|
Written by Arcahan | ||
|
Chapter XVIII A dagger for hire Hollow hoots of nocturnal birds and endless chirping of crickets mixed with muffled sounds of chatting, eating and drinking coming from the inn. The courtyard was illuminated only by a couple of lanterns that shed their stable, yellow glow into the darkness. Every now and then the inn's door opened, flooding the otherwise shadowy porch with the warm light of the dining room. The customers were leaving the inn in pairs or in little groups, each family was heading back for their farms. Although this region farmed and frequently traveled, it was not exactly densely populated. There were many dangers lurking in these dark forests, yet still the farmers dared to walk these roads after nightfall. Although they were no warriors, they were survivors. They knew how to fight, how to protect, how to hold their own against whatever hazards this land might bring upon them… For good or bad, they had made this land their own. All this passed through Aryn's mind as he leaned against the porch's railing and watched the dark courtyard. The dark shape of Raven moved around her wagon a little distance away, the woman was taking care of her hawks and biruburu. On the ground, right under Aryn's nose, the inn's shaggy dog yawned and took a better sleeping position. The footsteps were almost hidden under the noises of the inn, but Aryn had known to expect them. Without turning, he said quietly: "Hi, girl." The answer came a moment later: "Hi." Sighing, Nina moved next to the protector and leaned against the rail. "Aryn…" "Hm?" There was a long pause before Nina continued: "Remember that fight on that ledge? That duel you had with that black-winged assassin?" Silence. Crickets chirped. "Yeah." "Why are black wings such an evil mark? Why everyone bearing them have to be haunted by evil?" Aryn said nothing. Slowly he hid his hand into his sleeve and drew out a long ribbon, made of the finest blue silk. Nina watched as he absently knotted and twined the band in his fingers. Then her eyes moved along his sleeves and up to his face. Aryn's profile could be seen easily in the light pouring out from the inn's windows. His light-brown hair was still tied into that familiar, slightly shaggy ponytail. Though his features were as sharp as always, there was a new feeling of age about him, as if he had grown several years older within a week. With the bruise on his temple healed and disappeared, the bodyguard had discarded his bandanna. However, there was long scar marking the place where Jei Adamanto's naginata had drawn a crimson line into his cheek. Aryn had also changed his costume. His dark-blue shirt had been replaced by a deep-green tunic with a hood and brown leather trimmings. His sleeves, however, were still wide as always and Nina guessed that there still were countless daggers hidden under those clothes. He has changed. He still feels the same, but he has changed. "Aryn?" The bodyguard did not look up from his ribbon. "Hm?" "Were you really an assassin?" Aryn sighed and lowered his gaze. At the bottom of his mind he had hoped that the girl would have forgotten that painful secret of his past, but then again… After all they had experienced together, he thought that the girl had the right to know. "It's not a beautiful story", he finally said, "but I'll tell it to you, if you wish. Just promise me one thing." He looked up at Nina, his green eyes glimmering in the yellow glow. She has the right to know. "Listen to me before you judge." There was a surprising, unexpected urgency in his words. The bodyguard watched Nina carefully, not moving an inch from his position. Her next word, she realized, would be decisive for Aryn. She swallowed. "I promise." Aryn nodded and turned his gaze at the star-lit sky. For a long time he just stared at that eternal blackness, thinking about what to say, where to begin. Then he clenched the blue ribbon into his fist. "Listen carefully, girl. I don't want to tell this for a second time." * * * * My name is Aryn. Aryn Seaholt. Son of a human mother and a half-Woran father. My mixed blood has often caused me troubles. Every boy and girl of my age, even my best friend, Wolfmund, teased me because of my funny ears. My mother, an innkeeper, had wished for a daughter to help her at the houseworks. That's how I learned things like cooking and sewing… But that's not important. All the boys laughed at my household lessons, they laughed at my ears and my dream to be a great warrior. Yeah, just like almost every boy at my age, I, too, dreamed of mighty battles and high adventure. I got my chance when the legendary master of the Path of the Silver Dragon, Pooka O'Silver, happened to pass through my village. With an incredible stroke of luck I became his apprentice. Being a discipline of a swordsmaster is a tough job. Back then my head was hard like stone and Pooka was a strict teacher. If I was too stiff-necked to learn something -- a frequent feature of mine during those years -- he would almost literally hammer it into my head. He was patient in his own way, yet he could also be a ruthless tyrant. It was for my own good, I understand that now. Back then, I didn't. During my apprenticeship under Master Pooka, I was quickly disillusioned with the way our lessons proceeded. Instead of spending all of our time training me for battle, Pooka would often just talk… Talk for hours about how a warrior should know when to draw sword and when not, when to spill blood and when to let it peacefully flow in its veins. He also taught me about how to choose my own path, how to make my own decisions. Now, years later, I understand how important those lessons were. Back then, I didn't. I wanted to learn how to fight. I wanted to learn how to kill so that I could defend others, so that I could deal justice against evil. It's not a wonder that we often had disputes. Nasty disputes. I often made Pooka angry. And when he gets pissed, you would do well to run for shelter. After one especially fierce quarrel I had enough. I would find my own way, I decided with the hot-headed determination of my youth, and told my Master so… * * * * "I was hoping that you would be smarter than that, Ears", Pooka O'Silver said calmly, without turning at his apprentice. The swordsmaster was sitting on a tree stump on the bank of a quietly rippling brook. In his hands he held his silver flute, its beautiful, lonely melody had been interrupted just a moment ago by the appearance of Pooka's pupil. "What are you saying, 'Master'?!" exclaimed Aryn, who was standing a few meters behind Pooka. The young man's stature was proud, his backbone was straight and stiff like a spear held by a soldier performing his duty before the castle of his liege. "You always told me make my own decisions! This is the first one!" "Idiot", came Pooka's cold judgement. Still the swordsmaster refused to look at his pupil. "You are still in training. You are not yet ready to such things. Aye, I advised you to take responsibility and make your own way, but I also advised you to use your brains when doing so! You are a sore failure at that part." He paused for long enough to let out a quiet chuckle, a joyless, sarcastic and mocking chuckle. "Do not even try to hit me, Ears. Remember the last time you attempted that… or should I say… last times?" Aryn halted just when he had been about to put his plan into action. Even a memory of flying -- once again -- into the chilling waters of the mountain brook was enough to make him lower his scabbard-covered short sword. Gritting his teeth, he finally hissed: "I've learned enough from you. From this point on, I'll find my own way!" "Immature brat, finding his own way in the world…" Pooka snorted. "You remind me of a certain fool I once knew." Years later, Pooka revealed that he had been talking about himself. "Well, if you deny me, I can do very little to stop you." The swordmaster kept a considering pause, then added ominously: "Except for beating you into a bloody pulp." A sigh. Not that mocking sigh Pooka used so often, but… more like a… submissive one. Never, ever, had Aryn heard such a noise passing from Pooka O'Silver's lips. "But that would not do any good with you, would it? Stiff-necked loghead…" Suddenly Pooka whirled around on the tree stump, so quickly that the hems of his long coat fluttered. The swordmaster stuck his free hand under his coat and drew out something, tossing it into his pupil's hands with the same move. It was a dagger. A beautiful, silver dagger in its black sheath. Its pommel had been carved into the shape of a silver dragon's head, with drops of gold serving as its eyes. "It's called Swallow", Pooka said coldly. "And I'm giving it to you. See it as a… parting gift. It can cut through many things, even stone or magic shields. But its blade is still innocent: it has never drawn blood yet. I'll give you my permission to wield it, to take away its innocence, its purity, its goodness… with one condition." As the swordmaster looked up, his wolfish eyes glimmered, they held such a power that it felt like Aryn would have been nailed to ground with invisible metal stakes. "Before you draw it, answer this question…" * * * * "When you do have the right to use it?" It was an absurd riddle. So absurd that even I knew that there was something behind it. Something that I should not… must not… fail to answer. Somehow, I knew that if I answered that question wrong, I could never use that beautiful weapon my Master gave me… So, I never drew that weapon to do battle. Thinking these thoughts, I went out to the harsh world. It was too harsh for a dreamer like me. Actually, it was so harsh that I had to kill my own feelings in order to survive there. How the future Champion of Good fell down, going down in the ranks, stooping low enough to start killing for money, it's a long and ugly story, and it's not that important anyway. What is important, however, is that before I even knew it, I became an assassin. A hired knife, give me the coin and I shall give your target his fate. Perhaps I thought that the world was such an evil place, that the dark, evil people living there, the sin-doers, they all deserved to die. And I would be the one to do the job. I don't know. Not that it matters now. Anyway, I was a good one. I was fast and silent. I had talents for the job. Those talents opened me a way to the elite killers: the dreaded Shadow Society. I passed the initialization and became Paws, a promising Third Circle cutthroat under a First Circle tutor… known only as Miss Shade. It was Miss Shade who taught me the dagger techniques I use even today, it was she who taught me to throw knives, to pass without a sound and a trace. Pooka O'Silver had taught me how to fight. Miss Shade taught me how to kill. And my partner… My partner taught me how to hate. Take a guess who he was. We were rivals right from the beginning. Both of us knew that one day, should the iron-strict rules of the Society weaken even for an inch, we would meet each other in a duel to the death. Yeah. My partner was Jei Adamanto. We learned the art together. We fought, we moved in the shadows, we killed when the coins fell to the table. No hesitation when the dagger slides into the back of the target. No tears shed afterwards. That's the way of an assassin. As I've said, I was talented at the job. I was a good one. Until one contract spelled my downfall. I was hired to murder a noblewoman. It had had something to do with a feud inside the family, something about the head of the family being fatally ill and the question of his successor. I do not remember, by this time I had already grown disinterested in why people wanted someone dead. All I cared about was getting in alive, doing my job, and getting out alive. Just I had expected, I got in alright and I found my target pretty easily. What I had not expected was who… or rather, what she was… * * * * Black like a demon of darkness, silent as a stalking cat, the assassin slid into the room. His moss-green eyes, the only feature visible under his dark scarf, gleamed in the silvery moonlight that poured from an open window. That same light also played over the long, golden hair of his prey, giving those honey-colored locks an almost unearthly glow. The assassin narrowed his eyes. This was something he had not anticipated. Cuddled up into her soft, snow-white blankets, there was a young girl, a beautiful, innocent young girl. Her angel-like face was sweetened even further as her lips curled up a little, she smiled at something adorable or funny in her dreams. Little did she know that she was also smiling at her death. The assassin lifted his dark dagger, black as the night in his heart. Expected or unexpected, a contract was a contract and the Rule and the Law of the Shadows had their absolute demands. His hand moved almost by itself, gently pressing the dagger over the young girl's throat and -- after the tiniest moment of hesitation -- slit. The strike was perfect. She was gone immediately. The once so white sheets turned red within less than a moment. * * * * I killed her! Coldly, just like that! Pressed my dagger against her little throat and slit! What kind of worm can do such a thing! And what was worse… I didn't even think about it! I killed a little child, full of promise and an entire life before her, and I didn't even care! To me, it was just a contract among others, a job to be done without questions. Later, that little girl gave me her revenge. A couple of weeks later, I found my thoughts returning to that child. How I had taken her life, coldly like some sort of Highlanderian machine. How I had used that dagger, how I had smiled seeing her life flowing out from her veins… I'm not talking about a sudden enlightenment they sing about in the bard's tales. The real thing is not so sudden or so noble, it's worse…a lot worse. It creeps on you like an assassin at night. Slowly but steadily, it poisons your veins, your heart, your very thoughts… Soon, I began to find out that I no longer was so good at my work. The silent steps I took, they were no longer so quiet, the deadly daggers I hurled, they no longer hit their targets so often… When conscience assaults you, you soon find out that you no longer are as good as you thought. You're not the fastest, you're not the strongest, you're not the best… Gradually, yet firmly, you start moving down the ranks. Descending, descending, always towards the bottom. I had killed that child. Doing so, I had allowed her to kill my heart as an assassin. When I realized this, I knew that it was the time for me to quit. This, however, posed yet another problem for me: nobody betrays the Shadow Society and lives to tell the tale. For who would be better at tracking down and eliminating traitors than a Guild of Assassins? Even the best of the runaways last only a few years at tops. My salvation was the contact I had acquired during my career as an assassin. We had helped each other several times already, I had killed for him and he had given me information I needed to get close to my targets. We were close allies. Actually, we were so close that I had already begun to seek for his help every time I didn't know what to do. His name was Essar Shoo. Together, with the help of his innumerable contacts, we set up an illusion. We framed the death of the Second Circle assassin, Paws. As usual with Essar, it worked perfectly! Everyone back in the Guild thought that I was dead, so nobody came after me as I ran away. Essar had saved my life and I would be forever in debt for that. But still, I had yet to find salvation for my soul, to redeem the sins I had done… You will never believe who offered that salvation. * * * * Over three fourths of the potent contents of the green glass bottle had been drained. It was the young man's personal record, carped the small, still clear part of his mind. Yet that accusing voice in his head was quiet and distant, echoing through the dulling mists of alcohol, too weak to have any kind of effect. Aryn had never been one to develop a taste for strong drinks. Bad memories of the drunken behavior of a certain swordsman back home were usually enough to keep his hands off a bottle's neck. But now, he was in a sore need of something, anything, to keep himself from thinking about what he had done. It did not work. The girl's face, stained with red, was still there. Actually, it felt like alcohol had only boosted the frightfulness of that sight into new, almost sick aspects. A bad feeling had permanently made its lair into the bottom of his stomach. Life stunk. Curse the world, curse the little girls, the assassins, blood, blades, pain, shadows, poisons, filthy coins, stupid swordsmasters, curse them all. The world was filled with muddy people, going about their even muddier business, little caring for anything else than their own bellies and dry throats… And he, Aryn thought bitterly as his hand uneasily attempted to reach for the bottle, he was the worst, muddiest, dirtiest, doziest, most dishonorable curr and the coarsest, lowest bastard of them all. That hand, yes, that very same had that had finally managed to find the right bottle and -- shaking heavily -- attempted to pour more of its contents into a glass, that very same hand had wielded a dagger that had killed, slain, murdered, slaughtered, butchered, by gods, who knows what it had done at his command?! How on earth he had gotten himself into such a situation. It was… it was unreal. What if -- Aryn's bumbling thoughts were ruthlessly interrupted as a strong hand grabbed his hair and slammed his forehead painfully against the tavern counter. Bottles and jugs flew, shattering into countless of glimmering shards of glass, their contents spilling everywhere on the floor. "W-w-whatzzyou?" Aryn mumbled, his numb hands attempting to dislodge the fingers that had clenched firmly around his hair. He winced as his head was jerked upwards and forced to turn, moving his field of vision until his bleary eyes locked into those of his attacker. Those golden eyes seethed, almost glowed with the heat of anger. "Stupid pupil", Pooka O'Silver hissed through clenched teeth. "Happy now? You leave me with all those proud thoughts in your head, and I find you like this! How many did you kill?" Aryn's attempt to blurt out some sort of answer was mercilessly interrupted as Pooka slammed the younger man's forehead against the table for a second time. Then the swordsmaster yanked at his hair, sending him stumbling to the hard floor. "Idiot! Get up." Aryn was too slow for Pooka's tastes. But then again, when Pooka O'Silver is angry, even a bolt of lightning would be too slow for his tastes. "I said, get up!" he hissed, grabbing the younger man by the collar of his shirt and half carried, half dragged him across the floor, towards the tavern's front door. The dumbfounded tavern keeper was silenced with a single, ferocious glare from those golden eyes. Aryn struggled against this harsh treatment he received from his former master, but his attempts yielded him nothing. Even a stone-cold sober Aryn could not match the swordsmaster, what could a drunken Aryn hope for? The next minutes were cold and wet hell for Aryn as Pooka picked up the quickest method to wash some sense into the young man. He almost drowned his pupil into a barrel full of rainwater, yanking Aryn's head up for a quick breath of air and then slamming it back underwater for several times. After several moments and an entire painful eternity the torture finally ended as Pooka drew his pupil's head out from the barrel for the last time and growled into his furry ear: "You're clear already, loghead?" Sputtering water from his mouth, it took several moments before Aryn could stammer a reply: "Y-Yeah." Suddenly finding himself without Pooka's support, he faltered and stumbled against the barrel. "Good. Here", the swordsmaster tossed a white rag into his pupil's face. "Dry yourself." His eyes gleamed, cold and hard, as he quietly added: "We need to talk, Ears." * * * * "You think I'm too harsh on you? You think it's wrong for me to be angry with you? Hmph. See it from this point: I have the right to be angry with myself. Ears, what you have been doing with your life, it's my mistake. Aye. When you left me, only half-prepared to face the bloody world of warriors, it was my mistake that I didn't stop you. I should've seen that anger in your soul. The anger that led you to that path… path of an assassin." … "Listen to me, Aryn! Look at me! Darn it, loghead, I'm trying to help you here!" … "It was my mistake to allow you to go. A master's responsibility is to look after his pupils. Looks like I, too, still have plenty to learn. Even a brilliancy such as myself has to fail sometimes. I hoped that the question of that dagger would help to keep you in the right road. Seems like I was wrong…" … "You still have that dagger? Have you drawn it?" … "No? It's still a virgin? Good. That's a sign of the real spirit. Maybe you still have some hope… We need to find you something to do… Something to good to do. We need to hone that soot from your blade, make it shining again." … "Never mind, kid. You don't have to understand what that meant. Come. We have work to do." * * * * The best move against an assassin is to hire a better assassin. It's an old saying in the Streets and among those who have a reason to fear for a blade coming for them from the shadows. For who would know better the methods and tricks of assassins than an accomplished assassin himself? I had been good at that work. I could use that knowledge for another, better purpose. So, I picked up my daggers again. But this time, I wielded them against the shadows themselves. I became a professional protector. I killed so that others could live. It wasn't easy work, nor was it beautiful to watch, but I -- I think it was better to kill the killer than the victim. Perhaps, I thought, each life I saved could give me a spec of redemption, each person I rescued could help me to apologize to those whose lives I had taken. No, I'll probably never be forgiven completely, but at least I could pay some of it back. As the weeks turned into months and months turned into years, I slowly, gradually, began to feel better. Life… it began to taste like life again. One day, I happened to be in the city of Windia. I received a note that the King himself wished to hire me for some sort of work. When the royalty sends for you, what can a lowly peasant breed such as myself do? I accepted the invitation and the King explained me that he wanted me to take his daughter away from Windia. It sounded like an ordinary job, alright, at least until I saw the girl I was supposed to protect. What a shock. It was as if a ghost had set her eyes upon me. At first, I was sure of it, the phantom was back, ready to haunt me once again. That girl, the daughter of King Kenny Windia, looked just like the one I had killed so long time ago! The resemblance was eerie, uncanny… That princess could have been that girl's twin sister! A coincidence? A cruel twist of fate? A soul reborn? I don't know. After the first shock had passed, I finally could see that there were many differences between Nina Windia and that other girl, but still, every time I set my eyes upon that princess, that crimson image reappeared into my mind… This was my chance, I realized. Perhaps… Perhaps by saving this girl from her dark fate, perhaps the ghost of that another girl would finally see that I am sorry… perhaps I could finally forgive myself of that murder… I had to try it. I wanted to save her… and her to save me… If she only would allow me to do it. That's all I want… …to help her… * * * * "…To help her…" Aryn repeated, tying the silken ribbon into a large knot and then unraveling it, careful not to crinkle or tear the beautiful, soft fabric. During this entire story, the bodyguard had not thrown a single glance in the direction of Nina. The Windian girl, on her part, had not moved even an inch or let out so much as a whisper. Now, however, a little sigh escaped her lips. A dark shape of a cloud had glided over the nighttime sky, hiding the stars from sight and diminishing silver light of the moon into a pale glow. The sounds of the inn were quieting down as the last customers were preparing to leave. Those who had decided to stay for the night rattled in the stairs, heading for their sleeping chambers. Without so much as a word, Nina lowered her head, turned and walked inside, her footsteps echoing softly in the porch. Again, Aryn thought, yet another chip of innocence falls from her soul… Some bodyguard I am. The protector was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the approach of yet another set of feet. He flinched as a new voice came from surprisingly close to him: "Er… You are Aryn Seaholt, right?" Aryn whirled around and narrowed his eyes, attempting to see the features of the man standing in shadows nearby. "Who's there?" "Oh, forgive me", the man answered and stepped forward, into the light coming from the inn's window. "My name is Louis Yoji. I teach magic to Miss Nina. Pleased to meet you." A little smile lit Aryn's edged features. "Pleasure's mine. So she's still tinkering with magic, eh? Oh well, I think she's pretty good at it. She deserves a better teacher than someone who knows only two spells." Yoji answered Aryn's smile and nodded. "Yes, she does have talents for it. We are currently heading for Hometown's Great School of Magic." Aryn lifted one eyebrow. "Hmm…" he muttered, "so she's finally decided where to go. That's good to hear, Master Yoji." "So, Mr. Seaholt", Master Yoji said after a moment, "I take it we shall be -- uh -- traveling together from now on?" Aryn shrugged and leaned his elbows against the porch's rail. "I don't know. It's something for the girl to decide. I'll come with you if she accepts it, but if not…" He shrugged again. "Oh well, it's up to her."
Previous: Chapter XVII
|
