The Bound Folio

by Rob J. Hayes

  Belding walked towards Victoria, Sirion could see an evil smile on his face as the pudgy man stepped behind Victoria and reached down, unbuckling his belt and fumbling with his fly. Victoria's eyes were wider than Sirion could have believed and he saw true terror in their depths. She stared at her husband through those fear-filled eyes and gasped as Belding spread her legs. A moment later, another fist connected with Sirion's gut.

  Through sucking breaths, Sirion saw determination take over his wife's face, and he knew she would not cry out again, to spare him another blow. But her determination disappeared as soon as the ugly man thrust himself inside her.

  Victoria cried out. A sound full of pain, disgust, and fear. This time the sergeant struck the right side of Sirion's face. His vision blackened a moment, then he saw the ground, felt hot blood drip from his face to the ground.

  Sirion looked into his wife's face, saw her so full of pain as she clenched her jaw to stop from crying out again. He saw the man behind her, grunting as he thrust himself inside her again and again.

  Sirion lowered his eyes and looked away. He could feel hot tears streaming down his face. The sergeant grabbed a hand full of Sirion's hair and twisted his head to make him look into his wife's face.

  “New rule,” the sergeant said. “No looking away.” Then his hand lashed out and struck Victoria in the face, splitting her lip. She didn't cry out.

  Belding grunted as he spent himself inside of Victoria. Sirion saw the disgust on his wife's face. He saw her shaking violently and despaired as he could do nothing.

  “How was she Belding?” the sergeant asked with a wicked grin.

  “Wonderful, Sarge,” Belding said in a deep voice. “Just like a tight-lipped virgin. So accommodating.” Then he slapped Victoria hard on the back. She coughed at the impact, and the sergeant hit Sirion in the ribs again.

  “Get over here, Belding,” the sergeant said. “It's my turn.

  Again Victoria's eyes went wide with terror and Sirion saw something else there, something new. Despair.

  Sirion almost got free once, when one of the men holding him switched with another to take a turn on his wife. Sirion had struggled, but all it earned was another blow to his wife's face. It broke her nose and blood poured out, gushing down her beautiful face onto the ground below. She didn't cry out. Sirion looked into Victoria's face, into her eyes, and it was as if she was no longer there.

  Once all six had their turn, they let go of her. She dropped to the floor, motionless. Her eyes open but vacant, as though she were dead, but Sirion could see her still breathing, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her, to take it all back, to rage, and kill these monsters.

  The sergeant bent down and looked into Victoria's face.

  “I think we broke her, boys,” he said and kicked her in the head with a steel capped boot.

  Sirion couldn't take it anymore. He screamed at the men. Struggled against their grips on him.

  The sergeant silenced Sirion with a swift kick to the stomach.

  “Toss her in the river,” the sergeant said.

  “NO!” Sirion shouted earning him another blow to the face. He opened his eyes just in time to see his wife's body, as lifeless as a corpse, hit the water.

  Great racking sobs shook him, and he registered another three heavy blows to his face before a big hand closed around his neck and lifted his head. The sergeant faced him, grinning from ear-to-ear.

  “Why?” Sirion managed, his voice sounded weak to his ears.

  “A message to your father,” the sergeant said. “Make sure to tell him when you see him.”

  A fist hit Sirion full in the face. His nose shattered under the impact. He felt blood everywhere, and then felt no more.

  #

  Sirion opened an eye. The world looked blurred, as if he were peering through cloudy glass. Everything was cold and an odd shade of green. He inhaled and water flooded into his lungs.

  He coughed, trying in desperation to force the cold water from his lungs, but he was still underwater. Underwater! He began struggling, trying to pull himself in the direction he thought was the surface.

  He broke the surface of the water, managing to cough up some water, then dipped back below. It seemed an age before he could breathe again.

  Frantic, Sirion looked around, searching for land. He could still only open one eye. Dull pain ached throughout his entire body, numbed only a little by the cold of the water. He spotted the bank of the river and struggled towards it, each foot he gained causing searing pain in his ribs.

  He didn't want to live. The memories of the night, of what had happened, begged him to give up, to sink below the surface and stay there. Sirion wanted to comply, he wanted to die, to be with Victoria again on death's isle, but his body wouldn't let him. It struggled towards the bank, defying its owner’s wishes.

  He reached the bank and grabbed hold of it, resting, if only for a moment. The lip was a good foot above the water level, and Sirion lacked the energy to pull himself up. He felt sick from the dirty water he'd swallowed and again contemplated letting go and just sinking into the dark depths.

  Hands grabbed hold of his arm and pulled. Sirion pushed with all his remaining strength and then was up and over and lying on the bank, on solid ground. He lay there, sucking down air despite the protest of his injured ribs. He stared up at the night sky for a long time, lost in the intermittent twinkle of stars and the constant pain.

  “Thought ya was a gonna there,” said an accented voice from somewhere close by. “Ya was down fer a time.”

  Sirion turned his head. Blood and water pooled underneath his face. The speaker was short and slim, with dark hair masking much of his face. Shadowy eyes shone with intelligence, but his clothes identified him as a street rat — a beggar and likely a thief. He sat cross-legged and drank deep from a small gourd attached to his wrist by a short length of rope.

  “You were watching?” Sirion’s voice was strained, each word made the throbbing mass of pain he had once called a nose blaze anew.

  “Saw it all. Could'ner done a thing, one man such as m'self against them six brutes.”

  “Victoria...did...she...” Sirion stopped upon seeing the man’s shaking head.

  “Lass ya were with ne’r surfaced.”

  Sirion wanted to cry, but he seemed to have run dry of tears. Victoria was gone, dead. What was the point of anything anymore?

  Silence stretched out for a long time before the man beside Sirion spoke again. “M'name's Thom. An it's a real pleasure t' meet ya, Sirion Tell.”

  It took a moment to register with Sirion that his savior already knew his name. “Who are you?”

  “Jus' told ya. Name's Thom.”

  Sirion recognized the accent now. Thom was from Arkond, the capital city of Acanthia, far from the coast, far from Truridge. Street rats rarely left the place they were born — they couldn't afford to. Whoever Thom was, maybe he was no street rat after all.

  Thom grinned, though only half his mouth was visible under his hair. He took a long swig from the jug attached to his wrist, and then placed the cork back in the neck, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

  “M'from the Guild. Capital branch as ya'v no doubt guessed. Seems the local boys 'ave been 'aving some problems with a pirate.”

  Sirion kept quiet, letting the thief talk, as much because it hurt to talk as because he had to focus hard through the pain and numbness on what Thom said.

  “Reckon ya met the bastard earlier. One Drake Morrass. Seems he's been cutting the local Guild outta his dealings. Guild don't look kindly on such.”

  “What...does this have to do with me?” He was starting to shiver. It was a bad sign; it meant he was going to live.

  “Only reason Drake can cut our boys out is by 'aving the city guard in his pocket.”

  “Drake ordered this?” An edge of fury crept into his voice.

  “He's the one who 'ad ya father kill
ed an' all.”

  Sirion had been told his father had died of natural causes. “Why?”

  “I dunno. Thought you might.”

  Sirion pushed himself up onto an elbow. Fresh pain blossomed everywhere.

  “Ya know... I can help,” Thom said.

  “Then give me a hand.”

  Thom laughed as he stood and helped lift Sirion to his feet. The little man was stronger than he looked.

  “Meant I can help ya get ya revenge.”

  Sirion looked at the thief. He was serious. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes. Sirion thought about the offer for a long time. Thom stood patiently awaiting an answer.

  “I want to kill them myself,” Sirion said, the fury and the hatred in his voice surprising even himself. “All of them. Everyone involved, including Drake, and I don't want them to see it coming. I want to see the shock on their faces when they realize I'm alive and it's my hands taking their miserable lives.”

  “We can do that,” Thom promised. “Me an' mine can teach ya to find 'em. To hunt 'em. To kill 'em. Fer a fee, of course. But I reckon ya can afford it.”

  “Whatever it costs,” Sirion’s voice was cold as ice. “I don't care.”

  “First best get ya patched up. River ain't the cleanest place fer a swim.”

  #

  Sirion watched the house he'd grown up in, that he'd lived in for twenty years, the house that, until two weeks ago, had been his and Victoria's home. Now, it was naught but a giant grey tomb.

  It had been two weeks since his disappearance; another four weeks and James Bel'zane would move in as the nearest thing to a living relative. Victoria's father would gain the entire Tell fortune for the price of a daughter.

  Sirion no longer cared what happened to his business, nor the majority of his fortune. All he cared about was vengeance, but he needed money to pay his new allies. He knew there was a chance they would kill him after he helped them break into his house; in truth, he almost hoped they would.

  Merchants in Truridge were a cautious lot, and the house was more of a small fortress, a great, grey stone monolith three stories high and capable of holding hundreds of people. It was easy to get lost in the maze of rooms. When he got in trouble as a child, Sirion had often hidden from his father. The man had once sent the entire house staff, thirty people in all, seeking after him, and it had taken them half a day to find him. Once he’d been found, Sirion remembered with a hint of fondness how his father had been more relieved than angry.

  The walls around the Tell estate were thirty feet tall and guarded day and night. The walls didn't bother Sirion though, he knew a way underneath them, a short underground passage designed as an escape route that led through the family catacomb. That was how they would break in. Sirion could, of course, just walk in through the front gate, but his allies had stressed the importance of him remaining dead. If his survival was common knowledge, Drake's men would be forced to finish the job.

  “It's time,” said a man with a heavily-scarred face known as Lundle, who’d been assigned to watching the guards' movements.

  Sirion led the way, moving in staggered steps as his ribs still sent twinges of pain throughout his chest. The thieves had done their best to patch Sirion up, treating both injuries and illness. They even managed to make his nose look like a nose again...somewhat. Even the best of healers would admit though there was only so much you could do with broken ribs. Most of the time successful healing boiled down to luck and rest.

  Four thieves followed Sirion, flowing from shadow to shadow, somehow able to melt and disappear into the darkness. It was a skill they promised to teach Sirion as part of his training.

  Reaching the wall, Sirion rushed to clear away a few searching vines growing up it and then fumbled for the hand hold. He lifted and pushed with his shoulder, sending his ribs ablaze with pain. The disguised door shifted and swung open with a soft grating noise of stone against stone.

  Sirion stopped a moment at his father's tomb and spoke quiet apologies to the man. His father would be watching from death's isle, and Sirion felt sure his shade understood.

  A small alcove was on the other side of the passageway, an area where family could consult with their dead loved ones without setting foot within the catacomb. It was an austere place; two cushions, a variety of statues, and burners for incense. Sirion and his thieves moved through without making a sound. A lone guard stood outside, toying with the idea of sleeping rather than guarding his post. At a signal from Thom, Lundle grabbed the man from behind and slipped a long dagger into his kidney. He died without a sound, Lundle’s hand over his mouth as he dragged the guard back into the catacomb.

  Sirion paused. He'd known the man. His name had been Talf, and he had worked for the Tell family for over ten years. Now he was dead, because of Sirion.

  “Sirion,” Thom hissed, interrupting his morose thoughts. “We gotta move.”

  “He has a wife,” Sirion said, staring down at the dead guard. “Two girls. My father once...”

  Thom stepped in front of Sirion and gave him a hard shove. “Ya want ya vengeance or no? 'Cos I promise ya this ain't gonna be the last body ya leave in ya wake, nor the last one that's done nothing wrong. Decide. Now. Ya can light a candle for the poor sod later.”

  Sirion had already made his choice. He nodded to Thom and took his place at the head of the group.

  The thieves had a very specific plan. They knew what they wanted to steal, things that could be easily carried and were worth a lot of money. Jewelry, paintings removed from their frames and then rolled up, artefacts imbued with certain magical properties, more curiosities than functional items, but they were worth a lot. Sirion had provided them with all the details and layout of the estate, but once inside the thieves went to work like the professionals they were. It would have been impressive to watch, but Sirion had his own items to take. He wanted his father's records. With those he could trace the transactions and maybe find out why Drake had turned on his business partner. Sirion wanted to know why Victoria had been killed. He knew where to find his father's books; Sirion had left them in his own room.

  Opening the door, Sirion was hit by a wave of emotions he couldn't separate. Victoria was everywhere. He could smell her, could see her hand in the way the room was organized. The door to the cupboard that held her clothes hung open. He could almost see her trying dresses on, trying to find the right one for the right occasion.

  Tears rolled down Sirion's cheeks as he looked about. His gaze rested on the bed. Just two weeks ago, they had made love in that bed, and afterwards he had held her in his arms as they slept.

  He couldn't take it. He grabbed the records from his desk and bolted from the room, almost colliding with someone in the hallway.

  “Sirion?” It was Ballard, his family's chief of staff, the man who ran the household’s day-to-day. “My lord,” Ballard continued. “It's been weeks! We all thought you and the mistress had run off or...well, rumors were you might be dead.”

  “I was,” Sirion’s voice strained, heavy with sorrow. “I am.”

  Ballard looked confused, then shook his head as if dismissing Sirion's words. “There are people in the house, my lord. I think they may be thieves.”

  “They are. They're with me,” Sirion tried to explain. “I need money, but...I have to remain dead.”

  “I don't understand, my lord. What ha—”

  Sirion didn't see the shadow until it was too late. It had swept along the hall behind Ballard. Without warning it detached from the wall and became one of Thom's thieves, a woman called Red. Her dagger found Ballard's heart and the butler slumped to the floor with a thud. Sirion stared at the man’s corpse through dull eyes. He’d known Ballard ever since he was a child.

  “Come,” said Red, her voice cold and distant. Sirion followed her back to the others.

  “Any problems?” Thom asked Red.

  “None,” she responded.

  “Right. Let’s be off.
” Thom turned to Sirion. “Time to turn ya into one of us.”

  Sirion said nothing. He clutched his father's records to his chest and followed Thom to his new life.

  #

  Sirion ran a sticky black hand through his hair. It was a time-consuming annoyance, but it was also the only way to dye his hair. Once every three weeks he needed to apply the sticky, foul smelling concoction of Thom's own design, wait a full hour, and then wash it out using cold water. It left his hair near jet black.

  In the year since he had met Thom and his thieves, Sirion found himself greatly changed. Gone were the comfortable clothing made from expensive fabrics. In their place he wore dirty leathers little better than rags, designed for flexible movement and easy concealment of weapons. His hair he dyed black and kept at a length long enough to both hide his face or to be tied back as was needed, but never too long to become an obstacle. He was no taller, nor any bulkier, but Sirion no longer hand an ounce of fat on him. He could run, climb, swim, or fight for hours without tiring. Thom and his thieves had turned him into a living weapon.

  They taught him to fight with fist, sword, dagger, or any item that came to hand. They taught him how to throw knives with pinpoint accuracy, how to move with the darkness, to become one with the shadows, and how to disguise himself well enough to gain access to any portion of the city and stand next to someone he had known for years without being recognized.

  “Fortune just sailed into port,” Thom said from the doorway of the cupboard Sirion now called his quarters.

  “Drake is 'ere?” Sirion asked.

  Thom grinned. “Reckon ya ready?”

  Sirion knew he was ready. He'd been ready for a month, but he'd had to wait for Drake to make port.

  “I reckon so,” he responded, whilst watching Thom's reaction for signs of doubt. There was none.

  “I'll get ya targets found. Two hours past nightfall.”

  Sirion nodded and pulled his attention back to the sticky dye. He had only five hours before his hunt began, before he finally got the chance to avenge Victoria and his father.