Freedom broke his chains. Blood would decide what he did with it.
_——.
It has only been a few weeks since Atreio had been saved from the slave pens and the arena. They had been trying to undo centuries of indoctrination.
He was struggling with making decisions as he had never had to. Now he was free and Drakon had said that he didn’t have to stay with him.
Drakon has been slowly breaking the bond with his former owner without doing any further damage to his mind. He was shocked that Drakon hadn’t immediately forced a bond on him.
He was beginning to realize that Drakon wasn’t trying to get him to do anything but make up his own mind.
—–
The Twelve Assassins
The castle was too quiet.
Atreio noticed it before Drakon did.
He stopped halfway down the corridor.
His massive frame became perfectly still, one hand resting on the pommel of the sword at his hip. Long dark-blond hair fell down his back, nearly reaching his waist.
Drakon continued walking.
“Atreio?”
Atreio raised one hand.
Drakon stopped.
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Atreio listened.
Nothing.
That was the problem.
The castle was never truly silent. Guards walked the battlements. Servants moved through the lower halls. Torches crackled in their iron brackets. Somewhere, someone was always speaking.
Now there was nothing.
Atreio’s eyes moved toward the shadows between two pillars.
“Down!”
Drakon reacted immediately.
Atreio drew his sword.
Steel hissed from the scabbard—
and Atreio threw himself into Drakon.
A crossbow bolt passed through the space where Drakon’s chest had been.
It struck the stone wall behind them.
Atreio was already moving.
He didn’t wait to see where the bolt had come from.
He knew.
A figure dropped from the gallery above.
Atreio charged before the assassin’s boots touched the floor.
The assassin barely raised his curved sword.
Atreio’s shoulder slammed into him.
The impact lifted the man completely off his feet.
He crashed against a pillar.
Atreio’s sword followed.
One strike.
The assassin collapsed.
“Eleven,” Atreio growled.
Drakon slowly stood.
“Eleven?”
Atreio looked toward the darkness.
“There were twelve heartbeats.”
Drakon smiled.
“You counted them?”
“I count threats.”
Three assassins emerged from the shadows.
Two more dropped from the gallery.
Another appeared behind them.
Drakon’s smile disappeared.
“So do I.”
The assassins attacked.
Atreio moved first.
He charged directly into them.
There was nothing elegant about the way Atreio fought.
He had learned combat in an arena where elegance got men killed.
His sword smashed aside the first assassin’s blade. His elbow struck the man’s face before the assassin could recover.
Atreio caught him by the throat.
He threw him into another attacker.
Both men crashed across a table.
Atreio spun.
Steel flashed toward his ribs.
He stepped inside the strike.
Too close for the assassin’s sword.
Atreio drove his forehead into the man’s face.
The assassin staggered.
Atreio’s sword swept across him.
The man dropped.
“Ten.”
A blade suddenly came toward Atreio’s back.
Drakon caught the assassin’s wrist.
The assassin froze.
He hadn’t heard Drakon move.
Drakon stood directly behind him.
“You entered my home.”
The assassin tried pulling away.
Drakon’s grip tightened.
Bones cracked.
The sword fell.
The assassin screamed.
Drakon pulled him closer.
“You killed my guards.”
His eyes darkened.
“And you tried to kill my honor guard.”
Drakon twisted.
The assassin collapsed.
“Nine,” Atreio said.
Drakon glanced toward him.
“You’re actually keeping count?”
Atreio blocked another sword.
“Yes.”
He punched the assassin hard enough to send him crashing through a wooden door.
Drakon laughed.
Then the remaining assassins attacked together.
Eight.
They had realized their mistake.
Atreio wasn’t simply Drakon’s guard.
And Drakon wasn’t simply some ancient lord hiding behind castle walls.
The assassins separated.
Four attacked Atreio.
Four attacked Drakon.
Atreio smiled.
“Finally.”
The first assassin came low.
The second came high.
Atreio jumped backward from the low strike while catching the second blade against his own.
A third attacker rushed from his left.
Atreio kicked him in the chest.
The assassin flew backward.
The fourth struck.
A dagger sliced across Atreio’s upper arm.
Blood appeared.
Atreio looked at the wound.
Then at the assassin.
The man hesitated.
That hesitation killed him.
Atreio grabbed the assassin’s wrist.
“You should’ve run.”
He twisted.
The dagger fell.
Atreio caught it before it hit the floor.
Then drove it into the assassin’s chest.
“Eight.”
Across the hall, Drakon disappeared.
At least that was what the assassins thought.
One moment he stood before them.
The next—
nothing.
The first assassin looked left.
The second looked right.
The third turned.
Drakon appeared behind the fourth.
His hand closed around the man’s throat.
He lifted him from the floor.
The assassin kicked helplessly.
Drakon’s fangs descended.
Not from hunger.
From anger.
“You came into my castle believing numbers would protect you.”
He threw the assassin across the corridor.
The man smashed into the stone wall and did not rise.
“Seven,” Atreio called.
Drakon looked across the hall.
“I can count.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Drakon actually laughed.
Then an assassin plunged a sword through Atreio’s side.
Everything stopped.
Atreio looked down.
The blade protruded from his abdomen.
The assassin smiled.
Drakon’s expression changed.
“Atreio.”
Atreio slowly turned his head toward the assassin behind him.
The smile vanished from the assassin’s face.
Atreio grabbed the blade.
He pulled himself backward along the sword.
Toward the assassin.
The man’s eyes widened.
Atreio continued until he stood almost chest to chest with him.
“You think that’s enough?”
Atreio drove his elbow backward.
Once.
Twice.
The assassin released the sword.
Atreio spun.
His fist struck the man’s jaw.
The assassin hit the floor.
Atreio ripped the sword from his own body and tossed it aside.
“Six.”
Blood poured down his side.
Drakon stared at him.
“You’re injured.”
“I’ve been worse.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Two assassins rushed Atreio.
Drakon intercepted one.
The other reached Atreio.
Their swords collided.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The assassin was fast.
Atreio was stronger.
The assassin ducked beneath Atreio’s next swing and slashed across his chest.
Atreio grunted.
The assassin struck again.
Atreio caught his sword with both hands.
Blood ran across his palms.
The assassin stared at him.
Atreio smiled.
Then snapped the blade.
The assassin looked at the broken weapon.
That was the last thing he saw.
Atreio’s fist crashed into him.
“Five.”
Drakon seized another attacker and hurled him over the gallery railing.
“Four.”
Atreio looked toward him.
“That one counts.”
“I know.”
Three assassins remained in the corridor.
The fourth had disappeared.
Atreio immediately noticed.
“Drakon.”
“I know.”
They moved back-to-back.
Atreio’s breathing was heavier now.
Blood covered his side, arm, chest and hands.
Drakon remained almost untouched.
The three assassins slowly circled them.
Atreio tightened his grip on his sword.
“Three in front.”
“And one hiding.”
“Mine.”
Drakon raised an eyebrow.
“Which?”
“The one hiding.”
“You haven’t found him.”
“I will.”
The three attacked.
Atreio ducked.
Drakon moved.
For several seconds the corridor became nothing but flashing steel.
Atreio blocked one blade.
Drakon caught another.
Atreio kicked an assassin toward Drakon.
Drakon grabbed him and threw him back.
Atreio’s sword met him.
“Three.”
Drakon tore the weapon from another assassin’s hand.
The man reached for a dagger.
Drakon caught him by the throat.
“Two.”
He slammed the assassin into the floor.
The last visible attacker ran.
Atreio watched him flee.
Drakon stepped forward.
“Leave him.”
Atreio looked at him.
“He’ll warn whoever sent them.”
“Exactly.”
The assassin disappeared through the doorway.
Drakon smiled.
“Sometimes fear carries a better message than a corpse.”
Atreio suddenly turned.
He threw his sword.
Drakon’s eyes widened.
The weapon flew directly past his head.
A wet gasp came from behind him.
Drakon turned.
The twelfth assassin stood in the shadows.
Atreio’s sword protruded from his chest.
The assassin looked down at it.
Then collapsed.
Silence returned.
Atreio walked toward him and pulled his sword free.
“One.”
Drakon frowned.
Atreio looked toward the doorway through which the surviving assassin had escaped.
Then he understood.
“Ah.”
Drakon folded his arms.
“So technically two.”
Atreio wiped the blade against the dead assassin’s cloak.
“You said to let him leave.”
“I did.”
“Then he doesn’t count.”
Drakon stared at him.
“That is not how counting works.”
Atreio sheathed his sword.
“It is in the arena.”
Drakon shook his head.
Then his gaze dropped toward the blood soaking Atreio’s clothing.
His amusement vanished.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Atreio.”
“I can stand.”
“You have a sword wound through your abdomen.”
“I noticed.”
Drakon stepped closer.
For all Atreio’s size, strength and stubbornness, something in Drakon’s expression finally made him stop arguing.
Drakon looked around the corridor.
Eleven assassins lay dead.
One had escaped.
Exactly as intended.
Someone had sent twelve trained killers into his castle.
Someone who knew the passages.
Someone who knew the guard rotations.
Someone who had expected Drakon to be here tonight.
That meant the attack wasn’t merely an assassination attempt.
It was a message.
Drakon crouched beside one of the bodies and pulled away the assassin’s cloak.
A symbol had been burned into the leather beneath it.
Atreio saw Drakon’s expression change.
“You recognize it.”
Drakon didn’t answer immediately.
His fingers moved over the mark.
“Yes.”
“Who are they?”
Drakon rose.
For the first time since the attack began, Atreio saw something in the ancient vampire’s face that concerned him.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Drakon looked toward the doorway where the survivor had fled.
“These weren’t assassins sent to kill me.”
Atreio frowned.
“Then what were they sent for?”
Drakon looked at the eleven bodies scattered throughout his castle.
“To see whether I was still dangerous.”
Atreio glanced around the ruined corridor.
Broken furniture.
Shattered stone.
Blood.
Eleven dead assassins.
He looked back at Drakon.
“And?”
Drakon’s smile slowly returned.
“The survivor can answer that.”
—–
Atreio had heard the name Honour Guard and he felt that Drakon had referred to him. He now understood what Drakon had been trying to show and tell him.
He was a free man now and he would remain that way. He would never be put in chains again but he also knew he would stay here and protect the man who had rescued him but also the one who wasn’t forcing the bond.
—–
The assassin awakened to the sound of water dripping.
Slow.
Steady.
Somewhere in the darkness.
He opened his eyes.
For several seconds, he couldn’t remember where he was.
Then the pain returned.
His ribs screamed when he breathed. His left shoulder burned from the wound he had received during the attack, and dried blood covered half his face.
He tried to move.
Iron chains rattled.
His wrists were shackled above his head, his ankles secured to a heavy wooden chair bolted into the stone floor.
The chamber was cold.
There were no windows.
Only a single brazier burned against the far wall.
And beside it stood Drakon Melanthios.
The assassin froze.
Drakon had removed his bloodstained clothing from the battle and changed into a simple black tunic. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
He wasn’t holding a weapon.
That somehow made everything worse.
Drakon looked at him.
“Good.”
The assassin swallowed.
“You’re awake.”
Drakon walked toward a small wooden table.
Several objects had been arranged upon it.
A knife.
A pair of iron tongs.
A hammer.
A bowl of water.
And a clean white cloth.
The assassin stared at them.
Drakon noticed.
“Those aren’t for intimidation.”
The assassin forced a laugh.
“You expect me to beg?”
“No.”
Drakon picked up the cloth and dipped it into the water.
“I expect you to talk.”
“I have nothing to say.”
Drakon nodded.
“I assumed that would be your first answer.”
He approached.
The assassin braced himself.
Instead, Drakon gently wiped the blood from the man’s face.
The unexpected kindness disturbed him more than a blow would have.
Drakon cleaned the wound above his eyebrow.
“You entered my home with eleven others.”
Silence.
“You murdered three servants.”
The assassin’s jaw tightened.
“You wounded two guards.”
Still nothing.
“And you attempted to kill me.”
The assassin finally smiled.
“Attempted.”
Drakon stopped wiping.
For the first time, the faintest hint of amusement crossed his face.
“Yes.”
He placed the cloth back into the bowl.
“That part didn’t go particularly well for you.”
The assassin’s smile disappeared.
Drakon returned to the table.
“Who sent you?”
“No one.”
Drakon picked up the hammer.
The assassin’s eyes followed it.
Drakon noticed that too.
“Interesting.”
He placed the hammer down.
“Your eyes went directly to this.”
The assassin said nothing.
“Which means you’re afraid of pain.”
“I’m afraid of nothing.”
Drakon smiled faintly.
“Everyone is afraid of something.”
He picked up the knife instead.
The assassin pulled against his chains.
Drakon walked behind him.
“You assassins always disappoint me.”
The man’s breathing quickened.
“You spend years cultivating mystery. Secret languages. Hidden masters. Elaborate vows of silence.”
Drakon leaned close.
“But beneath all of it, you’re still flesh.”
The assassin spat toward him.
Drakon moved aside.
The spit struck the stone floor.
For several seconds, there was silence.
Then Drakon chuckled.
“Better.”
He stepped around the chair.
“I was beginning to think you had no courage at all.”
“Go to hell.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Drakon crouched in front of him.
“But here’s the difficulty you face.”
His voice became quieter.
“Eleven of your companions are dead.”
The assassin’s expression shifted.
Barely.
Drakon saw it.
“You knew that already.”
Silence.
“But you didn’t know whether any others survived.”
Drakon stood.
“Now you do.”
The assassin stared at him.
Drakon returned the knife to the table.
“You are the only one.”
That landed harder than any weapon could have.
The assassin looked away.
“Which means there is nobody coming to rescue you.”
Drakon began walking slowly around the chamber.
“Nobody to exchange you.”
Another step.
“Nobody to silence you.”
Another.
“And whoever hired you has already accepted your death.”
The assassin whispered, “You know nothing.”
Drakon stopped.
“There.”
The assassin realized his mistake.
Drakon smiled.
“Someone hired you.”
The assassin cursed under his breath.
Drakon returned to the table.
“Now we’re making progress.”
“I’ll tell you nothing else.”
“Perhaps.”
Drakon picked up the tongs.
The assassin stiffened.
Drakon carried them toward the brazier and placed their ends into the coals.
Metal scraped against stone.
The assassin watched the iron disappear among the embers.
Drakon sat in a chair opposite him.
Then he waited.
One minute passed.
Then another.
The assassin kept glancing toward the brazier.
Drakon said nothing.
Finally the assassin snapped.
“What are you waiting for?”
Drakon leaned back.
“You.”
“For what?”
“Your imagination.”
The assassin stared at him.
Drakon gestured toward the brazier.
“I could describe what happens next.”
He paused.
“But your mind is already doing a far better job.”
The assassin looked toward the glowing iron.
Drakon watched him calmly.
“Who hired you?”
Silence.
Drakon waited.
The assassin clenched his jaw.
Drakon stood and walked toward the brazier.
“No.”
The word escaped before the assassin could stop it.
Drakon stopped.
He looked over his shoulder.
“No?”
The assassin breathed heavily.
“I can’t.”
Drakon turned around.
That answer interested him.
“Can’t?”
The assassin closed his eyes.
Drakon walked back toward him.
“You didn’t say you wouldn’t.”
Silence.
“You said you can’t.”
Drakon crouched before him again.
“Why?”
The assassin shook his head.
“They’ll kill me.”
Drakon studied him.
“You’re already going to die.”
The man’s eyes opened.
Drakon’s voice remained calm.
“You entered my castle intending to murder me. You killed people under my protection. There was never a path from this room that ended with you walking free.”
The assassin stared at him.
Drakon continued.
“The only question remaining is how much suffering stands between this moment and your death.”
Fear finally appeared in the man’s eyes.
Drakon leaned closer.
“Who hired you?”
The assassin’s lips trembled.
Nothing.
Drakon stood.
He crossed to the brazier.
Wrapped a cloth around the handles of the tongs.
And pulled them free.
The tips glowed orange.
The assassin began struggling violently.
“Wait!”
Drakon turned.
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name!”
Drakon stopped.
“He never gave us one!”
“Describe him.”
“I never saw his face.”
Drakon took a step closer.
The assassin’s chains rattled.
“He wore a hood. Black robes. Gloves.”
“What kind of gloves?”
“Leather.”
“Anything distinctive?”
The assassin hesitated.
Drakon raised the heated iron slightly.
“Think carefully.”
“There was a symbol.”
Drakon lowered the tongs.
“What symbol?”
“On the clasp of his cloak.”
Drakon’s expression changed.
“What did it look like?”
The assassin swallowed.
“A serpent.”
Drakon waited.
“Continue.”
“A serpent wrapped around a crown.”
Silence filled the chamber.
Drakon’s amusement vanished.
“Where did you meet him?”
“Outside Thessaloniki.”
“Where?”
“An abandoned monastery. North of the old road.”
“When?”
“Nine nights ago.”
“How were you paid?”
“Gold.”
“From where?”
“I don’t know.”
Drakon stepped closer.
“Wrong answer.”
“I swear!”
The assassin pulled desperately against the chains.
“The coins were old! Roman, maybe older. Half had been melted down. There were no markings I recognized.”
Drakon stared at him.
“How much?”
“Two hundred before the attack. Another eight hundred when you were dead.”
Drakon gave a quiet laugh.
The assassin blinked.
“Something amusing?”
Drakon placed the tongs back into the brazier.
“Apparently I’m worth a thousand coins.”
He turned toward the assassin.
“I’m offended.”
The assassin stared at him.
Drakon’s expression hardened.
“What instructions were you given?”
“Kill everyone who resisted.”
“And me?”
“Alive if possible.”
Drakon stopped.
That changed everything.
“Repeat that.”
The assassin hesitated.
Drakon stepped closer.
“He wanted you alive.”
“Who?”
“The man who hired us.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Drakon grabbed the assassin by the throat.
For the first time, the calm disappeared.
The man’s feet kicked against the floor.
“Why?”
“I don’t know!”
Drakon tightened his grip.
“I swear!”
Drakon stared into his eyes.
Then released him.
The assassin collapsed against the chair, coughing violently.
Drakon slowly returned to the table.
His mind was already working.
This had never been an assassination.
Not entirely.
The dead attackers had been expendable.
The attack itself had been designed to overwhelm his household.
And if possible—
take him alive.
Drakon turned back.
“One final question.”
The assassin looked exhausted.
“What?”
“What were you supposed to do if you captured me?”
The assassin looked down.
Drakon waited.
Finally the man whispered.
“We weren’t supposed to take you anywhere.”
Drakon’s eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?”
“Someone was coming.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
Drakon went still.
The assassin con
Crazy Canadian Writing 