Davyd - Chapter One

Chapter One

Some girls dream of servicing the Emperor of the Three Kingdoms. To be chosen by this man, to give up their flesh to satisfy one so great, so powerful. He who claims to have brought order and peace to the land after decades of war. The peoples' saviour. The peoples' protector. Just as men dream of giving up their lives for him, women dream of giving up their bodies for him. Fantasies of crawling on their hands and knees, across his bedchamber, to lie naked and open upon the royal bed. Like I just did.

I scream as he enters me, rough and brutal, because I know that's what he wants me to do. I know his desires. His hands squeeze and twist my flesh, roaming over my naked body. I can't feel my wounds anymore, just pure pleasure. Writhing and twisting under him, his sweat mixing with my sweat and my blood, my skin so hot it feels like fire. My hands grip the Emperor's bed sheets, wrapping the finest silks in the land around my wrists until I've bound myself to the bed. His thighs push my legs further apart and I wrap them around his waist, letting him deeper into me.

A tiny part of my mind, a voice so quiet it barely registers, says, Hate.

I cry out with each thrust, hips rising to meet each pounding penetration, sometimes just an animal noise, sometimes begging him to do me harder, sometimes just saying yes when he whispers in my ear, telling me I'm just another whore.

My voice, playing the detached intellectual observer, says to me, I suppose there's a certain irony in the fact that you managed to penetrate his inner sanctum, and now he penetrates yours.

I say, Faster.

We're all alone now, his personal guard has left, taking their dead and wounded with them. Just the most powerful man in the world frelling the living dung out of a naked, sweaty girl who writhes and squeals under him like a cat on a hot tin roof.

His breath is hot against my ear. His lips are on my neck. I tilt my head back, till I'm looking at the wall behind me. For my crime, he says he's going to make me beg for death. I'm going to die screaming with pleasure.

I say, Yes, my Lord.

The little voice in my head, my thoughts, says, Don't worry, this has been a flawless operation. The voice says, Hold it together, remember plan oral.

I have no idea what I'm talking about. I'm too busy begging the Emperor to frell me harder.

The Emperor licks my neck and my ankles press against his ass, trying to push him further into me as he thrusts.

The voice says that assassinating the Emperor of the Three Kingdoms will look really good on your resume. No professional hitter has pulled off a job like this before.

The Emperor, my beloved ruler, pulls out of me and I cry out in disappointment. He flips me over, positioning my body exactly how he wants it, so I'm on my knees, face pressed into the expensive silk, smelling my own sweat. I know what he's going to do.

My voice tells me that it's alright. It's not important in the wider scheme of things.

The Emperor says, "We know you don't have to scream, that you're strong enough not to. But we like to know what our subjects are thinking, and what they're feeling. Especially what they're feeling."

His cock enters my ass. Doesn't even wait for the muscles to relax, he slides right in and I'm screaming with the pain of it. And the pain is pleasure, the two merging into one. The Emperor takes me like that, his hands iron bands around my waist, pulling me back as he thrusts, flesh slapping on flesh. He pulls, I push.

I want to bite down on the bed, but I don't, 'cause I know he wants to hear me scream. He runs sharp fingernails down my back, white hot burns, gouged skin filling with blood. More pleasure and pain screams. I feel his tongue on my shoulder.

Oh, Gods, yes!

My little voice says to me, He's raping you, stupid.

Can't be, not when it feels this good. I want this. I soooo want this.

He's making you think that.

The Emperor has wrapped his fingers in my hair, pulling my head back hard, so now I'm looking at the beautiful mosaic up there. Difficult to make out the detail though when your body is bouncing back and forward.

No-one said it was going to be easy, I'm saying inside my mind, almost inaudible like a voice in a hurricane. Don't lose it now.

He's pulled me right back up, so I'm sitting down on the cock buried in my ass, his chest pressed against my back, my head pulled hard over. A hand around my waist as he lifts and drops me, the other twisting a rigid nipple.

My mind-voice says, with professional detachment, This can't be good for your internal organs. Soft tissue damage. Internal haemorrhaging. Fissures. Infection.

Shut up and just let me enjoy this.

A finger is at my clit, soft, delicate strokes. His thick cock moving more gently now. He says, "Come for us, my assassin. Admit your defeat." The Emperor nuzzles my neck.

It doesn't take long to oblige him. My body goes rigid, silent scream, shuddering on his cock. Sphincter muscles spasm around his hard shaft, the pleasure feeding back into my groin, and orgasm keeps rolling up through me over and over again. It goes on and on as he works me expertly, manipulating my body. Muscles go to pudding and I sag in his arms, a boneless piece of meat. He kisses my neck, gently. There's a flash of blinding pain. I'm drifting away on a sea of pure pleasure. I climax again, shuddering waves of release, and it won't stop.

Mindblowing sex with your mortal enemy.

The voice, faint, distant, almost gone, says something and I can't hear it. Then again, oh so distant, it says, Remember Davyd.

And then I can hear my silent voice, louder now, stronger. I remember how I got here, the pounding my body is taking no longer the centre of existence. Memories fill me.

Getting this far was genius in itself. Simple but brilliant. This is my little voice telling me this, being my ego now. All I can do is listen to it. Can't think. Oh Gods, what he's doing to me feels good.

The Emperor's palace lies at the centre of the capital of the Three Kingdoms. Nosgraadferr. Constructed from blocks of gleaming white stone, vast and overwhelming with its grandeur. Parapets and towers surmount the concentric, crenellation-topped walls. A fortress that screams power to all that behold it. A fortress impregnable to an army, with walls that are the thickest in the Empire. The Emperor of the Three Kingdoms must feel so safe in that palace castle.

How to get inside that? Challenging even for an elite hitter.

I'm on my back on the bed, limbs flopped around me, not an ounce of strength left, gazing at the ceiling, stupidly happy in the knowledge that the Emperor came inside me.

He wipes his mouth and positions my legs so that they're spread nice and wide. A sound escapes me as he slips two fingers inside, then three. He lays beside me on his side, supporting his head with his hand, fingers working in and out and tells me to look at him. I look. I stare into those blue eyes.

"You're very lucky, my plaything," he says. "I'm going to make this last all night."

Four fingers. I gasp, open mouthed as he prepares to fist me, pushing deeper and deeper, stretching me so wide, twisting. I just stare at him, mouth open, eyes wide.

"You know, I believe that highly disciplined mind of yours is still holding out. So you're going to tell me again. Why did you come here to die?"

My mind voice says, The best lies always contain an element of truth.

I'm drowning in his eyes and the croaky little squeak I make is barely audible. I say, Davyd.

"Interesting," he says. "We come closer to the truth. We'll come back to that later. We have all night after all. First let us play some more. Do you wish to play?"

Four fingers and thumb.

I nod.

He says, "Remember to make those pretty little noises for your Emperor."

He pushes his whole hand inside me.

A strategist will tell you that a useful rule of thumb is to counter the complex with the simple.

People expect a complex solution to a complex problem. Feed that expectation. Come up with some ludicrously intricate plan, requiring tight timings, guards being in the right place at the right time, you slithering through sewer pipes, etc. Kidnap someone who knows the defences and layout of the place.

In this case, the son of the Commander of the Watch. Young men are easily lead into a girl's bedroom. Two missing fingers later and you can't shut him up. Get yourself accidentally spotted by the Empire's secret police. Stealthily they follow you back to your lair. Then you slip out the window, so that when they burst in they find only the boy bloodied, still tied to the chair, throat cut. And your detailed and secret plans for the hit lay on your desk. Studying them they realise they only have a few hours left to save their beloved Emperor's life from a professional hitter. A legally sanctioned assassin. One of the Emperor's own weapons turned against him. Off they run, making preparations to foil your plan, so carefully developed over the last few weeks.

Then you walk in the front door.

It's called a misdirect. A sideshow illusionist will tell you that.

I went in on the Festival of Unification day, about six or eight hours ago. This is the day that we celebrate of the joining of the three Kingdoms under the Emperor. The gates of the barbican open as citizens traipse through to pay their respects to the Emperor's grand statue in the courtyard. I return to my roots and am dressed in the clothing of a peasant girl from the steppes. It's been over ten years since I last dressed like this. My native dialect sounds weird on my tongue, it's been so long since I had a conversation in it. Just as well no-one here has a clue what it's supposed to sound like, and the guards, overrun by citizens on this glorious day, give up talking to the backward country girl and let her through as families press on behind me.

Well, I almost got through without incident, but one of the Emperor's upstanding guards sees a lone peasant girl looking all lost and confused and takes her aside, to a small room. And demands a blow job.

Frell.

After getting the nature of his request across, and seeing the resulting outrage from this innocent farmer girl, who threatens to make a scene, he settles for a reluctant hand job. And then a chance to view and maul my breasts. This requires some awkward positioning as he wants to suckle while I jerk.

Things get a little bit out of control. His hand is suddenly between my legs. Not sure what to do and I make the mistake of pretending that it feels good. His hands go to my thighs and before I can think of a response that doesn't involve violence and making a scene he's got me up against the wall and is inside me. I'm not ready and it hurts. Rough stone blocks grinding into my back, arms and legs wrapped around him, looking over his shoulder through the hair falling on my face, breathing in his unwashed stink, praying that none of his comrades come in and see the show. And want to join in.

Clueless farmer girl, new to the city, gets exploited by city folk. I have come full circle.

Oww, oww, oww...

He tells me I'm pretty.

Resist the urge to hit him. Tell yourself that your whole body is a weapon. A tool for getting the job done. Remember you're a professional. Never allow personal feelings to affect you while on a job.

He tells me I have a tight pussy.

Oww, oww, oww...

Do anything to get a job done. Make any sacrifice. That's what they teach you in the Assassins' Guild.

Discipline.

Self-control.

Fortunately, pleasuring him doesn't exactly take a lot of time out of my schedule. I smile hesitantly like it wasn't too bad. In the big city, country girl and dirty girl mean the same thing after all. He smiles happily, gives me a kiss which I deflect onto my cheek and then he throws me out.

It seems romance is not dead.

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Long and slow.

I am calm.

Tell yourself you're not a slut.

You're a professional. You're working.

I pass through the bailey and into the castle's courtyard, milling with the citizens. They are all dressed in their festival day best, and I'm thinking maybe I overdid the peasant girl look. Too late to adjust now. Need to get back on schedule. Anyway, standing out can be a disguise in itself.

Slip away to the kitchen area. Adopt an ill-fitting uniform from a scullery girl. Hide the body in cool room while searching the crate of salted pork that I hid my tools in last night before it was transported here for the feast.

Get dressed in work clothing, get tooled-up, put scullery girl's outfit over the top. Now am glad she was wider than I am, just a pity she was a bit too short.

Upstairs we go, holding a platter of food, looking like one is supposed to be here. Which, in a way, I am. Once inside, things run smoothly. Defensive systems like this are designed to hold out external threats. They're not so good a stopping those threats once they're inside. It's called the soft underbelly.

Now the information gained from the son of the Commander of the Watch comes in. Count the floors, count the rooms. I find the guards' armoury on the level below the Emperor's quarters. According to the timetable I have ten minutes to pick this lock before the patrol returns. Three minutes into it and there's the sound of heavy feet.

The little bastard lied. Obviously two fingers was not enough. I've gotten soft.

Pressure, pressure. Feet are getting closer.

I am ice cold. I am calm.

Seconds to go. The thunder of footsteps is almost at the corner.

Open you freller!

And the lock clicks, the door opens and I slip inside. I'm pressed up against the door, latch held up so they don't hear the metallic click of it shutting. The heavy tramp of feet stomp down the hallway, thumping vibrations on the soles of my feet coming off the stone floor.

Holding my breath.

The feet don't stop and I breathe out as they fade away down the hall.

Calm your breathing.

Remember your training.

Tell yourself that you're the best.

Relax.

I dump the scullery outfit and check my tools. Side-sword, one. Poignards, two. Throwing knives, sixteen. Garrotte. Check.

Now for time for caution. Iocaine is one of the more deadly poisons know to man. A poison that I've only recently become aware of.

The Guild goes to great lengths to make its assassins immune to every poison in the Three Kingdoms. This is a process that takes many years, and is very unpleasant. Tiny doses of a substance are given, and over a period of time the dosage is built up, until the assassin is resistant. This is not to guarantee that it won't make you very ill, which is why I don't like using poison on my jobs. But you'll live.

It recently came to my attention that there is one poison that the Guild does not include in the program. Iocaine.

This is probably as a safeguard against rogue assassins. Such as myself. But if the guild has kept this poison a secret from its own members, I'm betting they never told the Emperor about it either.

So the Imperial Guard won't have an immunity.

I run a line of the clear liquid over each of my blades. And very, very carefully re-sheath them. There have been stories of assassins cutting themselves accidentally on a job, and blown the hit because of their weakened state.

Very embarrassing being caught while doubled up, vomiting all over the floor.

I buckle my gear on and wrap the garrotte around my waist.

Finally, my Guild-issue warding necklace. Which is supposed to bring you luck in combat. Hard to test how well it works, of course. Take it off and see if you get killed quicker next time? More importantly it counters defensive runes. Which you can guarantee will be between me and the target. Nothing but the very best to protect the Emperor.

I braid my hair into the regulation tight ponytail. This I take my time over. I remind myself of who I am. I tell myself I'm strong. I'm fast. I'm clever. I tell myself I'm the best. I breathe, long and slow, and feel strength running through my limbs. I feel strength of purpose flowing through my mind.

I tell myself I'm unstoppable.

Now out the window and clamber up the outside of the castle. I ease myself out onto the windowsill, peering up into the darkness, looking for hand holds. The hard earth is a long way below me.

Don't look down.

The wind whips past, tearing at my hair, stray strands flailing at my eyes. Icy fingers of air force selves through every gap in my clothes. I struggle to breathe.

The ascent is slow and cautious. The first part is pure upper body strength. Muscles ready to rip, I haul myself up to the ledge above the window. After that first bit the elaborate carvings and facade out here make things easier. A stone lion is particularly helpful for the last part of the climb. Good kitty.

I peek into the window that lies directly above the guards' armoury, then slip inside. This is the bedroom used by the Empress. The Emperor doesn't have a wife, so it gets used by whoever is his latest plaything. His whore for the night. Those types of ladies, if they're staying the night, they have work to do in the Emperor's bedchamber. So this room is largely unused and maintained for ceremonial purposes.

The closet is tempting but I'm of the opinion hiding under the bed would be better.

This is a variation of the do something simple plan. When up against pros, don't follow procedure. Forget your training. Do something dumb. They won't be expecting stupidity. No-one would expect a pro hitter to be hiding under a bed. Besides, I have a few more hours before I don't show up out of the castles sewer pipes in the dungeon, as per my original and captured plan. Hopefully, they will figure I realised I'd been compromised and had abandoned the attempt, for tonight at least.

Now I just have to lie under this bed until it's all dark and quiet and everyone's gone to bed. Then it's a simple matter of slipping into the Emperor's bedchamber and sending him to the big sleep.

An hour passes. My back gets sore. I shift very, very slowly, so that I make no noise. Feet can be heard outside several times.

The story of the pro hitter's life is hurry up and wait.

They do inspect the room, not at the appointed time but I'm not surprised as I know that the watch commander's son distorted the timetable. Loyal to his Emperor.

If that boy had understood what I now understand, he would've talked willingly. But you can't tell people something like that, you can only show them.

The inspection is brief, but they lounge up against the window and talk of one of their girlfriends for a while. He's planning to propose. The other three think he's a fool. There's that old, "why buy the cow when you can have the milk line", and they laugh. The scent of hobbit weed fills the room, despite their puffing out the window. This is the end of their shift and they're unwinding. Their duty done, they shuffle out and lock the door behind them.

Time passes, it's gloomy now. Footsteps become rare. I practise controlled breathing, visualise some cartas, get myself in the right headspace. I realise I haven't sleep properly in weeks.

I think of the gang. Arns. Altus. Prod. Little Zoë. I think of Mathok. His strength, his gentleness. The broad, white grin. His ebony black skin. His gorgeous muscled body. The way he seemed to fit my body so perfectly.

I try not to think of Mathok. That's the past, this is the present. They're all gone anyway. Stay in the present moment. I have only one reason to exist. And that's to get the job done.

I relax down, close my eyes, and clear my mind, just focusing on the breath. Reminding myself I'm a professional.

This is a guarded hit. That means the target is protected. Very protected.

I slow my heart beat. I relax every muscle in my body.

If this job was sanctioned by the Guild, it would be classified as lost. That means the operative is not expected to make it out. It is very important that the Guild's operatives do not get taken alive.

I slow everything down. Cleanse the mind.

This job would also have been classified as a terroristic hit. That means the outcome will be publicly effective. Highly visible. The world will change after this job.

Be one focused thing. Just relax...

I open my eyes and it's pitch black.

Oh, frell! I fell asleep! Moron! The most important hit of my life and I'm frelling it up. I've got no idea what time it is, apart from the fact it's time to move. Out from under the bed and over to the door, stretching out stiffened muscles. Blinking the fog from my mind, I try the door. It's latched not locked. I slowly ease the tongue of the latch up by slipping my poignard through the crack between door and jam. Every tiny scrape of metal sounds like a scream in the dark and quiet.

Breathe.

The door open and I slip through into the corridor, spluttering torches at regular intervals along the wall. Around the corner lies the Emperor's bed chamber. Crouching down low I peek around the corner and see them, lit by torchlight. Step back, pull throwing knives, and breathe.

Put on your game face. Wear your mask. Controlling the external controls the internal. And vice versa.

Remind yourself how much you hate the evil thing that lives in the room they're guarding. Tell yourself what he is. What he's done. Then push that emotion down inside until it's nothing but a tiny, ice-cold sphere inside of you.

Focus. Push everything down inside of you.

I am cold.

I am a weapon.

Game face.

Breathe.

Step round the corner and throw.

The hiss of steel flying through the air, two thumps. One Imperial guardsman is clawing at his throat, but the other's only taken it in the face, through both cheeks. Luckily he's tougher than nails and barely cries out. Good man.

Instead he staggers and has only just ripped the blade from his face when I reach him, sprinting. I duck his flailing fist, burying a poignard under his arm around the axilla where there's always a gap in the armour, searching for the subclavian artery. A blade does more damage coming out than going in, like the difference between an incision and a laceration. Extracting the tool also facilitates exsanguination, which expedites the onset of hypovolemic shock. Cerebral hypoxia and feeling dizzy, faint and nauseated follow. You can get a mild version of that when you stand up too quickly.

But pulling a blade requires time. And leaving it in is a good way to disrupt a target.

The first Imperial is on the ground trying to rise, and I hit him with other poignard. You've got to hit targets when you can, because when someone knows they're dying, knows they've got seconds left and nothing to lose, so often they'll rise up out of nowhere and take you down with their last breath.

I put the other one to sleep too. Hit. Hit. Hit.

Quick and clean. The joy of surprise. It took seconds but they made noise going down. Gotta speed this operation up. Get to the soft target before reinforcements arrive.

I'm standing in a pool of blood and my necklace is burning. The Emperor's guardian runes are powering up, their intricate designs becoming visible as they start to glow. My necklace's defensive runes are surging and I've got seconds before the counter-runes are overwhelmed and I start to fry.

I've seen what runes this powerful do. Blood boils. Flesh peels. Eyeballs pop and cerebral matter runs down your cheeks like tears. The heart explodes. They take what's left of you away in a bucket.

I don't want to go that way.

Finger fumble at an Imperial's uniform, and I find his counter-rune charm. Once it's on me the heat from the runes fades into cool stillness.

Breathe.

Discipline.

Now for the primary target.

I twist the door handle, and step into the darkened interior of the Emperor's private chambers.

The only in the room comes from the cracks at the shuttered windows and the embers from the almost dead fire. The paintings on the walls are just black squares. The smell is of sweet perfume and exotic incense. Nostril tightening stuff. I move forward slowly, soft-soled shoes silent on thick fur rugs, cautious of walking into something noisy in the gloom. On the first side of the room lies the double door to the Emperor's bedroom proper. One step after the other and that door gets closer.

There's a sound. My heart skips a beat. I freeze. That door opens and two figures are backlight against the warm orange light from the torches inside it.

I hold still, praying that they can't see me in the shadows, debating whether to throw, but I can't identify the target. This is all wrong.

Oh, frell.

A voice says, "Some light, gentlemen."

The light from the lanterns being unhooded makes me blink and for a moment I can't see anything. Half a dozen imperial guardsmen, black clothes, blackened armour, step out from the walls where they had been sheltering. The door opens behind me and four more guardsmen step in.

Can you say trap?

"Well done making it this far, assassin. You're even more cunning than we were lead to believe. And prettier."

The Emperor is a wizened old man, with a long grey beard, dressed in the Imperial robes of red, gold and black. It's surprising he can even stand under the weight of the thick folds of cloth. His crown sits upon his head, pure gold and thick with jewels.

I've seen him at a distance three or four times, on his high balcony, waving to crowds. Up close he looks even older. Wrinkled and decayed. He looks like just another pathetic old man.

He says, "We were starting to think you weren't coming after all. What happened? Did you fall asleep?"

He laughs, high-pitched and warbling.

Game face.

Beside him is what must be his chief advisor, with straw blonde hair. This guy laughs too, in sequence, like some bad henchman cliche. I glance around quickly, and note the guardsmen discreetly moving into position. Two are next to the Emperor, covering him from a charge.

"Did you get confused, assassin?" the Emperor says, warbling still. "Did you take a wrong turn somewhere? Aren't you supposed to be doing something for your beloved Emperor?"

Game face.

Breathe.

These are the Emperor's personal bodyguard. A fanatically loyal elite. They're kind of like anti-assassins. At the Emperor's behest, the Assassins' Guild regularly trains them in all our techniques. I've trained some of them. They know almost as much as I do about the art of hitting. And it's their job to use that knowledge to nullify would-be assassins.

Of course, they've never actually been up against a professional before, one of the Guild's best. Only amateurs.

"Your Emperor wants to know why his servant stands before him, armed and with death in her eyes. You are ours to command, assassin. How is it that you have chosen a path of treason and betrayal?"

Am working on a plan, but at present am concentrating on looking like I don't know what to do. Which isn't actually that far from reality.

Game face.

Discipline.

"Nothing to say, child? Never fear, for you will speak unto your Emperor later. You will tell us everything. Captain, if at all possible, try not to damage the assassin too badly. For we would like to know where the root of this disloyalty lies. She has much to tell us about our enemies."

"Yes, my Lord," says the Captain of the Imperial Guard, all big and blond and lantern-jawed. "Take her."

And we dance.

Obviously I do not win this fight. Nobody would have. Nobody human anyway. Rest assured I feel I gave a good account of myself. But it would have been nice to have had Zoë's uncanny ability to disappear off the face of the world when trouble reared its ugly head.

But to understand what that means, and how I got myself into this situation, we have to go back a few weeks.

Continued in Chapter Two

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