This one would be different. Veronica, using her unusually quick reflexes, pounced. She lunged at the man just as he was taking in the scene of a woman struggling silently on the ground in a pool of blood, shining black in the darkness. Not far from her was a teenage boy, who was no longer moving, also in a pool of dark, shiny blood.
The man, completely caught off guard, stumbled backwards on his fat legs while Veronica plunged her blade, still wet with blood from the other two, into the man’s side, below what she hoped were his ribs. Having occasionally butchered animals on her own farm, whenever her father got lucky, she had been taught a rough understanding of anatomy. She hoped it translated to humans. We’re all animals, anyhow.
She didn’t care at this point whether he screamed. Let his slaves come. The point of the evening was for this man to die. Her living was a bonus. The village Elder would see her hung, or perhaps burned alive if they thought she was possessed. But this man would know that her parents had been avenged.
“Three years ago you killed my parents for seed. I hope you enjoyed it,” Veronica said. She twisted the knife deftly before withdrawing it and plunging it into his other side while he frantically put his hands over the first wound, crying in pain, eyes wide with terror. The blade again sliced through his flabby belly and found a home.
“AHH! Mercy, woman! Please…MERCY! Ahhh!” he cried.
She took out her blade with a jagged twist and held it to his throat. Leaning down close to his face so he could smell her rotten breath from a month’s worth of fish, squirrel, and berries, she whispered to him, “My name isn’t woman. It’s Veronica. We live in a Dark World, don’t we?”
This time she sliced his throat expertly, one cut taking care of the arteries, the voicebox—everything. Third time’s the charm.
Magi
“So, how did you know that fishmonger was lying?” Magi asked as he took a pull from his mug. He wasn’t particularly fond of beer, but he wasn’t going to order goat’s milk, either. He was big for his age, and figured he could drink with these men. Kyle preferred spiced wine, and had a cup of it in front of him.
Helmut gave the young mage an approving look and a quick wink. “I didn’t. But I figured if I was right, you’d owe me food and drink tonight. And if I was wrong, you’d be hauled off in front of Lord Whatshisface.” He downed his third and had already easily lapped Magi, mug for mug. “A sailor’s got to keep his eyes open for these, ah, ‘opportunities,’ shall we say? By the way, what an interesting ring.”
Magi had been twisting it again without thinking. Immediately he stiffened. “Really? What makes it so interesting to you?”
Kyle’s hands were quietly underneath the table. Magi stared at the sailor with unblinking eyes. After an awkward silence, Helmut allowed a smile to slowly creep along his face, revealing a gap in his yellowing teeth. “Meant nothin’ by it, mage. Just a thirsty sailor with an eye for pretty things. And you don’t see something that pretty very often in this Dark World.”
Sensing the tension, Sindar clapped his hand loudly and ordered another round. He was on his fourth, at least. “Aye—you’ll drink on us tonight fer saving me the trouble of lopping the heads off a couple piss-ant guards. Wench! Another round, and taller mugs if you have ’em.”
They carried on throughout the night. Magi did note how Lionel carefully answered all of Helmut’s probing questions about why they were looking for a library without actually saying anything. Magi stopped counting his mugs after about four, knowing full well that his companions were well past that and on the road to roaring drunk. Best to keep my wits about me. He caught Helmut staring at his ring several times throughout the evening.
Late into the morning hours, when Lionel dug into their money pouch for more silver, he pulled Magi aside and whispered, “The building across from Lord Corovant’s quarters, with three pillars out front, near the center of the city, away from the sea. That is the Library. The keeper of the books is a man named Wyzle or Shyzle or some such nonsense. You’re a wizard, good at memorizing. I’ll forget this in the morning; see that you don’t.” He flashed Magi a sloppy grin and said, “Wench! I mean lady! One more, and a room, if you pleassh.”
The last thing Magi committed to memory that night was the location of Gaust’s Great Library… and Kyle choking on his wine at Lionel’s slur.
Trevor
Trevor Blink looked down at the vast floor of the forest beneath him as he finished tying himself into a large branch for the night. When stretched out to his full height he barely made it to five-foot-three; he fit almost comfortably here tied onto a thick limb. The sprawling, dense woods of Filestalas yawned underneath him in every direction. A small bird with unusually large eyes was perched next to Trevor, by his feet, and stared at the sight of him, as if to say one of us doesn’t belong here…and it’s not me. It let out an annoying squeak, far too loud for Trevor’s taste, and flapped away, perhaps indignantly. What, like you own this branch? Trevor smiled and quietly unpacked a thin strip of dried meat, one small triangle of dried flat bread, and allowed himself two swallows of water. He had a long ways to go, and had to get back out as well. He chewed his meager meal, which had the consistency of damp chalk and tasted worse. Feed your body and focus on the task at hand.
His Master had not gone easy on him. It was a hard thing, a life of thievery. The Assassin’s would boast of the difficulty of their Guild, but Trevor sneered. The Warriors would likewise brag of the rigors of their Test, showing off the brand on their arms, marking them True Warriors in a display of toughness. So, too, would the Mages claim their Staircase was the hardest, as evidenced by their pure white eyes. Trevor appreciated the talents of other Guilds, but was frankly unimpressed by these displays and the tales that accompanied all of them. He doubted half were true, and even if they were, none of the Tests came close to this: he had to steal the purple sun off the neck of Lady Elyn, the Elven princess.
Technically, the amulet was a gemstone called amethyst, and it was cut into a starburst that people say looked like an exploding sun. There was no other amulet like it, for there was no amethyst larger in all of Tenebrae, as far as anyone knew. On the black market, the necklace would fetch a sum capable of feeding a village for a year. It was an old joke amongst men that something was only priceless until a Master Thief acquired it. So, too, it would be with Lady Elyn’s jewel.
Trevor finished his meal in minutes and ran his fingers through his short shock of red hair. All the other Guilds, as far as he knew, allowed for violence toward the accomplishment of their goals. Warriors, Mages, Assassins, and even Rangers specialized in killing. Thievery was different. To Trevor, killing was the easy way out. What challenge is there in killing someone to take what you need? Ah…but the Master Thief—now that is different altogether. Deception, disguise, silence, stealth, intrigue, information gathering, information planting—this was Trevor’s world. And of course, stealing. Above all, he was exceptional at stealing.
Perhaps it was his mismatched eyes (one blue and one brown), but Trevor saw things differently. Private property was a loose concept for him: everything belonged to the thief cunning enough to take it. And while the Warriors bashed things, and the Assassins murdered people, and Mages threw spice around, and Rangers went hunting, it was the humble Thief who could topple a Kingdom by spreading the right rumor at the right time in the right ears.
Trevor smiled, ignoring the rough bark that made shifting his weight uncomfortable. People had underestimated him his whole life. Too small, too thin, too weak, too ugly—he had heard it all. He recalled his last lady companion, a harlot who called herself Renee, who decided there were better men to be seen with than Trevor. So she left him…for a baker. A fat man who barely kept his shop open, selling bread to the few who could pay him his cost.
When the daughter of a village Elder became sick, it did not take Trevor long to sow the seeds of fear and distrust. Cleverly disguised as a healer, he visited the woman and proclaimed that she had a rare sickness c
aused by rats mixing with grain, commonly found in poorly-kept bread shops. There was only one bread shop in the village, and the Elder called for men to torch the shop, claiming it was to prevent the spread of disease. Of course the Elder wanted revenge; it was easy to blame others for the difficulties of life in this Dark World. Trevor recalled the chants: “Burn the rats! Burn the disease before it spreads!” Up in the tree, he couldn’t help but smile again at the memory. Leaving the Elder’s home, he waited for the crowds and impending mob to gather and changed his disguise, this time blending in as a concerned farmer. Soon he picked up the chants and was leading the charge.
He’d whipped the two-dozen members of the Elder’s mob into a frenzy before he quietly disappeared into the night, heading to the home of Renee’s parents, where she “lived.” Of course she was with the baker that night, as he knew she would be from hidden observations over the course of a couple weeks. They lived close, but she apparently was content to spend most evenings with that fat slob of a man. As Trevor suspected, the mob grew and it did not take long for Renee’s parents, who knew exactly where their daughter was, to come running out of their home to the unruly crowd gathered around the bread shop with torches.
Trevor calmly entered after they left, and stole anything of worth. Didn’t even leave me a lock to pick—how pathetically easy. He was out of the house inside ten minutes and on his way to another village before the fires really got going. Never did find out what happened to Renee.
Veronica
Recalling the night of her first foray into murder, Veronica remembered the details of her revenge vividly.
After killing the man, she spun around wildly, looking to see if anyone was coming. Carefully, she rose and snuck around to the other side of the house to check on the small wheat field. The slaves or the guards were nowhere to be seen. After living in the woods for a month, the thought of an empty house with a bed and a roof was simply too enticing to pass up. But that meant a bit of clean-up work.
Both puzzled and relieved to be alone, she set about the task of getting rid of the bodies. It took her half the night to roll them into a burn pile, where she set them ablaze in the wee hours of the morning. The home being a bit removed from the rest of the village, she hoped it wouldn’t cause much of a stir. Folks were used to the smell of burning flesh, anyhow, and it’s not like people in Fostler went out of their way to ask questions. Heads down, find food for the day, prepare for winter. Those were the priorities most people lived by.
By early morning, having been up all night, Veronica decided it was time to explore her new house. It was large, with wooden furniture, a wood stove that actually could warm the entire dwelling, and the centerpiece of this man’s wealth—a large bed. Veronica found lots of food, lots of clothing. Stripping naked, she washed away the mud and blood from her body and with it, any hint of guilt. She then changed into clothing that was probably the boy’s, but which fit her loosely and comfortably, albeit a little short in the legs. She turned to the bed, her mouth almost watering at the prospect of a night’s sleep on something softer than the ground of Tenebrae.
“May I speak with you, Veronica?” came the voice of a young man from behind her.
Startled, she spun around. Her knife, clean and sharp, was on a table several feet away. The man smiled. He wasn’t brandishing a weapon, but how he got in without being heard was disturbing.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Veronica asked, casually sliding closer to the table.
“My name is Samir, but that’s not important. I have an opportunity for you. Your exploits from last night have reached our ears. Loose talk at an inn always reaches our ears. My Master has sent me to speak with you about your…potential.”
“Who are you?” she repeated, narrowing her eyes as she took another step toward her table.
“I am many things. But today, I am a guide. You have two choices, Veronica. You can stay here, alone, and wait until someone more powerful comes along with eyes for your food, your sheep, your new home. These pathetic villagers mind their own business for the most part, but it will not take long for word to spread that this house, once owned by a man with four armed slaves, is now defended by a young woman by herself. I give you about a week.” He smiled, and Veronica couldn’t tell whether he was mocking her or not. “And please don’t insult me by arming yourself with that table knife.” He drew a long, beautiful dagger from his hip that she just now noticed. “If I had wanted you dead, it would be done already.” Samir put his knife away as quickly as he drew it.
She stopped and crossed her arms, looking at Samir. “And my second choice, as you see it?”
“Come with me. I am an emissary for the Assassin’s Guild, and with training, you could earn enough gold to buy twenty homesteads, all more glorious than this hovel. For we live in a Dark World, and our business is booming…”
***
That had all been three years ago. Samir had gotten himself killed a year ago trying to complete a contract, and other emissaries replaced him. But he did introduce Veronica to the Assassin’s Guild, or the Black Guild as some called it. The current Master of the Guild was an old killer named Silverfist, or Silver for short. Many who knew him simply called him Master. He was half-Elven, and had the woodsy, reddish-brown skin and dark hair common to all Elves. Though his hair was streaked with grey, it was remarkably still mostly black, and he looked like he could easily move back into the field to execute contracts if he wished. Running the Black Guild seemed to suit his purpose.
“Wine?” he asked, pouring himself a glass as he seated himself across from Veronica. He was tall, a bit more muscular than most Elves (‘taking after my human father’ he would occasionally admit proudly when someone —usually a lady—commented on his physique). Wealthier than most royalty, he dressed simply. Fine clothing, to be sure, but simple. A plain yellow shirt, brown trousers, a wide belt—nothing too ostentatious. But the cloak he wore, if one examined closely, would offer a clue about his status. It was a fine, soft cloak that clearly wasn’t meant for travelling. It was a deep green indoor cloak, meant to conceal everything if needed. Miranda and Belinda had been making his clothes for years, and had all the secret pockets sewn right where he wanted.
“Yes. Thank you, Master,” Veronica answered. She stood up and accepted the glass, bowing her head slightly. She returned to her seat.
Silverfist swirled the dark red liquid in a simple but fine glass, watching its legs briefly stick to the inside of the goblet before regathering at the bottom. He sipped it. “Excellent. Cherry, with lots of spice. The incense in our room adds a bit to the flavor, I think.”
Veronica took a sip. It was a ridiculous luxury—one that she could grow accustomed to. Saying nothing, she smiled and nodded, then took another sip.
“So. Here we are, Veronica. You are on the cusp of greatness, I believe. I’ve run the Guild for forty years, and spent just as much time before that in the field. You can be special, and your talent has not escaped notice.”
“I have done my best to learn everything you and other Masters have sought to teach me. I’m glad to hear that you think I’m doing well.” Veronica didn’t blush easy, but this was high praise indeed, and she felt her cheeks flushing. Probably the wine.
“And so we are down to our third and final test. The test of a Master. Some call it a True Assassin, but I’ve always preferred the designation Master, don’t you?” He took a hearty swallow, no longer daintily sipping at his drink.
“Yes—Master has a nice ring to it.”
“Indeed it does. And you’ve done exceptionally well, surpassing even my expectations. Your first test, the Moral Test, seemed to be chillingly easy for you. There are few men—and might I add, fewer women—who can pass this test. It weeds out two-thirds of those who would seek the title of Master. To be able to compartmentalize your emotions is an unnatural thing, Veronica. As you know, the Moral Test requires that you kill a harmless baby. I am not afraid to tell you that of the three, this
was the hardest test for me, some 80 years ago. Yet you showed no hesitation, exhibited no distress. Out of curiosity, I must know. How were you able to do that?” Silverfist drained his glass and refilled it, listening.
“It’s not that hard for me, Master. Those three years I spent in the orphanage of Fostler, I saw what little monsters they were. You see things. Hear things. Experience things. If you believe that the baby will grow into either a monster or the monster’s prey, it is easy to believe that you’re doing the baby (or society) a favor. It is a Godless World, a Dark World we live in, and the kindness of avoiding misery is more than adequate motivation. The fact that I will soon profit from this kindness is better than…” she paused. “…better than your wine at the end of a feast.” She smiled and took a rather large drink herself.
Silverfist laughed. “Ah, the ‘you’re helping them out’ argument. I have heard that one before. Forty years of doing this, and you hear all the reasons repeated. Still—you must be given full marks for execution. Flawless.” He swirled his wine a bit. “Now the second test was your Technique Test. Again, several of the Masters within our Guild have reviewed your work and found it to be exceptional. Not only must a Master Assassin be able to accept any contract without moral entanglements, but you must have full command of multiple techniques. Your throat slashing may have gotten you noticed as something of a signature for you, but you won’t always have that option…one can’t always get close enough to push a blade through the neck. In addition to knife-work, darts, poisons, choking—plus advanced techniques of torture must be part of a Master’s repertoire. You successfully eliminated all ten of your challenges using ten different techniques, extracting information from the ones you needed to. I must say, masterful work, pun intended. It has been more than seven years since an Apprentice went ten-for-ten on kills during the Technique Test on their first attempts. Usually, something goes wrong and information is missed, or it takes a couple attempts to properly execute the kill with the proper technique. I’m particularly interested in the poison you made. What was that again?”
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 4