The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  Vitoria smiled underneath her mask. Far too often an assassin would strike when a man’s dick was out—whether relieving one urge or the other.

  Vitoria returned to her counting: Two hundred and ninety-nine, three hundred. She hesitantly loosened her grip on the cutter, testing to see if it would budge. It didn’t even wiggle a single millimeter.

  She heard a large sploosh from down the alley, and she knew Sylvaine must have thrown the corpse into the sewer. Good, she thought. Within moments he was back to the ladder, holding it firm again.

  With the paste set, she was free to work with both her hands again. She grabbed the adjustable knob of the cutter, pressed it down, and rolled it over the glass, creating a scored circle in the window. It crackled as the blade rolled along the surface, but Vitoria kept a steady pace. Three times around she went, and she had to remind herself that it sounded louder on her side than the inside. She released the knob and pressed her ear against the glass again, listening for movement, but she heard only silence.

  She held the plastered pad with one hand, and with the other she pressed along the cut, on the inside of the circle. With each prod she gave the glass, it would audibly crack like brittle ice, cleanly breaking away from the window. She bumped the plastered pad with one firm rap, and the circle of glass was freed with a short, sharp snap.

  She pulled the tool away, making sure not to tap the glass circle against anything, and held it over Sylvaine. She mimed tossing the thing to him, and he nodded. He stepped away from the ladder and put his arms out. Her hand opened, and the cutter with its firmly attached glass dropped.

  Sylvaine was ready, and he caught it with care, as if it was a precious child falling safely to his arms. He laid the tool down behind him, opposite to the ladder, and then he returned to his post.

  The air inside the room was invitingly warm, and it poured out by Vitoria’s hand. She moved fast. No sooner than when Sylvaine caught the tool, her hand was inside her bag again. Out came two stout bottles that were tied close together with twine: one was watery and translucent, the other was pale yellow with the consistency of mucus.

  She pulled out a third, larger bottle. It had a wide, corked mouth, and a spout near its base with a wooden shaft running from it that was only a few inches long. That shaft itself was without flaw, and was dense enough that it would have been hard to break, just shy of three inches thick.

  Another gust of wind shot down the alley, and Vitoria moved the back of her hand over the hole in the window. One breeze of cool air made it through and the curtains within rustled. They teased the metal wire within, softly caressing it.

  She saw the wire waver. She held her breath. He hand continued to cover the hole as the wind bellowed a few last times. The voice inside wanted to speak, but she was not listening. She watched the curtain. No more air had made it through the opening, and the last excitement in the wire died away. It returned to its stillness.

  The wind quieted with the wire, but she knew it could return at any moment. She pulled the cork out of the empty bottle with her teeth, and she gently placed the shaft through the opening. Once the shaft was snuggly in place, she was able to keep the bottle still by leaning her torso against it, freeing one of her hands.

  She pulled the cork out of the bottle with the yellow slime first and upended it over the empty, large bottle. It slowly rolled out like molasses, splatting into the bottle below. She held it upright for almost a minute, before abandoning the last bit of stubborn goop. Then she shoved the cork back in the bottle.

  Next would be it, she told herself, in a few moments she would have him. Her hands were fluttering.

  She pulled the cork out of the clear bottle and tossed the stopper into the alley. She wouldn’t need it back. In one quick motion she overturned the bottle of clear liquid over the large bottle, and then she dropped the empty bound bottle to Sylvaine below. As he caught it, the larger bottle, filled with yellow sludge and watery liquid, overflew with white gas. Vitoria was wearing a mask, but she still held her breath, not wanting to test Aimee’s design. She grabbed the cork from her teeth, popped it into the bottle, and then flipped it to prevent the gas from pooling in the corked top of it. The white vapor had nowhere to go but out of the shaft that penetrated James’ window.

  Her hand was shaking, so she steadied it with the other. It wasn’t fear that gripped her, as happened so often with those going into battle, but excitement. Her pulse was quick, and it thundered in her head.

  Parts of the yellow muck foamed and expanded, before collapsing and turning white. Then another part would throb into a bubble, crash, and whiten. With every second the gas shot from the bottle, through the shaft, until it pervaded the room. She couldn’t see through the curtains, but she imagined it. Every corner was filled with toxic heavy fumes, and James was helpless.

  He will suffer, the voice stated. He will pay.

  “He will suffer,” she mumbled. “He will pay. “

  She sat there on top of the ladder, holding the bottle with both hands, until all the yellow sludge had turned white and all the gas had emptied. She pulled the shaft of the bottle out with care. No more gas escaped from it, and it was harmless. She turned her head to Sylvaine at the bottom of the ladder. She motioned to him with the bottle, and once again, she dropped it into his outstretched hands.

  He made no noise as he caught the thick bottle, and he set it next to the glass cutter and bottle from before. Within seconds he was back to the ladder.

  Vitoria smiled at him, but he was unable to see through her mask. She pointed to herself, then towards the window. Sylvaine nodded, stepped a few paces from the window, and turned his back to it.

  Vitoria turned herself so that her left elbow was in front of the window. It was protected with hard leather and iron fittings, perfect for falls and fights—and for breaking glass. She pulled her elbow back, and then she slammed it through the pane. In one strike, it shattered into the bedroom; only a few fragments fell down into the alley.

  Sylvaine turned back to the ladder and grabbed it with both hands.

  Once she felt Sylvaine steadying the ladder, she jumped from it into the room. The broken glass crackled as she landed on it, but she did not care. Her boots were thick and well made, tough enough to take on glass or, possibly, even caltrops.

  The alarm sounded. A bell rang next to the window with a loud, clank, clank! The room was still foggy, but most of the gas rushed out the window the moment she broke it. She turned to the bell and ripped it from the wall, flinging it to the floor. It landed with one final clank. Outside she heard the ladder scrape against the building as Sylvaine removed it.

  The room was simple but fairly large. It had chests, shelves, and armoires. They were practical for someone staying in the city for a long time. She paid no heed to those furnishing. She turned to the bed, with the small candle lit next to it on a small worn, wooden table. On the bed was James, naked under a white sheet and a crumpled blanket. He looked to be sleeping. There was a content, restful look on his face.

  She dropped the bag from her shoulder, and it thumped onto the wooden floor.

  He was on his stomach, and his hands were hanging limply from the side of the bed. She saw a glint in the candle light, but could not believe her eyes. She crept closer to him, walking as one might do next to a sleeping bear.

  She went to one knee and grabbed his hand gingerly. On it was a single golden band that was thin and cheap. She was sixteen when they stole the matching bands. She distracted the fence that day. She wore make-up to look beautiful and a boned corset to make her small breasts appear large. The man was all too happy to spend time flirting with her, all while James broke into his shop.

  Vitoria’s mother had always said that she was the one Vitoria could always trust, that her mother would always protect her and love her. James had made a similar promise that night when they wed.

  She grabbed the ring with her other hand and pried it off of his finger. “You don’t get to have this,” she s
aid to the ring before sliding it into her pocket. She threw his hand down, and it bounced softly on the bed.

  He deserves this.

  She was shaking; hot wrath enveloped her in a flash. “You deserve this,” she spat at him.

  She turned to her bag and pulled the thick, course rope from within it. It was heavy and rough, the kind she always saw in the shipyards. Walking back to James, she pulled the crumpled blanket and damp sheet from off of him. He always did sweat so at night, she thought. Perhaps it was from the nightmares. She rolled him over, laying him on his back.

  He was naked, and his body was as she remembered it. He hadn’t aged day to Vitoria. No new wrinkles, no new scars, no weight gain or loss. His hair was still as she recalled it: shiny, long, and the beautiful color of faded straw touched by frost.

  She traced her finger along his face. She went along his earlobe, down his square jaw, and past his neck. Inside her sparked a fire from long ago, something she thought was long since dead, and she felt the primeval, unattainable touch of urgency that only the solitary can suffer. Her finger stalled at his muscular and lean chest, then continued down his abdomen, she was inches from his pelvis before her finger retreated.

  She looked away from him. Her eyes began to burn as they welled with frustrated tears. Her once thick hair had turned brittle. Her body was lean and hard. She put her head back and stifled the tears, demanding their retreat. Her face and form she did not recognize anymore, but James looked still like the handsome rogue she met when she was fifteen and new to the city of Queensport.

  It wasn’t fair. He should have turned ugly and wretched after what he did.

  She pushed the goggles off her head with the back of her hand, and they thudded on the floor. She sat on the edge of the bed, set the rope next to James, and wiped the dampness from her eyes before it could form into tears. Her body felt hollow, and she pulled in another long, deep breath to fill it up, but the mask made it laborious. She undid the buckle in the back of the mask and pulled it off, letting it fall to the floor with the goggles.

  It suddenly occurred to her that Sylvaine was long gone. That he surely was back in the sewers, hauling away the evidence of their endeavor. She imagined him sloshing through the sewers on his own, proud of his work, and, more than likely, proud of Vitoria. “No mercy,” he had stated to her.

  She turned to James. “No mercy,” she reiterated.

  She tied down his legs first, then his hands, then his waist, and then finally his neck. If he wanted to fight, he would strangle himself, she thought. After she was finished, she double checked her knots. They were strong and would hold. Then she checked the bedframe, pulling and pushing at it to make sure it would stay in one piece. In her mind raced a hundred scenarios of how he would slip away from her into the night, never to be seen again.

  James still looked peaceful, and he didn’t move or groan at her prodding. She checked all the bindings one last time, and, once again, she told herself they would hold. She sat next to him on the edge of the bed and pulled a small tin from one of her many pockets throughout her leather armor. She popped the top of it, keeping it at a distance from her own nose, and placed it under James’ nostrils.

  He made a loud heavy gasp for air. His chest jerked, and his eyes popped open. Vitoria popped the top back on the tin and returned it to her pocket. After a few jerky attempts, he found his breath.

  “Ammonia Spirits. You were sleeping.” She looked down into his familiar amber eyes.

  He returned her gaze, and he calmed once he recognized her. “Vitoria.” He said her name as intimately as a lover only dared.

  “James,” she replied coldly.

  Traitor.

  His eyes welled up instantly, and tears spilled down his face, onto the bed. “I’ve missed you so much!”

  Vitoria narrowed her eyes. “What?”

  The tears continued to stream. “I’m so glad you’re here. You’re safe.” He tried to move his arms.

  She pulled back from him, nearly sliding off the bed, and stared.

  “I love you.”

  She retreated from the bed and stood a few paces away from him.

  “Vitoria, I love you.”

  “No!” she barked. “Don’t,” she commanded with a whisper. She put her gloved hand up; the iron reinforcements on her knuckles glinted dimly in the candlelight. Her resolve escaped her, and she was disarmed by his words.

  “It’s true. I do,” he said. “You’re here to kill me aren’t you? What did Conyers say to you? What lies did he fill your ears with? I begged Conyers to get you out of there, but he wouldn’t!” His voice was strong and deep, despite the tears.

  He only tells lies!

  She shook her head. “You’re a liar.”

  “It’s true! He wouldn’t get his friends to help you! He told me to forget about you. I could never forget about you.”

  She continued to shake her head. “No. He didn’t say that. You left the city. You took off and hid.”

  “No. He gave me money to leave. He said it was important to keep me safe. He told me to leave. But I came back for you. I told him that he needed to get you back, or else I’d never talk to him again.”

  She kept shaking her head, bewildered.

  He would say anything right now.

  “And here you are, my love. It worked. I finally freed you.”

  She took a step closer to him and hushed him with a wave of her hand. “You didn’t free me. I freed myself. You didn’t help me. You hurt me. I was there because of you.”

  “No, I would never hurt you. I love you. I love you more than anything else.”

  “Stop it,” she warned him. Her voice was trembling.

  “It was Conyers. It’s always been him. He tried to steal you away from me, to make you join him in that cult,” he said despite her protestation.

  “No. He trained me. He made me strong and quick,” she said.

  “Don’t you see? He made you into what he needed you to be. He needed you away from me. He doesn’t care about you. I care about you.”

  He only ever cared for himself.

  “Why did you set me up, then? I was never near that auction house. Why did someone say it was me if I was never there? I never even met that woman who said it was me!”

  “It wasn’t me. I never touched that place either. I never made off with any riches. It was Conyers the whole time. He set us both up. To break us up,” he said.

  “No, you even collected the bounty for me. I heard about that.”

  “Let me guess, Conyers told you? No, he didn’t go near you once you were jailed, did he? Was it someone else then that he paid? A friend of his that told you?” He continued to sniffle and whimper, but no more tears were falling.

  “Yes, it was Ulrich. He told me that you did. You made 100 golden petals. Is that all I’m worth to you? 100 golden petals?”

  “You mean someone who looked like me. One of those cultists did it,” he said. He tried to move his arms again, but the ropes held strong.

  “No, Conyers didn’t speak with you after he found out what you did. He would never help a traitor.”

  “Of course he kept talking to me because I didn’t do anything! I figured out he was involved in it, and I begged him.”

  They both can’t be trusted, but this one is garbage. He is vermin. A rat! A worm! A termite! Stomp him like the pest he is!

  “What is it then? Did he mastermind it? Or was he just involved with it?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Tell me the truth.”

  “Either way, it wasn’t just him. I don’t think. He said someone else wanted to keep you in there. That it was your great trial. Someone I had never met. He wouldn’t tell me his name, but we can find him. We can get the answers. Together.”

  The way he wiggles his tongue! Crush him!

  She crossed her arms and looked at the backpack on the floor. “No. You will tell me the truth. That bag has supplies for a week. I will extract the truth from you, for as long as it takes.”


  “But, we can get the truth. We can do it together. We’re unstoppable together. Love, I’ve missed you so dearly. I missed being with you. Untie me, and I’ll show you how much I missed you.”

  She snapped her head towards him. “Stop lying!” she snapped. “Tell me! Tell me why! Tell me how! Tell me!”

  He denies you the one thing you need.

  “I swear I’d never betray you. I love you. All that money Conyers gave me to leave? I spent it at the temple on prayers for you! I never stopped believing in—“

  He is consumed by his own deceit. Crush him! Break him!

  “Stop lying!” She was on him, her fist raised, her teeth bared.

  “I’m not! I swear! The truth is as I have told you. Conyers wanted us pulled apart. He said your destiny demands it. He wants you to hate me! You have my word.”

  Break him as they broke you!

  “Your word means nothing! Stop lying! Tell me!” Her fist was shaking.

  “I love you,” he whispered, looking deep into her hazel eyes. They looked green in the candlelight.

  Traitor.

  She hit him. His nose crunched under her fist. Blood poured from it over his lips, chin, and neck.

  “Tell me!” she screamed. She struck him again, shattering his left cheekbone and breaking the skin. His mouth gurgled red, and his body lurched, but the ropes held him down.

  “Liar!” She struck his eye with her left fist, and the orb splattered open onto her glove. “Tell!” She punched his mouth: one shot with the left followed by a quick right. His front teeth fragmented and fell into his mouth. “Me!” She pulled both of her arms back and struck him in the neck, the nose again, the mouth twice more, and his right eye. The wet mush of his face lolled to his right, but she continued her barrage, bringing her fists down on his temple and neck. His skull and throat had caved in, and after the first few crunches, all that she heard were heavy splats beneath her fists.

  She pulled away from him, trembling and gasping. In front of her laid a pile of blood, teeth, bone, brain, and hair where James’ head should have been. She looked at her hands. There was ocular tissue, cartilage, and bloodied bits coating her gloves. Pieces of bone and teeth had torn through the parts surrounding the metal plate over the knuckles, and her blood was mixing with his. “No,” she whispered in disbelief. She looked back at him and felt her stomach convulse. The taste of acid was thick on her gums, and she lurched forward, vomiting on what was left of James’ head.