The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

  by C. M. Lind

  Text copyright © 2016 C. M. Lind

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Epilogue:

  Prologue

  Cole Dorson waited outside the villa, leaning against the pale, irregular brick wall. His mark, a man who dined within, had spent the last two hours making him wait, and, yet, Cole was patient. Barely eighteen, the lad was considered accomplished by his guild’s standards, and this was not his first solo mission. He breathed deeply, inhaling the scents of the salted sea air, blowing in from the port to the west, and warm lemon tarts, which were being served inside. Any minute now, he told himself for the fourth time.

  The streets were empty, except for the random stray cat or dog feeding off garbage in the alleys. This area was well monitored by guards, keeping the unwanted and poor away, but, generally, they paid no attention to the scavenging animals.

  Cole looked down at his rich blue tabard, which disguised him as a guard; it was his key to being left alone on this street at such an hour. The tabard was pilfered long ago by his guild, and it was lent out only to those in need of it. For this job, it was determined, he most certainly would.

  It was late and dark, save for the lanterns on the street and the few stars visible in the sky. Cole stood steps away from a low burning lantern, and its light revealed a swathe of yellow on his tabard. He patted off the amber spot with his hand—a thick layer of pollen brushed on by an ice lily earlier from the day, the first of the flowers to bloom in spring—but instead it streaked across his thigh. Just perfect, he thought. Resigned to his yellow mess, he leaned against the wall. Cole cocked his head, resting it against the stone villa. His thick black hair provided some cushion for his slight respite.

  And why, he thought, should he even care about his appearance, given that no one would see him. Suddenly, he was very glad to be on a solo mission. He thought that if any of his brothers or sisters would have witnessed such vain worrying, he would have never heard the end of it. And Cole liked to be the one teasing others, never the one to be teased.

  Inside he smelled the tarts again, that time with raspberry in addition to the lemon, and his stomach audibly yearned for them. Soon though, when his job was done, he would feast with his family back home. They would welcome him, as they always did, with honeyed hot cider, his particular favorite, and fresh cinnamon rolls with nutmeg. Cole had an incurable sweet tooth, and he was unashamed of it.

  Down the street four guards walked towards him. He straightened himself, taking a step away from the brick wall, and took out a freshly rolled cigarette. It was a blend of southern Avelinian tobacco and a bit of Fenweed from the exotic Lethu. He placed it between his lips, his eyes on the approaching guards the whole while. It was unusual to see four walking down this street at this hour; two was the norm for a patrol in that area. The lamp-lit street gave him a perfect view of the four; nothing was awry except for their number. They carried spotless, glimmering gisarmes, the iconic weapon for guards and soldiers of Aveline, the same as the one he held in his left hand.

  Cole struck a match against the brick and lit his cigarette. The rich earthy scent of Fenweed tried to overpower the sweet scent of the Avelinian tobacco, but the sweet won. He inhaled slowly, in no rush at all, as he pretended to be another guard taking a break from his long shift throughout the night.

  The four were not heading past him, as he hoped; instead, they turned towards him and approached. Their pole arms were pointed up, and all except one appeared more interested in the dogs wrestling in a nearby alley, fighting over a rib bone, than in him.

  The largest of the four, a rather young yet frighteningly thick man, spoke to him, but he kept his distance. “What are you doing here?”

  Nothing about the man seemed hostile to Cole, just inquisitive, and Cole prided himself on reading others, especially men. Men, he always claimed, were easy; it’s the women you have to watch out for. He inhaled his cigarette, letting the smoke escape as he spoke, tilting his head slightly to the left so as not to not blow it at the thick man. “Snuck away for a bit of a break. Wanted a smoke is all.” He took another slow drag. The Fenweed was already working itself into his brain, causing his muscles to relax and making his vision clearer. Fenweed, indigenous to Lethu, which was far to the south, was common enough in Aveline, but usually not indulged in on the open streets. While not illegal, it was commonly frowned upon. Most who used the drug indulged too much, causing lethargy, confusion, and, simply put, poor choices. Cole liked just a touch: enough to prevent his muscles from clenching, to make his eyes more perceptive.

  “Smells good. Nothing beats Aveline tobacco. Some people like the imported stuff, but it tastes like dirt to me. Care to share before I head on my way?” The man never smiled or changed the look on his wide face once.

  Cole nodded, one curt, fast nod. His right hand went to his rawhide leather pouch at his side and pulled out another cigarette. He offered it to the thick guardsman.

  The man grabbed it with his huge, strong hand, which looked more like the paw of a bear than the hand of a guardsman. Some might glance at him and see him as heavy or possibly chunky, but Cole saw through that; he was all muscle. Suddenly Cole’s brain called out: something was wrong. When he pulled his arm away, Cole realized a guard behind the muscled man had a hand crossbow pointed right at his abdomen. Before he could react, the guard pulled the trigger, and the sharp, barbed bolt ripped through his tabard, his light chainmail, and his flesh.

  Cole’s gisarme a
nd cigarette fell as he tried to vainly step back. He faltered, realizing too late the bolt was nestled deep within him.

  He ran as fast as he could down the street. He heard the clinking chain of his pursuers’ behind him. His gullet burned and bled. The bolt ripped him apart with every excruciating step. Through the scent of blood he smelt shit, and that was the first moment Cole Dorson realized he was going to die.

  Cole was far from sanctuary. There were no safe houses nearby or backup for this job, nowhere he could run for help, just himself and his feet, and he knew he’d bleed out before ever making it to Powder Street, where the only woman who could save him dwelled. He kept running though, pushing himself the best he could. He had never been hurt before on a job. The adrenaline coursing through his body made him shake, and his thoughts overloaded in a frantic, jumbled mess. All of his training for such an inevitable event was lost to him. Instead, all he could think of was the bolt tearing into him further with every movement. While fleeing, he foolishly and instinctively reached for the bolt and tried to yank it free, but his hand just slid clean off of it; it was too slick from his own blood.

  He tried again, grabbing it with all his strength, while keeping his eyes on the pavement ahead. Once more, he pulled and nothing. Again, he told himself. He clenched harder and yanked. His grasp found the shaft and he felt it slide just an inch or so out of him, until pain burst through him as his intestines were minced and shredded. He fell, too surprised to even call out, and, for the first time, he looked at the bolt within his stomach, and he knew he truly was a dead man. In his abdomen laid a Torture Bolt; the springs and razors within guaranteed that removal meant pain and likely death—a brilliant tool to keep your quarry from receiving help. When he yanked the shaft, it released sharpened barbs to grab and slice his flesh and organs.

  If only he hadn’t pulled it, he thought.

  If only he hadn’t offered that cigarette.

  If only he hadn’t insisted on taking that assignment.

  A hundred more “if onlys” were lost in his mind.

  The guards walked up to him, in no particular hurry. Cole was lying on his back, head against the cobblestone, slightly turned towards the guards. Three of them pointed their gisarmes at him, daring him to pull a knife or try a trick. The thick guard, the one he had regretfully underestimated, only held heavy, black iron manacles at him. “I thought catching a Disciple of Nox would be harder.”

  “I’m no assassin,” he paused to breathe, and his torso burned with pain as his chest rose and fell. “You prick.” Cole had, of course, lied.

  The guard ordered the others to hold Cole down, to chain him, and search him. Cole remained silent the entire time, refusing to look at the men, preferring instead the view of the sky above. They searched Cole, riffling through his pockets and patting him down. Cole didn’t fight back, his arms were limp at his sides, and he tried not to move, lest he make the wound worse. They took from Cole his only weapon: a single long stiletto the length of a forearm, hidden in his bracer.

  “Care to give me a name?”

  Cole didn’t look at their leader, the strong one giving the orders; instead he focused on his breathing, trying to stay conscious.

  “You’ll talk,” the guard said to Cole. “I know you won’t now. You probably won’t in a week, but you will. That bolt won’t kill you. The people I’m handing you off too will see to that.”

  Cole didn’t look at them. Instead, he searched for the few stars above that weren’t occluded by the dense clouds of night. He thought of his goddess, and the clouds fled as if suddenly struck by a determined wind. The last thing he saw, before his vision darkened, was a sliver of the bright moon above.

  Chapter 1

  “It has been three months, sir.” He exhaled sharply. “Are you saying you still have no real leads?” Etienne hadn’t touched his wine, contrary to his usual character. Instead, he was leaning over the table from his seat. The loose cuff of his shirt nearly dipped into his lonely red wine. An exaggerated, baffled look had overtaken his face, and a strangely loud, mocking tone had entered his voice.

  Randolph sat at the table, at Lord Jae’s right side, in a chair that practically collapsed under his own overly-muscled weight. He caressed his mug of cold, amber beer as he was lost in any thought other than the boredom of the meeting he was attending. Most of their babble sounded like nothing more than garbled nonsense to the weathered mercenary, but the sudden shift in Etienne’s tone turned his attention turned back towards the conversation—which in his mind sounded like bickering grandmothers fretting over a bake sale.

  Sir Aaren Balfour stood at the other side of the table, close to the door, and as far away from the Reinouts as he could seem to be. His sour, terse demeanor was unchanged, and, with his archetypically attractive features, Randolph thought Balfour looked like a silly doll throwing a silent, smoldering tantrum. Balfour barely hid the contempt he had for the Reinouts, and Randolph knew the ponce hated him most of all. Randolph was, after all, well known as an unscrupulous mercenary—it wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t that far off.

  “None,” said Balfour. “We only captured the one lad. He has said nothing,”

  Sitting to the right of Etienne was Lord Jae. He refilled his wine for the second time since the meeting had started; a dark burgundy splashed into his crystal glass. “Nothing? You surely do not mean nothing? You have had him in that prison for three months.” His dark blue eyes held a disturbing amusement in them.

  “I am sorry, my lord.” Everyone in the room heard the courtesy stick like molasses in Balfour’s throat. “The boy has not even given his name.”

  It had been three long months since the successful attacks were ordered on The Disciples of Nox, and Randolph still didn’t feel easy about the whole situation. He knew that Balfour had ways of making people talk in The White Cliffs, the infamous prison of Queensport, where surely the young assassin was being held.

  Lord Jae dramatically huffed, throwing his hand into the air with exaggerated exasperation, but the amusement was receding from his eyes, and instead they were beginning to fill with an unsettling irritation. “This is unacceptable.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly, cousin. Completely unacceptable.” Ever the one to remind everyone around him how much he cared for his cousin, Etienne put a hand on Lord Jae’s shoulder. It was a familiar gesture that only he could get away with. His eyes never left Balfour’s face.

  Randolph smirked at Etienne’s words. It was, in fact, Etienne who had convinced his cousin, Lord Jae Reinout, his plan was the best course of action to take, considering that the religious order of assassins were actively trying to kill Lord Jae. Etienne reasoned that if there were no assassins left in Queensport, then there could be no assassination. How splendidly well that plan was going for them all.

  “I am no torturer, my lord. That is left to other men,” said Balfour.

  Randolph laughed but quickly coughed, trying to mask the outburst. No one paid him any mind, so he busied himself with a long gulp.

  Balfour continued through tight lips, “Everyone we have encountered has died resisting, successfully fled, or has killed themselves as opposed to being taken prisoner. I cannot force a fanatical, murderous cultist to surrender. That being said, we are still vigilant.”

  “Well…” Lord Jae broke a small smile, the amusement once again alive in his eyes. “Thank the gods for that. Where would we be without your vigilance?”

  Etienne politely smiled as he removed his hand from his cousin.

  Randolph finally concluded his laborious quaff of beer, and he quickly regretted it as he fought back several burps. Lord Jae tolerated his behavior overall, but he would have his week’s pay for belching in front of a Justicar. Randolph brought his hand to his face, furrowing his eyebrows to seem deep in thought, but, really, he was fighting to stifle what he could.

  “Have you at least found the rat’s nest then?” Lord Jae was serious again. His fingers played with the base of his glass.


  Jae’s mercurial emotions always made Randolph uneasy, and he was glad to be ignored during meetings such as this, left to his beer and his thoughts. He never even wanted to think about what would happen if Jae’s sour emotions turned towards him.

  “No, my lord, there are no leads currently. We believe most of the cultists have left the city.” Balfour’s words matched his posture: stiff.

  Etienne raised his glass at the news. “Thank the gods for that! They are leaving, dear cousin! This is great news!” His words sounded naïvely sincere, and Randolph rolled his eyes, once again thinking of how Jae had given so much credence, when it came to security, to a useless lordling like Etienne—whom Randolph loved to refer to as Ety when he was feeling particularly wicked.

  “Yes, of course.” Lord Jae traced his index finger along the lip of the glass, but his eyes were on Balfour. “Please, Sir Balfour, I have much to do. Thank you for your vigilance; please, keep me up to date with anything you may discover.” His hand moved to the stem, and he lifted the glass to his lips. “If anything,” he murmured before taking a short sip.

  Randolph would have snickered if not for his repressed burps fighting to be free, but a nervous laugh slipped from Etienne. Balfour bowed before Lord Jae even finished his sip, and he was out the door before the glass returned to the table.

  What a twat, thought Randolph.

  “Please, cousin, see him out. We must not be rude.” Lord Jae smiled at Etienne.

  “Of course.” Etienne left at a slight jog to catch up to the hasty Balfour.

  Jae and Randolph sat in silence until they could no longer hear the footsteps of either man. The two frequently had such private meetings. After all, Randolph was Lord Jae Reinout’s right hand man, his bodyguard, and he always accompanied the young lord wherever he went, with the exception of Lord Jae’s numerous intimate meetings with the ladies of Queensport.

  How hard it must be, thought Randolph with a smirk, to be so rich, handsome, and perpetually single.

  Jae pushed his glass forward. It glided smoothly over the dark, wooden, polished table. “How is our problem solver, Randolph?”

  Randolph covered his mouth with his hand, letting out a small, silent burp. “He’s doing good—real good. He’s been cleaning up anyone who could even be associated with them.”