Quietly, Ismarus waited behind an old juniper as the night sky gradually lost its dark veil. The juniper was on the border of the forest and the glade, giving Ismarus a clear view of what lay ahead of him. Being flanked by the other tall trees on three sides, one had to be very cautious in order to notice Ismarus standing at the base of the juniper, with his bow. Getting an arrow from the quiver, very gently he ran his lips along the length of it. This way he could feel, even the slightest deviation on the surface of it. Any deviation would hurl the arrow off course.
Not too long after Calsyto and the jester had trotted away, three riders came out into the opening, riding in the same direction. It was obvious, they were no ordinary travelers. They carried everything an assassin would. Ismarus drew an imaginary line, joining the tip of his arrow with the chosen target ahead. He had to estimate the distance before releasing the arrow. He picked the assassin at the rear of the group. The distance exceeded fifty yards. At that kind of distance, his experience told him, it would not be right to shoot straight. The arrow had to be given a parabolic flight path. Hence, Ismarus raised the tip of the arrow, perhaps a centimeter or so, before releasing it from the bow. A twang, followed by the hissing noise marked the departure of the arrow.
It took a few moments for the angel of death to find its victim. The two riders ahead of their fallen companion galloped for a while before realizing what had happened. Without wasting time, they rushed towards the shelter of the forest to their left. Ismarus knew, the companions of the fallen assassin would try to track him down. He disembarked, and patted Petar, giving him the signal to roam freely in the forest. The moment Petar had disappeared from sight, Ismarus placed himself behind an ancient oak. He was fairly certain, the remaining two assassins would approach him from the right flank. With him, Ismarus had a number of hunting knives. He took one in his hand, felt the sharpness of the blade with his thumb, before grabbing another from its leather pocket. He held the blade of the second knife with his mouth. He was all too familiar with what was to follow. Only this time, his would be assassins would fill in the space inside the forest, instead of a deer or a warthog. Calmly, Ismarus waited for his prey to appear. His senses sharpened, remaining alert for the slightest noise of the rustle or twigs being stepped over.
Roughly twenty yards from Ismarus, one of the assassins stepped out of the bushes. As the two sets of eyes met, a faint smile adorned the assassin’s lips. He had no problem recognizing Ismarus. However, his long face, a shaved head, and a nose drooping like the beak of an eagle, looked unfamiliar. Ismarus did not wait for the smile to disappear. The man was startled by the swiftness of Ismarus’ reflex. Perhaps he had expected a confrontation with swords. But luck ran out, and dropping dead even before he could blink, with a knife stabbed in his chest.
Refraining from retrieving the knife, Ismarus whispered to himself, “One more to go.” At any moment, the other assassin could appear. Getting caught unprepared could be fatal. Hence, he stood still, waiting for the other man to show up. And a few feet from his dead companion, the last hired killer came into sight. He had not yet noticed Ismarus waiting for him, so Ismarus whistled to draw his attention. The young man shuddered like a leaf, turning to face his adversary. Ismarus could tell the young, inexperienced man had been breathing heavily. His dirty blonde hair looked terrible. They stood like spikes, and at several spots they had been trimmed clumsily. His long thick nose, protruding prominently in comparison, was the first thing Ismarus noticed about him. Under his robe, he had an impressive physique, at least his fairly muscular limbs and shoulders gave out this impression. He was almost as tall as Ismarus.
“Cowards do that,” he remarked at Ismarus upon observing the condition of his dead companion. Ismarus understood what he meant. He put his knife back into its sheath, and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Are you up to the task you have been assigned to do, young man?” Ismarus asked the young killer.
“Take your sword in your hand. It’s time to find out.”
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“How much has the usurper paid you for my head?’
“Enough to entice anyone with muscles and the guts, albeit it’s a dangerous and ugly business.”
“So, you admit, it’s an ugly business.”
“Of course.”
“Have you received any kind of advance payment from your paymaster?”
“Twenty-five gold drachmas.”
“Since the payment has been made for my head, if I live, those gold drachmas are mine. I could use them. Is that fair?”
“Fair enough.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“It’s nice to be young. But remember, lack of experience comes with it. Hence, I expect you to make mistakes. Once, I was like you too. Therefore, I’m going to give you a couple of chances.”
“I do not understand what you mean,” the young assassin said.
“In a battle, combatants do not just die. They die when they make mistakes. Since you lack experience, I assume you’re going to make mistakes. I never took pride in fighting young people like you. But sometimes, we cannot choose our adversaries. They are imposed upon us, as is the case before me right now. Anyway, I will refrain from handing out the death blow when you make the first two mistakes. However, I cannot let the generosity continue forever. If you do not succeed in doing what you have come here to do by the time you make your third mistake, I’m afraid I won’t stop you from joining your dead companions, once you make your third mistake.”
“Ha ha ha,” the young combatant laughed nervously, and then said contemptuously, “I get it. You’re so generous, Ismarus.”
“Alright, then let the battle begin,” Ismarus responded.
For the first few moments, the two combatants simply circled each other. The young adversary of Ismarus waited for the opportunity to strike while Ismarus waited to deflect the blows. At one point, the young assassin began the ferocious assaults. Each blow was enough to kill Ismarus in a blink of an eye, had it not been deflected skillfully. In frenzy, unwittingly, the attacker raised his sword to strike harder, exposing his chest and belly.
“Never raise your sword when you can see your adversary in a position to lung his sword into you,” Ismarus said to his young adversary. However, instead of impaling him, Ismarus once again deflected the blow which came down a few seconds later. Subsequently, the duel continued for a while. Ismarus could sense the frustrations building up in his adversary. The young combatant mistook Ismarus’ calm composure as weakness. At one point, he lunged forward, putting all his weight behind his sword. Ismarus had speculated the move. Hence, shifting his body to a side, he used the momentum of his adversary against him. The young combatant lost balance, and almost fell to the ground in an awkward position.
“This is your last chance. Never put all your weight behind the sword when you plunge it forward,” Ismarus reminded the young combatant.
By then, the young combatant had been panting. He raised himself from the ground, brushed his attire before resuming the fight. Ismarus changed his tactics from defensive to offensive. His blows grew harder and harder. Not long after the young combatant had realized his imminent doom, he threw away his sword, and dropped on his knees before Ismarus, begging Ismarus to spare his life. Ismarus touched the throat of his vanquished adversary with the tip of his sword. He felt pity for his fallen adversary. At the same time, felt sorry for his own lot.
“I know, your majesty. I know,” the vanquished whimpered.
“You know what?” Ismarus hissed.
“I know, you are the true heir to the Odrysian throne. I swear allegiance to you and the queen mother.”
“What’s your name?”
“Antonov,” the young man replied. Then he took out a leather pouch and offered it to Ismarus. Ismarus refused. For the last time, he thought if he should let young Antonov go. Weariness gripped his heart as he turned, placing the sword in its scabbard. At gingerly pace he stepped towards the corpse of the fallen assassin. Under the belt of the dead man, he noticed a similar pouch. He grabbed it, and returned to Antonov, still on his knees.
“Go, get the pouch from your dead companion out in the glade,” Ismarus instructed Antonov. “I will be watching you from here,” he added.
Obediently, Antonov did what he was told, returning with the leather pouch in his hand. By then, the morning sun was up in the sky, declaring the beginning of a new day. A cool gentle breeze heralded the change of season, ahead of them.
“Keep what you wanted to earn through evil. Spend it on worthier cause. Do not be enticed by the devil’s sweet promises, young man. Remember, at the end of it all, they earn you nothing but anguish and shame. And be kind to those who need your help.”
“If you wish, you can take me as your slave, my lord.”
“I do not need any slaves, but I do believe, I have earned a friend in you. I could use a good friend.”
“Yes, my lord.”
When he was done with Antonov, Ismarus whistled to his horse roaming somewhere in the forest. As Petar trotted out into the glade, out into a brand-new day, with a sigh, Antonov stared at the receding horse and its rider.