Sleep evaded him, no matter how hard he tried to entice its gentle embrace. It was fearful of the nightmare that lurked in the corners of his mind. He lay awake, staring at the vast abyss of sky overhead. There was no point in closing his eyes. Irritated anxiousness kept him from relaxing. Every rustle carried on a light breeze made him snap to his feet, sword in hand. Each time, he found no foe, but this constant never reassured him. He held his weary vigil until he grew tired of it and returned to his aimless march once again. Out in the middle of nowhere, far from the neighboring towns, the only time Faris felt secure was when he strode across the hilly country with his palm resting on his blade.

He kept a safe distance away from Cur's Pass, a road that through the rocky terrain. It was the only clear route for wagons; in turn, bandits found the surrounding hills perfect to scheme their ambushes. With these greedy wolves ready to gobble up any passerby, one needed to travel in large numbers to ensure their safety. Faris had no numbers. Distance was his best defensive measure. Even if he saw a group passing through, he could not afford for anyone to remember he was around. If he wanted to survive, he had to be as invisible as a gentle breeze.

In those hills, he kept the road in sight. Looking down, he cursed the road and what followed him. No matter where he went, they were always a few steps behind. As the days wore on, he had a suspicion. "What if they know where I'm going?" he mused, fearful that he was right. With the roads of the world meeting up in the various cities, towns, and provinces, one did not need to be a skillful hunter to figure out where one was heading. All the seeker needed was a starting point; he knew they had that much, those watchful eyes in the city flashing through his mind.

They knew he was running. Always forward, never backtracking. Turning back put him at greater risk. Too much chance of someone recognizing him. However, there was a terrible truth that they no doubt knew. Faris realized it some time back. What would he do when he ran out of towns to run to? It may take a long time, but their chase could last a lifetime. In time, he would only come to one final solution. Looking away from the road, he gazed out on a world of possibilities, away from the roads and people.

He longed to disappear. It would be so easy. Who could find him if he wandered off to one of the shadowy parts of the map? His teeth ground in frustration. What he wanted could never happen. Disappearing...that was what he wanted. No matter what happened, he could not let him win. Was there any point to his running if he gave in so easily? With a shake of his head, he turned back to the road, resolving the path in his mind.

Diverting his thoughts, his stomach roared. His hand rubbed his empty guts. Since parting with his former employer, food was scarce. While Jacques was a difficult man, he kept his guards fed. Faris made sure to not eat more than he was used to. Hunger was difficult to endure when one grew accustomed to hot meals and full bellies. However, he was not a fool that passed taking advantage of a host's hospitality. Picking a pack with what little coin he had, he filled it with whatever food could keep.

Everything he set aside depleted days ago, leaving him to feed off the land. In these hills, he had few options. He tried catching a rabbit, but his trap failed. There was a patch of detestable berries he gathered. Each one made him gag, but they helped abate his hunger. Still, he could not run away from the truth. His body was growing weary. Lack of sleep and little to eat did not keep a body healthy. With sleep evading him, he had to seek whatever nourishment the land could offer him.

Out on the horizon, he noticed the faint hint of light turning the blackness in the distance to a dark blue. It was then that he noticed the wagon sitting by itself in the dim light of a fire. "Odd," he thought. No wagon would be this far along Cur's Pass without a small caravan. His eyes narrowed, trying to spot any figures moving about. With dawn so close at hand, they would be eager to get on the road. Before they head out, they will wish to eat something, preparing themselves for the long day ahead. Faris's stomach screamed for food.

When he snapped out of his daze, he found himself halfway down the hill. His legs carried him toward the potential food without waiting for his decision. Was that the severity of his hunger? He forced himself to stop walking. Going down there was risky. Meeting a traveler in the middle of nowhere was not something anyone could forget in a hurry. Those that sought his life would have another lead toward him.

Yet he could not pull his eyes away. They lingered on the wagon as the sky grew to a fainter blue in the distance. No one stirred around the wagon. I can swipe what I need before they wake, he thought. If he made it quick, he could be on his way, with a pack of food, before the sun broke the horizon, but if he lingered, his chance would vanish for sure. Who knew when he would have this chance again?

His stomach wailed again. He gave in, rushing down the hills as fast as his legs could carry him. Not a thought was given to anything else. He never considered that this was a ploy of his pursuers, hoping to lure him out. All that mattered was the food he could plunder. If anyone got in his way, he had a sword. He hoped to avoid bloodshed. That would only complicate matters. Dead men in the middle of the road often raised suspicion.

He stopped on the other side of the road, looking around to see if anyone was nearby. To his relief, he was alone with the wagon. He drew closer to the covered wagon. Days of mud and dirt lay caked on the wheels. Whoever slept inside traveled a long way. The fire was on the other side of the wagon, no doubt where the night watchmen were. Just because he could not see the man from the hills did not mean he was not there. He heard no shuffling, so the man had to be dead on his feet. A fortunate advantage.

Faris moved as a shadow, making no noise. He slid up to the wagon, listening for the slightest movement. His hairs stood on end. No snoring filled his ears. No creaking from tossing sleepers. He could not detect a hint of breathing. At last, he heard it. The worst noise he could hear. One that broke the silence and drove all thoughts of food from his mind.

A guttural groan broke out near the fire. He froze. That groan was all too familiar to him. The groan of death. Whether he wanted it or not, blood was shed and a dead body was on the road. Worse than that, the killer was afoot. Faris's hand strayed to his silver blade as he slid along the wagon. He listened out for any footsteps, but this being was silent as the dead.

On the road, killers had to face the sword. As long as they did not reveal their true nature, they could go their way in peace. Once blood spilled, those around them had no choice but to kill, unless they longed to be the next victim. When he reached the corner of the wagon, he saw a shadow. He drew his blade, not allowing it to hiss its unsheathing. His muscles tensed as he took a deep breath. It would be over in an instant. He had to land the decisive strike.

When he leapt out, he faltered, witnessing the last thing he expected. He found Jacques on the ground, his hand laying limp on the hilt of his sword. His glazed eyes looked up at a dawning sky he could no longer see. Trickles of drying blood streaked across his face. They sprung from a knife buried in the man's forehead. His mouth hung agape, surprised by his manner of death. Crouching beside him, rummaging through his purse, was a man in a woven ruana. The man called Azrael.

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Faris kept blade drawn, not sure what would happen next. Men of the road could not be trusted when a dead man was amongst them. It became a fight over who would get the deceased's possessions. Seeing as he killed one man, Azrael would not hesitate to kill another that might want his quarry, even if valuables were the last thing on Faris's mind. The man looked up, noticing the swordsman for the first time. In the dim firelight, Faris noticed a glint of recognition in his eyes as a wide smile broke out on the killer's face. Not a muscle in his body hinted at fighting. "Sorry," he greeted. "Grew tired of hearing the same story over and over."

He turned back to his business, looking at the wares found on his former employer's person. "Odd," he mused, revealing a beautiful locket. He opened it, whistling. "What woman would want him?" He paused, chuckling as a worse thought came into being. "Who would want to bear his children? Worse, who would want to be his children?" Stuffing the locket in his ruana, he kept rummaging through the dead man's clothes.

"That was your game," Faris said in a low voice, sheathing his blade at last. If the man wanted a fight, he'd waste no time talking. Though killers had to be dealt with, it was prudent to avoid a fight if another had no desire for one.

"Course," the murderous thief answered. "Not enough money in protection. Especially for one like him. Did you know I've fleeced men who woulda paid me three times what he did for even less work?" His grin fell in disgust. He spat on the merchant's face, most of the spittle pooling around Jacques's lifeless eyes. "Shoulda known better than to brag about your wares. Sooner or later, someone woulda shoved a knife in his belly." His smile returned. "Or your forehead. One can't be choosy about how he kills."

Azrael pulled off the corpse's boots, upending them. He found nothing hidden within them. His lips pulled back as he sucked his teeth. "Strange," he said. "Most merchants keep their best valuables in their shoes. Can't get them unless they're dead." He patted the corpse's cheek. "You were a unique fellow. Either way, these will make a great replacement for mine." Tossing the boots, he slid over to the top of the corpse's pants. "If you don't have anything in your boots, then..."

Slipping his hands beneath the fabric, a loud rip followed as he ripped out a small series of coin purses. "Ha," he laughed aloud, jumping to his feet. "Look at you, you clever tub of lard." With a swift kick to the corpse, the murderer dazzled himself with his spoils. "Used to have a pack of louts. They were good. Couldn't leave a woman around them, but they had an artisan's touch to cutting throats. Only problem is that the boss always has to share. Glad they got caught back on the north side of Nicaea. Not sure where they are now."

Faris was tired of listening to his prattling. Though he was not kowtowing to Jacques anymore, Azrael was no less irritating than before. Perhaps he was worse, being so proud of his ruse, which was not so clever. This was not the first time Faris heard of such things. It was an easy scheme for those willing to take the risks. Pose as a guard. Stab the hirer in the back when he slept. Any fool could do that.

"Hoped you would stay with us a little longer," he said, just as Faris was about to turn to go. With Jacques dead, he would pinch some food as he went; Azrael would never know. "Would muddy the suspects. Bound to be an investigation once they realize he's missing. If he had a locket, there's someone out there that'll want the truth. Since I was the only one that rode out with him, guess I can't go back that way." He shook his head toward the last town.

Faris paid no attention. Who knew when this man's posturing would end? "Hey, aren't you forgetting something?" he called. Faris paused, hand straying to the hilt of his blade. It would seem that he was wrong. The killer had not quenched his bloodlust. "Can't let you leave like that."

As he first anticipated, it would be over quick. He spun on his heel, drawing his sword. A small object flew at his head. He caught it, knowing that dodging could put him in an ideal place for another dagger. When his fingers wrapped around the projectile, he paused, noticing no pain shooting through his hand. Azrael remained crouched next to the body, making no attempt at fighting. A jiggle rang out from Faris's palm. Opening his hand, he found a small string of coins. "There you go," Azrael said with a half-bow. "Your pay with considerable interest. It's the least you deserve after all you put up with."

"Thanks," Faris replied, not understanding the man's game.

"Don't mention it," he said, with a grin forming at the edge of his lips. Faris tensed, knowing that there was another plot at play. "You know, there's a game that me and my louts liked to play." He pulled his bloody knife from Jacques's head. Fresh blood poured from the wound. Azrael wiped the knife on the corpse's clothes before holding the point between two well-trained fingers. "We liked to test our reflexes. Knife against sword. If the swordsman can deflect the knife thrower's strike, he decided the next game. Often it was a sword fight to the death. Too bad the knife thrower would not have a weapon when the battle started. So whoever had the knife had to have perfect aim, avoiding a sad end."

He drew back, ready to send the cruel dagger flying. Faris remained where he was, sword in hand. Their eyes held. In the distance, glowing eyes in the night watched, no doubt ready for another body to join the fresh corpse. There would be a feast whatever the outcome. Azrael's lips twitched, a new smile crossing his face. There was a defeated sadness about it. "Think we both know how this game will play out." In one smooth motion, he slid his knife back into his ruana. "Games with obvious endings bore me."

Faris slipped his sword back into its sheath. His hand stayed close. This man had an unpredictability that frightened him. A darkness covered his eyes, hiding the true intentions. Azrael rose to his feet, striding over to the wagon. Reaching inside, he revealed two packs close to bursting. Shouldering them both, he added, "The rest of the wagon is yours. I have all I need. Thanks to Jacques's employment, I'll have women hand-feeding me grapes for three years."

Before going on his way, he nodded at the corpse. "It was a pleasure working for you." His voice dripped with sarcasm. Sighing with a snap of his neck, Azrael spun on his heel, raising his hand in farewell. "Happy trails. Look me up if you have a good game." Heading east, he walked into the growing eastern light, drying blood glinting off his boots. Bag filled with his stolen treasures, he cast a shadow that had the appearance of a thick-winged being. It sent a chill across Faris's spine. At last, Azrael vanished into the hills, leaving Faris with their former employer.

He wondered if their paths would cross again. Men of the road had a tendency to show up from time to time. In Azrael's case, Faris felt that his life would be better if the murderer remained a distant memory. Turning his thoughts to other matters, he looked down at the body. To be victim of a murderous hire was a sorry fate for a merchant. "At least he was merciful," he mused, eyeing the deep cut which delivered a quick kill. He had little taste for dragging out a death. If a man must kill, make it short work. It's a matter of respect.

Reaching down, he gathered a handful of dirt, sprinkling it over the corpse. It was all the burial he could give. In most cities, it was customary for those burying a man to deliver a few parting words, known as The Testament. It was said that those words follow a soul into the afterlife, serving as an account of their life. Those words had a major impact on where the soul spent eternity. Without the words, the soul would hang in limbo, unable to receive their reward. Soothsayers provided excellent testaments for the right price. On the road, men had to pray that their temporary companions would oblige.

Faris had no desire to leave such words for the two spies that sought out his life. Whatever awaited them was well deserved in his eyes, but Jacques was a different matter. This man was pompous and lacked kindness, but he had done no evil thing toward Faris. What he did to others, that he could not vouch for. Perhaps it was due to pity. It might have been his stomach longing for the food the dead man no longer needed. Whatever the reason, Faris imparted a few words.

"He was a fair employer," Faris muttered, "paying a man what he earned in his own eyes. Trusted a man's word to a fault. Made his trade and died too early." He fell silent, not having anything else to add. To say more would go into the realm of falsehood. That would heap heavy punishment on the one receiving the words but also hurt the speaker. He stood, dusting the dirt from his pants. "And to the animals, have a nice meal." With a purse of coins and gathering whatever food his pack could carry, Faris walked off the main road, keeping west, opposite of Azrael.