Assassin's Lament, A Dark Fantasy Novel: Assassin's Song, Book One

By Michael Cairns

What happens when all you have left is guilt?

Aryan was born to a whore and spent his childhood hiding from her fists round at Darryl’s house. All his life he wished something would change, something would happen. When the Night of Blood came, he discovered the danger of wishing for anything too hard.

Nowadays, Aryan travels the continent, searching for a myth only fools still believe in. Darryl’s still around and they’ve been joined by Tast, an actor in a world without stages. Then there’s Lissa, but the less said about her, the better.

His search might not be so difficult, if it weren’t for the curse. But the Wildlands are controlled by the walkers, and only fools leave the safety of the city walls. But sometimes it takes a fool to see what others are too scared to. Just like it takes an assassin to do what others can’t, or won’t...

Assassin’s Lament is a coming of age story mixed up with a dash of romance, a hefty chunk of tragedy, and plenty of action. Cue swords, zombies, kingdoms, assassins, war, blood, and guilt. Plenty of guilt.

You're only one click away from entering the world of the Assassin's Song! Hit buy to join Aryan and the others on a journey that will never leave you...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Cairns
• Release date: Feb 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781909699403

Michael Cairns

Michael Cairns was born at a young age and could write even before he could play the drums, but that was long ago, in the glory days - when he actually had hair. He loves chocolate, pineapple, playing gigs and outwitting his young daughter (the scores are about level but she's getting smarter every day). Michael is currently working hard on writing, getting enough sleep and keeping his hair. The first is going well, the other two...not so much. His current novels include: > Young adult, science fiction adventure series, 'A Game of War' 1. Childhood dreams 2. The end of innocence 3. Playing God 4. Breathing in space 5. Escape 6. Gateway to earth > Urban fantasy super-hero series, 'The Planets' 1. The spirit room 2. The story of Erie 3. The long way home >Paranormal horror post apocalyptic zombie series, 'Thirteen Roses' 1. Before (Books 2-6 due for release in spring)

Book preview

Part One

Aryan

The Mountains of Loss

436 AL

Aryan couldn’t feel his legs. His feet went first, an hour or so ago, but now everything below the knees is numb. He was tempted to stick a knife in, just to see if they’d bleed. But that would attract the walkers.

What just happened? Someone had made a big mistake. Someone other than him, that was. He’d made a whole heap of them. The first was not calling out the other assassins. How had he left the body there and not used it to trap them? Stupid. But the sun had been shining and he’d relied on his reputation. Stupid.

Reputation meant nothing in the mountains. Up here, the only thing that counted was steel. Unless you were an assassin, of course, but it appeared even that no longer mattered. He touched the tiny sigil at his throat and laid his head back against the snow. His hands felt like they could snap at any moment, his fingers refusing to bend. Despite the gloves, his arms ended with two chunks of dead meat.

What the bloody hell just happened? Someone’d gone rogue. Either that, or the Guild changed the rules, but he didn’t believe that for a second. They’d served just fine for the last four hundred years, so why piss around with them?

That poor kid last night had been young. Young enough for someone to persuade him it would be alright to break the rules. And young enough to think killing Aryan would secure his place in the stories. It would have, at that.

He was cold. Sod cold, he was freezing. And the sun was going down. Walkers wouldn’t venture this far down the cliff, but how the hell was he supposed to get back up?

He laughed and the sound bounced off the cliffs that surrounded him. His voice came back to him, louder and madder. He wasn’t going anywhere. He glanced at his arm and the familiar sickness rose. The bone thrust out of the skin, ivory glowing in the twilight against the congealed brownish blood.

He wasn’t going anywhere and he couldn’t feel his legs. What the hell just happened? The sun was sinking and the mountain opposite was purple and red. It’s the most beautiful thing Aryan’s ever seen. Almost. Lissa was… Aryan shook his head. He wasn’t going there. He isn’t going to die with that bitch’s face in his mind.

He’d thought about death. You do, being in his line of work. He’d imagined going down fighting walkers. Dar and Tast would be there and they’d fall together. He bit his lip at the thought of Darryl. Would he have said something different if he’d known he’d never make it to the Guild? Maybe. The bastard still did what he did, though.

He couldn’t feel his legs. What the hell just happened?

Aryan

Sceal

412 AL

He was born, or so they said, in the time between the sun leaving the sky and the moon rising, when the world was waiting. It was winter and the sun went early, calling a quick finish to the day’s farming.

That mattered not in the least to the woman on her hands and knees, screaming into her pillow as he forced himself into the world. He thought sometimes she was remembering, when she looked at him with her upper lip curled just enough to keep him at a distance.

He was a slow learner. It took a few years of beatings, and a few more being hurt between his legs, pinching and kicking, before he understood how much she hated him. Once he did, he took to sleeping in the barn, which suited both of them just fine. Mother had her privacy back, free to invite the men of the town in as and when she pleased. Aryan lost the bruises, or at least, the ones people couldn’t see.

She still beat him, but they were good, honest beatings, as she liked to boast, and he took them without complaint. He learnt quick enough what happened when you complained.

So he took his beatings and spent as little time as possible at home. Why stay there, when he could be at Darryl’s? If Darryl’s parents knew what happened at home, they didn’t say, but he was always welcomed with open arms.

It was at Darryl’s he first heard about the trade.

‘It’s amazing, like, they’re amazing, they kill and fight people and stuff, and they have all these amazing weapons, and like, move around in the dark and stuff.’

‘Darryl, my sweet, is there any chance you could take Aryan and your arms out of my kitchen afore you destroy the entire place?’

Darryl’s mum smiled at Aryan, raising one cynical eyebrow as she shoved her son out the door. Aryan grinned back, her smile clinging to him like a new cloak. She was beautiful, not that he’d ever say. Darryl’s dad’d tan him good then kick him out, and he couldn’t have that.

Darryl was still talking, punctuating every word with both hands. ‘Honestly, it’s like, you don’t even know they’ve been there, you just look down and you’re bleeding and then you’re dead and you don’t even know it.’

‘Don’t you think you’d know if you were dead?’

‘Well, yeah, but like, not until it’s too late, you know?’

He nodded, enjoying his friend’s enthusiasm. This was the fourth, or maybe fifth time this summer Darryl had decided what he wanted to be. That their calling ceremony was still four years away was irrelevant. Darryl liked to ponder things, often for hours at a time, but once he caught something he liked, he ran with it.

‘Don’t you think it sounds amazing?’

Aryan rocked his head back and forth and shrugged. ‘Yeah, sounds alright. Bit dangerous, though, init?’

‘No, that’s just it, see. There’s rules, like, well, guidelines, they call em, but once an Assassin’s been, what’s it called, Contracted, you ain’t allowed to get in the way. There’s a Guild and stuff, and they hunt you down and do horrible things to you.’

His eyes flashed at the thought of such wonders and Aryan couldn’t help laughing. ‘Only you could get excited at the thought of being hunted down.’

‘Ah, no, see, I won’t be hunted down, cos I’ll be one of em.’

‘Don’t you have to be, you know, fit? And able to carry a sword without tripping over it?’

Darryl’s face darkened and Aryan wished he’d bit his tongue. Not much to smile about these days, so why piss when someone wanted to start a fire? ‘Sorry, didn’t mean that.’

‘Nah, you’re right.’ He paused, eyes on the floor. Aryan spotted the exact moment life came back into him. ‘But it’s four years away, init, so there’s plenty of time. I can get better.’

‘Master says once you got some hair on your balls, your balance’ll sort itself out.’

‘Damn right.’

He went back to exhorting the many wonders of the Assassin’s trade and Aryan couldn’t help but be caught up in it. In the eleven years he’d been alive, the only life he’d ever seen was minding cattle, tending crops, or dreaming of joining the patrols. But even the patrol had lost its sheen in recent times.

The last one had come through a month or so ago. Eight men, every one carrying a wound, every one bitter and tired. At least four had grunted their way through a night with Mother and he’d eaten well for a few weeks, but he’d been happy to see them go.

It was getting worse, they said. There was nothing left outside the towns, only the walkers and the rain, and if the walkers didn’t eat you, you’d die of exposure soon enough.

So cattle it was. There were worse lives. Mother would be too old to fuck soon, and she’d need looking after, so there it was.

He went home that night dreaming of men in cloaks bearing curved swords, with eyes that saw in the dark and powders that exploded. He curled up above the cattle with a smile on his lips for the first time in months.

The attack came a week after his fourteenth birthday. He only remembered the birthday because Darryl’s mum made him pie and let him sit at the head of the table. Everyone clapped him on the arm and wished him well, and Darryl’s little sister kissed him on the cheek, which made everyone laugh but wasn’t too bad, all things considered.

A week later, the world changed. Sceal had stood below the mountains for two hundred years, stout walls and enough able men and women to keep away the occasional walker who strayed too close. But this night, something was different.

At first, all he knew of it was a shout that dragged him from sleep. He sat up, pawing the dust from his eyes. The cattle below were lowing, shifting anxiously in their stalls, and if he didn’t have the laziest, calmest animals in town, he didn’t have any at all.

He slipped into his trousers and shimmied down the ladder. He was already wearing everything else he owned in a futile attempt to keep the cold at bay. Murmuring calming words as he passed between the cows, he drifted out into the night, a stick-thin boy with hair the colour of darkness and eyes to match.

Another shout made him jump and, in the silence that followed, he heard them. They sounded like his cows, low, animal groans that heaved and pitched like a boat at sea, and made the hairs on his arms stand up as he forgot all about the cold. There was another sound, a creaking that had perhaps put him in mind of a boat, but was, in fact, the wall.

The wooden stakes ended in sharpened tips that he watched shake back and forth before the moon. The clouds were moving fast and, as he scampered between the houses, the moon was swallowed, plunging him into darkness. He knew the way and didn’t slow for an instant, but the sounds grew louder when the light went.

There were figures atop the wall, the men and women of Sceal carrying spears and rakes and spades and anything else they could rightfully or wrongly call a weapon. There were more of them than usual, many more.

He reached the ladder and came face to face with Darryl’s dad. His creased brow cast dark shadows over his eyes, so only the slightest of glimmers could be seen in the light from the hanging lantern.

‘You ain’t going up there, lad, no place for children.’

‘I’m two years from my calling, I can hold a weapon just as good as anyone else, an you know it.’

‘Aye, you can, but holding and using’s two different things, ain’t there, now get along, there’s nothing to worry ‘bout.’

His words were contradicted by the moan of the shifting wall and the groaning that came from beyond it. As he turned reluctantly away, the creaking became a crack. Shouts from above made him spin and stare as the people of Sceal raced down the stairs. Some jumped from half way up and thumped awkwardly to the ground.

He watched, frozen and wide eyed, as they scrambled up and ran towards him. He realised at the last second they hadn’t seen him and threw himself to the ground. A boot caught him in the shoulder and he shouted, clapping a hand over it as it exploded with pain.

He blinked, staggering to his feet as the world spun. The wall was moving. The wall was coming closer! He blinked again. Perhaps he’d been hit in the head. A hand closed over the collar of his shirt and he was dragged off his feet and hauled away from the collapsing stakes. Darryl’s dad pulled him along until they reached the corner of the main street, then set him on his feet.

On all sides, he saw the people of Sceal acting in ways he’d never imagined. Mr Helson, one of the town elders, sat on the bench before his house, the bench he sat on every afternoon, and opened his throat with a long bladed knife. He slumped sideways as his favourite bench changed colour in the darkness, shining crimson beneath the moon.

Some raced inside and slammed their doors, whilst others hauled horses from stables, or the tiny huts attached to their houses, and leapt on, saddles or no, racing for the gate on the far side of town.

Mrs Elsathian, the only Southlander in town, and one of the few to make no judgment of him, came out with her two daughters. She knelt in her front yard, digging desperately in the dirt. A few minutes of scraping around and she stood, triumphant, a strap clenched in both hands. She hauled on it and a massive sheet of wood rose, scattering mud and grass.

Beneath it lay a pit into which Mrs Elsathian bundled her daughters, then followed them in. Another neighbour, one whose name Aryan didn’t know, ran over and begged her to let him in. She emerged with a machete, swinging until he backed far enough away for her to pull the hatch down and seal it.

Darryl’s dad turned and Aryan turned with him. They stood together and watched as the wall came down. Beyond it, clamoring in the darkness, were walkers. Not just one or two, but hundreds, teeth showing through rotted lips, eyes white and stark against the night.

Darryl

Selen

435 AL

The crowds were still roaring, though he’d left the balcony going on five minutes. He lay down, rubbing his face and resisting the urge to thrash about and shout a lot. His mouth ached from smiling and if he had to wear this damned crown any longer, he was apt to scream. Actually, if anything happened at all, anything that broke his precious solitude, he’d scream. And then have executed whoever was responsible. He could do that now. The smile crept back over his face.

The loud banging at the door made him whimper before he leapt from the bed and stormed across the room. He hauled it open, slamming it against the wall.

‘YES?’

‘Hi, oh mighty king, got any wine?’

He resisted the urge to put his head in his hands and stepped aside. Aryan meandered across the room, then sat on the bed, bouncing up and down experimentally. ‘It’s better than the last one. This whole place is better. We staying this time?’

Darryl bit his lip, looking steadily at his hands and counting. It took a while, but eventually he was able to look at his old friend without launching himself across the room, and nod. ‘This is it. The visiting has finished, and the king is officially in, whatever you call it, you know, state or whatever.’

Aryan chuckled. ‘Very kingly pronouncement, very impressive.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Also very regal.’ Aryan ambled to the window, hooking one of the bottles of wine off the table as he went. He flicked the curtains aside and flashed a grin at Darryl. ‘They appear to be rather fond of you.’

The new king grunted. ‘Fond of me, or the idea of no more walkers?’

‘Either, both, does it matter? They love you.’

He turned away from the window, struggling with the cork. Once he’d wrested it from the bottle, he set it carefully against the rim of one of the crystal goblets sat on the table and poured a generous measure, following up with the same for Darryl. He passed it over and raised his glass in a toast.

‘Here’s to a ridiculous plan that somehow worked, and the new king of Rechek.’

Darryl grunted again. It had been a ridiculous plan, which was the only reason he’d gone along with it. He was no more ready to be king than Aryan was to settle down and raise a family. He didn’t say it, though, just nodded and sipped his wine.

He set it on the bedside table and lay back, the ceiling spinning slowly as the potent Southland wine went straight to his exhausted brain. When was last time he’d eaten anything? Aryan was talking again and he had to work very hard to understand what he was saying.

‘…Which’ll mean the outliers come flooding in. You’re going to have to be ready for that. Are you ready for that?’

‘What?’

‘Outliers, Darryl. Once everyone hears this place is safe, properly safe, they’ll be flocking here in the thousands. Think about it, would you have stayed in Sceal if you’d known there was a place guaranteed to be safe from the walkers?’

They were both silent at the mention of home. Unwelcome memories flooded in before Darryl shook them away. ‘Okay, you’re right, so what do you suggest?’

‘Me? Why the devil would I suggest anything? I’m an assassin, not the town planner.’

‘But all of this is because of you. If you’ve thought about it, you must have thought what we can do about it.’

‘Why?’

Darryl sighed, pushing himself up so he could stare across the room at his old friend. There weren’t many in the world who could infuriate him quite like Aryan. In fact, there were none. ‘Because. Because you just do. You think about everything, long before everyone else.’

This was true, however much he hated saying it. Aryan’d been quick when they were kids, too, quicker to learn the blade and quicker to figure stuff out, how to hide from the walkers and how to survive. He’d always been the smart one. Which probably explained why Darryl was sitting here as the king, and Aryan could walk out the door  and go wherever he damn well wanted.

The thud of Aryan’s empty goblet striking the table top yanked him from his reverie. His friend was shaking his head, face a picture of sadness as real as the forged documents showing Darryl’s royal bloodline hid beneath the bedroll in his travel sack.

‘My friend, I have done a lot of thinking, and decided that decisions such as this are best left to others, those charged with such things. My destiny lies out there…’

His hand swept towards the door and Darryl groaned, lying back on the bed and covering his eyes with one hand. Another speech about the sanctity of the open road would probably lead to a death and, considering only one of them was a trained assassin, it was wise that he remain silent. Even the threat of execution that accompanied killing the king wouldn’t dissuade him if Darryl interrupted mid-soliloquy.

He drifted, Aryan’s passionate outburst losing its battle against sleep, when another knock at the door made him jump. ‘Oh, for god’s sake, is there no rest, just one bloody hour to sleep?’

He’d grabbed the sheet as he sat up and was squeezing it furiously as Aryan watched him. The assassin lounged in one of the huge armchairs opposite the bed, refilled wine glass slung carelessly from one hand. ‘Would you like me to get that for you, oh, king?’

Darryl growled at him and nodded. Aryan set his glass down and strolled across, opening the door with a flourish. Waiting outside, apologetic smile in place, stood the third of their company, and quite possibly the only reason they hadn’t killed one another in the many years it had taken to get to this point.

Aryan opened his arms, smile widening. ‘Tast, what a wonderful surprise. I felt sure you’d be engaged with the councillors for hours when we left you.’

Tast glared at Aryan, pushing past him and coming to stand before the bed. He sketched a short bow and Darryl swung for him.

The little man sharply side-stepped and offered a deeper bow, skipping away as the king took another swing. Tast angled his body to face both of them and took a breath, holding it for a moment, before launching into his speech. ‘I am here for the primary reason of telling you both the extent to which I want to kill you. You are wastrels, scoundrels and much more beside, and were you any less important to my continuing survival, I would do exactly that.’

Aryan took the threat in his stride, slouching back into the armchair and lifting the bottle of wine. ‘Drink?’

Tast scowled for a moment, before nodding his assent and perching in the other chair. Darryl couldn’t help smiling as he compared the two. For all his apparent sloth, Aryan was sharp as a sword, every move deliberate, every muscle waiting to step into action.

Tast, on the other hand, moved constantly, yet had none of the grace of his considerably taller comrade. Rather, he twitched and fidgeted, his face always changing. It befitted his chosen profession of ‘actor’ down to a tee. He was, to the best of Darryl’s knowledge, still the only professional actor in the whole of Rechek, but a host of sins and skills were encompassed by the title.

What intrigued Darryl was that when the role required it, Tast was able to be as still as a rock and move like a dancer.

Now, though, every part of the little man was agitated and had every right to be so. Tast took the glass from Aryan, nodding his thanks, and took a long draft only to burst out coughing, holding the glass out before him to avoid spilling any. ‘Goddess, that’s a serious wine.’

‘Lalyrian red, from 212AL, rather splendid I thought.’

‘Since when have you been able to afford anything from Lalyria?’

Aryan nodded at Darryl. ‘Since our friend here became the great and powerful king.’

Tast snorted as Darryl waved at them. ‘Stop bloody calling me that. And if I am so great and powerful, why can’t I make the two of you sod off and let me sleep?’

‘Such are the great mysteries of power, my liege.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Tast interrupted. ‘Which of you two bastards would like to explain why I have spent the last three hours talking about the state of the sewers here? I know nothing about sewers, nor do I have any interest in them.’

Darryl exchanged a smile with Aryan, before turning his attention back to Tast. ‘Well, my friend, being this close to the king does bring some responsibilities with it, I’m afraid.’

‘So that’s why Aryan’s being researching the local wine houses, is it? More important responsibilities?’

Aryan waved his glass, ignoring the stuff that slopped out onto the carpet. Darryl groaned, eyes widening as wine that went for three golds a glass stained the fine woolen rug. ‘I go wherever my king wills, just as you. There have been rumours of spies, you know, stealing the king’s wine.’

Tast shook his head, hissing between his teeth, and sat back, glaring into his glass as he sipped it. Darryl lay back, chuckling to himself. How the devil were the three of them in charge of the country? He knew how, though. A few pieces of paper, a murder, and a promise, nothing more and nothing less.

Now all they had to do was live up to that promise. He covered his eyes with one broad arm, moaning as Aryan broke into song.

Aryan

Sceal

412 AL

They came over the wall, clawing themselves along the wooden beams and down into the town. The defenders had fled into the night and the walkers streamed across the open space. They fell on the body of Mr Helson, tearing at his flesh with teeth cracked and sharp, and Aryan hid his face in Darryl’s dad’s trousers as he heard the skin rip.

The man grabbed him beneath the armpits and shoved him along. ‘Go lad, bloody go.’ But where was he supposed to go? The walkers were in the town and there was nowhere to hide and nowhere to be safe. He glanced over his shoulder as he ran and saw them yank open the door of a house to pull out the woman hiding within.

She went down, one hand raised skywards for a moment before a set of teeth closed around it. Her scream filled the night and Aryan joined in, his confidence of only a few moments earlier fled with the townspeople. He ran but the streets were strange, now. Beneath the moon and scudding clouds, the familiar cobbles of the day had turned slippery and treacherous in the face of his retreat.

Darryl’s dad thudded along beside him, breath coming in gasps, and Aryan sped up. As long as he was with him, he’d be okay. He couldn’t be alone, he couldn’t.

Mum! He thought about his mother alone in their dingy house, crouching terrified behind the door. A small voice inside crowed and crowed and between his breaths, he smiled, but only for a second.

He grabbed Darryl’s dad’s arm, tugging it. ‘My mum, I gotta find my mum.’

He shook his head, brows creased together. ‘You can’t, lad, not now. We gotta find shelter.’

He ignored the words, sprinting away and into the alley that led home. He had to get to mum, he couldn’t leave her there, he couldn’t—

‘Aryan, come back, you stupid bleeder, come back.’

His feet thudded behind him and Aryan ran harder, head down. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind, of his mother crouching, afraid and alone. He burst free of the alley and skidded to a stop.

The walkers were halfway down the street and, as the clouds moved away from the moon, he caught sight of the bodies. Three of them, elders too weak too run, were pinned to the floor. One was still living and, as Aryan stared, the old man raised a hand towards him, lifting his face off the floor. He couldn’t hear him, but he could see him mouthing the words, pleading, before one of the walkers bent and dug its teeth into the man’s throat, ripping it out to spray blood across the cobbles.

Aryan sobbed and dashed down the street. Darryl’s dad rushed from the alley behind him and his hand brushed his shoulder.

‘Aryan, please, there’s nothing you can do, come with me.’

Aryan shook his head, still running, blood thumping through his temple. He heard a gasp from behind and glanced back. Darryl’s dad had stopped, staring at the oncoming horde. He dragged his gaze from them to Aryan, then pelted straight towards him, the whites of his eyes showing all the way round.

Aryan finally found the breath to speak. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m fine, I’ve gotta find mum.’

Darryl’s dad didn’t answer, bearing down on him, snorting like a cow. Aryan kept running and his house appeared around the corner. He reached the door and slammed his clenched fist against it. his voice cracked as he shouted through the wood. ‘MUM, MUM, LET ME IN, COME ON.’

There was silence from within so he stepped back, then ran at the door. He bounced off it, cursing as his shoulder exploded in pain, but set himself to try again.

Darryl’s dad grabbed him by the shoulder, stepped past, and heaved a kick at the door. It shattered, the thin boards bursting inwards, and Aryan followed them in, shoving his way between the splinters. He stopped, head shaking, then staggered back out into the street, vomit rising up his throat to splash to the cobbles. He heard Darryl’s dad swear quietly as he peered through the door, but it meant nothing, buried beneath the screaming in his ears that he realised was his own.

His throat burned, bile dripping from the corners of his mouth. He couldn’t go in there, but he had to, he had to make sure. He stumbled towards the door and again, Darryl’s dad grabbed his shoulder. ‘Don’t, lad,’ but he shoved past and through the door.

The fire was burning and the room was hot. Sweat broke out on his forehead at the sudden change. Mum was in her chair, knife held carelessly in her hand, the tip that touched the floor surrounded by a congealing pool of blood. Her eyes stared blankly at him, though not at him, he realised, but the door behind him.

Her throat may as well have been ripped out, for the mess she’d made of it. He lurched towards her, trying to press the blood back into the wound. Hands took him by the arms and he didn’t resist as they pulled him away. Darryl’s dad appeared before him, face shoved in close, and he swallowed, noticing the smells in the room, of shit, and beneath it, blood.

‘We have to go, lad. I know you want ta stay and see to yer mam, but we have to go.’

He nodded, not understanding, and let Darryl’s dad drag him out into the street. Something came at them, a shadow with teeth and claws. He was shoved back, landing hard on his arse. Darryl’s dad struggled with the walker, keeping it from biting him by pure effort alone, but in the next second, he slipped against the wall, the thing snapping its teeth in his face.

Aryan screamed and the creature turned to him, teeth bared. He could see the thing’s gums, black in the night, and the yellowed eyes that bore into him. He covered his face with his hands, peering between his fingers as it came for him.

Darryl’s dad grabbed it by the arm and swung it around, throwing it out into the street. He hauled Aryan up and sent him running with a kick. ‘Run, lad, just bloody run.’

Aryan ran, gasping and panting. He turned only when he reached the end of the street, just in time to see a walker sink its teeth into Darryl’s dad and rip half his shoulder out. It was like a tap had been turned and in seconds he was covered in blood, his body soaked as he dropped to his knees. Aryan thought he heard him shout ‘run’ at him again, but he couldn’t be sure and by then, he was running anyway.

He reached Darryl’s house minutes later, slamming his hand against the door, screaming and screaming. It was pulled open and thick, warm hands pulled him in. The floor was gone, somehow, and he was bundled down a staircase as the wooden hatch was pulled over the top and darkness consumed him.

He was surrounded by hands and bodies, Darryl and both his sisters and mum, huddled together. He crouched, head wrapped in his arms, trying to block out the vision of his mum and her eyes, trying to stop shaking. Then warm arms came around him and he shook so hard he thought he’d fall apart, until the cloth he was pressed against was sodden with his tears.

Sometime later, the sounds of searching reached them, the awkward thumps of the walkers as they staggered around the house. Aryan could hear Darryl’s mum muttering, praying that they left the house and didn’t settle there. Out in the Wildlands, every hut and cottage was home to a walker, but here they had more to choose from.

Later still, sleep finally claimed him.

Aryan

Selen

435 AL

He was bored. There was no other way to put it, nor did he want to. Darryl was clinging to him like a thresher beetle and, if he didn’t leave soon, he never would. The thought made him shudder and gave him the strength to lift his hand and thump on the door. When had this happened? When did he start waiting to be invited, instead of just pushing the door open and stomping in?

He stepped in, taking a deep breath. ‘Darryl, I’m off, I’ll see you soon.’

He was met with silence and thought, for the briefest second, that he’d got away with it. Then the king’s face, looking considerably older than it had six months ago, appeared around the corner, wearing the sort of look reserved for subjects soon to meet the executioner.

‘Say that again. No, actually, don’t. Go away and come back when you’ve come to your senses.’

‘Can’t, sorry. I need to go.’

‘Where?’

‘I’ve got a job.’

‘You’ve got a job? Who from, where from? You’re my bloody assassin, what are you doing taking a job?’

‘Which of those would you like me to answer?’

Darryl gave him that look again and sunk heavily into one of the two huge armchairs. He’d put on weight, as well, in the last few months. The years on the road meant there was plenty of muscle under the fat, but where he’d once been firm, he was now wobbling. It was almost as distressing as the creases marring his forehead.

Aryan couldn’t decide whether to feel guilty about the changes in his friend.