The Writings of Assassination: Book One

by Cameron Style

  Prologue

  ¶I see the world painted in magnificent rainbows. Yellow and orange bleeds the rays of the sun. Vivid green bursts into spring through my yard, inviting me to play in the grass and wander beneath the lurking trees. Blue runs deep in the rivers that splice the forest - tendering, wandering - through their own path. Pink and purple melt into the clouds as the sun sets each evening and rises each morning. And black. Black is the night sky with wavering bursts of stark white and pale yellow from the moon and the stars, reaching us light years away.

  I live in an ethereal place where one can witness such colors on nearly any day of the year. In the fall, the trees and grass turn a meld of bright yellow and deep crimson red; that when the sun hits them at just the right angle, it looks as if the trees are on fire. Winter does not exist here. Winter has not existed in The Seventh Sanctum for four hundred years. There is no death of trees nor barren trunks to line the roads. The rivers do not freeze over and the colors never fade. The last occurrence upon which this was recorded was when the last human died.

  A human has not passed now in over four hundred years, and so the colors continue to burst with the renewal of everlasting life—a thing only once told of in fantasies, myths and legends. We are compared to the elves, for they were thought forever bound to the gift of life everlasting. In this regard some of the other humans across the land refer to us as Elven, though we do not spawn pointy ears nor are naturally good with a bow. However, upon fond memory and odd coincidence I was raised on archery as a child, much like the Mythicals – the elves in the forest. It began in school as an exercise lesson for children, one of many things we did to get outside and play. To this day it has been bound to me, for when I was a child I struck an arrow from a quiver to bow to target in mere seconds with precision and accuracy not amongst someone unpracticed. The benevolent motion of an arrow pulling back taught by the archer’s fingers held properly on the string only for the arrow to then launch forward leaps and bounds through the air always held a great meaning to me.

  The colors of the world hold boundless possibilities for the future that are as wide and wavering as the Four East Seas. The possibility to escape this once cruel world to live in an endless fantasy of color and life was once thought to be impossible. Now it is a reality and yet what would you do with it, if given the chance? Would you start over? Would you take more risks or less? Would you take another lover, or keep yours for all eternity? Would you abandon your employment and bustling life to live in the woods and hone your true passions? Or would you rise to the top, risking becoming corrupt? If you truly knew you could never lose someone, would you be more inclined to let them go? These are the questions the Elven are plagued with. How would you proceed?

  ¶Glistening in the rays of sun I shift my silken-black locks out of my eyes and behind my shoulder blade. My fingers rest taught on the blade helm lying against my pelvis. Though I naturally excel when equipped with a quiver full of arrows and a bow, swords have become my true weaponry passion. Now that I have had the time to learn, I have become quite excellent when equipped with a blade. They say girls are not allowed to become knights, to slay dragons and win the hearts of men for sheer might and ferocity belongs to men and thus only men can wield it. I have never subscribed to a train of thought that promotes women as weak creatures whom must be told what to and what not to do; what they can and cannot hope to accomplish.

  My body is my temple, and in it rests my soul, which belongs to me and only me. I control what I say, what I do, and to whom it pleases me to speak with. No man, nor other woman for that matter, shall ever tell me what I can or cannot do. Eternal life is a gift, and it is one not to be wasted though some see it the perfect opportunity for such affairs. If I am cut, I bleed, and I heal, just like any other man or woman in this Elven Realm upon which life eternal is not a choice. Shouldn’t this be all the more reason it’s acceptable for a woman to become a knight? If she cannot die, what harm can truly come to her? It is not of sound logic to me.

  I will admit it is a strange world when the fear of death is no longer a factor. I have only read history books about it. Tales of wars where men would give their lives for their home, to which they would never return. Mothers who had stillborn children and had to live on while their child did not. The possibility of the eternal loss of a family member or a lover—it seems to me, from what I have read – made life much more consequential and in a way, much more worth living. What life is there to live if there is no end in sight, no risk on pursuit to the reward? Some say, a life worth living—of this I am not so sure. I feel my people have come to lack, rather than embrace, this once feverishly and foolishly sought after gift.

  To me it is a curse.

  I have spoken to humans in other Realms where the Elven life has not yet reached. The sorrow behind their eyes with tales of love lost, parents passing, even pets…it’s so tremendously heartbreaking. They plea and they cry with despair and longing for the gift that I have, yet I cannot give it to them. Why should the Elven have this blessing when the rest of the Seven Sanctums must look at us with tears and anguish while they weep over their dead husbands and wives, never to speak to them again. No, a death has not happened here in over four hundred years and it has done nothing but make those that are immortal lazy and unthankful for their everlasting lives.

  I grasp the blade between my fingers and draw it gingerly from the sheath betwixt my hipbone. My hair spirals over my vision as I turn and slice into the oak tree with near perfect accuracy. Dark green leaves shatter like glass from the forest ceiling, raining gently around my sword and I. Pretending to be part of the old mythical knight tales of the Seven Saints has occupied a plethora of my waking hours the last hundred or so years. Ever since I heard the tale as a little girl in school, around the same time I first tried my hand at archery, I delved into the notion of becoming the first female knight. To my chagrin, even with eternal life it has not yet happened.

  I: The Seven Saints

  ¶As a child I was gloriously regaled with the tales of the Seven Saints; a mythical and legendary group of knights, all of whom were men, save one. A woman made up the official ninth of the knights, though she herself was not a knight. This tale has been in folklore long before my existence and shall be through the end of time. It’s tales of bravery against dragons helped kids such as I grow up to wield a weapon as well as courage. It is thought not of this place to have such heroes as these any longer. We are now seen as cowards, on whom eternal life is wasted.

  I always pride myself on falling into such tales with full passion and immersion into the wildly unknown. The legends of the Seven Saints stretch across the Seven Sanctums into endless reaches. Even the most uneducated and unread amongst humans and the Elven have at least once heard the legend. The Seven Saints were said to have existed over four hundred years ago, when death was not only possible but absolutely certain, and at a much younger age. Mortality rates amongst men were as low as forty, for women, forty-five. In an age where dragons and other monstrous creatures, found only now in nightmares, posed a very real threat to all the Seven Sanctums, knights were detrimental to survival. Unlike today, where knighthood is seen as more of a glorified hobby than a necessity, especially in the Realm of the Elven.

  Legend has it that six of the Realm’s strongest men banded together one evening in order to attempt slaying the fire-breathing beast perched precariously on Mount Kitum just outside the Realm’s walls. There was; Longvere, the Realm’s cattle farmer and butcher who provided the richest meats. Kleine, who operated the water mill at the edge of the Realm. Tristan, who harvested corn and wheat for sale in the markets. Karl, the chicken farmer. Varrus, th
e goat herder; and finally, Connar who guarded the Realm gates.

  One dark and ferociously rainy evening the men gathered as the dragon lurched nearby. Crops and homes had been burned, people had died.

  “We need to do something,” Karl urged as the dragon screeched a few miles out.

  “But what?” Varrus asked pulling down his soaked wool cap.

  None of the men had any experience with something of this magnitude.

  “I mean, it's a blood dragon for lord's sake.” Kleine wiped the dripping rain from his brow, “They’re nearly unkillable.”

  “I have an idea,”said Connar as he rose and strode hastily through the village square. Connar was the most experienced of all the men in combat.

  “Where are we going?” Karl asked, struggling to keep up with Connar as they trudged through the mud.

  “You'll see.” Connar led the group through winding boroughs of homes until reaching the Dragon's Den castle, aptly named for its proximity to the actual dragon's lair, at the end of the village.

  “Dragon's Den? What are we doing here?” Tristan asked.

  “Come.” Connar ran up the side steps and pushed open the heavy iron and wood door, the men following him inside.

  “Who enters my keep?” Akidira asked from her throne.

  “My lady,” Connar bowed, the other five followed suit bowing beside him. “We come to ask you a favor.”

  The men exchanged glances with one another. “Connar, are you mad?” Tristan tugged his shirt with a harsh whisper.

  “Speak!” The lady beckoned, seated on the throne in a velvet emerald and gold gown. “It is late, and I wish to retire to my chambers.”

  Connar nodded, signaling the men to wait as he approached the throne. “My lady,” he bowed once more at the lowest step, “we have come to seek your aid.”

  “In regards to?” She stared down at him.

  “In regards to the dragon, my lady.”

  “And in what manner am I to help you with the dragon? I am safe behind these walls the dragon does not concern me.”

  In fact it was true. That was the primary logic behind the location for the Dragon's Den. It was in the closest proximity to the dragon himself, almost as if the dragon protected it willingly.

  “My lady,” Connar began once more, “we six men aim to enlist your personal help in the matter of slaying the blood dragon. For benefit of the people of the Realm who are not so fortunate to live behind guarded walls such as yourself.” The rest of the men looked at one another with gasps. Enlist Akidira, the lady of the Realm?

  “Why?” She asked with bored disdain.

  “With all due respect my lady, I know the powers which you possess.”

  The men looked at one another with further shock.

  The lady rose from her throne, taking several heavy steps down the stone steps until she reached Connar. She placed a long, emerald fingernail beneath his chin and lifted it until their eyes met. After a moment, she spoke, “I do not wish to see more men die at my feet while I live on.”

  Connar kept his eyes on Akidira.

  “We do not wish to die, only to slay the dragon. We are six souls gathered, Lady Akidira.”

  She looked them over with prowess and sadness then turned and said, with cold tones, “Come.”

  The men followed her into vacant knight's quarters below. All of whom had recently perished on the last attempt to slay the dragon, not one week before. She gave each the finest armor, weapons and shields all encrusted with the Dragon's Den symbol. The symbol was a blood red dragon, the most dangerous of all dragons. blowing its notorious black flames. The men took arms and knelt in a circle as she, Akidira, the seventh, laid upon them the spell of the Saints. The Seven Saints could only be used in the presence of herself and six courageous souls. Legend has is the spell binds one in the spirit plane upon death by a blood dragon. It was the curse of being one of the Seven Saints but the protection of the spell was the best chance any man had at slaying a blood dragon.

  The Seven Saints were also granted immeasurable strength and, in turn, swore devotion to Akidira. Fire proof chain mail clung to their chests under clads of armor. The men met night after night training with Akidira, long after the town went to sleep while the dragon was at bay in the mountain. To their fortune, the dragon hadn't harmed the village or anyone from it in at least two weeks. Upon training with their newfound strength, one night an incident befell them. Dragon's Den itself was attacked by the blood dragon without threat or warning. The town was set aflame; homes, crops, all burning into the night. The six set out to attack the dragon and end his reign of terror once and for all. Swords in hand, shields abreast, the men marched fearlessly to the outlook behind the Den, facing Mount Kitum where the dragon lived.

  “Dragon.” Connar, the strongest of all the saints, bellowed deep into the mountain. His words echoing back in the void. “We summon you.” The five men behind him stood in formation, ready to attack. Akidira ran, with ferocity, to the tower ascending the stairs.

  The blood dragon beckoned to the call and flew to the outlook of Dragon's Den. It landed harshly on the ground, almost cracking the foundation of the castle in two. From the untouched tower to the right, Akidira began casting the Dragon's Spell, which would enslave the dragon to her will and command. The men raised their swords as the blood dragon leaned down, studying them all carefully. Poised ready to attack, Tristan let out a heralding bellow and threw himself at the dragon, sword first. With a cry the dragon threw its thickly scaled neck back. Tristan was still hanging on, twisting his sword until he was flung into the mountain side. Akidira cast her spell. A golden glow eroded from the tower, blanketing the dragon. With a few cries the dragon fought to shake off the spell, bellowing black fire in every direction. The men began to attack, swords slicing deep into the dragon's neck and legs.

  The dragon let out a sharp cry and began taking off. Its tail whipped ferociously around, knocking the tower where Akidira stood. Longvere and Kleine ran toward the collapsing tower, while the rest of the men sought to avenge Tristan and run after the dragon.

  “The feet. Grab the feet.” Connar yelled running after the dragon as it was taking off. Connar leapt into the air, grabbing one of the dragon’s toes. The other men attempted to do the same, but were too close for benefit of their armor and were scorched by a cloud of black flames. Their armor corroded and melted in a flash. Screams pierced the night.

  “No,” Connar cried out, hoping the spell had protected his brethren. Longvere, Kleine and Akidira were nowhere to be seen beneath the fallen tower, nor was there sign of Varrus, or Karl under the shroud of black smoke engulfing the castle. Connar steadily clung to the dragon, climbing up the dragon’s ankle, straddling with a steady grip as the dragon ascended. Below, he could make out the rest of the village...on fire, burning; screams echoing into the night. The dragon let out a whimper as it neared Mount Kitum.

  With a harsh rumble Connar watched below as the tower collapsed. He could only hope they had found their way out in time.

  Upon reaching Mt. Kitum, the dragon landed rough in the cavernous opening. Connar went flying from the dragon's ankle, slamming armor first into the side of the cave wall. The dragon landed sprawled out with a cry. Unable to move, the dragon's fire colored eyes blinked slowly. Connar stood cautiously, placing his hand on his sword while he limped his way to the dragon. Once he met it face to face, he dropped his hand from his sword. The blood dragon's eyes held a deep, dimming sadness. Heaving, Connar tossed off his helmet and slid down the wall nearest the dragon.

  “Why, why must you attack us?” Connar breathed heavy as he collapsed near the dragon, seeing the blood seeping from beneath his armor.

  The dragon turned his eyes toward him.

  “Why, why must you attack us?” The dragon beckoned in return.

  “You speak?” Connar coughed, blood burning up his throat. The dragon whimpered once more, shutting its eyes. Connar forced himself to stand, walking to the dragon, dripping crimson.
“Please, wait,” Connar coughed, as he leaned on the dragon's long snout.

  Now, legend has it that right here, Akidira, Longvere and Kleine showed up at the cave's entrance. They saw Connar on the dragon’s mouth, bleeding, and attacked the dragon.

  “No!” Connar held his hand up, but it was too late. Akidira cast a spell willing the dying dragon to perish from the Realm forever. If the spell worked, all who were killed by the dragon, including the Seven Saints, would rest peacefully in the afterlife and all remaining souls within the Realm’s walls would be granted immortality.

  Longvere and Klein wielded their swords and attacked. Their weapons sunk deep into the dragon’s scales, causing him to yelp with fierce pain.

  “No.” Connar bellowed once more, watching as the dragon took its last breaths. The dragon summoned one last bout of strength, swinging its spiked tail, slamming Akidira, Longvere and Klein into the cave wall, killing them on impact. Connar stumbled and fell in front of the dragon.

  “Why?” Connar begged.

  The dragon blinked its eyes open once more, looked at Connar and said, “If I do not stop you, dragons will cease to exist.”

  “Why do you attack us? Burn our villages?”

  “It is not you I attack, human. It is Akidira.”

  “Then why was Dragon's Den the one place never attacked in the village?”

  “She put a spell on her castle, protecting it. I could not harm it. I burned her village to draw her out, show her she is not safe. She, the slayer of dragons. I am the last of my kind because of her magic.”

  Dragon shut his eyes. Connar leaned his elbow against the dragon's snout, taking his last breaths.

  “I'm sorry, dragon.”

  “I'm sorry, human.”

  Connar was the only one of the Seven Saints not to die by the dragon, and is rumored to thus be the only soul bound to the spirit plane; walking the seventh sanctum for all eternity. The death of the last blood dragon brought forth immortality for those who survived, and peaceful rest for those who died by its vengeance. Whether or not this tale is true, is a debate amongst even the most scholarly.