The Bound Folio

by Rob J. Hayes

  He'd spent days looking through his father's records, comparing them with the man's notes. Sirion's father had caused all of it with his greed. He'd found another source to deal with, another pirate, who traded his goods for cheaper than Drake Morrass. By the outcome, Sirion guessed Drake had not been pleased and had decided to make an example not just of Sirion's father, but of the entire Tell family. It was brutal and barbaric. Sirion said as much to Thom; the thief had laughed before pointing out that Drake was a pirate and, as a rule, pirates weren't known for their civility.

  Sirion finished dyeing his hair and triple-checked his weapons. A vast assortment of throwing knives, twenty-two in total. Two daggers, one straight bladed, one curved, and a short straight-bladed sword with a single edge sharp as a chirurgeon’s scalpel. Then, Sirion waited, his nervous excitement making each minute an eternity.

  #

  A brown-toothed runner stood in the doorway to Sirion's quarters. “Thom sez ta begin. Kit's got ya first target. Head east on the 'ighway. Can't miss the fat fuck.”

  Sirion nodded and was gone. Once out of the building he had been calling home, he turned, leapt, and climbed to the roof, hand-over-hand, until he reached the top. Sirion turned and gazed east. He'd lived in Truridge almost all his life, but only in the last year had he truly come to know the city. Now he knew every street, every alley, every store, every inn, every whorehouse, every stray, vagabond, bard, and snitch. He'd memorized every aspect of the city at Thom's insistence, and now he would put it to good use.

  The gaps between buildings were about seven feet in most areas, too long for normal people to leap, but for Thom’s thieves it was easy. The rooftops became night time highways for criminals and put to frequent use. Sirion leapt a gap and rolled to his feet, glanced around, and spotted Kit. The thief's chunky frame was crouched on a rooftop, looking like some menacing stone gargoyle. Sirion went and crouched next to Kit, following his gaze into the garden below.

  Below was the residence of a lesser merchant by the name of Fol'kene. He wasn't rich enough to have guards, but could afford a pretty garden with lush green grass and a small stone fountain with a statue of a half fish, half woman spraying water down her body into the pools below. Sirion recognized the fat man standing in the center of the garden all too well.

  Belding. The first bastard who had raped Victoria. He was wearing an ill-fitting brown suit that made him look like a parody of a merchant and he carried flowers.

  “Calling on one of the daughters of the house, I reckon,” whispered Kit.

  “Where's the next target?”

  “Red's got a couple tagged near Marc's bakery,” Kit responded. This night had taken a great deal of planning. Thom had runners all around the city keeping track of Sirion's targets to make sure everything went as smooth as cold-blooded murder could go.

  There was a wooden beam a floor down from Sirion. It looked as though it had once meant to be the beginnings of a gate but never finished. Still, it appeared sturdy enough. Sirion dropped onto the beam and leaned backwards, flipping as he fell so he landed on the soft grass on all fours.

  Belding never noticed, too busy waiting for the girl. Sirion drew his curved dagger, took two steps towards his target, then hissed through his teeth.

  Belding turned just as Sirion got within striking distance. His dagger slipped through flesh like warm butter, up past the rib cage, straight into the heart. Belding's expression was a satisfying mixture of pain, shock, and fear.

  Then Belding was gone. He hit the ground with a muted thud as Sirion wiped and re-sheathed his dagger, turned, and sprinted from the garden. Behind him, he heard a woman scream.

  Marc's bakery was no small distance from his first target, and Sirion was panting by the time he arrived. Red leaned against a wall, watching him with what passed for amusement on her face. Sirion stopped to catch his breath and wipe sweat from his forehead, then tied his hair into a short ponytail.

  “Target?” he asked, mimicking Red's abruptness.

  Red nodded towards a ramshackle building opposite the bakery, that was used as an illegal gambling den.

  “Two and others,” Red said.

  Sirion nodded. “Next target?”

  “Whorehouse on Pol Street.”

  Sirion knew the place. He started towards the gambling den, a throwing knife appearing in his hand.

  The guard at the door was ill-prepared. He died a silent death, and Sirion lowered his body to the floor, careful not to make any noise. Sounds of a betting game came from a door to Sirion's right. He peered through the gap in the door, observing five figures around a table, one of them dealing cards to the other four. Sirion recognized his two targets, one of the big men that had held him during the attack a year ago, and the other that had held Victoria. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  The man who had held Sirion recognized him. He jumped up, eyes wide with shock, and fumbled for his short sword. Sirion sent a throwing knife into the man's throat with the flick of his wrist. The man hit the floor gurgling. The remaining four pulled their weapons.

  Sirion drew his own sword and pointed it at his intended target. “I only want him,” he said. “Take his money and go.”

  There was a moment’s unease before one of them gave Sirion's target a hard shove, propelling him forward. The target cursed yet acted quickly, swinging a spiked club at Sirion's head. Sirion swayed away from the blow and, with a quick thrust and twist, disembowelled the man. He then finished him with a slash across the throat, and the man toppled to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust.

  The remaining three stood warily, weapons drawn, watching Sirion's every move. He backed out of the room, then turned and was gone.

  Red still waited outside to see if Sirion re-emerged. She nodded as he stepped from the building. He nodded back, and then ran, speeding towards the whorehouse on Pol Street. The place was called Jessop's, and it was not one of Truridge’s better quality whorehouses; it was, however, cheap and guaranteed a good time. And it was also run by the Guild.

  Sirion stepped inside. A bony boy who couldn’t be more than ten years old waited there for him. Sirion recognized the kid as one of Thom's runners, but didn't know his name.

  “'Upstairs, second door on left,” the boy said, excited in the way only a child can be. “Mistress sez don't harm the whore.”

  “Can't promise anything,” said Sirion, a note of menace in his voice. “Next target?”

  “Lundle's got two at Wailing Inn, near docks.”

  Sirion nodded. “Good.”

  He started up the stairs. People moved out of his way. It wasn't surprising. He knew the look on his face spoke of murder and the spattering of blood on his clothes didn't help. The mistress followed Sirion's movement with disapproving eyes. Sirion ignored the old woman.

  He stopped for a moment outside the door, pressing his ear against the wood. He could hear deep grunts inside. Deep, unbearable rage bloomed inside his chest, and another throwing knife appeared in his hand.

  Sirion kicked the door open with a crash. The man rolled off the whore with a curse and stared towards Sirion. Before his eyes had a chance to focus, a throwing knife pierced his left one. The whore screamed and scrambled away from the bed to the corner of the room. The man screamed as he wrenched the knife from his eye and flung it away.

  Sirion leapt onto the bed. The man felt the movement and rolled away, landing on the floor. Sirion hadn't expected the shift, lost his footing and lost his balance, his right shoulder bashing hard against the wooden bed post.

  Dull agony roared to life in Sirion's shoulder, but he ignored it, drew his dagger, and stalked over to his target. The man was thrashing about naked on the floor, screaming, hands on his face.

  Sirion knelt over him, grabbing him around the throat. The man stilled his thrashing, but was shaking in both pain and fear. Sirion wanted the man to know who was killing him, he needed him to know.

  “Remember me?” Sirion’s voic
e was almost unrecognizable to his own ears. “The name's Sirion Tell.”

  Even with his face a bleeding mess, dreadful recognition came over it. As soon as it did, Sirion thrust his dagger into the man's heart. It took only a moment for him to die.

  On his way out of Jessop’s whorehouse, Sirion flicked a gold coin towards the frowning mistress.

  “For the mess,” he said, knowing the coin would pay for ten times the damage.

  #

  Lundle sat outside the Wailing Inn, a mug of weak, brown ale in his meaty hand. He whistled at Sirion as he appeared. “Ya look like yer 'avin a good ol'night,” the big thief said with a crooked smile.

  “Four down. Three t' go,” Sirion replied

  “Two more in there,” Lundle said with a nod towards the inn. “An' eight o’ Drakes pirates an' all. Best leave it fer later.”

  “Sergeant Kef?”

  Lundle responded with a nod.

  “Any news on Drake?”

  “Thom's looking fer him. Sez ta meet him at the harbor when ya done. By Drake's ship.”

  Sirion nodded. “Good.”

  He started towards the inn. Lundle grabbed his arm. “Didn't ya hear me? I said there's ten of 'em in there.”

  Sirion smiled, a predatory smile, all teeth. “See ya 'round, Lundle.”

  He stopped for a moment at the door, affected a drunken swagger and a bemused expression, then stumbled inside.

  Lundle had been right on the money. Sergeant Kef and the man with the ragged scar that had held Victoria, and eight of Drake's pirates, occupied the serving area. No other customers were inside, likely all scared away. A lone bard sat at a far table tuning a small, stringed instrument — one of Thom's boys, no doubt, sent to watch the sergeant.

  Nobody looked at the new arrival, so Sirion stumbled towards the group. The one with the ragged scar was nearest, sat with his back to Sirion.

  Sirion stumbled closer, drew his straight dagger, and stabbed it into the man's neck, feeling it slip in between two vertebrae. A quick twist and the man slumped forward dead, never knowing what happened. One moment laughing and drinking, gone the next.

  The pirates erupted from their seats. Sirion flicked his wrists and the two nearest went down, one with a throwing knife in his neck, the other with a pierced lung.

  A pirate leapt off a table towards Sirion. He stepped to the side, avoiding the attack, and slashed the pirate's side with his sword. The wound was deep enough to kill in seconds. Another pirate aimed a vicious blow at his head from behind. Sirion dropped out of the way and rolled backwards, slashing the man's heel tendon below the calf. As the pirate went down Sirion flowed to his feet, came up behind the man, and thrust his blade through the man's chest.

  The pirates were trying to surround Sirion. Another flick of his wrist sent a knife into the foot of one pirate, then threw his sword. It slipped through the air, embedding in the man's chest.

  Sirion spun and stepped into the thrust of another pirate, deflecting the blade with a throwing knife. He thrust his elbow into the man's throat, stepped away, drew his knife down the pirate’s outstretched arm, opening up his artery, then plucked the pirate’s cutlass from his limp hand.

  Sirion threw the sword with all of his strength. A cutlass was not designed to fly through the air, thus it twisted end-over-end and crashed into a pirate's nose and left cheek. Sirion followed the thrown blade, plucking his own sword from the fallen pirate’s chest, and finished the man whose face he had just broken.

  Sergeant Kef was backing away the entire time, sword in hand and shaking in fear. At that point, only three pirates remained. Wisely, they turned and ran. Sirion sent a knife their way and caught one in the back as he reached the door. He went down in a heap. The other two made it outside, but Sirion had no doubt Lundle would keep them from making it to Drake.

  Sirion advanced towards Sergeant Kef. Menace and rage and murder surrounded him. His blood pumped with adrenaline, and his eyes blazed with righteous fury.

  The sergeant dropped his sword and stood shaking.

  “Remember me?” Sirion asked.

  “We was just following orders,” the sergeant's words came tumbling out.

  “You were ordered to rape my wife, to torture her, to kill her.”

  “That's right. It was Drake. He ordered it all.”

  Sirion had closed the distance to within striking range. “And you followed those orders.”

  Like a lightning strike, Sirion's blade slashed across the sergeant's throat.

  Kef's eyes went wide, and he lurched forward, grabbing Sirion around the throat with both hands in a death grip. Sirion couldn't breathe, yet he didn't struggle.

  He just stared into the sergeant's eyes and watched the light fade from them.

  #

  Thom perched atop one of the short posts on the pier. Fortune was just visible in the darkness, lit as it was by plenty of oil lamps. Thom waited, waited to find out if Sirion would arrive. He'd heard from everyone but Lundle so far.

  Sirion had cut a bloody swathe through his targets this night. If he survived, he'd be here soon enough for his final target.

  Thom had never had an apprentice as gifted or as driven as Sirion. In just one year, he was already better than most of the Guild's assassins.

  The sound of padded footsteps alerted Thom to Sirion's arrival before he saw the ex-merchant. He appeared out of the darkness and stopped in front of Thom. He looked tired and drained, and wore a lot of blood on his clothing. None of it seemed to be his.

  “Drake?”

  “Not here,” Thom said, studying the various marks, stains, and cuts on Sirion's clothing.

  “Seems he switched ships. Gave Fortune to his first mate and took a new'un. The Lady Luck.”

  “Where?” Sirion asked, his voice and eyes devoid of emotion.

  “No way o' knowin’. At sea somewhere.”

  The remaining energy and composure seemed to flow out of Sirion. With a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumped and his eyelids drooped. He turned and began to walk away.

  “Goodbye, Thom. Thank you,” Sirion said over his shoulder.

  “What? What about Drake? Where ya goin?”

  “Dunno. East maybe. I'm done here. Done with Truridge.”

  Thom opened his mouth to speak; instead, he watched Sirion go. After a while, the slender form of Red appeared out of the darkness.

  “Send word to Captain Drake,” Thom instructed her. “Tell him all his boys is dead. The murderer is one Sirion Tell, and he can find him headed west. Tell him the Guild welcomes him, and his business, to Truridge.”

  By My Life and My Bloodline

  “Hurry up,” Irris said as she threw the gambeson over her head and wriggled until it fell comfortably. It pulled on her long tail of hair, but it was better the gambeson pull on her hair than the plate that would go over the top. In the chaos of battle, her enemies might take any advantage, including tugging on a loose tail.

  Someone banged on the door, and Irris glanced at the heavy wooden portal. The Drurr did not like axes and it would take a small age for them to break through with nothing but swords, but that didn't make the time they had left any less precious.

  “Stop fidgeting,” the human slave, Benr, hissed as he fitted one of the metal greaves around Irris' left calf and tightened the straps.

  “I will hold them back as long as I can,” Matriarch Ohlenas said, her eyes wet with un-shed tears. “You must get them as far away as possible.”

  Irris nodded and looked to her charges. Little Ehln and Lorri, so much alike Irris could barely tell them apart until Lorri spoke. Ehln never spoke, not even a single word. They looked so scared and innocent, and they were. They were guilty of no crime other than existing. Their mother, the Matriarch, was the guilty one.

  “I will speed you along as far as I can,” Matriarch Ohlenas said. “But they will come for the children. You must hide them where they cannot be found.”

  Ir
ris lifted her arms as Benr and his mother fitted the rounded, metal breastplate onto her chest. It was snug and heavy, but Irris was used to it. She had fought in more battles than she cared to count, and she had seen the face of death many times. Her armor had the scars to prove it.

  “Hide them well.” Benr wheezed as he put all his strength into tightening the straps on her breastplate.

  The Matriarch would be punished for her crime, and the punishment would be severe, but she would live. Benr would not be so lucky. The poor human would likely be skinned alive and fed piece-by-piece to the creatures that lived in the deep caverns. His end would be torment and would last for as long as the Senptals, masters at torturing the human slaves, could draw it out

  Weaving her hands through the air, the Matriarch channelled her magic into a portal. A shimmering oval of light formed.

  Benr fixed the right pauldron onto Irris and tightened the straps.

  Lorri ran crying to her mother, but Matriarch Ohlenas could spare her child no attention, the concentration of bringing a portal into existence was far too demanding.

  “Child,” Irris snapped. “Come away.”

  Lorri ignored her.

  “Ehln,” Irris said, “draw your sister away from your mother.”

  With her usual silence, Ehln obeyed, pulling her twin away from their mother. Lorri’s weeping became louder, sending shivers through Irris.

  The pounding on the door turned into a hacking; the Drurr had found themselves an axe or two after all. “We're out of time.” Irris pushed Benr away as he came at her with the left shoulder plate. “Get my sword.”

  Benr scuttled away to fetch the ancient sword as the portal flashed. Rolling grassland peppered with gentle hills lit by moon and stars became visible on the other side of the portal. Irris hadn't thought about the time of day. It was easy to forget whether the sun or moon was up when one spent most of their life underground.

  Irris stepped towards Matriarch Ohlenas. She felt lopsided moving with only her left greave and her right pauldron on, but the pounding on the door was more insistent. They were simply out of time.