The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  He took a step back as he swallowed an embarrassing interjection that almost slipped past his lips. He pointed his blade at her. “You’re fast, I’ll give you that, but that hit wouldn’t take me down.”

  “A man like you, Randolph? I doubt it would.” She raised her axes up, and motioned for him to fight her. “One hornet doesn’t stop anyone, but many stings bring the strongest man to his knees.”

  Randolph swung his sword wide. Soli skipped back, narrowly missing the sweep. She paused, a few paces away from him, and she clunked her axes together in encouragement. “Too slow, Randolph. Too slow.”

  As Randolph rounded his sword to swing again, Soli danced in stabbing the horn of her axe at his throat. He pulled away, nearly tripping as his feet sunk into the sand. “Too slow, Soli. Too slow,” he mocked, doing his best feminine voice on the repeat.

  “My voice does not—“

  He slashed, interrupting her. She stepped to his right, bringing her knee into his side. Northern decorum, he thought in that instant as pain exploded in his right hip.

  She wasn’t going easy on him.

  He groaned as she raised her axe to smack him in the forehead. Without a thought, he slammed the pommel of his sword down into her face—a lot harder than he would have meant too if his instincts hadn’t taken over.

  The strike threw her to the ground. As she slammed to the ground, one axe dropped from her hand. The other she clutched. She laid for a few seconds with her arms splayed out around her. The metal nasal guard of her helm was slightly bent inwards, and below her left eye blood trickled from torn and bruised flesh. Her eyes opened, and she blinked a few times, registering what had happened.

  Randolph lowered his blade and dropped to one knee. “Dammit! I don’t want to hurt you!” he blurted without pause. There was a sincere quiver in his voice. Her eyes met his, as his hand went to her helm. He wanted to pull it away, to make sure that he hadn’t hurt her too badly.

  Soli’s free hand had already grabbed the sand that surrounded them, but he hadn’t noticed. She flung it into his face before her helm had even been moved an inch by his hand. Grit hit his eyes first. A dry, itching, stinging sensation overwhelmed him. He couldn’t see. He went back to his feet as his sword dropped. His hands shot to his face, wiping away what he could, but it had already blinded him. It was in his nose, and he could barely breath. He coughed, and the sand rattled inside him. Instinctively, he tried to step back, away from the surprise attacker, but he tripped.

  He landed on his back, knocking the wind from him. He gasped, but no air entered his lungs as his diaphragm spasmed. He wiped his eyes again, and through the sand, he saw the hook of Soli’s axe around his ankle. In her other hand, she held the other axe.

  She swung it down on top of him. He put his hands up, but he couldn’t stop it. Thinking it would slam into him, he tensed his body in anticipation, but she slowed inches away from his sternum, and it lightly tapped him.

  “Ooowww,” he groaned sarcastically as his hands dramatically fell to the side. He went limp as the tension in his body dissolved into the sand underneath him.

  She withdrew the axe, smiling. “I think we can agree I win this round.” She rolled over next to him, lying on her back, panting.

  “No way. I never would have paused against anyone else. You had an unfair advantage.” His eyes were watering as he blinked a few times—taking a few quiet moments in the sand. After a third deep breath followed by rough coughs, he turned his head to her. “Should we deal with that?”

  “It’s fine.” She brought the tips of her fingers to her face, but couldn’t touch the wound through the helm. She dropped her hand to her side. “I’ll take care of it later.”

  Randolph sat up, and he coughed a few more times. “Maybe we should institute a no sand rule.” He chuckled, which caused him to cough a few more times.

  She rolled her head to look at him. “Absolutely not. There are no rules in a real fight.”

  He hawked, spitting sand. “There also aren’t wooden weapons in a real fight, sweetheart.”

  She sat up and smiled. “Some concessions must be made for practice, I’ll agree, but sand is something I will not budge on.”

  He hauled himself up to his feet, spitting a few more times. “Fair enough.” He wiped his hands on his pants and then offered a hand to her. “How about we take it a little easier for a bit. I don’t want to be responsible for wrecking your face.”

  She took his hand without pause, and he helped her to her feet in one pull. “Probably for the best,” she sighed.

  He didn’t let go of her hand, instead he shook it, gaining her attention. “What is it?”

  She turned to him. He swore her cheek was already turning purple, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Do you know what I love about fighting?”

  Randolph could have guessed a thousand different answers: the feeling of power, the sensation of winning, the coin that comes with victory, and the fact that it’s a great way to stay in shape. Somehow, he knew that none of these would be Soli’s answer, so he decided not to guess. “What?”

  “When you fight, there is no worrying, regretting, obsessing, remembering—no real thoughts. There is just the fight. There is just your instinct, and the world around you becomes simple. Your mind becomes quiet.” She looked down at their hands, hers in his, and she pulled hers away.

  Randolph put his hands to his side, and he felt like an idiot for thinking of such simple things—and of holding her hand for far too long.

  “I think it’s time for you to show me some of your moves.” She bent over and picked her axes back up.

  He looked down at his sword. “I think I can do that, just in case you run into anyone trained in an Avelinian military style again.”

  Soli nodded. “It would be handy. You won’t always be at my side like you were then.”

  Randolph tried to think of what to say to Soli, but, as usual, whenever he had to form the right words, his mind went chaotic as a splattered canvass. The emotions were there—adoration, loyalty, camaraderie—but they were swirled in the bright tones of hope, love, companionship, lust. All these feelings he knew of, but the words? They were indecipherable.

  “Yeah,” Randolph barely muttered as he bent to get his weapon. His upper teeth scratched his bottom lip, tearing away his soft flesh and unleashing a small fleck of blood.

  Chapter 27

  Saemund laid on Ulrich’s bed. He had been sleeping with the journal clutched in his hand like a school boy who had fallen asleep after a long night of studying. With his eyes closed, his breathing was calm and measured. Anyone who would have seen him would have thought it was merely Ulrich, peacefully asleep, sprawled out on the bed.

  But, while his body was still, his mind was as alive as ever. Streams of dreams flooded him. Half-formed thoughts collided with long forgotten memories, while the words and thoughts of Ulrich nestled in him, like small, budding islands amidst the storm. He found himself swirling in those dreams, constantly grasping at the shores of Ulrich’s life. He would catch those thoughts every now and then, and he would look upon them with desire, like a prowler in a foggy alley peeping through a window in the night. Ulrich’s words took on a tangible form in his mind, and as soon as the confused haze would fully take shape, he would feel his grasp slipping, and he would be left to flounder in his own cold, dark, lonesome thoughts.

  He was submerged in those bleak waters of memory when several knocks woke him. He felt ripped from a heavy pool, and he wasn’t sure if the sounds were real. His eyelids peeked open. The rays of a newly dawned sun peered through the window, throwing light onto his new flesh. It had been decades since he had dreamed, and a disoriented haze clung to his mind. He dropped the journal and looked at his hands—his new hands, he thought, of course. A realization came over him: there were no rivers he was being swept away in—only dreams. There was another knock at the door, and it sounded far clearer than before, so Saemund knew that he was truly awake.

  His eyes sh
ot open as he sat up, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. He felt stiff and tired—in his body and mind—as if he hadn’t slept at all throughout the night. He slid off the bed. The stone textured floor was cool against the soft soles of his feet, and he looked down at them in surprise. In his somnolent fog, he had forgotten how strongly he could feel with the new skin.

  Another couple knocks, and Saemund was at the door. He wanted nothing more than to throw the thing open and to throttle whoever had awoken him, but instead he tentatively opened it a few inches. It was Nico, holding a plate of toasted rye bread, four pork sausages, and two over-hard eggs.

  “I thought you might be hungry.” The boy shoved the plate at the door. Saemund opened it the rest of the way, allowing for Nico to walk in. “I told the others you were feeling ill, but ill people still need breakfast!” He walked past Saemund while talking; his heavy accented words came slow as if he carefully thought through every word what he was saying. He set the plate on the nightstand, and a sausage nearly rolled over the edge—its only savior being the raised lip of the clay plate.

  There was a rumble in Saemund’s stomach as Nico passed. “Thank you,” he said calmly as he put his hand on the back of his neck, rubbing his tight muscles absentmindedly.

  Nico’s eyes scanned the room as he turned to face Saemund. “How are you feeling today?”

  Saemund grimaced while his hand still rubbed his neck. “Not all that well, I’m afraid.”

  Nico folded his arms. “It was that filthy man, wasn’t it? He made you ill?”

  Saemund dropped his hand. “No, Nico. It wasn’t him.” He shook his head. The implication, given the current situation, vaguely struck him as comedic. “I didn’t sleep well. My mind is...” He stood tongue-tied for a few moments, before shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. “Off?”

  “Perhaps you have been in here too long. Too much dust and smoke can make your head ill.” Nico turned, and he looked out the one small window in Ulrich’s room. “It is so nice out. Perhaps some fresh air will make you well. I bet the harbor is beautiful right now.”

  Saemund scoffed. “Yes. The harbor. You’re suggesting that I should take a stroll to the Justicar’s Keep?”

  Nico laughed, turning back to Saemund. “I mean, if you think it’s a good idea, Ulrich!” He walked by, still laughing. “I’ll tell the others you’re not well. Enjoy your walk, Ulrich, and be sure to tell me if anything exciting happens.”

  Saemund smiled at the initiate, and, after the door closed behind the little curious boy, the smile dropped. He plopped onto the edge of the bed. The stiffness in him felt heavy, as if he was filled with large, cold stones. He ran his fingers over his joints, but rubbing did nothing to alleviate him. He was tired—so tired.

  He looked at the pillows at the top of the bed, and he cursed them for a moment. He had slept for hours with his head upon them, but they had offered no respite—only strange dreams whose images still played in his mind. Phantoms of a life half-remembered—perhaps a stranger’s—that was as mortal as any man’s: love, loss, conflict, laughter, and sex. It was the flashing images of sex that haunted him the most—mocking him.

  He hated dreams. They rarely came to him, and they had never been as overpowering as the ones he had just experienced.

  He slumped over onto the bed, his face landing on one of the pillows. It beckoned for him to return to his restless sleep.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and the flashes returned. But among those flashes were tangible sensations. He tasted the last man he had consumed, a simple beggar that he stalked a few months ago. He had stewed him with scallions and tubers, and, over a day, he slowly ate him. He recalled the warmth of the blood the first time he killed—not of his prey, but his own. He had been foolhardy, and his victim had impaled Saemund with a broken fence post. Saemund had to dig all the wooden shards out of him with his own hand. It was the most painful experience in Saemund’s life, but he had learned a particularly useful lesson that day: to be merciless.

  His head rolled to the side, and his nose nestled into the long hair that he was quickly getting used to. Deep within those locks was the scent that had just teased his mind in dreams: the scent of Vitoria. Of the woman. Of his prey. He pushed his nose deeper into the hair, inhaling as deep as if it was his last breath.

  It was if she was there with him, lying beside him, sharing the same pillow. He would have put out his hand, reaching for her, but he knew that emptiness was all there was beside him.

  His eyes opened, looking at his empty hand. He dropped it, and it bounced slightly on the bed. He rolled his head, and he looked back to the nightstand. Underneath the platter of food laid the envelope from the day before—the letter from the Justicar.

  Justicars fascinated him. They were men of the law, sure, but they also had a certain level of discretion in interpreting that law. Saemund saw them as sanctioned murderers and bullies. Men who took themselves too seriously, he thought. Men who believed every man under the sun belonged under their boot.

  He reached over and took the nearly escaped sausage from the tray, shoving it all into his mouth all at once. Perhaps, he thought, he should talk to the Justicar before visiting the woman. Perhaps the man would reveal more about her—the thought of which gave him excited flutters in his stomach. He mashed the salty sausages with his teeth and swallowed them before leaving for the Justicar’s Keep.

  * * *

  Saemund didn’t have to wait long. Once he gave the name Ulrich Myrdal, a guard escorted him straight to who he needed to see. The guard pounded once on the door to the office and announced that the priest of Anker had arrived. Saemund couldn’t help but smile as the boy said the name.

  A stern, strong voice welcomed him. The guard opened the door and motioned for Saemund to enter, which he did without hesitation.

  The windows were opened, letting fresh air and bright sunshine in, but the scent of smoke and dust clung to the place as if it was as essential and tangible as the stone floor below Saemund’s feet or the heavy wooden rafters above. It was packed with all manner of collectibles: weapons on placards, worn tapestries, statuettes hidden in the corners. Books and papers were everywhere, and Saemund had no doubt that stacking them all together would make a pile that would reach all the way to the vaulted ceiling above.

  The Justicar was at the door by the time Saemund entered. He shoved a hand forward. Saemund took it, and the Justicar firmly shook his hand. “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  The man was tall by most standards, but a few inches shorter than Saemund, who towered above most at 6’4”. Saemund tilted his head downwards to meet the Justicar’s eyes. “No problem.”

  “Please.” Balfour motioned to the couch near the fireplace. “Let us sit.” Balfour turned towards the couch before Saemund could reply. The Justicar stood apart from the other scents of the room—he smelled clean, fresh, and utterly delicious. He, no doubt, was a feast of lean cuts of prime meat. His groomed black curly hair bobbed while he walked, and his armor clanked in step with his every move.

  “No,” said Saemund, who was still standing next to the door. “Thank you.” He swallowed the saliva that had started to fill his mouth.

  The Justicar turned towards him, his brow creased. “Very well.”

  “I must admit,” said Saemund, “that I have no intention of staying long. That I had no reason to come here today, but I am curious as to what a Justicar needs from a priest.”

  Balfour took a few steps closer to Saemund. “Fine.” What attempt at civility there may had been in his voice earlier had dissipated. He lifted his chin slightly as he spoke. “You visited a prisoner here.”

  Saemund recalled the journal he had read repeatedly the day before. “I have visited many here.” He recalled the words of Ulrich and mimicked them with sincerity. “It is a duty I am glad to perform. To give those who will die comfort for what comes next. To assure them not fear the sharp stones below, the stones that are all too eager to catch them in their
penetrating embrace. It is my right to speak with the prisoners here.”

  Balfour’s chin tilted up even further, as if he wanted to look down on the priest who was taller than him. “This person wasn’t going to be executed. You should remember. She was the only woman you visited—many, many times.”

  A small smile pulled at the edges of Saemund’s lips, but he forced it away. Of course he knew who the Justicar wanted to speak of, but he found it delightful to play the difficult idiot. The Justicar’s contempt was just far too delicious. “Yes, I remember her.”

  “She escaped,” Balfour stated with a hint of frustration—whether it was meant for Saemund or Vitoria, Saemund did not know.

  “So I read. Those posters you have plastered everywhere do not do her justice.” Saemund thought about her underneath him again. In a flash he saw her. Her slender face. Her scattered freckles. Her askew nose. He even saw her eyes. As she slept she would open them and stare at the ceiling. Even with the light, he could not decide what color they were. At first he thought blue, but then, he thought again, perhaps they were green. Could they have been both, he wondered? Could such a duality exist truthfully and simultaneously within her?

  “Yes,” Balfour said through a clenched jaw. “The artists can only do so much. I hope you are not here merely to share your perspective on her likeness. Have you spoken with her recently?”

  Saemund raised an eyebrow. “No.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “No,” Saemund lied with an aloof air.

  “Do you know where she is?” Balfour was practically speaking through his teeth, as his jaw clenched tighter than before at Saemund’s obstinacy.