Chapter 1

The Assassin's Curse

One curse to rule them all…

Assassins live their life one job at a time, a life where their current job could be their last, a life where their current breath could bring their death. Such is the life assassins live, such is the curse that each one has, that each one brings. Trust cannot be bought, and even when you’ve illegitimately paid for the services of an assassin, he will turn on you for the prospect of riches. To trust an assassin would be akin to trusting a madman; he could be docile now, but no-one knows when he’ll turn nasty.

The curse is relatively simple. They can’t trust anybody. Anybody they trust could betray them and gain insight to their weakness. No assassin would be prepared to take that risk. And if things developed to love, for instance, and were told to kill their lover, they would have two choices; do it and despair for the rest of their lives, or, refuse and have the big-guns after you and your lover. Such is the predicament an assassin must never be caught in: love. Such is the assassins curse.

 

Our particular story starts in the deep underground, the assassin’s guild training area. Only the best will advance through this obstacle and the rest will be cut down as if they never existed. Down deep in the criminal underworld many apprentices will meet their doom fighting against smarter, stronger and quicker enemies until only the best survive. Using their newly learnt skills they will put the end to many.

A nineteen year old kid trudges in from the cold, wet and shivering. His name is Gustav Horst, a German from a wealthy family, but as of yet, no-one except one or two really know what happened to them, suffice to say they’re dead. Wearing nothing more then jeans and a cloak he thieved from the nearest shop he stumbled in. He feels out of place. Everyone else is in posh clothing or at least designer label. Since his family is dead, there really isn’t an obvious way he got admitted, except with corporate backing. Although, saying that, some corporate companies held sway within Vostok. One thing’s for certain, only the most influential of the wealthy got people into Vostok. Even less get out alive.

It was summer in the Russian mountains, but Vostok got its name from one of the first Russian space missions. Just as successful, just as brilliant, just headed in the opposite direction.

Everyone stares. Someone sniggered from the darkest corner of the academy. Out of that corner walks out a huge 6ft5 strongman armed with a knife and his fathers Parabellum P98. Still laughing and still doing all he could to hide it he walks up to Gustav and whacks him on the back, an apparently friendly gesture but still Gustav checked to see if all his bones were still there. “Luciano Boccielli, at your service. Apparently you are to be my apprentice. I warn you, though, nothing here is easy and if you fail, well, nobody will be here to save you from the fall.”

“I’m Gustav, Gustav Horst.” On closer inspection, Luciano saw he was wearing a black t-shirt with an unknown symbol emblazoned on the front and on the arms, underneath his cloak. Protruding from the pocket of his cloak were the blades of throwing daggers, reflecting the dim light and producing an eerie, unnatural glow.

“Ah, you have weaponry after all. Ok, let’s see your throwing technique. Your target is that portrait of the late Andreas Corrina on the wall. You choose where to hit and aim as close as you can.”

Holding the blade of the dagger in his hand he slowly shifted his position until he got the dagger perfectly balanced. Then like a darts champion he took aim and he threw the dagger. Doing two 360’s in the air the dagger hit the picture of the person right in between the eyes. Walking to the picture he gently took the dagger out of the picture and inserted it back into his pocket, a few bits of plaster clinging to the surface of the blade.

“Impressive, most impressive. Your technique is perfect and your aim is true. Now I will show you to your room before trying out your skills on ‘live’ prey.”

Straight through the dark corridor it seemed to get colder and darker. Gustav really was glad about bringing a coat. After innumerate turnings and a few wrong turns Luciano directed Gustav to his room, “This will be the place you will be staying for the remainder of your stay here. I hope this will be comfortable.”

 

Gustav found the light switch and flicked it, the room suddenly blindingly bright. Eyes watering, he looked away for a few moments, giving him time to get used to it. He looked in and saw the last artefacts of the last inhabitant, then he peered further to have a closer look. What he saw was terrifying beyond belief. He blinked, looked closer and screamed. Luciano came rushing back in to see what the commotion was all about.

Looking towards Gustav he saw that this kid was completely white with fright. Turning towards the direction which Gustav was involuntarily staring at he stared, shocked.

After a long while of not doing anything he spoke, quietly, his voice edged with fear, “My old apprentice, a skeletal corpse. Ever since he disappeared three years ago there were rumours of his death and rumours of where he was hidden. A few people wanted to know what had happened to him, but strange fates befell those who looked. They may have found out something but they weren’t alive for long enough afterwards to tell. Admittedly we thought that one of our students were involved, but there was no evidence that pointed to foul play. No poisons, no damage from weapons, nothing.” Luciano quickly carried off his ex-apprentice and left, his mind aching to be free of the images he had seen tonight.

Now, this building was an old library, built deep inside the rocks to protect it from raiders. Since the war it had become derelict and unused. Recently it was bought by a secret guild of assassins and restored to its old grandeur. Since it wasn’t totally suited to the purpose of assassin training they had changed and extended it. A weapons hall was located right underneath the summit, about 3,321 metres below, deep inside the infrastructure of the mountain.

Many of the shelves were removed and put into storage, as were many of the books. But the deeper into the building you went, the more like a library it became. Near the far end was Gustav’s room, the library feel still remained and many books still remained on the shelf. Some of the books were about killing techniques and famous killers, while others were about something completely different.

The shelves in his room were made from pine. If they were put in an antiques auction they’d be worth around £550 each. If they were cleaned, that is. Dust had settled quite securely on the shelves, as disuse and lack of cleaning got the better of them. An entire armada of dust was on the shelves, reducing the once proud dark-wood pine shelves to a rather dull and oppressive grey.

The room itself was small, about six foot by eight foot. The bed took a good third of the room, and lay straight across the radiator which was humming away, giving a nice warm radiance of heat and comfort. It was white, which was the fashion of how they should look, but it wasn’t very practical. Practically, black would be better as it emits more heat. There was also a desk by the wall, a small desk made from mahogany, a very rare wood from the tropical plains.

On that desk was a large hi-fi system full of punk rock songs, heavy metal and soul. Beside the hi-fi, which could rock the entire building (and was rumoured to have started a small landslide down the mountain, blocking off access for weeks), was a small tattered looking handbook called the ‘Guide to Successful Killing’ The cover was black and didn’t really spark off much interest but Gustav thought he’d give it a go.

Inside were diagrams of various weapons and various techniques. He skipped most of it, occasionally glancing at the pictures. Guns and knives filled the pages and on the following pages were various ways to successfully utilise them. He stopped when he got to the throwing knife.

He brought out his trusted blades and lay them out before him on the table. They were the exact same shape, the exact same model. Slowly he picked one of them up and took aim at the door.

Using the technique it showed, he flicked it, but the handle hit. Again, he did the same and the same happened. Grasping one by the handle he threw it with all his might at the door. The blade dug deeply in, surrounded by freshly created splinters. He dug the blade out sharpish, put it inside the coat and fell asleep. He was going to need all the strength he had when he awoke next morning. Training would then begin in earnest.

 

He was awoken at 7.00 in the morning and inside his room was pitch black. This room never saw any light. Fumbling for the light switch he tripped over his bed and got up, dazed. Making a second attempt for the switch he was more successful. After feeling his way along the wall he touched the switch. All he could see was the white glare of the overpowered lamp above him, so he fell head first on to the desk, or more accurately the on switch of the stereo, then the desk. Shielding his ears he turned it back off. Dazed and confused he got back up. After a quick wash and freshening up he reported to the main hall for his first task.

Luciano was waiting for him, “You are fifteen minutes late, why? Wait, don’t bother explaining. I heard all the commotion anyway. Next time, if you fall, don’t switch on the stereo with your head, especially not at full blast. Tidy up after yourself, as well. Your room is a pig-sty.”

“Got you. What’s my first task?”

“Let’s see how capable you are with pistols, namely my Parabellum, also known to American pigs as the Luger.” Luciano said as he handed Gustav his prized weapon and directed him to the target practice area.

The target area was situated on the other side of the mountain to the entrance hall. Through tunnel after tunnel you had to go to find it. Once found the first promise of sunlight would always send you back here, either for exploring or for more practice.

Near the bottom of the mountain the ground started to slope with a large forest looming either side. Grassland surrounded the immediate area, full of beauty and peace. The last place you’d ever think of placing a shooting area. Long, green grass gently caressed and comforted a flowery mass. The flowers were just starting to bloom like a person waking up and stretching. Colour was everywhere, blues and greens and emeralds. Warmth, natural warmth from the Sun gave life to the beauty below. A little stream gently strolled its way through, saying hello to the shoreline and everything near. Water glistened and was a joy to behold, its beauty outdoing that of the flowers. Basically it all looked quaint and, dare I say it, quite picturesque.

Quickly, a small rabbit came through and chewed on the grass. When it saw the two persistent invaders sitting down it moved in for a closer look. Curiosity was driving it forward. Just as quick as it appeared, it was gone. It might have been curious but it was also hungry and meat isn’t really an appetiser to rabbits, preferring instead, vegetables and grass roots, rabbit food basically.

Just looking for a few minutes turned Gustav into the free, unworried person that he was once, long ago. He once had parents, you know, but they left him in a bush, somewhere in Southern Europe for reasons beyond my comprehension. Only God knows why they left him. Destiny brought him here on a slow road. Sponsored and raised by greedy corporates he was turned into a knife-man, a person who can turn the domestic kitchen-knife into a weapon of mass destruction.

“What’s my first target?”

“Wait! Gotta turn it on first, before anything will happen. Then you should see the first target appear from the left hand side. Keep your eyes open for all the others, though. They’re only out for a limited time.”

Handling the German made weapon in his hand he felt real workmanship. Taking time to admire the handiwork he took aim at the first target and fired. Miss! “Damn it.” He aimed again and fired. Second time lucky. Soon the second target showed itself. Gustav again aimed and fired. Hit! By the end of it he had hit twenty targets and missed three. “Not bad going for a first timer,” Gustav grinned, “Not bad at all.”

“Bloody hell, Gustav. You have the ability of a sniper. You shoot better then I do and I’ve been the crack shot in this joint for five years running.”

“No. Don’t shoot better then you, yet. I’ve seen you shoot. You pull the most awesome tricks I’ve ever seen with any gun. There’s no way I could beat you, not yet anyway. But I doubt you would even have a chance against me with knifes and daggers.” Then Gustav brought out his prized daggers. “Start the machine again,” Gustav commanded. Eyeing the targets he aimed with complete precision. Almost all of them he hit directly in the head and those he didn’t, he managed to hit the point where the neck would be.

“Now there is real ability,” Luciano whistled, quite impressed with the person they had chose to be his apprentice, “You may even turn out to be better then your old man.”

“Huh, how do you know him? I never even saw him once.”

“We were part of a troop of peace-keepers, fighting a secret war against an unseen enemy. Part of that troop was me, a Russian friend called Vladimir Vholcov, and your father. Your father sacrificed himself to save us. Pinned down by our foe, we were trapped. Men were falling all over and, to make matters even worse, no reinforcements were available.

“There was only a small band of us, nine men, in this small battalion of troops. We were led by Sergeant Eugene La Salle, a peace-keeping veteran, a magician at urban warfare and a competent officer. His 2nd in command was a Brazilian called Paulo Rodriguez. Corporal Paulo Rodriguez was an old chum of mine, but like your father and Vladimir, he died in battle.

“Pinned down in this small stronghold with a determined enemy advancing all around us, we did what we could. Two of us dug tunnels, Eugene and Vladimir, so that we could escape. Seven of us stood by the walls, two of us with Smith & Weston sniper-scope assault-rifles and the rest with M-16 assault rifles and grenade launchers.

“300 men were advancing on our position pensively and slowly. For five days we held them off. After those five days, with Paulo Rodriguez dead after having a lucky grenade shot explode 10cm above his head, Eugene and Vladimir emerged, the tunnel just completed.

“Vladimir came up with your father and gave us cover fire so the remainder of us could escape. Your father got a bullet-wound to the chest. Vladimir carried him right to the tunnel but just as he got there Vladimir got shot, right in the back. As he hit the floor we heard him say, ‘Get this guy to a hospital, it’s too late for me now,’ and then he just went limp and stopped breathing. He was dead.

“Two of our least wounded men carried your father right to our rendezvous point and got us picked up.

“Unfortunately, in transit he died, with a message he passed to me to tell you, he cared about you like any other dad would, but this time was not his time,” and with a sigh of despair he added, “this was not his time, and never would be his time, he was destined never to make the final journey with us.

“When we came home we were humiliated by the very authoritarian government that sent us there in the first place. Blow me, they then went on to another war to ‘free the innocent’ but all they wanted was more land and more oil, and more money coming into the coffers every month.

“That’s why I became an assassin. Not for the money and not for the kills, but to finally secure world peace, and the only way to do it was to destroy authority and bureaucracy from within, killing each one, one by stinking one. That’s why, and I pledge, I pledge that every last piece of worm ridden filth will be cast out before I die and a new era of pacifist, peace-loving people will come to light.”

At the end of that he took out his Weston and Smith .38 pistol and shot right in the head of each target, “That’s what I’d do to every politician who ever had the misfortune of meeting Luciano Boccielli. Right through the head and no mistake, that way they couldn’t grass about who did it. Not that they’d be able to anyway, but just to be on the right side of caution. Now to the next step, one more step before you put your newly acquired skills into training. Then it will be up to you the steps to be taken. But you must kill the target, no two ways about it; you must for your target is the most evil pig on earth, Gregor Yugorovski.”

“Limited information is all we’ve got on him, but suffice it to say he’s wanted for over 100 crimes of severity and unknown numbers of not so heinous felonies. But he’s been granted invulnerability by the very authorities of countries he’s done the most harm in, including his home country, Poland. Not many have the will, the courage or the decency to stop him,”

“The crimes range from drug-dealing to first degree murder. He has also angered the boss of this institute very much, secret cavorting with his wife and such, you know how it is. He has many hidden lairs in many different countries but so far we’ve been able to determine his current location. It’s hidden about 2 miles away from Milan. Anyone who has been suspicious or curious to know what it is has been told a cover-up story of it being a power-plant. Some idiots get pulled in and fooled by that, but it is they who are most fortunate. If someone doesn’t believe the cover-up and goes there a second time and gets spotted then they are dragged away, never to be seen or heard from again. People who live around that area say that, sometimes, if they’ve been awake, they can hear gunshots from that area.”

“Why haven’t the local people gone vigilante?”

“Curfew, if any of them are caught outside by anyone after 11.30pm, then the locals have the permission to shoot them dead. Of course they have to wait until morning to take their possessions. Otherwise their hard work has been wasted and someone else can move in for the kill.

“Enough about your target, you will now meet your martial arts coach, to proceed with your final step. You may not see me again, if you don’t, I wish you all the luck in the world. This madman has to be stopped at all costs.”

Luciano took him back into the labyrinth of walls, doors and never ceasing turns, telling him about his father, and stories of the war.
At long last they reached a door which had gouged into it the words S. Salonen, Martial Arts Instructor. The door had had been the forefront of many attacks and body-slams, which was showing through the worn pine. Some holes could be seen on the doorframe and on the door, some large enough that you could see about half the room from them. Those had been made by a very well thrown dagger and a few swords missing their targets, evidently.

A loud Greek voice with a slightly Western Russian accent came from inside the room, “Let’s see what the cat has dragged in this time. It had better be much more skilled then the last one. I don’t know why you keep on sending these untrained vermin to me.” Then he shouted out, “Bring him in Luciano, I can see quite clearly that it’s you.”
As soon as Luciano sent Gustav in Mr Salonen went into a talk with Luciano that ended up with Luciano taking something, some kind of curved blade but no more could be seen. “Now you’ve got what you wanted, Luciano, leave us, I want to play with this new student for a while,” he sneered.

“Ah, young Gustav I presume. Come to me to finish your training, eh? Don’t worry, either you’ll get out of here a stronger, more capable person then you are or,” he added jokingly, but with a veiled threat, “you’ll get out of here in a coffin. Let me introduce myself, first. Spyro Salonen, a Greek Martial Arts Champion, and World Champion to boot. Greece was my home, I’m proud of my nation and proud of the achievements I’ve got there.”

He was tanned and as wary as a person who makes a living from training assassins can be. He was incredibly muscular and, as Gustav was to find out, incredibly agile. He wore a thin blue bandana around his head and a small Ying-Yang broach to hold it in place. His eyes were blue and ice cold. These eyes would betray nothing about the owner was feeling, except for cold disdain and contempt. He was slouched into a fighting stance, knees slightly bent and arms positioned in a defensive posture.

“I’m your coach and will be for the next few weeks, or as long as it takes, be it a year or a decade. You’ll never get out until you complete your training. But first, get out of those stupid clothes. Your supposed to be wearing loose stuff that you can easily move about in, that you can easily fight in, not the things your wearing now. You look like an undisciplined simpleton! Here,” he shouted while passing some martial arts clothes, “try these on for size and come back when you’ve found one that fits. You look pathetic!” he screamed.

“Move it, Gustav, the quicker you get in then out the quicker we can get on with it and the sooner you can be out of my hair.”
After getting into the changing room he took off his black oriental t-shirt and jeans and slipped on each karate uniform, trying each one for size until he found one that fits. “Hurry up, damn it!!! Gustav, get out of here now, move your sorry behind and get to the training area. Our first trial will be straight with unarmed combat. I presume that somewhere in that puny body of yours there is some hidden talent, otherwise I can’t understand why they picked you for the most dangerous job. You only have two weeks to get ready to take him out, it is imperative that you get him, or he’ll get you!” He hurried to the training area and waited impatiently for Gustav.

After three minutes Gustav arrived, his mind evidently in turmoil. He didn’t want to do this and you could see it in his eyes. I’d rather you then me, he thought.

“Well, Gustav, it’s time to really start your training. You think that you can defeat this person with guns and knifes?! Trust me Gustav, you won’t succeed, he’s as slippery as an eel and twice as disgusting. No, the only way to defeat him and his small army would be to go in the way of a ninja. Guns and knifes might accomplish part of the job but you’d get killed all the same. Diversification of fighting styles will be the only way to kill him.”

As soon as he said that he concentrated his entire mind on his target: Gustav. Clearing his mind of all thoughts and feelings he moved into a classic martial fighting stance: legs wide apart, eyeing up his opponent, this is too easy, with hands and arms ready for defence.
Aw, nuts, Gustav thought, but he got into a fighting stance anyway, his mind clearly elsewhere. Soon, there was another big dent added to the door as Spyro threw Gustav into the door. “Pathetic! You couldn’t even focus your mind, something even normal fighters can do from a very young age,” he shouted. “You’re pathetic. You can’t even go into the fighting stance properly.” He closed his eyes at this point, mentally counted to twenty and sinisterly said, “Looks like I’ll have to train you from the ground up.”

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