Tower. A rapid set of knocks on the inn door proved his ill suspicions correct.
When he got there, a beorc woman with moss-green hair tied neatly back in a low ponytail was waiting at the door, hand apologetically raised for another set of thunderous knocks. Zihark squinted at her. She cocked an eyebrow back at him, unperturbed. Wearing a full set of finely crafted armor likely helped her confidence, or maybe it was just his sorry state. He tried to straighten up in a halfway decent parade-stance before answering.
"Is this maybe, just perhaps related to the heron by any chance?"
"Yeah, about that ... the Queen wants you in to help. I'll bring you up to speed up on the way, shit's going down."
She looked positively delighted to share the good gossip to a beorc (moreover one clearly in the Queen’s favor); Zihark sighed internally and followed, checking the sword at his hip.
Just in case.
_______________________
The first audience hall was massive; old laguz construction that took his breath away every time he saw the hewed columns and the intricate sandstone. There was ingenious architecture to the narrow windows lining the top, allowing natural light at any time of day or night whether it was sun or moon. However, the moss-headed guard wasn't here for sight-seeing given the impatient tap of her foot on the sandy floor, and neither was he; after a moment Zihark allowed himself to be nudged to a smaller antechamber on the side. She leaned over briefly, clearly having other errands to run.
“The Queen’s in a bad mood, so hey, fair warning there.”
He nodded once back at her, and then went in alone.
The warning was well deserved. There was primal rage in how Queen Nailah stalked around the line of hapless laguz and beorc guards as he turned the corner to face a torch-lit scene. Zihark did not even need to glance up to see that their throats bobbed in genuine fear at the wolf-queen's wrath as she circled.
“-- and I will have blood staining these stones every night at midnight until this killer is found. Whether that blood is yours or this assassin's is up to you.“
Zihark could tell alone by the way the tip of her tail angrily danced along with her robes that she was barely restraining herself from ripping throats out there and then.
“Find them. Now go.”
Her ear twitched his way and suddenly he was faced with her glare. The others fled. He couldn’t blame them exactly, not when her one livid eye had pinned him like a sand-gnat.
"You, swordsman. Follow."
He obeyed.
They walked through a darker tunnel, deeper into the labyrinth of the palace into someplace quieter, presumably away from eavesdropping minds given the decreasing number of windows. He almost bumped nose-first into her when she abruptly stopped in a smaller shadowed room that was dappled red from the stained glass above, and from the pool of water much higher above that. The patterns made for a deeply lurid atmosphere given the two blazing torches at either side of Nailah.
"How much have you been told of the assassination attempt?"
"The town crier mentioned there had been an assault on the heron. I was curious, and one of your guards found me on the way here." He gave a perfunctory shrug from one shoulder. “As you see, I am here now.”
Nailah's lips curled back in a real snarl. "Fools to give so much knowledge, so soon. They will be rebuked."
Zihark kept his face impassive. She was venting, and perilously close to sloppy even with heightened emotions and the aftermath of shock, even if it was her heron involved. Better for her to do it here, in private, with somewhat friendly eyes instead of her subordinates. Almost as if she had read his thoughts, her own features suddenly smoothed out like mirrored obsidian.
"You are correct. My eyes and ears sought you out for a reason. I want you to investigate - and you will be compensated with no expense spared during your stay."
"Generous." He tilted his head back, one eyebrow raised. "What's the catch?"
The shadow of her snarl slowly transformed into a fanged grin. It was mesmerizing to watch, here in the red-smoked air - like a fever dream of death and the darker impulses.
"You will be hunting a killer. there have been other killings, as of late, by someone who wishes to prey on the defenseless by moonlight. Always, they target our most precious and weakest."
His missing finger ached sharply, and Nailah did not miss it when he discretely massaged at the scarred nub through his glove while he gave her request consideration. Sometimes the pangs told him things. All a crock of superstition, of course, but he never ignored those warnings when it throbbed.
"Queen Nailah, forgive my curiosity. Why entrust a foreign mercenary with this task? Why not your own guard?"
"I can break you without a trace." She smiled like an executioner, utterly guileless. "I can break them too, but not without some fuss. Will there be a problem?"
Something absurd in him answered, laughed, and twitched his lips with the bleakest humor. No, he had it all wrong, he was her judge, jury, and executioner and there was a vicious bleak part of him that was utterly fine with that. More than fine.
"When you put it that way..." Zihark replied disarmingly, hands spread. She threw her mane back and barked out a laugh, her riches glittering across her dusky breasts.
"You see sense unlike some pups. There are eyes here that I don't trust. You, however, and your adventures with the heron royalty in the New Lands also ensures some amount of loyalty that is hard to replicate."
Her teeth clacked on the last line, and in the light of the flame and the dancing red reflections, he could see her canines and imagine them bloodied around the assassin’s throat.
_______________________
"Prince Rafiel, the Queen's investigator is here."
The wolf-guard gave Zihark a measured glance; he was seasoned with a shock of black hair that had been silent the whole way up the staircase of the tall spindly tower where Rafiel's quarters resided. The calm mannerisms reminded him of Volug, back in the Goddess' War, and wondered whether that man was still one of Nailah's shadows. Last he heard was the wolf was in the New Lands as one of her most trusted envoys to the various laguz nations.
Likely one of the reasons the assassin dared strike, said a suspicious side of Zihark's mind. He dutifully noted that as he watched the guard turn and disappear back down with no further comment. Not at ease with beorc as some were, it seems.
Slowly shouldering the door open to the next room, Zihark was met with several sights.
The row of marble columns were the first thing that drew his eye, splayed to the left where a breathtaking view of the palace grounds peeked between them. An easel was neatly set up between two by the far corner, and on cue, Prince Rafiel was perched nearby in a shimmer of heavenly gold and pearly white splendor on a lightly stuffed stool. A bowl of grapes and finger-food nothings were within close reach of his paints and slender fingers. Lastly, rows and rows of bookshelves of books laced with the heron clan’s ancient language lined the remaining two walls.
Zihark didn't have to be a Sienne scholar to sense that the texts surrounding the heron were quite literally a priceless fortune, even when they paled compared to the Prince.
Rafiel turned, paints delicately arranged and laid aside – and brightened like a miniature star upon seeing somebody familiar. He gestured gracefully at the bits of doughy morsels in the bowl, and held it out in invitation.
“Eat, my friend – after the events of yesterday, these are likely to be the safest treats we can partake from, and I would not leave you hungry. My Queen and I owe you a tremendous debt.”
Zihark took one of the offered pastries; they were the lightest white doughy bits with sprinkled sugar on them, and hidden tartness. Sweets weren't his first choice but he suspected that the palace chefs had a familiarity with Gallian pastries for them to match so well.
“Mmmph, these are good.”
The heron positively beamed in response. He almost felt bad about turning their attention back to the task at hand.
“It sure is good to see you again, Prince Rafiel. There’s no debt as the Queen pays me handsomely enough.” He glanced and then nodded at the surroundings. “May I take a moment to search the room?”
“Yes of course, the investigation. Please, be my guest.”
The tower-room reminded him of an aviary, Zihark realized, after a moment or two of walking around in a slow circle while giving the heron a respectful wide berth. No wonder he likely felt at peace here, away from the bustle of the crowds below. There was ample opportunity to receive guests or enjoy the silence, and Nailah had likely chosen the tower for the apparent security of her most precious companion.
It was a good idea. In theory.
“I’m curious. Do you have any favorite subjects to paint here?”
“Oh, yes, my Queen brings me back many treasures of gemstones and fascinating remains from her travels in the desert...”
Zihark realized disconcertingly that among the countless book spines, he could see the occasional skulls of dead creatures – he hadn’t realized that the heron had a morbid streak that matched Nailah’s. It took a moment for him to re-focus on the heron’s words.
"...and sometimes I paint my Queen."
The religious tenor of which Rafiel ended that sentence was almost enough to raise an eyebrow, but he let it slide for the sake of professionalism. That was before a smear of dust and not-dust by the floor of one of the bookshelves grabbed his eye - like one of the massive bookshelves had been moved.
Recently, at that.
He bent down, testing the stability of the finely-carved wood along the way. It was rock solid, and not some secret passageway out of an overwrought paperback, though he wouldn’t put it past the two of them to have at least one somewhere. Zihark glanced up, noticing one row of books had messily toppled to the side, like the shelves had perhaps wobbled from the top.
Or somebody had used the top of the frame to leap off…
A narrow row of windows, again, lined the edges of the room, but still wide enough that a slender beorc or laguz could have shimmied through with relatively little noise. He chewed the inside of his lip as he grabbed a nearby ladder, and climbed his way up to the top, taking due care to examine everything.
It was the last shelf that he struck gold, with four strands of distinctive black hairs beside another smear of faintly disturbed dust. In one of his special pockets the evidence went. Resisting the temptation to whistle a tune, Zihark jumped lightly from the ladder three steps up, and winced slightly as one shin protested. Thankfully, Rafiel hadn’t noticed, humming to himself and occupied with his paints again.
“Say, Prince Rafiel, did you sense anyone before the attack? The guard mentioned on the way up there was no guests that entered here earlier that day."
“You're correct, and that's the strangest part. I was at peace with my painting and the tranquility of the sunlight ... it was not until the ground was at my fingertips that I realized I was not alone."
Golden locks swayed slightly as Rafiel shook his head, either shaking off the bad memory or cataloging his own.
"I am afraid that I will not be of much assistance to you. We herons are quite fragile, and after fainting from the impact, I remember no more. It is only due to my Queen's well trained guards that the assailant had no time to press the advantage."
Fragile was the understatement of the century, as a particularly forceful wind could stagger the heron. Zihark was certain that a small, hard one-handed shove from himself could down him - the fact that the assailant hadn't caused any damage beyond bruises that the palace healers swiftly treated was a minor miracle.
That rules out a tiger laguz or a hawk. Too heavy, and would have broken bones. Beorc, raven, or cat then?
"It is a pretty well defended and isolated room." Zihark thumbed towards the space. "It'd take somebody quite nimble to get up here much less undetected. Not sure if I could do the deed myself, maybe ten years ago when I was younger..."
A surprisingly mischievous smile briefly bloomed on Rafiel's lips; clearly time with his little sister had rubbed of on him after spending time together. "Little wonder my Queen chose you for the investigation. Such honesty is a wonder these days."
Zihark rubbed the back of his heated neck as he glanced around the room for further clues. "Yeah, well...she was quite keen on having somebody with a clean record on Hatari politics. Seems like there's been a few question marks there lately."
"Word of warning, swordsman. Queen Nailah means well, and... well."
Zihark blinked. There had been hesitation there, a rare pause that sounded dangerously close to a negative insight, and he had never heard the heron speak an ill word towards anyone, much less Nailah. He was not even sure if the delicate thing in front of him had the capacity to think a negative thought towards his owner, but stranger things had happened.
"Her mind pursues myriad paths. She chose you for as many reasons as there are grains of sand - be cautious that her fangs don't sink too deep."
"Duly noted." Zihark paused. The comment was cryptic enough for many meanings, and the heron was watching like he was waiting on a reaction.
"Is there something I should know?"
"Swordsman, with time, I think you will know one way or another. What my Queen wants, she gets."
Rafiel still held the same smile, but there was a curious edge to it; almost like the man spoke from experience. Even as they shared farewells and Zihark left, that odd look stayed with him.
The second day was as bright as the first, rose-dust heat waves shimmering from the base of the massive Palace. Zihark had barely eaten the first meal of the day and finished a brisk walk around the wing when Nailah herself descended on him. She did not bristle with the barely restrained wrathfulness as yesterday; it was replaced with a wary watchfulness that proved unexpectedly intense when her gaze flickered to his in the hallway.
"A word, swordsman. I would care to know how the conversation with Rafiel went."
Her firm tone did not leave room for argument, nor did her quick stride towards the private arena nestled in the heart of her personal wing; Zihark followed. Hatari’s warlike society was more similar to Daein than not, and the thought gave him an unusually strong pang of nostalgia.
He had seen the surprisingly large antechamber before, upon first arriving at the palace. It was well lit with both the sun through the columns at the top and braziers of torches, it was an empty block of loose sand with weapons lined neatly around the sides. His fingers itched to test some of the ancient weapons; there was some blades that looked to be one-of-a-kind relics, but Nailah was striding towards the center expectantly, and had turned around neatly on one bare foot, her tail swishing with anticipation.
"Shall we spar? I find the most illuminating discussions happen during these sessions. You may speak freely within this room, any ears here are not your concern."
"Training the mind and body at once, I see."
She bared her fangs with a hint of warm laughter. "You understand again! Many don't, and their bones are swiftly buried in these sands. We begin at your first slash, and end when we draw blood twice."
This was a test of word and blade, and so his own familiar sword against her fangs would be the best. After unsheathing his blade, he inspected the steel for a moment.
"Rafiel was quite cordial; his comments were consistent with yours of not seeing or feeling another presence that afternoon. However," Zihark experimentally tested a sword-swing at thin air, easing his sleep-stiffened wrists into action.
"That in itself may be a clue. Absence often is."
"Do go on."
Her eyes tracked the blade as she shifted in one sweeping gesture, a flurry of linen and leather rustling and giving way to an outgrowth of fur and fang. Every time he had seen a laguz transform (more than most) it was still a sight to behold. This was old magic, and the intellect behind the bright predator's eyes (well, single eye here) spoke of it. It was hard not to shiver, especially as Nailah observed his every move.
He weighed and chose his next words carefully. She too, watched just as precisely as they began to circle in the lethal dance.
"I have ... heard ... there are other laguz who are more in tune with Order and yet are not heron or dragons. Perhaps one of these with considerable mental training was the would-be assassin?"
She took a second to shake her fur coat clean of sand, a reaction he took as assent. "Hatari has citizens and books with such knowledge; that is indeed plausible. You have my curiosity piqued, Zihark. Not many beorc in the New Lands have such familiarity with laguz."
He replied lightly.
"I've known some quite well."
To her credit, she did not push further at the line of thought – and instead bounded forward with speed, tail flagging at turns. He shifted to the side as she curved around him, nipping once at some distance. The nip wasn’t meant to connect – it was a warning to see if he’d flinch.
Then the massive wolf was circling again, tongue lolling and waiting him out.
"Was there more that you discovered, swordsman?" Ah, Words then.
"It is telling that your heron suffered no more than several bruises – says to me the assailant was light and nimble. My guess is the attacker was either a raven or cat laguz, with personal bets on the latter."
That she stopped at, ears perked at the new information and the ring of conviction.
Instead, Zihark lunged in.
He dove sword-first on her blind side in one vicious, clean strike. She recoiled before he connected with bone, snapping ferociously at emptiness, but he was already gone, dancing around, behind with another flurry and flash of steel to gain distance.
He would be at a disadvantage between the stump that was his finger, and he was not in his prime these years. The Goddess’ War had taken care of that, if the fearsome longevity and strength of the laguz hadn’t. Even with her blind eye, few in the entire lands of Tellius could match her wrath, and the ones that could were long since ghosts.
In the end, reminiscing about ghosts nearly did him in, as Nailah lunged again with the speed of a whip. While his blade clanged harmlessly off her fangs and nearly went spinning into the sands, it was her sideswiped claw that tore a thin white-fire strip of hot blood from his thigh.
He staggered, barely managing a halfway dignified roll before collapsing on the ground as she trotted over to investigate.
Upon a snort of an inspection, Nailah gave a lazy snap above him authoritatively, and then pawed off of him, shoving him back in the sand un-mercifically. Zihark stood up with a small amount of glowering reluctance and sand. The leg held, but it would need attention from a medicinal vulnerary afterwards.
"You sound certain. Why fur and not wing?"
There was no point in edging around old ghosts; her damnable nose for truth would likely sniff it out one way or another. He sighed sharply.
"Cat laguz have the necessary skills in both mind and body." Cocking his head, he gave her a dead steady gaze to her one eye, and continued. "That, and I found a few strands of black fur on top of Rafiel's bookcase, with an obvious escape route behind for an exceptionally nimble laguz. It's a cat."
Nailah yawned lazily with all fangs in response, looking remarkably villainous. The old children’s rhyme lazily looped in his mind: my, what big teeth you have –
"Well done. You've earned some information in exchange."
It was Zihark’s time to blink in moderate surprise – she sounded like she had anticipated the fruits of his investigation, and was using his time to ascertain more.
"There is a separatist faction that lives in Hatari. Some deserters have always resisted my rule, and yet..." She snapped again at the air, enough force to shred a man apart. He felt his body give a shiver in response. "Their numbers have grown since my proclamation of moving our people to the New Lands. No matter. They will be dealt with soon."
Zihark could grimly imagine the slaughter and the blood that would run red. He had done it before, for tainted coin. And he’d do it again.
"There are a number of cats among them. I would have you find our traitor with my eyes and ears. Your steel has advantages they would not expect."
It made sense, her logic.
"Especially if we act fast, say within a day. Daytime would be less of an advantage for their sight."
Zihark regretted his words as soon as they were out - It irritated him to no end that she was able to pull information out with effortless ease, as banal as these little exchanges were. He had been so very careful all these years to never let a hint slip and here she was breaking past every bloody meticulously-placed barricade –
With the heft of bitterness nursed over decades, he rushed again; low and lightning-fast this time, throwing the hastily-collected sand in her one good eye. It struck true. Something sardonic played around his lips as he dove to the side, hearing a thin yelp while a spurt of blood littered the sands from her front paw.
He stared her down with a ice cold blade of a smile as she snarled, acknowledging the hit. Wary respect was new as she limped lightly on the sands, and as his boots lightly circled around her as well.
"There is an abandoned shrine in the outskirts of this city. We will lead you to it."
The glare in her eye was a piercing fallen star as she bore down on him, this time in a ferocious zig-zag rush. This was a hunting strike – and it only belatedly hit him as he went flying how big the wolf-queen was, a force of nature instead of something mortal.
Zihark landed face-down with an impact that would have broken his nose again had it not been for the loose sand; as it was, he barely had a time to wheeze out a laugh between hammering heart-beats before she landed on top of him, knocking any remaining air and fight clean out. A strangled, pathetic wheeze finally emerged from his mouth when he realized that it was only her paw, one paw with nails scratching into his back possessively and pinning him quite firmly as she licked at the other one with a glowering look daring him to move.
She mouthed at his sword arm and shook lightly – fangs not quite breaking skin, but an ample display of territorial dominance that would regardless leave marks for weeks. He took the hint, letting go of the blade in tacit surrender.
Only then, did she shift back with a distinct smugness, still on top of him.
He, on the other hand, was exhausted, mind utterly blank. His leg stung, the stump on his hand was throbbing again with a deep ache from gripping his sword so tightly, and he wanted to wash up. The sand in his hair and eyes was itching, and as ragged as his dignity was.
“You fought well, swordsman. Prepare as you need to – a maid is fetching water for you to bathe. I will find you again when we are ready.”
Her voice was as gentle as he ever heard it to be. Zihark looked up with one quirked eyebrow to see her in human form, head cocked like a curious stray puppy staring at something fascinatingly shiny. Too close.
He wondered what happened to things –and people– that she deemed no longer interesting.
_______________________
Zihark emerged from the wash-room provided with freshly bandaged scrapes and cuts. It was only after running the towel through dripping hair that he realized he was not alone.
"N-" the word promptly died and resurrected on his tongue when he saw the wolf queen standing quite at ease in his bedroom. Watching expectantly.
His stark nakedness was clearly not any deterrence for her. Quite the opposite.
"Nailah. I didn't expect you."
Thank Ashera the door was closed.
"Good. I didn't send warning."
Well then. There was no point reaching for a towel for the faintest shade of modesty; the motion alone would reduce any gained dignity to a laughingstock. Instead, Zihark casually shouldered the door-frame. She planned this, he realized in a very belated way, this as another strange test and a distant part of his still-rational mind gave a slow incline of the head to Rafiel for at least trying to warn him of her ways. That strange bird tried.
There was a heat unfurling, a slow, ugly, possessive part of him that wanted to see where this would go. She felt it too, her tail swishing again, slowly this time, with the energy of a caged predator (but he was the one caged in here with her, and she was watching him, eyes roving up and down expectantly) –
The last thought was not an unpleasant one for him, it turned out. He swore she licked her lips.
"This is pointless. Do you beorc talk so much before mating?"
Zihark snorted. He couldn’t help it; he'd have called her tone exasperated if it weren't for the gleam of physical interest in her eye. She looked hungry.
After being in the same room with Nailah the past few days, Zihark was realizing her wrathful energy was always there, just directed at specific hapless targets. Here, it was him, more pointedly the generous spot between his legs. it took remarkable effort to will his body into not bending to that gaze, and he was losing front there. Had lost it.
“Your choice. I'm rather done with the talk, personally."
There was that fanged smile from her again.
He realized after taking three lazy steps towards her, within a sword's reach, that he was taller. She jerked her chin up with lust-hooded eyes, but no, his sight didn’t betray him – despite her larger than life charisma and him still dripping wet and bare everything – his eyes were at level with her twitching ears.
(Hers had done that too, with anticipation.)
That illusion shattered rather suddenly when Nailah grabbed his chin – Ashera, those nails were sharp – and pulled him down with haste. It was less of a slow kiss between two lovers and more her sampling his own stubbled mouth like some kind of exotic fruit with a careless and savage hunger –
His own nails dug into her shoulders as he leaned into the not-kiss, deliberately tugging her back until her grip became something that threatened to send them both tumbling down on the bed behind her.
"Satisfactory." Nailah stated with a smack of her lips, breathing a pleased and ragged purr as they separated, her fingertips trailing down his bare flesh while ruthlessly disrobing herself. He was close enough to hear her savor the word, her lone pupil dilated in the heat of the hunt.
"I should hope so." The half-grunt, half retort came out of him with more of a sarcasm-laced tartness than he intended (pride be damned), enough for her to outright chuckle this time, deep and throaty –
That got him – Nailah rumbled with more pleasure as he stalked her backwards to the bed, acutely aware of her lithe hands roaming his bare chest and below, seeking purchase and stroking hard flesh.
Somewhere, he heard a "Yes, you'll do–" murmured in the haze of heated lust and would have bristled if her hand hadn’t firmly settled on very practiced, very even strokes that had him aching towards her –
“What was that about no talk?” He hissed with an edge, bearing her down roughly as Nailah smirked, her legs coiled around his sides and arching against him skin-to-skin in a way that fucking wrung rational thought from his craw and sent him rutting against her heat –
"More of this, mmrh?"
He only had time for half-a-blink of surprise and she whole-bodily flipped them - Ashera, she was fast – her flank rippling with inhuman strength as she straddled him on top. Again. Smugly.
It took a breath or two for him to see that look on her after she pointedly straddled over his cock, and she most definitely heard the wracked groan of masculine pleasure that escaped from him in response.
She batted away his searching hands with a stinging slap when he tried steadily inching them along her thighs, towards her hips for leverage to rut up and into her. He snarled soundlessly in response, which transformed into an audible groan when she sunk into him, deeply, slowly, rhythmically.
"Don’t do that. Next time, I bite."
"You-" Another roll from her hips were enough to wring out a string of curses from him, and she gave that same wickedly amused grin. He was barely conscious enough to see Nailah had a vulnerary in hand, pouring the liquid out on the off-paw, procured from damned knows where. How she was sober enough to find it, torture him, and chase after her own climax at the same time –
She held out her slick hand for him to lick with a vicious, victorious gloating look and he didn’t fucking care. Her thighs had his cock in a vice and his willpower shot like an blown arrow –
She wrung one last, long stuttering moan from him, at last, when her callused and slick hand massaged the base of his cock and he came and came, god damned heedless to any sense of time or dignity or sense of place that wasn't the white-hot pulsing heat of her firm fingertips, nails, and his flesh.
_______________________
He was utterly spent, sweat-streaked chest panting when she stretched and slinked off the well-used bed with full hips swaying. Some time after.
"Satisfactory." Nailah sang again with smug archness and playfulness, the languid liquid kind of heated pleasure one had post-climax. He bit off a curse about her relentless energy, but the truth was that she had him finished, between the fighting and the –
Gods. it had been so long.
"You're not staying?" He quietly loathed how needy that sounded.
"Assassins to hunt, swordsmaster." The worst part is she sounded almost sympathetic, and had taken the kinder interpretation knowingly. Ashera, the last thing he needed now was pity like some lovesick geriatric.
"There are several hours left for you to –"
"I'll be there. One hour."
It was the one and only time he cut her off. Nailah took the hint gracefully with a curious look of realization.
Zihark still couldn't meet her eye as she donned her robes again and padded out silently.
"You get many tourists from the New Lands?"
Zihark’s companion later that afternoon was an exceedingly reticent hawkman, light-brown wings held tightly against his sides in irritation at the press of the crowds. Evidently a well telegraphed assassination attempt didn't deter weekday mass shopping sprees for these citizens. These folk were hardy sort (like Daeins, was the other half of the thought he didn't finish).
"Very few."
"Merchants, perhaps? I see Hatari has rare and priceless goods that would be a boon for them and these lands."
The blonde hawkman gave him a disgruntled look out of one eye, reminding Zihark so much of the miniature counterparts to the raptor that he grinned reflexively. There was a time that he would have responded with the same quiet seriousness, his head on a swivel for any oddities. Between the wisecracks, he too was paying attention -- they were hunting a trained assassin and had reason to be cautious.
However it was true that the older one got, the one gave far less of a shit about things. Zihark wondered if that was how that old mad dragon king got to be who he was, back in the Tower. It also seemed that even after an apocalyptic war (or two) that humanity never quite got tired of killing. Or that he, strangely, never got tired of it either. Zihark was not sure how to feel about the fact that he felt nothing at that insight.
More money, his head said after a moment's deliberation, while his heart quietly called him a liar.
(That was the other constant. Liar and hypocrite all the way through.)
"We're close." The hawkman's blunt words jerked him out of the reverie. "I will approach no further in this form given the dangers. You, on the other talon, will have eyes in the air should an encounter happen, and there are other allies within ear's distance."
“Ah yes, the Queen’s eyes and ears. That has to be where it came from.”
The hawkman – he really should know the bird’s name by now -- just gave him that steady exasperated stare. Are you done, human?
"And the shrine?" Zihark followed up promptly. Really, the man was too easy to wind up.
"Follow the line of mango trees down this street, and take a right. Dead end. You can't miss it."
There was a pregnant pause as if the guard swallowed back a thinly veiled barb tacked on the end, but he was one of Nailah's men and professionalism came first with her most trusted guards. Zihark idly wondered if the Queen was the type to mix work and pleasure with them as well. It would explain a few disgruntled glances thrown his way.
"I appreciate your time. Safe flight." He murmured finally, not wanting to leave their uneasy truce on a sour note. The hawkman nodded once, and then turned to the left, effortlessly melting into the jostling crowd of fur, feather, and coin.
She would have loved to see this.
He allowed himself the thought, a heartbeat, and then a breath as it left him. There was work to do.
_______________________
The shrine was a beautiful, quiet thing that Zihark found himself enjoying wandering through.
Vines grew overgrown on the statue of -- hells, he recognized Ashera. The facial proportions were all wrong (the stone masons had also taken some liberties with the bust) but her floor-length hair was the same, and so was the somber visage.
Even if he had only seen her twelve years ago, when Ike had landed the killing blow, through the auras.
He didn't think much about those hours in the Tower. Most of it still felt like a dream, easy to write off as some awful nightmare where people didn't laugh or break bread together and the desperation of a broken world hung heavy over their shoulders. It was only killing, killing, and desperate rushes onward and upwards to do more killing.
It was so much easier to let the priests write it off as an anomaly, which was such a passive, mealy-mouthed word to him. They had killed their goddess; at least give her the basic respect of an end in the history books. Memories could still be kept alive with an end.
Zihark stood there, in front of the old statue of Ashera for a long while.
After a moment, he scrounged around in his dusty black tunic for a few spare gold coins, kissed them, and laid them out on the rim of the dried up water fountain right below.
_______________________
A barely ajar and broken door that led to a dark labyrinth beside the shrine showed promise, especially when he knelt and saw the faintest outlines of what could have been feasibly cat prints, before a rain. The bits of smeared sand and dead vines were too faint to know for certain, but his hunter’s mind raced with some amount of anticipation of being close. He picked through the dusty passageways, noting the rotten wood, the streaks of old or possibly fresh blood (too dim to tell), and he debated on going back and getting a torch even if it’d rob him of --
The hairs on the back of his neck stood.
She and him, in another life, had made a game of hunting each other. In and out of the trees, over craggy hills and ravines, startling Ashera knows how many flocks of little birds.
He knew what being stalked like a cat felt. There was one around right now.
Zihark enunciated evenly out into the darkness, not moving his gaze or gloves.
"I know you're there."
Some would have called it a particular kind of madness to give up such an awareness advantage. Many days he would have agreed with them. mostly he was fucking tired and wanted to get this over with. There were other advantages to calling the hand in early, too.
"Well, well, well."
A sing-song voice came from the depths, and several seconds later he heard the soft poff of her pounce nearby.
"Fancy that. The human has better senses than the dog on the throne with the bone."
Zihark snorted despite his best instincts.
"You like my rhymes, human?"
"I've heard worse."
Contrary to what he expected, she grinned, one fang glinting in the semi-dark. Then she stepped into the thinnest sliver of light.
Her hair was some dark red shade, curly, wiry and lithe like the rest of her frame, and she dangled a black-and-silver knife in one hand, clearly at ease and feeling her advantage. Spidery was a word that described her well. Potential assassin was also a dead ringer; she didn't even attempt to hide the rusted blood stains on the dagger.
"Mister-pissy-play-wright didn't like my rhymes. Too bad for him."
Zihark could guess at how he befell his messy fate. Risk taker. Has an ego, vindictive. Possible bad blood with Nailah given some of the targets. Sloppy given the lack of maintenance on her chosen hideout and weapon. Her edge of surprise now was less than he had feared; he could plan and stall for time now.
"May I ask for your name?" He replied politely. Names were polite.
"Asrah. And yours, my dear?"
"Zihark."
The conversation was being remarkably civil between two killers, one paid and one not, but he was not particularly sure how long it was going to last. A shame. He slowly faced her properly with a casual stance.
"I'm going to guess and say you're aware I'm not here for tea, much as I'd like."
That, she giggled at, with tiny chirping almost-hiccups. She was cute for a serial killer. He had to remind himself about that last bit.
"You are a delight. My trite delight. Yes, I know you, mercenary, and your task. I indeed killed that little birdie – after you, of course. Time is flexible, you understand."
That was easy.
"Now I have a question for you, mister mercenary. Have you also killed for fun?"
He gave the question some ironic consideration.
"Yes." A long heart-beat. "And?"
She blinked oh-so-slowly in response. His lips curved in a sardonic not-smile in the darkness; Asrah clearly had not been expecting such honesty from the Queen’s sword, and one of the former heroes of the Tower. He waited for her to reply, as was polite, but there was nothing forthcoming, and he had seen how trying to out-patient a cat was an exercise in deadly foolishness. Especially here, when his life hinged on the lack of her boredom.
“One day, I’ll tell you.”
“Swordsman with secretssss … oh you’re a tease! I love those. Tickling teasers with my daggers.”
He sighed internally. For once, for once, wandering somewhere for a week with nobody interested in his past would be bloody perfect. There wasn't anything in those memories for the living, including for himself.
Just ghosts.
Like to like. ghosts in the past to a ghost in the dunes. He considered if she liked ghosts more than the living; it would explain the miserable surroundings that amounted to nothing more than a glorified dump. For all of the pretty-talk, it was a quietly despairing way to live, and alone at that. Zihark abruptly found himself quite finished with the conversation.
“I’m sure that’s a good time for at least one of us, but that also sounded remarkably like a threat.”
Asrah tongued at her one fang. “Why not both?”
“Have it your way, then…”
The assassin was young, untrained, and arrogant; she barely managed to yowl with offended shock and dodge out of the vicious horizontal slash that he had been slowly itching towards, using the chatter to tighten his stance and for his eyes to slowly adjust to the dim lighting.
As it was, fresh drops of blood from her flank splattered towards the ground as she slashed in retaliation at the air, claws fully extended but not shifted yet. That too, was another well telegraphed sign of incompetence, as any self respecting laguz soldier would know to shift first and talk later. Zihark found himself keenly missing Lethe as his boots found better purchase on newer wood - sparring with her a decade ago had been a pleasure for that reason. Simple, clean, strength against strength in a nothing-personal duel. Hells, Nailah understood that.
He heard a primal, angry hiss - echoing in the dimly lit space, but the softer movements were trailing away. The assassin was running away, knowing enough that she was outfought before she began.
Blast. he didn't get this far to loose the quarry -- he owed the heron that much.
Zihark raced behind at speed, following his instincts as she frantically knocked over precarious, half collapsed tables in an attempt to slow him down. The crimson splatters from her flank would assist him well in tracking, but as long as he could keep her from shifting, he had a chance of closing the gap -
Rocks fell in a pit by his boot toes as he skidded to a hasty hard-stop around a bend, and then ducked as she slashed with the dagger overhead, desperate to make him loose balance and fall. He backhanded swiftly, instinctively with a sword-hilt at the adjacent wall where she crouched with a bam and was rewarded by seeing her wobbling on a foot-length beam, and then toppled … and then grimly held on with one arm to the beam.
He saw a lighted space below her, judged the distance, and took a chance of jumping at her, connecting solidly on the way down and breaking her hold along with the splintering beam --
They both tumbled to the space below, collecting a brutal number of bruises and possible broken bones as she yowled again, vainly trying to scratch at exposed skin and frantically working towards savaging his vulnerable back.
Sure hope those eyes and ears live up to their name ...
Zihark braced his elbow with one hand while they both dizzily scrambled on the ground, and the backwards blow connected to her solar plexus – hard.
Not wasting time, he flipped over and his hand closed around the side of his boot.
Then there was a thin, high ragged scream that ripped out of her as he stabbed her in the ear with his hold-out dagger. The stab itself was hardly debilitating or life-threatening aside from eventual blood loss, but pain kept laguz from transforming. He didn't care to remember where he learned that piece of advice.
For one long second, there was nothing in that lower glade save his heavy, exhausted pants and her barely audible whimpers and hissing of pain. Then he heard the howls and rapidly approaching rearguard of laguz.
"By the Queen's orders..." The black-haired wolf was back, the sole untransformed laguz with a steady gaze as the rest of Nailah’s pack surrounded the area.
Zihark let his head lightly flop back to the ground, heedless of the headache that threatened him again, and closed his eyes in exhausted relief.
He had never been so glad to see wolves.
_______________________
Two days later.
Zihark was in the washroom again, re-bandaging the scrapes and cuts sustained in the little escapade in the shrine. Healing the sheer number of bruises and cuts alone had required another two vulneraries and he was very deliberately not acknowledging the half-used one from before, in the corner. That one was for ... different matters.
He was attending to the claw-slash on his thigh (that one would leave a faint scar, likely intended knowing Nailah) when he heard another set of thunderous knocks. Zihark hastily threw on a spare set of robes, tying it around his waist as there was no time for exceptional modesty, and answered.
"Boy, I'd recognize those knocks anywhere."
Moss-green guard – she really bore an uncanny resemblance to that other swordsman, what was his name, Soane? -- brightened unexpectedly in response to the harmless tease. She was new enough that she liked being recognized, and being part of the friendly ribbing that always went along with the guards and mercenaries. Some things didn’t change.
"Sure you would. So unfortunately, I got a bit of bad news, and you might want to hear this privately. Can I come in briefly?"
Zihark gave an easy gesture in, and closed the door after her. She took three steps in the center of the room, and smartly turned, arms still crossed over her chest. He mirrored her stance.
All business, then.
"The cat laguz assassin escaped last night."
It took everything in Zihark not to slowly roll his eyes up to the ceiling in mute exasperation. He settled for a deflated sigh. The mop of moss green looked genuinely sympathetic and wilted; it’d probably mean extra shifts for her too.
"Yeah. That's, not great news."
"Sure isn't. Reason why I'm here though, is this little shit." she whipped out a piece of paper, held between two fingers. His own missing stump throbbed again, ferociously.
"Please don't tell me that's what I think it is." Zihark drawled in response, giving it a dead eyed look; it was almost as cliche as one of the plays he used to watch when he was based out of Crimea. The side of her mouth quirked in response, almost; fate had a funny sense of humor sometimes.
After a beat, he took the scrap from her and flipped it over to see spidery writing.
"The swordsman with secrets is next. -Asrah"
FIN