Prologue: A Memory

A flashback to the tragic beginnings of our assassin.

It didn't begin in the dark . . .

The darkness seized it when it broke and kept it confined in its grip for a long time . . .

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A Memory:

He only took one glance at the boy. He was a scrawny little thing; he had thin, bony arms and toothpick legs. His face was smudged with dirt and his dark hair was a disheveled mess. His clay-colored overalls were coated with a thin layer of dust and dried mud and he was barefoot. The man shook his head at the child. “We cannot accept you.” He stated blankly, his tight-lipped frown unrelenting.

“What? Why not?” The young boy protested indignantly.

“Look at yourself, boy. You aren’t fit to fight a rag-doll.” The quartermaster chuckled, turning away and dismissing him with a quick flick of his wrist.

Nothing more.

All it took were those few short, apathetic words of an indifferent man to crush the child’s spirit.

            Deep inside, he was shattered and humiliated, but instead of showing that dejection, he held his head high and marched out of the forest clearing clinging to the last bit of confidence and dignity he had left.

            On his way out, he noticed a group of boys off to the side leaning with their backs against one of the fortress walls, their arms crossed over their flintlocks. They watched him with narrowed eyes as he passed, smirking beneath their military-issued tricornes and snickering to each other about this kid that had been turned down. Usually, desperate for troops, everyone and anyone who presented themselves would be accepted. But not him.

Filled to the brim with anger, the boy stared steadily back at the infantrymen mocking him and caught their gaze. Then, with a disdainful smirk, he flipped them off. Expressions of offense and shouts from the older boys quickly followed and, after shooting back one last glare, he practically ran out of the clearing.

            When he was finally out of the camp’s radar, he threw himself to the ground and beat the earth with his fists until they were sore. He kicked tree trunks, lobbed insults at the sky and, in the stupidity of his fury, punched a rock. He fell silent and dropped to his knees, watching his cracked knuckles bleed. He couldn’t feel it. The pain of his wounded pride overpowered it. After a minute, in an attempt to stop the bleeding, he brought his fist to his mouth and tried to suck away the blood.

He ran his fingers through his dark hair and sighed deeply. The soldiers’ mocking sneers and dark stares were etched behind his eyes, embedded in his memory.

He had been practicing maneuvers for months, and he had finally perfected his cross cut. His plan had been to join the military to avenge his father who had died a prisoner of war. He’d been ready for service, but totally unprepared for refusal. Now that dream seemed so far away.

 

That confidence he’d had earlier had been stripped away, replaced with the sore feeling of rejection. His stomach had tied itself into a knot and he felt like crying.

He thought of his mother waiting for the news at home. She was expecting a soldier to come home. However, he knew she didn’t have much of a temper, so perhaps she would still accept a broken boy. Maybe he could try again next year. Keep practicing. Get a little stronger and try again.

He imagined his younger sister, Alia, running to him with her arms outstretched, squeezing the life out of him in her infamous bear hug. She would look up at him with her big chocolate brown eyes and tell him that she was glad that he got to stay with her. Their comfort could ease the sharp pain in his pride. Maybe that’s just what he needed in that moment.

He took off down the wooded path toward his house, eager for comfort and to get as far away from the military camp as possible. Halfway home, he was passed by a squad of the Royal Task Force. The armored men rumbled by on white stallions, quenched torches tucked under their arms. The little boy had barely had time to dive to the side of the path to avoid being trampled. The boy wondered what they were doing out as far as they were. The Royal Task Force never ventured out as far as the Outer Ring of the city. They usually stalked around the Center Ring, keeping out the lower classes. They were gone as quickly as they had appeared, leaving the boy choking on the dust left in their wake.

The boy shook off his nerves and continued down the path toward his home, the thought of his family’s comfort urging him to go faster. At the end of the path, the dense forest opened up into the Outer Ring. The dirt path melted into a cobblestone road, which led down a hill and into the town. The little boy stopped at the top to catch his breath, taking a moment just to look at the little buildings below. The tiny houses crowded side by side seemed a bit darker �" different �" than usual from that distance. Something was wrong.

The boy sprinted down the hill, but slowed as he entered the town. The gates at the entrance were barred shut by a giant wooden beam. The gate itself was smashed through in several places and charred at the edges. The boy squeezed through one of the holes, and immediately wished he had stayed outside.

The first thing to hit him was the smell. It was overpowering �" the stench of burned flesh. Charred walls and collapsed roofs loomed over him and splintered wood and ash was scattered across the bloodstained flagstones. There he saw the first body. It was lying in the middle of the street - A skeleton burned beyond recognition. The boy’s eyes widened in horror, fixed on the cadaver, unable to look away. Another body was slouched against a wall, its head bowed over its blood-soaked shirt.

The boy was so shocked and terrified that he could barely register what he was looking at. He wasn’t even thinking �" just blindly moving forward in a horrified daze. Tears burned his eyes when he came upon the lifeless form of his best friend, Wes, lying in the street next to his twin sister, Sara, a girl he’d had a crush on. The two were still holding hands, dried blood staining the cobblestone around them. He cried for them, wallowing in his own grief. Under the blackened skies, he moved on, looking for more people he’d known �" not really wanting to, yet unable to stop.

He finally came to what used to be his house on the corner. The windows were shattered and the ash-caked walls sported several bullet wounds. The roof had caved, and the front door �" which barely clung to its beaten hinges �" was slashed through and splintered in several places.

            The boy broke out of his dazed state and panicked, his heart beating hard in his throat. “MOM!” He shouted at the top of his voice. “ALIA!” He threw himself at the barricaded door several times, trying to knock it down, but it never budged. He slammed his fist on the door and hung his head. Tears streamed down his dirt-covered face. Engrossed in shock and grief, he strained to whisper,  “Wes . . . Sara . . .” He let out a loud sob. “Mom . . . Alia . . . “ He dropped to his knees and broke into a fit of sobs, struggling to breathe between wails.

After a long while, he’d run out of tears. He fell back on his back and stared at the sky, trying to escape his mind full of fear. If he’d only been there at the time then maybe everyone would’ve been okay. He could’ve stopped this; he could’ve done something. Or maybe he would be gone too. He thought maybe that would’ve been the better deal �" to die with the rest of them so as to escape this unbearable pain. He glanced at the shards of glass near the wall of his house.

He sat up and ever so slowly reached for one of the larger pieces. It cut his fingertips when he picked it up, but he didn’t care. Thinking hard, he brought the shard to his neck and took a deep breath.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A deep, raspy voice said.

The boy dropped the glass in fright and whipped around to see a tall man standing behind him. His midnight black cloak shrouded his face in shadow and his body was entirely engulfed in the dark fabric. He towered over the boy, a cruel smirk plastered to his face. His thin-lipped smile was the only thing visible underneath the dark cloak. 

"Cruel, isn't it?" The stranger said, gesturing to the bodies lying in the streets. "It's sickening the way humans are so unscrupulous that they would go so far as to massacre the innocent." Frankly, this stranger was quite intimidating, but the little boy suppressed his nervousness and tried to act as though he was unfazed.

            “Are you�"”

            “A survivor? No. I am more of a . . . witness than anything else.”

            “S-so you saw what happened?”

            “As a matter of fact, yes. I was over there in the woods.” The man pointed a long, bony finger at the hill the little boy had come from. “They came not less than two hours ago with guns and torches. They trapped people inside their homes and set fire to the city. See that fellow over there?”

            The man gestured to a boy about seventeen who was sprawled out, his head resting against the wheel of a merchant’s cart. Three holes, each the size of a thumbnail, pierced his chest, soaking his white shirt with blood.

            “They shot any who tried to escape.” The cloaked man said grimly.

            “W-who did this to them?” The boy stuttered, his words caught in his throat.

            “King Leon, that b*****d of a noble that sits atop his throne within the Center Ring. He ordered the reaping of this village, and his heartless army carried out those orders, no questions asked.”

    “I can’t believe I was trying to join their army. W-why would they do this?” The boy began to shout, tears burning his eyes. His deep sadness turned to a rage that turned the little boy’s face red. The man noticed this and formulated a plan within the devious mind that hid under the cloak.

            “They took away your family, your friends. You’re whole life was wiped out with these people wasn’t it?”

            “Yeah, it was. They’re all- everything’s gone . . .”

            “Yes. And they did it without a second thought.”

            “Th-they passed me on my way home, why did they leave me? Why did they do this? I-I’ll kill them! I’ll kill every one of them!” He screamed, tears streaming down his face.

            The man smiled. “I can help you.” The boy looked at the man questioningly. “Revenge.” The little boy furrowed his brow and studied the ground. “I can help you take revenge for what those nobles did to you.”

            “But there’s no way I could ever beat them . . . I even got rejected from the army.” The child said, deflating.

            “That is why I am here �" to help you avenge your family �" to destroy the rule of the nobles and bring about a new and better reign. Join me, child. Together, we shall carry out the fate those damn nobles so deserve. Don’t they deserve it?”

            The man held out his bony hand. The little boy glanced around at the people lying in the streets and the burned houses. A maniacal grin spread across the man’s hooded face as the boy took his outstretched hand.

            “What is your name, child?”

            “I-it’s Kiran. Kiran Arndt.”

            “In your world, I am known as Satan,” The boy’s eyes widened. “Welcome to my realm, Kiran.”

 

            That’s about the time everything went black and the blanks began.

 

Reviews

[CathyC]

It was good! I found myself wondering the setting quite a lot while reading it (Tricorns, a name like Alia, Royal Task Force, etc) so I would like to know more! I like the part where the Satan character invites the boy into his hatred.

[merbear22]

Thank you! I'm working on the first chapter at the moment, so the setting should clear up soon enough. Also, it takes place in a fictional world of my own creation, but I tried to go for the time period before guns were popularly used.

[Hannes]

Wahoo. I admire your work. plot...beautiful. The cliffhanger, right on the edge

[merbear22]

Thank you! I really appreciate the appraisal :) And I'm glad you enjoyed it.