Short Story: The Dullitch Assassins (1997)
The Dullitch Assassins was originally published by ‘The Dulwich Assassins’ in Xenos magazine and written in 1996 when I was eighteen years old. It was published in April 1997 and then taken for reprinting in Knights of Madness (image below), where it appeared alongside stories from Terry Pratchett and Tom Sharpe. Knights of Madness was published all around the world, in hardback by Souvenir Press and in paperback by Orbit Books UK, Ace Penguin USA and Baumhaus Verlag GERMANY. The story was then reprinted in Dark Horizons, the British Fantasy Society Magazine, in 2007.
If you could accept that killing people was a necessary part of the job, and that getting your hands dirty generally meant you ended up covered in your own blood as well as other people's, then you were going places...though - admittedly - via the morgue. The problem with being a standout killer at Crumb Lane was knowing that you were a standout killer among a hundred or so other death-dealers who probably hadn't had the luck or the opportunity to surpass you...yet.
Victor Franklin was a standout killer for all the wrong reasons. He'd passed his first exam because Beau Bledling had fallen backwards out of a window; he'd aced his second final because Peacock Legrand couldn't hold his poison, and he'd scraped through the third with a critical victory over Beth Paison which had more to do with her gammy leg than his ability to spot a lurking patch of quicksand.
As far as he was concerned, Victor Franklin had never killed anybody. However, all that was about to change. If Victor didn't kill someone this evening, there would be no windows, no poisons, and no quicksand. There would just be death, and this time...the icy fingers wouldn't be touching anyone else.
*
Victor swung his left leg over the cemetery wall and dropped into the darkness beyond. So far so good, he reasoned, although fully aware that the worst was yet to come. Silence had settled on Dullitch Church like a swarm of vultures on a corpse, and thick swirling mists meandered between the gravestones.
A gorse bush provided ample cover as the young assassin fought with the clasp on his backpack. After a few mild curses, he produced the grappling hook and, stowing the pack away for collection later, crept towards the menacing shadows of the church. This, according to his friend Mifkindle, was the most important part of the test. Mifkindle Green was a fellow assassin at the school in Crumb Lane and shared most of Victor's classes: he had amazing good luck and had drawn the relatively lenient Professor Crutchluddle for his last exam. Crutchluddle was partially blind and had one leg, not an ideal candidate for 'Dead Man's Boots', as the old man would have been the first to admit. Mifkindle had disposed of the ancient master with apparent ease, finishing his final in a little under twenty minutes...including the time it took him to read the wrinkly git his last rites and order a plate of stew for supper.
Victor, on the other hand, had drawn poison-master Rumlink Banks for his graduation block. He knew students who would slice off their own heads rather than sign up for a final against Rumlink. The man had a reputation for being slippery as an eel and twice as fast. He had poisoned just about every prominent assassin in the school's history and was feared by students and teachers alike. Even the school's headmaster avoided Rumlink, and he was a strangler with more than fifty kills to his name. Victor had nearly lapsed into a fit of self-mutilation when he saw the examiner's signature printed on the small slip of paper beneath his own scrawl. He remembered thinking how typical it was that he should draw the most vicious rat in the pack. He had about as much chance of winning the Vanishing Village Olympics as he had of topping Rumlink this evening, especially on the man's favourite hunting ground. He'd been tracking the wily veteran for the past four hours, in some of the most appalling weather conditions ever experienced this side of the Gleaming Mountains. A sensible student would have given up by now, headed back to the schoolhouse and prayed fervently that his death would come swiftly in the night. Well, not Victor. He didn't know the meaning of the word 'quit'. This was partly because the men in his family tended toward insane bravery, but mostly because none of them could read.
Out of the corner of his eye, Victor glimpsed a slight movement beyond the large stone cross that commemorated the legendary battle of Q'harm Forest. He crouched close to the ground, employing a low-level crawl to advance his movement. The area previously of interest was now silent, but it was the silky smooth silence created by someone proceeding with extreme care. Victor's gloved hand slipped to his belt and returned with an Orpal throwing knife, which he placed neatly between clenched teeth. He could still taste blood on the shaft; the result of a minor dispute, but one that had cost him most of one finger.
Suddenly, and with almost shadow-like dexterity, a cloaked silhouette moved between the monuments. Victor dived behind the north face of the war memorial and gasped for breath as a poison-tipped dagger thudded into a tree stump, mere inches from his left leg. The young student allowed himself a brief exhalation of breath, confident in the knowledge that he had successfully earned a point in the 'close-but-no-cigar' column of his personal survival book: a habit he was determined not to break.
After a few seconds of frantic fumbling in the recesses of his right sock, Victor produced a small mirror securely attached to a thin stick, which he unfolded before sliding the instrument along the ground beside him. When it appeared to be in the correct position, he employed a quick wrist movement to adjust the device at a right angle to the path. Unfortunately, the only object of interest in the resulting view was a similar device protruding from a marble statue, twelve feet away.
The two mirrors faced each other for a few seconds before both were quickly withdrawn.
Victor retrieved his stick and moved surreptitiously around the perimeter of the monument, his gaze not leaving the opposite stone for a second. Subconsciously, he was aware that he now had the mental advantage, Rumlink finally having disclosed his own shadowy presence. The sneaky old rat must have been fairly confident of his knife achieving the desired target. Ha! Take that and plant it, you vicious little skunkviper. Victor sighed; perhaps there was hope for him yet.
Making sure that every step was accurately revised, the student advanced along the grass verge, cold steel remaining tightly clenched between his teeth. He nearly swallowed the blade when Rumlink leapt from his hiding-place like a prancing deer and crossed the verge at a dead run. Victor had to admit that the teacher moved extremely stealthily for a man of his age. He took a few seconds to wonder exactly what age this was, before remembering himself and sprinting off in pursuit. Even though Victor was some twenty seconds behind him, he could see that Rumlink's preferred destination was clear. The poison master was heading for the church itself. Once inside, the maze of chapels and bell towers would render tracking the wily veteran virtually impossible. Dullitch was a large church, large in the true sense of the word; the crypt was so well hidden that people died looking for it. Victor had no choice; he would have to dispose of the adept Mr Banks before he reached the building.
He grabbed the knife from his mouth and accelerated his speed, clearing small bushes and low headstones in a complex series of leaps and bounds that would have injured a shorter boy for life. He saw Rumlink struggling (apparently without success) with the church's large double doors. Slowing slightly as he neared his target, Victor aimed and cast his dagger: the blade embedded itself in the back of the door, about three inches from Rumlink's ear.
Hot damn.
Finally forcing the reluctant entrance, Rumlink took advantage of the careless shot and disappeared into the stygian darkness behind the door. Amidst sudden disappointment and confusion, Victor lost his footing and crashed to the ground, quickly curling into a foetal position to protect his head from any stray daggers. None came.
Allowing a few minutes to pass before attempting any sort of pursuit, Victor collected his thoughts and reached into his chest pocket for the Arlington Brassey blowpipe he always kept there. Keeping one eye firmly focused on the church entrance, he located his neck pouch and pulled a small, yellow-feathered, acid-tipped dart from within. He loaded up the pipe, flipped the safety cap over to cover the exposed hole and stepped cautiously forward.
The church door creaked open ominously on rusty hinges. So much for a stealthy entrance, Victor thought bitterly as he peered around the wooden portal. The entrance hall was deserted, with only a single candle to assist its meagre light, illuminating the immediate area only. Rumlink must already be in the main section, waiting patiently for his prey.
Victor plucked the flickering candle from its resting-place, quickly stepping aside as a large black cat scurried out from under a desk to his left. Steeling his nerves, the student assassin applied gentle pressure to the inner door, forcing it ajar just enough to get a clear view of the east wing. The pews were empty, but candlelight was plenty here, the elegant holders stretching the length of the aisles, almost three stands to a row. At least it wouldn't be a case of 'Blind Man's Bluff'. Victor had known many a pupil whose test had ended in that scenario, usually by judging the angle from which they had been stabbed in the neck. Life was not kind to the trainee assassins; short, but not kind.
Increasing pressure on the creaking oak enabled a more focused view of the centre aisles, and Victor flipped open the tube cap as he caught sight of Rumlink crouching down beside the altar. With a turn of speed that surprised himself as much as his tutor, the apprentice dived from the entrance portal and landed neatly behind the rear pew of the centre row. He heard Rumlink curse briefly as a lone dagger thudded into the stuffed model of an eagle suspended above the door, behind him. Badly judged, Victor mused. Perhaps the old snake was panicking.
That's two shots you've missed now, granddad.
He crawled on his belly to the edge of the pew and grabbed a prayer cushion, thrusting it out experimentally. A blue-tipped dart wedged into it. Make that three. Ah, the lethal master was already resorting to Gantolin.
As head of poison-related studies at the Crumb Lane School for Professional Killers, Rumlink Banks had known the properties of many poisons considered foreign to other masters. Usually, he introduced all his new finds to the staff, on occasions quite personally. This procedure did not apply to the use of Gantolin, Bank's own brainchild.
Gantolin consisted of the blood of the Gallows frog and the urine of the Prolonged Bird, one of the saddest creatures in existence. These were distilled using methods employed only by Banks himself until the resulting substance transformed into a light blue powder, perfect for dart tips. The effect of having this poison injected into the system was immediate paralysis, during which time you would generally be dispatched by knife or, if you were lucky, suffocation.
Victor quickly reached out and plucked the dart from the prayer cushion, hoping to employ it later, to his own benefit. Then, placing both hands firmly on the edge of the pew, he peered carefully over at the altar. Rumlink was reloading his blowpipe. Needing no further encouragement, the young assassin put the black tube to his lips and blew, sending a red blur across the church at his superior. There was a brief (but strangely unsatisfying) yelp and then silence. Victor waited. Nothing.
Slowly, employing as much caution as excitement would allow, he ventured a glance back towards the altar. A single boot was visible from behind the steps. Victor wondered if there was a foot in it. Only one way to find out.
Slipping into the shadows of the seat wing, he proceeded towards the appendage, another dagger drawn and posed to strike. He was almost upon his destination when memory invaded his subconscious and metaphorically tapped him on the shoulder. The 'dead-boot', of course! The oldest trick in the book, and Victor had nearly swallowed the bait. You approached the (supposedly) inanimate corpse and found just an empty boot, which you were bound to make a grab for out of curiosity alone. That harmless-looking piece of leather footwear was (unbeknownst to the approaching enemy) filled with Opiolk Six, a poison so deadly that even inhaling its alluring aroma could paralyse the average man. Victor hesitated. While he never liked to think of himself as average, he had a sense of strange foreboding and firmly decided against advancement in his current line of inquiry. He had to find another route of approach, but how?
The young assassin quickly shook himself from his reverie when he noticed that he was absentmindedly playing with his bottom lip while humming a tune he had heard during a tavern dance over the weekend. He had to pull himself together; there was always a chance that his mentor had survived the dart and was watching him carefully from somewhere near the pulpit, waiting to take him out. Height, that was what he required; a position of technical brilliance from which he could view the entire chamber while remaining concealed himself. Slowly, carefully, his wandering eyes scaled the walls of the church interior, finally coming to rest on the creaking beams that supported the roof.
Victor cursed himself when he realised a serious mistake. In the confusion of pursuing the old master, he had mislaid his grappling irons! There was no practical alternative; he would have to tackle the wall himself. Damn this assignment, it was tantamount to physical labour! After failing to spot a single feature of the wall that might double as a foothold, Victor settled on leaping from one of the pews in the left row nearest the door. Thirty seconds later, the young assassin hung from the jutting nose of a particularly menacing gargoyle that occupied the gallery above. Offering silent praises to Sirlgynflinnexumemumannany (an extremely difficult deity to pray to), Victor swung back and forth for a few moments before building up the momentum to vault over the parapet and into the shadows beyond. Catching his breath and regaining his balance, he raced along the gallery towards his predefined vantage point, pausing briefly to check for any movement from the silent expanse of darkness below.
Nothing.
Victor reached the corner of the parapet, leaned out over a statue of Ohnmix the Everlasting in her incarnation as a buffalo ant and craned his neck for a better view of the altar. The boot remained inanimate, but no foot protruded; it was a trap...and Banks was still alive. A shiver of uncertainty ran along the length of his spine, and Victor quietly retracted into the bowels of the gallery. Now, everything seemed alive. Tapestries with travelling eyes explored his every movement, gargoyles blinked as he passed and attempted to grab him with awkward, incapable limbs. Victor admonished his wild imagination and prepared a mental summary of the many possible locations of concealment that the building offered to a fully trained and equally adept master of deception. Probably twice the number of hiding-places available to the average apprentice, he surmised grudgingly.
Victor examined a few of the stacks, eventually pausing by an old piano to blow the thick overcoat of dust from a big blue hardback that perched jauntily on the lid. He squinted in the half-dark, just recognising the title. It was Lady Shapperley's Lurker by Maurice Kozlowski...a book his mother had once banned him from reading as she felt strongly that a scene involving Lady Shapperley and the moth-faced incubus was disturbing. Victor suppressed a juvenile giggle as he successfully recalled sneaking out into the garden and reading the book behind the family's decrepit wishing well.
There was no obvious exit from the chamber apart from the portal through which he had entered, but this didn't fool the young assassin. Churches were notorious for all manner of trapdoors, priest-holes, sliding panels and rotating walls; besides which, there was a distinct chill on his back. He turned round to face a sturdy-looking bookcase with a difference that set it firmly apart from the other items of furniture strewn around the room; there were no books piled on top of it.
Victor crossed the decorative flagstones and scrutinised the old wooden construction. It stood approximately two inches away from the wall and was obviously concealing the source of the breeze that currently occupied the vestibule. Throwing all his weight against the oak monstrosity, Victor pushed the bookcase along the wall, noticing two important and valuable points in the process. Firstly, the fact that the case was as light as a feather was because all the books inside were simply painted deceptions, and consequently, all were glued in place. Secondly, handles were adorning the inward-facing side of the case, giving Victor the distinct impression that it had been left ajar on purpose.
Remembering his lessons in tactical illusion, Victor returned to the corridor outside and began to search for further access to the roof. When the fourteenth wall panel offered no secret mechanisms or sliding tendencies, Victor decided to ascend to the bell tower from outside the building. A decision he was fairly certain that Mr Banks would not be expecting.
*
Seventy feet above the gravel drive of Dullitch Church, Victor clung to the concrete neck of a grimacing gargoyle and wished, quite fervently, that he were dead. Being the last in a long line of vertigo sufferers did not equip the assassin well for the task assigned to him by his own quick-thinking stupidity. Employing a smile of grim determination, the apprentice swung round with his legs, twisted his upper body and landed atop the statue, straddling the stone beast like a jockey. Then, gripping the creature's ears for leverage, he took the whole of his body weight onto his forearms and hoisted his lithe frame to a standing position atop the head, quickly snatching the guttering to regain his balance. Cautiously, he peered over the roof of the church. Banks was squatting just above the trapdoor which led down into the vestibule, obviously expecting him to emerge at any moment. Perhaps the master was not as cunning as his reputation promised. Victor reached down, his tongue clenched between his teeth as an aid to silence, and produced a short, stout dagger from his belt pouch. He tightened his fist around the handle and jammed it hard into the brick wall, beneath the guttering.
Using the embedded dagger as a foothold, Victor balanced on his left leg and swung his right onto the roof, gripping a handy metal rail which was wedged just above the slate for a purpose Victor couldn't imagine under the circumstances. He pulled a long, needle-thin stiletto from his foot strap and proceeded. The teacher appeared to remain blissfully unaware of his student's stealthy approach until the young assassin was almost upon him. Then, with surprising agility for a man of his girth, Banks dived aside as Victor lunged with his blade. With a deft sweeping motion, the master swept the young assassin's legs from beneath him, sending Victor crashing to the slate. The apprentice let out a yelp of pain but managed to roll swiftly aside as Banks brandished a gleaming dagger and steadied himself for the duel. He noticed that his opponent was limping and offered Victor a malicious grin, displaying two rows of dingy, yellow-stained teeth. When his junior produced no weapon, Banks perceived this as a fatal miscalculation of need and darted forward. He was inches away from Victor when he lost his footing on the slates and staggered.
The trainee assassin spotted his momentary advantage and went in for the kill. Disregarding his now acute vertigo, Victor cleared a miniature steeple and careered into his mentor. The two figures crashed to the slate and somersaulted over one another, each in a desperate attempt to gain possession of the single dagger which Victor brandished over Rumlink Banks, teeth clenched in grim determination. The slanted roof gave way to a short space of levelled tiles over the vestry where the two men slowed to a halt, and Rumlink finally managed to remove his aggressor by kicking hard against the student with both feet. Victor regained his footing quickly and moved the blade in a severe arc, describing Robis' Fourth Syllabus in the cold evening air. The teacher leapt to his feet and produced a similar stiletto from a breast pocket.
They circled wearily, meeting in quick succession to the accompaniment of screaming metal. Neither teacher nor student uttered a curse at the other. Each man had the same purpose; no words would alter the situation.
Rumlink Banks' life had been fraught with incalculable risks. It was all part of being an efficient assassin. Professional killers often suffered numerous depressions and bouts of deep foreboding – death always did that to you. The most common characteristic of all true assassins was described by Reno Altiman, a world-class killer, as the ultimate risk. The moment where normal men end, and assassins begin. That fateful leap from a tower, the last grasping attempt to dispose of your opponent before he disposed of you. Every member of the school was given a lecture on this effect before signing up. It was designed to be the final deterrent for all but the most serious applicants. Rumlink was well aware of the ultimate risk. He took it.
Victor had never possessed the gift of anticipation. Mother Nature had simply never endowed him with the insight this skill required. Luckily for him, stealthy reactions more than made up for the disability. Rumlink, blade poised, darted forward like a rogue streak of lightning. When the master was mere inches from his prey, Victor swung round to avoid the blow with terminal velocity, sending the senior man headlong into the darkness beyond, waving his arms in a flail for mercy. Acting on instinct rather than aptitude, the apprentice quickly cast his last opal-studded dagger into the air after him. For a few seconds, seconds that he would never forget in his lifetime, Victor waited. He swallowed, breathing in frequent, desperate gasps. Slowly, he approached the edge of the guttering and peered over.
Rumlink Banks lay motionless on the church steps, the jagged knife protruding from his back. Victor winced, barely containing the overwhelming feeling of victory that was brewing up in his stomach. There was no doubt about it, the man had breathed his last.
Victor turned away from the scene and produced the pink slip of paper from beneath his belt. There was a space for Mr Banks' signature. A pass in one of Crumb Lane's final exams was achieved by the absence of a master's signature, its presence usually indicating that the student had suffered a failure of no reprisal. Victor walked back along the roof and took one last look down at the corpse. He found himself wondering who would have the inevitable job of tidying things away. He didn't have to think very hard before a suspect came to mind. Candleholders smashed beyond repair; pews damaged and chipped. Still, he reflected, it could have been a lot worse...
END.
The Dullitch Assassins was originally published in the anthology edited by Peter Haining and published in the UK by Souvenir Press and Orbit Books in 1998, in the USA by Ace Penguin Putnam in 2000, and in Germany by Verlag in 2000. The anthology also contained stories by Terry Pratchett and Tom Sharpe. The Dullitch Assassins was also published in Xenos magazine in 1997 and in Dark Horizons, the British Fantasy Society magazine, in 2007. It can currently be found in my collection.
