The Priest's Assassin

by V. C. Willis

  “We would gladly receive you as the King if peace is your aim, Blood Prince,” she scoffed, shoving John’s arm up and out of her way.

  “I was wondering why everyone in town was minding their manners and keeping distance from us.” I met Bessie’s gaze, and she gave a knowing nod. “It seems you were all aware that you had more than one royal playing dress up among you.” Drumming my fingers on the chair’s arm, I couldn’t shake how the title of King haunted me.

  “I must say you’ve made some good allies already, your majesty.” She finished marking a few things on a scrap paper and handed it with the chainmail shirt to John. “Now, as much as I enjoyed the tour, Father, I’d appreciate you dressing yourself proper before leaving my house or old Gerta across the way is bound to see her chosen lord and savior sooner and not later!”

  “If I must,” teased John, dropping the items on my lap.

  “Now, your majesty,” Bessie chirped in Princess Sonja’s direction, “let’s get you into proper gear in hopes getting you home safely. I have far more female wares than male, sorry Father.” Bessie gave a worried expression as John’s blouse blanketed the marking. “May you find that ill-intended mark a blessing at the end of this path the Fates weave for you.”

  “If you knew what dark thoughts linger…” He paused, catching my gaze, and frowned. “I suppose who doesn’t anymore.” He tried sliding the white collar in place, but it caught on his shirt. “Da—Ashton.” His face flushed as he failed to pull it loose, tangling it further. “Help me with this.”

  Standing, I narrowed my eyes at him, and he rolled his in reply. Lifting his chin, I released the collar that had caught the top button. With a flick of a finger, it slid loose, and he pushed it back into place. Pulling on his jacket, his body shielded me from the girls, and he whispered too low for them to hear.

  “Should we even trust these people?”

  He was working the coat’s buttons from bottom to top when I pressed my hand against his torso, blocking his efforts. “You skipped a button,” I gruffed.

  “Oh?”

  Playfully, I began unbuttoning the jacket then the blouse.

  “Now you’re teasing me.” His face flushed, his torso tensing as my knuckles raked his skin. “And you fuss at me for flirting with danger,” he hissed.

  “You made the first move when you took your shirt off and forced me to watch her rub you down,” I cooed, licking a fang. “This is simply my reply. Taking a stake in what is mine.” I slid a hand up and under, fingers gliding to his collarbone before retreating to button the shirt closed with haste. “All these people have left is trust.” I patted his chest with a fanged grin.

  John swallowed, his eyes piercing me. “I want…” He covered his mouth and spun away. “Excuse me, I need to splash my face. Do you have…”

  “Yes, down that hall and in the kitchen. You’ll find a bowl and a pitcher of fresh water, dear.” Bessie was knelt behind Sonja who faced the fireplace. “Now, I hope you’re not feeling sick knowing you leave for the battlefield tomorrow, Father?”

  “N-no ma’am. Just a little … flushed from the, er, fire,” called John.

  “I know some good herbs for sleep if you need’em tonight,” offered Bessie, marking a new paper and working around Sonja. “We’ll be able to finish these adjustments tonight.”

  Grunting, I muttered curses to myself. What the hell is wrong with me? My restless muscles brought me to my feet. Maybe a real fight might do me some good. It’s not that I haven’t cut a man down on the battlefield, but this will be the first time I believe in the cause. Pacing the floor, I stretched my arms, trying to outrun the aching building at my core. Is this what a caged animal feels like?

  “There’s a chest on the floor by the front door. That one’s for you.” Bessie’s voice brought me back from my thoughts. “If you’ve never worn a manica, I’ll show you, and them, how to buckle one on. Eventually you’ll get the hang of it and strap it on yourself.”

  “Th-thank you.” The tiny chest had some weight to it as I sat it on the chair and pulled it open.

  The leather was dark and gleamed with oil. As I pulled it from the chest to marvel over the scaled length of plated leatherwork, it sent chills through me. She motioned for me to come closer and began showing me the buckling pattern I would need to memorize. The chest piece would cover half my upper torso; a pauldron for the shoulder had magnificent ornamental features of raging horse. Hmph, fitting considering Basque. From there, the paneling down the length of the arm gave me the impression of the scales of reptiles I’d seen pictures of that were said to swim the shores of Terahime. It ended with a leather gauntlet designed to be as every bit of flexible as a rider’s or archer’s glove.

  Bessie tugged at my jacket, and I began to pull it off, eager to know more about this new bit of armor. “What’s the best way to wear this?”

  “The style is an old one. Back in the time of the champions, they’d wear it bare-chested in the fights. We added length to the buckles, so you could strap it on top of the shirt and that leather vest there.” Pulling at a strap, she managed to loose the last. “Impractical to wear it bare if you ask me. Just ignorant. No one’s immortal, and you’re not there to unnerve a single opponent. Now, slip your hand in the glove first—make sure we got the measurements right,” insisted Bessie.

  I did so, the leather worked with oil until it had softened to be battle ready immediately. “It’s tight, but exactly how I would prefer it. This thing’s heavy.” She rested the pauldron on my shoulder, and I grunted, “Very heavy.”

  “We didn’t bother to check the weight, seeing how you lifted the wagon the other day.”

  I sighed. Consequences, Dante. Every action has a consequence that can ripple on endlessly. I can hear the Old Farmer howling and making a mockery of me from his grave.

  “Straighten your back, would ya? Princess, come give me a hand. He’s too big around for my arms to get around him proper. Chest belt like a barrel, he is!”

  John coughed, calling my eyes to him as he chuckled at the situation of being sandwiched and manhandled by two tiny women. “My, the quandary this is, Half-pint.”

  “Shut your mouth, Father,” I spat, grunting as Bessie pulled the first buckle tight across my chest, the leather pressing into my back and upper ribs. “Am I not allowed to breathe?” I marveled at her strength.

  “Stop your crying,” she shushed, tightening it one more notch, and another grunt escaped. “Unless you want blisters in places that’ll startle the ladies.”

  “The ladies, you say,” I drawled, smirking under my mask at the disapproving face John made. “You keep scowling like that, and someone might think you dislike my new armor, Father.”

  “The armor is the least of my concerns.” His face flushed, but he didn’t dare look away from me. “It suits you, strangely enough. It reminds me exactly how broad-chested and strong-armed you are. Normally it’s when you work the fields when I’m bitterly reminded how much stronger you are overall.”

  I opened my mouth but clamped it shut, holding in the words I wished to utter: Is that the only time you feel how strong I am?

  John’s face grew red as if some part of him could hear my thought. “Anyhow, I see we start with the glove, then the pauldron. Strap the chest and work down the length of the arm?”

  Bessie pinched the tender flesh under my arm, and I raised it in alarm. “That’s right, Father John. But the buckles can’t cross the muscles here and here. You’ll cut circulation or worse, hinder his movements. You want it tight, unmoving.” She cinched one buckle and the next, securing the manica to my upper arm. “Now, Prince, because you have armor here doesn’t mean you should use it on par to a normal shield. This is to minimize the damage and allow time to counter. It’s not designed to prevent the inevitable but redirect blows at best.”

  “R-right.”

  She started buckling the
lower part of my arm. “Flex. Bump your fist.” Bessie watched my forearm, twisting it one way then the other. “This needs to be adjusted. You’re built like a farmer; the muscles are drawn farther into your wrist than a fighter.” Bessie froze, glaring up and meeting my gaze as she whispered, “But I thought you were the Blood Prince?”

  “I am.” Snorting, I whispered back, amused. “But ask any in Glensdale about their princes, and you’ll discover we’re not afraid to get our hands dirty.”

  “Is that so?” Adjusting the buckles into a more comfortable spot, I flexed to test her work. “Good, that’s better, is it not? Father, can you come tug on this?”

  “I, uh, pardon?” John blinked, gaping. “Tug… on...what?”

  Chuckling, Bessie pulled him over. “Grab hold and jerk him good, a few times.”

  “Yeah, John. Jerk me,” I replied flatly.

  “I don’t want to hear a word from you,” hissed John, tugging the armor hard to bring me closer, and his face reddened. “Not. One. Word.” Another jerk of the armor, and he pushed me back. “It’s attached to him like everything else he owns.”

  “Good! Now as the boys say, just keep it as well kept and oiled as your willy, and you’ll be in good shape!” She howled at her own dirty joke as I began to choke and sputter.

  Catching my breath, I grabbed my coat, avoiding John’s sheepish grin. “Well, off to do some training with the tomahawk. Father, you’ll find Valiente and Red Wine across the way.”

  Before they could say otherwise, I slipped out the door. Dammit. I can’t keep it together around him anymore. Old Farmer, you’re to blame for this fire… It’s not fair, the way the cards are playing out. This path we follow seems hellbent on keeping us together, yet we risk one another’s lives chasing after what we desire.

  Chapter 20

  Last Day of Training

  Avoiding the entire crew, I headed back to the old lumber mill. The new manica was heavy, and the last thing I wanted was to go into the battlefield without adjusting to the damned thing. Buckles and straps squeezed into me, and I muttered curses under my breath.

  How such a small woman could tighten anything like this is beyond me. She must’ve worn corsets in her youth. Dammit, I can’t breathe. Pumping my fist, I saw the leather glove moved well. I rolled my shoulder then my whole arm to gauge my new range of motion. Much to my relief, very little had been lost. She knew what to recommend after all. I’ll have to call on her in the future for things like this.

  Grabbing the tomahawk from my belt, I threw it at a chosen mark. I frowned, the results deplorable, and I tried again. By the time I stopped missing the mark, I had abandoned my jacket and mask, sweat dripping down my temple as I slung my braid behind me. Now I aimed for speed, running from place to place as I threw it with hard thuds against the wooden bones of the mill. Dust plumes and debris floated down through the holes in the roof. Panting, I had lost count of the passing minutes. Or has it been hours?

  Still unsatisfied with my new skill, I started to play with not looking. The weight of my armor was long forgotten as the sun cast long shadows on my tiny game of catch.

  Throw-Thud-Retrieve.

  Throw-Thud-Retrieve.

  Throw-CLANK!

  Breathless, I glared at Red Wine and smirked.

  “Not bad.” Slung over her shoulder was my claymore in a new sheath. “We’ve run out of time, but I’m glad you wasted no time to train. Now for you to wield this like your brother.” Dropping it to the ground, she walked over to lean on an old log. “But you’ll have to go easy on your training partners this evening.”

  I scowled, leaning on my knees, swallowing to rasp, “And what team am I facing after exhausting myself so?”

  “First off, me.” Valiente came marching in, armored in a way I hadn’t seen since the night he came in bloodied and desperate. “But I imagine the others will dive in just to get the feel of their armor and movements. At this point, we’re all feeling rusty and need a good warmup if—no, when—we face the Brigade.”

  “I don’t like this.” I stood, inhaling deeply to slow my beating heart. “I’ve already tuckered myself out and…” John and Sonja came through the threshold. “…we both know I’m not going to know my own strength.”

  Red Wine crossed her arms, the armor polished and oiled for the first time since we left Glensdale. “Precisely why this lesson needs to be learned. We all need our muscles to act quickly. If you are all too sore in the morning, we can leave later or hold off another day. That’s all I can offer.”

  “What’s the matter, Dante?” John smirked as he shed his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves. “Afraid you can’t keep up with us all? Red Wine tells us you’ve become quite the battleworthy trainee.”

  “Has she?” I pulled the tomahawk from the mark and slid it in my belt. “Which weapon am I using?”

  “Your hands.” Her voice hit hard and sharp.

  “Am I to catch blades with my palms?” I scoffed.

  She shrugged, declaring, “Something like that. You need to learn to dodge now as well as adjust to the manica. It’ll help you push a strike off aim, but please remember it’s not a shield … and neither are your forearms.”

  “So, you want me to dodge now.” I started to take off my weapons when she made a clicking sound.

  “No-no,” she warned, wagging a finger at me. “You’re going to dodge with full regalia. Time to start carrying that Claymore like it’s your third leg.”

  “I already have one of those…” I muttered with a smirk.

  “I swear, you two deserve one another.” She picked up the claymore and tossed it at me. “Stop being so childish.”

  I grunted. “Who? Me and John?”

  John rubbed the back of his neck and confessed, “I might have said something similar on my way here…”

  “You two are just overgrown children far as I’m concerned.” Huffing, Red Wine circled the group, shoving John and Sonja forward before passing Valiente. “And he’s just as guilty for it. I need to know if anyone here has any fight in them or at least experience and training I can take advantage of and rely upon.”

  “I don’t think my soldiers get this chatty before a battle.” Valiente snorted, unsheathing his sword. “Trust me, I’ve already faced two of the brigade members and put them behind bars.”

  “Before or after their indoctrination with Fallen Arbor?” She paused, a glow showing in her eyes.

  “Well, before.” Valiente shrugged.

  “Expect them to be monsters in comparison.” She pointed a dagger at me as I buckled the last piece of the claymore halter across my chest. “Imagine them all to be his level but with more experience.”

  I frowned, adding my rebuttal, “I’ve seen a battlefield before.”

  “Yes, and nearly took an arrow to the head. I was there. The Guild clipped it.” Without warning, she came in low and fast, her petite build adding to how far down she could sprint.

  Using the manica, I barely redirected the first strike and leaned back in time for the blade to scrape across the mask. “Shit!”

  John and Valiente both charged at me. A broadsword came swinging down from above. Seeing the middle piercing stab of the rapier, I twisted. The manica clinked as the broadsword rode it down to the ground. Behind me, the rapier scudded against the claymore’s sheath. A wall of a sword can double as a shield I suppose!

  “Good. Use everything you can,” encouraged Red Wine.

  Footsteps came rushing up behind me as John and Valiente backstepped to reset their offense. A heel landed hard, shoving the claymore between my shoulder blades, the wind leaving me, and I stumbled forward. Valiente swung and I sidestepped to avoid John, barely blocking a swing of a dagger from Sonja as I deflected it off the manica. A hard kick hit across the back of my knees. Growling, I failed to fight the urge to land buckle. As my weight came down, Valiente went
for a downward piercing strike. Swinging my arm, I knocked the blade from his hands and jolted to my feet.

  Valiente made a muffled yelp, leaping back as I closed the gap. He pulled a small blade and swung wide. I caught his wrist and yanked him between me and Red Wine’s rear assault. She jerked to stop her punch, huffing as she retreated. Sonja and John came at me from both sides, so I threw Valiente to John, his feet leaving the ground, and they landed in a heap. Sonja, also wielding a rapier, came at me with a flurry of strikes.

  Her style is fast and pushes the opponent back. Unlike John’s strikes meant to pierce, these are meant to cut again and again and bleed the opponent out.

  Frustrated, seeing Red Wine dipping a hand to her side, I decided to press forward. Stretching my arm out with the manica, I motioned in a circle, disrupting the flow of her strikes and turning her wrist to the side. Rushing forward, I hooked an arm around her lower torso. “I’m sorry for this,” I gritted and managed to land her gently to the dirt.

  Spinning, I now had three opponents ready for me. Red Wine, Valiente, and John rushed forward. A throwing dagger glanced against my mask. Valiente swung downward in the same place as the dagger, but I hadn’t flinched, palming the broadsword off course. The swing slammed across Red Wine’s armguard, and they lost balance trying to retreat. While Valiente fell onto her, John came at me with a determined expression.

  “Stay still,” he barked with a smirk.

  “I only can use my hands,” I countered, jumping back to dodge a wide swing. “I thought this was a lesson in dodging.”

  “And striking.” He lunged forward with a piercing strike again.

  I redirected it with my manica, stepping forward. “Got you!”

  “Try again.” John’s heel kicked the side of my knee, and with another step forward, he landed a knee to my gut.

  I wheezed as I retreated, holding my stomach. Sonja was back on her feet, brushing dirt off as she joined his side, nodding as they dropped into offensive poses. Raising my arms, I widened my stance, my knee aching from so many hits.