Of Assassins and Kings, my first book on Amazon!
As a doctor’s apprentice, Akos never thought to be involved
in such dark matters. But when his master is called to the bedside of the dying
King, everything changes and he finds himself thrust into a world of murder,
magic and conspiracy where the price of life is death; the only question is how
many must die.
Prologue
Sergeant Bourn
ran down the corridor. The clatter of the hob nailed boots of the ten soldiers
behind him resounded in his ears, a glorious sound. In the twenty-five years he
had been in the King’s Guard he had not once seen action, his career had been
one of standing to attention and drilling troops. But tonight that was to
change. Tonight the palace was under attack and he had been sent to escort the
prince to the keep.
He spurred
himself to go faster. He knew the corridors so well he could sprint through
them in the dark without fear of running into a wall or taking a wrong turning.
It was his armor that slowed him, the bulletproof cuirass of a palace guard
meant that a jog was hard work. This run was making him drown in sweat, despite
the cold night.
He saw the
portrait of King Richard the ninth out of the corner of his eye, they were
close. He remembered the first time he had seen that picture. His first night
watch, the picture had made his sixteen year old body jump like it had seen a
ghost, which was exactly what he had thought he’d seen. In the moon light, the
oils, some hundreds of years old, took on a deathly glow, in the nervous mind
of a sixteen year old recruit, they could even move. Tonight they held no such
terrors, tonight they only marked his progression ever closer to his goal.
As he rounded
the corner Bourn saw the doors to the Prince’s bed chambers. He threw open the
heavy oak doors, marching into the large antechamber, lined with soft furniture
and with a bell pull for servants within reach of every chair. Opposite were
another set of doors leading to the actual bed chamber, were they hanging
loose?
“Your
Highne...”
It was all
Sergeant Bourn could do not to yelp. Kneeling in the middle of the room was a
hooded figure, clad all in black. Cradled in its arms was the body of a young
woman. The prince had so many mistresses that it could have been anyone. The
hooded figure on the other hand could only be one thing, an assassin, sent to
murder the Prince. Presumably this girl, one of the Prince’s mistresses or a
serving girl, had discovered him as he waited. Now the blood dripping from her
back formed a pool on the carpeted floor. Bourn drew his sword.
“Stand and
surrender dog! Where is the Prince?”
The assassin
slowly looked up and stared for a moment, as if he had only just noticed the
guard’s presence. Then he leaned over and kissed the woman on the forehead,
then laid her down on the now red wool carpet.
Bourn was
confused, assassins were supposed to leave their victims were they fell, not
cradle and kiss them. Besides, why were they seeing this killer at all?
Assassins were the tigers of the city, silent and deadly, waiting in the
shadows for their pray. They didn’t wait to be found at the scene of the crime,
allow you to draw swords and then kiss the body. But his mind was wrenched from
its musings by more alarming events.
The assassin began to stand, drawing a dagger as he did so, and then
leapt three meters, landing feet first on the man to Bourns right, plunging the
dagger between the man’s ribs and leaping to another before the first had hit
the ground. He danced from man to man, striking and gone before the blood could
begin to spurt. Three seconds later he swept Bourn up by the throat and pinned
him against the wall. As the assassin turned his face up to look at the
sergeant, it was caught in the candlelight and Bourn saw the only thing that
could still shock him, the assassin was crying.
