children. They concentrated on the main battle that centred round word-of-mouth reports of an event that may or may not have happened upon the field. It was a song of glory, a triumph of good against evil, a retelling of history through the rose coloured glasses and poetic licence of the saga poet. Pleading women and screaming children were never sung about, or if they were, Vyder had never heard the songs.
The highlander leaned back in his chair and remembered Verone, his beautiful, blonde haired woman, his first love, his wife. He had been away the day she had been killed. They had owned a cabin in the Likane Forest on the eastern most border of Wendurlund. He had been hunting the day she died. Although tired, it had been a successful hunt. He carried the carcass of half a deer across his shoulders. Vyder had screamed when he found her. Even now he forced himself to forget what they had done to her, his love. The highlander closed his eyes tightly.
“Another?” asked a gentle voice.
“Please,” spoke Vyder, clearing his throat, welcoming the distraction.
Breena refilled his cup and moved away to tend other patrons.
As the saga poet sang loud and deep about the great warriors of old, Vyder was lost in memories of a beautiful blonde woman. She was proud and tall, her face always glowing, a smile never far away. But she was dead. Vyder drank until the cup was empty, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood, placing a hand on the table to steady himself. She was dead.
The highlander stumbled from The Old Derry and headed for home. He had hoped the fresh air would clear his mind, but as he weaved down filthy side streets, dangerous neighbourhoods, across wide roads, strode amongst the moderate homes of the middle class and eventually along pristine, smooth granite footpaths , he could not shake Verone from his mind. Unlocking and opening the mighty oaken door guarding the entrance to his home, Vyder stumbled inside, flung the door shut behind him and collapsed upon the floor.
Before the idea of retreating to the warm comfort of his bed could embed itself in his mind, exhaustion claimed the highlander. A bucket of cold water emptied upon his face awoke him with a groan as the sun climbed into the sky.
“Up!” stormed Miriam, standing over him, one hand clasping the empty bucket, the other resting on her hip.
Vyder rolled over and clasped his head, groaning.
“Up, or it’s another bucket!” she threatened.
The highlander struggled to his knees and smiled up at his servant. “You are a tough woman,” he muttered.
She did not respond, continuing to glare as the man climbed to his feet.
“There is a warm bath waiting for you in the main bath room and breakfast is not far away, so do not take too long.”
Vyder nodded, stumbling away.
With his fast broken, the assassin pushed his empty plate away and gulped down the mug of freshly squeezed orange juice. Burping, he placed the empty mug upon the plate and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. Moments later the crockery was whisked away as Miriam began washing them.
“Thank you,” said Vyder quietly, eyes still closed.
As he was contemplating how best to invest the new bag of gold he had now hidden in his bed, there came a series of loud thumps on the front door. Miriam began drying her hands, but before she could move towards the entrance, Vyder gestured for her to continue washing. “I’ll answer it,” he said.
Unlatching the thick oak door, he swung it open, the hinges groaning in protest as they were forced to move. He had been advised to keep the hinges regularly oiled by the tradesmen who installed the great door. But Vyder liked the noise the hinges made as the door was opened. It may one day save his life if a would-be assailant forced entry into his home.
Three royal guards stood before him. His face giving no hint of thought or emotion, Vyder analysed the situation, knowing he was unarmed. With a knife he had a chance. Slim at best, but a chance. Had Melridge reported him for murdering his son? It was possible.
“Vyder Ironstone?” one of the royal guards asked, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
If he was convicted of murder, especially the murder of a family member from a very powerful, important family, he would hang. No, he silently corrected himself. They would cut his guts open and then hang him. The incision would be deep enough to cause great pain, but shallow enough not to cause too much internal damage.
“Yes,” replied the highlander, his eyes slowly shifting from one royal guard to the next, evaluating each man.
Vyder ascertained that the one speaking to him was not in charge, nor the most dangerous. That glory belonged to the silent man standing at the rear. His piercing blue eyes glinted like steel, down turned mouth lending fearsome cruelty to the man’s face. Nothing for it but to die fighting, the highlander decided. And die he would, for he could not subdue three of the king’s elite force. They were some of the fiercest, most skilled fighters in the land.
“Good,” grinned the guard. “I am Araxis, assistant to the second in command of King George’s royal guard,” the guard introduced himself, offering his hand. Vyder shook it, trying to keep the confusion from his face.
“King George has personally requested your services,” smiled Araxis. “I’m sure you understand?”
Vyder nodded, closing the door behind him. He knew that a king did not make requests. “Of course,” he replied.
Araxis led the way, the remaining two guards falling in behind the tall highlander. Vyder was not sure whether he was being escorted or guarded. It could still be a ruse in order to bring him to the justice chambers located inside the palace with the least amount of violence. Vyder did not trust the lowlanders. That was a fact imbued into his blood, ever since King Herrod attempted to invade Shadolia one hundred and fifty years before. The war had lasted close to twenty years, but even with hundreds of villages and towns burning, not to mention the capital city of Stormbora sacked, the Shadolians had fought a relentless guerrilla war, eventually driving the lowlanders from their country. Ever since, a reluctant peace had reigned between Wendurlund and Shadolia.
Araxis wore his sword on the left side of his body. Vyder knew if events turned for the worse, he could draw Araxis’ blade and kill one of the men behind him. Beyond that, the clear blue sky above would be his last view as he bled upon the dry ground. If only he had his damn knife, he would stand a chance of walking away. At least until a squad of mounted guardsmen arrived at his door later that afternoon. Keeping calm and his face devoid of thought, Vyder weighed his options. None looked particularly palatable.
Within the hour, they were walking through the open portcullis of the palace. The entrance was twenty feet high and twice as wide, made from granite chiselled into perfect blocks, butted so close together that even a fine knife would be unable to fit between them. Each evening, the portcullis made from webbed steel as thick as a man was tall, was lowered, barring all thoroughfares entering or exiting the palace.
When they passed the justice chambers without so much as a sideways glance, Vyder began to relax. While ascending the long flight of stairs leading to the keep, Vyder realised that he had never been this deep into the palace before. Moving beyond the tall, well-fortified tower of the keep, they ascended another flight of stairs made from marble and etched with gold. The number of royal guardsmen began to swell as they advanced up into the palace proper. They patrolled in squads, some numbering twenty strong. Their uniforms were immaculate, spears sharpened and oiled, with not a hint of rust upon the surface of any of their weapons.
A smaller portcullis, this one only ten feet high, was flanked by six guards, three on each side. They carried long range muskets, a new weapon only introduced in the last year. Vyder owned an old blunderbuss designed shortly after the advent of black powder. The long range muskets were something else, though. They were able to hit a target from a range far outside the most capable archer. Vyder stared at the muskets as he passed. Someday, he promised himself, he would own one.
The heat of the sun dissipated as they entered
a wide corridor, the hardwood walls decorated with carvings of great battles depicted from lowland history. Into the depths they walked, bright torches now lending light, their orange, oil fuelled flames flickering and dancing, making shadows retreat and scatter along beautiful marble walls.
“You will kneel before his excellency,” said Araxis over his shoulder, turning a corner and leading the highlander into a massive well-lit room. The ceiling, some fifty feet high, was crafted from Brygant crystal imported from Huron, the neighbouring kingdom to the east. Allowing the bright sun to reflect through, the crystal cast light upon the huge area below. At the far end of the room were two royal guards standing each side of two closed twenty foot doors. They carried old blunderbuss weapons, similar to Vyder’s. As he was led towards them, he wondered why they carried old weapons here, so close to the king, whereas outside they carried state of the art sniping muskets.
The blunderbuss may have been a weapon almost two decades old, but the answer lay in how it was used. Vyder soon realised that if an enemy were to fight their way this far into the castle, it would mean all the other guards were killed. With one shot, a blunderbuss could send up to twenty pieces of lead down range simultaneously. The further they travelled, the wider their spread, killing or wounding several enemies
Assassin: The Beginning Page 4
