Assassin: The Beginning Page 5

at once, a primitive but effective force multiplier. Two guards armed with a blunderbuss could hold off five times their number for a short time, allowing the monarch and his family to prepare for a final fight, hide or flee.

  The snipers outside were able to pick off enemy from a great distance. If they were skilled, they could reload the musket and fire a well-aimed shot four times per minute, until they were eventually overrun and the enemy flooded into the enclosed corridor where snipers were next to useless.

  Vyder was made to wait for the remainder of the morning and the best part of the afternoon before the king chose to see him. Swinging on mighty hinges, the doors were pulled back by the guards allowing entrance into the throne room. As the highlander entered, he was beyond impressed with the sheer might of the room. Giant marble pillars reached to the Brygant crystal ceiling. Upon their flanks, etched in pure gold were mighty serpents, wrapping their bodies around the pillars. Tapestries as tall as two-storey houses lined the walls, depicting past kings, queens and famous battles. The marble floor leading to the throne itself was covered with a thick red carpet wide enough for two to walk side by side.

  “Shadolian!” roared the monarch when the group was still thirty paces from the throne. “I have not seen a highlander in many years! I have heard much about you.”

  When they were closer, Araxis whispered, “Kneel.”

  Vyder did so, bowing his head, before looking up at the king. The man was short, but well built. Trimmed, neat, golden hair framed a clean shaven face, piercing blue eyes staring at him above a wide mouth. A crooked nose suggested that he was a monarch not afraid to take up sword and shield. Over his chest, he wore a black tunic, emblazoned with the royal coat of arms etched in red silk, two wolves howling either side of a round shield. Loose fitting dark green leggings were tucked into black leather riding boots. The assassin was impressed to see dried mud flecked upon the boots.

  “Your highness,” said Araxis, standing, gesturing for Vyder to do the same. “May I present Vyder Ironstone.”

  King George looked Vyder up and down, clearly unimpressed by the unkempt man who stood before him, although the highlander was sure the monarch had not summoned him for a fashion contest.

  The king turned and paced along the dais upon which the throne proper was mounted. He looked thoughtful. Stopping midstride, he turned back to Vyder.

  “I require your services,” said the monarch.

  “Of course sire, how may I be of service?”

  “I need you to travel to Huron,” said the king beginning to pace once more. “Specifically Brencore, the capital.”

  Vyder was taken aback. That was a long journey, no, an enormous journey. “Sire, may I ask why?”

  “You may,” King George chuckled. “Of course you may, please forgive me.” The monarch walked back to stand before Vyder.

  “Nothing to forgive sire,” replied Vyder, bowing his head.

  “My son, Prince Henry, heir to the throne of Wendurlund has been captured by Huron soldiers,” said George, his voice more subdued, fists clenched by his side.

  The royal guards in the room stiffened, becoming uncomfortable.

  “May I ask how, my lord?” asked Vyder, Araxis shooting a warning glance at him.

  “He was hunting in the Likane Forest with a very small guard when he was ambushed by Huron soldiers and taken.”

  Vyder was silent as he processed the information. “Forgive me your Majesty, but how do you know this?”

  “When Henry failed to return after dusk, I personally rode out to the Likane forest with a royal guard. At a steady canter, we were there in less than two days. It took nearly two hours to find the bodies of the guards tasked with protecting my son. There was no sign of Henry, however a royal Huron seal had been pushed into the mouth of one of the guards.” King George’s voice wavered slightly, whether through grief or anger it was difficult to know. “We returned in the early hours of yesterday morning.”

  This made sense to Vyder. Clinging precariously upon the outside wall of the house belonging to Melridge’s son in the early hours of the morning, he realised that the royal column which had passed below him, must have been the king and his guard returning from Likane Forest.

  King George mistook Vyder’s silence for hesitance. “You will be paid handsomely highlander. In fact, you will never have to take on another mission after this. I will ensure you and yours will be taken care of for life.”

  “My apologies, sire, I was simply thinking about the task at hand. Of course I will undertake the mission.”

  “Good!” boomed King George, clapping his hands together, a weight visibly lifting from his shoulders. “Now follow me through to the war room so that we may talk of specific details. You three!” the monarch pointed at Araxis and the pair of guards behind him. “You will accompany me.”

  Later, back in his home, Miriam stood before him as he ate his dinner, hands on her hips.

  “So it’s just a simple matter of walking into the Huron palace and rescuing Prince Henry is it?” Miriam asked sarcastically.

  Vyder shrugged, pulling a piece of succulent chicken from the bone. “It seems that way,” he replied, the chicken melting in his mouth. “This is fit for a king,” he gestured at his plate.

  “You’ll get yourself killed, you will,” Miriam huffed, refilling his cup with apple cider mixed with water.

  The highlander took Miriam’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll be fine,” he smiled. “There’s always a way to do something. Always. It’ll take time to scout out the area, plan the mission and carry out the task, but it is not impossible. I’m always careful, you know that. I’m not just going to walk in there without a plan in mind,” he reassured his slave, who had become almost a mother figure to him.

  She nodded, but still seemed unconvinced.

  Later that evening, Vyder cleaned and re-oiled his musket, before loading the weapon. First pouring a fistful of black powder down the muzzle, followed by ten pieces of round lead, he used the ramrod to ram the shot home. Placing a waterproof leather cover over the muzzle, he sheathed the weapon. The blunderbuss would sit sheathed on his back in a custom made leather holster, muzzle facing upwards so that the shot did not fall clear of it, which would render it nothing more than an expensive club. The barrel would appear behind his right shoulder, so that he could clasp it with his right hand, pull the weapon clear and use it at short notice. The waterproof cover protecting the muzzle ensured rain or morning dew would not dampen the precious black powder.

  Cleaning, oiling and sharpening his sword, he sheathed the weapon in a deer horn scabbard. The sheath was a beautiful thing, gifted to him by his late father. Carved into the horn were two vines intricately interwoven together along its length. At the mouth of the scabbard were tiny highland runes spelling the name of the weapon belonging to the sheath.

  “Hunter,” Vyder whispered the name and gripped the pommel of the weapon in his hand. The same name was acid etched into the three foot pattern welded blade.

  Probably his most dangerous mission, Vyder was unsure if he would return. His surety earlier was for Miriam’s sake. He did not want her worrying for him. But as he sat alone in his small weapons room, he was not sure how successful he would be. However, it was a challenge, a great challenge, and regardless of his own misgivings, the highlander looked forward to departing.

  Once his weapons were cleaned, sharpened or loaded, he placed them away, before retiring to bed. Sleep was difficult.

  Before dawn, he ate breakfast, reassured Miriam once more and departed for the stable, where he saddled his mare Storm, a black horse with silver mane and tail. A beautiful animal. With large saddle bags bulging with provisions, he mounted Storm and walked the horse from the stable down the side of the house. Miriam waited for him at the door leading to the stable. She looked worried.

  Vyder forced a smile. “I’ll be fine Miriam. Thank you for breakfast. Please go back to bed and get some sleep. I’ll be back before you know it.”

&nb
sp; Eventually she nodded, waved, and closed the door.

  He felt good wearing all his weapons again. It had been awhile. He could feel the leather holster in which sat the blunderbuss pressing gently against the right side of his back. Hunter was sheathed on his left hip, and his knife sheathed on his right. The highlander’s round shield was slung on his back, fitting over the blunderbuss, but allowing him to still be able to draw the weapon easily.

  “Come on girl,” he whispered to Storm, nudging her into a canter, her hooves clattering along the cobblestone road leading to the stable behind him. As they trotted around to the front of Vyder’s house, the horse stopped suddenly taking several steps sideways in panic. There standing outside Vyder’s house stood a group of foresters. At the front of the group stood Brokk, his face badly bruised, but his eyes gleaming with fury and menace.

  “We got unfinished business Shadolian,” snarled Brokk.

  Vyder seemed unconcerned, returning the man’s glare. “Aye,” smiled the assassin. He dismounted, tying Storm to a lemon tree growing near the house. He stroked her neck, talking gently to the animal before turning back to Brokk. “We do.”

  “Knives only,” said the forester.

  Vyder left his shield, blunderbuss and sword on the ground near Storm, before unsheathing his knife. Grinning, he advanced towards the group of foresters. They were all armed.

  To be continued…

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  This is a dark day in Australia's history. This is terror, loneliness, starvation and adrenaline all mixed together in a sour cocktail. This is the day Australia fell.

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  Assassin

  Copyright © Keith McArdle 2013

  Keith McArdle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, are the work of the author’s imagination.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, adapted, altered, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

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