The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  More tears came as she let out a wail of pain. “I’ll tell on you!” She looked at her arm but never into his eyes. “I’ll show everyone what you did to me!”

  His hand was at her throat in a flash. He slammed her onto the nearby table, and gloves scattered like dried autumn leaves after a wicked wind. She cracked against the wood, and one of her fuchsia flats flew off her foot. She made a sudden guttural cry, and her tears crumbled into sobs.

  Randolph tightened his hand on her throat. He could feel her hot, rapid pulse on his thumb. He pulled her close to him, and then he slammed her into the table again. Her skull cracked against the wood, and one of the table legs began to buckle.

  She cried out again: the pathetic, broken yelp of pain, disbelief, and panic that Randolph had heard so often in his life. She tried to speak, but her words were lost to the bubbling garble of sobs and spit. He tightened again on her throat and began to hear a terrifyingly satisfying crunching. He let her go in an instant, and he pulled his hand away, looking at it as if it wasn’t his own.

  Rienne laid on the table, sobbing, but didn’t move.

  “No one’s going to care. Tell whoever you want,” said Soli.

  She was looking right at Randolph, or maybe into Randolph, and he wondered how long she had been watching him. The whole time he thought her back was too him. What did she think of the man she had described her as her friend?

  He removed his other hand from Rienne while he took a step back.

  His heart was pounding hard. He looked at the large, red bruise on Rienne’s neck, and he realized how badly he had wanted to keep squeezing her throat—to make it crumble like a stale wafer in his hand. He wondered if that would make anything better for Vitoria, or if she would ever have known? Would Soli ever have touched his hand again, if he had done such a thing? Would he ever want to touch hers?

  “Don’t make Randolph kill you. I can see he wants to. I cannot fault him for it, nor will I stop him.”

  He looked her right in her eyes.

  “Where I come from we have simple laws: a life for a life. As I see it, you stole someone else’s life. Your life is now free for the taking. What’s the worst part though, is that you stole her life through cowardice.” Soli shook her head. “When my friend kills you, your soul will rot away with your body, for none of the gods will cast an eye your way. You will be forgotten.”

  Randolph didn’t take his eyes from Soli’s as she spoke. She wasn’t upset, she wasn’t disgusted, nor was she frightened: she looked accepting. He took a few breaths as the two locked their eyes. Rienne sobbed anew, her louder bout showing that she had heard Soli. Randolph saw a depth in Soli’s eyes that he hadn’t quite noticed before, facets of complexity that he wished he could have known in an instant. In that woman was a marvelous, honest, beautiful, resilient hardness akin to diamond.

  “I never saw her,” Rienne sputtered through snot and tears.

  Randolph turned away from Soli to the wretched woman. “Say that again.”

  “I never saw her. The woman I told you I saw.” Her voice was trembling and hoarse, but she had regained some of her petulant strength from before.

  Randolph put his hand out to her, to pull her off the table. She recoiled with a whimper. He drew his hand back as quickly as if he had touched fire.

  “Keep talking,” commanded Soli.

  “Dion told me what to say to you. He told me about a lady who was a thief and to say that I saw her stealing everything,” she babbled. “He told me everything that I told you, and that is what I told you that night. I never saw her in my life!”

  “Dion Vaux?” he clarified without surprise.

  She nodded. “Yes! Dion Vaux! Handsome blonde man, taller than you, though not as broad.”

  “I know Vaux,” said Randolph. “He’s dead.”

  She let a small giggle free, which sounded unnerving mixed with the sobs. “Good! Lying son-of-a-bitch got what he deserved!”

  “Like an owl scolding the darkness…” said Soli offhandedly.

  “Why do you hate him?” asked Randolph.

  “He cheated me!” The “me” was squealed with shocked disbelief, as if no one could ever cheat her. “I was supposed to get half of everything! Instead he took off! He left me with more of a burden than before I had ever met him!”

  “Haul? From Delarue’s?” clarified Randolph.

  “Yes! And the bounty! With that and the treasures, there would have been enough petals that I’d never have to work again.” She caustically laughed. “To think that I believed that he’d actually share.”

  “Vaux robbed Delarue’s?”

  She nodded. “Of course!” She winced as the shouting hurt her swollen neck. “I gave him the key. I used to work there a long time ago.”

  “Where did he take everything?” Randolph tried to ignore the anger and heat built up within him, but it was spilling out in his furious tone.

  “No idea!” she sputtered. “He wouldn’t tell me! I don’t know anything else! You should be looking into him, not me! He cheated me!” Once again, she squealed on the “me.” “He’s the villain in all this! He’s—”

  “You belong in The Cliffs!” Randolph grabbed her by the front of her gown and slammed her back into the table, which cut off her self-pitying babbling.

  He heard a crack. He wasn’t sure if it was her head or the table.

  She grabbed his hand and tried to pull him off of her. “No! It was all Dion! He talked me into it! It was all his idea!”

  “Didn’t stop you from trying to collect the bounty, did it? After you knew what he really had done, you could have told him to leave it be! She might have had enough time to run if it wasn’t for you!” He pushed her harder against the table, and the wooden leg whined as it continued to buckle. “You knew what you were sending her into!”

  “Someone else would have found her anyway!” Her words came labored and frail through her swollen windpipe. “Dion wanted to collect the bounty! He wanted to! It was his idea!” She began to kick against him. Her foot connected against his thighs, but he ignored it as if they were nothing more than waves patting the shore.

  He pressed his lips to her ear and snarled. “I should throw you in the pit! I’d love to see how long you’d last! A tarted-up bitch like you would be a real treat!”

  Her eyes shot open, and she took a painful gasp. “No!” It was the first time she had looked him in the eyes, and he returned the gaze with blissful anger.

  He smiled at her. “Yes.”

  His smile silenced her for a moment, but then she burst into panic. “No! I’ll tell you anything if you go! Just leave me! Promise you won’t send me there, that you won’t kill me here!” She seized his hand with hers, and rubbed his rough flesh with her soft, creamy, peony-scented fingers. “I’ll do anything you want if you won’t hurt me.”

  Randolph was violated by her words; his face turned to pure disgust. He let her go faster than if she had suddenly turned to acid.

  She took the momentary release to pull herself off the table. Her hand shot to her throttled throat. “Promise you won’t harm me and I’ll tell you something else.” She put her other hand out to him, begging him for any drop of mercy.

  Randolph looked at her, and he wondered if the young woman he had ordered to the pit made a similar show. He saw, in his mind, her hand outstretched, begging for her life, her other hand cradling her wounds, her tear drenched eyes confused and overtaken by terror. Did she also make such offers like Suchet? Words, or, failing that, her own flesh, all in the name of any hint of mercy?

  “All I want is the truth,” he stated as calmly as he could.

  She smiled, and a small, disbelieving gasp escaped her. “Dion approached me. It was his idea. He knew I used to work at Delarue’s, and he had a plan. He said he knew of a thief that he could set up for the whole thing, and that no one would ever find out it was him. I gave him the key, and I stayed on that street that early morning until he gave me the sign it was all clear. I found
a guard, and then I told him exactly what Dion told me to say.”

  Randolph eyed the table, slightly tilted and unstable as an old, bent man. “Tell me something worthwhile.”

  Rienne Suchet saw his eyes. She knew what he meant; she nodded. “It wasn’t all his idea. He said that he was hired to rob Delarue’s, and that the man was very rich. That he’d pay Dion more than what everything was worth.”

  “Who?” demanded Randolph.

  “I don’t know!” she stammered. “He was rich! Dion didn’t say more than that—only that we’d be able to sleep on a bed of petals for the rest of our lives!”

  Randolph lunged at her, and he grabbed her by the gown again. The seam finally gave way, and her left, fat, wrinkle-lined breast was released, quickly followed by her right. They slapped Randolph’s hand as he slammed her again onto the teetering table.

  There was a loud snap, as the already compromised leg flew out from under the table. Randolph held onto her gown, but it tore, leaving him with a scrap of dress while Rienne fell with the table as it crashed to the floor. She yelped.

  Randolph dropped the shredded piece of dress.

  “That’s all I know!” she cried. “Please!” She covered herself with her hands, and she turned her body away from him.

  Randolph turned away from her and walked back to Soli. Her face was stoic, and he didn’t know what she could have thought about him in that moment.

  “Are you done?” she asked him.

  Rienne quickly crawled away from the wreckage of the table. She sat with her back to the large display counter along the back of the store. She took long, stuttering breaths as she covered her breasts with her hands.

  “Yeah,” he muttered.

  Soli nodded. “At least you know.” She looked past his shoulder to Rienne. “And you let her know that you knew. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.”

  He nodded and then turned his head to Rienne. She met his eyes with a hesitant, terrified gaze that reminded him of an injured, cornered rabbit. “How come,” he asked, “you never asked about the woman?”

  Rienne stammered. She fumbled over consonants until she managed a breathy, “What?”

  “Aren’t you curious about what happened to her? To the woman you described to me?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Let me tell you. Those posters around the city? That is her. She is the first person to ever escape The White Cliffs. I heard she jumped out, using a guard as a cushion for the rocks, and then she climbed to freedom. And Dion? She beat his brains in, sliced him open until his intestines spilled out, and then sliced off his pecker.”

  She looked as if she was about to pass out as the blood fled her face.

  Randolph turned to the door as he continued sharing the news of Vitoria with Rienne, “I don’t know how, but she found out about him, so I’m guessing you’re next. And if I ever meet her? I’ll personally introduce you two.”

  Soli unlocked the door and opened it. She slipped out, holding the door for Randolph. He walked through, savoring the last few sobs of Rienne, and then Soli closed the door behind him.

  “Her and Vaux were lovers. That’s how he blindsided her,” she said as she set the pace for their return to the estate.

  “Really?” asked Randolph.

  “Oh, yeah. It was on her face the whole time. Especially when you said Vitoria took his…unit.”

  Given his track record, he was happy to pass the investigative burdens off to Soli, so Randolph took her conclusion as fact.

  “Was it worth it?” she asked.

  He didn’t have to think about his response; he already knew the answer. “Definitely.”

  Chapter 21

  Right after leaving Turmont’s Tinctures, Ulrich returned to his home: the temple. The other priests nodded at his return. It was a silent welcome home. None asked him where he had been. It was far too common for priests to leave for nights. Many had at least a lover or two. It was considered in bad taste to have such a rendezvous in the temple, which left the only alternative being the occasional disappearance.

  The most Ulrich knew he’d receive would be a few raised eyebrows, some smiles, or a jest at his expense—it was, after all, his first night away. In the stories of Anker, the god was well known for his affairs, great romantic loves, and his legendary virility. He and his consort, Aesa, were believed to be the father and mother of humanity. It was widely believed that laying with an Ankerite priest guaranteed fertility, and such a tryst was never seen as an affair but more of a treatment for the spirit and, especially, the body.

  Ulrich left the other priests to their lively imaginations and their naughty daydreams. He went right back to his cleaning. The laundry that he had left scattered on the floor was gone when he looked for it. He sighed before he moved to helping others where he could. With every sweep of the broom and every scrub of the brush, he began to feel a little better. Instead of oppressive guilt, he was only filled with concern for Vitoria. Part of him had doubt about how he had behaved with her, which he couldn’t articulate in his thoughts. He just couldn’t stop thinking about her, and their interactions played over and over in his mind.

  Eventually, the day was done, and there was nothing more for him to clean. As he went to bed, he knew the acid in his throat would lash out in the night, wildly burning him from the inside—and that he would be left nearly helpless if he didn’t try to at least mitigate it. He placed a cup of water at his nightstand, and as he slipped into bed, he propped himself up with pillows and crumpled clothing (a trick he had learned from other priests). He was effectively sitting before he floated off into his agitated sleep.

  Vitoria had looked wretched, lonely, detached, and miserable—so unlike herself. He dreamt that he said something else to her, so many different combinations of words and gestures. He tried compassion. He comforted her, she collapsed in his arms in tears, and he held her as tightly as a repentant child. He dreamt that they talked, he kissed her on the forehead, and he told her everything would be alright (and in the end everything was alright, just like he promised). Was he too short with her? He dreamt that he had been patient, and that all her secrets came spilling out to him. He dreamt he yelled at her, he told her what to do, and that she finally listened to him (and by listening to him, everything turned out well for her).

  He dreamt that his advice had finally brought her peace, and that his words brought her happiness. She had a home, a building that was more than a mere house: it was filled with warmth; flowers were placed in every room, and the place was overrun with blonde, loving, happy children.

  They were just dreams though.

  Ulrich would wake up in the night and turn over. He would push and tease the pillows and clothes to sit just right under his back and neck. In those half-awake moments, he wondered what he would have done with Aela, given the situation, but it was impossible for him to imagine it. Aela was always so serious. She never would have fallen into such a state of ridiculous, self-pitying nonsense. He had thought that Vitoria was just like Aela in so many ways, but after seeing her in such a fogged, angry state, he wasn’t so sure.

  Again and again he would dream, wake up, readjust, and fall back asleep. Right before dawn came, he awoke to a deep pain within him, as if his own body was turning against him, and his chest was grasped and smothered while infused with boiled metal. He cursed and turned to his nightstand.

  He breathed, and tried to remain calm.

  He told himself it wasn’t bad (although it always seemed worse than anyone else that he had ever known). Inside the drawer of his nightstand, under his recently forgotten journal, he found the small metal box that another priest, Amaury, had given him his first night at the temple. Ulrich had always known something was wrong with his body, but he never knew what it was. The wise and ancient Amaury quickly saw the boy’s malady, and he revealed that it was a common enough ailment.

  He grabbed the tin box labeled “Bicarbonate of Soda” and pulled the top off. It
came off with a pop, fell to the floor with a ting, and then wobbled on its edges by his feet. Ulrich didn’t care about any of the noise. The temple predated the city that grew around it, and it itself was a fortress. The walls were thick with hewn stone and large bricks, designed to withstand siege and fire. He would have had to have screamed for someone to maybe hear him.

  He tipped the box over the glass of water on his nightstand, and then he gave the bottom of it a few, strong taps. The white powder slumped into the glass, and it blossomed into a white, hissing foam as it hit the water. Ulrich stuffed his finger into the cold water, and with a quick whisk, mixed the powder and water together.

  While the foam was still popping, he downed the drink. Amaury had told him to use half of a teaspoon, but Ulrich ignored the instruction after his first nighttime attack. Half was too little. From that point on he began to just throw in as much as he thought best.

  As soon as the concoction hit his throat, the pain began to ebb. The burning receded as the cool water washed the torment away, until all that was left was a dull, heavy pain that he could ignore. The drink never tasted good, but he never cared. His stomach felt still, and he laid back in his bed, still propped up by pillows. He felt blessed to be in Queensport, particularly to call the temple his home. Never in Heinrick would he have had such a concoction to treat the pain—only superstitious remedies that resulted in nothing but feeling like a fool.

  He wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep—to be left alone to his dreams. But he couldn’t. He saw the first, faint glow of the morning sun. He had been absent for far too long, he decided—from his brothers, his home, and his god. In the gentle light of morning, he decided that day was a day of dedication. He would bathe, and then he would fast. He would attend morning, noon, evening, and night service. He would pray. He would hear parishioners—whether they wanted advice, comfort, or absolution.