[One Week Previous]

The torrential rains that fell on Re-Robel extinguished all hope of a lively night. Men and women in the upper districts scrapped any plans they had kept hope in their hearts for; port merchants dismissed what dockworkers had stayed for nocturn duty, men scurrying back to their homes hands overhead to save at least a little dryness; urchins and paupers hid beneath overhangs and alleys, seeking comfort from the cold and the mist. All who stirred on the streets were watchmen, the desperate, and the underhanded. Chardel was a member of the third group, and he leaned against a side entrance to a tavern on one of the main thoroughfares. He watched the comings and goings of people through the haze, felt his hands numb as the bitterness of the rain - unusual for this time of year - sapped his warmth and left him chilled. He spied a man approaching, cutting through the gloom. Sensing it was his time, he called out.

“Rain is brutal tonight, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t call it brutal.”

This has to be him. Seems a tad daft though.

“Say, you know any good pie stands around.”

“Five, three of which are good.”

Chardel made no movement, letting slip no tell that his code phrase had just been reciprocated. He swept his eyes up and down the man, picking out what he could from his neutral pose.

He’s taller than I expected, and that accent of his. He’s a northerner. His stance is good. Wouldn't be able to tell he had a blade on him from a distance. His lean is off though, reckon he's carrying one on his right leg, maybe a few in that coat. His left wrist is stiff too, one stuffed in there. Southpaw.

“You were briefed?”

“Yes.”

“I’m thinking we scale the east wall, go in through the second story window to the study.”

“Why? Packet said otherwise.”

Ah, he’s novice. Shit.

“Indoor patrols run faster. Better to stay outside, gives us more time between passes.”

His companion nodded, and Chardel fastened his cloak tighter, and leaned forward away from the wall. He had no desire to waste time and wished to accomplish their objective - even before the night reached its nadir.

“Let’s move.”

— [Five Days Previous]

Count Fenthrop’s demesne had been empty. Not of the guards, of course, and when Chardel’s and his companion Pock had broken in they had found themselves in a tight melee. The pair managed to get the drop on two of the hired men, and slew another three before escaping. To their annoyance, they had found that the Count had made away earlier in the night. It had taken another day to pin down exactly where he was fleeing too and muster steeds for the cause of running him down. Chardel and Pock now rode flat out, making their way east with speed. With the matter of acquiring the resources necessary for pursuit finally settled - itself a day of turmoil and restlessness - to be now faced with the endless distance between them in their mark gave Chardel the time to process his thoughts.

He may not be much of a skulk, but he’s certainly a good fighter. No disrespect to the ‘and’, I suppose.

It was not possible to ride at speed and wear a hood, and the sun overhead framed Pock’s head clearly. His hair was a fiery red, and although close-cut, still whipped brilliantly in the wind.

Red hair. Definitely a Northerner, probably a Drell. Wonder what he’s doing here. Probably looking for better work. Not sure what’s left up there.

They rode swiftly, passing a cluster of farmhands grazing their animals. Chardel looked at a few of their cows, and although passing too quickly to evaluate the health of their stock, they looked thin. Had they the time, he would have suggested dismounting, running off the farmers, and taking one of the fatter animals. The road they galloped down was side enough to give them enough time to strip at least a few good cuts off of an animal. Fenthrop’s flight gave them no such slack.

Hard to tell who he fled with. The men at his demesne said something about Knights Penlan and Iliaden. “You fatherless bastards won’t get past Knight Penlan-” Something similar to that, at least.

The pair crested a hill, the expanse of the wheat fields around them seeming to stretch forever into the horizon. Beyond that, wooden fences found their ends, and the wild wabe stretched on ever further. Even here in the heartland, the Kingdom was not a complete place. Pock stroked his mare’s reins, and for the first time Chardel saw his right hand clearly.

He’s missing his two forefingers.

Chardel found himself short for time, dismissing the subject to instead keep close watch on the road ahead. He peered into the far field, and running his gaze along the road ahead he caught a fork in its progression. The rain had left the soil malleable enough to be marked by cartwheels. He traced the path of one of one such track, watching it turn off to the right.

That’s them.

Chardel rose from his low stance, having been leaning into the wind to avoid catching as hard. Setting his left hand in his mouth, he blew a sharp whistle, at the same time giving a hand signal with his dexter, holding his arm stock and flat to his right. Pock turned back, and nodded in acknowledgement. Descending the hill, Chardel lost sight of the wilderness in the distance. They approached the bend and kept right, never breaking their horses from their full pace.

— [Three days Previous]

The campfire provided the pair little comfort. This was not simply because they kept it low, it putting off barely enough heat to simmer a meal. They found it a hollow respite precisely because they had failed to track down their target. Two riders on horseback would far and away exceed any drawn carriage in haste, and thus they should have caught their target by now. When it became clear that Fenthrop had slipped from the main course of the road from Re-Robel in an east-north-easterly direction, Chardel had surmised that the man was heading towards the city of Re-Estize, likely to the perceived safety of the capital’s Adventurers Guild. He and Pock thus devised a scheme to cut the path of the road, wait a league outside the village of Namarai, and catch Fenthrop when he passed.

I can’t believe this. Where could he be going? This was supposed to be an easy assignment.

When the day fell low and no quarry came upon the sight of their lurking, it became clear that Chardel’s gambit had failed. Scrambling to figure out why, the pair had rode into Namarai, Pock paying a sum to a local farmhand, who revealed that their marks again broke northward. They rode as much as they could, which was disappointingly little. The last few days of catching up to, and then attempting to exceed Fenthrop had left their horses exhausted, and although they had ridden over twenty leagues that day, they were less than half that distance closer to the Count.

He’s heading north of Re-Estize. North of Re-Estize… What’s out there?

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Chardel was half-laying, leaned against a tree. He pitched his body to his side, withdrawing a map from his bag. He had thrown it in haphazardly, his rough treatment of the thing born from frustration twelve minutes prior when he estimated the scant distance they had gained on their mark. Uncurling it gently, he was relieved to see it was not frayed or torn, and by firelight (for the world had already fallen too deep into the penumbra), he went about tracing his path with his fingers.

A number of villages up there, but little else. Shit. Does he have an in with a local Baron? Even a town mayor, or village chief? That could turn into a fortnight of hunting, and we’d without a doubt lose him. We could always ride back to his demesne and wait, but his return could take months, and he would come in force when he does. We need to run him down fast, before he can disappear into the countryside.

“Pock.”

“Yes?”

“How many waterskins do you have left?”

“Three full. Another two-thirds spent.”

“Drink the rest of that before sleeping.”

“We’re rising early?”

Huh. He knows the water trick? Man of the crescent moon. After my own heart. Does Fenthrop fear we’re after him? He nearly shook us by deflecting north. No, doing so at Namarai would make him either a damn soothsayer, or luckier than the Greed Kings themselves.

“We’ll need to. Fenthrop’s been riding at night”

Chardel chuckled silently to himself, closing his eyes and cracking his neck in the process. His body hurt. He was twenty-six, a grizziled veteran in the Assassination Division. Over a decade of wetwork had taken its pound of flesh from him; what was left was stringy, tough, and increasingly run thin. Even before that, he was a petty street criminal, dragging poor-souls into back alleys and taking his due. For his part, he had survived long enough for the work to actually pay off. Waylaying Fenthrop was the last in a string of assignments, a test of worthiness for promotion to enforcer.

There’s a mark here for an abandoned keep. I wonder if he has a hideout there. Cunning if so. That’s what, ten leagues north of the city? We could make that distance by dawn, just barely by our pacing however.

“Pock, I think I know where he’s headed.”

“Where?”

Chardel rolled the map and handed it to Pock. He had been tending to the fire, trying to eke out a hot meal on the plain; this was nothing but heating some pemmican, but they had both endured worse meals. He ladled over the fat that had rendered out, trying his best to keep the meal as filling as possible.

“You see those villages north of Re-Estize? There’s a dilapidated keep nestled in there. Next to Re-Junda. Do you think we can make it there in time?”

Pock let the map furl open with one hand, looking at it, his eyes darting rapidly and forth. After a few moments, he turned back to Chardel and nodded.

He didn’t even look at it. Ah. He can’t read.

Chardel beckoned with his arm, and Pock returned the map. Chardel caught sight of Pock’s right hand again.

Severed fingers… Severed fingers, experienced fighter, Drell. He was one of the Grayguard. Gods above. That’s a war I wouldn’t have wanted to see.

Chardel looked at his comrade not with true pity, but something more akin to an understanding of the suffering he had endured.

It makes sense. Even though he’s still green to professional wetwork, he’s cunning in his fights, and in finding places to lurk. He’s probably spent as many nights in fields waiting for the earth-fated to approach as have I, and he’s five-score moons more a yewling. They lopped off his fingers as punishment for rebellion? No, if you were thought to be a Grayguard, they just hung you. He probably was just around; brother or son of one. Maybe he picked up arms after. To think he got away - managed to make it down this far south.

Chardel spun a small section of twine around the map, tying it. He slipped it into his bag, but paused, not pulling his arm back from the satchel.

That keep there. It read abandoned, not dilapidated. That map was something I got from Vetha back before he bit it, and it was an heirloom even for him. Villages don’t move or disappear, but that keep could easily have been reoccupied. Vexing. I know not if they’re even headed there, and I find myself consumed with hypotheticals.

Chardel exhaled, feeling a mote of bitterness brewing in his soul. He hoped for a hasty end.

— [40th of Foresai, Upper Fire Month, Day 16]

Shit. There's mud on the lense. Can’t see a thing.

Chardel rolled onto his left side and withdrew a cloth from one of his breast pockets. Holding the spyglass with his left hand, he collapsed the spyglass with the back of his right hand, shortening it enough to clean it. He gave a few short wipes with a cleaning rag, inspected it, and wiped it further. Telescoping it out, he peered through the eyepiece, only to be disappointed.

This isn't coming clean. I drank all my distillate too. Gods. To think they ran to the company of the Blue Roses.

He collapsed the spyglass again, rolling back onto his right side to look at the man to his left. He was also prone in the mud, the two of them framed by plainsgrasses that nearly matched the height of their chest while standing.

“Pock, you have any distillate?”

“What’s it to you?”

“What?”

“Like I said, what’s it to you?”

“Are you serious?”

“After you skimped-silvers on me the last town back? Making me pay that boy myself? Yes, I’m serious.”

“That was just three coppers. Are you… you can’t be… that’s absurd.”

“That’s what it’ll cost you, three coppers.”

“Three coppers?”

“Three coppers.”

I can’t believe this shit. I knew Pock was miserly, but this is mad.

Chardel dug through another side pocket of his, withdrawing a little money from his satchel. Pulling out a coin, he pinched its ends between his thumb and forefinger, flicking it with his opposite index. Pock snatched it out of the air without looking.

“Here you go, my lordship, one standard aurim of silver for the whole thing.”

Youth like you ought to have more respect for those who proceed you. You won’t climb far here with an attitude like that. Perhaps in Security. They have plenty taste for the brash.

A small vial was thrown back, Chardel catching it and rapidly undoing its top. Its cap unscrewed, Chardel caught a whiff of the liquid, his nose curling at the scent. Distillate like this was never meant to be consumed straight, always mixed in with another drink. It served both as a way to wet oneself on long journeys, finding its place among other long term rations like jerkies and hardtack. It also doubled as cleaning fluid, a use for which Chardel found himself in need. He rolled back into his elbows, spying his target in the distance.

“This stuff is strong. What’s it proof at?”

“One-Eighty.”

“...That’s not bad.”

“I buy the good stuff.”

So you’ll spendscant with me, but blow your wages on quality drink? Pock, you aren’t a miser, but an alcoholic. Fitting for a Drell.

Chardel wetted the cleaning rag with the alcohol, and began to work on cleaning the lense. With a few brisk and forceful wipes, it gained a visible shine. Grinning at his work, he resealed the vial, pocketed the cloth, and extended the spyglass again. He was happy to see he could make out the keep in the distance clearly.

Fenthrop’s men come out at least five times a day to care for the horses, but they always travel in triplets. It would be difficult to engage into such a number, especially if they’re knights. At least two of them wear full plate. In addition, that woman in the red robe comes out from time to time and looks around. I think that’s Evileye. No clue what she’s doing though. This is making me nervous. I can’t understand why the handler did not release us from this assignment, why shift priorities from Fenthrop to-

It was at that moment that Chardel felt a blade press up against his throat. His peripheral vision confirmed Pock befell the same fate.

“Don’t squirm.”

“That is, if you want to live.”

He felt a weight come to rest on his back, a lock of blond hair falling across his head to his right, as well as what he identified as the tailing of a red hair tie.

That’s… one of the twins we saw. Shit.

“You know, I always thought the phrase ‘I could hear you for miles’ was apocryphal. You two deserve at least some gratitude for teaching me otherwise.”

“Agreed.”

Chardel sighed painfully, a sense of despair gripping him. There was no point in fighting to escape his captor. He knew the rumors of the Twin Killers, less so as enemies of his masters, but as assassins whose names and deeds were nearing the status of legends in the dark circles which he came from. Further, that despite his presumade superiority in raw strength by virtue of his sex, he possessed only a fraction of the lethality and might of the woman who’s knife had made a small mark across his throat. Pock tried where Chardel did not, he having espoused his complete disbelief in the glory of the Blue Roses. He pushed up, trying to throw the woman off of him to spin and draw his blade. He didn’t get off the ground, she slit his throat calmly. Pock died proud.

Fucking idiot.