The Vampire Princess of Su'un Aamon
Christopher Lopez
Issue #1 (March 2008)
The night air was dense with the pollen from the chrysanthemums, heavy now in bloom. The humidity coaxed sweat from his brow, and it trickled down his painted face in solid clumps.
Kujiga bore the weight of his task surveying the wall and looking for a crevice where he could start. This would be like nothing he’d encountered in the years he’d spent training since his infancy, nor any of his previous writs. The council elders had elected him, and he would need blood before he could return – fresh spilt blood and ash.
He saw where the hulking, gray wall was coated with moss from too many years of disregard, and sought to find first toehold. At last, he found a niche twice the size of his thumb lengthwise across the bottom of one brick, just off the ground from his left foot.
Cold and calculated, he dug his big toe in, gripped the toehold, reached for a nearby crevice above his head with his left hand, and began the climb.
Years ago he’d wound up at the foot of a tree in the Southern Swamp, where mortal men never traveled if they valued their lives, and where he, still just a baby, had embarked upon this life.
The Southern Swamp was ripe with death, even without the assassins’ hidden nest, which remained undiscovered by all but the most desperate, for fear of disembowelment or worse. No one ever really found the Clan. Once sought in the ceremonial manor, it would find its patrons.
It was unknown exactly how large the swamp was, or where its borders lay in fact, though it was rumored that its very landscape changed around lost travelers. The mud was known for its impartial deadliness, drowning mule, or ox or any unwary traveler that mistook it for a shallow puddle, and the vines in the swamp were best avoided as one could not distinguish between the deadly chokers and the vines that hung among them. The few fl
owers perched about the swamp held enough venom to poison a kingdom, and some spat theirs in barbs. None who’d ever seen the creatures that roamed the marshy ground leaving great mutant tracks in all shapes and sizes had ever lived to tell the tale. But most of all, the reek of dead things and sulfur was unbearable.
Yet right beneath a bush beside a knotted tree the babe had lain until the Clan’s Master Elder Daikoku had found him.
He’d stood before the child, who was asleep amidst this nightmare, resting in his swaddling clothes, and debated with himself -- for who knew how long. But Daikoku, never one to ignore an omen, took the child in the end, carried him back to the camp, spoke to the Clan, and made him one with them. He raised him as one of their own--as one of his own--and it was he who gave him the name Kujiga.
It was never known how he’d come to that place. Some suggested perhaps an unfortunate mother had wandered into the swamp and dropped him, succumbing to its perils and leaving behind her child, soon to join her in the afterlife.
But it was the other suspicions that caused dissent among the Clan, albeit silent dissent, for any doubt in Daikoku’s judgment could never have been given voice. Some dared wonder late at night, while huddled in small groups outside their tents set around the fire, whether the child couldn’t be enchanted, or perhaps a demon planted as a trap to destroy the Clan. Daikoku had never heard these things with his own ears, though he knew of the doubts, but Kujiga had heard. He’d been hearing from amongst the shadows since he was but a small child.
Regardless, it had mattered little while Daikoku was still alive. He was after all, the Clan Master Elder and eldest of the assassins, having been the last living member of the original Clan that had come to Amalur, the great continent, from across the sea.
Even now, Kujiga could still see the old man’s face clearly, his long, thick, white mustache curving round the ends of his lips and trailing down until they hung off his flat cheeks. He could see his smile, though kept for private praise or rare approval of a joke from one of the more loose-lipped of the Clan at dinner, and it sent waves of warmth over him. The skin around his eyes would wrinkle at the corner, and his eyes themselves would seem to laugh.
But his master was cruel as well, and the sight of the black abyss that were his wise old eyes as they’d surveyed him throughout all his lessons was one that the young assassin knew he’d never forget.
Those lessons had almost claimed his life countless times, starting as far back as he’d learned to walk. Once he’d come close to drowning inside the swamp, as all the young assassins did, no more than a dead Choker vine around his heels and a mud hole to sink into and wait. He lost one of his oldest friends that day. Those were the ways set by Hurakan, and the Clanmother they were to be followed to the letter, as had been done for generations before. Only those who survived the tests passed down would be fit to exercise the vengeance that was the Clan’s to give.
The decision took but a second, but those infant years spent crawling round the dust at the center of camp with his playmate had overwhelmed him, and he’d reached for Ashahn’s hand that day to help him to the surface.
And as though the mere thought were the gravest blasphemy he could’ve committed, Daikoku’s whip cracked with such sharp force that it almost sliced his forearm off just below the elbow. When he climbed in, the grainy grit found its way between the gaping flesh. The fresh gash screamed with pain almost as loud as he had when the whip had torn his flesh.
Eventually the pain subsided, numbed by the saliva from a leech that had found its way across the wound; only one of many that feasted on his blood that day.
Even as he crossed the top of the gray wall now, well above the age of the assassins’ proving, and at least a kill for every year alive, he could remember back to that first time he left the swamp to perform a writ, not quite yet an assassin, but an apprentice on the very last step before crossing the threshold into Hurakan’s grace. He would accompany Daikoku on this writ, and when the time came he would execute his first kill.
Summer came early and Baron Trepe was fat from his years of shameless overindulgence. Fearfully insatiable, he’d taken far more than mere greed could account for, and his body and his land showed it. He was often found sitting in a throne at the very head of the vast banquet hall in his manor, where the few nobles in his barony and those that came to call would indulge their sycophantic pallets and pass the spoils through their gullets.
His entire shape was round, not just the swine-like belly that protruded far in front and to the sides of him, causing perpetual strain on his gaudy robes and vests. His head was a giant, bright pink ham with patches of thinning orange hair along the sides that met his bushy beard. The beard traced a line where his jaw should have been, and his face was often smeared with rendered grease from his food. Even his feet were fat balls crammed into suede or velvet slippers.
He took from the land, from the farms, from the farmers and from the stock. He took from the kingdom to satisfy his greed, and the villagers and the serfs never saw so much as a grain of the wheat for which they broke their backs. One night, in his customary frenzy of fatty pork and brandy, he took from a farmer with no means for retribution, but it would be the last thing the bastard ever took from the helpless again.
Ander Montgomery was a poor farmer with a small plot of poor land that was good for little more than enough cabbage to eat through the winter and a few pigs and goats. In fact, the only crops the farm produced in good supply were the weeds that the
The two had never had a child, for one of the two was as barren as the land they lived on. But they worked hard, and though their life was meager it was theirs and they were happy, and after twelve years, still as much in love as the day that they had met.
Ander was in the kitchen on that ill-fated night as summer’s dewy breath rolled in on spring’s heels. He sat at the faded wooden table that he’d made from one of the scarce trees on the land, which had fallen some nine years ago. The tree would never again bear fruit or cast shade, but it had provided for their home quite nicely nonetheless, as all things on the farm must. “Waste not, want not,” his father had taught him from an early age, and he’d mumbled it during the work. Three of the four chairs he’d carved from the same lumber as the table still sat as sturdy monuments, and the one that did not had become winter kindling.
He shifted the food that Leanor had left him on the hearth, working it back and forth across the plate, eating steadily in between, but without much enthusiasm.
Though her duties were mainly relegated to cleaning up the previous evening’s filth, Leanor, like all the other maids, was made to stay at the castle whenever the Baron entertained guests from neighboring baronies, floating around the room all night, retiring cups and plates and picking up any trash they scattered. The reason for such lavish amounts of help was not cleanliness. Far from it, the reason was Trepe’s love of nothing more than flaunting his great wealth for the neighboring nobility.
Ander understood that the little money the job provided was essential, and there was nothing to be done for the late nights that were at times required, but those thoughts made him no more comfortable. He’d seen the lecherous way that nobles often looked at peasant women on far too many occasions. He saw the way they eyed them as they rode through the town in their carriages towards the manor and he knew their thirst for wine and brandy.
After dinner he sat on the porch to smoke his pipe and continue whittling a regal-looking rooster from a branch stump he’d come across on the road some days earlier. And to await Leanor’s arrival, as he always did on nights like these.
He tried to lose himself in the woodwork, but he’d looked to see where the moon hung the first time he’d had to repack his pipe, and the realization set in that Leanor was running later than usual. He packed his pipe, shifted his eyes up towards the hill, looking up at the manor perched atop the hill in the distance from behind the flame on the end of the kindling stick.
Ander resumed his whittling, but with each wood shaving that fell to the porch he grew more and more concerned, and still he waited for his love to return home. But she never came.
He waited until the moon was nearly overhead, growing ever more restless, rising from his chair every few minutes to go to the kitchen, look out the window, walk back to the porch, peer at the manor on the far hill and return to his chair. Finally, he could stand it no more. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones and so he started up the old dirt road towards the manor in a light drizzle that had started to fall; the consequences be damned. He’d sell the farm to the pig for whatever scraps he’d give them and they’d survive off that until they thought of something else, if it came down to it. Something just didn’t feel right anymore, and he felt it down to his bones.
Not halfway up the hill he saw a figure running in his direction, and broke into a sprint. As the figure drew closer he couldn’t make her out, but the dingy looking maid’s dress was clear enough.
The cautious relief that had begun to seep into his head vanished, replaced by an ache in his heart as he closed in on the figure, recognizing Maria. She was sobbing and out of breath, but tugged at his shirt when she reached him, pulling him back the way she had come.
He shook her and asked her to calm down, and tell him what was wrong. When at last she managed, “Leanor,” his eyes grew wide, and he dashed off down the road again, now pulling Maria alongside him.
When they reached the open cellar doors on one side of the manor Ander’s heart sank lower still. Maria was bawling desperately, making choking noises as she tried to keep quiet. Ander descended the stairs into the muggy cellar two by two, and nearly hit his head against one of the support beams overhead.
When he rounded the corner at the foot of the stairs and saw Leanor’s body on the floor in her torn maid’s dress it was all he could do to keep from collapsing. He fell to his knees beside her, sobbing in silence and lifting her into his arms. He whispered for her to wake up, but the purple marks tattooed into her neck when he pulled away to look at her told him she would not.
All this, the poor farmer had told them from the distance of a man who had lost everything. His eyes were cold. Any fire they’d ever harbored had been stamped out. Although Kujiga could never allow his face to show it, he felt genuine pity for the man who sat before them.
He had made the blood offering to the great, ancient oak just beyond the swamp’s border. He’d cut his forearm at the fleshiest part, and used the blood to sign the writ beneath the name Baron Trepe, and left it in the hollow of the oak to be received. Everyone knew how a man could contact the Clan; it was practically legend. But those who sought the Clan had best be ready, for the price was high and they didn’t take kindly to window-shoppers.
After depositing the writ, he’d waited in a bare room on the second floor of the Lonely Stag Inn a few miles back up the road, just before he’d left it at the clearing. No one ever saw Daikoku come to the inn to meet the Clan’s would-be patrons, but it was common knowledge that this was where the assassins made their contact.
Thus arrived Daikoku just after midnight with Kujiga in tow, on this one occasion, for it would be his first writ, and such was customary, as would be the Master’s company on the job.
“He’s taken and taken from us all… everything we have…” said the farmer in a voice as dry as kindling, “and now he’s taken the one thing I had left to live for. I want him to die…but more than that I want him to suffer.”
“We are not torturers, Montgomery,” said Daikoku “we are assassins.”
At this Ander almost winced, but it could just as easily have been from the wound in his arm. Which at this point Kujiga realized was not only still bloody, but still open and bleeding down his sleeve. How deep had he cut?
After a long pause, Daikoku said, “but we have ways to make him die slowly. Very, very slowly.”
If the shell of the man before them was still able to smile, the sour grin that spread across his face at this was it.
They knew not how Ander Montgomery had gotten together the payment, but he’d brought the gold. What deals he’d made with gods or devils were of no consequence to them. All that mattered were that he’d made his payment and now required restitution by the baron.
“This contract will be simple, young one” Daikoku told Kujiga with a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “The pig is fat and spoiled and slow witted. He has few guards and fewer servants that care to see him live. Moreover, his doors are open to what other gluttons wish to see him. Entering his manor will be easy. And some Arachia flower venom will see to it that he dies slowly.
The only downfall is that shooting barbs, you’ll not get to use your blade, but it is well enough for a first kill, perhaps even best.”
The young assassin turned to face his master. “Best would be I assassinated him in the formal manner of an assassin, master. Best would be I began my path with honor. Could I not treat the blade with the venom, then graze his throat with it”, Kujiga asked?
At first Daikoku had only raised his bushy white eyebrows and looked at him from beneath them.
“It is good that you wish to do so,” he said, “but if you were to cut too deep the writ would not be fulfilled to the letter, and thus void.”
“My hand will deal death swiftly and steadily; then he will be left to die of the cramping and convulsions. The writ will be fulfilled as it was given.”
At this the old master smiled in approval.
The following morning they prepared for the journey across the countryside by candlelight and, just before dawn, they left the swamp. Trepe’s barony was not so far away, just over a half-day’s ride in the direction of the red sun. The timing would be perfect. They arrived at a grove a quarter kos behind the manor about two hours after sunset and settled in, lying in wait for the perfect time to strike. Because they were so close, they’d be able to creep right up to the castle with haste.
By mid-moon, they were painted head to toe in black swamp mud. Treating the blade of Kujiga’s dagger with the deadly venom was slow and careful work, but it was done as well. And when passing clouds covered the moon they lunged at their opportunity, sprinting to the wall of the manor, and scaling it in a blur. The blessing that the Clanmother had given them of an open window meant they hadn’t even had to cut the glass to get in, and the window was exactly what they’d needed – a staircase leading to an empty hallway.
Daikoku led the way and Kujiga followed. They crept down the hall to the baron’s bedroom and let themselves in silently, though the baron’s snores would have allowed some room for error. Daikoku signaled to him in silence, indicating the balcony where he’d position himself while Kujiga crept toward his prey.
He unsheathed his dagger and in utter silence he loomed over the fat man’s body. Afterward he didn’t think he’d even looked up, yet he was sure he’d seen a smile across Daikoku’s face just before he sliced at Baron Trepe’s fat neck with surgical precision and dazzling speed. As the pig’s eyes shot open and the first breath of a scream caught in his paralyzed throat, he did see it.
Just like that it had ended, his first writ, and just like that his life as an assassin had begun. Daikoku had told him throughout his training to be patient. He had told him exactly how it would be. He would prepare and prepare for years for the day to come. Then in a matter of minutes it would all be over and his destiny would begin. And so it had been.
All of this came into glaring focus as he navigated the courtyards, halls and corridors of the old, decrepit castle. Maybe it was the stink of death(Very nice) that hung in the walls like sweat on an old robe but it could just as easily have been anything else. An assassin’s mind was impossibly clear when he was completing a contract, or so it should have been, yet for all his killer instincts and razor sharp wit, Kujiga had always had a hard time clearing his mind.
At any rate, he’d made the passage through the castle in silence and without event, just as he was told it would be. The writ had been delivered in such an unusual manor, so much detail, and from a third party no less! Such would have been ground for immediate punishment had the client’s stand in not brought three times the pay.
Now Kujiga found himself at the top of the wide, winding stairs with a massive wooden door, at once brittle with age and ready to come apart. If all came off according to plan, the kill would be quick and quiet. If not, he’d be fighting for his life, and lucky to get away with any skin at all.
In any case, the door loomed before him, begging for its say in the eternal scheme of mortal existence. And so he eased it open, taking what seemed like days to slide himself into the slick, black darkness of the room.
All was dark and quiet within the meager and decaying castle nestled still among the fields of chrysanthemum blossoms. Even in its brightest day Su’un Aamon was but a brick forgotten in overgrown grass compared to the vast and regal majesty that was the city of
Long since purged of life, the massive gray castle walls seemed hollow now, and even the faintest sounds seemed to thunder through it right to the foundation. At night, the musty drops that fell from rotting wooden beams across the ceiling of the throne room and the main hall were tsunamis in the hopeless desolation of an entire people, not forgotten, but eradicated.
But The Assassin’s feet made no sound. None as he made his way over the dense, stone southern wall using no more to aid the climb than fingertips just as silent. He had made no sounds when he ascended the main steps to what had once been a huge, sanded and polished knot wood door, and none as he skimmed the surface of the landing just before the frail mass of splinters that remained in its place. He’d remained silent as he all but hovered over the regal crimson and gold carpet, now tattered, that led through the foyer across the main hall where subjects had danced with glee during the great balls and galas held there during blossom, now moth and mold and moisture-eaten. Not a single sound had marked his climb up the winding, wooden staircase to the chamber door, nor had one issued even from the grumpy rusted hinges as he eased the decomposing mass open with such tender care as not even the gentlest of lovers could afford.
Yet she had marked his journey since before he crossed the outer wall.
He was moving with such determined ease, a single constant fluid motion though precise, calculated and deliberate – he’d started his journey in the dead of night several hours ago. She’d heard it. He wasted not a single movement, though, and his clothes made not the minutest ruffle of fabric.
Of course not, he was wearing hardly any clothes at all. He was naked save for the fine, serpentine dagger that seemed to slither between his clenched teeth, a dark and tattered rag around waist and the slick, black (mud was it?) paint that covered body head to toe, like a second skin, though more reptilian. That dagger – she could smell it – it had been honed fresh from the fire with Red Ash – and she knew what it could do, what it was meant to do. The reek of unknown brethren was fresh upon it.
Yet she lay as she was on the bed, nude, not a scrap of blanket covering her porcelain skin. A few strands of her long, raven hair rested lithely on her face. Her eyes remained closed, yet she was still watching, intent upon his every move. She could see his eyes, black right up to the rim around the eyes, and then again swimming deep within them, watching her as he floated across the room, measuring each step. She could feel the weight of his eyes fixed upon her chest. He watched as it rose, drawing in breath, and then fell again exhaling, and she could see it all, as though from outside.
The hunger was growing now inside her. She could feel herself becoming more and more excited as he neared with every patient step. She could almost feel his steady heartbeat pounding in her ears. He was already at arm’s length from the bed, but this was no time to lose control. She couldn’t let this insatiable hunger get the best of her. She needed to keep her composure. Her very existence depended on it.
But the arousal that was growing within her would soon be far too much to bear. She could feel the changes happening throughout her body, in her deepest recesses. Her lips were plumping with desire, and she had to contain her own voice as her teeth drew a tiny trickle of blood within her mouth. Perspiration had started to bead behind her neck and shoulders, on the small of her back, behind her knees. Her skin was on fire and her every nerve pulsed as though they would explode at any second. She ached down to her core for him to reach her, for the moment that he did she’d indulge all of her pent up hunger.
And still he drew closer to the bed, now so close that she could feel his breath coming from above her bare chest, even faint and shallow as he’d made it.
Just when she thought she’d be able to endure no more, he drew the knife from his teeth, and with sheer and deadly accuracy brought down the swift and silent blade. And her hunger would wait no longer to be satisfied
He’d not had time to exhale half the breath he’d taken in and she was on top of him, his back on the bed where she’d lain, her knees pinned up against either side of him. He clutched the knife in an impotent death-grip with his right hand, but it was pinned to the bed at the wrist by her left and she could feel warm blood from the fresh wounds dug by her nails.
She looked deep into his eyes for less than a second, though it seemed like an age, and saw man’s most primal fear ring true there.
She hissed her predatory smile, and the pearl-white slivers that were her fangs would be the last things that he saw in this life. Then she sunk them deep into the tender flesh along the side of his neck where his jugular pulsed, the world around her erupting in a scarlet haze.
And she fed her hunger at last.
