The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  “Good.” Jae smirked. His eyes left the glass and went to Randolph. “We cannot leave any loose ends.” He paused, taking a relaxed breath. “I do not like surprises.”

  Randolph knew that to be true, and it was his job to make sure that no unpleasantness ever befell Jae. “He’s just finishing up with those homeless lookouts that the cultists pay off. He wants to ‘gouge out their eyes’ he said.” A silent yet pungent burp escaped into the palm of his shielding hand. “I thought he meant literally, but he likes his metaphors.”

  Lord Jae chuckled. “Why, Randolph, I did not know you even knew what a metaphor was.”

  Randolph shrugged. If he was offended by the comment, he didn’t show it. Randolph liked his employer in a good mood: a good mood meant easy money and easy work.

  “I must confess, the way you always speak of him. He sounds delightfully efficient. When can I meet this ghost?”

  “Saemund is working. He says it isn’t important to meet you, and he doesn’t want to. I thought it was a bit rude, but that’s the truth.”

  Jae rolled his eyes. “Very well.” He fidgeted with his glass as he glanced at the door. A small giggle escaped his lips, and his voice turned childishly amused. “Could you imagine what Etienne would do if he found out about our outside help? What with him being so ridiculously adamant about following the law, he would have us shackled to that incompetent quim Balfour!”

  Randolph chuckled back. “Ety always did have a stick up his ass.”

  Jae’s smile was flawless. “I am not sure if it is indeed a stick, but certainly something is stuck up there.”

  Randolph snickered. His lordling was happy, which meant he had every reason to be as well.

  “Too bad about the big, bad Saemund though.” Jae sighed, and his smile vanished. “Well, I suppose he cannot be all that interesting anyway. Once you have seen one piece of trash you have seen them all.” He raised an eyebrow at Randolph. “Just keep an eye on him; make sure he’s doing what I am paying him for.”

  “Of course.” Another silent burp slipped from his lips. “There is nothing to worry about. I’m telling you, he’s no ordinary creature.”

  Lord Jae waved him away, and their brief moment of camaraderie was over. “Get back to work. I have engagements tonight that do not require your presence.”

  Randolph noted the pluralization, and he stood up with a coy smile. “Yes, my lord,” he said with an overly flowery bow, an exaggeration of Balfour’s from minutes ago.

  Randolph left Lord Jae to his solitude and wine. The mercenary had much to do. He frequently met with Saemund, or at least one of Saemund’s men. There were two and he didn’t know their names, nor did he care to. One was simple, Randolph was sure of it, the other just crazy. But both, he could tell, were murderers through and through. Randolph was a man who was known to do whatever needed to be done, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

  Randolph let out a long belch once the door was closed. Feeling satisfied, he headed to work.

  Chapter 2

  Ulrich Myrdal always performed his priestly duties with diligent care, deep love, and just a touch of irreverent humor. That day started like any other, and he was assigned to monitor the shrines. They lined the interior walls of the entire temple complex, and he happily collected from all of them. Each shrine was identical: an alcove carved in the image of Anker. The stone folds of his robe flowed around the supplicants, enveloping them within. The faithful pled their case in relative discretion, and it allowed Ulrich a few moments of peace before moving on to another. The shrines had to be attended to constantly, so as not to provide the temptation of thievery.

  He looked at those shrines every day, countless times, but he never tired of them. He would stare at the figure of Anker, a man draped in a large cloak, obscuring all detail. The hood was empty in the carvings, since it was said that Anker’s face was unknowable to man. He always found it funny that a god that presided over knowledge had an unknowable face.

  Ulrich administered with grace and tact, watching over the shrines, like he always did. But that day was different. He was anxious.

  Soon he would leave to talk to a man that he rarely spoke to. About what, he had no idea. But, Ulrich was excited and nervous. He had no idea what Conyers wanted with him. In a few hours, near the harbor, he would find out—and those hours were passing slower than the growth of the Mourning Tree.

  He smiled while he collected a few coppers petals from one of the shrines, but he quickly forced the grin away, vainly trying to transpose his amusement into something more appropriate, but he couldn’t help himself. The idea of meeting near the harbor with a man he barely knew (except that Ulrich was sure Conyers was an assassin), suddenly struck him as funny. He thought himself macabre to find humor in his possible death, but, he figured, if you’re going to go, you might as well get a laugh out of it.

  If Conyers was an assassin, then perhaps the meeting was to dispose of a priest he no longer had need of. Then again, it could be about another matter. Ulrich had no idea why Conyers needed to meet him in person so suddenly, but he wanted to find out.

  He kept his eyes low as he moved onto the next shrine. That one contained several petals of gold. He picked up one of the coins, a lingulate design with a smooth side save for an oval dimple near the narrow end, and the royal seal on the other, a rearing horse opposite a slender hound, both of them facing a single long lily.

  What wretched person would be so troubled as to leave the small fortune? He had not seen any men of high birth enter in hours, and men of that station never went to the public shrines; they always met in private with an elder priest. He concluded the donation was some poor soul’s life savings. He pocketed the coin, and then he quickly grabbed the others, a few silver but mostly copper, leaving the shrine available for another supplicant.

  He continued his routine until it was evening. Nico, a young initiate and obvious foreigner who was tasked with various, countless errands, gave him the signal: it was time to leave. Another priest would take over for Ulrich.

  Ulrich hid his happiness at the news the best he could, but in less than a minute he was at the back of the temple emptying his pockets into the large locked donations box, which was always under the watchful eyes of other priests. They paid him no mind until they saw the golden petals, rare for the common shrines. Ulrich did not meet their eyes, but he heard their surprised mumbles. He dropped the petals into the box, where they fell heavily onto the other donations.

  He practically ran out the main door of the temple; he didn’t even bother changing his priestly attire: simple, ashen grey, thick robes. While hungry, Ulrich did not stop for supper. Supper could wait, but Conyers Westergaard could not.

  He flew through the streets. There was a light rain, a refreshing summer shower, but Ulrich didn’t mind. He loved rain, and the fresh wind that accompanied it. Some people took refuge from it, preferring to resume their work when it passed, but Ulrich never understood those people. To feel the fresh water, the wind on his skin, to taste the droplets as it dripped down his face and over his lips was divine.

  By the time he was near the harbor, the rain was heavier and the wind was stronger. It was no more a simple shower. His robes were soaked through, but he didn’t shiver once at the chill. Ulrich was from Osterlock, a country known for its strong, cold winds, its relentless rains, and its angry skies. He stepped onto the main street, The Queen’s Way, the main road that led from the port to the palace at the heart of the city.

  He was one of the few out in streets. His eyes spotted many guards, looking more like pouty, wet dogs than frightening fighters. He made sure not to let his amusement enter his face though; Ulrich may have been a bit more impertinent than his grandmother would have wanted, but he never thought himself a fool.

  He passed a few more people, those unlucky servants bound to their duties regardless of weather. He nodded to them all, giving a smile to a particularly beautiful, young maid that almost ran into him as she sprang out of
a tea shop. A large parcel was clutched in her hand, as if it was sacred medicine. “Not too fast, darling,” he smiled. His sopping long, blonde hair clung to his face, and a rogue strand hugged the edge of his mouth.

  She nodded, not in agreement but in acknowledgement. Her thick brunette hair was braided to one side, in a popular, Northern style similar to what his own mother wore when he was a child. His eyes lingered on the braid. “You’re from the north, aren’t you?” His flirtatious manner had stopped at the realization.

  “As are you,” the woman said quietly, staring at his priestly vestments with a stony expression. “But your accent fades. You have been among these soft-fisted men too long.”

  Ulrich in that moment had too many thoughts running through his head. Since his home country of Osterlock declared war on the Venari Republic to the west, not many of his kinsmen traveled to Aveline, their southern neighbor. The people of Aveline seemed perfectly content with this. They never particularly held much love for the Northerners, and what little peace they had with them quickly turned to fear. If the Northerners could be locked in war with the sophisticated Venari, what hope would Aveline have against them? They had no great fleet, cannons with explosive powder, or an elaborate network of deadly spies like the islander Venari.

  Ulrich wanted to ask so many things. The war was foremost in his thoughts. His hometown, Heinrik, was so close to the warfront. He thought of his grandmother first, but then his mind was filled with worry over his little cousin, Aela, that he treasured so dearly. He still wrote to her every month, even though he had heard no reply in half a year. His tongue faltered, not sure what question to spout out first.

  The woman, in her thick Osterlock accent, said, “May the three watch over you, kinsman, and safely see you home.” The words rolled off of her tongue like a formality. “Although I see that you prefer the outsiders’ gods.” She pointed to the large silver medallion he wore around his neck.

  Ulrich looked down where she was pointing. Imprinted on it was a two headed crow, its wings splayed out, a head looking forward, and a head looking backward.

  “I must go to my master.” She rushed past him, running off down the road. Her loose, baggy clothes sagged from the rain; only her tight waist cincher seemed to keep them from falling off.

  “But-” the rest of his thought remained on his tongue: Aela.

  He stood as she disappeared down the street. Water dripped into his eyes, and he pushed the wet hair that was stuck to his mouth away, tucking it behind his left ear. The rain brought him no more joy, and he walked away, his head turned to the cobblestones, his arms crossed.

  He made it to The Sovereign Garden soon enough. He took no pleasure in the emerging shoots of hyacinth and freesia that blanketed the place. The spring flowers were only interrupted by carved stone paths and large statues of the noble Sapphira, the patron goddess of the ruling Allaire bloodline.

  He walked toward the edge of the place, where a terrace overlooked the harbor. Conyers was there, lavishly dressed as he was wont to do. Even in the wet weather he was clad in the style of the day, a doublet cut from thick striped silk cloth, with accents of silver thread around the collar. Wet white linen clung to his skin underneath, and Ulrich couldn’t help but think how uncomfortable the whole affair seemed. He would have quipped to Conyers about it, but Conyers was already engaged, quietly arguing with another man, someone that Ulrich had never seen before.

  The man was about the same height as Conyers, a few inches shy of six feet, and also dressed in wealthy clothes, but nowhere near as flashy as Conyers. There was a look to the man that put Ulrich off, but he couldn’t tell why. The stranger was older than Conyers by a few years but looked healthy, groomed, and probably would be considered handsome by most in the world if the rain hadn’t made a soggy mess out of his dark, long hair and subdued clothing.

  The two immediately stopped their verbal sparring once Ulrich stepped onto the terrace. The man Ulrich didn’t know smiled at him and gestured for him to come over. Ulrich found the smile alien, and he went to stand by Conyers, keeping plenty of space between himself and man.

  Conyers grasped Ulrich by the shoulder, a familiarity Ulrich didn’t know they shared. “My boy, this is Eric, and he is our good friend. He is family.”

  Ulrich nodded.

  “Eric,” Conyers turned to the smiling new friend, “this is the priest Ulrich. He is like family. So we are all family now.” Conyers removed his hand and gestured for the two to acquaint themselves.

  Eric put out his hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet the priest that has kept our little bird company all this time.”

  Ulrich firmly took his hand but didn’t smile.

  “He is quiet around new people I take it?” Eric let go after a brisk shake.

  “He is quiet when people discuss her is all; he is possessive of his ward, it seems.” Conyers turned to Ulrich and raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you have been her caretaker for too long?”

  Ulrich gave no expression. Instead, he showed the solemn face that he wore daily at the temple, but, inside, he didn’t like being prodded about her by Conyers—let alone a stranger. He knew the love that Conyers had for her, the brotherly love he supposed, but it could have always been more. Conyers was quite bit older than her, but age had never stopped a man from loving a woman. He found Conyers hard to read, but Ulrich had no desire to ever push him. “I only am surprised at his,” he eyed Eric, pausing for a few moments, “presence.” His eyes turned back to Conyers, “Your note said nothing about meeting with another.”

  “Do not worry, priest!” Eric put his hands up in a mocking display of surrender. “I am here to help,” he lowered his hands and his voice, “truly; I swear it upon my mistress.”

  Ulrich sighed, defeated. “Very well.” Through his faith, he was bound to take the word of a Disciple of Nox when his goddess was invoked. The divine assassin, Nox, was the lover to his god, Anker. He turned to Conyers again. “What do you need?”

  Eric turned around and grabbed a woven basket, by its handles, from the ground. He turned to Ulrich and offered it.

  “Surely you did not call an urgent meeting to have a rainy picnic on the terrace?” Ulrich accepted the basket, which felt empty. He raised one of the wooden flaps on the top to see, and, indeed, it was empty. “I suppose no tarts or jams for us then.”

  Conyers smiled. Eric did not. Ulrich had always liked Conyers, as much as his mind would allow. He didn’t trust him, but Conyers was good to him and to her. Perhaps Conyers was the only real person who cared about her—or even really knew her. Ulrich liked to think he knew her, but he only ever knew as much as she would allow him to. Even when they would laugh, or Ulrich would think they were connecting in any way, he always sensed some game was being played.

  Ulrich never much cared for games. He always seemed to lose.

  “The rain is heavy today; I doubt I have to really say that. It’s not an arguable point.” Conyers put his hand out and the heavy drops splattered into his palm. “I’m told the real storm is coming tomorrow, an angry tempest of strong lightning and thrashing rains. The thunder will be deafening.”

  “Yes,” Ulrich said. He looked down at the basket in his hand. “Good thing I’ll have this basket then….for the thunder.” While his tone was relentlessly sarcastic, his face was still stern and solemn.

  Eric did not look amused, but Conyers chuckled briefly. What a strange man Eric seemed. Ulrich wondered if he had true emotions at all. For a second, Eric reminded him of her far too much—not in appearance, but in his demeanor and the way he carried himself.

  Conyers finished his chuckle with an amused, deep breath. “Tomorrow our little bird must fly or fall, and we shall give her the tools. You are visiting her, yes?” The question was rhetorical; Conyers continued before Ulrich could even speak. He tapped the basket in Ulrich’s hand with a knuckle. “She will need her strength. Bring her a picnic of good food—particularly a hen or pheasant. You must bring her one of those. She loves
them. In the handle, there is something to help her escape, a favorite of hers.”

  Ulrich looked at the handle, his doubt plainly on his face.

  “It’s tricky.” Eric took the basket. “I’ll show you. It’s a secret after all. We can’t have anyone who grabs it accidently opening it.”

  As Eric showed him how to twist the handle just right to open the chamber within, Conyers told him their plot. Ulrich was unsure, but he had no other choice. Because of Conyers, he had met her. The man had personally paid him to visit her at The White Cliffs. Since then, Ulrich had cared for her, and many times the two men spoke about their desire to see her escape. Finally, it seemed, Conyers was doing something to bring that about, but Ulrich was unsure of the nebulous plan. He looked past the harbor, far out across the sea, looking for any flashes of the coming thunderstorm, but all he saw was a lone, small seagull braving the battering rain above.

  Chapter 3

  Vitoria’s jailer that evening was a skinny lad, no older than sixteen. She watched him unlock her cell. He held a simple, dim, tin lantern in his left hand. She hadn’t seen a real light in days, since Ulrich had visited her last.

  Outside a storm brewed. She could hear the shrieking wind whistling through the hallway and the looming thunder boomed deep in the distance. She had been listening intently to that thunder, hearing it come closer and closer to her prison.

  For a prisoner in The White Cliffs of Queensport, hearing was truly the only sensory delight. The Cliffs were tall, the tallest in all of Aveline, and atop them rested the Justicar’s Keep. There, people were tried and executed, marched off the edge of the cliff to the sharp stones jutting from the ocean beneath. Some days, through the halls, one could hear the echoes of the screams of those falling. Small slits for windows were carved into the wall for the inmates to supposedly gain some hint of light, but Vitoria was convinced it was merely to allow the screams to be heard.