"King of the Streets" (moved from logs section)

[Cirath]

This is the first of several stories i am writing for this character. The second should be done some time soon. Enjoy.


A cool wind swept through the dark streets, gathering dust and small pieces of trash into a miniature whirlwind that made its way along the alleyway for several yards before dissipating. Aside from the moderate wind that blew in from the docks the night was rather quiet for Calimport. The moon was full and bright making it fairly easy to see without assistance.
Many of the city’s inhabitants were already fast asleep, dreaming of profits and prosperity, and did not notice the slight shifts in the shadows as a form made its way down the street. Only visible for a brief second at a time, the figure navigated through the lower streets of the Emerald Ward, finally stopping at a rather large domed building. Finding the cracks and niches of the mud brick wall, the shape made its way onto a second floor balcony, concealing itself just outside of the doorway. As faint lamplight struck the figure’s face it revealed for a moment, the face of a young man, before he sank back into the shadows.
After a few moments of waiting there was the sound of a door opening as a woman dressed in a silk gown stepped into the room. Closing the door behind her, she walked across the room to an elaborately decorated vanity and sat down to prepare for bed. As she lifted a brush and began to work on her hair, the watcher just outside peered in, examining her reflection to assure that this was his mark. Silently slipping through the door, the man quickly made his way across the room. As he neared the lady on the stool, the light glinted off of a thin mithril chain that he unraveled from his hand. Slipping one of the rings affixed to the end of the chain on to his finger, he quickly moved forward, wrapping the length of the chain around his victim’s neck and pulling it tight. Immediately the woman began to flail her arms about, fighting for her life against the garrote. “I guess you shouldn’t have refused to pay those ‘taxes’ huh?” the young man whispered, tightening his strangling hold.
The woman’s thrashing slowly subsided as her face paled and the life drained out of her body. The assassin slowly lowered the corpse to the floor and examined it to be sure that she was dead. Just then the door opened as a young girl walked in carrying a tray. “M’lady, I’ve brought your…” The words caught in her throat as her eyes fell on the body, and then moved to the man standing over it. She began to scream, but it was cut short as the rogue slipped a wickedly curved dagger into her chest, tearing open her lung and causing her to fall to the floor, dead. The instant the second body hit the floor the door flew open, and the two guards that had been just outside the room rushed in, stopping abruptly to take in the scene.
“Good evening boys, sorry to bother you, I was just leaving” the young man said with a grin as he reached in his sleeve. With a quick flick of his wrist a pair of daggers flew across the room piercing the throat of one of the guards, dropping him instantly, and driving into the shoulder of the other. The wounded guard drew his sword and shifted it to his good arm, then charged forward. As the larger man approached the assassin spun to the left and kicked out, catching the guard in the side of the knee. With a loud snap the guard’s leg twisted strangely and he stumbled and fell to the ground, cradling his wounded leg.
The younger man slowly walked up to the guard and kneeled down next to him. “That looks like it hurts a bit,” the assassins said, “ya know, you take this job way to seriously, if you had just ignored me and let me go none of this would have happened.” He took the sword away from the wounded man, thrusting it into the floor a few feet away, then returned to the man’s side.
“You got a family buddy?” he asked.
“Yeah, a wife and a little girl. Please, let me go, I can’t hurt ya like this.”
“You should have thought of that before you stuck your nose in my business” and with that he grabbed the guards hair roughly, pulling his head back. With one smooth stroke of his curved dagger, split the man’s neck open from one ear to the other. Then he released the man's hair and left the corpse in a growing pool of blood.
The young killer quickly moved about the room, gathering the daggers he had thrown and retrieving an ornate broach from the vanity. “This should be sufficient proof” he muttered. He slipped the broach into his pouch and made his way back out the window with a laugh.

* * *

Elsewhere, at the home of Faruk yn Ralan el Pesarkhal, ruler of Trades Ward, a group of merchants filed out of the Sultan’s audience chamber muttering about higher taxes and other such annoyances. Inside, the ambitious ruler rose from his throne and strode towards his private study, brooding about the business of the day. He entered the room and moved towards a cabinet to pour himself a glass of brandy.
“You should really be more careful wandering around late at night,” said a voice from the shadows “You never know when someone like me is lurking about.”
The Sultan jumped at the sudden sound and nearly dropped his glass. “I have asked you not to do that Cirath,” he said.
“Ah Faruk, you are my best customer and you certainly provide me with entertainment and a heavy purse. But I like to keep my clients on their toes,” said the assassin as he stepped out of a shadowed corner of the room, twirling a thin, shining mithril chain around his finger.
“One of your new toys?” Faruk asked, indicating the chain.
“Tried it out tonight, the previous owner claimed it would never break. I believe I like it,” the assassin explained.
“So the job was a success then?” the young ruler turned, handing a glass of dark liquid to Cirath.
“Have I ever let you down before?” he said, tossing the broach to the other man then taking a sip of the alcohol.
“Well then, here is your payment,” he said, sliding a heavy purse across the table. “Faruk, you are a beautiful man,” the rogue said as he examined the contents of the purse “and I thank you for your money. Until you have need of my services again, I will take my leave.” With that the assassin slipped out the door and was gone.

* * *

A few minutes later Cirath was making his way across the rooftops of Calimport. It was his favorite pastime and much more comfortable then traveling the dusty, enclosed lower streets. As he traveled along the elevated byways he surveyed the city. “My city,” he thought, “the shadows of this city belong to me, and anyone who says otherwise is gonna find himself on the wrong side o’ one o’ my daggers.” With that thought in his head he continued the rest of the way to the Dock Ward with a slight smile, and a bit more spring in his step.
Cirath entered The Black Dolphin’s Wake tavern a short time later that night, slipping in quietly as he nodded to the bartender. As he took a seat in one of the back corners a slim, young, red headed serving maid glided up to his table.
“Can I get you anything, Sir?” she asked, her voice chipper and bubbly.
He reached into his newly laden purse and retrieved a gold coin and slid it a cross the table “A mug of ale and a bit of food.”
Her eyes widened greatly at the sight of the coin as she picked it up off of the table “Oh yes sir! Right away sir!” she said, and rushed off to the kitchen.
Cirath leaned his chair back against the wall and relaxed as he awaited his meal, scanning the taproom for anything interesting. His eyes fell on a young man, only a few years short of himself, with a boyish face and reddish-blonde hair who had risen from his chair and was striding towards the assassin’s table.
“Hello Alrinen, I haven’t seen you in a few days.”
“Well I been busy, ya know, its not all loungin’ around when ya got a real job,” replied the young man.
“Heh, I wouldn’t call luggin’ crates around all day a job. For what you get paid its more like slave labor,” Cirath remarked with a chuckle “But at least you are better at that then you were at theft.”
Alrinen was a wiry young dockhand; he was in his early twenties but didn’t look a day over sixteen, which made him the butt of his share of jokes among the sailors. His ragged dress usually led to more then one comment of his wages on Cirath’s part as well. He was clad in a loose fitting linen shirt and leather vest, a pair of sturdy canvas pants and stout leather boots, all of witch showed the dirt and wear of a long day hauling crates and loading ships. It was a rather sharp contrast to Cirath’s clothing. A light, long sleeved cloth shirt billowed out from a sash that secured a pair of fine, off-white pants, which in turn flared out from the tops of a pair of soft, brown leather boots. A small, light colored turban topped a head of shortly cropped black hair and a handsome, clean-shaven face. A wickedly curved dagger with a bright emerald the size of a thumb nail set into each side of the shining mithril hilt hung in a beautifully engraved mithril sheath from the deep purple silk sash. A matching dagger hung on the other side; this one set with a pair of amethysts of equal size and beauty. The blades of each were made of dull gray adamantite and each was sharpened to a razor edge. A dozen other blades were concealed about his body.
Right about then the pretty young barmaid returned with a large mug of ale and a tray of bread, cheese, and a small roast.
“Bring a drink for my friend as well,” Cirath said handing the young woman another gold coin.
“Y-yes sir!” she stuttered and after a quick curtsey was gone.
“So, should I even ask what you’ve been doing since the last time I saw you to be paying the serving girls so well?” Alrinen asked.
“I had another job tonight, some new money in town. She didn’t pay off the right people, so she became an example,” the assassin nonchalantly replied.
Alrinen sighed, “How can you stand doing that kind of thing?”
“Well, the money is good.”
“That’s not what I mean, how can you bring yourself to kill people that have never done anything to you?”
“What can I say, I have a talent, and I enjoy putting it to use” the assassin said around a mouth full of roast. “You never could stomach what I do, Al”
“I just prefer an honest days work, at least I don’t run the risk of getting killed.”
“And it’s to bad, too, really gets your blood pumping,” Cirath said with a wink, “Besides, its not that big a risk, there’s not a soul in all of Calimport that could best me”
“Ya know, that attitude is gonna get you in trouble one day. I heard the Hook Ward thieves guild is still after you”
“Yeah, gives me something to do on days when work is slow. This most recent guy wasn’t half bad, he kept me busy for a good half hour, ol’ Amak must be bringin’ in outside talent”
“I still think you shouldn’t have insulted him the way you did. Gods man! Do you know how many people insult Pasha Amak and live? None that I know of.”
“Well it’s nice to know I’m the first. You worry to much, ya know that Al?”
Just then the serving girl returned with a second mug of ale for Alrinen. “My name is Salah, if you need anything else, Sir, just let me know” and with a fluttering of eyelashes and a slight giggle she left to attend to the other customers.
Alrinen watched for a moment as she left, “Well what do you expect, you don’t exactly live a dull, boring, or for that matter, safe life”
“Al, how long have I known you?”
“Oh, about a two years now, ever since I moved down from Waterdeep, why?”
“In all that time have you ever know me to do anything I couldn’t handle?”
“Yeah, all the time, you get a charge out of it”
“Well have I ever not come out on top?”
“Not yet-“
“Then relax” the assassin said just before draining the last of the ale from his mug.
The two spent most of the night relaxing in the taproom, recounting old stories and talking of anything of interest. About an hour before dawn the pair stepped out into the street.
“I don’t have another job lined up yet, so maybe I’ll buy you dinner again tonight” Cirath said before slipping in into an alleyway and disappearing.
“I wish he wouldn’t disappear like that,” Alrinen said as he turned to head home.

* * *

Cirath was just stepping into his current home, a small room in the second story of an abandoned row house, as the first rays of light hit the horizon over the sea. He spent a few brief minutes examining the area for anything unusual or out of place, then began readying himself for sleep. The room had a high ceiling and a pair of large windows, one on the north wall, one on the west, facing the docks. The constant breeze off of the sea kept the room cool and comfortable. Aside from the pallet and a small chest, there were no furnishings in the room. Cirath had only been staying in this room for the past three days. Since he had angered Pasha Amak he had been moving to a different place every seven days, or whenever he was found.
After he had undressed the young assassin sat at the window, enjoying the sunrise and the cool breeze. Since most of his work took place at night, he had made a habit of watching the sun come up. It was the only thing, aside from killing and his long talks with Alrinen he truly took pleasure in. Alrinen was Cirath’s only true friend. This was, primarily, because the assassin didn’t like people. He didn’t dislike them, exactly; he just had no use for them, and so, never really got attached to any of them.
They had met two years earlier. Cirath had been summoned by the Hook Ward thieves guild. The guild had heard about a freelance assassin working in their ward and Pasha Amak didn’t like the idea of not being able to control every illicit activity in “his” ward. Cirath didn’t want anything to do with the guild, in his eyes they all just wanted to pull his strings and make him do their dance, and he wasn’t ready to play that game. However, after the insistence of the Pasha, Cirath decided to meet with him and at least see what the guildmaster had to say. He was led into the audience chamber where the Pasha and three of his lieutenants were waiting. Amak dismissed the guards and sat for a moment sizing up the young man.
After a moment the Pasha said “I am prepared to give you a position in my guild, possibly one of power if you prove yourself, and total protection from all who would attack you. In return all I require is your loyalty and a small percentage of your fees. What do you say to that?”
“Why would I agree to that? You offer protection that I do not need, and power that I already have. You want to put a leash around my neck and lead me around like one of your lapdogs,” he said, indicating the lieutenants “and for what? To split my fee with you? You are totally useless to me so if that is all you wish to say then I have more important things to do.”
With each word the guildmaster’s face grew redder and his eyes grew wider. “No one speaks to me that way! You will obey me or you will not leave this room alive!”
“Then kill me, if you can, I will applaud you if you succeed,” said the assassin “and if you do not, well at least I will be entertained.”
With the end of the sentence he smiled a knowing grin at the guildmaster, and with a wink, sprang into action. He grabbed the nearest lieutenant, a man in his mid -thirties, by the hair and took a dagger from the other man’s belt and inserting it into his stomach up to the hilt. “Kill him!” came the shout from the guildmaster as he dropped the first corpse, but not before retrieving the blade. Cirath then turned his attention to the other two rogues, who were just recovering from their shock at the speed with which this young man had dispatched their companion. One, a beautiful woman in her early twenties, drew a dagger and began to move to the right, hoping to flank the assassin and attack him from both sides. The other, a man with graying hair pulled a shortsword from its scabbard on his back and began to move in the opposite direction as his partner. The two reached either side of Cirath and stood for a moment, inspecting him, then, at the same time, charged in.
Once again Cirath went into a blur of action, throwing the dagger to sink directly between the eyes of the older man, and dropping into a sweeping kick that knocked the woman off of her feet, causing her to land on her head. As the back of her skull connected with the marble floor there was a loud crack and she lay still, breathing shallowly and dazed. Cirath took the dagger from her hand and thrust it into her chest, piercing her heart. As he looked to where the Pasha had been sitting he saw only an empty throne. Suddenly a gong began to sound. Cirath gathered several daggers off of the corpses, including the pair of curving, engraved daggers, which were hanging from the belt of the older man.
Cirath rushed to the nearest door and flung it open. On the other side was a set of stairs that spiraled downward. He grabbed a torch off of the wall and started down the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the end of the stairs he found a dimly lit room with every type of torturous device imaginable and a large man in a black hood, who was apparently about to begin work on scrawny boy he was strapping to a table. The large man spun around as Cirath entered.
“Who are you? And what are you doing here?” the torturer demanded.
“Oh, I’m just looking for a way out, you wouldn’t happen to know of one would you?”
“You are the reason for the alarm aren’t you? Well I’ll take care of you!” He grabbed a large club from the wall near where he was working and started towards Cirath.
“Well, I guess that’s a no, huh?”
The massive torturer roared and charged forward, swinging the giant club. Before he could react, the weapon caught Cirath on the side of the head, sending him sprawling across the ground. Ears ringing, the assassin lay dazed for a moment as the larger man approached. The club came at his head at amazing speed, but Cirath managed to roll to the side, dodging the blow. In an instant he was on his feet, daggers in hand, ready to defend himself. The torturer charged again, roaring as he ran, with club raised. Cirath feinted to the left, then spun right, coming around to place a blade in the large man’s back and end it. However, just as he turned a huge, meaty hand struck him across the face, sending him reeling. The massive man reached to a rack near where he stood and retrieved a huge axe that was hanging there. Tossing the club aside he advanced, taking a wide, sweeping swing at Cirath. The assassin managed to step back in time to prevent the axe from cutting him in half, but still caught the edge of the blade, leaving a large bleeding gash across his chest.
Before the other man could recover from the swing of his enormous weapon, Cirath struck, flinging a dagger that imbedded itself in the large man's arm and producing a cry of pain. Just then, the glint of steel to the left caught the assassin’s eye. Glancing quickly to see what it was, his eye fell on a large sickle-like sword that was lying on a table a few feet away. Shifting his grip on the axe, the torturer attacked again, hefting the weapon over his head and bringing it down in an attempt to split the young rogue’s skull. Cirath used his superior speed to roll out of the way as the axe blade wedged itself into the ground where he was standing. He came to his feet at the table, and in one fluid motion grabbed the large, curved weapon and spun with it, shearing the huge man’s head from his shoulders. Dropping the weapon Cirath began searching the room for other exits.
“I might know a way out,” said a voice from across the room.
The boy who the huge torturer had been strapping to one of the tables had just finished removing his bonds and was sitting at the edge of the table, massaging his wrist.
“I saw a bunch of guys bringing in crates late last night. One of ‘em said somethin’ about unloadin’ a boat. I can show you where if you let me come,” he said.
“Show me” the assassin said.
The pair started down a tunnel on the opposite side of the room from the stairway leading to the rest of the guildhall. After a few short moments they ran upon a cavern with a river running through it.
“This leads out to the sea, just follow the current,” the boy said.
“How do you know so much about this place?” Cirath asked
“They locked me up a few days ago for stealin’ in their ward and the bastards like ta talk. I figured if I listened long enough, I’d find a way out” the boy replied, “By the way, my name’s Alrinen…”
The sound of the shipyard coming to life for the morning’s business brought Cirath out of his reflections. Deciding that it was well past time he got some rest, the young man laid down on the pallet and almost immediately slipped into a welcome sleep.

* * *

The sun had already started its descent in the west when Cirath woke. He sat up and gazed around the room quickly to make sure that everything was the way he had left it. Once he completed the brief survey he quickly dressed and gathered his things. After settling his turban on his head and checking to make sure that all his extra daggers were well hidden he removed a plank from the wall revealing a small compartment which he slid the chest into. He replaced the plank and left through a first floor window into a small alleyway.
Cirath walked along the alley to the end where he merged with the throng of commoners and servants that milled about in the afternoon streets. He wove his way through the crowd, stopping at a small vendor’s stand to buy a piece of fruit. The young man continued down one of the main avenues with no specific destination in mind. An hour of wandering brought him upon a small marketplace. As he browsed the booths he noticed a man watching him from a few yards away. Amak just doesn’t know when to give up does he? he thought. He continued to feign interest in the items he saw for sale while he observed the other man. After a few minutes Cirath was sure that the other man was watching him. He made his way through the now thinning throng to a less crowded area. Walking casually so as not to alert the man of his intentions the young assassin turned the corner into a short, dead-end alley and stopped a few feet short of the back wall. When the man rounded the corner he was surprised to see his quarry leaning against a wall, looking directly at him.
“Let me guess, this is where you tell me that Amak still wants me dead and he sent you to do it, right?” Cirath said in a disinterested tone.
“That’s right, you can’t expect to kill three of the guild’s lieutenants and live” the other man replied.
“Oh, let’s not forget the big guy in the basement. Ya know, I’ve heard this whole speech before. You would think that once I killed the last three men he sent after me he would realize that he doesn’t have anyone good enough to kill me”
“We will see about that,” said the man.
“Yeah, I guess we will” Cirath said, drawing his daggers.
The other man roared as he charged the young assassin, pulling a dagger from his belt. Cirath sighed; Amak was getting desperate to send someone so obviously unqualified to try to kill him. As the man reached striking distance he swung his blade at Cirath’s neck, but missed as the young rogue stepped back. Cirath lashed out with his left blade leaving a deep gash across the other man’s cheek. The wounded man paused for a second, surprised by the cut, then thrust at his opponents gut. The assassin spun to avoid the attack and brought both of his blades around, piercing the man’s lung through his back with one and thrusting the other through the back of his neck, sending the tip out the other side.
With a slight gurgling sound the would-be killer fell to the ground. Cirath bent to clean his blades on the man’s shirt and then searched through his pouch and about his body. He found a few coins, a small parchment with his description on it and a beautifully engraved gold ring with a small sapphire set into it. He pocketed the items and started to stand as he heard voices at the end of the alley. He turned to stand just as a pair of city guards walked by the open end of the alley. Noticing the motion, one of the guards turned his head and saw the assassin standing over a dead body.
In a loud voice the guard said, “Stop! You are under arrest!” and drew his sword. After glancing around the alley and seeing no other exits Cirath spread his arms wide with his hands open and began walking at a casual pace towards the two guards, both of which were now armed and standing ready at the exit of the cul-de-sac. “I said stop!” said the first guard, a fairly average sized man in his mid thirties. His partner, a slightly taller man in his late twenties stood watching the rogue without saying a word.
“I don’t think you wanna do this,” the young assassin said as he continued forward.
“Shut up and stop moving, dammit!” the guard replied.
“Ya know if you leave now you would save us both a lot of trouble,” as he spoke he slowly loosened the drawstring on a pouch strapped to his left wrist and lowered his arm slightly to allow a fine white powder to pour into his hand.
When he was only a few feet away he suddenly snapped his left arm forward, tossing the powder in the first guard’s eyes. The man dropped his sword and began screaming as the blinding powder burned in his eyes. At the same moment Cirath grabbed the hilt of the tall guard’s sword and twisted, which caused the guard to release his grip on the weapon. The assassin spun around and swung as hard as he could, slamming the flat of the blade into the guard’s nose with a sickening crunch. The guard fell to the ground cradling his smashed face. Reversing his grip on the weapon he thrust the blade down through the prone guard’s thigh and into the packed dirt road, then ran for the end of the alley where he heard shouts and the sound of heavy boots pounding the ground not far away.
As he exited the alleyway at a full run, he caught a glimpse of a small group of guards running from the direction of the marketplace. Turning the other direction, Cirath sprinted along the avenue, turning at almost every intersection in an attempt to throw off his pursuers. He turned left onto a street that he recognized and headed for a small shack not far from the end of the road. The assassin dashed into the hut just as the guards rounded the corner. The three soldiers, all winded from running such a long distance in their armor, hurried to the door of the shed. They rushed in, swords drawn, expecting to find their quarry cornered in the small, one room building. The dim room was totally empty and appeared as though it had been that way for quite some time. Confused, the guardsmen exited the hovel to search the rest of the street.
From a small crack in the wall Cirath watched the men leave and chuckled slightly. He reached into his pouch and retrieved his flint and steel to light the torch that had been set in the sconce on the wall. Once he had it lit, he replaced the flint and steel and removed the torch from the wall, then turned and began walking down the corridor. “Maybe it’s time I paid Amak a visit. Perhaps I can show him the errors of his ways,” he thought. As he slipped silently down the passageway the young assassin entertained thoughts of what he would do when at last he met with the powerful guildmaster again. The images brought a smile to his face.

* * *

The sun had already sunk halfway into the sea and was turning the sky bright shades of orange, yellow and purple as the young rogue sat watching the guild entrance from the roof of a nearby building. A pair of beggars sat near the entrance of the apparently broken down building. Much like the guildhall itself, the two men were not what they appeared to be, they were guards in Amak's employ. Deciding against a frontal approach, Cirath left his perch and made his way through Hook Ward to an empty cliff overlooking the Sea of Swords. He looked down to see a large opening at the base of the cliff. After inspecting the area to insure that no one was watching the young rogue began to make his way down the cliff. As he reached the bottom of the cliff he slipped into the water, careful to keep one hand on the wall so as not to be swept out with the current. The assassin pulled himself along the wall to the mouth of the cave and peered inside.
The hidden dock was totally deserted except for a few small crates strewn about. Cirath waded up to the platform and hoisted himself up. After another quick sweep of the cavern he moved to one of the tunnels leading towards the guild. Remembering his last visit to the place he made his way to the dungeon with relative ease and silently moved through the room and up the stairs that lead to Amak's private audience chamber. The young rogue ascended the stairs and put his ear to the door, listening for any sound from the other side. A few moments passed and he was convinced that the other room was empty or nearly so he cracked open the door and peered inside. When his inspection revealed nothing he slowly moved into the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
The beautifully decorated chamber was completely empty. Cirath walked over to the throne and surveyed the area around it. He stepped around the gilded chair and pulled aside a large tapestry to reveal a door behind. The door was unlocked and opened quietly to a short corridor and another, open door. Inside the second door was a lavishly decorated bedroom. The canopy bed was made from intricately carved oak that had been polished to a beautiful sheen. The headboard showed a gold inlayed hunting scene of a man aiming a bow at a beautiful deer. The bed itself was draped in deep crimson silks and perfectly matched the almost blood red thick shag carpet. The chairs, vanity and wardrobe matched the bed, all with carvings and inlays fit for a palace. Rich tapestries hung from the walls and a beautiful chandelier dangled from the vaulted ceiling.
“I knew you would come eventually,” said a voice from behind the rogue.
“It’s good to know you were expecting me, I would hate to think that you were getting sloppy with age, Amak” Cirath replied, turning to face the guildmaster.
Pasha Amak stood at the entrance of the bedchamber, staring intently at the intruder. Dressed in only a pair of light balloon pants and a sash, with a beautiful jeweled scimitar hanging at his side, the guildmaster seemed to fill the doorway. His bare chest rippled with muscles and his arms bulged at his side. His chiseled face was set in a look of smug satisfaction. Amak was indeed getting old, and his black hair was graying at the temples, betraying that fact.
“I knew you couldn’t stand to be the prey for long, boy, you are a hunter,” the guildmaster said with a smile.
“The truth is, I’m tired of moving, and your more recent attempts were pathetic, even for you. Besides, Amak, I just don’t like you,” the assassin said, a sly grin growing on his face.
“Well then, let us end this,” said the guildmaster as he drew the sword and lowered himself into a fighting stance.
“I thought you would never ask, old man,” Cirath replied, producing a dagger from his sleeve and hurling it at the other man’s head in one fluid motion.
The older man dodged the flying knife with surprising speed and launched himself at the assassin, bringing his blade across in a sweeping slash. A thin line of blood appeared on Cirath’s cheek as the sword flashed by, nearly taking his head. The rogue quickly recovered and his daggers flew from their sheaths as he swung at his opponent. Once again the guildmaster dodged to the side, bringing the butt of his weapon up to meet the younger man’s jaw. Cirath stepped back, a bit dazed, and spit blood onto the carpet, then returned his gaze to Amak and grinned. “This should be entertaining,” he said, then rushed at his opponent. The assassin brought one blade up, towards the guildmaster’s face, forcing him to draw back, and buried the other deep into his left shoulder, then jerked it out again. Amak winced in pain and grabbed Cirath’s shirt with his wounded arm, bringing his knee up to meet with the assassin’s midsection, blasting the air from the rogue’s lungs.
Coughing and sputtering, Cirath dropped to a squat, then with a quick spin, kicked out, sweeping the guildmaster off of his feet to land hard on his back. Both men regained their feet quickly and paused for a moment to catch their breath, then charged in to clash once more. Their blades met and Amak once again grabbed the assassin, this time flinging him across the room to meet with the wall. The rogue jumped to his feet and dashed forward, ducking a swing from the guildmaster and ramming his shoulder into the other man’s stomach. Cirath continued his charge until the pair met the opposite wall, then thrust his blades into each side of Amak’s midsection.
The guildmaster screamed in pain and swung his good arm in a mighty punch that connected with Cirath’s ribs with a loud crack, sending the assassin flying into the vanity and shattering the mirror. Amak tore the daggers from his sides and tossed them away, then charged at the rogue. Cirath hooked his foot under the stool and kicked, sending it flying into the guildmaster’s knees and tripping him up. The larger man came crashing to the ground and the assassin leapt from his perch on the vanity, tearing two daggers from their hiding places inside each of his sleeves and thrusting them into either side of the guildmaster’s neck, then levering them out. There was a brief gurgling sound and then silence as blood quickly soaked the carpet around Amak.
Cirath wiped the two blades clean on a dry spot of carpet and replaced them, then reached over and lifted the scimitar from where it had landed. With one clean stroke, the rogue sheared the other man’s head from his body, then spit on the corpse and turned to retrieve his weapons. Once he had gathered his things, along with the guildmaster’s sword he walked to the door, stopping before he exited the room to pull a lamp from a small table and throw it against the adjacent wall, smashing it and beginning a quickly spreading blaze in the room.
Moving as quickly as his injuries would allow Cirath made his way back to the hidden dock without encountering any others. He carefully slipped into the water and swam to the wall. He pulled himself to the mouth of the cave and along the rock wall, finding the niches and cracks that allowed him to climb down and began slowly his ascent, very aware of the piercing pain in his left side that could be nothing but a broken rib. Some time later he finally pulled himself up over the edge with a final grunt of pain and exertion and collapsed to the ground. He stared up at the darkening sky for several minutes then finally clambered to his feet. As he stared off towards the horizon he admired the sunset then turned his view to the city to watch the blazing tower of flames that had been the Hook Ward thieves guild. Noticing again the pain in his side he voiced the only thought that came to mind, “I could really use a drink,” then began his walk back to the city.


-Pat Anderson

Questions, comments, or criticism welcome. Have a nice day