King of Assassins

by Rj Barker

  “I will not let you win!” She shouts it. “I know what you can do.” She reverses the blade and with a final look of triumph places the point against her chest.

  Vinwulf appears from the shadows, his blade held ready and I scream at him.

  “Get back! Stay away from her, Vinwulf. She will kill you.” But the truth is I am afraid he is better than her, and I need her. I need what she has, I need her life.

  “Vinwulf?” She laughs. “I would never hurt the boy. Maybe once I would, but the fat bear changed everything when he had a daughter. Vinwulf will marry Hessally, Adran’s granddaughter. Rufra will do it to unite the two oldest families, you know he will.” She is smiling as she backs away. My mother is bleeding on the floor. “In time, Adran’s blood will sit on the high king’s throne. It will be just as she always planned.” My mother is bleeding on the floor. “You won so many battles, Girton Club-Foot, but you have lost the war.”

  I want to rage at her.

  But my mother is bleeding on the floor.

  “You have won, Gusteffa.” I knelt, laying my blades down. “I yield. So, assassin to assassin, do this last thing for me. We have a code. If you must give up your life, give it up to me. Let me save my—”

  Her laughter cut me off.

  “Help you, Girton Club-Foot? Help you to help her?” And there was only fury and hate in her voice my mother is bleeding on the floor. “You took everything from me. And you think I would help you? Never. Your master’s death? Your misery. They are my final joy. It does not end with me, Girton. Rufra is cursed.” Then she drives her stabsword into her heart. The golden light I imagine burning inside her goes out, and I am cradling my mother’s body in my arms. Crying, and telling her how much she means to me. Begging for her to hold on. Her blood on my hands, on my face, in my hair. Her eyes open. She raises a hand. Reaches for my face.

  This is the last dream.

  She is warm. She is happy.

  She is playing with him. Baby Girton. Vesin ap Garfin stands by her, he is full of pride for his son.

  This never happened.

  She is bleeding in the dirt. He is giving her his life.

  This was real.

  She is watching him walk, chasing after a toy mount his grandfather made.

  This could never have been.

  She is practising her skills in a filthy hut.

  This was real.

  She is laughing at his sixth birthday as he solemnly accepts a wooden sword from his grandfather.

  These things never happened. They are not real.

  She is buying him at a slave auction.

  This was real.

  He is seven and his father is teaching him to ride.

  His father is dead.

  He has just killed his first man and he is crying into her back as they ride.

  This is real.

  He is accepting his family’s blade and heirship.

  They would never have let him.

  He is giving Rufra his sword.

  That other boy would never have done this.

  She is watching him hunt.

  Who is he?

  He is riding to save his friend.

  My son.

  He is collecting his rents. She watches and laughs along with him at the thankful as they scrape and bow.

  Who is he?

  Who is that boy?

  Who is that woman?

  Xus is coming.

  Coming for her.

  I am not sad.

  My boy is here.

  My boy is with me.

  And I would have no other.

  This is the last dream.

  Blood, blood on her lips.

  I grab her hand. Wrap it in mine. Her life is a thin and flickering thread while my life is strong. So strong. And I will give it up for her. I will give everything for her. I try to push, to rip the life from my body and throw it into her. I cannot. There is a wall, impassable. Her eyes open and she does not speak as much as she expel words with what little life she has left.

  “Not this time,” she says, and I do not understand.

  “Mother?” Her eyes open, focus on me. A smile. That beautiful yearslife smile.

  “My son.” Her hand rises, touches my cheek. “I am so proud of you, my son.”

  And her hand falls away.

  I hear the harsh call of a black bird.

  Darkness falls. The cloak of Xus wraps itself around me, but it cannot numb my pain.

  She is gone.

  She is gone.

  She. Is. Gone.

  Chapter 35

  I would see no one.

  No one should see me. Rufra, Aydor, Voniss, they all came but I would not answer. I turned from them, pulled the sheets of my bed over my head as if that would let me escape the pain, but it did not. I gave myself to sleep and to nothing else.

  We had lost and there was nothing that could be done about it. It would not matter who I told. Gusteffa was right, she had played a long game and I had no doubt it would play out as she said. I could tell Aydor his daughter would one day be forced to marry Vinwulf, but why spoil what happiness he had left?

  And besides, it did not matter. Nothing mattered because she was gone.

  I was so sure there was nothing left.

  But I was wrong.

  One night, as I lay alone, a small, warm body wormed itself into my bed. At first I thought, in the delirium of grief, that it was Feorwic. She had often slept next to me on cold nights, though this night was not cold and Feorwic was—cold and dead beneath on a tree on an island yet to exist.

  I opened one eye to find Rufra’s daughter, Anareth, looking up at me with wide eyes.

  “Girton,” she whispered.

  “You speak,” I said, and I think they were the first words I had said in a day? A week? I did not know how long.

  “Only to you, Girton,” she said. “I thought we could be silent together.” I nodded and she continued to stare at me, solemn eyes contemplating me. “Father says you are lost to us, but I do not want you to go away,” she said. “If you go away, who will protect me?”

  I opened my mouth, forced my voice to work.

  “Protect you, Anareth? Your father will.” She closed her eyes, opened them again and a tear ran down her face.

  “I have a secret,” she said, “that I can tell only you.” She squirmed up so she could whisper directly into my ear and suddenly all the pain and the grief it did not vanish. It did not go away. If anything, it intensified. But it intensified into a single, white hot, burning lance.

  And that lance now had a target.

  My master, friend, mother had once told me justice was blind and that it was the job of the assassin to lead her: to make sure she walked the right path. Anareth, now she had unburdened herself, slept soundly, her chest rising and falling, making little snoring noises. But I could sleep no longer.

  I had a land to protect.

  I had a promise made to a dead girl to keep.

  I had a living one to keep safe.

  So I took the hand of justice, and we danced, one last time.

  Last Priest of Xus

  They call this place the Sighing Mountains, though when I lived in Maniyadoc I knew it as the Slight Hills. That name does not do its beauty justice.

  The people here keep away from me, talk little to me apart from what is needed to trade for the few things I require. No doubt they talk of me, if not to me. The cripple who lives in the forest—skin unhealthily pale no matter how much sun he takes—and of the fat man who visits him. I suspect they think us lovers, though we are not.

  Dead gods grant me that small mercy.

  When Aydor appeared, many years ago now, I thought he had come to end me and it saddened me. I had come to love Aydor as a brother—but he had not come to finish me. His daughter was happily married, had her own life and children, so he had come to find his friend. He comes each yearslife now, stays for the season before returning to his lands and his grandchildren. In all these years
he has never mentioned what I did. Never asked me of the act that sent me running from Rufra’s lands, and never have I felt him judging me for it.

  We have fought for what we thought was right, killed on occasion, even fought each other once or twice—though I blame most of that on Aydor’s love of drink. We are old now, if shockingly healthy. And if Aydor suspects I ease the aches in his bones and muscles with magic he says nothing, cares nothing.

  I live each day as if it is my last.

  As well it might be.

  When Aydor is not here I don the black cloak and mask of a priest of Xus and go out into the country, doing what I can for those that need me. It is not much, but it is all I have and all I want.

  I have said, many times, I am not a good man. A long time ago I came to Maniyadoc to save the heir to a throne. Now I write my story down sure in the knowledge that, one day, someone a lot like me will come into this quiet valley. I hope she comes only for me, that if Aydor is here she leaves him alone, I cannot imagine that will be the case. He cannot help but interfere. He is quite often a very stubborn and stupid old man, and when he is very drunk—which is often—he talks of the debt he owes me.

  Of course, he owes me no debt at all.

  But one day I will open my eyes to see a figure cloaked in darkness, twin blades held at her sides, death written on her face. I shall fight for my life, of course. And I shall lose. Age is always overwhelmed by youth in the end, and so I shall be overwhelmed, and begin my walk to Xus’s dark palace.

  I do not regret my life.

  What did she whisper to me, that quiet little princess? What did she say that led me to this place in a faraway valley, sure in the knowledge that one day an assassin would come for me? She said six words. Six words that caused me to forsake everything.

  “Don’t let Vinwulf kill me too.”

  And I did not.

  Her words were the last part. They were the inevitable end of Rufra’s curse. I thought of what Gusteffa had said: “It does not end with me.” How happy she had looked as she went to her death. Because she knew her vengeance was not yet over. Oh, that Adran’s grandchildren would sit on the throne was a big part of it, but she had gone further than that. She had sown seeds that were still sprouting. How often had I seen Vinwulf in Gusteffa’s company?

  Too often.

  How close had the two of them been?

  Too close.

  And, of course, there was Feorwic. I had struggled to see how her attacker stabbed her in the back from where he stood, but he did not of course. Vinwulf did it. The man was only ever a distraction. Feorwic moved to protect her friend, as Vinwulf knew she would—and he stabbed her in the back, killed the man who saw him do it and then went after his real target, his sister.

  Anareth would never be safe as long as he lived, neither would her younger brother, Voniss’s son, Aydon. Neither would my friend, Rufra. Gusteffa had trained Berisa, but she had also trained another, Vinwulf. She had bent him, and twisted him into everything his father could not bear. Rufra, being Rufra, could never face what his son had become. He was a man full of hope, and he would have hoped for change in his son. But I had seen Vinwulf in the menageries. I knew that change would never have come.

  And I had made a promise to Feorwic.

  I left my shining Conwy blade, stained with blood, on the prince’s bed, so Rufra would be in no doubt of who and what had happened. So he knew I would never be coming back and that I understood the enormity of my actions. But I made the world a better place. What I did freed him from his curse, saved his life. Saved the lives of his other children.

  Or maybe I acted only out of vengeance.

  Sometimes I am no longer sure.

  So, sister of Xus, fellow of the Open Circle. Take these words I have written, do what you will with them. Burn them if you must, but read them first. And with these papers find Feorwic’s eating knife, which I found in the room of Vinwulf. He had taken it as a souvenir and in the same box were many other things. Know that I did not betray my king, ever. His love for his son blinded him and if Vinwulf had been allowed to prosper then all Rufra had fought for and hurt for, all so many had died for, would have been wasted.

  To save an heir, I killed the heir.

  On balance, I do not think I regret a thing. I am not sad to die. From what I hear Anareth rules well under the tutelage of her father. Those I loved the most, my master and Feorwic, await me in Xus’s dark palace and I miss them terribly. Rufra will come there one day, and I hope Xus will grant us the friendship of children again. The Children of Arnst say, when they come to harangue the village, all is forgiven in death. I hope they are right.

  Because I loved Rufra too. I still do.

  He was my king.

  My friend.

  And my brother.

  So ends the third, and final, confession of the murderer Girton Club-Foot.

  Afterword and

  Acknowledgements

  As I write this, Blood of Assassins is making its way into the world and people are diving into and (hopefully) enjoying Girton’s second adventure just as I am finishing his last. It’s been absolutely amazing and I still wake up each morning surprised and overjoyed that, somehow, I write books now and people read them. It seems so utterly unlikely but it is happening. (I keep checking out the window for giraffes in the garden and as there have not yet been giraffes in the garden I am reasonably sure this is not a dream. Though I did once see elephants walking down the street, but that’s a different story.) I hope that, as a reader, you have enjoyed Girton and his master’s adventure and that you’ve found the end of it, although sad, also satisfying.

  You’d think that the longer I did this, the longer the list of acknowledgements would get, and it should: I have met increasingly huge amounts of wonderful people, but the more wonderful people there are to meet, the more wonderful people there are to accidentally forget. I am generally a very forgetful person so rather than risk leaving someone off my list of thank yous, it gets smaller. But as ever, if I have met you or conversed with you (whether in real life or on the internet) you have my thanks. Also, thanks to my agent, the wonderful Ed Wilson, who navigates the business of publishing with such aplomb so I can ignore it and just write. Massive thanks to Jenni Hill, my brilliant editor at Orbit, for pushing me to be that bit better all the time, Lindsay Hall, my lovely ex-editor at Orbit U.S. (hope you like how it ended!) and Nivia Evans, my lovely new editor at Orbit U.S. Of course, the rest of the team deserve mention too so Joanna, Tim, Emily, Anne and James you all rock (as do the hidden-away dark wizards of marketing and design who I hear about but rarely have contact with). And all the Orbit people working in other territories, thank you too.

  Huge thanks to Joe Jameson who has done such an excellent job narrating the Wounded Kingdom audiobooks. So many people have told me how much they have enjoyed your performances and that you really brought it alive for them.

  My wife, Lindy, who stood by me while I was writing the many things no one was reading and my son, Rook, just for being fantastic. And all my family, Mum, Dad, Mum-in-Law and Dad-in-Law, and my brother and my brother- and sisters-in-law and nephews and nieces—all fantastic. As well as my faithful rough copy readers, Matt, Fiona, Richard and Marcy.

  I suppose, now it’s the end, I should talk a bit about Girton, his master and some of the other people we have met along the way so I will.

  It has been good to watch Girton grow up, from wide-eyed and somewhat innocent in Age of Assassins, resentful and overconfident in Blood of Assassins, to finally the version we get in King of Assassins: a more thoughtful and secure Girton. A very good thing for an author to know about a character is what they want, even though they may not know it themselves. What Girton has wanted, from the start, has been the same thing: a friend. And in King of Assassins he has found that in the most unlikely place: Aydor ap Mennix, his nemesis from book one. It’s partly the strength of this friendship that helps him make the difficult decision to do a terrible thing—which m
eans walking away from everything and everyone he loves. He is true to what he believes in and if he does not get a happy end for himself he at least ensures a better world for many others.

  I wrote this trilogy with the idea of the people who are forgotten by history, and Girton is very much one of those. The fracture in the friendship between him and Rufra is due to what Girton is: he is the assassin to a king who believes very much in justice. He is a hidden knife and it is easy, reading this book, to be hard on Rufra, but I think a book written from Rufra’s point of view would show you him as a much more sympathetic and tragic character. A man haunted by guilt and doubt in a way Girton is lucky not to be.

  The Wounded Kingdom books are very much a tragedy, and I think the biggest one is that Merela never got to tell Girton just how very much she loved him. How he changed her life for the better and took her off a very dark path and put her on to one, well, slightly lighter. In him she found a measure of peace and, more importantly, let go of the past and did not let it rule her. The woman in King of Assassins is very different to the one in Age of Assassins, more relaxed and humorous. She is happy, and that happiness has been found through Girton, although, of course, it is doomed. But, though Merela will never know it, her actions in raising Girton—to be who he is rather than the magical weapon he could have been—will, in the end, bring part of her dream to life by putting Rufra’s daughter on the throne. The love she knew from her father as a young girl was passed on to Girton, and that in turn created a strength within him that allowed him to do what he believed was right and to know (mostly) right from wrong.

  But I think the character who has travelled furthest in these books and—unexpectedly—become most dear to me is Aydor. The redemption of Aydor ap Mennix is all about fear and the conquering of it (as is Girton’s story, the mistakes he makes can often be put down to fear, especially in Blood of Assassins where fear of losing his master drives him to do something terrible and jeopardise everything he loves). Aydor exemplifies something I think is very important and that is forgiveness and accepting who you are. Let us not pretend that Aydor was anything other than awful in Age of Assassins, but he was awful for an understandable reason: he was scared. Not only scared of his mother, but because he knew who he was. Girton, in that book, gives us a very partisan view (shock horror) of Aydor. He paints him as rather stupid but Aydor’s tragedy, as we realise later, is that he was not. Look at the boy in Age of Assassins, overweight, bad teeth, bad eyesight, rubbish with a bow and not even nearly the best fighter. Had Aydor not been the king-in-waiting, he would have been in Girton’s shoes, being bullied for not fitting in. He knew that, and his viciousness arose from it, a boy out of place and terrified he will be found out.