The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  He might as well have beaten you himself, fucked you in every hole, and then slit your throat. He trains you and claims to love you as a sister, but you refuse to join his cult and out you go. He never loved you.

  No one ever loved you.

  Her brain tightened further, and her breathing noticeably wavered. Images of the pit flashed before her—images she had always fought to suppress. All around her were men—if they could be called such. Vitoria believed that they had long ago shed any semblance of being real men, and instead they acted like primitive beasts. In them she saw the men of the brothel she grew up in. Their eyes had what the patrons back then had: the drive to consume. Consumption of food, drink, drugs, and pleasure.

  “He didn’t have to take me in. He even paid,” Sylvaine paused, “that bitch for me. He didn’t have to do that!”

  “I know. I know.” Aimee tried to calm him with her cooing tone.

  After the guards had taken their fists to her, a handsome Justicar with dark, curly hair visited her. His breath smelled like spiced duck and sweet dandelion wine. He was nice to her, giving her a cold rag for her face. He begged her, in his commanding yet warm voice, to simply tell them what they needed—but she couldn’t. She simply could not. That man signed a piece of paper, and they drug her to the pit. She kicked them. She bit one of their hands, but it did nothing but pinch the skin underneath his leather glove.

  “Did you know how much my mother was paid for me?”

  “Twelve petals,” Aimee’s said.

  “Twelve fucking copper petals.” He gave a single mirthless laughed. “One for each year she had wasted on me. Conyers took my hand and walked me down the road. He said he’d buy me whatever shoes I wanted for my bare feet. He was laughing, I remember, because he said he had got a bargain. He easily would have paid twelve silver petals.”

  There was a noise from behind Vitoria, as if Aimee was touching Sylvaine. Patting him on the shoulder, perhaps, or the back? But she could barely hear the noise; they might have well as been in another room.

  Blood was in her mouth—she remembered how it tasted: a metallic, strong tang that lingered long after the bleeding stopped. That tang was as fresh to her in that moment in the basement of Turmont’s Tinctures as if she had been beaten all over again back at The Cliffs.

  Back then, she couldn’t see out of her left eye as they dragged her; it had swollen over completely. They opened an iron and wooden latch in the floor. An overwhelming, humid stench of piss escaped, enveloping them like a foul fog. She begged the guards not to throw her in. It was dark, only a fleeting amount of light made it into the pit below, but she could hear movement—as if starved animals below laid in wait for the next meal. She clawed at their hands, but they dropped her in, telling her she could come out when she wanted to behave.

  She landed on her side. Pain shot through her pelvis, and she twisted her wrist. A battered woman alone in that place didn’t last long—they gave her perhaps forty seconds before they attacked her.

  Sylvaine and Aimee continued to talk behind her, no more than twenty feet away, yet it was nothing but undiscernible muffles to Vitoria’s ears.

  They touched her in every way they could, and their fingers and bits entered her in every way they wanted. The feeling of being smothered—crushed to death by their weight—overwhelmed her as she felt it all again.

  Vitoria dropped her hands to her chest. It was tight, even more than her head, and she could barely breathe. It was as if her throat had twisted shut.

  What she remembered the most—the thing that still made her gag—was how they tasted. Every single one of them in her mouth—all were bitter and relentless. She told herself that it wasn’t real, that she wasn’t there, that no man was going to touch her ever again.

  The inaudible words behind her turned softer, as if Sylvaine’s outburst was subsiding.

  Inside Vitoria’s mind, she heard the words they said all over again. They spoke; most of them called her bitch, slut, or whore. But she couldn’t hear any word beyond that, only grunting that eventually lead to moaning. And just when she thought that moan meant that she was free, another would take his place, and it would begin all over again. She swallowed her own bile as she felt the hot bitterness in her mouth anew.

  Vitoria forced opened her eyes, and she was ripped from the darkness. In front of her was the stone wall of Aimee’s basement, lined with dried herbs, baskets of ingredients, bottles (some empty, others full of colored liquids), and a small wooden statue of a two headed crow. It was the same crow that Ulrich had worn around his neck in silver. The figurine was right in front of her, and she locked her eyes on it while she told herself to breath over and over again—that it wasn’t real.

  He left you to die in that place. He allowed that to happen to you.

  She pulled in a deep, jagged breath while staring at the right head of the crow. She knew it was carved of lifeless wood, but it seemed to almost be conscious to her—nearly real. She felt the tightness in her suddenly release. Her pulse, which was still loud, slowed slightly. It wasn’t happening, she told herself.

  Vitoria took a last, loud breath. Her pulse was still hard, but the fragments of her mind that had spilled forth were in check. She could no longer hear the ecstatic, cruel groaning or taste the men, but she knew they were still there in her mind—ready to appear in her dreams and in her moments of weakness.

  She would always carry them—much like James—with her.

  Vitoria cleared her throat. She spoke as hard as she could. “Go home.”

  “What?” asked Aimee.

  “Gladly,” said Sylvaine.

  “But—” said Aimee.

  “I don’t need him,” said Vitoria. She turned around. She thought that her face was masterfully expressionless. “And I don’t want to listen to him anymore.”

  Sylvaine grabbed his grey canvass bag from the corner, and he threw it over his shoulder. “Goodbye,” he said to Aimee.

  Aimee embraced him. “Be safe, darling.”

  He nodded and left out the door. His fast feet pounded on the staircase as he practically leapt up the way, skipping several steps.

  Silence sat between the two women until they heard the last thud of the last step. In its place were the squeaks of the wooden floor above.

  “You didn’t have to be cruel to him. He was so excited last time he helped you—he said that you would teach him something. Instead you tricked him.”

  “I never tricked him.” Vitoria took a long breath. The static in her mind was gone, and the voice had become quiet again, but she felt tired. So tired. “I taught him a very valuable lesson: never trust someone, even if you think you’re supposed to.”

  They heard the door open above them, but instead of Sylvaine leaving, another set of steps entered the building, and the squeaking doubled.

  Both of the women perked up, their conversation forgotten at the sound.

  “Were you expecting someone?” asked Vitoria.

  “No.”

  The door closed, leaving only one set of feet creaking above them.

  Vitoria felt as if she had worked all day and had never touched any food, but she couldn’t let that affect her. She put her shoulders back, crossed her arms, and forced herself to stand tall. “Want me?”

  “No,” said Aimee. “I will see who it is.”

  Vitoria nodded, secretly happy to be left alone in the cold basement for a few moments.

  Aimee hurried up the steps.

  The moment Aimee was out of Vitoria’s eyesight, Vitoria went limp in the knees, putting her hand to the wall for support. Dreading the return of the memories, she breathed. Deep lungsful went in and out of her—but the memories stayed at bay. Not even the voice returned. It was asleep again, at least that was what she called it when it was quiet, and when she was truly alone.

  Above her were squeaks and muffled talking. Only talking—no shouting. Vitoria was pleased to hear it.

  She had kept the episodes secret. Ulrich never kne
w, and she believed Aimee did not know either, but Vitoria had a feeling that Aimee suspected. Far too often, Vitoria would awake from her dreams throttling a pillow or shouting at the ceiling. Aimee would never wake her in those moments, but Vitoria had no doubt that the woman heard her at night.

  But the episodes when she was awake were worse. They took her from the present and forced her to experience the moments over and over again. She couldn’t stop them, and the strangest things would set them off. It had been the first time she had been attacked by the memories in front of others, and she hated herself for it.

  The feet were at the stairs, clunking down one set in front of the other. Vitoria straightened and pulled herself away from the wall.

  Aimee was first through the portal with a large smile on her face. “You have a visitor.” She walked into the room towards Vitoria.

  Behind her was Ulrich. He nearly smacked his forehead into the header at the bottom of the stairs as he entered. He glanced back at it. “Quite a dangerous place you have here, Aimee.”

  “We manage just fine,” said Aimee. She placed her hand on Vitoria’s back.

  It felt strangely good, as if the old woman’s hands were grounding her in that moment.

  Vitoria was surprised to see it was the harmless Ulrich, but she didn’t let it show. “What do you need?” asked Vitoria. Part of her had missed him, but she’d never let him know that. It was, after all, a very miniscule, unimportant part. She had thought, after last time, that she would never see him again. That the priest was done with her—that her vitriol had finally sent him away.

  “I just thought...” He looked about the room. His eyes seemed to take in every detail in a few seconds. Eventually, they settled on Vitoria. “I’d check in on you.”

  “Vitoria is doing well, as you can see.” Aimee rubbed Vitoria’s back in a small circle. She looked at her nose and seemed proud. “Soon enough, she will pass as a truly proper lady.”

  “A proper lady, you say?” asked Ulrich, raising an eyebrow.

  Aimee smirked. “Well, as proper as she needs to be.”

  “I feel like I’m missing something.” The eyebrow was still raised.

  “Oh, nothing important. All that matters is that our Vitoria is well, but she has a lot to do. Can’t have distractions, you know?” Aimee briskly rubbed Vitoria’s back again.

  He dropped his brow and took a few steps closer. His nostrils flared a touch, as if something pungent had just struck him, but he kept his composure. “Please now, Aimee, do not send a young man away who has missed his friend. Let me rest a moment and talk?”

  Aimee looked at Vitoria, who looked back at her. The old woman’s eyes asked, is that alright?

  Vitoria shrugged, and Aimee removed her hand.

  “Alright,” said Aimee. “Just for a little bit. She needs a break anyway, and I could use some tea.”

  Vitoria watched her walk to the stairs.

  Ulrich watched Vitoria.

  Aimee climbed up the first step. “Would you like any?”

  Vitoria shook her head.

  “No, thank you. Perhaps another time,” said Ulrich.

  “Suit yourself,” she said with the wave of her hand, as she tromped up the steps.

  “What is all this about being a proper lady?” He teased her.

  “It’s stupid,” said Vitoria. She was in no mood to be teased by the man.

  “What’s it for?”

  She hesitated. “Work.”

  Ulrich laughed. It wasn’t mean; it wasn’t mocking—it was just Ulrich being Ulrich. “I think you’re shorter with me out of prison then when you were in.”

  She folded her arms. “What are you doing here? After last time?”

  “Yeah,” said Ulrich. He clasped his hands in front of him, and he took another step closer to her. “I know. I know. I remember.”

  “Have you returned to berate me further?” Her words were stern. Part of her wanted him too. All she wanted was a push, just a small little push, so she could clock him. She had missed him, a little, but she had also liked it when he was far away from her. Far away from her hate, anger, and violence. Maybe if she hit him, he’d finally realize it wasn’t a game helping, for a lack of a better word, an assassin.

  “Not at all. You’re still my friend.” He paused. “I just wanted to visit you is all. Wanted to know what you are up to.”

  “I’m getting ready,” she said, tightening her arms folded around her. “For my last job.”

  He dropped his hands to the side. “That’s good to hear. Did you want to talk about it?”

  Ulrich and his gods damned need to always talk about everything—you’d think he’d die with it. “No. I’m tired of talking about it. It’s all Aimee reminds me about.” She sighed, dropping her hands to her sides.

  “You seem better. A lot better,” he smiled, “then the last time I saw you.”

  She ignored him. “I have a lot to do—“

  He took her hand and cut her off. “Like what? Can I help?”

  “What is wrong with you?” She ripped her hand from his. “Last time you scold me about killing, and now you want to help me?”

  “Not necessarily,” he said. “It’s more that I want to help you, and, you said it yourself, Aimee has been doing nothing but reminding you of work. Perhaps you both need a break from each other?”

  She took a step away from him. “I’m tired.” Ulrich never had wanted to help her in such a business before. He was acting odd, and she was in no mood for odd—she wanted to exhaust herself with a good fight or have one single night of peaceful sleep.

  Ulrich could not help her with either.

  He frowned for a moment, but then the brightness in his face returned. “We don’t have to do anything taxing. We can do whatever you want. You said you need to be a proper lady? I can teach you how to be one.”

  “What?” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  The words spilled fast from him. “I could teach you etiquette. How to dance? Several styles if you’ll be more specific about what you need. How about heraldry?”

  Her eyes narrowed further. “Since when do you know these things?”

  Ulrich ran a hand through his loose hair, which was odd for him to have down. He waited a few too many moments to speak. “I’ve always known these things.” He shrugged.

  “Go away, Ulrich.”

  The brightness in his face faded.

  “You don’t want to help me, and I don’t need help. I know what I’m doing.” She stepped by him, heading for the stairs. She wanted to go to her room, to be alone. She needed to just be alone in that moment, she told herself.

  He grabbed her arm as she walked by him. “Then what will help?”

  She tried to rip her arm away, but she couldn’t. His grasp was tight, and fighting his grasp only bruised her. She shot her eyes to his. “Don’t,” she warned. Adrenaline began to push through her veins again, and suddenly she wasn’t so tired anymore.

  He lightened his grasp, but he didn’t let go. “Don’t you even want to—”

  She turned on him, grabbing him by the shoulder; she rammed her knee into his crotch—hard.

  He didn’t let go, instead he grabbed her other shoulder while he slightly buckled from the unanticipated blow.

  She grabbed him by the front of his robe with her hands. She was screaming at him to leave her alone and to never bother her again. That she could kill him then and there, and she wouldn’t care.

  But all those words she didn’t know she was saying, only that she was screaming at more than just him.

  Ulrich let her go, throwing her away from him a few feet. She didn’t falter a step. Instead she pulled the stiletto she kept in her boot free, and brandished it at him, still shouting.

  She didn’t stop shouting until she heard Aimee’s voice calling her name.

  Vitoria lowered the stiletto. She looked at Aimee. She was on the bottom step of the stairs with her hands outstretched.

  Ulr
ich looked as still as a statue. What he was thinking, Vitoria could not guess, for his face was as emotionless as stone.

  Vitoria took a deep breath. “Go.” Her voice matched his countenance.

  Ulrich stayed a few seconds looking at Vitoria and then Aimee. He didn’t say a thing as he slipped by the old woman on the steps and left.

  Aimee followed after him, leaving Vitoria in the basement. She sheathed the stiletto, and then she collapsed to the floor. Her head felt hot; her body was weak, and the voice within her began to stir again. There was cold stone underneath her, and she pressed her left cheek into it as she counted to five several times.

  Chapter 30

  After leaving Turmont’s Tinctures, Saemund cursed himself the likes which he had never done before. He had been impatient, he concluded, and cocky. The woman had turned on him like an animal, and he should have seen it coming. Her body was agitated; her words were short and cold. But no, he chastised, he had to go to her right then. He had to confront her that very moment.

  He had made a mistake—and, because of that, he didn’t know her plans. He could have, he reasoned, with time, learned if she was a Disciple of Nox. No doubt the woman would have told him whatever he wanted, with the proper prompting. No, he had to push her there and then—and she pushed back hard.

  He should have left and returned another day. Her scent was so strong before, but he could barely even smell it upon himself as he walked away from Turmont’s Tinctures.

  He walked away hurriedly, avoiding any sort of contact with those he passed on the streets. He could have met with Dotard or Worm, to see if they had heard anything new or to fetch his cut of priest flesh—but he wanted no priest flesh in that moment. He felt that he didn’t deserve it then. He could have sent word to the mercenary about his progress, but what would be the point?

  He decided he would head back to the temple, but his walk turned into a day of wandering. The air was relentless in its heat, and no breeze stirred around him. He sweated underneath his robes as he meandered. He passed by the harbor, listening to the waves and the birds, but he found his eyes drifting to The Cliffs. Even the Justicar had given him nothing. It seemed that the man who had kept the woman locked away for years knew nothing about her.