The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  Lambert still looked uneasy. “Order something.”

  “What?” Randolph didn’t mean to be difficult, he could barely hear Lambert.

  “If you’re here to chat then order something.” Lambert grabbed the almost empty whiskey bottle and displayed it to Randolph, offering him some.

  “I want water for my horse then.” Randolph took a step closer and raised his voice so Lambert could hear. He set the bucket on the counter.

  “Clean water is expensive. One silver for a bit of it.” Lambert put the bottle back on the shelf among the other nearly transparent spirits.

  “No, it’s not. You add it to everything on the menu, so get me some.” Randolph fished three copper petals from his pocket and slammed them down on the counter, startling the whiskey filled drunk to his left.

  “Four,” Lambert countered, still biting on his lip.

  “Fine!” Randolph threw his hands in the air. Lambert was a cheap miser, and Randolph felt the urge to break some bones before he left for the night. He took one single copper petal from his pocket and loudly slammed it onto the sticky, wet bar.

  The drunk jumped again and reeled around, confronting Randolph with a single finger. As soon as he saw the broad mercenary complete with a very long sword, he turned right back to the bar and pointed his finger at Lambert. “You heard him! Water! That’s a fair price! Horses need water, Lamb!”

  Lambert grabbed the last petal before Randolph could snatch it back, and then he shoved it into the lockbox, but it wouldn’t go down. It sat half wedged in the slot, half out in the open. Lambert grabbed the bucket and traded it out for one below the counter.

  “You mean you had it right there?” Randolph spoke slowly and sternly, much like how his father used to speak to him. He was seriously considering that it was time to practice some bare knuckle boxing.

  “Well yeah, but it’s not like we get a lot of people on horses here. Wouldn’t make sense to just leave it out there.” Lambert suddenly took an interest in a patron at the other end of the bar.

  “Yeah,” Randolph grumbled incredulously. He grabbed the bucket, and some water sloshed onto the drunk to his left. The man turned to Randolph and gave him a big, uneasy smile. His teeth were as yellow as a canary.

  Randolph wrinkled his nose at the sight, and then he stormed outside. The bell on the door startled, and he set the bucket down in front of Silvia. The grateful beast nuzzled his chest for a moment, and Randolph tensed his body in response. After the few nuzzles, the beast gorged herself on the water.

  “That better be some quality water, girl.” Randolph patted her nose three times before storming back into The Hound’s Breath. Lambert was still busying himself with the patron at the other end of the bar, but he made eye contact with Randolph, and nodded his head to Randolph’s right. He turned and not two steps from the entrance sat Saemund alone at a small table. A single copper mug half full with water sat in front of him, and he appeared to be looking past Silvia outside, across the street.

  Randolph took a chair at the table—but kept himself at a distance from Saemund. The man was always impeccably clean, but lately he had a faint scent about him akin to putrid meat. Randolph imagined Saemund hanging about a score of rotten pig carcasses that happened to have been scavenged for days. Others might not have noticed the scent in passing, but Randolph was far too familiar with the smell of dead, decaying flesh.

  “Mercenary, so happy you could finish with Lambert and finally join me. Good choice. The water is exquisite tonight.” Saemund gave a toothy smile, and his voice was hushed. His hands were folded in his lap like a child attentive at church. His eyes never strayed from the building across the street.

  “Yeah. You could have waved me over sooner.” He put his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers in front of his chin.

  “You have eyes that you could have chosen to use. But then your poor beast would have gone without.”

  Randolph refused to get into it with Saemund; every second with him was incredibly unpleasant. “How is everything going?”

  “Without challenge. Boring and efficient.” Saemund raised the cup to his lips and took a large, smooth drink. “The last loose end is in the process of being snipped.” He gestured with the cup to the building across the way.

  “What’s that?” Randolph looked out the window. He could see there was a sign above the building’s door, but it was too dark to read it.

  “It’s a building obviously.” Saemund gave a curt chuckle. “But you mean, ‘what is the establishment located within.’ It’s an inn for metal working tradesmen called Iron’s Rest. It is always swarmed with visitors this time of the year—merchants and smiths eager to buy the iron of the north to bring to the south for the coming season.” Saemund emptied the cup with another swig then set it down. “There is a man inside that is a known associate of the assassins. He’s been laying low at relatively unknown inns for a while now. Currently, he’s staying in there.”

  “An associate?”

  “Apparently someone related to an assassin who himself has a history of burglary, fraud, and minor assault.” Saemund folded his hands in his lap again, every part besides his lips as still as stone.

  “So you’re going to kill someone because he’s related to the wrong guy?” Randolph’s brow furrowed, and he suddenly was struck with an ill feeling that wasn’t generated by Saemund. He knew that the man would kill any associates of the assassins, but he never stopped to think that they’d have real families. He himself had done many unpleasant things in his life, and the idea of a relation being held accountable upset him more than he liked. He suddenly thought to ask Soli about her family next time they would meet, figuring that it would be a good conversation starter. He refocused himself back into the current conversation, deciding that thoughts of Soli were too precious to be defiled by Saemund’s company.

  “I was told to take care of the problem without reservation. This is the last familial relation to be taken care of.” Saemund blinked; it was something he hadn’t done since Randolph sat down.

  “You killed everyone else already?” Randolph had heard no news about massive disappearances, but, then again, he spent most of his time in the Reinout manor.

  “Not at all. Most of them have no family. The ones that do made sure to send them away at the beginning of this affair. I’ve only exterminated nine so far, this one being the tenth.” Saemund loudly tapped the copper cup with his long, thick fingernails.

  “Then go kill him. How long have you been sitting here anyway?” Saemund smelled worse that than he ever had before, and Randolph dreaded how he would smell in a week—or the one after that. He regretted, again, agreeing to meet so frequently with Saemund. He wanted to be anywhere else. If only armed men would have burgled the estate, then Randolph would have had a good reason to stay away.

  “I was ordered to use discretion, and discretion I will use. When he leaves I will remove him. So far he hasn’t left. It will be soon though. Don’t fret yourself, mercenary. I will handle him.” The tapping became louder, and Saemund blinked for the second time.

  “Don’t you sleep?” Randolph cursed himself. Why did he continue the conversation? He could have said that everything sounded good and excused himself. Never had he missed Silvia as badly.

  “I do. When I have to, I have the others watch the building.”

  Saemund was talking about his two men, Worm and Dotard. Randolph had only met them a few times, and he was glad for the limited contact. He wasn’t quite sure how to name their relationship to Saemund. They were cravenly submissive to his will, yet they embodied a greedy fervor for death.

  Lambert rushed over with a wooden pitcher filled with water. Heeding Saemund’s taps, he poured some of it into the copper cup.

  “Good man.” Saemund turned to Lambert. “Excellent service here.” He pulled a silver petal from the small leather pouch at his waist and handed it to Lambert.

  Lambert looked as happy as a boy seeing his first naked woman and ins
tantly shoved the coin into his pocket. “Thank you, sir. Are you two gentlemen having a lovely evening then? Anything I can get you?” Lambert was suddenly very friendly towards Randolph, and it was the first time that Lambert had every referred to Randolph as a gentleman.

  Randolph still wanted to punch him in his greasy, dumb face.

  “No, Lambert, that won’t be necessary. Just the water. My old friend and I are catching up. Chatting about the local events.” Saemund smiled towards Lambert; his mimicry that of a perfectly normal human.

  Randolph was repulsed by the idea of Saemund being his friend, but managed a weak dismissive smile towards Lambert. It didn’t matter though, as Lambert was only focused on Saemund. Thank the gods for small favors, thought Randolph.

  “Talking about that storm then? Caused quite a bit of damage down by the harbor. That wind during the thick of it against those buildings? Didn’t stand a chance. Or are you talking about that break out? Never heard of such a thing and from a woman! Can you believe that? A woman breaks out of her cell, kills a guard, and somehow gets out?”

  Saemund nodded in agreement, giving Lambert the attention he clearly craved.

  “Of course she lucked out. Seems they had some boy working that night. She never would have stood a chance against a man. Or maybe she was someone’s girlfriend, and they smuggled her out? I heard some people,” he motioned his head towards the bar, “saying that there wasn’t really an escape. That some guards just wanted the bitch gone and killed her. That the dead boy was an accident! That he fell down taking a piss!”

  Saemund raised his hand to interrupt. “Those theories are all fascinating and equally valid. Tell me more about the prisoner.” Lambert didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm.

  “Oh yeah, hold on a moment.” Lambert rushed back behind the bar. Whatever he was doing, Randolph couldn’t see.

  “Well, this has been wonderful.” Randolph went to push his chair back but Saemund shot his hand out, grabbing Randolph’s shoulder. His grip was strong. Randolph’s eyes went wide and he looked at Saemund. He contemplated grabbing his sword, but Saemund gave him no reason. He pulled his hand away, but it worked, Randolph didn’t leave.

  “In a moment, mercenary.”

  Randolph complied. Saemund had never touched him before. All he could think was that a man’s hand shouldn’t be that strong.

  Lambert jogged back over with a long wrinkled sheet of paper in his hand. Randolph kept his eyes on Saemund who grabbed the paper that Lambert offered him.

  “Just came in a few hours ago. A guard has been handing them out.”

  “Thank you, Lambert.” Saemund shooed the man away.

  Saemund looked it over for a few moments before he handed it to Randolph. The paper was damp and sticky just like everything in the tavern. The top boldly declared “Wanted!” with a sketch of a woman underneath. He looked down and saw a woman scowling at him, which reminded him of too many women that he’d known. She had a thin face that was scarcely dotted with a few freckles, framed by long, thick, dark hair. Her thin lips were mashed together tighter than a priestess’ legs. Her aquiline nose, that appeared to have been broken and set significantly to the left, was wrinkled in contempt.

  Underneath the sketch was written: “Reward! 200 golden petals alive or 150 golden petals dead! Escaped thief wanted for murder!”

  “Fascinating. At least we know that she probably wasn’t someone’s girlfriend. There goes that guess.” Randolph set it on the table face down so that the woman couldn’t scowl at him, but he kept thinking about her face. She seemed familiar.

  “It is of no consequence.”

  Randolph stood up while keeping an eye on Saemund’s hand. “Then I’m going to leave. Good luck with that,” he said while he nodded at the window with his head.

  “Yes.”

  Randolph turned around; his hand was stretched to the door, but he couldn’t help but ask. He turned back to Saemund. “Why the interest in the poster?”

  “A human escapes an inescapable prison? I wanted to know what put her there.”

  “In case she’s an assassin?”

  “Yes, but I don’t care about thieves.” He said the word with revulsion.

  “Yeah.” Randolph turned back to the door, opened it and left before he could think of any other questions.

  He patted Silvia on the nose three times, and she playfully whinnied at his return. Randolph took her reins with care, and the two began their walk back to the estate. He breathed easy and deep. The meeting had gone well, and it was over with. He decided once he got back that he would drain another of Etienne’s bottles of wine, one with Shiraz written on it. He didn’t know what a Shiraz was, but he knew he liked the peppery flavor. After that he would sleep for a long time. He figured he had to get his rest; tomorrow was going to be the first day of an improved workout regimen, for the next time Saemund would try to grab him.

  Chapter 8

  Ulrich was sitting in the inner ward of the temple. It was a sacred, restricted place with short, kept grass and the iconic Mourning Tree of Queensport. His eyes were closed as he breathed the evening air. A cold front, the last rogue breath of a very cold, harsh winter, was blowing across the city, caring not that spring was well in swing. The piercing wind whipped his shaggy locks across his face, but he enjoyed it. It reminded him of home.

  It had been four days since he last saw Vitoria, when he visited her in the prison. He had received no word of where she was or if she was well. All he knew was what the wanted posters spread throughout the city proclaimed. Since he saw that first poster being plastered on the outer wall of the temple complex, he had barely slept. Even the small naps he forced himself to take were restless. A burning in his throat that he usually only suffered from when he ate sugary foods overtook him whenever he laid down.

  Nearby he could hear the wardens pruning the massive Mourning Tree that was filled with countless crows. Standing 314 feet tall, the tree was believed to be older than Queensport. Its large spear shaped leaves, with netlike veins, were mottled with blue-grey and dark green. With care the wardens contemplated each snip before moving their ladders over to another branch, carefully snipping again. They had long abandoned hope of pruning anything above 150 feet, but they took as much care as they could with the bottom half of the tree. The wardens spent their days dedicated to the Mourning Tree, and it was considered an honor in the temple to be trusted enough to care for it.

  Such care was tedious. Their thick, bulky gloves and face coverings slowed their pace. Watching them work made Ulrich appreciate his own simple robes. But the wardens needed the protection. One touch of the ashen bark, and one’s skin would break out in painful large hives that resembled blackened pustules. One drop of the sap killed whatever it touched, leaving grey patches of dead flesh. The tree produced beautiful white blossoms and a small, fleshy, pitted, red fruit. The juice from the fruit, when ingested, interrupted the mind and the body, causing violent seizures and death. Only the crows could reside in the tree; they were naturally immune to the poison.

  Ulrich respected the wardens, but was glad to be a simple priest. While it would be many years before he would even be considered for the honor, he hoped no one would ever ask it of him. Their job was difficult, and many bore the scars of their labors. Even with the gear, it was obvious at the temple who worked on the tree. Every now and then, Ulrich would see greyed flesh on hands, white scars in eyes, and pock-marks on necks.

  Occasionally he opened his eyes to watch them make their slow process. The priests were careful not to upset the crows—who were said to be the eyes of Anker. But these glimpses lasted only seconds. He’d return to his daydreaming. He sat in the grass. His back was slumped against the stone wall of the inner ward.

  He wondered if his mother was well. She always had terrible allergies in spring. Or what of his cousin Aela? Had she already disappeared into the forest, as she was prone to do for days, once the weather turned warm?

  Then he wondered how Vitoria was,
or even where she was. In his mind he imagined that she would come to him right away to tell the story of her escape. Finally free, she would be kinder to Ulrich. The darkness that pervaded her would lighten—at least a little. But daydreams are just that: dreams. He also imagined that no one would be hurt in her escape, and from what the posters said, he was very wrong in that wish.

  Perhaps she was hurt. The escape would have been taxing, no doubt, and she may have been injured with her confrontation with the guard. If that was the case then he was glad for her to stay away, and for her to focus on her recovery.

  Or maybe she was dead.

  Another snip and a small sprouting branch fell from the tree.

  Ulrich breathed deep. He knew he was being impatient, and he chastised himself for it. Anker taught patience—something he was never good at. He was accomplished at so many facets of the priesthood, but still he had much to practice. He would have time for it though, he told himself at times like this. He was one of the youngest priests he knew of. Perhaps when Vitoria recovered she could study with him. He knew her soul could use counsel and care far more than others, and he told himself the he wanted nothing more than to help those who truly needed aid.

  Imagining Vitoria’s progress with him, he smiled. With those warm thoughts, his head lolled to the side and he relaxed.

  His cousin Aela was with him, and they were in Heinrik, but not in their home. Instead, the two were in a nearby forest. Aela was beginning to field dress a small, young, freshly caught, white tailed deer. He walked up to her as her steel blade cut from crotch to sternum, all while taking care not to rupture the organs within.

  Ulrich looked away as the indescribable stench of moist, hot organs crashed into him. His father always wanted him to be a hunter, but he never had it in him. Luckily, Aela took that mantle when Ulrich’s father passed away, taking care of the hunting for Ulrich and his mother.

  “Would you care to help, brother? We shall eat well tonight.” She always called him brother, and he thought of her as a sister. The two had been raised together since he could crawl.