And here we are, with the first chapter of the sequel story. I missed you guys, I really did. This is the introductory chapter and I sincerely hope you will find the writing captivating. Please, have a kind heart young dames and sirs and leave a review at the end. I value them dearly.
Cheers!
Tales from the black market – Le Renard Noir or how the winter night turned red
The wind from outside was constantly hitting the weak wooden door against the adobe wall whilst the blizzard was pushing gushes of snow inside the poorly lighted room. The only light was coming from the candle on the primitive table.
Faint voices were echoing through the room bursting from time to time into barbaric yells or dry, barked laughs.
He wished he was dead. For a moment he truly wished he was dead only if to free him of the pain with which the cold weather was torturing him into consciousness. The body on the floor tried to set itself into motion but it all ended in a convulsive shiver. He was content that at least he couldn't feel his legs. Like a crawling insect trying to defend itself he balled as much as he could, bringing his chest to his knees. He swore he wouldn't open his eyes but the darkness in his mind was eating him alive. Flinching in pain he ended up fighting to adjust his eyes to the darkness around him. His feet were in the snow, his small body much too close to the door. He watched his empty feet, covered in gashes that the snow would keep opened and smarting. His calves were tightly tied with a rope that was cutting right through the dirty skin.
He thought he would lose consciousness again but he went on by the thought of moving his face out of the pool of red snow. The cut across his cheek was deep and he was still bleeding. He was crying; there was no more shame and no empty words of honor and bravery. He would cry with no regrets; he wanted to be back at the house of his late parents; to bring wood for the fire, to take care of the sheep he hated so much, to run barefoot across the fields in front of his house. He was a kid and he had every right to cry; he wished he would have listened to his brother.
He pushed against the wet dirt floor. He needed to get away from the entrance.
A voice broke into his ears and he felt fresh tears forming in his eyes.
"Look at the little worm. He's still alive."
But he was desperate. With watery eyes he crawled like the worm they made him be to the corner of the room, safe from the wind and snow. He was trembling. With his shoulder and hands he brought his torso up against the wall and pulled his legs against his chest. There he let his tears soak the collar of his shirt. That ripped shirt, covered in mud and blood that was not only his.
Heavy metal boots chattered until they stopped in front of his weak body.
His thin neck crackled when he couldn't control a shiver waiting for a new blast of fists. But it never happened and his blurry eyes didn't leave the shoes afraid to motivate the guard if he were to look up.
"I don't understand why we don't kill the pip-squeak."
"All the rest are dead. Wait for the Captain to decide what to do. I don't want to lose my head for killing outside his command. Let him kill the kid if he wants."
The towering man made his way back to the table.
"It's not as if he's good for anything."
"Bah, stay put. He'll probably die before the man gets here."
The guard dropped his body on the tree stub the previous owners used as a chair.
"My codpiece is good for nothing in this cold. I can barely wait for that asshole to come and pay us so we can run the hell out of here. I am going to spend two days and two nights in the first brothel; with tasty wine, warm sheets and generous women."
"Shut your trap, Domenico. With your face you have to triple the price for a whore to sleep with you."
The other man grinned at his friend's laughter, showing a broken tooth of his stained denture. He grabbed an apple from the opened sack on the table. He rubbed it against the red shirt of his Vatican guard uniform and took a full-mouthed bite. The juice of the fruit oozed down his chin as he spat in his talk.
"My hands are freezing in these gloves. What the hell is he talking so long?"
"He's coming from the village in the valley. You should be thankful you are up here. From what I heard from the courier all the other missions failed. The Assassin's killed most of the men." He huffed a sarcastic laughter. "He mustn't be very happy; I bet those that lived were killed by his sword."
His friend grinned and chewed further on the apple.
"We got lucky."
"Luck had nothing to do with it." The man stretched his hand after the leather flask and gulped down some wine.
"We were tipped off about their location. I am telling you… without that information it would have been them drinking wine instead, with our corpses scattered on the way from the village to this house."
The other man got lost in his own trail of thought.
"I bet those bastards from the village are now cozily seated in front of a fire while the two of us are stuck in this stupid cowshed."
"At least we'll get paid big for torturing the hell out of the men."
"And to what end? Not a single word from them - those we had to kill and the rest that decided to kill themselves rather than give up information. I can't understand people who deliberately make things harder for themselves."
"Don't complain. Because of people like them and glutton nobles like Borgia, we fill our pockets."
The man took one last bite and threw the remains at the wall that the boy was curled up against.
"Between me and you… that Borgia kid is an annoying scum-bag. I hate nobilities. They think they can rule the world until someone smashes their head with a rock. I heard there was a recent rebellion in Romagna. The ideas this crazy fool has; he thinks he can rule over the entire north region."
"I couldn't care less about politics. With the raising force of the Assassins they keep us in business. I can make more money and keep my inane woman shut. Her voice is so annoying that I swear one day I'll just take the knife and cut her tongue."
"Talking about women, one of my friends at Vatican tells me that Cesare keeps Caterina Sforza locked at Sant'Angelo."
"Lucky bastard. He must have his way with her whenever he pleases."
"Crazy dog, I tell you. There are rumors at Rome that he's bedding his own sister. They even say that her toddler might be his."
The other man burst in laughter.
"I'd bed her too if I could. Hard life must he have at the top of the world."
The boy brought his hands over his ears. If only he couldn't hear and feel anything anymore. He closed his eyes but his mind was flooded with images of that night's massacre. Blocking the voices, from under his arm he watched the door. Outside, in snow were the corpses of the Assassins. Among them was the body of his cousin who had tried to protect him till the last moment. But he watched him die. He watched him take his own life. And then he felt so lost; he didn't belong to anyone or anywhere. He was hopeless. He shut his eyes closed so hard that it hurt. Mommy? Where was she now? He tried to remember her face but instead the image of a young assassin whose arm was being cut off made its way out of his memories. Outside were bodies left for wolves and crows to feed on. Not meters away were the bodies of people who had tried their best to hide him and fight the army off. But it all happened so fast. It was an ambush; they were never prepared. His face twisted in his cry and more tears came out because of the pain. He had been beaten and thrown against the wall; he had been tied with rough rope and pulled through the gravel and snow like a sack of potatoes. A sob was about to leave his throat but he bit his lip to blood afraid that they'll start kicking and punching him again.
"You know what I don't understand?"
The other guard nodded him to go on.
"How the fuck were we the only ones to find the Assassins' hideout?"
The man shrugged and passed him the flask.
"I guess that woman does make her money. Not to mention word goes that Borgia takes great care of her pouches."
His companion spitted on the floor.
"Shady character, man. But then again, who else but a woman to stab you in the back?" He looked pensively at the candle. "Venomous creatures." He paused and then looked at the other man intrigued. "Aren't you a little bit curious what is under that cape, though? She hasn't let down that hood the entire march here."
"Wasn't she the one behind the Monteriggioni attack as well?" The man brought his hands under the armpits and glanced at his companion with interest.
"Ah, that…. Yeah…I was in the first line then. We met her outside the citadel during the night. Heard she picked the place herself – well hidden in the valley. From there she and Cesare had some talk over the maps. I had to gather some men and follow her at the guard posts before dawn to take care of them so that we could have a surprise attack. Odd creature; she would point and the rest would do the kill. You should have seen eldest Auditore's face when she appeared in front of him. He looked as if he knew her but Cesare was pleased with the outcome so nobody really cared about the situation."
The other man tried to move in his seat, fighting the cold away.
"She gives me the creeps. You can't notice her until it is too late and your neck is sliced from behind."
"Le Renard Noir. I heard that's what they call her on the black market. Quite the legend. They say that if you want her services you shouldn't try to find her because she'll find you. Ugly words are whispered among thieves and mercenaries alike about her. She'd sell kings and queens if it would benefit her and she would stab in the back her only allies for a good price. Heard she stepped on cursed lands and profaned sacred places for treasures. Some even say she herself is cursed."
The other man let out a roared laughter.
"What rock hit you in the head, idiota? You are starting to talk like a woman. Hear him, people; curses and legends. Leave witchcraft to those simple-minded beings. There is just one belief and one religion I live by: my fist and sword. Though, one thing must be true. Word is in Rome that the Master Assassin and the woman share a nasty history. Apparently she played him right into Borgia's hands; sold him to whatever price Caesare offered her for her betrayal. No wonder the man wants her dead. Wait until he hears of what happened to his small band of assassins tonight because of her interference."
The other man sneered with some sort of satisfaction.
"He brought it upon himself. Never trust a woman. If you give them too much freedom they'll lie and cheat and bring you to ruin." As he talked his body was becoming stiffer and his words were fiery. He tapped the table with his finger to judge over his opinion. "And that kind of woman shouldn't even exist. Freedom and power are not for a woman; it makes them go mad. The old priests are right: too much of that is turning them into tools of the devil and they should burn alive."
His friend was about to laugh at him when his voice froze in his throat.
The sound of galloping horses reached his ears and in a short while the other man reacted to them as well.
They both stared at each other while their senses were focused on the two approaching horses. When the animals slowed down near the cottage both of them jumped on their feet and turned to face the door.
The horsemen dismounted and made their way to the house.
From his corner the little boy caught a sight of a dark blue cloak storming inside, the door irremediably hit against the wall.
A tall man entered the room and his eagle eyes fell on the two guards.
"Nothing?"
His voice thundered rather than question.
"We're sorry, Messere.It was impossible. We tried to make them talk but even under torture they still refused. And some took their own life rather than talk."
"And you let them?" His voiced echoed through the cold room. "After all the efforts and you incompetents managed to get nothing out of them?"
The grave toneof the man was the only thing that was keeping the tired boy from falling unconscious. His heavy eyes traveled along the ground, guided by his instincts. In the white snow of the entrance his clouded mind fabricated the black shadow of death looming inside, darker than the night itself and more bitter than his own memories. The more his memories were returning so was his focus and the shadow slowly cleared into the cape that had laid the trap and like a crow had watched the bloodshed from afar.
The cart wheels under which he was hiding; an assassin was kneeled in front of him and a sword swiped his head away. The lifeless body fell revealing a long black cloak on the white scenery.
His body shook in terror and for a moment he was more alive than ever. It wasn't death as he had believed even at that time. It was a human, and that alone was more terrifying than tales of death in winter.
The sound that the boy made in his sudden movement attracted the attention of everyone in the room.
"What is this?"
The well-dressed man approached him.
"He's the lone survivor."
"Is he an Assassin?"
The man asked in disbelief. He looked way too young for that.
"No, messere. We tried to make him talk but he doesn't seem to know anything. We just found the boy in the company of the Assassins."
The man looked at the trembling boy. As if he didn't know if he was alive he kicked him with his boot.
"Then why is he still alive?"
The men looked at each other for an answer.
"We only received orders to kill the assassins. We didn't know what to do with him."
The man's face transfigured under rage and his hand went to his firearm.
"You imbeciles! The only successful mission we managed to have and you ruined it!" Both of them jumped backwards but instead of directing the gun towards them he pointed it down, at the head of the panicked child.
His gloved finger went to the trigger.
"Wait."
For that single moment everything, including his heartbeats froze and the boy thought that never in his life had he heard such a low and cold whisper. He couldn't even know if it had been real. But when his body started to shiver again, through his raised hands for protection he saw the shadow step inside, the dark cape sweeping the ground with soundless steps that he knew that were made only by the way in which the tips of the black leather boots were appearing from under the cloak.
The figure came closer.
"You'll let the boy go."
The man startled in infuriation.
"I am taking orders from no woman."
"It's not an order. It's the smartest thing you can do in the position you are now."
The faceless woman stepped in front of the boy. He pushed his body against the wall as much as he could. She was like plague.
The figure kneeled and he twisted with his knees pushed to his chest and his arms protecting his bare neck. He was shivering and staring down at his feet.
If it had been death the woman wouldn't have stopped the bullet. But death had been all around her and his old mother, if she had been alive, she would have recognized it and spit for misfortune.
"What is your name, boy?"
He jumped. The sound of her velvet voice was pushing his head up, in spite of his fears and pain.
His eyes stopped on the hem of the cloak, fastened around the neck and the cape falling heavily and hiding in darkness every humanly feature. The cape itself could have been covering void.
His eyes skipped down into the black crinkles.
"Davide."
It was his dying voice that burned his throat.
In the moment of silence he didn't know when she had started to speak again.
"David, the boy who defeated the giant… how old are you?"
This time his voice refused to come out. His lower lip started to tremble and his mind was reacting only to the cold and the pain.
"How old?"
"Fif- fifteen."
"And what would a fifteen year old boy do around assassins?"
The muscles of his back tightened and he brought his shoulders up to cover the sides of his face, never looking up.
Her head tilted and a black gloved arm extended from under the cape for something around his neck. He was petrified but then her fingers reached for the assassin's seal that had slipped out of the shirt. In a split of a second, before she could even get a good hold on it his arm hit hers away and his head snapped up, glaring with protection and rabbit fear right into the darkness homed under the hood.
Only then the boy realized his mistake. He was waiting for the pain to come.
But instead, everything that he received was silence.
"Not yours, isn't it?"
His heart skipped a beat. A weak feeling of hope made his lips tremble again. If it would keep the pain away he was ready to talk.
"My brother's."
But she said nothing. The boy started to panic again and even if the pain across his cheek was getting more powerful with each word he went on.
"I…. I wanted to go to Rome, to my brother…." He swallowed and that hope was slowly dying but he couldn't stand it anymore. His mind was a battle between the desire of staying alive and the wish to die and stop the pain. "…to become an Assassin."
The heavy silence was shattered by the monstrous choir of disdainful mocking laughter of the two guards.
"Listen to him…. An assassin!"
The captain let his men have their way, to laugh in-between their ironic jokes. The boy retreated to the wall once again and hid his face in his knees.
"Let's end this! What is your point, woman?"
She seemed not to bother with the man's words.
"Boy, look up."
He refused, bringing his legs as close to his body as he could.
"I said, look up." That velvet voice for once sounded as if it was covering iron.
He didn't know why he did it but he followed her instructions.
"You will go to Rome."
His eyes opened wide.
"And…become an assassin…if you still wish so." It was mockery. She knew that he will take the images of that night to his last breath. And her voice didn't hide it.
The men by the table started to laugh again.
"But you will go to Rome and tell them everything. When he will ask you, you will tell him everything you've seen and heard tonight." Her words were sinking so heavily beyond his ears that he unconsciously started to push his nails into the skin of his palms to keep reality grounded to him. "Do you understand me?" he couldn't avert his eyes from the darkness under the hood, the only place in which he could follow the voice. He couldn't speak but his head started to nod slowly, afraid to make any sudden move.
Her gloved hands rose to the hem of the hood and with the gentlest grip they started to remove it tardily. He held his breath as the black material was being lifted. He felt as if he was violating laws; that he would be punished and cursed for looking at what was behind a veil. The words he heard about this woman played in his mind but even if he would have been facing death itself he still couldn't avert his eyes.
The hood fell and in the dark room, when her eyes opened for a moment he thought he saw gold stones staring into his soul. He could hear his heart beating faster and faster as his mind worked to make the woman a human back again. He couldn't understand; for the darkness she was surrounding herself in, she was light. In the dark of the night her skin seemed paler than it probably was, and tresses of blanched ochre were framing features he did not expect to see. It reminded him of sculpted statues of archangels, images of anelegant and fragile beauty but fierce warrior. Those eyes were seeing right through him, burning him from the inside while he was trapped into the shimmery citrines.
"Everything."
Her voice was poison.
The spell was slowly lifting from his mind but they continued to read each other.
From the corner of his eyes he saw the blade she handled out of the cape but before he could act on it the knife was at his feet, cutting the rope so tightly fastened around them. He said nothing. He couldn't. He thought the moment she would start to use the knife on the rope the pain he would feel would be unbearable. Instead he felt it entirely, without the need to cry out. Her hands moved almost without a weight.
"Do you really believe he'll make it to Rome in the state he is in?"
"He'll try." She took the rope away and looked back at him. "Or he'll die on the road. There will be no loss for them. What good being an assassin if you are weak?"
Her face remained impartial, but the flash in her eyes was almost ridiculing at him.
The men laughed as the captain put back his firearm, still doubtful about the situation.
"Are you sure about this?"
"If the boy reaches Rome his words will spread among the assassins. Cesare will be pleased to hear that they are starting to fear him."
Only then she turned to the man and got up on her feet.
He looked at the boy and at his body covered in bruises and gashes.
"Bring him some boots and clothes from one of those corpses."
Both men froze but in less than a second they started to run towards the door. The man already looked angry and neither of them wanted to bring any of it on himself.
The boy looked up, from the woman to the man.
Soon the two guards stumbled back in, laughing in a malicious way and pulling the body of one of the assassins.
"Isn't this the boy's cousin? Here, have him back."
The laughter continued as the boy watched in horror how both men were ravaging the lifeless body, pulling off the clothes.
Tears filled his eyes. They threw the boots, hitting him and pulled out the hooded vest, discarding it next to him.
He couldn't move. His eyes were on the body of his cousin, with the wide gash in his chest, covered in curdled blood. He looked up at his face and he let out a whimper at the sight of his opened eyes, locked on him. He pushed himself further into the wall and stared at the dead eyes of his cousin. His mouth was trembling and his vision was blurred by tears.
"Dress."
The cold voice rang into his mind and hit onto the walls of his conscience.
His head darted at the woman and waited for the first row of tears to fall to see her clearly. The face he had once found angelic was now pinning him down, sending the entire coldness of the winter into his bones. She was a statue; tall, covered in black, unemotional. Her eyes instead were crushing him with a brutal force. That moment he felt anger; more powerful than the anger at the thought of her touching his brother's necklace. It was an anger of despair. Tears were now endlessly falling down his cheeks but he gripped the boots. He brought his first foot up and forced it inside the boot. His body was in terrible pain with each move and the boy bit his tongue until he felt the taste of blood. He wanted to stop, he wanted to cry and to ask for his death but the image of those burning eyes kept appearing into his mind and a renewed fire made him go on. They were golden as jewels but hard as iron and crushingly cruel. Each time his body would demand him to scream in pain her cold eyes would shut the tears away and force his hands. He gripped the white vest, now red in blood, and pulled it down his head.
The vest clung to him, cold and wet and the boots hurt when they were touching his injuries. He got on his feet, helping his weight on the wall and he bit his lip at the pain in his legs.
Without knowing what had taken over him, the first steps he took were towards the corpse. There, with all his power he kneeled and the boy took in his arms the discarded hidden blade that belonged to the man. He pushed himself up and stood there, in the middle of those persons.
"Get him out of here! I've had enough of this comedy." When the guards reacted a moment too late the man yelled.
"Now!"
Both gripped the boy by the collar and stared to push and drag him out in the same time.
"With these clothes on him, it's a miracle if he won't get killed by one of our men." They continued their ill humor.
He let them. The boy had no force to fight. Outside, in the frame of the door he looked past his shoulder. He was exhausted and the idea of passing out ran through his mind. But looking back, he hadn't expected to catch the woman's eyes still on him, following him with an iron grip.
That was the last image he saw before he was pushed into the snow. And instead of remaining there, waiting for the cold death to come, once the door was closed, he found his anger renewed and his arms pushing his body up. He stumbled and stumbled again in the snow but each time he would get up even if to fall once more. Soon his feet became numb to the pain and he was managing to take real steps. Each time pain would pull him down this feeling he never felt before was taking over him; and each time this rancorous anger would fade he would think back to those eyes so cold and distant that it made his will burn in this particular strange emotion.
The wind was blowing snow right at him, threatening to push him back and throw him to the ground.
From now on, only one thing kept him from remembering the blood and the death of that night, the pain and the wish to cry like a child. He swore to never forget that face. He couldn't even if he wanted to. And a strange desire to meet her again was growing inside him. To face her, this shadow; to take her down. That disdainful look on her face made him desire strength, power to fight. When lying down in that awful room he wanted nothing more than to return back to his quiet life, to have never wished to become an assassin, to tell his brother what a foolish thing he was for wanting to follow him, but now becoming an assassin was making more sense than ever. And he wouldn't give up; not without a fight; he wanted to prove, he wanted to earn and he was going to use that cape as a constant reminder of what his life was becoming.
He wouldn't forget. He couldn't.
She was something he would hate. She was something he would always look up to and respect. She was, after all what everyone knew: a legend. Nothing and everything was true about her. Covered in mist and shadows she might as well not exist at all. And he knew he was simply going to create another myth; another tale of a bloodshed night and he will further kill the truth. Le Renard Noir…..the black fox; as the name said, an extremely rare animal and a terrible bad omen. And he was bringing word of it to Rome where the downfall was about to begin.