The Opus Discordia: The Legend of Fox Crow (Book 2)

Assassin....

Everyone who knows the word thinks they know what it means. Sometimes they are more correct than not, but it's long odds. Some people think assassin means death. This is untrue. Some believe them to be ghosts made of poison and blades. Also untrue. The story sounds good, and it makes it seem less unfair that the brave and mighty could be erased from the living by just another person. This is the truth, though– they are simply men and women. Sometimes they have demons inside them, other times they have a broken and painful life that drives them to visit blood upon the lives of others. What they do have is a great deal of skill and no compunction about how those skills are used to get silver, gold, and riches of all kinds.

Assassins are, more than anything, cheaters. They look for strength and avoid it. They look for a weakness and exploit it. Of course, they do it to take innocent and not-so-innocent lives for coins of silver and gold, but that is the why, not the what. The what simply is. The why is what matters most. I have to believe that. I've had a long time to think about this.

I've had good reason.

I was an assassin. I got a chance to start over. The trouble is, contrary to the poxy bards and their warbling tales, chances are not given. They are sold on credit. And the interest? It's a killer. I suspect that I'm going to be spending each day paying for every drop of blood I shed in my former life. That doesn't mean my life is painless, quite the opposite. Take my current conundrum.

Take it, please take it.

Months before, I had shaken the kingdom of Noria by getting mixed up in a deadly plot amongst the highest of nobility. Turns out, (surprise-surprise) peasants (like me) do not ever, (ever) get the princess (no matter how charming or effective one is). Also, it turns out that the kingdom does not like to be shaken. In fact the kingdom downright disapproves of being shaken, nudged, or even farted upon. The nobles show the disapproval of said kingdom by using axes, nooses, and pikes of the head-bearing variety.

I had saved the life of a lovely, courageous, intelligent young woman. In so doing, I had made myself a target. For those that are wondering, this is the no-good-deed-is-kept-on-account theory of sin management. There is a corollary to that law that goes something like: Nobles have long memories and longer knives. I struck out from the Kingdom of Noria southward, over the Hammarfold Mountains, intent of becoming lost in a nation where nobody had ever heard the name Fox Crow.

This plan would have been the essence of wisdom if I had made it through just before the first hard snow, allowing me through and trapping any pursuit behind me. In fact, when I remember it, better to say if I am forced to remember it, I will remember having made it through just fine. I will not get bogged down in Mothers' Valley by a constant state of cold and storms, threatened with starvation and death by early snows, and only to be brought up short by a warning horn.

I suppose it would have been wiser to detour, or even just turn around. But then, like an idiot, I got closer. Then I heard the screams of the boy being chased. So I got even closer. And then I killed one beast, only to find out the mate was not far afield. So now I'm so extremely close to being killed, gutted, and eaten (and in that order if I am luckier than I have any reason to expect).

So, you may be asking why I got close in the first, second, and now third place? I'll be buggered if I know. It's the way my last long, painful adventure started and, memory troubles aside, one would think I had learned my lesson.

None of that mattered now. The thing had seen me and was charging like a living avalanche of ropy muscles, white fur, and yellow eyes.

Left hand, gloved against the cold, desperately tugged at the securely tied throat of a pouch attached to my belt. Right hefted the seemingly slim sliver of silver up as the hairy white beast shook the ground with every step. It held its freakishly long arms wide and low, looking to cut off a dodge to either side.

I only had time for a glance left and right, find no escape, then curse and yank the whole pouch free of the belt. I slit the throat of the bag with the sword and flung the whole bundle forward into the beast's face. Then there was nothing to be done but hurl myself backward toward the squat building behind and hope.

The bag, freed of the restraining cord, became a simple circle of cloth, unleashing a glittering cloud of black and silver powder. Tiny flames burst and crackled from inside the shiny black fog as it consumed fat snowflakes. Merciless claws were sweeping toward me, hooked to disembowel, when the cloud of dust hit the beast's muzzle. The claws instinctively slapped to the beast's face. I hunkered down and planted the long elvish hilt against the hard, frozen ground directly in the path of the charging brute. The tip barely touched the beast over the heart when I flung myself to the side like a mouse making for the safety of the barn.

Blood, red and hot erupted from the back of it even as a bone-shaking howl racked the sky as it impaled itself, blew past me, collided with the cabin, and then tumbled into the snow, thrashing. I stood and ran from the scene of misery, leery of the area in case the finely ground dust still hung in the air. I could see where it drifted to the snow, blackening it in some places, and sparkling in others as the metallic alkaloid brought fire from water. Yet, even then, Right hand drew the shortsword while Left hand was unlimbering a hidden knife from inside my vest, cracking the wax seal holding the blade into the sheath.

I stopped six paces from the beast, wincing as the face smoldered, and calculated the number of spins between it and I. Even with a sword in the chest and the dust eating at face and lungs, it still moved, showing a near supernatural constitution. The creature was spitting into its hands, seeking to clear the dust from its eyes. Every drop of water that came in contact with the dwarven alkaloid metal caused it to smoke and heat, sometimes even burst into miniature fires. Every touch rubbed the other half of the mixture, tiny shards of obsidian, further into the eyes, mouth and face, shredding the flesh.

That was when I chose to sink the knife into its back, just under the heart. The gooey, tarry poison was enough to kill a man, three times over, nearly instantly. It still took several minutes for the thing to die.

I approached cautiously, retrieved and resheathed the knife, and sighed over the necessary use of so much of my expensive black glass and alkaloid mixture– all of it in fact. The alkaloid metal conjured fire from water, and gnat sized razors flung into the eyes were useful in a self explanatory way. Yet, it was hard to make and dear to purchase. Still cheaper than my blood, and everything is cheaper than dying. So, as you can see, I am no longer an assassin. I am, however, still a cheat. And because of that, I'll keep breathing.

Good thing too, since I am becoming more and more convinced that the whole world is trying to kill me.

I, with great difficulty, wrenched free the elvish sword that had been my constant companion since my rebirth. I studied it, because that was easier than the alternative.

The blade was flared near the end, imbuing deadly weight to aid in slashes. The surface was mirror bright and featureless except when the light hit it, and the vague shadows of foreign script appeared. The hilt was a hooded figure, holding a glittering blue heart in robed hands. The body became the hilt of the sword, wings from the shoulders creating the crosspiece. This was my Phantom Angel. I wiped the blood from the blade and, out of habit rather than alarm, used the surface to scan the world behind me.

The cabin at the battle site was larger than most, set away from the village and half piled with blown snow. The doors of the rest of the village opened quietly, cautiously, but all stealth was shattered by the woman that wailed like a lost soul. I adjusted the blade and saw a man much closer to me than I expected. I spun to meet him, careful to keep the sword low and to the side. He was two dozen paces away, yet still he drew up short.

We stood still, taking in the measure of one another. His entire pose was tense rather than confrontational, yet I could pick out evidence of at least two hidden knives, so he was no fool. His long moustache trembled a little and his work-worn hands shook as he slid calluses across his bald head. Even in the severe cold, his fur hat was in his hand and the thick snow was already forming into droplets on his pate.

He held his hands up, as if to caution or placate me. He said something. Like most Norians, I knew a smattering of words from the realms on every side including HammarSpiel, but these I did not know. He swallowed hard, glanced at the bloody blade in my hand and tried again in a thick accent, "Move slow?"

I shook my head, looking at the two fresh corpses. "I am pretty fast." Then I pointed to the human corpse messily splayed on the snow. "Your boy?"

The man nodded, then contradicted himself. "Nephew. But must move."

Ok, it was freezing cold and I had just avenged the death of this poor kid and removed a threat to the village, but was it out of line to expect a feast? Perhaps a meal? A beer, maybe? Instead, this bald buffoon as telling me to move along before the corpses were even done steaming. The aunt, or mother, continued to wail at the body of the boy, but the remaining villagers stood at more than just a respectful distance. Behind them a priest, a huge bearded man built like a wrestler, waded easily through the crowd. His huge gut was still overshadowed by powerful arms that could split wood with ease. He was listening to the whispered comments of his flock, but his eyes were troubled. Everyone was pointing at me, but none acted welcoming in any way.

Well, it wasn't like they were family to me, were they? And I suppose if I start doing stupid things in the hope other people will find them heroic and reward me, I should expect to die hungry, unremembered, and soon.

The kid was already as good as dead. Why, dear Lords and Ladies, why did I have to get involved?

Somewhere behind me there was a rough caw of a bird. I spun, but did not see the damned thing. And that, no matter the language, was the signal to go. I never found it healthy to come to the attention of authorities, and whenever there were ravens there was trouble for me. I backed away from them all, but nobody took even a single step closer.

The Phantom Angel was almost too long to carry on one hip and still be easily mobile, so I adjusted the belt and sheath onto on my back after I slid it home. Yet, even this did not end the tension in the crowd. They were peering on, like an execution. One woman gestured me toward the crowd, but her hands were slapped out of the air by the man beside her and he lashed her with his tongue. The huge priest was looking over at me with knitted brows. I was at once glad for the language barrier. It allowed me to mutter a simple, "Lords and Ladies protect you all." And then stop trying to half shout in pidgin HammarSpiel and simply leave.

Or, at least, try to leave.

I turned and took a single step around the huge, lumbering log cabin where the short battle had happened. The entire group gasped audibly. The mountain man called out something, but I didn't catch it. My body was starting to come down out of the rage of battle and my legs were a bit rubbery. Rather than show weakness, I reached up and put my hand to a snow covered wall. That's when I noticed it wasn't a wall, but a scaffold. There was a sound of a hundred ravens cawing as they took panicked flight. I spun to see them but found none, in fact the only other person to seem to hear them was the priest, whose head also craned to find the invisible murder.

Then I turned back, and saw that the protruding wall wasn't a scaffold. It was big, round, and disappeared into the ground at my feet. There was a sound of cracking glass as I took two steps back, heels contacting the second dead carnivore, but still able to get a better view of what was obviously the waterwheel of a mill.

And that meant–

Then I turned and placed one foot. The world exploded into a deafening roar, ivory white, and bitter cold.

I floated, feeling at first nothing but frigid blood pouring over me. I thrashed, reaching for a world that had disappeared in diffused blue and white. Bubbles rushed in every direction, released from my clothing in a storm, giving no clear way up and out. The hairy corpse slithered from above, slapping weightlessly into my face and pushing me further down. I picked a direction as my arms numbed and legs cramped. I kicked twice pulling at the water as my lungs began to burn, desperate for life, for air. I felt frozen mud come up in clumps between swimming fingers, and blot out all sense of day or night. Gentle warmth cupped me like a kitten in the hands of a giant. I exhaled, and let the giant take me.

Then there was a harsh hand grappling me, yanking me. Bright light speared into eyes that throbbed. Someone smashed me on my back, blasting water from my lungs only to be replaced by air laced with razors. My skin felt like living bees had taken residence beneath the skin. The light hurt like barbed needles, and I screwed my eyes shut against the pain.

I heard a raven cackle gleefully.

I was dragged into the snow, which felt oddly rough and warm. I could not move, yet my limbs began shaking as if in palsy. There was muffled shouting, but I felt it was I that was muffled and not the voices. I was dragged by four men through the snow into a small church.

The door was opened before us and slammed behind. I risked opening one eye, and saw logs being loaded onto a fire with great abandon. One village woman began using a bellows on the flames, another was taking down gargantuan priest robes from where they steamed on the drying lines by the fire. Knives cut me out of my clothes. There was a shriek, and I was dropped to the floor.

Utter silence froze that heartbeat in the church.

A deep voice barked, and warm, though wet, layers of wool and leather robes were wrapped around me. I was set just before the fire on a lounging chair. Men left and returned with smoking metal pans, containing coals as it turned out, and placed them beneath me.

Strong as I am, I could not find enough power left in me to lift my head. I faded in and out of lucidity. A few times, broth was brought and dribbled between my lips. I slept. I dreamt. The dreams were always in steel and crimson. I awoke as the priest removed the metal pans from beneath me and tossed out the cinders to load new coals into them and slide them beneath the chair.

I didn't even realize I was watching, rather than dreaming, until the priest smiled and nodded.

"Good, you will live," he said in flawless Norian. The words rolled from him as easily as one mentions that the sun is up, or that the road is muddy. And yet, there was an extra hint of relish, as if it was going to be a sunny day, or at least he was looking forward to splashing in the puddles.

"I've got to go," I said. Well, I slurred. Well, I slurred while mumbling. I also rocked a bit in the chair which was as close to standing as I could manage. "I need my things."

This seemed to only amuse the priest. "You are not going anywhere. Maidens' Pass froze solid three weeks early this year. This snow surely has Crones' Cut, at the other end, just as impassible." He slid the last metal heating pot underneath me and then moved the dried bundle of my fox fur cloak from atop a pile and picked up a thin metal rod out of a collection of leather and cloth.

In an instant, I was fully awake. Those were my clothes, and he had just picked out a heartpin. Long and slender, it was made to slide beneath the ribs to kill a target by puncturing the heart.

"I was going to ask you about this…" he said absently. Then he set it down and pulled out a small ring. Unremarkable, simple, the only adornment being a wickedly curved razor hidden on the inside facing the palm. "...or this." He set the ring down, then began pulling out knife after knife out of the bundle, letting them drop to the stone with musical tones. "But, I think I shall first ask you about this."

 He held up a piece of leather. Upon it, sketched in black, was the symbol burned haphazardly into my back. It spread from one shoulder to the other, a twisted mass of ropy flesh badly healed and shadowed with ground in charcoal. It was unmistakably the mark on my back, the mark of a raven or a crow.

For an instant I was back in the cistern of Carolaughan, the eyes looking in from all sides, spawning gaping maws as they pressed me into the spilled coals.

I jerked. I patted drunkenly as if it would be set by my side. "Where's my sword?"

The priest pressed me back into the seat with huge, though gentle, hands. He waited a long time before speaking, staring right through, "Dine schwert, your magnificent sword, sits at the bottom of the mill pool."

I felt my insides lurch. The big building with the half sunk wheel under the snow, a mill with a millwheel. The huntsman had been calling me back because I had been standing on the frozen–

"It is unusual that the mill pond was not frozen through by now." He shrugged. "But Richter, the uncle of the boy you avenged, dove in and brought you back out. You will live, and his debt to you is paid. This is good, for you seem a dangerous man to be indebted to."

"I must have it."

"Your sword will sit under the ice until spring. This is bad, since you seem in a hurry to quit this village."

I don't know exactly what sound I made, or how my drawn face posed, but the priest patted me with meaty hands. "My name is Hans Blutwolfe. I am the shepherd for this village. Like it or not, you are stuck here for the winter. Considering everything involved, I think I will hide this murder kit. You will not be needing it while you are here."

"You can't do that," I rasped, weakly.

"Well," he replied matter-of-factly, "you will be unlikely to stop me until it's been well hidden for several days." He sat down in an oaken chair opposite me. "You know, I'm pretty good with people. I can feel the wounds inside of you, and I think I can help. If you let me."

We stared at each other, the day waned, the night waxed, and still the silence grew.

Finally he sighed and nodded. "It will be a long season to carry your burdens alone."

And it was.