Spoiler
The Assassin’s Redemption
Chapter 1
Dracon rocked back on his heels as he caught the force of the attack with his blade. He glanced up, quickly scanning the scene. Five men surrounded him, swords brandished, his long knife locked within one of them. Taking a deep breath, he focused his thoughts, sending himself into the battle mode he trained so hard to achieve. Time slowed and his mind began racing, registering everything from the chinks in the men’s armors to the sweat beading down their faces. Compared to him, they looked like shiny metal giants. His midnight black hair slightly blocked the view of his eyes, which gazed intently at the soldiers, studying them for their next strike. He wore the traditional Assassin’s wear; black cloth, light and silent. Silence and stealth were the foundation of an assassin.
Dracon brought his boot down hard just above his opponent’s kneecap. The man’s leg buckled and he went crashing to the ground. Two others stepped forward to take his place, and Dracon rushed to meet them. He caught a descending sword with his knife, then spun, striking one of the men in the temple with his fist and knocking him unconscious. As the man fell to the ground, Dracon turned his attention to the next one, whose great battle axe swung dangerously towards the Assassin’s head.
He dispatched the last man with ease, and, seconds later, Dracon stood alone in the sparring circle. His attackers lay on the ground, two unconscious, one grasping his knee in pain, and the others trying unsuccessfully to get to their feet. Yet, he had hardly broken a sweat and was uninjured. Black pants rolled down his long legs, and an obsidian-colored tunic covered his chest. A hood hung unused on his back. His black leather boots were dusty from the training ground. It seemed pointless to wear black while the sun shone so high in the sky, but Assassins did. They hardly ever did any of their work during the day, and the clothes they wore could just as easily get them killed as keep them from being detected, so they trained in the clothing they would kill in.
Soldiers, he thought. They can never hold their own in a fight. Nonetheless, he would do the honorable thing. He stuck out his hand, helping one of the men to his feet. The soldier stood there for a moment looking at Dracon with a fearful gaze; then, testing his leg, he limped away.
His old master, the High Assassin Ramar, stood on the outskirts of the circle, a grin plastered on his wrinkled, ancient face. Clapping his hands together in a slow applause, the man walked forward to meet him.
“Well done, Master Renoir. Well done.”
“Thank you, master,” he replied, bowing. Ramar had been his master since he was ten, teaching him the ways of the Assassins. Seeing as he was the High Assassin, the Leader of the Order and protector of King Jairon, becoming his apprentice was an honor.
“Stop calling me master. You past outa my care eight years ago. You’re my First Lieutenant now, not my apprentice. Start acting like it.” Ramar slipped back into his native tongue. He could be formal when he wanted, but preferred to speak the way he’d grown up speaking.
“Yes, Ramar.” Ramar had been telling Dracon to not call him master for five years now, but he still did. Funny, he thought to himself, there was a time when he would have gotten a beating for calling his master by his first name. Now calling him Ramar just sounded unnatural.
As they spoke, the men passed out of the circle and through the crowd of boys that had formed to watch the fight. The training area was large, two hundred yards in length and width. It consisted of straw dummies, stuffed to the brink, and wooden red targets. The ground was a mixture of sand and gravel, worn down from all the feet that had trampled on it. Soldiers, squires, assassin’s apprentices, and Hopefuls fought hard around them, some hacking away at dummies and others sparring each other with wooden swords. Until they received rank, knighthood, or complete admittance to the Order, the boys weren’t allowed to use sharpened weapons. They were not even allowed metal weapons until they were deemed ready.
While Ramar and he walked, Dracon heard hard grunts and cries coming from his left and saw Katric, Ramar’s Second Lieutenant and Dracon’s rival, trying to impart some knowledge to a Hopeful through a beating.
Hopefuls were boys who wished to become apprentices but had yet to be accepted. It was different than becoming a page, because anyone could join, not just nobles. Their makeup though would beg to differ. There were only a few Hopefuls that didn’t have noble blood.
The boy tried unsuccessfully to defend himself.
“Knife up, boy! Keep your knife up!” Katric yelled. He brought his blade down with an overhead strike. The boy tried to block, only to have it knocked aside. A cut appeared just below his cheek, oozing dark red blood. Katric, wild and looking as if he was enjoying himself, did not hesitate, stepping in and striking the child in the gut with the hilt of his blade. The boy dropped to the ground as the air gushed out of him. “Get up, boy. You’ll never get into the Order if you can’t even take a hit. Stand up!” The Hopeful glanced at the two men, swollen, bruised eyes pleading for help.
What’s he doing? Dracon thought. He’s gonna kill the boy! Rage built inside him at the sight of what Katric was doing. His rival had always been a bully, but this was way too extreme.
The Hopeful still sat holding his side, pain evident on his face. As apprentices, the boys learned to endure pain, even torture, but this boy wasn’t ready for that yet.
“I don’t know why they brought you to me. You’re hopeless. Toughen up. If you don’t I’ll teach you to act like a child.” Katric attacked again, bringing his blade down to slice the boy’s ear. Dracon ran forward, own knife in hand, intercepting the blow.
“Excuse me, Master Katric, but I believe that the boy has had enough,” Dracon said through gritted teeth. They stood locked in silent combat, blades forcing against one another, neither one seeming to gain the upper hand. “That’s not your call, Dracon. I’ll decide when the boy’s had enough. I’m teaching him!” The malice and disgust theyhad for each other could almost be tasted in the air.
A loud “Mrrph!” sounded from where Ramar stood, interrupting the fight between the Assassins. Katric, just now seeing the man, broke away from Dracon, face flushed from the exertion and embarrassment.
“Master Ramar. I was just giving this lad a few lessons in our art,” Katric said boastingly.
“We can see that. But I don’t think you’re going to get much more out of the boy today,” Dracon butted in from behind him.
Katric gave him a harsh glare.
“I agree,” Ramar said.
“Oh!” Katric said, as if he was just now seeing the boy’s fatigue. “Yes, you may go. Be back here tomorrow.”
The boy gave Dracon a grateful look, and crawled off towards the Healer’s Tower. At Dracon’s insistence, two more boys ran to help him. Ramar turned and walked off towards the Assassin’s Tower. Dracon gave Katric one last disapproving look and turned to follow him.
There had been bad blood between Dracon and Katric since apprenticeship. They were opposites, yet each deadly in their own way. Where Dracon was merciful and thought things through before he did them, Katric was rash and preferred to make a show of killing, drawing it out to be painful and bloody. He had never understood what had possessed Ramar to make Katric one of his Lieutenants.
They were on the edge of the training area when Ramar spoke again.
“The Duke of Caldrea’s son is being knighted by the King tonight. Jairon will be needing protection. I want you and Katric there.”
“Very well, Ma… Ramar,” Dracon said, trying to hide his disdain. The parties were dull and full of rich, obnoxious people. Ramar stuck his nose in the air and sniffed.
“Go wash up. I don’t want you showing up to a party lookin’ like that.”
Dracon ran off, and Ramar watched him go, smiling and shaking his head.
***
Chapter 1
Dracon rocked back on his heels as he caught the force of the attack with his blade. He glanced up, quickly scanning the scene. Five men surrounded him, swords brandished, his long knife locked within one of them. Taking a deep breath, he focused his thoughts, sending himself into the battle mode he trained so hard to achieve. Time slowed and his mind began racing, registering everything from the chinks in the men’s armors to the sweat beading down their faces. Compared to him, they looked like shiny metal giants. His midnight black hair slightly blocked the view of his eyes, which gazed intently at the soldiers, studying them for their next strike. He wore the traditional Assassin’s wear; black cloth, light and silent. Silence and stealth were the foundation of an assassin.
Dracon brought his boot down hard just above his opponent’s kneecap. The man’s leg buckled and he went crashing to the ground. Two others stepped forward to take his place, and Dracon rushed to meet them. He caught a descending sword with his knife, then spun, striking one of the men in the temple with his fist and knocking him unconscious. As the man fell to the ground, Dracon turned his attention to the next one, whose great battle axe swung dangerously towards the Assassin’s head.
He dispatched the last man with ease, and, seconds later, Dracon stood alone in the sparring circle. His attackers lay on the ground, two unconscious, one grasping his knee in pain, and the others trying unsuccessfully to get to their feet. Yet, he had hardly broken a sweat and was uninjured. Black pants rolled down his long legs, and an obsidian-colored tunic covered his chest. A hood hung unused on his back. His black leather boots were dusty from the training ground. It seemed pointless to wear black while the sun shone so high in the sky, but Assassins did. They hardly ever did any of their work during the day, and the clothes they wore could just as easily get them killed as keep them from being detected, so they trained in the clothing they would kill in.
Soldiers, he thought. They can never hold their own in a fight. Nonetheless, he would do the honorable thing. He stuck out his hand, helping one of the men to his feet. The soldier stood there for a moment looking at Dracon with a fearful gaze; then, testing his leg, he limped away.
His old master, the High Assassin Ramar, stood on the outskirts of the circle, a grin plastered on his wrinkled, ancient face. Clapping his hands together in a slow applause, the man walked forward to meet him.
“Well done, Master Renoir. Well done.”
“Thank you, master,” he replied, bowing. Ramar had been his master since he was ten, teaching him the ways of the Assassins. Seeing as he was the High Assassin, the Leader of the Order and protector of King Jairon, becoming his apprentice was an honor.
“Stop calling me master. You past outa my care eight years ago. You’re my First Lieutenant now, not my apprentice. Start acting like it.” Ramar slipped back into his native tongue. He could be formal when he wanted, but preferred to speak the way he’d grown up speaking.
“Yes, Ramar.” Ramar had been telling Dracon to not call him master for five years now, but he still did. Funny, he thought to himself, there was a time when he would have gotten a beating for calling his master by his first name. Now calling him Ramar just sounded unnatural.
As they spoke, the men passed out of the circle and through the crowd of boys that had formed to watch the fight. The training area was large, two hundred yards in length and width. It consisted of straw dummies, stuffed to the brink, and wooden red targets. The ground was a mixture of sand and gravel, worn down from all the feet that had trampled on it. Soldiers, squires, assassin’s apprentices, and Hopefuls fought hard around them, some hacking away at dummies and others sparring each other with wooden swords. Until they received rank, knighthood, or complete admittance to the Order, the boys weren’t allowed to use sharpened weapons. They were not even allowed metal weapons until they were deemed ready.
While Ramar and he walked, Dracon heard hard grunts and cries coming from his left and saw Katric, Ramar’s Second Lieutenant and Dracon’s rival, trying to impart some knowledge to a Hopeful through a beating.
Hopefuls were boys who wished to become apprentices but had yet to be accepted. It was different than becoming a page, because anyone could join, not just nobles. Their makeup though would beg to differ. There were only a few Hopefuls that didn’t have noble blood.
The boy tried unsuccessfully to defend himself.
“Knife up, boy! Keep your knife up!” Katric yelled. He brought his blade down with an overhead strike. The boy tried to block, only to have it knocked aside. A cut appeared just below his cheek, oozing dark red blood. Katric, wild and looking as if he was enjoying himself, did not hesitate, stepping in and striking the child in the gut with the hilt of his blade. The boy dropped to the ground as the air gushed out of him. “Get up, boy. You’ll never get into the Order if you can’t even take a hit. Stand up!” The Hopeful glanced at the two men, swollen, bruised eyes pleading for help.
What’s he doing? Dracon thought. He’s gonna kill the boy! Rage built inside him at the sight of what Katric was doing. His rival had always been a bully, but this was way too extreme.
The Hopeful still sat holding his side, pain evident on his face. As apprentices, the boys learned to endure pain, even torture, but this boy wasn’t ready for that yet.
“I don’t know why they brought you to me. You’re hopeless. Toughen up. If you don’t I’ll teach you to act like a child.” Katric attacked again, bringing his blade down to slice the boy’s ear. Dracon ran forward, own knife in hand, intercepting the blow.
“Excuse me, Master Katric, but I believe that the boy has had enough,” Dracon said through gritted teeth. They stood locked in silent combat, blades forcing against one another, neither one seeming to gain the upper hand. “That’s not your call, Dracon. I’ll decide when the boy’s had enough. I’m teaching him!” The malice and disgust theyhad for each other could almost be tasted in the air.
A loud “Mrrph!” sounded from where Ramar stood, interrupting the fight between the Assassins. Katric, just now seeing the man, broke away from Dracon, face flushed from the exertion and embarrassment.
“Master Ramar. I was just giving this lad a few lessons in our art,” Katric said boastingly.
“We can see that. But I don’t think you’re going to get much more out of the boy today,” Dracon butted in from behind him.
Katric gave him a harsh glare.
“I agree,” Ramar said.
“Oh!” Katric said, as if he was just now seeing the boy’s fatigue. “Yes, you may go. Be back here tomorrow.”
The boy gave Dracon a grateful look, and crawled off towards the Healer’s Tower. At Dracon’s insistence, two more boys ran to help him. Ramar turned and walked off towards the Assassin’s Tower. Dracon gave Katric one last disapproving look and turned to follow him.
There had been bad blood between Dracon and Katric since apprenticeship. They were opposites, yet each deadly in their own way. Where Dracon was merciful and thought things through before he did them, Katric was rash and preferred to make a show of killing, drawing it out to be painful and bloody. He had never understood what had possessed Ramar to make Katric one of his Lieutenants.
They were on the edge of the training area when Ramar spoke again.
“The Duke of Caldrea’s son is being knighted by the King tonight. Jairon will be needing protection. I want you and Katric there.”
“Very well, Ma… Ramar,” Dracon said, trying to hide his disdain. The parties were dull and full of rich, obnoxious people. Ramar stuck his nose in the air and sniffed.
“Go wash up. I don’t want you showing up to a party lookin’ like that.”
Dracon ran off, and Ramar watched him go, smiling and shaking his head.
***
