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The mud soaked ground lowered itself when the weight of a soldier’s boots fell on it. The green grass lay mangled, mixing with the mud into spiked clumps that rolled over the dirt. The moisture made every footstep squelch in the mud. The skies overhead darkened with clouds that waited to let more rainfall onto the field. Wind swept in from the west, slicing through the air with its cold. A bitter smell rode upon it, the smell of iron and sweat from thousands of men. Tension filled the air, thick with zeal, despair, and pride. The sun hid from view, fearful of the sight below.
Diego
stood with one of his hands resting on a sword in its scabbard and the other
resting on a small dagger sheathed on his right hip. He gazed over the men
around him towards the army across the field with colorless, slanted eyes. The
rain began to fall again. Droplets of water pelted his hardened black leather
tunic that he wore over his chain-linked armor. He wiped away raindrops from his
olive colored skin above his brow. The symbol of the coat of arms of House De la
Cruz smeared with brown stains laid on his chest. He stared hard on to army that
came to destroy his family from the third row of troops from his own. By the end
of the day, blood would paint the green grass red, the blood of House Avaland.
The
roar of the men from his house filled his ears. Diego finally moved from his
statuesque position towards the front of the troop line. Never taking his eyes
off the army across the field he contemplated their motives, their drive. House
Avalando wanted to gain power, that was simple enough, but why the young house
would challenge House De la Cruz eluded Diego. The Avaland name only existed for
the last two hundred years, as one of the lesser houses, it held little real
power in the realm. It stood before Diego like a young child trying to stand up
to a bully in the schoolyard. Maybe the child held a staff or club, or maybe he
just held a heart to fight, but the truth of the matter stayed the same, the
bully punched the little boy down until he lay on the ground. The De La Cruz
family stood at the lofty position as the third most powerful house in the
realm. In its thirteen hundred year existence, it never lost its place to
challenging house. They never even lost a single challenge that they gave a
superior house.
Diego
raised his hand to stroke his black van dike from his upper lip to his chin. His
long black hair tied back behind his head to get it out of the way for the
upcoming combat. This battle made no sense. House Avaland must know that they
held no chance for victory in this contest. Losing it meant that they lose what
little power they clung to, and a large portion of their army. Although, victory
meant they held a place in the history of the realm, gained the favor of the
Imperial House, and secured a reputation of sheer power. If they won the day on
this field, their house would steal the seat of House De la Cruz in the Imperial
House’s council, and reap the rewards of more than a millennium of treasure
and spoils. The only the army of House De la Cruz stood in the way.
This
made no sense to Diego whatsoever. Still the sword play that the young house’s
army offered trained his soldiers more than just sparring with dummies and each
other.
“Let
the fools die,” Diego said. He looked over to one of his lieutenants and
gestured for him to raise a banner. It showed a picture of a bow. The sound of
the archers regiment moving forward gave confirmation to his order. They marched
in front of the main ranks and placed their small barrel quivers on the ground
beside them. They then stopped and stood, attentively looking for the next
banner to be raised.
Meanwhile
the other side of the field grew active. The army of House Avaland scurried
about to produce their archers to counter the incoming assault. Banners went up
and down in confusing motions as the nervous commanders debated upon what course
of action to take next. The archer regiments moved forwards, then backwards,
sideways, and towards the front again. The fear in the men of their ranks shone
even across the stormy field.
Diego
yawned at the amusing display. This unorganized ragtag force may be having
second thoughts about this battle. He waved his hand at his lieutenant again to
provoke another order. The officer barked an order towards the banner carriers.
One raised his banner into the air. This yellow banner pictured a bow with an
arrow strung into the string. The bow tilted upwards at an angle towards the
opposing force. The archers strung their bows and raised their loaded weapons in
unison. Hundreds of arrows pointed their little spears at the frightened army.
The
archers stayed in that position for a few moments. Some of them felt the strain
of keeping the longbows in that position quickly and lowered their bows to rest
their arms. Diego glared over towards his lieutenant at this sign of weakness.
The officer screamed at his archers to hold their positions. After blaring at
them a few colorful words of encouragement, the slackers raised their bows again
into position. The lieutenant came back to Diego’s side, apologizing for his
troops behavior. Diego responded with a low grunted chuckle and turned to face
the dismally inadequate mass across the field.
He
then raised his hand into the air where the archers turned their heads to see
it. He pulled his arm back and then moved his fingers and forearm forward to
signify the order to launch the arrows. He lowered his hand to his side and
awaited their arrival in some of the other army’s men. The archers stared at
the hand for the signal. When it came they all aimed the angle of their weapons
together and let their three fingers that held the bowstring release. Hundreds
of arrows pierced the sky, volleying towards the disorganized mass. The points
of the arrows easily sliced through the light armor and flesh of the men of
House Avaland. Shafts of the projectiles protruded from the front and back of
various skulls, chests, and limbs. Screams of the dying and the silence of the
dead mixed to create a symphony of death that played to Diego’s delight. Diego
then shaped his hand into a fist with his thumb sticking out. With a quick
motion across his throat, he signaled the archers to fire at will.
The
sky blackened with arrows. Feathered death fell upon the troops. The steel
arrowheads pinned the bodies of men to the soft ground. The soldiers from House
Avaland raised their shields in a vain effort to block the flood of arrows. Most
of the men died where they stood. The remainder fled north away from the army
that Diego commanded. They ran like frightened children upwards towards the
hills behind them. Diego ordered the archers to stop firing. He then waved his
hand towards another lieutenant to beckon him closer. The lieutenant leaned in
to listen to him.
“Tell
the archers,” Diego said, “to draw their swords and prepare for an
assault.”
The
older lieutenant looked at Diego confused. “Sir, why? House Avaland flees the
battlefield. They are not capable of assault.”
The
younger Diego looked at his lieutenant. “Do what I say, damn you, I assure you
that they shall charge towards momentarily. Your job calls for you to follow my
orders, not question them.”
The
lieutenant turned from Diego towards the archers. He sneered at his superior as
he told the archers to ready their swords. They drew immediately, awaiting the
assault to come. The officer then returned to Diego with a fake smile masking
his anger. He held a lower rank and his birthright did not hold the direct link
to the De La Cruz familial line as Diego’s did. Teeth grinded and fake smiles
crept onto his face. He thought of himself as a more intelligent military man,
and a better warrior, but he knew better than to fight a blood-born. They always
kept tricks up their sleeves and they knew how to defend themselves.
“The
archers stand as ordered, sword drawn and preparing an assault.” The
lieutenant said through clenched teeth.
“Very
good, Balazar. Now I intend to show you why you are a fool and I am commanding.
Behold, the cavalry of House De la Cruz.” Diego said. He extended his open
hand face up towards the hill. A new roar resounded through the battlefield now.
The men from the army of House Avaland stood still for a moment and stared at
the hill that they intended to climb to safety. On top of that hill appeared
hundreds of men on horseback, awaiting their prey. The panicked men turned and
raced back down the hill. The De La Cruz cavalry stayed at their post. Each
rider dressed in the same metal-encrusted hardened leather armor, and held a
long glimmering sword drawn in their hands. The cavalry’s actions inspired
fear wherever they rode. Tales of their brutality spread throughout the land and
quickened the blood of all who heard them.
As
the desperate mob of House Avaland troops fled, they did not seem to notice the
large, ominous army ahead of them. Diego looked at the men with a hint of pity.
Realizing that they needed to pay the price for their insolence and disrespect
to his house, he shook that feeling from his mind. The rain swept over the field
with renewed vigor. It blinded the scared troops, who knew not where they ran.
Diego gestured again towards the banner carriers. This gesture produced a banner
of red. A sword stabbing though a man body lay painted on the flag. It signaled
the troops to show no mercy, give no quarter, and take no prisoners.
With
the elegance that stemmed from his upbringing and noble blood, Diego drew his
swords. The blade comprised of an ornate black handle surrounded by twirling
steel. Atop of the handle lay another design with curving steel made to snap
weaker blades in its grip. The blade came next with a finely sculpted image of
the House De la Cruz family coat of arms on the bottom of one side, and the name
Inquisitor scripted lengthwise on the other. The blade held in his hand looked
perfect with the exception of the water pellets that stained it upon its
release.
He
raised the treasured masterpiece straight into the air and then, with a sharp
motion, brought the point of the blade forward.
“Charge!”
he ordered. “For the honor of Casa Ramirez Serrano De la Cruz, our Matron San
Gabriela, and our Patron San Miguel.”
The
entire defending army of House De la Cruz ran at full speed towards the
beleaguered remnants of House Avaland’s troops. The great line of flesh and
steel raged like an unstoppable energy down the hill behind them and across the
fields in front of them. They looked up at the stream of men that flowed like a
river of doom. Some of the men took the time to look around and realized the
futility of the escape. The superior house won this day. Others still charged at
the wall of troops rushing towards them on foot. Jumping in their haste to get
their boots over the mud, some of the troops lost their balance and fell to the
soft ground.
Diego
held Inquisitor forward, pointing it at the pitiful band of soldiers coming
towards them. Running across the field took most of the troops effort to pull
their boots from the mud. Diego simply glided over the ground. His feet fell
lightly and even the soft, squelching mud could not hold his boots in the
ground. He made some distance between himself and the front line of his troops.
A black cape flowed behind him almost horizontally. Ripples rolled from his
shoulders to its wide end.
The
clouds parted and the rain stopped. The darkened sky cleared as a few rays of
sunlight broke through the veil of the storm. The glimmer of Inquisitor and a
thousand other swords flashed towards the troops of House Avaland. Troops raised
their forearms to block the shine from their eyes only to see the magnitude of
terror that ran towards them. The dark blue uniforms of the army of House De la
Cruz forever etched itself into each of the forgotten soldier’s minds. Not one
of the soldiers of House Avaland ever forgot the sight; most never saw anything
after that.
Diego
scanned the area for his first sparring partner. His eyes met the eyes of a
newly recruited soldier, young and inexperienced in battle. The young one raised
his sword against him. He noticed the fear of this boy; he felt it in its soul.
The sword shook in the recruit’s hands and Diego decided to pass him by. This
prey’s valor said a lot, but he lacked the skill that fitted an opponent of a
blood-born. The noble son of De La Cruz moved onward down the battlefield to
find fitting game.
A
smack of steel to steel stopped him in his tracks. The blade of the young
soldier slapped Diego’s bicep with its flat side. The force of the hit gave
him more of a surprise than pain. The boy’s heart pumped courageous blood
through his veins, but he did not know what this provocation would mean for him.
Diego
turned to face this insolent boy who dared to strike a blood-born. The boy tried
to raise his sword again for a downward slash. The weight of his heavy blade
slowed the blade’s climb to a crawl. The young soldier finally began to lower
his sword by the time that Diego actually preformed his counter. The heavy blade
dropped down towards the noble’s neck, coming with the force enough to be a
cleaving blow that would surely kill the blood-born where he stood.
Diego’s
left hand flashed a fist towards the wrist of the young soldier. His knuckles
smashed into the veins and bones of the young soldiers hand and wrist. The force
of the blow released the massive blade from the boy’s hands and the blade fell
to the dirt. The boy clutched his wrist with his other, unbroken hand. His teary
eyes looked up at the man who just defeated him, pleading for mercy. The noble
gave it.
The
dagger at his right hip came out with blurring speed. He lodged the slender
blade into the throat of the young soldier. He proceeded to wipe his dagger
clean of this commoner’s blood on the sleeve of the dead soldier.
“Your
wish, I grant for you, young fool. You died on the battlefield honorably,” He
said to the corpse. “However, your birthright deems you unworthy of death from
my sword. Be thankful I thought enough of you to end your life with my dagger;
you should feel honored. Your actions won honor to your family. Sleep well,
brave one.”
When
the blade seemed sufficiently cleaned to Diego, he marched onward to find more
foes. His army began to destroy the remnants of the ragtag force sent against
them. The soldiers in blue wiped the men away with clean efficiency. The blood
of House Avaland flowed like a river. Their unprepared numbers dwindled by the
second as man after man fell.
Three
soldiers of House Avaland carried one common agenda, however. One marched
straight towards Diego while the other two sidestepped around him in an attempt
to flank the noble. He made the seemingly fundamental mistake of isolating
himself from his army. Alone and
away from any friendly soldiers, he seemed an easy target. None of his men
noticed the situation and none could make it in time to stop the attack. Diego
simply lowered the tip of his sword to the ground and awaited the strike.
His
right hand itched. It always started to tingle when he felt a challenge coming.
The front assailant attempted a chopping attack on Diego. He blocked the
downward slash with the end of his blade close to the hilt. The punching block
allowed him to stab into the thigh of the man on his left. The assaulter
screamed in pain and grasped at his newly acquired wound. He then spun around
the wounded man and used him as a shield from the attack of the right assailant.
With a sharp twist of the blade, he wrenched out Inquisitor from the flesh of
the assaulter’s thigh. This brought about another scream of pain. He proceeded
to butt the head of the wounded man with his right forearm, pushing him towards
the assailant that just stood at his right. This bought him time to deal with
the first assailant.
He
swung Inquisitor wildly from the right with tremendous force. It was all that
the first assailant could do to stop the blow. He then reached for his dagger
and stabbed at the kidney of the first assailant. His scream garbled into a
bubbling mumble as a second stab into the back of his throat flooded his
esophagus with blood. The assailant dropped to his knees and plopped over into
the muddy ground face first.
Diego
began to wipe his dagger against the cloth uniform of the fallen soldier when
the third soldier charged at him. With his sword pointed at the noble like a
spear, the soldier leaned his weight into the thrust. He sprinted towards the
noble who cleaned his blade.
He
responded by a quick lower arch swing of Inquisitor that bounced the charging
blade away. The soldier and sword stuck into the moist ground. Diego walked over
to the stunned soldier in the mud and gave him a quick thrust of his dagger into
the back of his heart. After pulling the blade from that corpse, he continued to
clean it on the cloth of the uniform of the first dead soldier.
After
his task was completed, he waded through the mud towards the last would-be
assassin. The second soldier lay on the ground, grasping at the wound in his
thigh.
“May
you burn in perdition Blood-born,” the soldier said through clenched teeth.
“Why,
in God’s name, did you assault El Casa Ramirez Serrano De la Cruz? You must
have known that you had no chance of victory.” Diego asked.
A
smile came over the soldier’s face as he lay in the dirt. “This battle is
only a façade for the real assault.”
Diego
looked at the soldier puzzled. “What are you talking about commoner? Your
house holds no secret army, your forces lay dead in on this field.”
The
soldier chuckled at the noble’s ignorance. “Don’t you see? House
Avaland’s fight here distracted you. Other houses wish to see House De la Cruz
fall. I think you should go home and ask your father how he is doing. I believe
that his health started to grow weak this morning, but then again, that happened
after your army left.”
The
noble’s son stared at his fallen foe with confusion behind his eyes. He left
this morning to deal with the challenge made by the lesser house. Usually his
noble father took care of the challenges, but House Avaland seemed to be easy
fare for the army, so he sent his son Diego to handle it. They left early this
morning to intercept the challengers before they could damage any De La Cruz
property. Only the honor guard stayed home. Their battle and return would last
at most a few hours.
Fire
raged in Diego’s black eyes. “What deceit or treachery have you concocted
against my family?” Diego asked, never losing his calm demeanor. His voice
stayed firm and cool, while his heart burned with fury.
“Poor
fool, I spit upon your house and your name. May God have mercy on your soul.
Your enemies number many more than you think. Now take your vengeance you sad
fool. Kill me now, and my pain will end. Rest assured that your pain only begins
on this day, sad creature.” The soldier laid his head back onto the ground and
awaited the final, deadly blow from Diego’s blade. It never came.
Diego
lifted his hand and called to one of his lieutenants that stood nearby. The
officer came to him quickly. “Yes my lord?” he asked.
The
man on the ground looked at the noble with worried eyes. “This man does not
deserve the proper, honorable death on the battlefield, nor does any man of
House Avaland. Take all the survivors, even the near dead, back to our castle.
Heal them, restore their health, I want no expense not met, treat them as you
would treat me. Once they fully recover, I want all of them to go to the rack.
Upon dislocating all of their joints, I want each man to have each of their
limbs to be shattered by mauls. When this has occurred, draw and quarter them,
and dump their bodies on the steps of Castle Avaland. Do you understand me?”
The
lieutenant looked aghast at his noble. He never before heard such a fate given
by his liege. “Sir, are you sure that this is what you desire?”
A
sharp nod came from the noble. Then he raised his hand at the lieutenant to come
closer and whispered to his ear. “Starve this man nearly to death. Torture his
like I said, but instead of being quartered, I want you to set a feast for him.
Make the food hard and rough, so that his stomach breaks when he devours it.
They will pay dearly for their crimes.” He then raised his voice and yelled,
“Get me my horse, I am going home to my father.”
The
lieutenant looked at the broken soldier that lay at his feet. He almost pitied
him for the ordeal he would face in the next few days. He stemmed the urge to
stab him in the heart now and end it, but orders were orders.
Diego
trudged through the battlefield in his mud caked tunic. He raised his hand to
wipe the dirt from the crest on his chest. The blue dragon in a fearsome,
attacking pose broke through the mud to reveal itself. More than one thousand
years of hard fought victories supported that crest. Diego didn’t want to
believe the story that the soldier told; it meant more than just his father’s
passing, it meant the De La Cruz family had been deceived, and large forces
amassed against them.
The
soldiers dragged their prisoners towards the caravan of wagons. Some prisoners
tried to wrestle away from the guards. The raucous caused by this caught
Diego’s attention. He looked over to see the guards holding pikes trying to
cattle the troublemaker into the wagon. The man moved deftly, dodging the pikes
and looking though the defenses for an opening. One of the guards complied by
thrusting his pike. The deviant grabbed the wooden shaft of the pike and hurried
it forward, tumbling the guard onto the floor. The other guards around him came
close to him, ready to impale him.
“No,”
Diego yelled to them. “That infidel will not die here. He deserves a slave’s
death. Club him, do not kill.”
The
guards raised their pikes and handed them to the workers that drove the wagon.
Each of them produced a slender black club and moved in towards the deviant. He
frantically looked around for a mistake or an exit but found none. The clubs
rained down blows on him until his beaten body fell to the ground, unconscious.
The guards dragged his body into the back of the wagon. They closed the doors
behind them and started to move the caravan of prisoners off the battlefield.
The
smell of the battlefield drifted into Diego’s nostrils. He noticed it for the
first time since the battle began. With the heat and tension of combat and the
rush of adrenaline, one can miss the aroma even while in the thick of it.
Afterwards, the smell creeps up to the soldier. A lump formed in his throat. He
dropped to his knees tried to keep his composure in front of his troops. He
wrapped his arms around himself. Death followed him, he gave chase to it; the
game that they played made it a constant companion. Diego, however, grew bitter
towards it. He killed as a test of his skill, and in defense of his family. It
had been two hundred years since the Casa Ramirez Serrano De La Cruz waged
feudal war to gain status. Taught in the arts of efficiency and revenge, Diego
made sure that all knew there would be no mercy shown to those who dishonored
his family.
That
did not stem the smell of decay.
He
quickly regained his composure and raised himself from his knees by using
Inquisitor for support. The blade turned a hazy form of orange from the blood
and dirt that surrounded it. Diego raised his gauntlet and ran it down the side
of the blade. Sludge fell to the ground. He looked down to see that the blade
was still colored the hazy orange. Resigned to the fact that only a full
polishing at the castle could return the steel to its original vigor, he
sheathed the weapon and trudged through the mud in the direction of his home.
The
lieutenant trotted towards the noble, walking a smooth black stallion behind
him. Upon reaching Diego he gave a short bow and presented the reins to his
lord.
“My
liege,” he said. “Here is your horse as you ordered.”
Diego
looked at his officer. This one appeared young, younger than Diego by some
years, and fresh to the world he entered. If he could remember correctly, this
lieutenant came from a peasant home, and his father rose through the ranks of
the De La Cruz family army. His father’s rank almost guaranteed the boy a
position in the army. He knew little about the noble struggle, or the treachery
that walled off other families. He knew he fought for honor, his loyalty, and
his family. If the De La Cruz family grew in honor, so did his little name.
Diego wished sometimes for such simplicity.
The
leather strap of the reins fell into Diego’s hand. A neigh came from the dark
horse as it looked upon its master. A friendly exchange of smiles took place
between the master and the horse. Diego raised his other hand to pet its muzzle.
The horse responded to its master with a soft upward nod of affection. The reins
tightened as Diego hoisted himself onto the back of the stallion.
“Thanks
lieutenant,” he said to the officer. “Now go home. I believe that we all
have family business to attend to. “
With
a sharp kick to its sides, the horse started to trot forward. The muscles of the
beast flowed smoothly under the skin line. The rider’s mind raced with a
thousand thoughts a second. His father could be lying in his bed at the castle,
dead or dying as he rode. The start of something large defiantly lay before
them. It seemed that many houses carried vendettas against the house that molded
together in union. Which houses stood against them and their reasons for the
hatred eluded Diego at this moment. The fact that they stood at the third rung
of the ladder seemed reason enough, but something nagged at him, telling him
that more of the story hid out of reach. His home held some answers, but he knew
a way to get more information. He would offer mercy to those who gave him the
knowledge to administer his revenge. Through the blade and blood he would exact
his justice, secure his family, and ensure his honor. Then, he would reward
those tell all prisoners with slashed throats.
Cowardly
traitors are worse then enemies.
*
*
*
*
*
Flickering
shadows lay upon the walls of the chamber. A window creaked open allowing the
orange haze of the morning sun to shine into the room. The room’s lush
comforts came into view with the light. Satin sheets and velvet pillows, a
cherry desk and jeweled candlesticks, all populated the room. Little interior
light shone in the room for all but one of the candles had all died in the
night. A bed sat in the middle of the room. It was covered with a fine red
blanket with the shield of Casa De La Cruz embroidered on it. The blue dragon
looked fierce, and indeed the symbol struck fear into many that looked upon it.
In
the bed lay two people, the patron of Casa De La Cruz, San Miguel, and his wife,
San Gabriela. Both of their faces had wrinkled with the passage of so many
years. They both saw the house topple two rivals in their lifetime to become the
third house on the rung, and a member of the ruling council of regents. Miguel
ruled the house with a fair and firm hand, but to his enemies and the enemies of
the house, he was merciless. This trait brought enemies against the house, but
also kept them at bay. The lady played her part in the rise of the house as
well. While Miguel’s prowess on the battlefield stood unmatched, she
positioned the pieces on a different game. Alliances and friends, both fake and
sincere, spread from her like a web of security. The house gathered many enemies
because of Miguel, but Gabriela kept the wolves at bay with allied houses.
Recently
the friendly houses of dwindled in their numbers. Some of them attempted to
raise themselves on the rungs of the empire without success, while others fell
victim of such attempts from the lesser houses. The frail loyalty that the
houses offered each other faded because of the inability to actually act against
the enemies of friendly houses. The high houses felt the pinch of fresher,
younger houses coming up. However, those problems loomed off in the horizon.
Their son was, as they slept, taking care of one of these pesky young houses.
Riding the ladder of one more superfluous rung.
They
slept peacefully, not knowing the eminent danger that they faced in their
reverie.
Esmerelda
Renaldo peaked into the room to see this lavish design. In those velvet and
satin cloths, he knew, lay his targets. They lay unguarded on this morning. Soon
the sun would burst through the curtain to wake them, or a servant would enter
with their breakfast. The dim morning light had not brightened the sky from a
dull blue yet today. The small remainder of guard forces in the castle never saw
the assassin enter.
She
held a black cloth bag under her right arm. Its contents shape deformed the
smooth look of the bag into a bulky, edged one. No blade or arrow would pierce
these two people. The houses wanted them killed in a very specific manner, a
manner that she did not understand. The assassin wondered to herself why her
request to kill them both with a clean knife slice crumbled before the leaders
of the young houses. No, they asked her to be passive with her killing, to be
more stealthy than forceful. She cared little for the houses or their struggle,
but gold coin from the young houses filled her purse like any other’s coin, so
she didn’t argue.
Soft
feet bounced on the wooden floor. She made no sounds as she crept from the
window towards the bed. The two victims slept, still and unknowing. Esmerelda
moved towards her marks with her bag underarm. The two nobles lay next to each
other, breathing in the clean air. The assassin stared for a moment at the
candlesticks near the bed. They both stood a meter high and were made of solid
gold. Jewels encrusted the shafts of the candlesticks; a variety of star
sapphires spiraled from the bottom to the flat saucer that held the candle. Each
of these would grab a fortune at non-aligned markets, especially with the
knowledge of their former home and owners.
Esmerelda
shook such thoughts from her mind. The instructions for this job were given
clearly and explicitly. The fashion and manner of their deaths held some odd
house honor significance that non-aligned people such as herself would never
understand. These houses played their silly games against each other, trying to
gain superficial power against one another. The only power that existed to the
human race was gold. Simple money ran the world, and she was about to make bags
of it.
The
job, she thought, keep your mind on the job. The money’s not earned yet. When
you find yourself in a lush inn room with more coins than you can count, then
you let your mind wander.
Esmerelda
looked down to her black sack. She put her fingers into the breach and pulled
open the mouth of the bag. Inside lay her odd instrument of death, a single blue
candle, a foot high and four inches in diameter. She reached inside of the bag
and grasped the candle. Carefully holding the blue candle in one hand, she took
the candle from the stand with her left. She then tucked the candle under her
arm and held the blue candle with both hands. These skills gained her a little
fame in the realm. She never said she killed as well as other assassin’s
could, or even that she ranked high among assassins, but no one moved as
silently as she. Her patience and meticulous nature lent themselves well to the
profession. She vastly preferred avoidance and silence to a straight fight.
Perhaps that is why she got contracted for this job.
The
blue candle rested on the golden pedestal ready to deal out its toxic cloud.
Esmerelda grabbed the normal candle under her arm and slipped it into the bag.
She stopped for a moment after doing this. Most assassins had a trademark that
they left behind on or near a mark. She always wondered about this habit. It
seemed to her to be a way to make a lot of enemies. In her mind her trademark
was equally as clever as any other assassin’s, a quiet, unnoticed escape and
no clue of who killed the victim. She smiled at this thought. I may be the only
one in this realm without some weird habit or code, the houses have them, even
most of the non-aligns. Oh well, she thought, maybe I am the only person sane in
this world after all.
One
candle still burned this morning. Esmerelda wanted at least one still burning so
that she did not have to strike flints in the room to light the blue candle.
That last glowing candle made this job just a little easier and more to her
style. The sound of the flints just didn’t suit her. She produced a slender
piece of kindling wood from her pocket. Holding it between her index finger and
thumb, she placed the end of the wood into the flame of the last candle. The
edge turned dark and black before igniting the stick, making it glow red in the
dark room. The flame traveled slowly down the stick as she moved her hand over
to the blue candle. She placed the piece of burning wood on the candle, touching
the wick. This way, she thought, no chance of them hearing me blow the wood fire
out. The fire climbed up from the discarded piece of wood to the white wick in
the candle. A soft trail of smoke floated into the air.
This
is my cue to leave, Esmerelda thought. The candle began to emit poison gas into
the room. The assassin swiftly yet silently made her way towards the window
again. From the reports given to her by her employer, the gas’s effectiveness
grew to full potency only moments after the candle started to burn. The poison
resided only at the top of the candle, so that only the intended victims died.
This poison candle was, without a doubt, as useful as it was deadly. If the
assassins wanted to clear themselves of guilt, they could enter the room minutes
after the victim died and show up, reporting the crime. Thus making themselves
last on the list of suspects.
All
that familial intrigue made her head hurt. These silly nobles and their silly
vendettas, she thought. The poison instead of the blade caught her attention.
Every reputable, if ever one lived, assassin used a blade to kill, usually a
knife, or an arrow or bolt. No one used poison except for people wanting to kill
a person close to him or her secretly. These nobles, with their honor, were the
exception. They actually asked Esmerelda to use poison. The reason that they
cited made no sense to her, but must hold weight for them. Dishonor, by dying by
drugs. In their minds dying by the drug of poison showed weakness in the victim,
whereas dying by steel or arrow gave the same honor as death on the battlefield.
I never understood the nobles, and I guess I never will understand them, she
thought.
She
crept out the window before the smoke filled the air of the chamber. The morning
light changed during her time in the room. The light grew brighter, which meant
bad tidings for her. Esmerelda sped out of complex by the roof. In the morning
light she saw an army march towards the gates. She used the commotion to ensure
that none of the guards saw her leave. Just
another trademark of my skill, she thought.
