Shade stood at attention. He betrayed not even a shred of weakness, nor even a sliver of panic or fear. He did not take his eyes off his master. He heard the shuffle of several far more clumsy footfalls behind the Shadowlord. He had hardly noticed the few others who had entered with his lord, so commanding was Sadora’s daunting presence. Shade did not look, but he saw his master’s hooded servant, Wormin, out of the corner of his eye. Wormin led a captive over to him by a brown twine rope which had been tied around the neck.
The captive had an empty potato sack pulled over his head. He wore a filthy frayed tunic that stank of a familiar dung. He was no Unseen, a peasant from the looks of him, as filthy as a mud-wallowed hog. Shade had a sneaking suspicion he knew the captive’s true identity. The Unseen Order blindfolded all visitors to the Sada’Korum in an effort to keep its location secret.
Shade also saw Jeshrim scramble behind their master, but he kept a safe distance. He crossed his arms and grinned brazenly at Shade. His long curly black hair fell across his smug highbred features. His crimson eyes glowed like fine wine, but he was drunk with the power of his influential family. He always had a crazed look in his eyes. Jeshrim’s face glowed in triumph. He poured his smirk on a little too thick. Shade could only imagine his satisfaction. Jeshrim would soon be rid of his rival and become their master’s new star pupil. Too bad Sadora’s new protégé was doomed to only be a cut above mediocre.
Shade ignored him.
Lord Sadora finished his cold appraisal. He stalked over to the prisoner. He pulled the sack off of the Faelin’s head with an undisclosed disgust.
An old Faelin geezer blinked and gaped around. His mostly toothless mouth hung open and he drooled dumbly. He gawked about like a frightened old housecat tossed into a pit of dogs. He had gray hair, another sign he was not nobility for highborn Elvish hair tended to grow more illustrious with age.
Shade recognized the Faelin at once, Dumley, one of the countless beggars that plagued the street corners of his old hometown. The fool would never make it out of here alive. Jeshrim’s contacts must’ve lured him from Nefar under promises of vast riches no doubt. Too bad Sadora would squash him like a bug before he risked a rat like Dumley selling the location of the Sada’Korum to the next bidder. It wouldn’t matter that the old geezer was dumber than a sack of rocks.
Sadora pointed at Shade and asked bluntly, “Is this him?”
“Aye, that’s him, I'd recognize that boy anywhere,” Dumley nodded, “he grew up among thieves. Bastard son of a harlot barmaid in fact.”
Jeshrim beamed even brighter.
Wormin pulled the bag back over Dumley’s head. He yanked the twine hard around the neck. Dumley groaned, but kept his lips clamped.
Lord Sadora marched back over to Shade. “And what have you to say to this grave accusation?” he demanded, “You lied. You are not Selvan from the noble house Saquinarian? You are just a lowly commoner from Nefar?”
“I am,” Shade said proudly, “I moved unseen among those who move unseen.”
“Speak plainly, boy! You know what’s at stake!”
Shade took a deep breath, puffed up his chest. “I know.”
Sadora glowered at him in disbelief, as if every fiber of his spirit hated the derailing knowledge of this horrible truth. His voice drew out like a blade, “You understand then the due penalty for any common blood that pollutes our ranks?”
“I do.”
“So be it!” the Shadowlord spat. He whirled around in a flash. “Then receive the due penalty for your weakness!” A dagger was already in his hand. Lord Sadora struck with such unfathomable speed Shade barely had time to react.
Shade turned slightly, but felt the sting of a dagger slide deeply into his left pectoral. He felt blood gush from the wound and wash down his abs. He staggered but held his ground in mind-reeling pain. He struggled to stave off the flooding unconsciousness. He felt shadowy spirits wrap their cold icy fingers around his soul. He felt their tug and pull, dragging his spirit down into the realms beyond the grave, but he refused to let death take him.
Everyone gasped.
Sadora yanked the blade coldly out. More blood flowed, but Shade stood. His master stared at him in staggered shock. Never before had this happened in the history of his rule! Never had Sadora failed to deliver a killing blow. Every student he had purged from the order had simply keeled over and died, but not Shade.
Shade’s glowing yellow eyes glared back at his master like a pair of quenchless flames. He ground his teeth and pushed through the waves of blinding pain and faintness. He had managed to turn the deathblow aside just far enough that it had missed a vital organ.
Lord Sadora’s violet eyes smoldered in rage. How dare this lowly peasant embarrass him in front of his order! He struck again, this time so swift and confident that he would surely kill Shade. Clash! He blinked. It took a moment to realize that steel clashed against steel. Shade had managed to not only draw one of his master’s own daggers, but deflect the second thrust altogether. But how? Even whiter shock ghosted across the Shadowlord’s face.
Another collective gasp echoed throughout the chamber.
Sadora caught his breath, but his blood boiled. He trembled in uncontrolled anger. He uncorked the full measure of his bottled rage. He delivered the final strike.
And then Shade did the unthinkable. He not only managed to parry his master, but strike him back across the jaw with a swift backhand.
The crowd of Unseen cried out in shock.
Lord Sadora turned his shell-shocked face back to Shade. He reached up and dabbed his finger on the blood that trickled down his cheek. His violet eyes blazed with anger, a storm crackling in their midst, but suddenly they softened. Shade thought he could actually hear the thunder, he thought he could actually see the lightning disperse in his master’s eyes. He stared up in throbbing shock as his master’s sharp features relaxed.
Sadora sheathed his dagger and turned to the rest of the order.
Every eye remained held in thrall.
“Mark well this night, Shadow Brothers,” Lord Sadora said softly, “for here before us stands a Faelin of true worth to the order.”
Shade woke up suddenly. He clutched his bleeding chest. He had to stop the bleeding; he had to stop it before he bled out. He slipped his hand under his leather breastplate. He dug his fingernails into his skin until he felt pain. A slow realization hit him that his chest was dry. He was not even wounded.
He blinked and looked down. He relaxed his grip and the pain subsided. He realized he was not in his home forests, but in a crude stone hut. His dreams had been invaded by a locked away memory. It all had seemed so real. It had all been so clear, so powerfully visual, like it just happened yesterday.
Stone hut! The assassin snapped fully awake. He jumped up and hit his head on a leaning slab. He rubbed his sore skull. His eyes swept wildly around the primitive dwelling. The undead, he had been fighting the undead! The interior of the stone hut whirled around in his head, toppling his already shaky orientation. His heart sounded like a mallet pounding loudly on his eardrums. He felt like he was going to faint. He looked around, but only the stark rays of dawn’s early light slipped through the cracks and crevices in the stone hut.
He breathed out a long sigh of relief. He was alone. The night had passed and he lived. He stumbled a few steps and dusted off his old leathers. The blood that flooded back into his left leg felt like the pricking of a thousand needles. He must have slept on it. His experience with the undead had made him feel mortal again. They had almost killed him. It had been too long since he had been so close to death’s door. He didn’t like it. It shook his fortress of confidence.