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  Merciless

  A Born Assassin, Book 1

  Jacqueline Pawl

  Copyright © 2018 by Jacqueline Pawl

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For my family:

  I honestly have no clue how you continue to put up with me, but I’m grateful nonetheless. This book never could have become what it is today without your feedback, rewrites, edits, and ceaseless support.

  Thank you so much

  Also by Jacqueline Pawl

  Defying Vesuvius

  A BORN ASSASSIN SERIES

  Helpless (Prequel novella)

  Merciless

  Heartless

  Contents

  Merciless

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  A note from the author

  Heartless

  1. Mercy

  2. Mercy

  3. Tamriel

  4. Mercy

  Interested in reading more?

  About the Author

  Merciless

  1

  Fwoomp.

  A twist of the breeze, a slight shift of the fingers is all it takes to bury the obsidian-tipped arrow in the wood beside Mercy’s head rather than sending it cracking through her skull. Mercy scowls as a warm drop of blood wells where the jagged teeth of the arrow had bitten her skin, and it trails slowly down the soft flesh of her ear. It has broken the skin, but not enough to wound.

  Exactly where it should be.

  “Almost got your pointy little ear, elfie.” Lylia’s goading voice precedes her as she saunters forward to examine her shot. Her longbow, nearly as tall as she and equally as deadly, is slung over her shoulder. She leans forward to stick her face in Mercy’s, gripping the shaft of the arrow with one hand. Mercy stares up at her as she pulls the arrow from the wood, sending another fat droplet of blood down her ear and neck. “But we wouldn’t want to do that, now, would we? Can’t have you thinking you’re any better than the dirt from which you were born.”

  Mercy’s lips twitch into a smirk. Lylia’s baiting her. She’s the only one who still tries. Years ago, the other apprentices in the Assassins’ Guild had thought it would be funny to throw Mercy’s few belongings into the white rapids of the Alynthi River.

  They had been right.

  Until the moment eight-year-old Mercy had shown them how creative she could be with a knife.

  Since that day, none of the other girls have bothered to speak much to her.

  Mercy feigns a yawn. “Do you intend to talk me to death? Because if so, I’ll save us both the trouble and end it now. Give me your dagger.”

  Lylia glares, toying with the feather fletching on her arrow. She’s a strange sort of beautiful—perfect to the point of flaw, cold and unnatural. Despite their varied backgrounds, many of the Daughters of the Guild share a similar look, a beautiful ferocity, but none so striking as Lylia. Her long hair is a flaming auburn and her eyes are so light a shade of blue it almost appears she has no irises at all.

  “Mercy, you’re so funny.”

  Mercy cocks her head, adopting an innocent expression. “It’s good to know those born bereft of a sense of humor are still capable of recognizing it in others. Here I thought you were hopeless.”

  Lylia growls low in her throat and pushes Mercy away from the wall to take her place. Mercy strides to her mark, her significantly smaller and less ornate bow resting against the trunk of a tree. It’s not as flashy as Lylia’s, or the others’ bows, but it does its job. All around them, arrows thud into walls, sharply inhaled breaths are slowly released, and Mistress Trytain snaps, “Don’t flinch!”

  Lylia leans against the wall, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. She raises a brow to say You really think you can beat that shot?

  Mercy nocks an arrow and lifts the bow, easily finding Lylia’s bright hair in the sights. She takes a moment to determine the wind’s speed and direction, then pulls the string taut. It naturally slides into place between the calluses on her fingers, formed through years of archery practice, and she feels the bow quiver with barely restrained power.

  She closes her eyes.

  And releases.

  The arrow whistles through the air, and someone gasps as the arrowhead cracks against something solid. For a moment, the forest is deathly silent.

  Mercy opens her eyes.

  Lylia stands against the wall, her arms limp at her sides and her head leaning at an awkward angle.

  No—not leaning.

  Pinned.

  The old shack’s walls are marred with scars from years of use during the apprentices’ target practice, but this shot is clear as day. Mercy’s arrow is a millimeter from Lylia’s face, the tiny braid Lylia wears above her ear pinned in the jagged teeth of the arrowhead. Mistress Trytain rounds the corner and examines the shot, nodding her approval. When she pulls it from the wall, a few red strands of Lylia’s hair float away on the breeze.

  “Very good.” Trytain nods and clasps her hands around the shaft of the arrow. “Now seems as good a time as any to end today’s lesson. Remember, one millimeter can be the difference between life and death, and between failing and fulfilling your contracts. In a real fight, your blood will be pumping so hard you won’t be able to hear anything else. Your hands will shake and you will be jittery with adrenaline. Never flinch. You must learn to control your reflexes, or they’ll betray you when you need them most.”

  A wave of murmured agreement passes through the crowd. Trytain nods a dismissal and girls in groups of twos and threes gather their supplies and begin the walk back to the castle. Trytain is one of a handful of tutors in the Guild, former Daughters who were fortunate enough to grow too old to continue working assassination contracts. She teaches fighting and weaponry to the apprentices, girls aged from six to eighteen who have found their homes in the Guild. Most found their ways to the Guild after family tragedies. The ragtag group of orphans found a balm for their suffering by throwing themselves into thankless, nameless work. Some came as adults searching for a new beginning, while others were abducted as children by Daughters instructed to find new ‘recruits.’

  Whatever their backgrounds, all have some id
ea of what the outside world is like.

  All except Mercy.

  When Mercy’s father, a slave, had accidentally discovered a Daughter of the Guild standing over the corpse of his owner, he offered the life of his newborn daughter to the Guild to save his. Only, rather than killing her, Mother Illynor, head of the Guild, had decided to raise Mercy as her own.

  A ready-made killing machine.

  Lylia bumps Mercy out of the way, pinching the point of her ear as she walks toward the forest path. Mercy’s fingers twitch reflexively for the bow slung on her back, an excuse to show Lylia just how merciless she can be.

  “Don’t worry about her,” says Faye, Mercy’s best friend—or, more accurately, the one who least wants to see her killed. She’s eighteen, six months older than Mercy, but her porcelain skin and large hazel eyes give her a deceptive air of youthfulness. “Don’t let her jealousy affect you.”

  “I don’t,” Mercy growls, and Faye clicks her tongue chidingly.

  Rather than respond, Mercy tilts her head back and stares up at the familiar canopy of leaves. Kismoro Keep, the fortress where the Guild makes its home, sits in the center of the Forest of Flames, along the southern rim of Beltharos. Tall redwood trees grow here, burning with leaves in every shade of red, orange, and gold imaginable, like a sea of fire floating overhead. It’s beautiful, and probably would have been decimated by humans searching for trees to log and prey to hunt if there weren’t tales of travelers venturing into the woods to loot the mysterious castle hidden somewhere in its center, never to be heard from again.

  Mostly.

  Sometimes Mother Illynor lets the Daughters, mounted on agile steeds and armed with bows and arrows, chase men out of the woods. If they strike a man down, it’s considered a successful day of training. If he escapes, he’ll stumble his way to the nearest town spouting ghost stories about the beautiful monsters who hunt men in the forest.

  Allow just enough fear to escape to keep the rest away, Mother Illynor likes to say.

  Mercy looks at Faye. “Is it true that some trees are green?”

  “Most are.” Faye knows better than to laugh at Mercy’s ignorance of the outside world, instead having made it her duty to teach her. “They’re green like grass, except when autumn comes, the leaves turn red and orange—like these—and fall. They crunch underfoot and dance on the breeze and scrape against the stone of the streets. And when spring comes, the trees begin again, with little green buds. It’s breathtaking.”

  “It’s pointless. Why not keep their leaves year-round, like these?”

  “The why is not important. Because they do. Because the Creator willed it to be so—”

  Mercy groans. “The Creator. How can you believe so wholeheartedly in the existence of something for which you have no proof?”

  Faye rolls her eyes. “Someone. It’s called faith for a reason.”

  “I call it foolishness.”

  “You do not believe in anything you cannot kill with your sword.”

  “Practicality.”

  Faye snorts.

  They walk in silence for a few minutes, listening to the birds and the tiny creatures scampering in the underbrush. The other apprentices have run ahead and disappeared around a bend in the path. Mistress Trytain walks behind them, out of earshot, but frowning nonetheless.

  Faye glances sideways at Mercy. “Why did you ask about the trees? I’ve told you about them before.”

  Mercy scowls as she steps over a fallen branch. “I was trying to imagine what it looks like. I think I would like it.” Her lips twist as she says it; she detests admitting to liking anything other than what the Guild provides.

  Faye nods as they follow the curve of the path. The trees suddenly part and Kismoro Keep rises high before them. Ivy and moss grow along the sides of the walls and onto the rarely-used battlements, which have fallen into disrepair during the castle’s thousands of years of existence. Huge chunks of stone have fallen from the walls and crumbled on the ground, but Mother Illynor has never bothered to have them replaced; there is no one from whom the Guild must defend itself. A tall iron gate hangs over the entrance, permanently open since most of the chain suspending it is more rust than metal. Mistress Trytain calls Mercy’s name as she and Faye pass under it, and Faye smiles and runs ahead to join Cianna and Xiomar as they return their weapons to the armory, diving straight into their conversation as if she’d been with them all along.

  A flash of envy crosses Mercy’s face as she watches them; she’s never had Faye’s gift of charm or her talent with words. Every facet of Mercy is sharp.

  “Don’t frown,” Mistress Trytain snaps as she walks by, thumping Mercy’s back with a stern hand. “And this time, clean yourself up before coming down to dinner. The armorers are here.”

  “Already? I thought they were coming next week.”

  “Would you like me to tell them to come back later? They don’t work around your schedule, elf.” Trytain frowns. “Change your clothes and, for the Creator’s sake, brush your hair for once. I won’t have the Strykers thinking we take in strays, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Good. I knew those damnable ears were useful for something.” She squeezes Mercy’s shoulder once, then strides into the castle, her cloak swishing behind her. Mercy shakes her head, smirking, and follows her into the main hall.

  If the Strykers are here, it only means one thing:

  By the end of the week, one apprentice will become an Assassin.

  2

  In her bedroom, Mercy runs her comb through her thick hair, growling when the teeth catch on a snarl. The closed shutters block out most of the sunlight, but she doesn’t care. Unlike the other girls, she has never put much stock into her appearance, preferring to let her skills speak for themselves. When they were younger and Faye dragged her to the river to wash her hair, Mercy practiced swordplay on the bank nearby. When Aelis brought makeup and perfumes from the capital, Mercy used the lipsticks to diagram battle stratagems she’d read about in the Guild’s books.

  That, and Mercy doesn’t have much to offer in the way of looks.

  She isn’t ugly . . . just plain, with dark eyes and unruly black hair which prefers to knot rather than curl, but somehow never manages to hide the telltale points of her ears. Her body has the naturally lithe build all elves share, but years of fighting and swordplay have built her muscles, so her thighs are too wide, her shoulders too broad, and her chest practically flat.

  “Creator’s ass!” Mercy snarls when the comb tears at yet another knot. She drops it and ties her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, huffing with frustration when three strands immediately spring out and fall into her face. She contemplates cutting them off a moment too long before shaking her head.

  The Strykers await.

  She doesn’t bother to change her tunic; this one is clean enough, and she has three identical ones folded in her wardrobe, all of them scratchy and threadbare after years of scrubbing on a metal washboard. Nothing in the Guild is wasted; when a Daughter is killed, her belongings are scavenged, sorted, and distributed among those remaining. The knees of Mercy’s riding pants have patches sewn over patches, and her cracked leather boots bear the imprints of someone else’s feet.

  Mercy leaves her room in the apprentices’ wing and descends the spiral staircase to the main floor of the castle. The hallways are dimly lit by the torches which sit in wall sconces every few yards, the faint scent of their smoke mingling with the divine aroma wafting from the dining hall.

  When Mercy cracks open the door, the chatter of voices and the clinking of forks and knives on plates sweeps over her. Two long tables divide the room, one for the Daughters—the Assassins who have already taken their vows—and one for the apprentices. Mistress Trytain and the other tutors flit about, snapping orders to servants and arguing amongst themselves about the plating of food and other mundanities. There are fewer than thirty Assassins, apprentices, and tutors, with a fleet of servants, stablehands,
cooks, and maids who have all made the Keep their home.

  Right now, every person’s attention is focused on the four men lounging on the cushions in front of the head table.

  They laugh and converse jovially with the young women who hang around them, lapping up every word they say. Oren has lost weight in the year since he was last here. His cheeks are pockmarked and sallow from a recent illness, and his chest rattles with a cough when he laughs. Even so, Cianna kneels on the floor at his side, eyes wide and innocent, and Lahrenn giggles at something he says.

  The sight fills Mercy with equal parts mirth and disappointment that her fellow Guildmembers so easily forget themselves in the presence of men.

  Faye sits beside a handsome blond man named Nerran, each holding a goblet. He says something which makes her eyes light up. She throws her head back and laughs, and he takes the opportunity to slide closer and rest a hand on her thigh. Her head snaps forward and her mouth opens to object, then her face relaxes into a flirty smile. Her eyes lift and she catches sight of Mercy. She waves her over.