And that’s exactly what Valak needed. If the public could see the belts of knives he had strapped under his garments—on his chest, his thighs, and in his boots—he was sure they’d pay more attention.
Riianne was old and its architecture was quite unique. There were no stone buildings—all wood, and every structure was built the “old way,” as they called it. Long planks from hewn down trees were soaked for weeks in water until the wood became pliable enough to bend, and were then shaped into arches which made the frame for the roofs. The arch pieces were fastened to the straight wall planks after being dried and stained with tikri sap to help retain their shape. Once a complete frame was built, the structure was filled in with shafts that were fastened across the wall planks and roof arches. Lastly, clay was packed between the spaces of the shafts to seal it tight against wind and rain. Though it wasn’t the simplest task, Valak was sure, the sky before bowing back down and showing a regal arch.
Valak drifted among these elegant buildings, following his mark most subtly through the town. His new mount wasn’t handling bad at all. It took direction well and didn’t spook easily. It had cost him a lovely piece of gold, but a well trained horse was invaluable. Although he bought a new mount after every job he completed, to Valak, spending gold on a quality horse was never a waste of money.
Valak stopped his horse and looked ahead. He knew where the messenger was headed. After a ride from the capital there would be no other place in Krii a man would stop first besides an inn, and there was only one in Riianne— Sleepy Willows.
If Valak circled around to approach from the west side of the inn he could possibly catch the man while tying up his horse outside. If no one was outside to see, he would leave him dead by the tying rack. He would lead the man’s horse away with him so that when the dead man was found it would look like nothing more than a horse robbery. Then, when he was far away from the town he would sell both mounts and buy a new one.
Valak bid his horse turn a quick and quiet left. Passing a few cottages, he spurred his mount to a trot and made his way around to the west side of the inn. Holding the building in his sight, but not venturing out where he could be seen by his mark, he waited patiently beside a rather large wooden cottage.
It wasn’t long before the messenger approached, hopping off his mount and leading it to the tying pole. Valak crept down from his horse’s back. He slowly moved towards the man from the side—holding the reigns of his mount in his left hand, reaching into his cloak with his right. He pulled a knife from his belt, then relaxed his arm and let it hang calmly by his thigh. Watching his mark from the side, he paid attention to every movement of the man’s body, and wound back his arm over his shoulder preparing to send his weapon flying into his target. He focused in on the man’s back, where a knife sent into his lungs would provide a quiet kill, leaving him with no breath to cry out. If by chance the man turned around, Valak would quickly adjust his target to the man’s face instead. This would provide an even quicker kill—and was far more satisfying.
Valak loved when he approached a mark from behind, his arm raised and ready to send the knife, and his victim turned and looked back at the last moment; as soon as they turned their head he would throw his knife so the person would see him for barely an instant before his blade split their visage. Now that was a perfect kill.
Sometimes he even waited for them to look back or called out to make them turn so he could catch them at that perfect moment, and watch his weapon end their life after taking a quick look into their eyes.
It actually made him feel important—being a ghost as he was—that he played a very special role in all these people’s lives. He was the last person they ever saw.
The sound of light, ginger footsteps coming from behind Valak made him drop his arm and turn in the direction of the interruption. Valak slid his knife up, cupped it in his palm, and turned his wrist to face his thigh, hiding the weapon in an instant.
“Evening sir, are you a traveler?”
Valak turned to address the small boy that stood a few paces behind him. He had probably run out of one of the cottages he had passed.
“Run along, boy,” Valak commanded, turning back towards the inn to find the messenger glancing in their direction. Valak sucked his teeth as the voice of a woman called out behind him.
“Hollis! You know you’re not to be out after dark! Get back here!” A woman ran up, breathing heavily, and grabbed hold of the boy’s arm. “You leave that man alone. Apologies, sir,” she called to Valak’s back.
“None required,” said Valak with a wave of his hand.
He didn’t bother to turn around, but resumed his stride to the outside of the inn and began tying his horse.
The messenger had just entered the inn himself, and Valak tied his mount right next to his on the tying pole. He wasn’t at all upset by the minor setback. After all, it had barely made dark and running into denizens about the town was expected at this hour. It only meant that he would be forced to be more creative with his kill. The messenger had ridden far this day and would no doubt spend his night in the inn, so unless he was content to wait around until the morning to do it, he would have to execute it here—now— in Sleepy Willows Inn.
If he was unable to do so he could always wait until the man’s departure in the morning, but Valak did not doubt one shred his ability to kill the man in the inn. The place would be populated, certainly, but a crowd of drunk and tired men weren’t at all the keenest at noticing when something was awry. Besides, Valak could land his knives anywhere. He was quick and he was quiet, and above all he was skilled like no other in the art of throwing knives. He had thrown blades since he was a child, and years of being an assassin had perfected his craft.
Valak opened the door and stepped inside. The smell of food, ale, candle wax, and stained wood from classic Riianne architecture blended into a rather distinct aroma. The place was amply populated—and lively. About two dozen people enjoyed food, drinks, and company on the first floor of the town’s only tavern.
Valak glanced around. Many of the tables in the center of the place were occupied with groups of two or three people sharing baskets of bread and pints of ale. The messenger had found his own little spot and was sitting by himself in the northwest corner from the door. All the other corners were taken to Valak’s dismay, for they would be the best locations in the room for him to operate. There was a small empty table in the northeast center of the room with a clear pathway to his mark—a path for his eyes and a path for his knife.
Valak removed his hood, paid for a mug of ale, and quickly claimed the table he had spotted. There was too much light in the room, and his face was too easily seen, but keeping his hood on any longer in this small town inn would only cause him to look suspicious.
He looked around—everyone minded their own affairs. To the left of him was a scattering of tables with slightly drunk or otherwise engaged occupants. A man and woman shared a sliced loaf of bread and a pint of ale at the closest table to him. The next table boasted a group of four men who had been drinking there for some time, indicated by their loud voices and flushed faces, and of course the several empty pint mugs scattered across their table. The table to the south of that one carried a lone drunk and his dog. To the left of that table was the bar. The two tables north of the bar held groups of three, conversing cheerfully over several mugs of ale. At the northwest table beyond those two tables—the messenger. To the right of Valak there were more tables with drunk or halfway drunk guests, laughing and bantering over food and ale; behind him—the same. Above him, a burning candle was suspended from the wooden ceiling by an ornate vine rope that held a bronze sconce. His hand hung low underneath the table, reaching into his tall boot for one of the knives that were sheathed snuggly inside.
Valak cupped the knife and stood up. Leaving his mug in the center of the table, he walked back over to the bar.
“I think I’ll take a pint,” he said to the innkeeper, resting a piece of gold on th
e counter.
“Ah, already, eh? Good man, good man, get ‘em a pint!” The innkeeper called to the barmaid who had just returned from bringing bread to a nearby table. The girl quickly shuffled behind the bar, grabbed a pint mug, and squatted beside a cask.
Valak glanced over his right shoulder at the candle that burned above his table, and locked its position. He glanced quickly about the room.
“Does she need help with that?” Asked Valak, motioning towards the barmaid who was pulling the top off the barrel. The barkeep turned his attention to the barmaid. Valak glanced back at the candle—for not more than a half- second—and flung his arm back and up towards the light, releasing his knife with the stroke.
“She’s got it off,” the man replied.
Valak’s body relaxed and his head once again faced the barkeep.
“Here she comes.”
The barmaid set the mug down before Valak and he immediately took a sip. “Ahh, now that’s good ale,” he said, turning his back to the bar and slyly glancing up at the ceiling. He moved his eyes, but kept his head still.
The candle above his table was out—his blade had split the wick from the wax. No one seemed to notice, so Valak took his pint and returned to his now rather dim table area. He had created his own dark corner in the center of the room.
For certain he could still be seen—as plain as day he was there—but without the brightness of the overhead light his face was a blur, his movements indistinct. Most of all the dimness around his table made him even more uninteresting. No one paid attention to the quiet man in the common gray cloak who sat in the dark.
With confidence that he was and would remain unnoticed, Valak once again reached under the table into his boot for a knife. With weapon in hand he eyed his mark and watched the man as he assumed a variety of different postures. Valak studied closely to see which one would best support a perfect and soundless kill. While leaning forward with elbows on the table and fists on his chin supporting the weight of his head, the man would die and his body would loosen, causing him to drop his hands and fall abruptly forward. His head would plunk against the table and a nearby patron who turned to look would see the fresh stream of blood that exited his wound. To do it while he ate or drank would produce a similar effect, for his lifeless arms would fall with whatever was in his grasp, be it an ale mug or a piece of his meal. But every once in a while—in between chews and gulps—the man would break and sit back, leaning his back against the wall behind him. If he made the kill in this position the man’s posture would remain unchanged. He would be pierced by the knife but would stay leaned back against the wall when he died. As long as the blood wasn’t noticed it would appear the man had one too many ales and had simply drifted off to sleep.
The messenger shoved the last corner of bread between his lips. He chewed with an open mouth for a while before taking a gulp of his ale. Chewing several more times and swallowing hard, he leaned back against the wall and sighed.
Valak brought his right elbow up on the table. He rested his head against his hand which clutched the knife, hiding the weapon against his cheek as he looked toward his mark. The man was still leaned back and had just closed his eyes. Valak took a quick gander at the patrons around him. They seemed busy enough. Judging by their condition, if they were to notice the sudden movement of his arm out of the corner of their eye it would not matter; by the time they glanced his way to see about it he would look normal again, and they would dismiss the oddity if nothing looked out of place. But if they glanced about the inn and noticed the messenger leaned back against the wall with a stream of blood running down his body, there was a chance he might be discovered, and if he was, he would be forced to kill everyone in the room and risk someone escaping. He could afford no such mishap.
Valak lifted his mug with his left hand, shooting his right hand forward and flicking his wrist as he brought the mug to his mouth. The knife flew without a sound and struck its mark, piercing into the man’s neck and burrowing deep. The man’s head rolled down to his left side. The butt of the dagger could barely be seen for his chin covered most of it, but the stream of blood that worked its way down his body was apparent enough. Valak must leave—or find a way to conceal it. He wondered if he could pull off another candle shot from where he was—sitting down.
Valak again surveyed his area. To his right there were two tables with clearly drunk occupants, noted chiefly by the fact that he could hardly make out one word they were saying; the table to the front and right of him was recently vacated, with mugs and baskets sloppily spread about the tabletop; the table directly to the left of him—the couple sharing bread and ale had finished their meal along with their pint, and were now sitting side by side fondling one another affectionately; the next table to the left—the group of four men who had been drinking there were causing quite a ruckus and could be heard over everyone in the room; the table to the south of that one—empty—the lone drunk and his dog had left; and to the left of that table—the bar; the two tables north of the bar—groups of three remained at each, a bit more drunk then before and still conversing cheerfully over several mugs of ale; the northwest table beyond those two tables—the messenger; above the messenger—a burning candle suspended from the wooden ceiling by an ornate vine rope that held a bronze sconce. Valak reached once again into his boot for a knife.
He leaned his head back and yawned—eyeing the light—and brought his hand to the right side of his head. He held the small knife tightly between his thumb and index finger, and with his other three fingers scratched his head. But he wasn’t at all tired, and his head didn’t itch.
He shot his hand out straight towards the light, releasing his knife at that minute orange glow. The angle was bad, and he had a better view of the flame from a standing position, like the earlier throw, but he would make do. He cast his knife lower than the point he sighted to be sure that he hit the wick. From his downward angle it would be easy to make the mistake of throwing too high.
No sound was heard from his knife striking the wood, the reveling of the patrons had completely muffled it, but the severed wick fell from above and landed on the messenger’s right boot, still smoldering. Valak had hit his mark, though a little bit low, and had taken off quite a bit of the tip of the candle as well. One patron perked his head up as he eyed the smoldering wick that lay upon the dead man’s boot. He stretched his head forward to get a better look, but the smoke soon vanished among the cool tavern floor, and the amber wax was hardly visible against the man’s brown leather boot. The man quickly looked to his friends after the smoke disappeared, but finding them completely engaged in conversation and not minding anything in the room, he simply shrugged his shoulders and lifted his mug.
Valak’s mark lay dead in the dark. Someone would go to wake him and find him dead. Either tonight after Valak had already retired—but he would no longer be in the room—or if the barkeeps chose to let him “sleep” he would be found in the morning and Valak would no longer be in the town.
9
“GOOD SIR, HAS ANYTHING HAPPENED here of note lately?” Zar dismounted from Asha’s back, and rubbed his hand across her golden snout until she took a seat beside him.
“This is Sindoth,” the old man replied. “Things are always happening here.”
Zar smiled. It was a clever adjustment to the name, and one he had heard before. The old fellow sat on a large rock at the edge of town, enjoying a flask of wine in the evening sun. He had no shoes, and his garments looked like oddly-colored, mismatched rags. His tunic, appearing to have been sewn from several different pieces of cloth, boasted patches of blue, green, and red fabric, all sewn together with bold yellow stitches that were large and comically crooked as if they’d been mended by a small child. His pants were tattered and of a muddy color, though it was obvious they were once white.
“It’s worth two gold pieces if you gossip with me for a while,” said Zar, reaching into his coin purse.
He finally had the man’s atten
tion.
The old fellow reached out his hand to receive the gold. “What would you know?”
Zar seated himself on the ground beside him. “Who here is in need of help?”
The old man looked Zar up and down before taking a drink from his flask. “A sword for hire?”
“Aye.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” the man replied, chuckling.
“I know that I have,” agreed Zar. “What do you know?”
“I know there’s two lads running about who want that newcomer dead.”
“Newcomer?”
“Aye,” the man answered. “They call him Lawless Tuskin and he’s caused nothin’ but trouble since he came. Two strange men are on the prowl for him.”
“Who is this Tuskin?”
“He’s a warrior, a wild and wicked one, too! Not two days ago he killed three men outside of town.”
“Interesting,” said Zar, his face fixed with a smile.
“Lindoth never fails.”
“Ah, so you’ve been here before?” asked the old fellow, looking a bit closer at Zar.
“Too many times,” Zar replied with a sigh. “These two men you speak of, you called them strange, why so?”
“Well, because they don’t look like townspeople, but they’re always in the town, plottin’ and sneakin’ around. I never see them out in the morning or in the day—only at dusk. Bunch of strange lads they are.”
“Will they be here tonight?”
“I’m sure of it,” the old man answered, “and I can show you who they are for two more gold pieces.”
“Or I can find them myself and keep my gold,” Zar replied with a grin. “I think the description you’ve given me is more than adequate.”
The old man laughed. “Ah, a sharp lad you are. Very good, very good. You must forgive me, son, you see my flask is almost empty and the wine I like is quite expensive.”
“Lolia red, I’m guessing.”
Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten (Order of Fire Book 1) Page 8
