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WORT CLOMPED DOWN THE basement stairs, heading for the prison that few knew existed. It lay beneath the ground, but it wasn’t part of the Demon District. It was directly beneath the Immortal Triumvirate’s headquarters and sprawled beneath the City Square.
Few beings had access to the prison where hundreds of men and women from various species were currently being held captive. They’d been used to breed hybrids of all kinds. Some had been successful and others had been disasters. Few of the babies were born healthy. The sickly ones were destroyed by the nurses, as were the ones that were too disturbing to be allowed to live.
The satyr mused about how many stillbirths there had been over the past fifty years. Some breeds weren’t meant to be mixed. Others made effective combinations that resulted in extraordinary hybrids. Take Eden, Malachi and Sorcha for example. They’d all turned out to be both attractive and dangerous. Lord Dallinar personally examined all of the babies that were born. He locked some of their power away so they could never become a danger to their overlords. He also performed a spell that bound the babies to him and his allies.
Wort snorted out a laugh at the lies he’d told his young trainees. The budding assassins believed every word he’d told them. He’d beaten subservience into them from a young age. They actually thought the spell would tell their masters if they ever broke the rules. It still amused him now even though he hadn’t trained anyone in a full decade.
He reached the door to the prison and touched the handle. The spell was attuned to him and the lock clicked open. He entered a long hallway and pulled the door shut behind him. It locked again and it wouldn’t open for anyone who wasn’t authorized to enter.
As he passed the cells on both sides of the corridor, he glanced inside at the captives. They couldn’t see the windows he peered through. To them, the doors looked like they were made from solid wood. Each prisoner lived in luxury compared to most of the population of Nox. No matter how comfortable their surroundings were, they were still inmates. Several of the women were pregnant. Nurses checked on them daily to make sure they were healthy. They’d lost too many babies and they did their utmost to ensure at least some of the infants would survive.
The satyr had delayed coming to the prison to pick more candidates to train to become assassins. He’d half expected to be told that Sorcha had been killed during a mission. Eden and Malachi had died within months of each other. Now that the sorceress was solo, she would eventually slip up. No one could handle the number of missions the Immortal Triumvirate sent them on alone.
“She won’t last much longer,” he predicted as he turned into a hallway that would take him to the wing where the children were kept. The nurses kept him up to date on the progress they made in their studies. He’d taken note of which ones showed the most intelligence and aptitude for magic. While he couldn’t cast spells himself, he knew enough to be able to teach his students the basics.
He came to a door that led to what passed for a schoolroom and pushed it open. Twenty-three kids of varying ages were sitting at desks as a matronly fairy instructed them. Wort knew each child by name, even if they’d never seen him before. He examined the kids, mentally crossing out the ones that were too old or too young. Ten were left and half of them wouldn’t suit his purposes, but they might surprise him.
“Can I help you, Wort?” the nurse asked. Giggles broke out from the younglings when they heard his name.
“I’ve come to choose more children to receive special training,” the satyr told her.
The fairy’s face paled slightly at that news. She knew exactly what would happen to the kids who didn’t make the cut. “I see,” she said and clutched her hands together anxiously. Once they left her classroom, she would never see any of them again. Wort would take over their training and he would teach them everything they needed to know. The ones who didn’t meet his expectations would be dispatched by his calloused hands.
Wort pointed at the ten children who were all four or five years old. “Come with me,” he ordered. Fear filled their little faces and some of them began to cry. “Don’t make me tell you again,” he said coldly.
“Go on, children,” their teacher said with a kind smile that didn’t reach her worried eyes. “Wort will take charge of you now. Do everything he says and be good little boys and girls.”
Still sniveling, the chosen ten left their desks and followed the gruff creature from the room. Curious stares from the others followed them until the door swung shut.
Wort strode along the hallway. He slowed his pace so his new charges could keep up with him. Their used to be more children, but some had been sent away. He was left with the ones who weren’t suitable for whatever their masters had planned for them. The kids who were too hideous were sent to the Demon District to be sold at the blocks. A similar thing happened to the younglings who were particularly attractive. They were given to the Immortal Triumvirate’s allies as a reward for their deeds.
He didn’t know what happened to them after they were taken away. He never saw any of them again after they left the prison. The same happened to the trainees who made it through his program. Once he deemed them to be fit for duty, they left the jail to embark on their jobs. He hadn’t seen Eden, Malachi or Sorcha in a decade. They’d done him proud to last as long as they had. In a way, they were like the children he’d never had.
The satyr followed a series of hallways and came to a metal door. He took a keyring out of his pocket and unlocked it, then ushered his charges inside. They clustered together and took in the gigantic chamber that was now their home. Bunkbeds lined the wall to the right. Exercise equipment, weapons and training devices took up most of the rest of the room. A long table was over to the left. Several dressers with changes of clothes separated the beds from each other. A single door led to a solitary bathroom that they would all need to share.
“Why are you called Wart, sir?” one of the small boys asked bravely. “Isn’t that some kind of fungus?”
Giggles broke out and the satyr’s hand moved with lightning speed. He slapped the kid hard enough to knock him to the ground. He was aware his first batch of trainees had called him Fungus behind his back. He’d allowed it because it was the only rebellion they’d ever shown him. This time, he wasn’t going to put up with it. “My name is spelled with an o, not an a,” he snarled. “Don’t ever call me wart or fungus again, or I’ll rip your tongue out of your head!”
All ten tykes burst into tears at the threat they knew was very real. A pleased smile graced Wort’s face as he perused them again. Two girls and one boy had the greatest potential to make it as assassins. Only time would tell whether his prediction would come true, but he didn’t really care either way.
