Assassin: The Beginning

by Keith McArdle

savagely as the bright sunshine assaulted his sensitive eyes. Slamming the shutters closed he leaned against the window sill and groaned again.

  Following a soft knock on the bedroom door, Miriam opened it and peered into the dark room.

  “Good morning sire. A bath?”

  “Please,” he nodded, clenching shut his eyes, which did not help the hammer in his head.

  Miriam was a short plump woman of some sixty summers in age, her grey, shoulder length hair was streaked with brown, hinting at younger days. Miriam’s piercing green eyes missed nothing. She had served him now for almost ten years. A good woman, he had purchased her at the slave markets held in Lisfort twice per year. On the day he bought her, she had sported a large black eye and dry blood caked around her nostrils had been clumsily cleaned from her face. Her previous owner had treated her ill.

  Miriam’s previous owner, a fat, boastful merchant, had died in his sleep one week later, a sword in his guts. The merchant, an unpopular man, had many enemies and the city law men closed the case without arrest inside two days.

  Vyder walked slowly out of his bedroom, down the hall, his hand brushing the marble wall to steady his balance. Passing the guest bedrooms, he stopped, leaning against the wall and groaning again.

  “It’s your own fault sire,” scalded Miriam as she brushed passed him.

  “I know,” he muttered.

  Finally at the bath house, he could smell the warm, rose scented water beckoning him. Miriam had left him a fresh change of clothes folded neatly at the far end of the bath house. Feeling somewhat refreshed, he stepped out of the warm water, dried himself and dressed. Although his head still pounded, he felt much better.

  Breaking his fast with a cooked meal, followed by a small cup of water imbued with Dire Thistle, Vyder’s headache was all but gone. Dire Thistle, an ugly weed that grew in even the hardiest places was found to be an effective pain alleviant.

  At close to midday, Vyder left his home and strode along the stone paved road of Wickham Street. Wide enough for pedestrians and horse drawn vehicles alike, the road was a major arterial thoroughfare of upper Lisfort. Normally, his seventeen hand mare Thrase would have borne him at an effortless canter, but today he wanted to walk. By early afternoon, he was silently cursing himself for a fool. Hot, tired and thirsty, he arrived at his destination. Using the gargoyle door knocker with greater force than he intended, the noise it created was more a series of explosions than a simple few knocks.

  The slave opened the door slowly and looked tentatively up at Vyder.

  “I’m here to see Lord Melridge,” said the highlander.

  The slave nodded and beckoned him inside. “Please wait here, sir,” said the man gesturing to a soft, velvet-lined couch, its gold encrusted clawed feet resting upon the polished marble floor. Vyder sat and felt immediately uncomfortable as he sank deeply into the soft cushions. Swearing, he stood and glared at the piece of furniture. Looking around the room he noticed the ceiling, some ten feet high, was decorated with an intricate mosaic depicting the final battle between the mighty warrior, Molak and the World Serpent. His face softened as he admired the detail and beauty of the piece. That the battle displayed was taken from an ancient Shadolian saga also pleased the tall assassin.

  A small reminder of his highland heritage was somehow comforting here in the south lands where highlanders were very much looked down upon as a breed of savage barbarians. That Vyder led a life of privilege, not to mention the fact that he was a killer by profession, somehow altered the southerners’ perception of him. Whilst in his company, the southerners portrayed a degree of dignity and respect toward him that was not afforded to other highlanders. Behind closed doors, Vyder had no doubt that he was looked upon as nothing more than a rich savage.

  The heavy, tall doors at the far end of the room opened and an obese man of average height appeared. He was dressed in colourful silks, a gem encrusted gold necklace hanging below his flabby chin. His greying dark hair was thinning, a prominent widow’s peak lending weakness to his chubby face.

  “Vyder Ironstone, we meet at last,” the well-spoken man said. “Please, come through to my guest room so we may talk more privately.”

  “Was just admiring your mosaic,” Vyder spoke, striding towards the man.

  “Yes, it is a wonderful piece. From the Shadolian MacAlpine Saga if I’m not mistaken?”

  Vyder nodded.

  “Lord Oswald Melridge,” said the lord, offering his hand.

  The men shook.

  “What do you want me to call you?” asked Vyder, following the waddling lord.

  “My lord should do fine,” Melridge spoke, a tone entering his voice.

  Vyder nodded, instantly disliking the man. However, he was here to offer a service, in return for a handsome payment. What he was required to call his client was irrelevant.

  The guest room was huge with beautiful paintings adorning the walls and plush, dark wooden chairs surrounding a large polished table. Vyder instantly recognised that the wood was highland Maple, renown for its fine texture and close grain.

  “You like the highlands, my lord,” observed Vyder.

  “I like Shadolia itself, beautiful countryside, not to mention strong, luscious timber,” Melridge said, passing a hand across the polished, pristine surface of the table.

  You like the land, but not the people, Vyder thought.

  “Please, sit.”

  Melridge clapped his hands, the slave appearing moments later.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Bring a platter of food, a glass of red wine for me, and for Vyder?” Melridge looked at the highlander, his eyebrows raised in question.

  “Water, thank you,” answered Vyder.

  “A water for the great warrior,” Melridge chuckled, sarcasm evident in his voice.

  The slave bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

  Melridge watched the slave exit the room, then turned his attention back to Vyder.

  “Now, I want you to kill a man for me.”

  Vyder nodded. “Who, my lord?”

  Lord Oswald Melridge was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “My son.”

  Vyder nodded again, his face devoid of emotion, although internally he was shocked by the request. He had assassinated disloyal lovers, failed business partners, abusive husbands, political rivals, but never had he been paid by a father to kill his own son.

  “Your son my lord?” Vyder asked with hesitation.

  “He means to kill me,” hissed Melridge, leaning forward, the chair creaking in protest.

  “My lord, may I ask why you think this?”

  “I am paying you to carry out a task, I do not pay you to question me!” Melridge slammed a soft, flabby hand onto the table.

  “I have never been paid to kill a man’s son before,” began Vyder, “and I’m remiss to do so without a valid reason.”

  “Are you refusing?” Melridge shrieked, his double chin wobbling.

  “Not yet, no, but unless I get a bloody good reason, then yes, I will refuse,” growled Vyder, a flash of anger entering his black eyes.

  The fat lord took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Alright,” he conceded. “A year ago, I married a much younger woman. A real beauty. Of course, she married me for my money, not for love, although she thinks she has me believing otherwise. My son has fallen in love with her, and she with him.”

  The slave returned carrying a large silver platter of assorted cheeses, grapes, thick cuts of ham and bread so fresh it was still steaming. He placed the drinks on the table, bowed, and departed. Melridge stuffed a large piece of ham into his mouth, the meat disappearing into the depths within seconds.

  “They think I do not know,” he continued. “I believe he intends to kill me in order to gain her hand in marriage. Is that reason enough?”

  “No,” Vyder stood, his chair scraping softly on the floor.

  “No? NO?” shouted Melridge. “You cannot refuse me!”

  “I can and I am,�
�� replied the highlander, striding towards the door.

  “He killed my wife!” shouted Melridge hysterically, breaking down in great heaving sobs. “His own mother,” he managed, tears sliding down his jowls.

  Vyder stopped and turned to look at the pathetic figure slumped upon the table. Given his profession spanning almost two decades, Vyder was adept at reading people. He knew when people were lying, when they spoke the truth, and when they were about to attack. His profession, and in some circumstances, his life, depended upon it. The forlorn man before him spoke the truth. He knew it instinctively.

  Returning to the table and sitting, he placed his clasped hands before him. “How?” he asked.

  “He smothered her in her sleep,” sobbed Melridge. “I was away on a hunt and returned to find Victoria lying on our bed, her mouth wide open as if,” Melridge broke down once more, continuing only when he had regained control. “As if she was gasping her last breath. There was blood under her finger nails. My son, Roland, had deep scratch marks down his face. It was not hard to see what had happened.”

  Vyder nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

  “First he kills my beloved Victoria, and now he wants to take my second wife away for his own. Roland has killed before, and he will kill again,” said Melridge, staring at the highlander through red rimmed eyes. “He will kill me. Of that I am sure.”

  “That is reason enough,” Vyder declared softly. “Tell me where I can find young Roland.”

  Vyder, dressed in simple black cloth, a dark hood pulled over his head and soft rabbit skin shoes enveloping his feet,