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- Herausgeber: Pongu Text & Design Ltd.
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
When a magical spark of hope lights up in deepest darkness
Emilio, the Wolf of the South, is feared as Eterna's most dangerous assassin. In truth, he is the slave of a sadistic master, trapped in a hopeless, abusive existence from which there is no escape.
All of a sudden, he is given an incredible opportunity—to build a new life for himself in the past. Emilio accepts and wakes up in an icy cold and war-torn ancient kingdom. It is an awful place with terrible inhabitants, and Morayn, their young, snotty, and irascible queen, seems the worst of all.
Reluctantly, Emilio joins Morayn in her desperate fight for her kingdom and soon realizes that his most secret dreams could come true. But will the intelligence and professional skills of an assassin be enough to save the land, his new family, and the woman he loves?
__
In Isa Day's touching time travel fantasy series The Stairs of Eternity seemingly lost (adult) protagonists are given a second chance. To do so, they have to travel to long gone times and forgotten worlds and overcome great danger. Their courage is rewarded with love and a community that takes them in.
The suspenseful yet heart-warming stories invite you to dream. They offer intelligent, fairytale-like and magical high fantasy for adults with multi-faceted protagonists and carefully crafted worlds. Other ingredients include time travel, a mysterious guild of murderers with a sinister master, romance, humor and -- as always in Isa Day's books -- lovable (magical) animals.
All books of the series The Stairs of Eternity are self-contained in one or two volumes, have different protagonists and can be read on their own. Readers who remain faithful to the series will discover larger contexts over the course of the books and meet beloved characters again.
The volume "Wolf of the South" is self-contained. It is set in a Nordic-influenced fantasy world and tells of guilt and atonement and the courage to take on seemingly insurmountable dangers for the good of the community.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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ISA DAY’S BOOKS
Fantasy Romance Series “The Stairs of Eternity”
Faya the Nameless (Prequel)
Wolf of the South
Raghi the Shadow
* * *
Historical Romances
Twice in her Lifetime (A Women in Trade Regency Romance)
WOLF OF THE SOUTH
THE STAIRS OF ETERNITY
ISA DAY
PONGU TEXT & DESIGN LTD.
Copyright © 2018 by Isa Day and Pongu Text & Design Ltd., Meilen, Switzerland
Contact: [email protected]
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author. The automated analysis of this work in order to obtain information, in particular about patterns, trends and correlations in accordance with Section 44b Act on Copyright and Related Rights (UrhG) ("text and data mining") is prohibited.
Cover Design: Isa Day
Image Sources (Depositphotos): Aquedar18, Croisy, Ellerslie, WarmTail, yyanng
ISBN: 978-3-906868-07-3 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-3-906868-08-0 (print)
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Sneak Peek
A kind request
License declaration
About Isa Day
Isa Day’s Books
1
He had killed a woman. That by itself was not unusual. He was an assassin and had been for many years.
But this death was an accident.
Something spooked his steed Reina in one of the busiest streets of Eterna on market day. Her mad dash was short, perhaps a dozen strides, before their strong mutual bond prevailed over mindless panic and she submitted to his control.
Then the wailing started.
When he looked over his shoulder, he saw a woman lying on the dirty cobblestones. A girl was kneeling by her side, shaking with tears. A small pool of blood had already formed next to the woman’s head, and her eyes were staring into the emptiness of death.
And hundreds of glares focused on him in silent accusation.
He knew then that his existence, as he had known it, was over. Because in the Kingdom of Eterna, the price for a life was a life—his own.
It had all happened only yesterday. Since then, he had been sitting in this dungeon, waiting for the judges to come and tell him when and where. Perhaps he would even be allowed to choose.
He snorted.
Not likely. Even if they did not know for sure, they suspected that he was one of the master’s assassins. No, they would kill him as publicly as they could, for all to see and know that evil did not prevail forever.
He rose from the bed constructed of rough planks and crossed the room to the grilled window.
The dungeon was situated in one of the lower towers of the ancient magisterial palace. Through the iron bars, he could see the countless turrets and spires of Eterna. To visitors, the city was one of the most beautiful in the world, and always busy. Even now, in the dead of night, murmurs filled the streets, and the shuffling of many, many feet created a sound similar to the gentle humming of a beehive.
He could not forget the narrow shape of the girl. Her back had been bent in grief, her shoulders trembling. And when she turned to look at him, her gaze seemed as old as this eternal city. She belonged to the masses of Eterna’s poor, legions of men, and women, and children who lived their lives in the twilight of the catacombs beneath the palaces and mansions, or in the dingy huts clinging to the ramparts that kept the city safe from invaders.
He knew those areas well, hidden from sight by iron gates and high stone walls. Visitors walking on the boulevards always thought that these separations hid beautiful gardens or provided access to the quarters of slaves and servants.
He knew better.
In Eterna, the underworld started right on the other side of beauty, and death waited in every nook and shadow.
If they allowed him to write a message and dispose of his possessions, he would appoint a guardian for the child, or at least send her some money. Both gestures probably wouldn’t do much good, but he would have tried to right some of the wrong he had caused.
He still did not understand what had happened.
Reina, his most prized possession, was a fully trained assassin’s horse. She also was the gentlest soul he had ever known—unless somebody attacked her master. They had defended each other’s life countless times.
And he knew one thing with absolute certainty: She did not spook, not ever.
Even when they had crossed the battlefields of old, ghosts rising from the earth around them by the thousands, she kept her eyes on their destination and never wavered.
He had been set up.
And so it ended here, when he was only twenty-six. Gone was the hope of buying his freedom one day, or of returning to his home in the South.
“Emilio?” he heard the wind whisper his name.
He swung around, his gaze darting over the rough stone walls of his wedge-shaped prison cell.
A shadow moved in the farthest corner where the light of the torch didn’t reach.
Few people were able to sneak up on him, but she could.
“Nameless,” he whispered.
When she ran to him, he caught her in his arms and held her tight for long moments.
“I am so sorry!”
She leaned back to look up at him. In many ways, she reminded him of the girl he had orphaned today, although the child had been fair-skinned beneath the dirt and her hair bright. Faya’s skin showed the dark olive hue of all true Southerners. Her hair and eyes shone black like the night. But her eyes...their expression was even older than the girl’s. Yet she was only nineteen years old.
He had to know. “Was I set up?”
“Yes. I tried to find the child, knowing that you would wish to make amends. I didn’t find her. That was when I started to wonder. In Eterna, you will always find a witness willing to talk if there is enough money involved.”
Emilio nodded. “Where did you find her?”
“In the Fields of Death, her skin melting on a burning pyre. Her throat had been slit and her eye sockets gouged. She was somebody’s pawn.”
“The master’s?”
“She wasn’t human, Emilio. It must have been a powerful magician who created her from red clay, grease, and blood. From what I learned, even you and I could create these human imitations, but true power is needed to make them go away again. If you don’t, they will follow you until you go mad.”
Emilio shuddered. “So it can’t have been the master.”
“He could have paid for it. But I checked his books. There was no evidence of money paid, or favors or services promised.”
“You did what?”
She looked at him with her huge, fearless eyes and put her fingertips on his lips. “I need you to listen to me, Emilio. There isn’t much time until they come for you. I believe that they will offer you the choice of the Stairs of Eternity. If they do, please accept.”
He stared at her at a loss for words. Her request begged a thousand questions. He tried to decide on the most important one. “I thought they were a myth.”
“They are real. I have climbed and descended them myself several times.”
And the thousand questions popped into a million.
Training overrode curiosity. Focus on the mission. “What exactly is my choice in this matter?”
Faya took his hands, led him to the rough bed, and made him sit down next to her on the planks. “I used the stairs on our master’s missions. Thus, I can only tell you what I learned from the guardians. If the evil-doer repents, the jury of the elders can offer the person a choice—certain death or daring the stairs for a second chance. You will have to leave everything behind and prove your worth. If you manage to do so, you are allowed to continue with your new life. If not, they will obliterate your soul as if you never had lived.”
Emilio snorted. “Sounds like a sure win. Why should I try? In many ways, I have never lived. Better they kill me right away.”
“Don’t let the master win. Please. We were not allowed to choose our first life, but you might get a chance at a second one of your own making.”
He sighed, looking away from her mesmerizing eyes.
She knew better than to push him. Instead, she put her head on his shoulder. “You know. For a cell, this one is not half bad.”
He could not suppress a grin. “There’s good company. So far, I have counted seven rats. The water is fresh, the wooden bed clean, and they even gave me a bucket.”
“Paradise,” Faya sighed dramatically.
They chuckled.
“Of course, you could always flee with me the way I came. There is a hidden door back there. And there are tunnels in the walls.”
“The day I sacrifice honor is the day I die!”
Faya smiled, unperturbed by his harsh answer, and rose to her feet. “Go down the stairs, Emilio. Promise me?”
“I will think about it.”
They looked at each other for long moments. He wanted to rise and hug her. If he did, he would never let her go. “See you in hell,” he finally whispered the traditional assassins’ farewell.
“See you in a new and happier life,” she answered.
Like a shadow, she was gone. He and the rats were alone again.
2
He had to wait for another day, and another. Guards came, gave him food and water, and emptied the bucket.
He should have been grateful. In Eterna, lots of people lived their lives in much severer constraints—five to twelve people in a single dirty and drafty room smaller than his cell, with no regular meals. Only water was never a problem. The city took pride in its aqueducts and many fountains. And soiling the water—no matter if by oversight or on purpose—was punished by instant death.
He should have been grateful to receive two more days in a life that had officially ended. Instead, it was grating. Seconds went by like years, minutes like millennia.
What took them so long? There could only be one verdict.
Emilio sat down cross-legged on the wooden boards that formed his bed and leaned back against the rough stone wall. Outside, the late spring sun was shining. Birds sang their most beautiful tunes. And he felt comfortably warm, which was a blessing. Having been born in the South, he had never got used to the cold, despite the excruciating training to which his master had submitted him.
So why now? Had the set-up been planned for a long time? Or had he done anything recently that necessitated a fast disposal?
His last missions had been nothing special. A servant who knew too much here. A princeling that was considered too stupid to continue the bloodline there. A few businessmen who had crossed their competitors.
The master’s assassins learned early in their career not to question his orders. Emilio usually tried not to think about them at all. If you thought too much, madness threatened.
He slept for a few hours. By nightfall, he was wide awake again.
In the wee hours of the morning, they finally came for him—three judges in black hooded capes that fell all the way to their toes. One tall and young, based on his quick strides and the arrogant way he held himself, one corpulent and old, and a smallish one of indistinct gender who moved in ghostly silence and stopped a bit to the side of the others. Their cowls were so voluminous that their faces remained in perfect shadow. Even Emilio with his excellent night vision only caught occasional glints when their eyes reflected the flickering light of the torch.
The old one addressed him. “Hear our verdict, assassin. You have been sentenced to death for accidentally taking a woman’s life, but we give you a choice. You can choose death by decapitation. Or you can take your chance on the Stairs of Eternity. And don’t try to pretend ignorance. We know that your little friend told you about them.”
Emilio waited in silence.
As expected, one of the judges—the arrogant young man—soon became impatient. “What do you say, assassin?”
“What makes you so sure that I don’t turn around on the stairs and hunt you down?” Emilio asked nonchalantly.
The young one hissed.
The corpulent judge chuckled. “Peace, Emilio—Wolf of the South. Being offered the choice of the stairs is an honor. What do you really want to know?”
“Why me?”
The man showed no visible reaction. Interesting. Based on his training, Emilio was able to read most people. This man gave nothing away. In many respects, he reminded him of the master. But he wasn’t the master. None of them was.
“You are a man of extraordinary skills, Wolf of the South. And if the master hadn’t stolen you away from your family, you could have been a great man. Your skills are needed. That is why.”
Silence spread.
Let’s see how they react to bargaining.
“I could be persuaded if you keep my mare, Reina, safe and alive. And if you promise to give her to a kind new master where she can spend the rest of her life in peace and comfort.”
Had he covered every possible loophole?
All of them reacted to his demand. The smallest judge chortled. The young one stamped his foot in anger. Meanwhile, the senior judge cocked his head in surprise.
“Do you consider yourself in a position to make demands?” he asked.
Emilio stared into the darkness beneath the hood. “I might be.”
“Then I give you my word of honor that your mare will be well cared for and given to the best possible master. And before you ask, I am not willing to rephrase this promise. You will have to live with it as it is. Now tell me! What will it be? Decapitation or the stairs?”
Emilio made his decision. “I choose the stairs.” Strange. They seemed pleased.
“Then you need to listen,” the corpulent one said. “To go down the stairs, you have to leave everything behind and be as naked as the day you were born. You will decide which exit to take. You will live the life you find there. Eventually, there will be a second judging. You won’t know when and where. If you did well, you will be allowed to stay—if not, you will never have existed.”
When the judge had finished his explanation, the three of them turned as one man and filed out of the cell.
Two guards entered instead. They carried a stool, a bucket of water, a bar of soap, and one of the curved knives used as razors in Eterna.
“Strip!” one guard commanded.
Emilio held his gaze. Was he being set up again? They could slit his throat with that knife in an instant.
“Strip!” the guard repeated, this time less harsh. “We have to shave your head, and then you have to wash.”
Emilio obeyed. In the end, it did not matter.
“Sit down!”
They splashed water over his head. He had expected it to be ice-cold and gritted his teeth in expectation. Instead, it was comfortably warm. The guard rubbed soap into his hair, working efficiently but without being extra rough.
“Don’t move. I’ll start over the forehead.”
Emilio felt the scratch of the razor, and his locks started to fall. They had been shoulder-length, their color blue-black as a raven’s wing. Now they curled in gentle waves on the stone floor.
When they reached the back of his head, he heard a sharp intake of breath.
They had found the master’s sign. Unlike other guild masters, he did not mark his charges with a branding iron. His statement of ownership was a simple tattoo—a lot less painful, but no less damning. Those who knew what to look for could find it. And once an assassin started to lose his hair, he was as good as dead. For the sign was known and feared everywhere.
“Shave off your beard, then wash. Dress in that loincloth over there.”
They left him alone.
Emilio shaved carefully, trying not to nick his skin. He had to go off into the unknown. Risking infection would be stupid. A check of his scalp showed that the guard had been diligent as well. The skin felt soft and whole.
He rubbed his smooth chin. He never wore his beard long, only as long as the width of his little finger. Having it gone entirely felt strange.
He put on the loincloth, a simple strip of white cloth.
The guards returned. “Let’s go.” They tried to take him by the upper arms.
He moved away. “One question.”
They looked at him.
“Is my mare—Reina—still alive?”
“Yes, she is in the council’s stables, being cared for.”
“What will you do with her?”
“That is no longer your concern, assassin, but—,” the guard’s fierce gaze softened the tiniest bit, “since she is worth a fortune, there is no need to worry about her. She won’t be harmed.”
It seemed that this was the best he would get, a vague confirmation that the old judge had not lied. Emilio nodded in acknowledgment.
The guards took his arms and led him into the corridor and through the dungeon. They passed countless dark and silent cells. Either their occupants had been forgotten and died, or they were simply empty.
Keeping track of their way was difficult. The ancient magisterial palace of Eterna was a gigantic heap of stone, built over millennia, with countless towers, buildings, and additions. In some parts, signs provided information regarding one’s whereabouts. He had been there on missions before and knew how to orient himself.
This section was completely unmarked. Once they reached an area without windows, even Emilio’s almost perfect sense of direction quickly grew confused. There was no way that the guards knew all these passages by heart.
He started to pay attention and realized that both guards were tapping the fingers of their free hand against their leg. They were following a rhythm, perhaps a song. For a brief moment, he contemplated confusing them so that they would lose count and have to start again. Then he might be able to break their code.
He caught himself in time. It didn’t matter anymore.
They stopped in the middle of a bare corridor. The stone looked older here. In his cell, it had been yellowish and a bit dusty—the same yellow sandstone that most of Eterna had been built with. It shimmered golden in the sunlight of spring, a false promise to naïve visitors. Over summer, the yellow darkened to dirty ocher, revealing the city’s tainted soul. Then the autumn rains came, washed away sin and worse, and restored the place to its false splendor.
The walls surrounding them still were golden, but the stones shone as if a giant had compacted and polished them. What was this place? They hadn’t passed an intersection or a door in a while, and the bare corridor extended in front of them.
“We have to blindfold you now.”
That might prove interesting. Most people failed to do it correctly, and there were a few tricks he could use.
They put a sack of densely woven black fabric over his head and covered his eyes with an additional strip of cloth that they tied at the back of his head. He realized that they knew his tricks, too.
Their grasp became firmer as they led him on.
“We are not allowed to make you stumble, run into a wall, or hit your head. So stride out! We haven’t got all night.”
They took a few more turns. After several hundred paces, they finally stopped.
The blindfold was removed.
Emilio looked around and found himself in—a cave?
“Behold the Stairs of Eternity,” the guards intoned and let go of his arms.
Emilio turned in a full circle.
How had they got into this place? The rough walls surrounding them didn’t show any openings. Far above his head, they formed a domed ceiling that looked ready to cave in anytime. And in the center of the open space…
“The future is uncertain. Thus the steps leading up are translucent and hang by a thread from a fog of possibilities. With every moment, the present becomes the past and petrifies according to the whims of fate, thus the stairs leading down consist of irregular stone.”
Had they drugged him? This couldn’t be real. And there was a flaw in their argument.
“Since we live in the present, why is the floor beneath our feet made of stone?”
The guard waved his hand negligently, and Emilio wished he hadn’t asked. The floor and the walls vanished, and they stood over a chasm of nothingness. With all visual orientation gone, it took a moment for Emilio to realize what was happening.
The stairs were spinning in a constant slow circle like the hands of a clock, the translucent steps of the future turning into stone steps and sinking away into the past. Or then the stairs formed the center axis while he and the guards revolved around them counterclockwise and upwards. Both perceptions could be true—or neither.
“This is time,” Emilio whispered, staring into the darkness beneath his feet, then up at the fog of possibilities.
“Go!” The guards pointed to the stone steps leading down.
Emilio felt panic. His head was bursting with millions of questions, and he was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been in his life.
Focus on the mission. Just go. Whatever happens, nothing matters anymore.
Crossing over the emptiness seemed to take forever. The stares of the guards drilled into his back. He felt his teeth chatter. From fear? Or was he cold?
Then he was there. He forced himself not to look back and stepped onto the stone step that was solidifying right in front of him, changing the present into the past. The moment his bare foot touched the stony surface, his perception lurched and he was temporarily blind.
He waited. Was this death?
Evidently not. His vision gradually returned, and he found himself on a narrow winding staircase similar to those in towers or spires. The mystic stuff had vanished. In the wall behind him was a locked door.
He looked up.
“DOWN!” a voice weighed on him.
That direction didn’t look appealing. The light was bad, probably provided by flickering torches stuck into wall brackets once every turn. Cobwebs covered the craggy walls and ceiling, and debris littered the equally dilapidated stairs.
Emilio shivered in the cold draught that rose from the depths of the past.
I am the most dangerous thing in here, he told himself.
He took a careful step, then another one. After a few turns, he found the first opening. How far did he have to go?
He carefully checked what lay behind, keeping his cover as any well-trained assassin would.
He saw rolling hills and meadows lit by brilliant sunlight.
The draught wove around him, whispering in his ear. Just continue…
So he went on. Every time he found another doorway, he heard the whisper again. How far into the past did they expect him to go?
By then, he was freezing and also spooked. The ghosts he encountered now and then didn’t bother him much. They were focused on themselves and their broken dreams and rarely interested in the living.
But he also met a few odd fellows—an ancient man who looked like a monk and held an hourglass, a tall hooded figure in a black cape carrying a scythe, and several other creatures that weren’t supposed to exist.
I must be getting delirious. So they have drugged me after all.
Nothing else made sense.
Suddenly, he stumbled and caught himself at the last moment. Damn! His palms were scratched. And he was too tired to proceed and losing body heat fast thanks to his shaved head and bare body. With nothing to drink and no food, it was only a matter of time until he took a fatal misstep.
Another doorway came into sight. It opened on a dark and dismal land. A snowstorm was raging, wailing like mourning banshees while it tore at the hills and trees.
Please not here! I hate snow. And I can’t stand the cold…
A large section of the step beneath his foot broke away. Emilio tried to find his balance, failed, and fell through the doorway. Expecting to land in a heap of snow, he was surprised when his surroundings suddenly tilted again.
The effect was not as bad as when he had entered the stairs but still confusing.
Is that a carpet beneath me?
“The devil curse those blasted stairs!” he suddenly heard a shrill voice. “I ask for a prince, and they send me an assassin?”
Emilio looked up groggily.
His graceless fall had ended at the feet of two young women clad in the sensible attire of forest people—leather trousers, a long silken tunic, woolen capes, and thigh-high boots.
One was a lovely, well-rounded brunette with concerned green eyes.
The other was spitting mad and looked more like a demon than the skinny girl she probably was under normal circumstances. Her fiery red hair stood on end with indignation, and her green eyes blazed like the fires of hell, their gaze scorching.
“Get off the rug, thug! You are useless to me, no matter what those damn stairs were trying to achieve. I should never have listened to my stupid counselors!”
She turned on her heel and stormed out of wherever they were.
3
The double-winged wooden doors banged shut after the redhead. Emilio almost passed out. He stifled a groan. Whatever drug they had slipped him was wrecking his body. Or had they poisoned him, and this nightmare was part of his death throes?
“Are you hurt?” Suddenly, the brunette was by his side. She kneeled down and helped him sit. “You appeared out of nowhere. One moment, we were alone in our church. The next moment, you materialized above us and fell like a stone. Thank goodness we covered the floor with straw and threw the rug over it against the cold.”
The moment she mentioned the cold, he became aware of the freezing temperature, and his teeth started to chatter.
She slipped a soft cap on his head and wrapped a woolen blanket around his shoulders.
“The guardians of the stairs warned us that you would come naked. Since we didn’t know how tall you are, I couldn’t bring any real clothes, but I have socks and simple shoes that can be tied around the feet so that you can cross the courtyard without freezing a toe off.”
He was still staring mutely at her, unable to process what had happened.
She was putting socks on his feet and winding large strips of leather around them. “My name is Maira by the way. The redhead was my sister Morayn. What is your name?”
“Emilio.” His lips were so cold that his mouth stumbled over every syllable of the word.
“In this case, welcome to Icefjell Castle in the Kingdom of the North, Emilio.”
Could his situation get any worse? “What year is it?”
“In Eternam time, we count the year 256.”
She had to be joking. Those damn stairs had sent him into prehistoric times!
The girl pulled him to his feet without effort. He felt a tickling of unease. Were all of her people this strong? He might be a slim man, but that did not make his weight inconsequential.
“Come. Let us go into the castle.”
Emilio tried to observe his surroundings while they walked towards the door. What she called a church was a large hall built in the typical Northern style, its wooden walls and ceiling darkened by soot and age. The beams high above, supported by a central pillar, showed impressive carvings. The floor consisted of stone slabs. Some bore inscriptions.
They were walking over people’s graves. What a fitting welcome!
When Maira threw one wing of the door open and the icy blasts of the snowstorm hit them, Emilio felt ready to die. He hadn’t even known that temperatures could fall this low.
“How cold is it?” he pressed out through his chattering teeth.
The girl laughed. “Oh, cold enough to freeze your tits or balls off, depending on whether you are a girl or a boy.” She seemed to realize what she had just said. “Uuh, you’re probably not used to this kind of humor. As Northerners, we constantly joke about the cold. Here, grab this pillar.”
She made him hold on to a wooden pillar adorned with rather gruesome carvings of wild beasts and hunters. Both sides seemed to be losing the battle equally. He saw men being eaten and beasts being dismembered.
“It represents the war between good and evil,” Maira explained, noticing his disgust. “Personally, I think that the artist just liked blood and gore. Be glad that it is so old and our climate severe. Father used to tell us that it was once painted in garish colors. At least, it does its job of holding up the porch despite all the snow. Its sister column shows piety warring against lust by the way. Don’t make me explain those images.”
She closed the door and bolted it with a complicated mechanism. The precaution seemed extensive for a small building.
“The first rule of surviving in our land—always bolt any dwelling securely either from the outside or the inside. There are wolves and other cunning things in the woods. Facing them over a threshold is not fun.”
They crossed what looked like the inner courtyard of a castle. With the raging storm and the blasts of snow, it was impossible to discern its layout. He was also too tired and sick to care.
She seemed to drag him up a few flights of stone stairs. Then there was a mattress in front of him. After that—nothing.
* * *
Emilio awoke with a throbbing headache. His brain seemed caught inside a drum. The banging was worse than anything he had ever experienced before.
When he opened his eyes, a giant warrior with long unkempt hair and an even wilder beard was bending over his bed, his face so close that they were almost nose-to-nose.
With a yelp, Emilio shoved him away.
“My, you are a grumpy one upon awakening,” the warrior complained, deftly catching his balance. Because of the ongoing racket, he had to shout.
“I’m not, unless someone pushes his ugly mug into my face!” Emilio yelled. “What the hell are you doing?” He lunged to tear the contraption out of the man’s hand, noticed the spinning element, and stopped it. The infernal banging ceased. “What the hell is this?” His voice sounded unnaturally loud in his ears.
The man sniffed. “A disciplinary instrument used on recruits if they fail to wake up. Since you were sleeping like the dead, I figured it would come in handy.”
“And you are?” Emilio quickly assessed the contraption, realized how it worked, and removed the tension from the spring inside.
“My name is Almbart. I am in charge of equipping recruits at Icefjell castle. You are ordered to report to the prince regent. Over there you find some clothes from our stock. Don’t expect them to fit. We are not equipped to dress scrawny dwarves. I expect you can dress yourself?” The giant looked him over disdainfully.
“Where is the meeting and when?” Emilio asked.
“As soon as you are ready. Report to the guard in front of your door. He will take you there. Oh, and there is water and soap in case you know how to use them.”
Emilio rose from the bed. “Out!” he said, using his uninflected, almost toneless assassin’s voice.
The man’s face blanched while his eyes widened. He almost fell over his own feet in his haste to leave the room.
Emilio experienced a rush of guilty satisfaction. His small victory felt good, but he should not have risen to the bait of that idiot. Now they knew that he had a temper.
A wave of dizziness hit him on the way to the wash-bowl, and his stomach growled. He needed to find food soon, but first, he had to see what this meeting was about.
He drank a few sips of water, washed, and was soon wearing more layers of clothing than ever before. Everything was too big, but the thigh-high boots they had found for him fit well. And they had even provided a dagger and short sword.
I wonder who their enemy is, since it clearly is not me—the assassin.
Emilio put the provided cap on his shaven head, slipped up the hood of his cloak, and opened the door. The mentioned guard proved to be an exceptionally tall young man. He looked less wild than Almbart, his curly hair and short beard carefully styled.
“This way,” he said and strode out.
Following him, Emilio took the opportunity to study his armor and clothes. A wealth of information could be gained from how a potentate outfitted his warriors. Based on the assumption that his guide was an ordinary guard, this kingdom seemed to be doing well.
The man wore an undertunic of soft white fabric, the seams of the sleeves just visible at the wrists, and a brown tunic of thick, brushed cloth over it. His trousers were made of the same material although they were barely visible above his armored over-knee boots. A long chain-mail shirt provided the first layer of protection for his upper body. The second consisted of a coat of armored leather with long tails front and back. For warmth, he had draped a generous cape over his shoulders. The helmet on his head showed no adornments but had seen battle—if the nicks and scratches were any indication.
The weight of the whole outfit had to be substantial and probably equaled Emilio’s body weight, yet the guard moved with perfect ease along the stone corridor. His legs were so long that Emilio had to take three steps to each of the other man’s two.
What were the odds of meeting two giants within moments? Did they breed them somewhere?
While he observed the guard, an independent part of his mind had kept track of their movements through the castle. Orientation proved to be easy. The hallways were unadorned but lined with narrow glazed windows of different shapes. Ice crystals covered the glass, and it was pitch-black outside. The darkness was starting to trouble him.
“What time is it?” he asked the guard, who seemed utterly unconcerned with the presence of an assassin behind his back.
“A few minutes after noon.”
“Then why is it still dark? The season is late spring, isn’t it?” Despite the bone-freezing cold and the snowstorms beating angrily against the windows.
Emilio realized his misconception a moment later. His place in the order of things mattered only him. The stairs contained the entire past, present, and future of the universe. They could have spewed him out in any time and season—which was perhaps the ultimate punishment. He was homeless in the truest sense of the word, having not only lost his home and all his possessions but also every reference to what once had been. Only his bare essence, his knowledge, and his skills remained. Considered from that point of view, death by decapitation looked like a much more merciful judgment.
In his preoccupation, he almost missed the answer of the guard.
“It is—spring, I mean. The other question is not for me to answer. In here.” The young man opened a large, ornately carved door.
Emilio complied, assessing his surroundings with each slow step he took. He was in a powerful man’s study and meeting room. His missions had led him into many of those. There were the usual massive desk with a comfortable, yet impressive chair and a large table where strategies could be planned and situations analyzed. Two armchairs faced each other in front of a large fireplace containing a blazing fire. Paintings in ornate golden frames lined the walls, heavy curtains hung down beside the windows, and on one wall, there was a large tapestry showing a formidable coat of arms and a genealogical tree.
Clearly, this was the prince regent’s study, but where was the prince?
The room contained an odd assortment of people.
There were two grizzled men. One of them seemed to have turned gray prematurely for his face was young and his body appeared to be in its prime. He was standing on the other side of the desk, slightly behind the ornate chair, and dressed in light armor. The other, who sat in the chair, was truly old. He also looked sad and tired.
Then there was a small girl kneeling in front of the fireplace, playing a game only comprehensible to her.
Two young women with brown hair stood at the windows, pretending to look out into the darkness. One of them was Maira. Her slightly plump body was easy to recognize. The other looked like Morayn except for the hair.
When the old man rose, Emilio could only stare. The man was a giant, even taller than Almbart and the young guard.
He felt a stirring of unease. In his own time and age, Emilio had been taller than most men. The one or two extra fingers hadn’t prevented him from vanishing in a crowd. At the same time, they gave him an advantage over his pursuers because he could easily trace their movements without being noticed.
Now this old warrior, who wore his chain mail like ordinary clothing, towered over him by an entire head.
“I thought you would be taller,” the man growled.
The comment fired up Emilio’s temper. “Since this isn’t the first complaint about me, you evidently didn’t phrase your order very well.”
Everybody in the room froze, but not for long.
“Who the hell gave this thug weapons? Am I surrounded by idiots?” he heard a shrill voice he recognized.
When he turned to the source of the noise, he saw Morayn. Like in the church, her hair was bright red and seemed to live a life of its own. How could this be? Where had she hidden? And where had the second brown-haired girl gone? The one that was not Maira?
“Queen Morayn, will you behave yourself!” the old man yelled.
“And why should I?” she shrieked back. “This is my life and my kingdom going down the cesspit!” Her anger seemed to inflate with every word, and her hair turned brighter and brighter until it showed a completely unnatural shade of orange.
The old man pointed at the door. “To your room!”
With the words came a surge of power that almost pressed Emilio to his knees.
Morayn left without another word, slamming the door so violently that several of the paintings dropped to the floor.
I always knew that turning invisible would be a useful skill to have.
Would they notice him sneaking out of the study or trying to hide behind a curtain?
The old man propped his fists on the table and drew a deep breath. When he looked at Emilio again, his gaze was calm. “Turn around. Slip off your hood, and take off your cap.”
Emilio obeyed, keeping his face completely blank and his emotions under wraps.
“The mark of an assassin. I fail to understand how this could have happened. Come, Maira, Meryem. There is no gain for us here.”
Heavy steps receded, joined by lighter ones. The old man, Maira, and the child left the study through a hidden door in the wall behind the desk.
The younger warrior remained where he was. If not for his keen eyes, he could have been a stone statue. Since Emilio had entered the room, he hadn’t even moved his head.
“A word with you, Sir Knight?” he addressed him. The moment he spoke, a wave of dizziness ran through his body, and his vision blurred.
When he was able to see again, the man was at his side, one hand securely wrapped around his upper arm. This man was also huge. Emilio felt like a midget next to him.
“Not one of them has thought of feeding you, right?” he asked in a deep, gravelly voice. “Of course, Almbart, that idiot, probably forgot on purpose.”
Emilio just nodded.
“Let’s go to the kitchens. And put on your cap again. I don’t know how that mark got there, but the answer probably isn’t as simple as this brainless lot thinks.”
4
A short while later, Emilio found himself in a blissfully warm kitchen where a maid served him a cup of warm milk with honey and a feast of bread, sausages, soup, and different cheeses.
While Emilio’s stomach growled in anticipation, he also knew that things were not always as they seemed to be. These people might hate him, but for the time being, they were his family. “What is your situation here in this castle and with this ghastly weather? Is there enough food for everybody?”
The maid put a soap-reddened hand on his shoulder. She had a plain, kind face and a lovely smile. “Just eat, sweetie. The prince regent looks out for us. We are experiencing deprivations, but hunger is not one of them.
