The Knife (3/3)

Part III

Rot’s End came into view. A grin spread across Tarel’s face. Here, the faces that haunted his dreams would not find him. Malrek’s influence had not reached north into the Ruins. Rot’s End held its independence and would not give in to the crooked lord’s rule, regardless of his desires. Here, he could find some solace, even if only briefly.

His hand went to his pocket, feeling the parchment within.

For fifteen years he had killed for the crooked Lord Malrek. He would no longer. With the last name crossed off from this list his debts were paid. His heart beat loudly against his chest, his breathing grew shallow at the thought of freedom, a tear rolled down his cheek. Freedom? The killing weighed heavily on him. Drinking helped at times. But, drinking also led to poor decisions. Poor decisions led to debt.

He never sent his earnings to his family. It was too late now. His debts had cost him dearly. Only now would he crawl out from the beneath burden of those decisions. He’d never return to Chende again. He’d no longer live in fear of Malrek’s hunters tracking him down.

He reached Madam Delena’s Wayhouse, the three-story log inn, the largest building in Rot’s End. He let loose a sigh and chuckled. I finally made it. Taking a deep breath, he shoved open the double doors and stepped inside. Thick smoke wafted his face, pungent sweet smoke from pipes of tobacco or Gods’ Leaf and the spiced aromas of incense. His eyes watered, but his smile widened. He headed straight for the bar.

“What’ll it be?” the elderly barkeep asked.

Tarel felt at his pouch of coin, “Dark ale, friend.”

A woman walked out from the back room wearing a long, flowing red dress, decorated with black lace. Her long, blonde hair was gathered and tied above her head. She glanced toward Tarel and grinned. She walked calmly through the crowd, her head held high, pausing briefly to greet other guests.

“Sir, think this is for you.”

Tarel turned to see an emaciated child behind him, holding out a fold of parchment, sealed with green wax, a serpent’s visage stamped within. He accepted it and gave the boy a silver slat; he was feeling generous. He felt a calm serenity ease over him as he prepared to read the letter of his release.

“It’s good to see you, Tarel.” Madam Delena said as she reached the assassin.

He grinned, “Always a pleasure ma’am.”

“Buy your freedom yet?”

Tarel raised the letter in his hand and nodded, “Right here.” 

He quickly broke the seal and unfolded it. His heart raced. His eyes scanned the short lines of fine script. His throat constricted. A numbness engulfed him. The parchment slipped from his fingers.

He looked into Delena’s eyes. The sounds around him were muffled, the beat of his heart seeming to echo within his ears. His body shook as he rose from his stool. He shook his head.

“I need to return to Chende,” he said, his voice low and cracking.

Madam Delena looked down toward the parchment on the floor, at the new list with her name at its top.

Tarel turned and left, his ale unfinished.

 

*

 

Tarel Ydani had a long walk ahead of him. His past flashed through his mind. The possibilities of his future gone. One path remained. He rested his hand on the hilt of his father’s knife staring toward the southern horizon. No, only one path ever existed. He was going home. And Chende would be forever changed when he arrived.