Assassin: The Beginning Page 3

crept along the dark alleyways and side streets of upper Lisfort. The highlander much preferred working under the blanket of a new moon, however Melridge wanted the job done within twenty-four hours, giving Vyder no option but to complete his task in the dim light of the half-moon. He moved silently, his only weapon a small dagger hidden under his left forearm in a leather sheath. During the early hours of the morning, as the city slept, he expected to find no one. Not in the upper area of the city anyway. In lower Lisfort, beggars, whores, drunks and thieves keen on coin or murder or both, would still be freely roaming the streets. So he was surprised to hear the horse and carriage clopping and rattling towards him.

  Ducking down a narrow side street, he crouched in the darkness. The only part of him that moved was his eyes, always watching for a new threat. The carriage clattered along the cobblestone road, sweeping past his position. Vyder waited until the noise had disappeared before he moved forward again. Hugging shadow enshrouded buildings, he slipped by homes in which families slept blissfully unaware of the professional killer padding outside their front doors.

  As the half-moon descended towards the horizon, Vyder reached his target’s address. A large two storey building made out of neatly carved blocks of White Rock. White Rock was stronger than any steel, and only located in the mountain ranges of far eastern Lanorium. To have the product transported all the way to Lisfort displayed the incredible wealth of Melridge’s son.

  Vyder scanned the external walls of the house and noticed one window remained unshuttered. Quietly unsheathing the dagger, he emerged from the shadows, clenched the blade between his teeth, and began climbing. The White Rock blocks were butted together neatly, however the mortared joins were still large enough that finding toe and finger holds was easy. As he reached the halfway point, Vyder heard horses and the clatter of several carriages. He frowned at the oddity. Upper Lisfort was usually silent during the early hours of the morning. Rarely was there any activity. Remaining silent and still, he watched out the corner of his eye as a column of mounted guards escorted a large dual axel carriage. A royal guard. The king or someone directly linked to the king was travelling towards the distant palace. A strange time of day for a royal to be travelling. Each guard held a flaming torch over his head. The highlander cursed silently, hoping none of the soldiers thought to look up as they cantered along the cobbled road beneath him. With shaking fingers and burning legs, Vyder remained quiet, clinging to the vertical surface of the White Rock wall. Some of the horses snorted as they cantered, others nickered quietly, but the greatest noise was caused by the large wheels of the carriage as it rumbled along the road.

  If the noise awakened his target, the job would be more difficult to carry out, especially if Melridge’s son had wandered to the toilet, or ordered slaves out of bed to prepare him a meal. Worse, if the target leaned out the window above Vyder to watch the passing column, he would easily see the assassin clinging to the wall below him. Although he had been in far more dangerous situations, Vyder was concerned, willing for the royal column to pass.

  When the noise faded to silence, and with fatigued muscles, Vyder slowly proceeded with the climb, suppressing a groan as his legs threatened to cramp. Saliva dripped down the sides of his mouth, his teeth still clenching the knife. Finally reaching the window ledge, he pushed himself up, waited, watched, listened, and when he was happy, climbed inside the house. Crouching, the knife now in his right hand, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark room. Soft snoring could be heard from nearby. Slowly standing, Vyder’s eyes focused upon a faint four poster bed, fit for a king. He advanced silently, placing his feet carefully so as not to knock a cup, plate or bed pan that may have been left on the floor.

  Early in his career, the highlander had learned some hard lessons. Lessons that had almost killed him, and which he never again repeated. Tripping over a plate left on the floor had been one such. The noise had awakened the target who had groggily sat up, before blundering towards Vyder in a drunken charge, knife in hand. The blade had pierced his left flank, and would have plunged deeper had he not blocked the blow and twisted the knife from the inebriated man’s grip. A simple plate, innocently left on the floor. Not this time.

  The floor was also stone, meaning there was no creaking boards to worry about. Sheathing the razor sharp blade, which he would have used to silence any occupant of the house alerted to his presence, he approached the bed and stood quietly, looking around the dimly lit room. Many of the furnishings were hard to see, other than dark shapes hanging from the walls. A small table could be seen at the far end of the room, upon which stood what appeared to be a statue of a rearing horse. The door to the room, and Vyder’s main concern, was closed. That was a good thing.

  A fat, bald male was the sole occupant of the bed, his snoring putting the loudest war bugle to shame. The profile of the sleeping man fit the description given by Melridge. There was not much chance of a slave sleeping in such a richly furnished room on the upper level of the building. Nor would any slave be of such an overweight demeanour.

  Chances were that the sleeping man was Melridge’s son. If Vyder was mistaken, he could always return later to rectify the problem. Kneeling on the bed, Vyder dragged his target from the bed. Groaning from sleep, the fat man hit the ground hard.

  “What is the meaning…” he began, but was silenced as the highlander lifted the heavy man to his feet. Before his target had a chance to speak again, Vyder clasped a handful of his night gown and pushed him towards the window. With a high pitched shriek, Melridge’s son struggled against Vyder, but the highlander was stronger, sending his target sailing out the window. A moment later there was the sickening thud as soft flesh met cobbled stone.

  “Nearly put my bloody shoulder out,” whispered Vyder stretching his arms and cursing.

  Before any slaves or inquisitive neighbours came to investigate, Vyder ducked out over the window sill and began his descent. The climb down was much faster and with no royal column to halt his withdrawal, his boots were on the ground before he knew it. Striding away, he cast one glance at the supine form nearby, the dark smear of blood spreading onto the road beneath the target’s skull. With no indication of breath sounds or movement, the highlander was confident his task was complete. Melting back into the shadows, he moved away silently, heading towards The Old Derry.

  “You killed my son!” screamed Melridge, inconsolable.

  “My lord, you not only asked, but paid me to do it!” growled Vyder, his dark eyes glittering with as much bewilderment as fury.

  “I know, it’s just that…” Melridge shook his head and sobbed before burying his nose into a silk handkerchief. The noise that followed was truly horrendous. Vyder clenched his fist and looked away.

  “Get a damned hold of yourself,” Vyder snapped, standing and lifting the heavy bag of coins from the table. “He killed your bloody wife! His own mother!”

  Those words seem to help the distraught Melridge, a resolve entering his eyes. “Aye,” he nodded. “Of course he did. Forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive, my lord,” the highlander responded. He excused himself and had Melridge’s slave show him out.

  “Wait!”

  The word brought Vyder to a halt as he was about to stride through the entrance out onto the street beyond. Lord Melridge waddled in double time to catch up with him, breathless when he arrived. “Do not tell anyone of what has happened here!” he ordered, wiping the silk handkerchief across his nose.

  “Melridge,” spoke Vyder in a stern tone as he turned to face the lord. “Do you take me for a court jester? Some king’s storyteller perhaps? A kingdom’s saga poet?” The highlander patted the hidden pouch of coin tucked into his belt. “I am an assassin,” he hissed, stepping closer to the obese man. “I will not utter a word to the starving slaves living in the rotten tent city they call home south of Lisfort, let alone the king himself.” Vyder towered over the lord. “What do you take me for?”

  Melridge stumbled over a few words, his
fat chin quivering as he tried to get a word out.

  “A fool?” asked the highlander.

  “No!” Melridge pretended to act slighted. “Of course not. No, no, of course not.”

  “Then why bloody ask?” snarled Vyder, his black, piercing eyes searching the lord’s face.

  “No reason, no, I just thought I’d ask, in case, you know, in case.” Melridge fell silent. Standing on the threshold of his home, a place he rarely stood, the lord was now in Vyder’s realm, the world of the unknown, where a sharp knife, or a blunt, rusty makeshift blade could come out of the dark.

  “You thought wrong,” muttered Vyder. “My lord,” he added over his shoulder as he marched away.

  Later at The Old Derry, Vyder finished his drink and placed the cup on the hardwood table, listening to the saga poet as he sang of heroes slaying dragons, great warriors defeating demons and battle kings destroying evil armies. The tales were well told, but they were filled with false glory, polished armour and bright, cloudless skies where only the evil died. Absent was the stench of pierced bowels, the scream of wounded men, moans of soldiers soon to be dead and pleads of women and children. Vyder observed that Saga poets did not sing of the women and