Assassin's Rise (26 page)

I, Sirol Vanderman,
cannot live with the shame anymore. In my darkest hour, I have
violated and murdered several young girls, the last of which was a
beautiful young woman by the name of Carla Aderston.

I herewith confess all
my crimes, and have decided to rid myself of that which leads me
into temptation.

This is not enough
punishment however, and I have decided to take my own life.

Sirol Vanderman.

“A tragic fate for one
so young,” said Roland and placed the letter across Sirol’s chest.
“But I fear that someone – your father for instance – might realise
that the signature is not your own, but I believe that I have a way
to solve the little dilemma.”

Roland pulled the
dagger from below Sirol’s pillow, placing the tip onto the letters
signature. He curled Sirol’s limp fingers around the hilt, ignoring
his pleading eyes, clamping his hand tightly over Sirol’s
fingers.

“I’ve warned you that
you are already dead. And I’ve told you that I would reap your
soul.” Roland slowly increased the pressure on the hilt, the blade
sinking through the letter and into Sirol’s chest. Blood spurted
from the wound, covering blade and letter, the black writing
shining brightly through the glistening red. Blood dripped from
Sirol’s mouth, his breath rattling from the sides of his mouth.
Roland pressed the dagger to the hilt inside Sirol’s chest, and
then he spat on Sirol’s lifeless face.

As if waking from a
sudden dream, Roland stood upright, looking around him in a daze.
He shook his head as if trying to clear his mind and then he pulled
a hood from below his shirt. He slipped the hood over his head, and
tied the silk scarf over his mouth and nose. It would not do for
anyone seeing his face as he escaped.

He quickly made his way
to the window and climbed through the hole and onto the balcony. He
lifted and pressed the window back into to place, slipping the pin
back through the wooden hinge. Roland swung his legs over the
balcony and slipped down the rope. A few moments later the rope
slackened, shook, and then the claw slipped from the railing
...

The night was quiet and
nothing moved, as if darkness itself held its breath. Behind the
locked window, a mutilated body and a bloody confession silently
waited for its cry to be heard.

Six years later ...

The winter was the
coldest in past memory. Snowflakes sifted relentlessly onto the
rooftops and streets of Darma, blocking up doorways and freezing
over fountains.

Fresh snow crunched
underfoot as folks hurried through the streets, eager to get to
their destinations and away from the cold. An old man slipped on
the forming ice, but he quickly regained his balance and he wrapped
his cloak tighter around him, his long grey hair ruffling as the
bitter wind picked up, snowflakes swirling around his head. He
grinned as the wind failed to pierce through his thick cloak.

Nothing like Dragon
East, he thought proudly. It was his best cloak he owned and coin
well spend.

He stamped the snow
from his boots and entered a tavern, the white fog riding his
breath dissipating inside the warm glow of firelight. He aimed
straight for a table were a group of men sat drinking wine. They
greeted him with good-natured banter and as he took a seat, a
serving girl brought him a cup brimming with crimson wine.

“That’s much better,”
he said after a long draught from the cup, wiping his lips with the
back of his hand. “Colder than witches’ tits out there!”

“You hear about the
latest assassination?” said one of the men, grinning broadly.

“You mean more of this
Reaper business?”

“That was him o’right,”
croaked a man from across the table. “Nobles living in fear these
days. Can’t put one foot wrong or ...” He pulled a finger across
his sagging throat in a threatening manner. The group of men
chuckled.

“Soul Vanderman have
put a new reward of twenty thousand gold coins on any information
about him. Keeps raising the amount like he’s possessed.”

He spluttered into his
wine. “Twenty thousand! He still believes his lug of a son was
assassinated then?”

“Impossible. He was
found in a locked room with a letter of confession – could hardly
believe what he’s been up to once I heard about the contents. Well,
pervert he was, but in the end he did the right thing. Officer
Kendly saw the letter an’ all, said it was suicide.”

“An’ all that coin for
nothing. No one knows anything about the Reaper, an’ even if they
did ... Well I won’t say anything if I did. He’s only killed the
ones who we all know mistreats common folk.”

“My cousin’s one friend
said that her Pa saw the Reaper one night. Says he’s not human. All
black and floating a few inching above the ground.”

“Is it really true?”
they asked in hushed tones.

“Sure is. Says the last
thing you see is a silver flash, and then ...” he dropped his head
onto the table, tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth.

“Bah, he’s just a man,”
said one of the men rather forcefully, as if trying to convince
himself that a man could not possible float.

“Well, that’s me,” said
another and stood up importantly. “Got an ’pointment.”

“A what? Who in the
blazes would make an appointment to see your ugly face?”

“Healer Altmoor. Said
it was important I come back soon after my last visit.”

“You mean at that new
sick house, the ...?”

“Leaf and Shield,” said
a serving girl who had been listening to them talking. She leaned
over the table, her enormous bosoms pushing wine cups out of the
way, a dreamy look on her face. “You think he’s a foreign prince of
some sort?”

“What, Altmoor?”

“Of course not,” she
said in indignation. “I mean the owner ... Healer Roland. How else
can he afford to keep the Leaf and Shield free to visit? And he
also employs a few Healers, and several women who help looking
after patients.”

“Well, I’ve heard he
charges nobles double. Only poor folk are allowed to get free
–”

“He’s a prince, I’m
sure,” she said, her face lighting up as she spoke. “Have you seen
his rugged scars? He must have escaped from his kingdom, fighting
for his life ... and now he uses his treasures to look after poor
folk! Oh, what a man ...”

“Stick to serving wine,
girl. Next thing you’ll say he and the Reaper is one and the
same!”

Boisterous laughter
filled the warm tavern as snow fell thicker and thicker outside,
hiding dark footprints underneath a cloak of white.

* * *

C.J. Whrite is a
pseudonym