The Priest's Assassin

by V. C. Willis

  Without question, they all jumped. I don’t think I’ve ever given orders of this caliber to the staff. They really do respect me as Crown Prince, even after abandoning them for so long.

  The house staff poured out from the manor with unmarked supplies. I waved off the apologies. They had done everything to protocol. No one had told them our circumstances, nor did we want them to be fully aware of the dangers in case a spy remained among us. Guards pulled up their horses and swapped out bedrolls, blankets, even steel cups and plates. Nothing new remained as I insisted, and they kept the finer made items for themselves as payment for acting quickly. Food was pulled out and repacked in a commoner’s way, certain items removed like pastries and similar sweets. These were luxuries. In the end, the only items remaining were bread, jerky, and a few jars of minced meat.

  “They’re going to starve on just that,” fussed the head mistress of the house, Mrs. Ivette. She had braved leaving the manor to see what all the fuss was about. “This is too far, Prince Dante. You may have played farmer, but you don’t have to keep living that way.”

  I smirked, packing the last of my needs in my own saddlebags. No one had dared to assist me when Basque nipped at the maid who had walked too close. “I’m hurt to think you don’t think I’m clever enough to hunt game, Mrs. Ivette. How do you think I lived out there for so long?”

  “You might be hurt, but I’ve never seen you harm a living thing that hadn’t earned it.” Her heated glare matched her hands on her hips. I remember how this frightened me when I was caught sneaking pastries. “You should take more. Winter hasn’t gone away just yet.”

  “You should have seen him kill those chickens that first year, madam.” John had marched pass her. “He didn’t seem the least bit sorry about it, even at supper time when he ate them with the dumplings.”

  The grand entrance as always, John.

  I spun to meet his smirk, and nostalgia took my breath away. His golden braid properly tight bounced against the black jacket. Even his beard had been trimmed. He tugged at the white collar, unhappy to be back in his role as a priest once again. Behind him, Mother Superior Sonja was no small feat, a pure vision of glory and grace. The outfit didn’t take away from her curvy body nor the bright green in her eyes. She was pretty as a Tuxedo Finch backed by the polished-armored Knight Valiente. The headpiece served as an excellent means of hiding her braid, obscuring it completely. Valiente winked at me as I locked gazes, his face freshly pruned and braid falling tight behind him in a black rope.

  That’s what took them all so long. They were dressing the part.

  “Going for the rugged look, are we?” John smirked, greeting Basque who nuzzled him. “Did you even bother to do anything with your hair?”

  “You sound disappointed, John.” Reaching inside my coat’s inner pocket, I retrieved my mask and placed it on. “Is this better?”

  John narrowed his eyes. “Is that what game you’re playing at?”

  “That, and you get to ride my old mare.” I pulled myself onto Basque’s saddle.

  “I don’t know how to ride,” he reminded.

  “Today you learn.” Patting Basque’s neck, I reached forward so he could steal a peppermint. “The mare knows what to do anyhow, so you just have to sit there and look pretty as a nun.”

  John scowled. “If I fall off, you’ll be the one to pay for it.”

  “I advise keeping your feet in the stirrups and a grip on the saddle horn at the very least.” I chortled, pleased with myself.

  Turning Basque around, I watched as the stablemen assisted John onto the old mare. She stood still as a wall, and despite the sour-faced rider, she seemed not to mind the weight on her back. Knight Valiente and Princess Sonja rode up beside me, their natural poise making it clear they weren’t strangers to riding in the least. They watched as John squirmed and shifted, grunting to find some position of comfort on top of his saddle.

  “He’s never ridden before, has he?” marveled Valiente.

  “Not without me sharing a saddle with him.” I puffed out my cheeks.

  “You shared a saddle with him?” Sonja guffawed. “But isn’t that what you do for children? Isn’t it awkward for two grown men to…?”

  The sharp glares from Valiente and me was enough to bring her mute.

  “I see.” She politely covered her mouth, a weak attempt to hide her smile.

  “Besides, Basque is going to be doubling as our pack mule.” Basque sidled under me as if thrilled at the news. “And if we must make a run for it, he can’t exactly bolt or fight like the others. He and I will be offense. John will have to learn to ride on our way south.”

  The clacking of an approaching horse caught our attention. A dark bay in a breed I had never seen came around the far corner with Red Wine in its saddle. The horse was small, athletic with thin legs, but the movements were smooth and surefooted even on the icy ground. Red Wine’s hood seemed unphased by the canter, the cloak bouncing behind her as they approached. She led the horse to circle us, the mask doing nothing to deter the fact she was inspecting everything from their attire to the way the horses had been saddled. At last, she brought the mare next to me, her horse as tall as Basque’s shoulders.

  “Must you ride something the size of a wagon?” she hissed at me from under her mask.

  It seems I’ve already frustrated my master this morning. Something tells me this will be one of many times…

  I chuckled. “He’d kill a man for a peppermint from my pocket, so I’d say that luxury alone is worth riding him. We call him Basque, not wagon. And her name?”

  The dark bay horse danced in place, her neck long and curved. “Biscuit.”

  Basque nipped at her and the mare, forcing both to make space. “He’s as aggressive as his rider, I see. Good work unknotting the braids on the horses and swapping gear. I thought I would have to insist, but you seem to have done this on your own. Thank you.”

  “Please don’t underestimate me, Master Assassin.” I scoffed. “My father is a master tactician, and my former mentor was very much the same. I would dishonor them both if I didn’t put some thought into my actions.”

  “Is that so? We are to stop at Madame Plasket’s Apothecary for a few more supplies and weapons. I’d advise you and the priest to abandon…” she paused, looking at the claymore with silver and blue decorations. “Your weapon of choice is a claymore?”

  “It’s what the Lord Knight Thompson trained me to wield, but good luck getting that rapier from John. It’s a family heirloom.” I tilted my head. “I suppose it’s not exactly an assassin’s first choice. If you think I should abandon it—”

  “I was mistaken. They looked like royalty, but those aren’t the markings of a current… house.” She stumbled on her words. “Let us be on our way.”

  What a peculiar emotional response. Did she know Lord Knight Paul? Or did she know someone else who used the claymore? Could his scar be from her?

  Chapter 4

  Training on the Road

  The birchwood trees seemed like silent striped sentinels. Solid, they ignored my stares as I searched for some signs of what had happened over winter. Passing the path we would have taken back home to the farm, I could see John’s eyes linger on it. He’s as bad as I am. Some part of him just wants us both to go back to being there, being together despite all that unfolded.

  Red Wine had taken point in the front; meanwhile, Basque and I loitered in the back. It seemed fitting since I could see up ahead and far behind thanks to his height. Sadly, I had to be wary of low-hanging limbs and the occasional icicle. The tiny horse Red Wine rode intrigued me, its trotting almost worthy of a tip-toed ballerina. Nothing like it had ever come through our stables, but the horse had energy and speed, making it as restless as Basque at times. It didn’t need much from its rider to know when to turn, speed up, or slow down.

  She’s been riding that mare for
a few years for that level of intuition between them. The old mare I put John on is like that, but this is worthy of training on par with Colonel.

  Red Wine would race ahead a few times, disappearing completely from view as she faded into the trees that made up Glensdale Grove. It was the forest region that the farm called home wedged between the Willow Waters river system to the west and Sullen Lake in the east. For once, I’m glad I memorized all those maps during my youth. We would have taken a boat to our first stop, a township called Tavern Way, but the large chunks of ice floating in the lake hadn’t dissipated completely. Besides, we would still have to travel most of the way on land to reach Captiva City anyhow.

  We’ll have to make it through the guards and battlefields even. I know clergymen’s passage are sanctioned by all sides, but will they let Red Wine and me continue to play bodyguards? Granted, Princess Sonja and Lord Knight Valiente may be our ticket through that dilemma.

  The sound of galloping brought them to a halt as they waited to see who was racing around the bend. The familiar dark bay and Red Wine came into view, and she slowed down on her approach. The horse snorted, happy to have released some energy, and Basque shifted under me as if wanting his turn next. We started again, a steady pace that would get us to Tavern Way by nightfall and not seem like we were on the run or over-exhaust the horses if we needed to escape sudden danger. She mumbled something to Valiente, and he took point as she cantered to the back and spun her horse to keep pace with Basque.

  “Are you really set on using the claymore as your main weapon?” Her eyes were fierce under her mask. “It completely defeats the concept of being an assassin, you know?”

  “I spent a decade training with one, and I’m far better with it than any broadsword or rapier,” I confessed. “Is it that big of a problem for you?”

  “It’s not that…” she paused, and it piqued my interest. “It’s a two-handed weapon, and an assassin relies on using both hands freely. It seems you are hellbent on being the least stealthy assassin in history.” She held her breath a moment before releasing it, as if battling with her own decision in the matter. “I suppose you’ll have to learn when to use it and when to abandon it. We are in warring times, and it does have the value of intimidation.”

  To me, the claymore is a one-handed weapon. I know old man, don’t tell anyone, but this might be that one time I should. Besides, if an assassin could leave that scar on your neck, something tells me I would have been dead already. I can’t shake she’s the one who marked you, so she should know this...

  “What if I told you I can wield it one-handed?” I offered.

  She glared at me, the mask seeming to frown at me for even putting the words into the air. “Prove it. I don’t believe you.” Straightening her back, she seemed angry at the idea. “I only know two men in this world who could do it. You buried one six feet under the cherry tree a few years ago, and the other is still missing.”

  I flinched. “Exactly how much does the assassin’s guild know about me and the old farmer? Hell, about what’s going on and who seems formidable?”

  “Does it really matter? It’s not that we were spying on you in the shadows.” She snorted. “We are just really good at gathering information. Granted, the one source that’s eluded us is Arbre Tombé.”

  “Then this means no one knows my secret.” I nodded to myself.

  “What secret?” she guffawed. “You’re an open book, Dante. It’s almost embarrassing at times.”

  Ouch. I pulled the claymore off and held it with my left hand. The muscles in my arm stung. I hadn’t been practicing and I could feel it. This is what Lord Knight Paul meant. If I don’t swing it every day, my muscles lose the ability to properly handle its weight. Shit. She watched as I moved it as freely as a rapier before putting it back in its holster. The whole time Basque seemed unmoved by the metal’s weight, and I had kept my balance on the saddle. Red Wine looked me over again, her eyes pausing on the claymore’s hilt for a minute.

  “Did you take that from him or was it a gift?” she demanded.

  “A gift,” I scoffed. “Not like I’d live that long with the old man and kill him for it later?”

  She looked away in thought before declaring, “Fine. I’ll allow it.”

  Huffing, I pushed back, “As if I was going to concede.”

  “Oh really?” She halted her horse. “Let’s trade weapons and spar a moment. If you think so little of my knowledge, let me show you exactly what it means to be a Master Assassin. The path is clear up ahead, anyhow.” Whistling, Red Wine managed to get everyone’s attention. “Keep going. We’ll catch up after a sparring lesson.”

  Sparring with a Master Assassin feels like facing the old farmer for the first time all over again. I’m going to regret this. I know it.

  John lowered his brow. “Here in the middle of the road?”

  I climbed off Basque. “Apparently so.”

  “Can I watch?” John offered.

  “No.” Red Wine and I both huffed in unison before shooting a glance at one another.

  John threw up his hands, the mare he rode following Sonja’s Walker without any direction from him. Once they had disappeared, Red Wine unsaddled and approached. In one hand, she offered a dagger, in the other, a rapier. I paused, and at last defaulted to the dagger. Unlike most, I could take a hit or two to get close enough to strike. Besides, even with two hands, she wouldn’t be able to lift and swing the claymore with much speed. She placed the rapier in its halter on the horse.

  Turning back, she motioned for the claymore. Under that mask of hers, I imagined a toothy grin. I’ve made a deal with a devil. Pulling the claymore from the saddle, I unsheathed it. I drove the blade into the ground before her, far away from the horses so not to startle or harm them in our sparring match. She readied her stance, widening it to be more surefooted in the mud. Both hands gripped the claymore’s hilt, and the glare from her eyes told me volumes about how easily she slipped into a battle mindset.

  If I didn’t know better, she’s used one before. And from those medals yesterday, she’s been on more battlefields than I even know about.

  “You swing first,” I insisted.

  “Are you sure?” She tilted her head, making me feel uneasy.

  This is a bad idea, but I refuse to back down. I want to know more about her. This might give away more about her past.

  I nodded for her to start, and she didn’t waste time. She spun, instead of attempting to strike directly. Her aim seemed to be focused on using her momentum to handle the hefty weapon. It left her back and sides wide open. I bolted forward to strike hard and fast. My blade reached her and met with a pinging of metal.

  “Caught you.” She had deflected with a dagger.

  Confusion barely crested my mind as the flat side of the blade smacked me and knocked me to the ground. I stared up in disbelief. One hand held the claymore as if it were every bit as light as the other holding a dagger.

  “Come on, big guy. Don’t tell me one slap of the flat side is all it takes.” She stood, waiting for me to scramble to my feet.

  Who is this person?

  Back on my feet, I came at her. Taking a strike from her dagger across my forearm, I locked blades with the claymore, managing to shove it upward. Our eyes locked, my right hand twisting to aim the blade down on her. A foot slammed into my chest, knocking me to the ground again.

  “Not bad. Wasn’t expecting you to hold it there and strike.” Red Wine stumbled back, tightening her grip on the weapons. “Again.”

  I stood once more. “You’re every bit as strong as I am, but so tiny. It’s embarrassing.”

  She laughed. “It just makes it easier to throw my enemies off mentally.”

  Everything I had assumed about the petite assassin was now invalid. “You’ve done this before I take it.” Inhaling deeply, I tried to slow my breathing and heartbeat. “I can�
��t lie—feeling a tad intimidated. Let me try this again. Calmer.”

  Boy, you can’t judge your enemy before you fight them. The old farmer came back to mind, nagging at me for my mistake. You can hunt a hundred bucks, but it only takes one to turn and come at you to make you realize they can fight back and kill you just the same.

  Well, this is no buck, old man. Flustered, I began circling Red Wine, and she followed, calm and at the ready. What I do know is she’s a Master Assassin. That had to be earned by skill. Another thing is she’s not wearing all her veteran medals from yesterday. She’s fought in battles more than once and has built up experience and reflexes I can’t even imagine. I can say she’s also a bloodeater; her reflexes and scent tell me that much. Ah, but I also use the claymore with one hand, so...

  Launching myself at her, she readied her stance, claymore and dagger poised and pointed in my direction. I swapped hands with the dagger, and she shifted to match, so she could lock it with the claymore. Yeah, I would have done the same. I got her. She swung the massive blade. And you’d assume the attacker would block with the dagger, but... I dropped down, using the mud to slide into her legs and knock her off balance.

  “Caught you,” I echoed her words back at her.

  I aimed to roll on top of her and pin her with the dagger against her throat. Much to my surprise, she was quick to abandon the weapons, freeing her to be more agile. By the time I rolled into a crouch and found her missing, I had a tiny blade at my throat. Mud dripped off us both.

  “Nice try,” she growled. “Crafty, but not used to an enemy who’s willing to sacrifice weapons, I see. As I said, you’ll need to learn to do that with the claymore if you want to live a day longer.”

  “I’m sorry. Can you blame me for being cocky about being able to wield it one-handed?” I panted, the blade retreating as she began slapping mud from where she had rolled to her feet. “And I thought you said only two people can wield it one handed. Or was that intended to be a lie to deceive me?”