Malis ScammerfieldOld Silas came to the lake shore every morning and fished for several hours on end, basking his old bones in the sun. Even now—sprawled in his folding chair, whistling and farting, he was threading a maggot onto a hook. All this time, an eight-year-old boy had been watching him intently from the bushes. They lived in the same village and hated each other deeply; Malis didn't understand why—well, yes, he sometimes climbed into the old man's garden and plucked apples from the trees. Usually, he did everything quietly, but last time he let his guard down, and somehow the vile old man managed to spot him. Screaming furiously and spraying spit, the senile old man ran to the tree and began beating the boy with his cane, and when the boy fell from the tree and ran, dodging the blows as best he could, Silas set his bastard dog on him. The result of that day was a bitten leg, torn pants, and heavy beatings from his parents until he was nearly half-dead.
Mel spent several days at home in unbearable pain and bitterness, and when he finally went outside, he happened to encounter Silas again. The old man immediately erupted into a stream of choice curses and tried to grab the lad with his smelly, flabby old hand, and when the boy ran, he threw his cane at his back, hitting him painfully right between the shoulder blades.
And so, ignited by a retaliatory rage, the boy set out to make the old man's life unbearable. Today he woke up very early just to stalk the old fart. Silas, pleased with himself, cast his hook into the water, set the rod on a stand, stretched, scratched his crotch, poured himself a warming morning glass of moonshine, and was just bringing it to his lips when something small slammed into his back with a wild scream and great force. Shrieking and waving his arms ridiculously, the old man flew off the cliff into the lake, right along with his chair.
— Ha-ha-ha-ha! — Malis laughed, kicking an empty bucket after him.
— Your mother! You little brat! You little pi... — the old man fell silent when the bucket cracked across his head and he began to thrash in panic.
— Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! — the boy continued to laugh, watching as the old man unsuccessfully tried to stay afloat. — Ha-ha-ha... ha...
He realized something was wrong when Silas swallowed water several times with a terrible sound.
— Helppp... — gurgled the drowning man.
When Malis saw that the fishing hook was lodged in the old man's eyeball and the line had wrapped around his body in several layers, he became genuinely frightened and ran back into the bushes. Listening to the splashing in the water, he was terrified that his parents would now beat him into such a pulp that he wouldn't be able to walk for another month. But then the sounds began to lose intensity, and the lad decided to peek out and see what was happening.
The old man was almost completely exhausted and seemed unaware of anything happening around him.
— He... lp... gggghhhbrlrbbrlrb... — Silas took a couple more gulps of water and finally fell silent.
Looking at this scene with an open mouth, the boy felt his heart pounding wildly and an extraordinarily warm sensation spreading through his body—he had never seen a person die before. Moreover, a single morning had solved several problems at once: the bastard old man was caught on his own hook, he would no longer be a nuisance, he could climb into the garden as much as he wanted, and he wouldn't be able to complain to the parents.
That same evening, the shrimp went to Silas's house. Sensing him from afar, his nightmare of a dog crawled out of its kennel and began to bark frantically at the boy whose blood it had tasted a few days ago. Its barking quickly changed to a plaintive whimper when it caught a sharp brick in its side. Chained and unable to either punish the offender or hide from the heavy stones coming one after another, the hound quickly fell silent and went to its master.
***
Malis and Stilus were pushing through the deadfall in search of a clearing known to all the boys in the village. On this clearing grew trees with branches that made the strongest and coolest sticks, which could be used to make bows and even swords.
— Well, what are you stuck there for, you loser? — Stilus shouted.
That was hurtful, because they were best friends. Stilus knew perfectly well that because of his parents' poverty, Mel had to wear his father's old rags, which hung on his thin body like a sack, catching on every branch and snag and making it difficult even to just walk.
— I'm going ahead, move your ass, Mel! Don't be a loser! — Stilus chuckled and let out a loud laugh.
Gritting his teeth, Malis ran forward. Stilus had always been a bit of a jerk, but lately, he had become completely unbearable. He often called names maliciously, especially in the company of other boys; in a fight, he used dishonest tricks like hitting between the legs, twisting arms, or choking; he loved to brag about non-existent achievements. Furthermore, having realized the concept of wealth, being the son of the local trader who owned the only shop in the village, he began to frequently dig at young Scammerfield regarding their poverty. At first, the boy tried to explain things to his friend, but soon realized it was pointless—Stilus's jabs were born not from a lack of understanding, but from malice. Additionally, the well-fed Stilus was pinker and fatter than Scammerfield, and lately, he was especially proud that of the two of them, he was the first to start growing pubic hair.
— Hey, loser! Hurry up, we're here! — Stilus squawked. — You're so slow!
Malis accelerated on the last stretch of the path to finally break out of the thicket onto the edge of the clearing and give the idiot a few thumps; he lunged forward and immediately realized his mistake when he heard the rip of tearing fabric. The seat of his baggy pants caught on a snag and tore, and the boy sprawled on the ground, cutting his forehead on a branch.
— Ahahaha, dude, you're such a loser, ahahahah, aaaaa your pants even gave out, ahahahahaha, — the trader's son gasped, doubled over with laughter. — I'll tell the boys—they'll laugh their heads off, ahahahahaha!
Malis was so fed up with the sound of that nasal voice that he jumped up with a wild roar, slipped out of the pants stuck on the snag, and pounced on the trader's son. They wrestled for a while until Stilus once again tried to knee his companion in the groin. The boy dodged, but he had to jump back from Stilus a few steps.
— Psycho! Idiot! Moron! — the trader's son stated with anger and fear, his eyes rolling wildly. — Are you a moron? Are you a moron? Did I hit you or something?
— Go to hell! — Mel snapped. Flashing his father's old underpants, which in size were more like shorts, he pried his pants off the log. — Friend, my ass! You're a piece of shit, not a friend!
The argument lasted for a few more minutes until both companions finally calmed down and made peace. Slightly subdued after the scuffle, Stilus stopped laughing at his friend, and Malis also forced himself to calm down; after all, they had finally reached their clearing and it was time to gather materials.
For a while, the boys wandered around the edge of the clearing, breaking branches here and there, when suddenly Scammerfield saw a particularly beautiful and powerful tree with perfect branches that practically begged to be turned into weapons. He began to process it, stacking all the material in a pile nearby, and while he was doing this, the trader's son crept up to him, grabbed a handful of the best branches already collected, and ran away.
— Hey, listen! That's my tree, those are my branches, hey! I saw it and gathered them, listen, what the hell! Get over here! — the hard worker protested.
— Oh come on, what's the big deal, you stingy? And anyway—I saw this tree even earlier!
So, not even ten minutes had passed, and the jerk had already forgotten everything and started up again. Malis got angry and ran after the scoundrel, but again tripped in his idiotic baggy pants and fell.
— Ahahahahaha! — the cunning fat boy burst into laughter once again. — Seriously, dude! And you still dream about my sister? She'd never marry a loser like you!
— What? Go to hell! — the reddened Malis hissed. He really did like Stilus's younger sister—a sweet, well-groomed, modest girl with brown eyes, who always looked down and spoke in a low voice. He continued his friendship with this idiot primarily just to stay close to her.
— I'm serious! Have you seen yourself in the mirror, Mel? You're a pathetic, weak, stupid loser, a freak; your father greets you in the pigsty every morning, and your mother scrubs the floors in my shop, — the trader's son was no longer laughing, but simply smirking nastily, and in his eyes burned those same sparks of pure, unadulterated malice that Malis had seen more than once in the worst moments. — But that's not even the main thing! Do you really think it's only about you? Little guy, my sister belongs to ME.
— W-what? — Mel stammered with lifeless lips.
Stilus licked his lips and smirked even nastier, savoring the moment.
— That! She'll never be yours, because she's already mine! I made her mine after I saw you hitting on her. Of course, as a caring older brother, I punished her severely beforehand. She's small and stupid, she doesn't understand anything in life yet! And you know what? Every night, after our parents fall asleep, I continue to TRAIN her. She's already forgotten about you, and you should forget about her too. Your place is in the pigsty next to your daddy.
Malis's vision went dark. He felt for a particularly strong branch—as thick as his own arm—and stood up unsteadily. A red veil covered his eyes; he didn't remember what happened next, but after some time, coming to his senses, he found himself standing over a mutilated Stilus. The trader's son's face was disfigured beyond recognition, blood flooded everything around, and he himself was gurgling in it. In his whitened, scraped palm, the younger Scammerfield, breathing heavily, clutched only a short fragment of that piece of wood. He threw it aside, stood over the faintly twitching body for a few seconds, then reached into his under-pants with a trembling, bloody hand, took out his member, and with relief urinated on Stilus. The latter groaned, tried to say something, but almost choked. The stream washed some of the blood from his face, so at least in that, he should have been grateful to his companion.
Having finished his business, the boy slowly trudged toward the exit of the clearing, forgetting both the weapon branches and his torn pants, but as soon as he stepped away a few paces, he heard a rasp behind his back:
— You're... finished... pray... piece of shit... — the remark was interrupted by a gagging spasm.
Malis stopped, looked around, saw a heavy cobblestone, and took it. All the parents in the village forbade their children from going into the forest, so he and the trader's son had lied, saying they were going to the lake. Approaching his friend and raising the stone over his head, he looked into his beaten, horrific face. No one knows that the two of them came specifically here; no one will look for him here.
— Scum... I'll tell... they'll hang you... and your folks... — the remark was interrupted by a heavy blow to the head, then another, and another, and another, and another, and another, and another.
— Now, who's the loser here? — the boy said. At that moment, the phrase seemed very appropriate and witty to him.
Tossing aside the bloody stone, he trudged home—to get a belt for the ruined pants.
***
The sun rose to its zenith and mercilessly burned everything its light reached. Silas, who had been idling in a nap, began to feel the heat; he grunted discontentedly and tossed and turned, then finally knocked the hat off his eyes, which he instantly regretted—the scorching rays slashed like a razor across his eyes and nearly burned his retinas. Crying out and cursing, he fell from the bench to the ground and nearly hit his head on a stone. The idler's morning sleep was interrupted, his throat was wildly dry, and he decided to go refresh himself in the tavern.
With wild nausea and a suspicion of heatstroke, staggering, he entered the building and immediately spotted an acquaintance in the corner—a lad about seventeen.
— Eh! Fssss, fshshshhh, tfu ept, fshshshssshsh... — the people sitting in the tavern looked at him with disapproval and disgust, but Malis finally paid attention to him.
— Haven't enough of your teeth been knocked out in life, whistler? — the guy frowned. — Do you have to come in here and sit next to me looking like that?
— Give me a break, bro, — Silas wanted to pat the youth on the shoulder, but under his cold gaze, he changed his mind.
The man indeed looked quite unattractive: worn-out clothes with holes, uneven stubble, a pitted face, tangled long and dirty hair, an unpleasant smell. Having returned home after several decades of service, beaten by an unfair life and leading a semi-vagrant lifestyle—in this village, he was far from a first-class person. However, the guy sitting before him seemed not to notice such things and interacted with the veteran as an equal. Perhaps because the lad had no friends and had a reputation in the village for being hot-tempered and psychotic. Or maybe he knew how to look inside, into the very heart of a person, surgically cutting away unnecessary external layers. Either way, in him, Silas found a grateful listener for his soldier's yarns and felt a certain soulful warmth toward him.
— How's your old man? Any news?
— No, — Malis thoughtfully poked with a spoon in a plate of porridge. — I don't think he's coming back. He used to disappear for weeks when he went on another binge, but now almost a month has passed. Either he found another woman—yeah, sure, what woman would even take him? Or he ran into a knife somewhere or broke his neck while drunk.
— You think? What if he was captured by some sorcerer and they're testing spells on him or took him apart for organs? This is no joke! We had a hundred such things in the service.
— If that were the case, it would be the maximum benefit he ever brought to anyone in this world.
A heavy silence hung for a few seconds.
— Oh, alright. I have a surprise for you, Mel! — the old soldier declared and whistled for the innkeeper.
A minute later, a girl brought a keg of beer, a jug of vodka, and several plates of appetizers to the table, and Silas, puffing himself up like a turkey, paid for everything with a brand new shiny coin.
— Did you rob someone or mug them? — the guy wondered.
— Heh! Earned it honestly! — Silas flushed. — Won it yesterday from a passenger in dice. It was tough, I even sweated, but it was worth it. He blew on his palms, whispered incantations, and prayed, but you can't beat my experience. I bet my medal, and he was forced to answer with a bag of silver. Now I can drink and treat you from the heart. Come on, let's drink to the meeting and to my success! Uhhh!
The man downed a shot of vodka, chased it with beer, and sniffed some small dried fish.
— Maybe you should pay your debts first? — Mel asked, catching his breath after his own sip.
The soldier grimaced.
— Already did, bro. They were all there while I was playing, watching me, the scum. I thought about slipping away quietly, but they all pounced on me; I had to quiet the sharks with money. Well, at least now no one will break my legs... — Silas poured another. — Listen, about your old man... What about your mother?
— At home. In despair, — the youth stirred and glared strictly at his interlocutor. — Listen, if you start that again...
— Now come on, kid, don't be hard on me, you can't command the heart, — Silas became excited. — I've known her since she was this tiny! Eh, if it weren't for the army, maybe I'd be your daddy.
— God forbid, — Malis replied and took a sip of beer.
— I really did love her, and even now, cross my heart—may my guts be ripped out if I'm lying! — the flushed veteran swore. — Your goat doesn't value or love her, so it's good he finally ran away. She sits there like a corpse, the poor thing is despondent, who would comfort her there... Uncle Silas would comfort her...
The guy's face hardened, his hand tightly gripped the table knife, which did not escape the soldier's notice.
— I'd say nice things to her... Hug her... I'd even wash myself... And maybe... — Silas babbled incoherently, horrified by his own audacity and boldness. — For some... sum? For example... I've got money... And then she'd feel better and in general...
Young Scammerfield processed what was said for a few seconds, then sighed and slumped on his stool.
— You really can be a freak sometimes, — he muttered. — I could use the money, of course. But she'd never agree to that.
Silas, not believing his luck, continued the offensive:
— We can do it differently! I can!.. — he suddenly realized he was speaking in a raised tone, leaned closer to the boy, and whispered. — I know a little man, a healer, he'll sell me some sleep-herb. She won't even understand or find out; it's good for the body and for the soul.
Malis shook his head in disgust.
— You have a lot of life experience in such things, I see, — he pulled away from the unpleasant man. — My price is your whole bag.
— Ehhhh? — Silas's jaw dropped. — Isn't that a bit much for...
— No, — the guy cut him off sharply. — Am I selling you tomatoes at the market? Weren't you the one swearing pure and eternal love, talking about the dream of your life, and now you're trying to cheap out? I won't give up a single copper, a bag of silver and that's it.
Silas cursed, drank, bargained, drank some more, cursed again, drank again, and finally agreed.
The next day toward evening, all the villagers went to the lake. There they held songs and dances, burned effigies of Reisen Reim, drank, had fun, and indulged in amorous pleasures, because the Solstice festival had arrived.
Silas was sitting by the fire away from the crowd, pouring some alcohol-containing drink into himself, when Malis approached him with a small knapsack.
— Hey, Mel.
— Hi, — the youth dropped a bundle on the ground, opened it, took out a piece of fresh meat, and put it on a skewer. — Help yourself, soldier.
— Oh, meat, and with a little brew! Let's drink a drink—it's time for some treats, heh-heh, — Silas took the skewer and put it over the fire. — Did you rob someone or mug them?
— Went hunting, — Mel replied proudly. — Bagged a boar this big!
— You know how to hunt? And you look like such a snot-nosed kid, — the veteran wondered.
— Live in this village next to our forest and not know how to hunt? You'd have to be a degenerate.
— Degene... What?
— Like you, basically.
— ...what?
— Well, do you know how to hunt? No, you don't. That means—like you, — the lad sat down nearby, requisitioned the bottle, and took several burning gulps from it. — Now to business. Did you bring everything required?
Silas stood up from the bag he was sitting on, untied the string, and showed—indeed, brand new silver, sparkling. With a grimace of pain, he handed it over from hand to hand, then reached into his cloak pocket and took out a small case. Inside was a fine powder—some ground plant.
— This guy said—brew it, let it steep, and drink. Just not too much, or it'll harm the health. Well, you'll figure it out, anyway, — the case migrated to the boy.
— I'll figure it out, — Mel put the case in his pocket, took a few more gulps of alcohol, grabbed the bag and threw it over his back. — Alright, I won't waste time, I still have a lot to do. Come as agreed—when it's completely dark. Don't miss me.
— Ha! I won't, bro, — Silas waved his hand at the boy's back, pulled out the skewer, and foolishly bit into the meat, but burned himself, and besides, it wasn't cooked through and had a strange smell.
An hour or two later it grew dark, the entire supply of alcohol was drunk, and the meat was eaten—and it turned out to be quite tasty. The people on the lake shore had also become quite merry and had just entered the very climax of the festival; their joyful, barely human screams and shrieks could be heard throughout the area. Simultaneously extinguishing the fire and relieving himself, Silas, with an unsteady gait, headed through the darkness toward the village and the boy's house.
In the old, leaning shack, no light was burning, and no sounds were heard. Silas knocked several times, but received no answer.
Going around the house, he noticed that the entrance to the cellar was open, and glimmers of light were visible from there. Shouting, but receiving no answer, he cursed and, holding onto the wall, began the descent, trying not to tumble down the steep stone stairs in his drunken state.
The cellar was cluttered with tools, logs, boxes, and other junk; a couple of lamps were burning, but not a soul was in sight. Going a bit deeper, Silas found an open hatch and a new descent—this time via a vertical ladder. The sound of some activity came from inside.
Drunk and intrigued, the soldier began the descent, but almost fell off the ladder and got a splinter when his sweaty palm slipped from the wood. After walking literally a few steps forward along a narrow earthen corridor, he hit a turn, immediately after which a door with an open bolt was installed, light leaking through the cracks. He pushed it, took a mechanical step into the new room, but when he focused on the surroundings—he backed away, tripped over the threshold, and fell onto the earthen floor of the corridor.
The tiny room, three by three meters, was lit by a couple of lamps; in one of its walls was a small niche covered by a homemade grate—a mini-dungeon. In the corner were a bucket of murky dirty water, a stool, and a small neat table—on it stood a tray with a dozen different tools: an axe, a saw, chisels, knives. Some of the tools were thickly smeared with something black. In the other corner—a wide flat board with a bunch of scratches and notches, on which currently lay an unidentified bloody carcass, and over which Malis Scammerfield leaned in a blood-soaked apron, with a butcher's cleaver in his hand.
Seeing that the guy was staring at him silently and intently with glazed eyes, Silas stood up, dusted himself off, and greeted him cheerfully.
— And I looked and looked for you, and it turns out you're in the cellar! — the intoxication seemed to vanish as if by a hand, but the trembling voice betrayed the falseness of this bravado. — I've c-come, it's been dark there for a long time...
— Ah, so that's how it is... — the guy drawled in a hollow voice, without changing his pose and not even blinking. — I guess I got a bit carried away with work and missed that moment. I've already prepared everything, gave mother the decoction. And I'm almost finished here.
Silas swallowed, scanned the room once more, and suddenly noticed something that made vomit rise to his throat—near the far wall on the floor lay a heap of discarded clothes—the old worn-out greatcoat that Malis's alcoholic father had dragged everywhere during his adventures, and which he wrapped himself in when he fell asleep drunk on the street. Next to the heap stood a small tub of waste, in which bones, entrails, scraps of some skins, or... leathers, were thrown.
— A-alright, I'll wait outside, roll a cigarette, — Silas stammered, backing away a couple of steps and disappearing around the turn to the ladder.
— Wait, bro! — Scammerfield did not miss how the vagrant's gaze darted around the room.
He didn't want to do it at all, but he grabbed the stool, leaned out from around the corner, and hurled it at Silas, who was frantically working his limbs up the ladder. He aimed for the head, but hit the palm gripping the rung. The soldier jerked, howled, let go of the shaking ladder, and the flimsy rung under his other hand didn't hold and snapped in two with a crack. Silas fell on his back, the earthen floor knocked the breath out of him, and a moment later, the butcher's cleaver descended with force onto his neck, tearing skin, vessels, and vocal cords. The veteran desperately wanted to do something, but couldn't even move because of the fall and injuries. His vision began to blur, blood seeped into his lungs with a whistle and a rasp. Mel's head leaned over him.
— Why were you so careless, old man, — a strange mixture of satisfaction and regret was readable on the heavily breathing guy's face. — Sorry, I didn't mean to, it's all my fault. Don't hold a grudge against me. In the future, I'll be more careful.
He sighed and spat on the floor.
— Eh, and I'd already prepared everything, even put mother to sleep. Yeah, that turned out badly. Alright, sorry again. I'll help you, just try to relax, — the boy extracted a homemade-looking stiletto from the apron, pressed it to Silas's chest in the heart area, and pushed, ending the poor man's suffering.
Malis sighed heavily and leaned tiredly against the wall. The Solstice festival was ruined for him; the bag of silver had been obtained, it turned out, by dishonest and illegal means. Having climbed out of the cellar and entered the house, the guy went to his motionless mother and checked the pulse on her neck—nothing. Just as it was half an hour ago. He didn't want to believe it, but he finally became convinced that he had messed up the dosage and put in too much sleep-herb. But he only wanted to make sure that she wouldn't wake up and the deal would go successfully! Having failed on all fronts, the guy wondered how he was to live now. At some point, he went back down to the dungeon and carefully examined Silas's body—they were of similar height and even build.
— I'll get some use out of you before you rot, old man. You'll help me one last time, — he muttered, with great effort dragging the cloth-wrapped body out of the hatch.
Having done this, as well as locking the secret hatch behind him, covering it with earth and sliding a heavy shelf over it, he dragged the body into the house, unwrapped it, and threw it onto his own bed. Finally, he put on traveling clothes, threw the bag of silver and some supplies into his backpack, poured alcohol and spirits everywhere there were in the house, knocked over a burning lamp onto the floor, and left his village forever.
***
A dark moonless night swallowed the castle and its surroundings. The people in the nearby town had long been sleeping soundly and sweetly, but the castle was in an uproar. Hanging on a rope near the window of some count or duke, whose name he didn't even remember, and listening to the thumping of feet and the screams of people, Scammerfield reflected.
Where did he turn the wrong way? Did he live as he wanted? How would his life have gone if he had chosen differently at some of its moments? Did he do everything right today?
Below, on the fortress wall, the guards appeared. The captain lined up the men and barked an order; the soldiers answered bravely. One of them, apparently feeling sleepy, shouted "sir" not quite promptly, for which he caught a blow from the officer to the solar plexus, to the guffaws of his comrades. The captain became even more enraged and screamed at them so that even Malis, from a huge distance, made out all the nuances of his multi-story swearing. A minute later, discipline was restored, the squad split into pairs and briskly scattered in all directions.
Malis sighed. Perhaps the most fun days were in the first couple of years after he left his childhood home. He reached a large city, rented a cozy room, ate well, dressed well, caroused merrily, and made many friends. These friends later introduced him to a man influential in the shadow circles, who, after several simple tests, took the youth on as a permanent employee. His new duties included simple and unstressing things, such as: accompanying the boss to business meetings, collecting debts, protecting local shopkeepers from stray bandits. Sometimes, however, he had to dirty his hands—some debtors, businessmen, and especially small and not very criminal elements had a tendency to overestimate their strength and forgot that members of a civilized urban community usually act according to the principles of respecting social obligations to one another. Some of his new colleagues shrank from such assignments, or rather—the boss himself considered them unsuitable for such work, but Mel, being a diligent young man and accustomed to hard and dirty labor in the village, performed his tasks very conscientiously. In the end, everyone was happy: everyone was in their place, and the boss, having noticed the youth's talent, eventually delegated these missions to him, as well as gave pleasant monetary bonuses for particular cruelty, or, as he called it, "effective and brutal artistry."
The thumping of feet and screams in the corridor tore the hero from happy memories—the door to the room outside of which he hung flew open with a crash, and the beaten body of a servant flew into it; following him, four guards stumbled in, and behind them, wobbling, rolled in an enraged round ball—the Duke Count himself. He was shrieking something, and waves of fat rolled across his plump cheeks. The guards jerked the servant to his feet and tied him to a huge carved cross attached to the wall. The wretched man swore loyalty, sobbed, and screamed that it was some kind of mistake, but the Duke-Count raged even more at this. He dealt the poor soul a couple of clumsy blows to the stomach with his pumpkin-fist, which left him heavily winded, poured himself some wine, and waved his hand to the guards—they began to beat the chained man.
Scammerfield carefully pulled himself up to the windowsill, took a small pill from his pocket, and began to wait for the moment. No matter how much he didn't want to, he couldn't throw the distracting memories out of his head; on the contrary—they flew by at an absolutely frantic speed.
The happy days of the young hothead in the criminal world came to an end when, on another seemingly easiest assignment, he fell into a trap. A new, daring gang of villains competing with their boss turned out not to be the usual rabble of thugs, but a professional and ruthless group of unknown people in black, who had read all his steps in advance and easily neutralized him before he even had time to do anything. For some time, they kept the youth in a dark isolated cell, occasionally pulling him into the light only to subject him to beatings and torture. They asked no questions, and in general did not speak at all, and Malis, resigned to his end, also stubbornly remained silent.
It is not known exactly how much time passed, but one day the captors, to great surprise, revealed their faces and goals. Their leader—looking like an ordinary worker, indistinguishable from the crowd—told him that they represented a certain organization that is the left hand of the state, that the actions of the young "brigand" over these years had attracted their attention, that he had passed their selection, and that they would like to recruit a new specialist in his person. Having listened to all this, Mel spoke loudly and elaborately about what he thought of their recruiting methods, about their sexual orientation, and about the state in general, but when the leader put him before a choice—the chopping block for all crimes or loyal service, the youth had to agree.
Drill, idiotic trials, training saturated with sadism, rote learning of useless and uninteresting historical and cultural facts—all this drove the youth into wild frustration, but the fear of death, and besides—the desire to finally get to the actual work, helped him survive all the hardships. To the greatest regret, the work did not meet expectations at all and brought meager satisfaction. Being a simple guy at heart, Mel felt a dislike for such tedious things as information gathering and preliminary planning. Dreams of self-realization also turned out to be shattered against strict execution requirements. For collateral damage, additional victims, or too dirty killings, he received disciplinary sanctions in the form of reprimands, lashes, confinement in a brig, and other fines.
...the Count-Duke, snorting maliciously and spilling wine from the glass wobbling in his paw onto the Camellia carpet, approached to observe the noisy torture of the servant more closely. Scammerfield concentrated, held his breath, and with a flick of his fingers, launched the pill straight into the pitcher.
The round ball stared at the beating for a minute, and then approached to refresh his wine. In that time, the drug should have dissolved. The assassin, having ensured he reached his goal, pulled the rope in a special way, detached the "grappling hook," and put it on his belt.
Some time ago, he might have felt something like pity for this servant; after all, the guy was not to blame for anything. By pure chance, he happened to be the owner of that personal nightstand in the servants' quarters, into which Malis, having penetrated the castle territory a day before, had thrown an incoherent, meaningless encrypted message and a "medallion of the order of assassins"—a trinket for a couple of coppers bought a month ago at a fair. For the fat paranoid aristocrat, who had long expected the royal reaper for his soul, a simple anonymous tip that an assassin was lurking among his servants was enough to lose himself in anger and fear and play into the hands of the true executioner. By morning, the wretched boy will be beaten beyond recognition, and then the Count will personally skin him. The organization will find out that it lost its problematic agent, but of course, will do nothing about it, and the Duke will suddenly die in a few days from a slow-acting poison, after which the guilt will be permanently fixed on the servant.
"Free! Just like in childhood," the assassin thought with warmth. "I'll go to Reim. Silas told me so much about it that I can't not visit."
Casting a last glance at the night scene below him, Malis Scammerfield released the fingers he was holding with the windowsill, and pushing off the wall, with a beautiful pirouette, smoothly and noiselessly dove into the river under the fortress wall. Roses bloomed and angels sang in his soul.
Strength: 30
Intelligence: 5
Will: 5
Agility: 40
Perception: 40
Wisdom: 5
Charisma: 5
-
Silent Kill-
Fade into Shadow-
Liquidation-
EvasionEq.: "Silas" — short sword, fancy stiletto, blackjack, ring of fortitude, agent's armor, cloak with mask and hood, "grappling hook".
Ment
Heroist
