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.

The Knife (2/3)

Part II

*

He was a tall, broad-shouldered boy of fourteen when he found himself stumbling from the small, thatch roofed cottage onto the muddy streets of Chende. Blood dripped from the antler-hilted knife in his hand. Tears dripped from his dark eyes. Behind him his mother screamed in horror. He couldn’t stay, but he had done what he needed. He ended the bastard’s reign of brutality.

The boy looked toward the center of the city, where the muddy paths gradually made their way to cobbled streets. Toward the keep of Lord Malrek. He’d work his way into the upper city, he’d work hard, he’d save money. He’d see to it his family was provided for.

He went off as dusk drew near. Still holding tight his father’s knife. He had no skills but had muscle. Would grunt labor pay well enough? He looked to the knife in his still bloody hand.

 

*

 

Tarel Ydani awoke with a start. He rummaged through his pack and withdrew the carcass of a rabbit, roasted the previous morning. He grabbed his father’s knife and began cutting strips from it. The meat prepared, he gathered some small, dry sticks he had brought with him and threw them atop the coals before taking a deep breath and blowing on them. The coals blossomed back to life, flames licking the kindling. He blew again. Slowly, he brought the fire back.

After his breakfast he scattered the fire, stomping out flames. He began back through the tunneling hallways, heading, to the best of his knowledge, southward. He hadn’t had these ruins memorized. He knew easily enough how to find them and how to gain entry. However, once inside, it was a maze, he relied solely on instinct and common sense. Finding one’s way back above ground was simple enough, following a particular path was another story.

As he journeyed down the winding pathways his mind wandered as it was wont to do. The memories of his decline haunting him still in his waking moments as they did in his slumber. After he killed his father, he never saw the rest of his family again. Chende was a cruel place, a sprawling city of mud nestled within the massive rainforest of northern Azal. The city functioned within its own set of laws, largely unhindered by the Emrosian Empire. He never did find honest work and had to survive by that damned knife. Thieving for small gangs, lucky to never be caught, never to lose a finger, or more.

Life as a mere thief provided little. What he stole was given mostly to those in charge of the gangs, often leaving Tarel with little more than a small allotment of food. Such a life was not for him, his aims were set higher.

At last, he emerged onto the vast eastern plains of the Ruins once more, in the far west he could see the peaks of the Seaguard Mountains. He smiled weakly and continued southward. He looked forward to returning to Rot’s End. The small town wasn’t much, but he had always felt welcomed there, something he could not say of many places. Upon his arrival, he’d go directly to Madam Delena’s Wayhouse, relax, and drink some ale.

Relax. That wasn’t a thought that crossed his mind often.

 

*

 

The young thief slipped beneath a merchant cart, sliding through rain and mud. He sprung back to his feet, turning down an alley. His fingers were wrapped tightly around a coin pouch. People were shouting behind him. Boots clomped and sloshed down the muddy street. Garbage was heaped up at the far end of the alley. He rushed for the pile, diving in and burrowing down.

He slowed his breath wrinkling his nose at the pungent stench of rot and filth. The sounds of the Low Market were muffled inside his cave of rubbish. Drops of rain pattered overhead. His heart was racing. He heard no movement. How long must he wait? He pressed his face into the crook of his elbow, to silence his breathing and in desperate attempt to filter the eye-watering odor.

Calm began to settle in. He had to have lost them, or they would have nabbed him by now. He began to ease his way from beneath the pile, moving slowly, quietly. He created an opening to peer through.

A hand gripped his cloak and yanked him from the filth.

The man was dressed in fine silk robes, the hem spattered with mud from the unpaved streets of the Low Market. His brow was furrowed as he looked into Tarel’s eyes. In the distance, a large figure observed, wrapped up in a dark cloak, his face hidden within the shadows of his hood.

Tarel knew the merchant would have him brought to the Blades of Honor, the guards of Chende, the crooked Lord Malrek’s goons. He knew he’d lose his first finger. He knew he’d not eat for several days without the purse he’d stolen. Unacceptable.

His right hand struck out. His father’s knife plunged into the merchant’s throat. The merchant’s eyes flashed wide before he dropped to the ground, releasing his grip on Tarel. Warm blood flowed over his hand. Images. Memories of his father flashed before his eyes.

“Well done, lad.” A hollow voice came from the cloaked figure. “Stealing isn’t your trade. Come, there’s another path for you.”

The Knife (1/3)

Here is the my first post. I've divided this story into three parts. I believe I will generally keep posts between 500-1000 words. The other two parts will be posted over the next two weeks, on Mondays (so the June 1st for part 2 and June 8th for the conclusion).

This story takes place before the novel, and centers around a minor side character that makes an appearance in the novel.

The Knife

1091^st Year of the Great Emrosian Empire
Spring’s Dawn

 

The Ruins

Tarel Ydani gazed down at the fat, bald man as he cleaned the blood from his knife. Silence settled on the plain as the man shuddered his last breath. Tarel sheathed his knife and turned from the corpse at his feet. Few travelled the Ruins, outside of the scattering of rundown towns. Coyotes and crows would likely dispose of the mess before anyone discovered it. It didn’t matter though; he’d be long gone.

He took a deep breath of the cool night air as he removed a piece of parchment from a pocket. He crossed off the last name with a nub of charcoal and tucked it away. He sighed, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, ready to put this ordeal behind him. Rot’s End was a long walk south. Toward the southern horizon a tower loomed above a relatively flat countryside. Collecting his belongings, he began walking at a brisk pace.

As he reached the ruined tower, he could already hear the cackling of coyotes in the distance as they closed in on the dead merchant. He guided his way with a hooded lantern, seeking an opening into the tower that would lead him into the network of a once vast, ancient city below ground. Once, these stone structures were likely interconnected throughout this land. Now, several lay in ruin, marked by the occasional tower or section of wall, still intact above ground.

None knew the truth behind these underground fortresses. Tarel believed few even knew of their existence. The legends of the Ruins mostly pertained to the crumbling towers and keeps seen from the plains. The cursed cities of some ancient fallen empire, they called them. The few that traveled these lands gave the ancient stone structures a wide berth. Only those desperate enough risked venturing within seeking shelter when caught out in a storm, or in the vain hopes of discovering riches that likely never existed. Tarel had learned of these sprawling underground mazes at a young age. He never spoke of his discovery.

His lantern illuminated a crack in the stonework, near the ground, just wide enough for him to squeeze through. He removed his pack and lowered himself to the opening. His hand shook as he reached the lantern within. It had been a long day. The light shone on spiraling stone stairs leading down the tower, deep underground. He eased his way within, dragging his possessions along behind him, through the narrow opening.

He wandered the meandering corridors until he found a room to his liking. He settled into the room, deep within the catacombs of the city. A wooden door, in solid enough condition that seemed impossible of its unknown centuries, was set in the center of the southern wall, several slots carved into the wall above. He gathered a scattering of broken, wooden furniture to the center of the room and removed the tinder box from his pack. Once lit, smoke curled from the small fire, forming a thin layer below the ceiling and gradually drifting out above the doorway.

He pulled his knife from its sheath. Sitting in front of the small fire, he spun the blade in his hand, examining it. It was the knife his father left him. Well, that was one way of putting it. Many regrets swarmed his mind, but that had not been one. The man was an awful bastard; he got what he had coming. When Tarel closed his mind to the world around him, he could still hear the screams of his mother and brother. He shuddered. He could see his father’s face, bloodied and beaten, moments before Tarel brought that same knife down on him. That was the beginning and the end. The moment that began his spiral down the path to where he now found himself.

He pressed and massaged at the tightness in his calves before he stretched out on the floor, his eyes drooping until it was a struggle to keep them open. He’d sleep within the cavernous ruins this night and continue to Rot’s End at dawn. With any luck he would make contact with one of Lord Malrek’s agents there. He had no desire to travel any further and hoped to never step foot in the city of Chende again. With this contract fulfilled he’d buy the freedom he’d lost to the Lord of Chende.