Assassin: The Beginning Read online

  “I’ll kill you for that!” roared the man, advancing into a left jab followed by a right hook. He went down like a sack of dung and did not move.

  “Now!” shouted Vyder Ironstone. “Do any of you other foresters want to pick a fight?”

  Vyder was a highlander, originally hailing from the great highland city of Stormbora, which was Shadol’s capital. His unkempt, messy brown hair reached half way down his back. A vivid, deep white scar ran beneath his left eye to his chin from a battle more than a decade past. Even beneath his thick beard, the scar was visible. The enemy’s sword would have taken his eye had he not slipped in the mud at that fateful moment. Vyder’s black eyes scoured the tavern in expectation of a challenger. His question was answered with a still silence, his intense stare not reciprocated by anyone he fixed his gaze upon.

  The foresters had ridden into Wendurlund’s capital city of Lisfort at the beginning of winter. Following endless work during the nine months prior to the first snowfall, they brought with them plenty of coin. They also carried bad attitudes, poor manners, and a thirst for women. Some of them also coveted violence. The man at Vyder’s feet was one such. Deliberately knocking over Vyder’s ale before picking up the piece of thick, succulent beef that Vyder had been eating, he had pushed the steak into his mouth, a look of mirth lining his face. That was how the fight started.

  “Good! If it’s alright with you, I’m going to finish my bloody dinner!”

  Slowly, the silence of the tavern dissipated as people returned to their conversations. The ensemble standing on the small stage at the front of the room recommenced their music and songs. Vyder took his seat, leaned down and picked up what was left of his steak from the unconscious man’s chest. Dusting it off, he slapped it onto his plate and resumed eating.

  “With thanks,” the serving maid, a young woman by the name of Breena placed a fresh mug of ale in front of Vyder and winked at him. She had long, curly dark hair, bright blue eyes, soft skin and an ample cleavage Vyder found hard to ignore.

  Giving a lopsided grin, Vyder winked back at Breena. He knew the ale had been provided by the tavern owner, Jon Bartin, probably thanking him for taking care of a particularly unruly customer. The Old Derry was Vyder’s favourite tavern. He frequented it most days, but disliked the winter months, especially when the foresters visited.

  Some winters, the foresters would venture east to the city of Vendborg or north to Gatewall, but every second or third year they appeared in Lisfort, always bringing trouble with them. Forestry, of course, was paramount, as there was always a need for timber. That in itself made them bold, as no matter how they treated or mistreated the local inhabitants, they would always have a secure job to which to return.

  “I thank you,” said a deep voice. Vyder glanced up to see Jon Bartin ease himself into the chair opposite. He was drying his hands on a small towel, which he threw over his shoulder once finished.

  Vyder shrugged. “No problem. He started it,” he said, nudging the unconscious man with his foot. “I’d prefer not to fight, but no one touches my damn steak!”

  Jon, a rotund, balding man, clean shaven with watery green eyes chuckled. “Aye, it is a good steak even if I say so myself.”

  Vyder grunted in agreement as he chewed on the last piece of meat, mopped up a puddle of gravy with a roast potato and pushed the empty plate away. Washing the meal down with a gulp of ale, he belched loudly.

  “How goes work?” asked Jon, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  Vyder looked at the barkeep and shrugged. “There’s always a need for people like me. Some lord or lady has enemies plotting against them. It’s amazing how much one will pay to make a wrong right.”

  Jon knew Vyder Ironstone was an assassin. Although Vyder never caused trouble at The Old Derry, Jon always felt nervous when he saw the tall highlander stride in. The man carried about him an air of violence, like a volcano about to erupt at any moment.

  “I’ll gut you like a fish for that you Shadolian bastard,” muttered a voice.

  Vyder looked up at the man who had moments ago been lying unconscious. He was swaying on his feet, blood streaming from the side of his mouth.

  Vyder turned to Jon. “You might like to excuse me. I think my forester friend here would like to discuss something with me privately.” Needing no second invitation, the barkeep departed swiftly.

  Pushing his chair back, Vyder stood, towering over the aggressor. “I want no trouble here,” he said.

  “Too late for that highlander.” A knife appeared in the man’s hand.

  “It’s never too late,” said Vyder. Those standing nearby had seen what was taking place and pushed back away from the pair.

  “Kill ‘im Brokk!” yelled one forester.

  “Oh, I intend to!” shouted Brokk, grinning, the wicked sharp knife in his hand glinting in the light thrown from the huge fireplaces at each end of the tavern.

  “I’m giving you a chance here. I want no fight, but if you come at me, I will be forced to kill you.”

  “You hear that boys?” Brokk asked mockingly. “He’s going to kill me!” The men nearby roared with laughter.

  Once again the music fell silent. Those patrons who had arrived for a quiet ale were leaving in groups, occasionally throwing nervous glances towards the altercation.

  “I just want to drink in peace. I’ll buy you a meal and ale, but all I ask for both our sakes is that you leave me alone,” Vyder said gesturing to the bar.

  “Why? Scared are ya?”

  “No,” replied Vyder, “I like this tavern. I don’t want trouble for the owner’s sake.”

  “Like I said before Shadolian, it’s too late!”

  Brokk lunged forward, stabbing the knife towards Vyder’s face. The highlander took a step back, slapped the weapon away and back handed the assailant.

  “That’s your first and final warning,” Vyder growled.

  Brokk rubbed his jaw, the room falling silent.

  Brokk looked around the room. “Bastard!” he roared, charging once again at Vyder.

  Vyder clasped his knife hand and twisted the weapon out of his grip, the blade clattering to the wooden floor. Dragging Brokk into a savage head-butt the highlander threw the man from him. Brokk landed heavily, blood now oozing from his nose. He remained silent and still. Reaching behind him, Vyder drew a double edged knife the size of a man’s arm.

  “You foresters should leave now before I start gutting you one by one,” snarled Vyder, his black eyes glinting with fury.

  “You can’t beat us all!” shouted one, pushing to the front of the group.

  “No,” replied Vyder, dragging the man forward by his shirt until the knife pressed against the skin of his throat. “But I can take a few of you with me, and you’ll be the first to die, boyo,” the highlander snarled.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” said the forester.

  “Don’t tempt me you little bastard,” growled Vyder, pressing the sharp metal against soft skin and drawing a trickle of blood.

  “Okay boys,” said the forester as Vyder’s knife pressed hard against his throat. “Let’s be goin’ now. We don’t want no trouble now, do we?”

  Moments passed before the foresters began to depart in groups, grumbling amongst themselves. Some of them shouted curses or threats at Vyder as they left. When the majority had made their exit, Vyder threw the man from him.

  “Take him with you,” the highlander said, nodding towards the unconscious Brokk lying prone on the floor.

  The remaining three men dragged Brokk out of the tavern leaving a faint trail of blood behind.

  “I’m sorry for the trouble lass,” said Vyder as Breena knelt to clean up the mess, a wooden pail of water beside her, scrubbing brush i
n hand.

  “Would have been a lot worse if you weren’t here,” she smiled.

  “Aye, perhaps,” said Vyder, sitting once more and taking a gulp of beer. “Perhaps,” he replied as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Hesitantly, the musicians again recommenced their song, for the benefit of the few die hard drinkers left in The Old Derry.

  “I’d pay you handsomely to be a guard here whilst the foresters are in town, you know,” said Jon, resuming his seat opposite the highlander.

  Vyder shrugged.

  “What say you?”

  “No,” said Vyder. “I am paid handsomely enough, my friend.”

  “If you are paid so well, why do you drink at The Old Derry? There are plenty of very rich establishments on the north side of the city.”

  “I might be paid by the rich, but it doesn’t mean I want to mix with them. Rich people are the most conniving, cunning and two-faced people you are ever likely to meet. People who swear more are often more truthful. Did you know that?”

  “I confess that I did not,” replied Jon.

  Vyder shrugged again. “In my experience, it is often true. Not many rich people swear.”

  Pushing a copper coin towards Jon, Vyder leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking in protest. “One more ale,” the highlander grinned.

  Vyder awoke with a thundering headache. Groaning, he sat up, realising he was still fully clothed. One more ale had turned into a dozen more ales. Standing, he swayed on his feet, stretched and yawned. Throwing open the shutters of his bedroom window, he swore