The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  The man gave another tsk. He ripped his arm out from within his shirt. In his hand, was a tattered, peachy swath of flesh, as if one had skinned a man in one forceful grasp. He slung it at Ulrich, and it slapped around his face in an eager embrace. It was damp and warm. It reeked of hot sweat and tasted of rotted flesh.

  Ulrich tried to scream, but his voice was lost within himself. He tore the thing off of him, and he whipped it to the ground. The wet scent clung to his face, his nostrils, and even in his eyes. He sputtered as he wiped his hands over his face, desperately trying to clean it all away.

  Ulrich couldn’t see. His eyes were watering as the man leaned forward and shoved his hand on his throat. He squeezed, and Ulrich had never felt such pain. Ulrich stopped clawing as his face, and as an instinct, they went to wretch free from the man’s hand.

  The man squeezed, and Ulrich’s throat began to collapse under his hand. “Tell me, you little brat!” the man shouted. His voice dramatically quivered, shifting from feminine to masculine, from high to low, from thin to deep.

  “I was mad at her!” Ulrich relented. He shouted it as loud as he could, as if the words would hurt the man, although it came out as a constricted shriek. “I was pissed at her!”

  The man’s hands loosened a bit, pleased with the outburst, but Ulrich was no closer to being free from his grasp. “Why?” his voice had returned to its masculine mirthful tone, and the watery chaos from before had receded.

  Ulrich hesitated, he clawed at the man’s hands, but all that came loose were bits of flesh. He was barely able to control his dramatic, spastic attempts at breath. He clawed and fought for air, until his arms became flaccid, his body drooped, and he collapsed into the chair. The man’s hand kept him held up, like a sack of potatoes hooked on the wall.

  “Answer me. Do not make me ask again.” The man tightened his grasp as he spoke and then relaxed once Ulrich’s mouth began to move.

  “She left me,” he squeaked, surprised at his own words.

  “Please don’t make me force you to elaborate,” he tapped Ulrich’s throat with his index finger. “It’ll be easier for both of us.”

  “She’s the one who broke out of The Cliffs!”

  “Yes, yes. I know all that.” The man spoke as casually about it as if it was as common knowledge as the day’s weather.

  Ulrich tried to nod. It was becoming harder for him to think, to recall, and to verbalize. He felt a flickering darkness dampen his mind. “I took care of her. I helped her get out. She left me.”

  “The woman escapes, and suddenly you discover you’re expendable? So, you’re angry with her?” The man hissed a condescending sigh. “Fine! What of the woman? Is she a disciple?”

  “No,” Ulrich stuttered. “No.”

  The man loosened his grip. “Surprising,” he murmured to himself. “Why did she kill that man then?”

  Ulrich couldn’t recall. A high pitched whine began to drone along with the erratic pounding in his head, and he could barely follow the man’s questions. “What?” he sputtered with half a breath.

  The man shook him by the neck. “The blonde man that she eviscerated!”

  Ulrich’s eyes fluttered. The man loosened his grip considerably, but he still held him enough to keep him from falling over. He slapped Ulrich. “Wake up!”

  Ulrich’s eyelids flitted open, but he held eye contact with the beggar for a few moments before they wandered to the painted wall.

  “Is she going to kill Reinout?” The man shook Ulrich again. Ulrich moved with the beggar’s strong hand, like a limp, lifeless doll. “Tell me!”

  Ulrich’s forehead crinkled, and his eyes shot back to the man’s. “What?” his words meekly trailed like the half-whisper of a half-asleep man.

  The man gave a curt tsk. “I told you not to make me ask again.” From his waist he pulled forth a dark, iron stiletto the length of his forefinger to his wrist. In a flash, he plunged it into Ulrich’s chest, perfectly nestling between his ribs, and stabbing straight into his heart. As quickly as the blade entered, the beggar’s hand opened from around Ulrich’s neck.

  The bloodied stiletto slipped out of Ulrich as he spilled off the chair. He fell to the floor in a limp thud, as the man whipped the knife away from him. Blood flew from the tip onto the walls, creating bright red poppies among the golden wheat.

  Ulrich gasped on the floor, like fish cast upon land. After a few breaths, his face fell lax, and his eyelids became slack. He saw Aela. She was under the wild blossoming apple trees that only they knew of, and she was waiting for him to join her. She held out a blossom for him to smell, and she said something that he could not hear. Beside her was Vi, smiling at him. A breath of calm billowed over him as he died on the floor.

  Chapter 22

  Randolph’s heartbeat ran fast. His skin tingled from the encounter at the Gilded Glove, and he didn’t know what to even say to Soli as they walked back to the estate. In return, she did not say anything to him, and she opted to simply slip her arm into the crook of his elbow. The gesture was meant to calm him, but, instead, his blood raced from a whole other feeling.

  As they entered the gates, he slipped his arm away from hers. She looked perplexed, and she asked him where he’d be going.

  “Balfour,” he said to her. “He needs to know.”

  She nodded to him, and she didn’t press the issue. Part of him was surprised by this, thinking that she would want to accompany him to see everything through—but he couldn’t blame her for not wanting to return to The Cliffs. He was happy enough to part ways with her if it meant not having to put her through the latest swinging corpses outside the keep.

  Up the main cobbled walkway she went, and he watched her the entire way. After the doors of the manor closed, and she had left his sight, he took a moment for a long breath. He looked at his elbow and smiled.

  He moved to the stables, where Silvia was slowly munching on hay as if eating out of boredom rather than real hunger. He patted her on the nose three times, and she briefly nuzzled his hand in welcome. Her nose was warm, and he had forgotten how strong her breath flared on his hand. “Miss me?” he asked her. She didn’t reply, and he wasn’t surprised. The girl only knew one word: apple.

  Cautiously, he saddled her. She barely moved or acknowledged him, whether from old age or apathy, he did not know. While others at the estate would have called for the stable boy to saddle a horse, Randolph never did. He felt that part of befriending a beast was in saddling and caring for her.

  He rode to The Cliffs at a gentle pace. Silvia seemed pleased with the light workout, and Randolph related with the feeling. He was the only one who rode her, and, as a result, she only moved when he needed her.

  He left the tired Silvia with a short guard near the front gate. Randolph, who looked to be a living battering ram compared to the guard, demanded that the sentry get Silvia an apple and water. The guard nervously agreed with several hurried nods.

  Randolph signed a logbook, like he had done before, but had to sign an extra form for Silvia. He quickly dashed what passed for a signature for him, a horizontal line that started and ended with a flashy loop.

  At first, he turned to head through the dungeon, the quickest route, but it occurred to him that he’d have had to pass by the pit. He turned around and decided to take the longer route.

  He headed up the steps to the keep at a hearty pace.

  The wind had picked up, and it seemed to take delight in slapping his face. At the peak there were no bodies hanging. A rare but welcome sight, he thought. Straight through the doors he went, leaving the furious wind behind. The same guard that had helped him before was there. That time though, the guard did not take him to the morgue. Instead, they went to Balfour’s office.

  The last time that Randolph had been in Balfour’s office was years prior to that visit—back when he thought he knew how to handle a burglary case. The guard knocked, announced Randolph’s presence, and Balfour called for Randolph to enter. The guard opened the door, and R
andolph briefly wondered if he was supposed to tip the man. He walked in quickly, just in case.

  Balfour had arisen from his desk, and he was walking over towards him. “Welcome.”

  Randolph nodded a hello. He noticed that the place was almost entirely the same, the only difference being that there were more stacks of papers. It smelled as he recalled it before, like the musty scent of old paper interlaced with wood smoke.

  The office was enormous, housing a marbled-topped grand desk, a long oak table that could seat twelve, a pompously large fireplace made with the same marble as the desktop, and a few dark leather couches. The walls were lined with shelves filled with books, cases filled with antique weapons, and faded, ancient tapestries. Randolph at least figured the guy could afford to buy some new, bright tapestries, and he was a little disappointed that nothing had really changed.

  “From the look on your face, I would say your meeting with the witness was not what you were hoping for.”

  Randolph hadn’t thought that he looked like anything in particular. “I’d say it went about as well as I was expecting.” He walked over to Balfour, who was standing by his cluttered desk. “Why do ‘important’ people always feel the need to show everyone how important they are by the level of shit spread and stacked everywhere?” He tapped a pile of papers with a knuckle, and it shifted a bit more than he had anticipated.

  Balfour didn’t miss a beat as his face shifted to an entertained contempt. “It is a prerequisite. First you get the shit, and then you get the importance.”

  Randolph smirked. So the man did have some sense of humor. “Did you meet the priest?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Balfour adjusted the recently shifted papers back, narrowly avoiding an imminent collapse. He met Randolph’s eye as he did so. “He was occupied. Noon day service I was told.”

  “So?” Randolph eyed the papers. “Why didn’t you just—“

  “Because we cannot enter the Ankerite Temple unless we are invited,” interrupted Balfour with a sharp tone.

  “So all I had to do was become a priest of Anker, and I never would have had to deal with any Justicars?” Randolph’s smirk grew unchecked.

  “Yes, but then you would not be able to run around slaughtering gangers in the streets. What kind of life would that be for the great and mighty Micah Randolph?” Balfour moved bits of papers around on his desk as his eyes searched for something.

  Randolph bit his lower lip. At least he had used his last name too.

  “But then again, I hear there are other perks. Such as fornicating with half of the city’s women.” He picked up a green hardcover book that had fancy silver letters that Randolph couldn’t decipher, but seemed disappointed. “If you are into that kind of thing.” He set the book to the side. “Which I suppose you would be.”

  Randolph snorted. “You don’t know shit about me.”

  Balfour faltered in his search. “You are correct,” he said mechanically. He turned to meet Randolph’s eyes. “I apologize. I assumed—given your profession—that you would be a man like that.”

  Randolph’s brow scrunched at the apology. His voice uttered a soft, slur along the lines of an: “it’s fine.”

  “I suppose if we are going to be working together, we should cut back on the… flavorful commentary of each other’s lives.”

  Randolph gave a noncommittal shrug and a murmured, “Whatever.”

  “Seriously. I apologize for insinuating that you are a… whore.” Balfour offered his hand.

  Randolph decided to let Balfour’s word choice slide. Whore implied that he would have made money on such occasions, when, in fact, he had only ever lost. Randolph took Balfour’s hand after a moment, and the two men had one brisk shake. Balfour’s grip easily rivaled his own, and Randolph supposed one would have to be strong to haul around such bulky, decorated armor.

  “I, too, am a man of standards. I understand completely the desire to be selective,” Balfour said as their hands separated.

  “What?” Randolph’s face scrunched again. “Oh, yeah. I’m very selective.” In truth, Randolph had become selective as a necessity. In his youthful military days, he contracted the drip from a very affordable, sweet, hardworking tramp that used to follow his military regiment around. Eager Emilee was what the boys used to call her back then. She did anything for a copper. After he was out a few months’ pay in medicine, he decided that he’d never follow that route ever again. That nugget of truth though, he decided, Balfour did not need to know about—or for that matter: anyone else ever. “Yeah, I have standards.” He thought about Soli.

  “I never knew that about you.” Balfour smiled, as if the two men had instantly bonded over some great spiritual connection. “There are not many like us on that issue.”

  “Yeah,” slipped from Randolph’s lips. “There is only one girl for me.”

  “Really?” Balfour went back to rummaging through the many things covering his desk. “Tell me about her.”

  Randolph couldn’t believe he had let that slip—or that a huge grin had overtaken his face. He forced it away. “Nah. It’s fine.”

  There was a clink. “There we go.” Balfour pulled a half-empty bottle from the mess that was his desk. It had been hiding under a crumpled half-cloak and an atlas “Conversation such as this calls for a drink.” He handed the bottle to Randolph. On it were three bright yellow dandelions in front of a large orange dripping with juice.

  “I do like drinks,” Randolph said thoughtlessly. “But really, it’s fine.”

  Balfour stepped behind the desk and opened the top drawer. “Actually, I find it refreshing for us to be on the same page for once, so please indulge me.” He pulled two tumblers from within and set them on the desk.

  “Uh…” began Randolph. “Well…”

  Balfour took the bottle from his hand and pulled out the protruding cork with a pop. He poured the amber wine into the first tumbler, filling it halfway up. Randolph motioned for him to keep going, so as to be so full, the cup was nearly spilling.

  Randolph took the glass before it was even offered. A bit sloshed over the side of the tumbler and stained the edge of a nearby page of paper. He thought about what he would say about Soli. She’s amazing, he thought to himself. He saw her as the most beautiful creature in the world. That she was wicked smart—a whole lot smarter than he was. But then he thought of her voice. He could listen to her all day—even if she was yelling at him the whole time. Even that, he thought, he would love. But then he continued to count the reasons why he loved her, for he thought of his list as offensively inadequate.

  She was dependable, he thought. Even when he hadn’t seen her for a long while, she was there for him when he needed it. Also, he added silently to himself, she was forgiving. She was understanding. By all the gods in the world, he swore to himself, he had never known a woman to be so understanding as her.

  When he first saw her, he thought she would hate him. She would think he was dumb—a giant, poor, ugly fool with an attitude problem. But it wasn’t so. With Soli, he never had to explain himself or apologize. She simply understood him—and liked him—just the way he was.

  Balfour finished his tumbler, and he tapped Randolph on the shoulder. “Are you alright? I did not mean to cause you to strain yourself with thought,” he joked. “Did you think of anything to say?”

  Randolph snapped out of his silent, manic, mental profession at Balfour’s voice. “She’s….okay.”

  Balfour refilled his glass, and he continued to tease Randolph. “Okay, you say? What a rare quality, sir!”

  Randolph tipped the cup back and drained it. He wasn’t one to fall behind a Justicar when it came to drink. It was sweet—very sweet—even for dandelion wine. He tasted the usual ginger and lemon, but this brew contained a heavy addition of orange, which he found delightfully different. Randolph took the bottle and poured himself another cup. “I had forgotten how sweet this can be. But it tastes different than I recall.”

  “Oh yes. All the dan
delion wine here has honey and a bit of lemon. This is made with cane sugar and oranges. It is Venari. It reminds me a bit of the Northern honey wine. Have you had that before?”

  Randolph nodded. Of course he had gotten blitzed countless times on the stuff. “I’ve had it once or twice.”

  “It is nearly impossible to get the stuff here anymore, at least in this day. The Venari do not want us trading with the north, and the north does not want us trading with the Venari. Soon enough we will have to take a side, I suppose. Unfortunately, no one has love for our Northern neighbors anymore it seems, and eventually the crown will have to back the Venari.” Balfour took a long sip. “Poor Soli. Could you imagine being so alone in this place? So far from your culture? Poor thing cannot even drink something that was probably as common as water to her growing up.”

  “Yeah.” Randolph acted as if he hadn’t been thinking about her. “I bet she’d love this stuff.” He took another sip, and it suddenly occurred to him that he preferred honey in his dandelion wine, not pretentious, foreign cane sugar.

  Balfour smirked. “Now that is a woman, I must confess. She lingers in my mind. Her very movements are pure elegance. Her words are poetry. Her emerald eyes surpass any gem I’ve ever seen. I warrant that even the gods look upon her soft skin with envy.”

  Randolph clutched his tumbler, and he grunted in response to Balfour’s overly flowery declaration. He decided to take the bottle and top his cup off, even though it did not need it.

  “Believe me, sir; I have seen many noble blooded women paraded in front of me, like I am a prize to be won for life with one vow. But all those women do not compare to the ice lily that is Soli.” Balfour took a gentle sip, as if lost in a daydream about her. “The rarest and most beautiful of flowers.”

  “I know what they are,” snapped Randolph. He turned away from Balfour and stared at an old tapestry of Sapphira granting a crown to the most worthy of men, the original Avelinian king, Lionel Allaire the first.

  “I was not implying that you did not. My apologies.” Balfour sounded sincere.