The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  And failures don’t have a reason to live. No creature like him was ever given another chance when it came to their job. No, not once. Instead they are ripped apart, while still alive, by the other creatures—to serve as a lesson.

  Around him people screamed. One man, obviously drunk from his slurs, laughed and made a comment about showing that cheating little slut what for.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he was, surprisingly, pulled away. He threw the woman to the ground with a snarl and turned. What creature dared to be strong enough to pull Saemund from his prey?

  It was that nobleman’s stupid dog, his mercenary. One hand on his shoulder, the other on a neat little package tucked under his arm.

  Saemund slammed his palms into Randolph’s broad chest, forcing him to take a surprised step back. “How dare you, mercenary! Do not ever touch me again!” he shrieked in his own strange warbled voice. No hint of Ulrich’s voice remained.

  Randolph dropped the package, putting his own hands up in appeasement and confusion. “Hold on! There is no need for that!” He glared at Saemund’s hands. “Calm down!” His eyes flashed around Saemund’s body, no doubt looking for a weapon.

  “I said I would come to you, dog, when I was ready! Now you’re following me around. Interrupting my business!” Saemund took a step closer to the man as he cracked the bones of his fingers.

  Randolph’s eyebrows scrunched. “What?”

  He thought about how he’d have to kill the woman. “I’m handling it!”

  Give someone, a monster or a man, no choice in anything, and all he will want is choice. Even the smallest, tiniest victory will be the biggest of accomplishments.

  “Look, pal,” said Randolph, his hands still up in appeasement, “I don’t know you. Just calm down.”

  Saemund jerked his head back and turned away from the mercenary, who certainly did not know him in his current flesh.

  Labored sobs came from the woman to the left of him. Several of the pathetic humans around him were at her side, comforting her—even though moments before they silently hated her with their repulsed, superior glances.

  How he hated the hypocrisy of humans.

  “That’s better. Do you need to sit down? Are you all right?”

  Saemund’s eyes went to the mercenary, who was looking past him. He turned his head. In the distance he saw the metallic sheen of the tops of gisarmes making their way through the streets.

  “How about you just take a rest?”

  Saemund’s head turned back to the mercenary. His hands were still up, trying to calm, what he thought, was an unruly priest—he was trying to stall him until the guards arrived.

  Saemund stepped forward, lowering his voice to a controlled hush while giving the mercenary a large, toothy smile. “If you want your lordling saved before his party, you’ll make this go away, mercenary. I’ve found one last loose end I need to clear up before then.”

  Randolph’s head cocked, and his hands lowered in front of him. “What?”

  “You heard me.” Saemund walked past him. He was going back to the temple to collect his thoughts in silence. “Now do what I say, like a good little mercenary.”

  Chapter 37

  Soli was as polite as she could have been with Jae, but she certainly did not indulge him. He ate, and she watched in silence. She felt ill throughout their entire meal, and her head buzzed. He tried to rile her a few other times during their lunch, but, without her playing along, he was left pouting. When he finally finished his last buttered shrimp, they traveled in silence back to the manor, each keeping their eyes directed out their windows.

  When they made it back to the manor, Jae did not even attempt to keep up the pretense of a gentleman. He did not escort her out of the carriage; he did not bid her good day. He simply left her behind and walked into his manor as if she did not even exist. One of the guards that Soli did not know trailed after him, jumping down from the front seat and scrambling after Jae’s heated, fast steps.

  Soli held her breath until she heard the manor’s door close behind him. Her head was finally starting to feel right, and she almost laughed at the idea that perhaps she was allergic to Jae’s company. She sighed as she pulled herself off of the bench in the carriage to leave, but a hand stopped her. It was rough, calloused, large, tan—could have been no one but Randolph. He wished to escort her out of the carriage, and she took it without thought. She ventured out, down the black iron folding step with grace, but it was when her feet landed on the stone road that she faltered—like a woman who had drunk a bottle of mead, not just a few, possibly tainted, sips like she had.

  His arm wrapped around her back, hooking under her shoulder—he caught her. She smiled, tittering, unable to meet his gaze.

  He chuckled twice. “Did you catch your dress, sweetheart?” He eyed the door and step of the carriage.

  The hand that was not supporting her held a small, paper-wrapped parcel tied with twine.

  “Is that for me?”

  He turned his head back to her and nodded. “Everything you wanted they had.”

  “How much do I owe you?” She took the parcel from his hand, and the dried contents shifted in the box.

  “Don’t worry about it. You can get the next tea purchase that I need.” He grinned.

  She shook the box. It was hard to tell how much such things should weigh. “You didn’t get any trouble about it then?” She wasn’t sure of the legality of it in Aveline.

  “Nope. A really nice lady wrapped it up without a thought.”

  “Good.” She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

  He squeezed her gently, drawing her shoulder close to his chest. It felt good to feel his warmth; even though he was behind leather and chainmail, she could still feel it. After her encounter with Jae, being with him felt like a return to normal.

  Normal—that was the exact word she had thought. Her chin tucked to her chest, and her cheeks felt hot. She grabbed the leather pouch around her neck and rubbed it.

  That was normal, she corrected herself. Roed was normal—not Randolph.

  “Sir,” said the guard still remaining on the front seat.

  Randolph’s head turned toward the man. “What?”

  “The carriage and the horses, sir.”

  “Right. One second,” he said to the guard serving as the coachman for the day. His head turned to Soli, who raised her eyes only to his chin. “I have to help with this. A lot of the other men are under the weather lately—some sort of flu or something, I don’t know—so I have to go. Will you be alright?”

  She nodded. “Of course I’ll be alright.”

  “You’re not feeling ill, are you? You’re a little off, sweetheart.” He squeezed her a bit more. “And that slip up.” He nodded to the carriage. “Some of the other boys are feeling a bit dizzy, are you?”

  Her eyes shot up to his. Of course she was feeling dizzy—and a little nauseous. It made sense to her that she might have caught something. The household was huge at the manor, and if one person caught something then it made sense that others might as well. “I suppose I could lie down for a bit.”

  When presented with the options of being drugged by Jae Reinout or simply catching the flu, Soli had to hope it was merely illness that plagued her.

  “Take care of yourself.” He pulled her even closer to himself and kissed her forehead.

  Her breath stopped. She closed her eyes as he kissed her, and, with her thumb, rubbed the pouch around her neck.

  Chapter 38

  Saemund spent all day in the priest’s quarters.

  He told himself that he was planning, but he spent most of his time in bed, replaying his encounters with the woman. Every detail felt important to him: her anger, her scent, her words, her strikes against him—even the contempt she had for others was fascinating.

  But the way she eschewed her own master? That was what struck him as the most perplexing.

  Could someone discard their own master?

  Or, even better, cou
ld a master be replaced?

  He thought again about strangling his own. The old man was frail, and Saemund delighted in the idea of snapping his vertebrae one by one. Oh, he thought, how they would pop with such satisfying delight.

  He wouldn’t even eat the body. It wouldn’t be worth it, he supposed, since, no doubt, the man’s flesh would be bitter, dry, and gristly.

  He’d just let it rot.

  His door crept open. Saemund shot up in bed.

  Dotard slipped through the door, still wearing the skin of an old, weathered man, followed by a flat chested, pock-marked washerwoman. It was Worm. Saemund could smell their rank stench even through their human flesh.

  Worm closed the door behind himself, making sure to create no noise. They had crept in, passed a dozen or so priests, without being seen.

  “Why are you here? I did not call for you!” Saemund growled in a watery tone, baring his immaculate teeth at the two. “I have no use for those who cannot follow orders!”

  “Please!” cried Worm.

  “We were worried! About what happened at Powder Street,” said Dotard.

  Worm nodded in agreement with Dotard.

  Saemund left his teeth bared at the two, but he ceased his growling. He had been so sloppy. Of course they would have heard.

  “Don’t be angry,” said Dotard.

  “Are you alright, master?” asked Worm.

  Saemund flexed his fingers.

  Master? His title was a joke, and he knew it. Saemund only had dominion over Dotard and Worm: two failures. Two pieces of garbage. Two ill-minded, brain-damaged monsters unable to be left without supervision. Even human children fared better than them.

  Even Saemund wasn’t fully functional.

  “I’m fine,” said Saemund.

  “The woman on the street. We took care of her,” said Dotard. “Was she one of the disciples?”

  Saemund shook his head. “It is not her.”

  “She was pretty,” said Worm, staring out the window. “I liked her.”

  “I saved you your cut,” said Dotard, beaming with a smile. Faint stains of red were around his gums. “Here.” He began to rummage in the messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

  “No,” said Saemund, waving him off. “You keep it. I’m not hungry.”

  Dotard cocked his head. “Not hungry?”

  “She smelled like sunshine and dust, but she didn’t taste like it,” said Worm.

  “Not hungry?” asked Dotard; his eyes were narrowed.

  “I’m not hungry for her. You have her, but do not be surprised if she gives you worms!” Saemund spit at Dotard.

  Worm held something, cupped in his hand, up to his nose and breathed deep.

  Dotard didn’t even blink at the outburst. “Are you sure? There is a lot of fat on these cuts.”

  Worm’s hand was still cupped under his nose. He took another deep breath and shivered.

  “Who told you to kill her anyway?” asked Saemund, his nostrils flaring. “You obey!” He slammed his hand into his chest. “Obey me!”

  Dotard recoiled, putting his hands up to placate Saemund. “Sorry! Sorry!”

  Worm continued to look out the window, oblivious to anything but whatever was cupped in his hands.

  “You’re both garbage!” Saemund snapped. “You are nothing without me! How dare you do anything on your own accord!”

  Dotard fell to his knees, clasping his hands in a prayer-like fashion towards Saemund. “Please don’t eat us!” was followed by undecipherable blubbering.

  “You kill, and you obey! You cannot have one without the other! You obey me, and then you may kill!” He raised his hand, open palm, and slapped Dotard across the head. “You can’t just do whatever you want!”

  “And you!” He turned to Worm. “You do not even have the good sense to beg forgiveness!”

  Worm snapped from his revelry, and he turned to Saemund. His body was stiff; his eyes turned into spacious, terrified pools. He brought his hand to his chest, protecting whatever was within his palm.

  Saemund raised his hand again, but, instead of an open palm, he made a fist. He slammed it into Worm just as he began to shake his head, silently begging Saemund not too.

  He beat Worm. It was no worse than he had beaten the creature in the past. Worm did not cry out. He had learned that to do so only meant it would go on longer. Instead, the pitiful monster raised his free hand in defense, resulting in a large snap at his wrist. It was only then that any tears escaped him—but still he made no sound.

  Dotard watched, still on his knees, hands raised in a prayer-like steeple throughout the entire time.

  After four and a half minutes, Saemund was done with the beaten and bloodied Worm. He took a long, steady breath, cracked his knuckles, and exhaled—signaling he was done.

  Worm didn’t move, and his breath came in loud, labored gasps.

  Saemund had hit him harder than he had thought, and his own knuckles were ripped down to the bone. The problem with beating another monster was that they were a lot harder on your fists than a human.

  Saemund looked down at Worm. He was still clutching his hand to his chest. He kicked Worm’s hand, but Worm wouldn’t relent. Saemund struck him again, much harder than before. Worm gasped in pain, and his hand flew open.

  A small, peachy blob landed on the floor. A human ear. No doubt the whore’s ear. Along the top of it were blotches of cranberry stain—the same blotches the rest of her head had.

  Saemund tsked. “I certainly did not say you could have this.” With a large grin, he leaned over and snatched it from the floor.

  Worm groaned; his eyes followed Saemund’s hand. Saemund could see that all Worm wanted was the ear.

  Saemund turned to Dotard, who was still kneeling on the floor. Saemund motioned for him to arise, and he did so after a few seconds of hesitation.

  “You may keep my cut of the whore. I want this piece instead.”

  Dotard looked to Worm then back to Saemund, nodding his head the whole while. “Of course,” he stuttered. “Whatever you want.”

  Saemund’s grin grew even larger. “And do not take any more liberties. I have discovered the last threat, and I am handling it accordingly.”

  Dotard hadn’t stopped nodding.

  “I will be handling it, on my own, soon enough. If, for some reason, I need any assistance, I shall summon you. But the two of you are not to take any liberties with the situation.”

  “Yes, of course!” said Dotard. “It was all Worm’s fault. He’s the one who—”

  Saemund raised his hand to silence him. “It is in the past now, Dotard. Just see to it that it does not happen again.”

  “Yes!” Dotard squeaked.

  Saemund motioned for Dotard to take care of Worm, and Dotard rushed to help Worm to his feet—luckily, Worm knew better than to groan or yelp from the pain of his cracked ribs, broken wrist, and fractured phalanges.

  “I will handle the woman soon enough,” Saemund assured Dotard. “Within a few days, she will no longer be an issue.”

  Worm was practically thrown over Dotard’s shoulder for support, and Dotard’s eyes turned away from Saemund, but not before Saemund saw the wide disbelief in them.

  Saemund put his hand on Dotard’s shoulder, startling the creature into looking at Saemund again. They locked eyes. “Do not worry. Like you, I wish to be free of this place and back home as soon as possible,” Saemund lied.

  Chapter 39

  Soli spent the remainder of her day in her room under the pretense that she was resting. Much to her surprise, no one bothered her. Jae did not creep outside her door and jiggle her handle. Etienne did not summon her for afternoon tea and conversation. Irene did not take her on any “important” outings.

  Soli enjoyed the silence lying in her bed. With the heavy, blackening curtains drawn and the sheet pulled over her face, she drifted in and out of sleep. Every time she awoke, there was the lingering ghostly hope that she was back at home in the north and that all she had
to do was drag herself downstairs and her family would be there—already stuffing their faces with buttered and honeyed breads, venison sausage, and boiled eggs.

  She hated the manor and its large, lavish beds—they reminded her too much of home, and her body remembered home thoroughly.

  Eventually, she knew she would have to appear for dinner—it was the bare minimum she could do, she supposed. She forced herself from the bed, stretched her arms and then her legs, and drew the curtains open. It was far darker than she had thought—she had slept much longer than she had intended.

  She was already dressed—a habit she had picked up from a life on the road—and she pulled a pair of simple, black, silk slippers on that Irene had declared she “had to have!” She glanced at a mirror. Her hair was fine enough, she supposed, and she bolted to the door, turning the lock with a click.

  The box, she thought, as she whirled back into the room. On her nightstand it rested, opened with the twine that bound it before on the floor. She rushed over to it, grabbed what was inside, shoving it into her pockets, before rushing back to the door.

  She locked her room behind her before she went to the dining hall.

  * * *

  Standing outside the door of the dining hall, she could hear all of them inside, their forks and knives scraping against the plates, their glasses clinking, and Jae, as usual, dominating the conversation.

  She took a deep breath before she walked in. A polite smile was plastered on her weary face, just as Jae was declaring that: “I will move on such affairs on my own schedule, Etienne, and not a moment before!” His eyes flashed to hers as she walked through the door, but he continued his words uninterrupted. “Those mines have been my family’s responsibility for generations, and now it is mine. I will decide what we do with them.”

  Lilane put her hand on her son’s and caressed it. “He is so much like his father,” she beamed. “Decisive!”

  Soli walked past Jae to sit next to Etienne, who merely acknowledged her with a slight nod.

  “Of course, cousin. I did not mean to sour the meal. My apologies.” Etienne flashed a very diplomatic smile to Jae and Lilane.