Bolverk handed the letter to the Djinn guarding the gates. The letter enclosed detailed the death of the baron, but also the safety of him and Mari, so as to not worry Anise when the news of another murder inevitably spread through the city like a black plague. Thanking the Djinn, Bolverk took little Mari by the hand and headed toward the docks.

“Boo, are the bad people gone?” Mari asked. Her hands felt cold to Bolverk and a paleness encased her features. Since she woke, she has not stopped trembling.

Bolverk knelt down and smiled at her. Patting her head, he said, “Lady Tan’ae, the bad people are all gone. Ok?”

The child-madam nodded and then smiled brightly. Hearing those words, her mind accepted it and moved on. She asked if she can buy some candy, to which Bolverk to indulged her in. As the pair neared the docks, Bolverk insisted to Mari that she never leave his side — because it was a game, rather than frighten her with the real possibility of the slavers lurking about in their ambiguous semi-legal territory and jurisdiction.

Not knowing where exactly to meet, or even the name of the assassin, Bolverk headed toward the very ends of the dock where light broke on the glistening blue surface. And the very ends of the docks often were where the less desirable folks gathered: sea-scum, mutts, beggars, and thieves.

“You know, not all undesirable people — especially assassins — gather in such conspicuous spots,” the assassin’s voice told Bolverk from behind.

Turning, Bolverk found a relatively well-dressed, though tattered and frayed in some parts, gentleman. Long flowing bronze locks and gold rings pierced in one ear, no one would suspect him to be capable of murder. Though, by the rather pompous cane he carried, he certainly would be guilty of being both pretentious and haughty.

“Good morning,” Bolverk said to him loudly. Mari followed his lead and greeted excitedly as well. Their rather cheerful attitude caused the entire dock to turn to him. The assassin rolled his eyes.

“If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done so,” he said with a visible distaste. “Follow me.”

Walking at a meandering pace, the trio made no conversation. Entering a pub located snug between a firehouse and trinket shop, the assassin nodded toward the proprietress, ordering, “the usual for me and my friend, impur de vin rouge, and some milk for the girl”.

The proprietress responded with apologies at not having that type of wine in stock, and the assassin sighed and left the establishment.

“What was that all about?” Bolverk asked. Mari pouted due to not getting milk after being told there would be milk.

“I asked if it was safe to go in to have a conversation; she said no, the dogs of the country are there.”

“Aren’t you also working for the royals?”

“You already know whether I am or not, don’t you?” He turned and laughed.

“I just want the ability to protect those who I am sworn to protect,” Bolverk replied. “Where are we

going now?”

“My organization’s meeting ground,” he replied. “And no I do not trust you. As a matter of fact, if you choose to follow me to the demon’s den, then you sign away your life.”

“My life is bound to the House of Tan’ae, as long as the madam beside me is not harmed, then that is fine,” Bolverk said. “And if I do die, will you take care of her?”

“No; I will put her in an orphanage. The woman still has ties to the royal family — if there is a kill order, then I rather not have emotions involved. As is the case for the other girl, of course.”

Bolverk frowned, but swallowed his anger with clenched fists. Not only was he slender of frame, he did not possess any actual combat ability or power. This mysterious organization of assassins can change that: status in the underground and strength.

The trio stopped in an alley where water and waste drained into the sewers. Bolverk looked at the assassin. The assassin looked back. He began to pry open the sewer gate, barely spacious enough for him to fit in. Mari, with the mind of a child, excitedly set off in search of the pirate’s booty in the depths of the sewers. Bolverk wormed his stick-like frame through.

After traversing through a campaign of waste and sludge, the trio emerged from the intricate sewer system at a door. Opening the door, the three stepped into a dark hallway. The assassin groped the darkness for a torch and lit it up with a flint.

“Wipe your shoes first, there’s a neat freak who would kill you if you trek shit into our headquarters,” the assassin warned.

At the end of the hall opened up a spacious cavern, a lounge of sort complete with a few couches and even a bar stocked with alcohol. In this lounge, there were 11 people.

Seeing the boss bring new faces into the headquarters, they all snapped to attention. One readied her bow; some brought out knives; others wielded swords; and some took to their hammers, shovel, and broom.

“Be at peace,” the assassin commanded.

One of the 11, the woman who accompanied the man on that night, laid down her bow and stepped forward. She looked at Bolverk and Mari; the girl beamed up at her. Then the woman turned to the assassin, “Janus, I have never seen either of them before! Are you out of your mind bringing them here?”

Another member, a massive man with scars all over, barked his agreement. “Pat’s right. Fuck ya thinking? Even senior operatives leave anything important in the halls. Ya made up that rule too!”

“Everyone, let Janus speak,” a plump middle-aged woman said with a calming voice. “He must have a reason.”

“Thank you, Beatrix.” Janus stepped forward and said, “The bar was too dangerous to interview him, so I brought him here.”

“Oi!” The scarred man barked again. “That’s the shittiest reason to reveal our fucking base I’d ever heard!”

A man equally as fit voiced his agreement. “Janus, lad, normally I would take your side, but Asimov’s right. The hell are you doing, oh great leader? Do you need me to fix that broken head of yours with my hammer?”

A pair of twins, dressed in bright colors — obviously street performers — looked at each other and giggled.

“Did you hear that, Agnis? Asi and Petar actually agreed on something for once!” The emerald-haired girl spoke to her sister.

The blue-haired girl responded with her own quip, “My, dearest sister Hama, it must be the end of the world as we know it! Plenty of work for ya, Tarquin, eh?”

Tarquin, this slender and thin gaunt fellow, slumped in his couch and began to cry. “No! No, no, no! I don’t want to bury another body.”

“Everyone silence!” Janus announced again, slamming his cane onto the ground. He looked back at Bolverk with a difficult expression. “I want him to become our protege.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Both Asimov and Petar shouted. They looked at each other in unbridled disgust and spat.

“I agree, Janus,” Patema said. “We need a protege, but this man who we barely know should not be our choice!”

“Yes, yes,” a bearded, bespectacled geezer laughed as he counted his coins. “Let us kill that young one. He is too much a variable; nonetheless, his death shall bring us riches, no?”

“Marx!” Beatrix shouted in anger. “What words are spouting, you damn maniac! He is barely an adult.”

“Beatrix, your role as Matriarch clouds your judgement. Regardless of what happens,

if he is not to become our protege, he is dead, violà!” Marx replied with a dry chuckle. Then he looked at the two other men who were chatting in disregard of the conversation. “Wedren? Thane? Thoughts?”

Wedren, a suave and stylish gentleman, offered his thoughts in brief. “One’s a man; the other’s a child. I’m a gigolo, and that’s simply vile! Kill the man; save the goddess, I say!”

Beatrix turned to Wedren and berated him on the objectification of women to which Wedren simply yawned.

Thane, a handsome young man possessed of black hair, spoke, “I am curious why Janus chose the stranger rather than one of our own to be protege. Your merchant intuition?”

Janus nodded. “Simply put, I don’t need a civil war before we begin our revolution. As of now, our operations is divided into too many fragments, too distant and fragile.”

He turned to Asimov first and tapped his cane, “Asimov the Zealot. Your mercenary boys were never even in my choices, but if I had chosen from you — blood will spill too quick and too severe for there to be salvation after the storm!”

Turning to the other members in general, he spoke loudly with charismatic weight, “And to the other fragments: whether it is Petar the Blacksmith’s craftmen, Wedren’s mistresses, the Twin Performer’s street urchins and slum-folk, Marx the Tax Collector’s brutes, or even from one of Beatrix’s orphans — eventually it will dissolve into a civil conflict! To have an official protege from one of those fragments would yield too much influence to them — envy and loathing, we must save for the blood of the pigs above! Not for our brethren and sisters!”

“Then wouldn’t choosing this completely new member be even worse?” Thane asked with amusement.

“No. If he is a protege of all 12 of us, then he is loyal to none but his own ambitions. Unaffiliated, he stands for all of us, the common people. And it is easier for the others to rally behind an underdog who has been tested through and through! If we simply hand the title of protege to one of the current members, we will tear our innards from within.”

“But if we hand it to a no-name, everyone will turn against him instead — a much more economical solution,” Marx chuckled. “That does not explain why him of all random blokes.”

“Patema, do you have the papers nearby?” Janus asked. “From a few nights ago.”

The young woman nodded and fetched them for Janus.

“Bolverk of the House of Yam,” Janus spoke, “sworn loyalty ever for House Tan’ae, whose young lady is wife to the baron of Ardin.”

“He’s a traitor,” the twins immediately hounded at that fact, even pulling out their daggers from seemingly out of nowhere. “Janus! You know how we may about even working with the royals as a cover-up! Now you want us to accept one so embroiled in that royal mess to join us? You are asking for death!”

Janus slammed his cane onto the ground once more. “I saw a face so delighted in the death of the old baron that I got chills. The man is only loyal to the House Tan’ae; all other royals, he does not care for.”

Bolverk felt the need to affirm that. “Correct.”

Agnis threw the dagger, nearly missing Bolverk. The throw startled Mari who quickly became overwhelmed by panic; Beatrix saw this and took the child-madam, calming her. The Matriarch chided Agnis.

“Are you saying we keep that one House alive?” Hama said with venom bleeding through with every sound. “That would make us no better than those pigs!”

“Hama! Agnis! Shut the fuck up,” Wedren shouted from across the room. “Not all royals are bad — and you’re interrupting my nap.”

“Sex hound,” Agnis spatted. “I hope you get syphilis.”

“As I was saying,” Janus continued, “this can become a mutual relationship. He gets to protect his sworn House; we get an insider’s flow of information.”

The twins stood up and walked out the door, bumping into Janus roughly as they did so. Asimov similarly stood up and went out the door, glaring at Bolverk as he did so.

“Janus,” Patema spoke, “this may be the most drastic mistake you’ve made. We are playing with fire.”

Beatrix also stood up, “I am going to go and play with Mari here. The atmosphere here is unsuited for someone as...young as she is. We will be at my orphanage.” She smiled, bowed, and left. Mari waved bye-bye with a giant grin.

Thane similarly stood up, “I must attend class at the Academy now. My doppleganger must be dying by now. Ah, Bolverk, was it? Do you need me to pass any message to your sworn lady?”

“Ah, can you ask if she is getting into any trouble?” Bolverk answered, surprised the man was being so kind. “Anise often had a reckless personality when young, and it seemed to be resurfacing now that her mother is not there to restrain her.”

Thane nodded with a smile and disappeared, surprising Bolverk greatly.

The only remaining people were Bolverk, Janus, Patema, Tarquin, Wedren, Petar, and Marx.

Surveying the remaining members, Janus sighed. Tarquin was consumed by his melancholy and mumbling to himself. Wedren was sleeping while scratching his groin. And Marx was counting his coins. Only Patema and Petar were listening with any real attention.

“Onto Bolverk’s abilities: he is a scholar, well-educated about a myriad of subjects, and a potion-maker.”

“Can you make an invisibility potion? A love potion?” Wedren asked with fevered enthusiasm.

“Can you give me immortal life?” Tarquin demanded with panic and distress.

“Gold? Yes, yes,” Marx laughed. “Gold, that elusive beauty?”

“Quiet down, you three idiots!” Petar roared. “Wedren, wipe those impure thoughts from your mind! Tarquin, live for the moment! Do not think of death, for that is not the point of life. And Marx, you are richer than even Janus — I truly wish to clobber you with my hammers.”

“He specializes in poisons,” Janus spoke. Their faces became an odd mix of disgust and praise.

“You remember that incident of an entire forest turning rotten a few years back? It seem Bolverk unintentionally created a plague affecting only floral life.”

“Impressive, but still not gold,” Marx sighed and resumed counting his coins. “Anything else which should make us think, ‘Why the lad is truly divine! A gift from the gods and goddesses in the sky!’?”

“No; nothing else except for the boy’s excessive appetite of the morbid,” Janus concluded. “But I am adamant in having him be taught as our protege. As a clean slate, there is potential.”

“Intelligence,” Patema said with an unreadable expression. “If that is all he has, then even I cannot agree to this, Janus.”

“You have not even tested him,” Janus protested.

“I do not need to,” Patema replied bluntly. “He has a slender frame too unsuitable for swords, hammers, or spears. Already, that I deem unacceptable.”

Without another word, Patema left.

“Well, Janus, lad, you know how I am,” Petar said. “If the boy fights for our cause, has an earnest heart, then I do not mind. However, I will be the one to judge this.”

Petar left as well.

“Ehehehe,” Marx laughed as he scooped all his coins into his pouch. “He may not bring in immediate profit, but the boy seem interesting enough. Investment! Investment! Throughout, the boy seemed little nervous or frightened — and he is cunning; we cunning scoundrels must stick together. But that is not a yes, oh great leader; merely a potential perhaps.”

With purses of coins so full that they did not jingle, the old scrooge shuffled his way out the door. Tarquin did not even speak before leaving, as if he were an apparition and nothing more.

“He’s a guy,” Wedren said, smacking his lips. “I’m a gigolo. You see the problem, Janus? Do you? Boy, do you have a poison that somehow transform your gender? What! You do? Rather fabulous; but the knowledge of you having once possessed a third leg down there disturbs me, so no.”

Leaving only Bolverk and Janus alone, the two did not speak for a while.

“How much do you hate the baron’s son?” Janus asked.

“You have papers compiled on me, what do you think?” Bolverk answered with that same lustful smile shown prior, that desire for blood, a vivid voracity for death.

Janus clucked his tongue at the craziness displayed by Bolverk. “Well, I’ve casted the die — we can only move forward now, I suppose. Let us go and slay a beast then.”

The baron’s son, let us at last give the beast a name. Gaston Din’ae. Gaston often spent his time since fleeing Bolsur lounging in brothels, going home only to steal money to splurge on his lascivious lifestyle. In his pursuit of debauchery, he rediscovered a companion in the soul of Jaque de Marques.

The two were lounging in their usual brothel, the Pink Peach, when the assassins attacked. A clear grey mist assaulted the patrons of the brothel. One by one, they fell into a deep slumber. Jaque sensed the abnormality of the change in the air, but played along with it — as long as it was not himself that was the target, he could not care less. In a pretend sleep, he witnessed the brutal culling of the beast. And Jaque thought “Good riddance!”

Though Gaston thought him a friend, Jaque thought Gaston as a swine in human skin. Jaque had always wanted to rip the skin from Gaston — but it was not wise to act against a member of the elite. But since Gaston’s family no longer wielded true influence — but mere potential of revival — Jaque was not obligated nor persuaded to save Gaston from his fate.

So as Gaston, who was driving himself into a brunette, fell asleep, Jaque did nothing. Even as the masked assassins drove blades into the beast’s back, waking him from his drug-induced slumber, Jaque merely watched. Even as Gaston cried bloodcurdling screams, neither Jaque nor the assassins offer him salvation.

Having blades a meter long driven into him, Gaston spasmed at the inevitability of death — spurting out his seed inside the poor brunette. Jaque prayed the brunette to be infertile.

The assassins wrenched the limp beast (though his member was still petrified from fear) from the still unconscious brunette and tossed his body onto the floor. As Gaston attempted to crawl away, the more muscular of the two assassins jammed his sword through the beast’s forearm. Screaming, Gaston’s entire body quivered and went flaccid from shock. Removing his sword, the assassin kicked the body over. He signalled the skinny assassin to carve up the beast with a knife.

The skinny assassin did not hesitate. Plunging his blade into the beast’s stomach, he proceeded to drag his blade across flesh. Then he stuck his hand into the opening, feeling around the internal organs. Gaston was still conscious and breathing — Jaque felt the poor bastard’s whimperings and cries fit him. Finding what he wanted, the skinny assassin squeezed and yanked the entire length of the small intestine from within Gaston’s body. At this point, Gaston’s eyes rolled back into his head as foam fizzled near his mouth. A pungent shit odor exploded onto the scene. The body twitched once, twice, and was still.

After the skinny assassin had the entire intestine out of the body, he wrapped it around the beast’s neck like a noose. Then he dragged a chair and, with the help of the other assassin, placed the beast onto the chair. The skinny assassin looped the small intestine over one of the beams running through the ceiling. With a gaping hole, the innards of the beast spilled out like endless bounties and soiled the floor.

Feeling his mutilation of the beast to not be complete, the skinny assassin proceeded to disfigure the face — so as to not offer the dead Gaston a proper burial. First, he brandished his knife and sliced the skin off flesh with a thousand cuts. Little by little, that white cheese called skin stripped away to become raw red flesh. Splatter of bits of flesh flew near Jaque and he stifled his disgust.

Then came the eyes, plucked clean from the sockets like a vulture and prey. Then came the lips, chopped right off and stuffed inside to rest with the large intestine hung partially out. With the ears, why, the skinny assassin pounded into paste with the flat of his blade. And of the innumerable chins lined the beast’s neck, he left it there for they seemed like rows of hairy testicles. And of Gaston’s filthy tongue, the assassin pried open the dead man’s mouth and tore it right out only to stuff it deep into his throat. And of the teeth often needed to eat even in death’s journey, the assassins shattered into pieces — and then embedded it into the empty sockets where eyes used to rest.

At last, the muscular assassin dipped his finger into some of the beast’s blood and marked the mask of the skinny assassin.

“With this, you are the thirteenth, the Chemist and the Protege of our Inondation. Cleanse the streets of scum; let the fields be nurtured with the blood of the arrogant swine. Against the tyrants despot above, to arms! Against the corrupt and soiled sinners, to arms! Against the High Lord himself, to arms!”

With that, the two assassins left.

Jaque got up from the magnificent booty that he had been resting on. With a sigh, the man dressed himself. He gave a look at the brunette and decided to clean the brunette best as he could of Gaston’s filth. Then he left, a burning curiosity at what the Church has been hiding from him since his return.

And that was the real start of it all; the descent into war, into strife and suffering. As one light strived to rule over all in vindictive lust, a darkness falls deeper into the labyrinth of the city shadows, corrupted by greed. Meandering, a more primal wrath bidded time to witness daybreak as it returned.

Author's Note: At times, it seems that I'm telling 2 stories at the same time, because I am. It's really a story about two people, I guess. This could have been paced better, established better, but I'm learning, I guess. Introduced way too many people this time, but hopefully it wasn't too much a strain on the eyes.

But yeah, Bolverk's story is advancing, so is Anise's story. Interplay of the official establishment and the underground organization, it's fun to write. Hopefully, it's as fun -- or at least interesting -- to read. As always, thanks for reading.