Date: Sat, 1 Dec 2012 07:33:22 +0000 From: Michael Offutt Subject: Chapter 6 of the Assassin's Apprentice - Gay Science Fiction This story is protected under international and Pan-American copyright conventions. Please remember to donate to Nifty if you are financially able to do so. Author information (My stories, blog, and art): Website: http://slckismet.blogspot.com/p/books.html Email: kavrik@hotmail.com Art from my stories: http://slckismet.blogspot.com/p/my-artwork.html I previously published "Wraith" on the Nifty Archive. It can be found at: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/wraith/ "The Assassin's Apprentice" is told in first person present tense and has been heavily edited. Thank you for supporting me as an author. I'm thinking of drawing a pic of Kian. Should it be color or black and white pencil? How do you visualize him? What scene should I draw? ***** Chapter Six In the next five days, I train my body with a routine so strenuous that I liken it to torture. At times, I'm so exhausted that I wonder if I can keep my heart beating. But always, I find odd encouragement from my master's words. He says all of this work will make me stronger, leaner, and able to withstand the rigors and punishment of someone that kills for a living. I wake up every morning before dawn and go directly to Master Constantine for what he calls a "warm up". There are some hooks that he's pounded into the ceiling that I jump up and grasp with blistered hands; then he attaches heavy weights to my ankles. I pull my legs up until they're level with my chest and twist and turn them from my left side to the right one hundred and fifty times. I call this the cork screw, and I always begin my day this way. I allow myself thirty seconds to catch my breath before I move to my next routine: push-ups done with one hand or chin-ups while wearing a one-hundred pound chain mail shirt. Every other day, I vary my routine by trying to get one extra set in before I stop. If I let the pain in my muscles halt me, that's okay. Master Constantine never strikes me with the bamboo rod, because he knows I'm trying my hardest. But he always keeps it near as a reminder to give my all. The fourth exercise I do is called "the spring." After resting long enough to catch my breath and while wearing the chain mail shirt, I hold my hands out in front of me and squat as low to the floor as my body will allow. Then I spring upward and land in the same posture. Each time I jump, I strive for more height, sometimes putting a bar on the ground that I attempt to hurdle over and over again. I always do at least a hundred of these before he allows me to move onto my fifth exercise, affectionately called "the flag." The flag rips my abdominals into shreds. The first time I try it, I fail. But Constantine keeps at me hour after hour and eventually helps me by offering marginal support with his hand beneath my feet. Now, I can suspend the entire weight of my body off of a wooden bench. I hold myself rigid as a flag, using all of the muscles in my body. From my abdomen to my shoulders, from my back to my arms and legs, every part of me strains to maintain an erect posture. The only part of my body that touches the bench is my bony shoulder blades. But after a few days, the flag itself is not enough for Constantine. He tells me to move my legs up and down, sometimes wearing wet leather boots for added weight. And each day, I try to keep the flag going for longer and longer. After these five warm-up exercises, I'm ready for the day. I work with specially designed weights that Master Constantine has engineered himself. He has them in five, ten, twenty, forty and one-hundred pound increments. At first, I think they're a strange and foreign idea, but the Master assures me that the designs are sound. He tells me the Emperor of Shaitan gave them to him. I learn that Shaitan's a country that lays far to the east. Constantine tells me it's far more technically advanced than the West. I've a hard time imagining it, but he tells me the Emperor of this strange and wondrous place lives within a city inside a city that makes the grandest court in the West look like a common sitting room inside an alehouse. The grand palisade, as he calls it, is made of thirteen marble steps that lead to the Emerald Throne of Shaitan. And these thirteen steps are covered in richly embroidered carpets made from a rare wool called cashmere and dyed in purple and vermillion color. Seamstresses line these carpets with thread of silver and gold so brilliant, it's like sunlight and moonbeams. On either side of this palisade are dragons made of gold, platinum, silver, and copper. The throne itself is lined in the most beautiful of peacock feathers with emeralds and sapphires adorning the headpiece directly behind the red silk cushion where the Emperor of Shaitan rests his head. After I finish working with the metal weights, I stretch my legs, my back, my arms, and my neck. I'm naturally limber, but the stretches Master Constantine makes me do are intended to force my joints into a position so unnatural that when complete, my whole body can fit inside a bread box. Simply putting both feet behind my head is the easy part. It's learning to dislocate my shoulders that causes the most excruciating pain. The middle part of the day is always reserved for meditation. During this time, I spend most of my reflection period with my eyes closed or with a blindfold on, clearing my thoughts of anything and everything. Sometimes, meditation is difficult because of the pain in my shoes or the bleeding the tacks cause when they cut my skin. But at other times, meditation is a welcome relief. Sometimes, it's everything that I looked forward to. I spend four or five hours a week learning about nutrition from Master Constantine. He teaches me the kinds of foods I can eat that will keep me alive in the wilderness. He shows me the kinds of foods that will keep my energy reserves high and the ones to avoid--the ones that will make me sleepy or that might make me fat. Constantine says that at my age, it's important to eat things that will make my bones strong. That it's important to eat the right kinds of meals that will make my senses keen and my body prone to healing itself. For many weeks of training, my master fixes my meals himself, always showing me exactly how much to eat and proffering me a taste of foreign spices, which he says, are good for the mind, the body, and the soul. Some of these dietary supplements are excellent at fighting colds and infections while others are excellent at speeding up the metabolism or just giving me an extra energy boost during the high time of the day. I'm fascinated that food is so important to a person's health and even more so when it actually does the things that he's told me they will do. As I've said earlier, I am a skeptic by nature. Every night before I sleep, I force myself to go down the flight of stairs to the basement of the thieves' guild and I walk across the dried leaves. I learn quickly it's as much a feat of concentration as it's a feat of skill. Each night I fail, because a leaf splits under my weight and makes a sound. I return to my room and wash the blood from my boots, apply ointment that Whistler has given me to my wounds, and then rest until morning when I must don the bandages again. One day, the pain in my left foot becomes unbearable, and I know I need to do something. That's when I go and see the friar, for Whistler tells me he's a doctor as well as a man of the cloth. The chapel of the God Tethyr, though small, feels like a holy place. I'm at once humbled and awed by the simple things that my eyes see by the candlelight that rests in all four corners of the room and on the altar to the god of thieves. When I first peek through the door, the room is empty. I walk across the smooth polished wooden planks and follow along the left side of an aisle lined by pews made from brown oak. Each of the benches is pockmarked or scratched with age, but I can see that every bit of their polished brown surface has been lovingly oiled by a mysterious hand. I run my fingers lightly over the tops of the pews as I walk toward the front of the room where the altar is shrouded in a simple cloth of red and hung with tassels of gold. They dangle from the four corners to almost touch the ground. The top of the altar is decorated with five candles of differing length and I spy a chalcedony offering bowl. Water inside the bowl rises halfway to the rim and is flecked with shiny pieces of gold. A flask of wine stands on the side opposite the candles and the glass of the bottle is decorated with a raised image of a jovial face. The eyes of this face stare directly into my soul, and I feel a stirring within me. It reminds me of my father and the few good times that linger in my memory. I recall days now gone when I could look up at the sky with sweet innocence and wonder at its beautiful color. I hear someone enter the room behind me, and when I turn my eyes behold the friar. It's the first time I've ever seen a priest of Tethyr. He's a round man with yellow skin that has splotches of white about the neck and left ear. He's wearing a simple robe of white with a single strip of black running down the front that's embroidered with silver jackals. From his neck depends a medallion identical to the symbol on the wooden door that marks the entrance to Master Constantine's dojo. However, this symbol is made of platinum, and I can see that its surface is bejeweled with small rubies, making it a precious and beautiful thing despite the fact that it's a simple knife lying amidst a pool of blood. The friar's face is deeply lined. He's an old man. His eyes are green and he's mostly bald possessing a single ring of hair just above his ears that encircles his pate like a crown. He clears his throat seeing me and says, "Hast thou come for prayer?" "No--I--my foot hurts," I tell him. He approaches me and instructs me to take a seat. After I lower myself onto the bench, the friar slips my boots off. He murmurs quietly to himself and then looks at me. "You need to stop wearing tacks in your shoes. You've developed a bit of an infection." "An infection?" He nods. "It's what happens when your body tries to fight off the bad things that accumulate in unclean places, like the inside of boots. Since you've an open wound, it's making it difficult for your body to fight these toxins." "Is it serious?" "This? No...no. Very simple to fix. But infections can be serious my young man. Sometimes legs and arms have to come off to try and stop the spread of them. At other times, death is the only result." He lifts himself onto his legs and moves over to a strong box made of iron. Inside he gathers a few things and then closes the heavy lid to the strong box and walks back to me. He lowers himself ponderously and with much snorting. I can see he has bandages of gauze, a strange blue liquid bottle, and some cotton cloth. He douses the cotton cloth with the blue liquid and washes my injured foot clean. Soon my skin tingles and begins to burn. I wiggle my toes and clench my teeth hoping that the burning will end. He seems to be almost enjoying himself. Then he wraps the gauze over the small wounds that the tacks have left on the sole of my foot. "I can't stop wearing them," I say. "Not until I can walk across the dried leaves downstairs." "I'll speak to Whistler," the friar says. "They should come off." I grab the hem of his sleeve. "Please don't. If you do, the others will think that I can't handle it. They'll think I'm second rate, and I'm not." He opens his hands. "Child, Tethyr will not judge you by these material abilities. He's an open god, willing and able to embrace all his children." "Tethyr won't judge me but my peers will," I reply. "Please...swear to me that you won't talk to Whistler." He regards me with those green eyes for just a moment longer and nods. "I'll not say a thing unless it's by your consent." "Thank you," I say. "Thank you very much." My eyes wander down to his chest where the beautiful medallion rests against the front of his robes. I don't know why, but I reach out and touch it with my fingers; it sparkles on my palm. "What's your name?" the friar asks. "K-Kian," I whisper, enraptured by the medallion. "You're unfamiliar with the ways of God?" I look into his eyes. "Yes. Tell me about him." "What do you wish to know?" "Have you spoken to him?" He smiles, "Of course, every day in fact." "Does he know me? Does he talk to you about Talen or Constantine?" "What he says to one who prays to him cannot be told to another lest evil things befall the one who speaks them. Tethyr is the god of intrigue and trickery. His is the faith of thieves and cutthroats. His following is amongst those of the dark path, of the path of shadows, and of things best hidden from the light. He is God, and his power is vast. All the devout of Tethyr say one thing: in darkness no one is judged and all are the same." "How can I talk to him?" I ask. "Through prayer. Call him by his name and say a prayer to him, and he'll receive it. Honor Tethyr, and he shall honor you." I leave the friar feeling much better. For the first time that night, I say a heartfelt prayer to Tethyr and hope that he hears me. And on the next day, my training continues. Master Constantine integrates martial arts lessons into my daily routine. Following my weight training, I begin sparring with him, performing kicks that he demonstrates to me time and time again. Master Constantine is obsessed with form, and he demands nothing short of perfection from me. He tells me that he'll stop bad habits now, so that as I get better, I'll inspire fear with every strike. Master Constantine shows his sadistic side in these lessons too, and I think he enjoys the pain that these leaps, strikes, and lunges inflict upon me. That first week of martial arts training, I learn the basics of what he calls the wheel kick. A wheel kick is a difficult maneuver to perform, essentially spinning your body around very quickly and slamming your foot into your opponent in a vulnerable place. Sweating and breathing hard, I watch him. Constantine lowers his body and lifts himself neatly on one leg. He snaps his torso about so swiftly that my hair rustles in the wind. His foot connects with a wooden beam with a thud so powerful, the whole thing quakes in the sand. Dust dislodges from the rafters above and falls like rain. "Always remember," he says, "that the body's strength comes from within the soul and within the mind. Like a circle in the sand or like waves on the ocean, you touch and affect everything within a given realm. If you're true to your body, your soul will reflect this, and your mind will become like crystal: clear but able to focus much like the evaluation of an idea or the angling of a magnifying glass to bring light together and make a fire. Flesh is only as strong as the will that unites it. Be unified and powerful. Now, you try the wheel kick." I fling my most despair-filled look into his teeth. "But Master, I-I'm wearing tacks in my boots!" For God's sakes, enough is enough. Constantine's eyes narrow. It's my only warning. "Do the wheel kick, Kian," he repeats. I realize my protest means nothing. I resolve myself to this one physical action and repeat in my mind that if I do it perfectly, he may let me stop. I clear my thoughts and repeat the word "balance" over and over again. When I'm ready, I step up and hold my leg out, poised to strike. My balance is better achieved on my left foot than on my right. I whirl about on my heel, using the momentum of my body to generate power. I strike the dense wooden beam with my boot, and just as I fear, pain shoots through every nerve in my quivering body. I feel the warm rush of my own blood inside the leather of my shoe. But I don't cry out. "How is that?" Constantine frowns. "Poor," he utters. "Your foot needs to be higher...at least as high as mine." "But you're taller than me," I blurt out. "I can't kick that high!" He grabs the bamboo rod so fast I've hardly time to react. Without warning, he snaps it down hard across my back. I try to get out of the way but he kicks my legs out from under me and beats me across my chest. I raise my hands and use them to ward off his blows. He stops after his fifth hit. I'm still holding my breath, still wondering if he's going to kill me. I suck air into my lungs and look through my bloody fingers and see his feet disappear into his meditation room. I roll over and gaze at the sky. I see its bright blue color and am reminded of drifting on a calm ocean. I'm hot, bloody, and my skin stings. But I'm alive. I'm alive as the day my family died and I somehow survived. And this life burns in my throat as a final warning to me that to stay alive, I'll have to survive and overcome the things that want to defeat me. That is the end of this day's lesson. Time passes. Aside from my five daily exercises and my weight training, Master Constantine supervises my rehearsal of the wheel kick. I try over and over again. And when I think I can't do it anymore, I manage to reach into a well deep inside me and find the strength to perform the wheel kick a few dozen more times. My springing exercises start paying off. With each leap I achieve greater and greater heights. I'm also getting faster and stronger. Constantine tells me I have a natural grace rarely seen in boys. At first I don't believe him, but soon I learn to land without injury. It's as if my body finally adjusts to how it needs to stand with the tacks in my boots. And with it, I perform everything in almost absolute silence. One day, I land a kick so high that I almost touch the roof with my toes. Constantine tells me the place I landed the blow is ten feet from the ground. "Not even I can kick as high as you," he admits while peeling an orange. Oftentimes, after lunch, I run laps around the guild house with the tacks in my boots. The first few days I fail and only bloody myself. But I never give up. My body likes its new power, and I'm quickly learning to ignore all but the most agonizing pain. A well-known Sulasian philosopher once said, "That which does not kill us, makes us stronger." I learned the meaning of these words by living them. At times I'm a bloody mess. But I know my body will thank me once it repairs itself. I save the money Constantine gives me, and I buy some gloves made from fine kid leather. I toil at holding my weight with my hands pressed against the wall of the many stairwells in the thieves' guild, trying to walk the nightingale steps without making a sound. I eventually succeed, and I even surprise Constantine one morning when I arrive early. He admits to me that he didn't hear me coming up the stairs, and I'm very proud that I've learned this part of my new trade so quickly. It's also important for a good assassin to overcome all types of locks and traps. During the first month, Talen schools me on the fine art of mechanical lock picking and the detection and removal of simple traps. This time he spends with me is good for our friendship since I'm so busy in my training that I don't have much time to do anything with him. Talen's touch is very sensitive, and he encourages me to do as much work with the little mechanical locks and devices as possible without wearing gloves. As my training broadens, he introduces me to devices using tumblers and then onto other more intricate devices that require the use of specialized keys. Talen shows me the best way to overcome the debilitating effects of rust and wear and tear caused by time, dirt, and corrosion. Talen is the foremost lock pick in the thieves' guild, and he has a friend in the city who's a chemist. She makes a solvent with a pungent odor to it that's very good at removing grime from small mechanical devices. This makes it easier to trip the tumblers and switches necessary to open a lock. He shares some of his solution with me, and I keep it stoppered in a small glass vial that I put in a pouch that I carry with me always. After I learn all that I can from him, he fashions me a set of rudimentary tools to use in the event that I'll need them. Per his instructions, I sew these tools into a shirt that I always wear and that I can get to in the event that my hands are shackled. Marcel, the guild master, is impressed with my progress. He tries to get me to accompany Talen during a nighttime escapade, but Constantine adamantly objects. Master Constantine is a feared man in the thieves' guild of Clothol, and when his word slides across Marcel's desk that I'm not to be used on such missions, I no longer see him accept on rare occasions. Even then, he says but few words to me. Everyone here fears him, but no one more so than Talen. I find this a little startling. Talen is my best friend, and I look up to him even though he's the same age as I. I think I may even love him now, which makes it more difficult to ask him if he'd have sex with me, because I don't know how this will change our relationship. I'm probably better off sticking with girls. I hear bits and pieces about his history from the others. One starry night, Ambrell sneaks into my room to fuck me. But when I tell her no, we talk for many hours. She tells me that Master Constantine came to stay at the guild a year ago this day. He's been searching for something important, so important, as a matter of fact, that it almost driven him insane. Ambrell thinks whatever it is that he's searching for must be in this city, or he wouldn't be here. She also says that he's a rank one assassin known only as a Nightshade. A Nightshade is a fearsome and deadly foe. They're the most highly trained killers in the world, demanding fields of gold for the execution of political leaders, powerful sorcerers, and influential priests. Their actions can overthrow entire governments. There are many urban legends concerning the Nightshades, and I know that if Ambrell is right, Constantine has other motives than the tutelage of a small town kid in the ways of killing. I think that there's only a few Nightshades-one per Great House- of which there are eight on Wynwrayth. On Wynwrayth, individual countries come together to make a Great House. For example, Clothol the city is a member of Great House Sulas. I only know the name of one other Great House. Named for the God of War, it's called Valion. But it lies across the ocean from us on another continent. If Constantine is of that much import, then what he's looking for must be--or is-- equally important. I'm suddenly filled with questions. Like all new adults, I want answers but without arising the ire of my wicked and talented master. Ambrell shrugs and kisses me on the cheek while I'm thinking about this. She starts to warn me. "Maybe...just maybe...that's why he kills his apprentices. Listen to me, Kian. He's a dangerous man with no love for anything except himself. Be careful, okay? And, never trust him." With that bit of advice, she leaves, closing the door quietly behind her. ***** I will post Chapter Seven next weekend. Thanks for reading.