Mendel contacted me in the usual way to meet him at the usual place. It has been some weeks since I had taken on a task, and while my more mundane life as a blacksmith and family-man is enjoyable, I do sometimes crave my chosen profession.
I pray that it is someone worthy of my talents, and not some stupid fetch-quest like the one the duke sent me on not too long ago. I am no hero. I am no adventurer. I am an assassin.
Hiram Mendel is a sort of a facilitator for me, although he is not the only one. I rarely interact directly with my actual employers. One never knows when today's employer will become tomorrow's target. I could have this same problem with someone like Mendel, but it has not happened yet.
As the time to meet approaches, the weather turns foul. Rain pours from the skies, and clouds block out the moon drenching the woods in both water and darkness. I carry neither torch nor lantern as there is still enough light for me to see.
It's not hard to tell when I am getting close to the clearing anyway, as I can see Mendel's lantern glowing between the trees from a great distance. I have instructed him about this, but he is a reluctant student when it comes to matters of stealth. I have grown used to being satisfied with him not approaching me in the middle of the village, and take that lesson's having been learned as a small victory.
He can't see me, blinded by his lantern, but I can see him there doing his nervous little dance, as if he needs to relieve himself. I cannot say as I blame him for being afraid to be alone in the forest after dark; I suspect he would lose a fight against a stunned raccoon if is came to that.
“Mendel!” I call out, so as not to scare him into actually soiling his clothes by just walking out of the darkness.
He jumps, then answers,“Goda? Is that you?”
“Who else would it be?” I ask, stepping into the clearing.
Normally he calms down a little when I appear and launches into the job he has obtained for me, but tonight he continues with his garderobe dance. While I believe he should hold at least a small amount of fear for me, it seems like something else is occupying his mind.
“You seem tense tonight, Mendel, what troubles you?”
“Well, you see...”
“Spit it out, man!”
He stands there silent in the rain, shifting from foot to foot. His eyes, his big doe-like eyes; there is the usual look he gets when he thinks he is keeping information from me, but there is something else. He looks like he is afraid of something, and I do not think that it is me.
“Well, I, uh, I don't really have a job for you.”
I am annoyed, “Then why have you summoned me out here in the middle of a storm? I do not enjoy your company all that much.”
“I'm sorry, Goda, I had to.”
Rain is both a blessing and a curse at times. It can be helpful because it can cover incidental small noises you may make while approaching a target, making it easier to close distance for a quiet kill. It can also cover the incidental noises of those who wish to make you the target.
I see a flash reflect off of Mendel's eyes, and grab his lantern from him. I turn to throw it at the glint. As I turn pain blooms in my left arm as a thrown blade slides across my flesh; a second earlier and that would have been the center of my back.
The lantern flies at a robed figure, breaking on impact with the attacker's head, and plunging us into darkness as the person falls back against a tree.
I can hear the others coming now, any attempts to conceal themselves forgotten, and pull my blade from the folds of my own robe. The first one to reach me reaches the tip of my sword first, impaling himself on it.
I kick the body away from me, freeing my sword, and turning it towards movement out of the corner of my eye. I slice through the cloth protecting this attacker's neck, and send him staggering away.
I pivot again, and this time my sword clangs against metal. He parries my blade away, but leaves himself open to the stiletto concealed in my left hand. I stab his arm, and he cries out, dropping his sword. I grab him by his bleeding arm, and pull him, throwing him between me and another attacker.
The wounded fighter cries out again, louder this time, as one of his fellows' swords rakes across his chest. I shove the wounded man into his partner, and run them both through with my own sword.
When I got to pull my sword back, it sticks, caught against a piece of bone most likely. I let it go, and reach instead into my robes for some throwing daggers.
With three quick flicks of the wrist, three more of my attackers are down, but I still cannot tell how many of them are left. They are coming out of the trees as though they were spirits. Spirits do not fall to the blade of a sword however.
My next two throws miss their target, and he is now too close to me. I yank free the belt around my waist, feeling the weight of the chain concealed within it as I do, and slash it through the air like a whip. The end catches my attacker in the face, staggering him more from surprise than from actual pain.
I grasp the belt in both hands, and quickly twist it around his sword arm. I swing him to the side into another robed figure, knocking that man off of his feet and to the ground. I step behind my captive, and pull the belt up around his neck, smacking him in the face with the hilt of his own sword.
Another robed figure strikes with his sword, without much consideration for the safety his ally. I pull my human shield one way, blocking the strike with the sword still gripped in his hand. I pull him the other to block another strike. After the third time I start to grow tired of pulling this essentially dead weight around, and pull my belt down the front of his body, bringing his sword down to protrude in an admittedly phallic manner.
Shoving my captive forward, and delivering a kick to his arse for emphasis, his sword plunges into the gut of his associate. I release my hold on the belt, and step around my flesh shield, grabbing the sword from his dying friend's hand as he sinks to the soft, wet dirt.
With a flourish, I swing the sword around, and slice through the man's throat. His head drops to the ground, and after a couple of uncertain steps his body follows. A good blade, not as good as one of mine, but the craftsman who created it has nothing to be ashamed of.
I see the man knocked down by my shield climbing to his feet, and deliver a savage kick to his face. He crashes back to the ground with the crunching noise of sticks and grass giving way beneath him. I put my boot on the side of his face, and stomp down, twisting his head to the left until I hear a satisfying crunch of bone.
I search around for more attackers. I find none, so instead move back to Mendel, who smells as if he has soiled himself now, although that could be the dead lying around us. I place the tip of the stolen blade to the shaking man's throat, causing him to shake harder.
“Steady yourself before you cut your own neck,” I snarl, and he tenses up, causing his shaking to steady some.
“I'm sorry, Goda, they made me do it!” Mendel pleads.
“Who? How? What did they offer you? What have you thrown your life away for? Money? Land?”
“My family!” he cries, snot running out of his nose, “Surely you can understand that!”
I might.
“Explain.”
“They said they would kill my family if I did not deliver you to them. They knew about my dealings with you.”
I remove the sword from his throat, “Who?”
“See for yourself!” he points to the pair of bodies held together by my sword.
I stab the enemy's sword into the soft dirt, approach the dead. Gripping my sword with both hands, I brace the corpses against the clearing floor with my foot, and yank my weapon free. Taking a moment to wipe the blade clean on a portion of the attacker's robe that is not already stained with blood, I sheath it. I then kick the body in the side, rolling it onto its back.
The hood falls away from the face, and I see the mark burnt into my would-be assassin's forehead. It is the crest of Malifar the wizard.
“I see,” I say, keeping my voice calm.
While I have not had any direct conflict with Malifar, I have had... incident with some of his followers. It has been nothing personal, I can promise you this, only business, but some people are incapable of separating my work for actual aggression towards them on a personal level. Malifar has clearly taken my performing my job as some sort of direct action against him and his ambitions, and while I do not particularly wish to see him succeed, I am not signing up with the king's forces to fight against him.
Knowing that wizard is involved makes me wonder about the sudden poor turn of weather.
While choosing my next words, I cross to the headless corpse still in possession of my belt. I take my time disentangling my belt from it, careful to get no more blood on it than I already have. After replacing the belt around my waist, I turn back to Mendel, who remains rooted to the ground and crying.
“How long have you been working for Malifar?” I ask.
“I look for work, same as you; some for you.”
“So it was money?”
“No! I did not sell you out!”
I pull my own sword again, and place it against the throat of the last living person in this clearing who is not me, “You did sell me out, Mendel, and after I kill you I am going to pay your family a visit myself.”
“No!” the man shrieks, “No, Goda, I swear to you! Please do not harm my family.”
“You deceived me, Mendel. You betrayed me!”
“I did not want to! My family, Goda, please, do what you must to me, but spare my family.”
Mendel is a horrible liar, it makes him rather ill-suited as a seeker of employment for me, but it also allows me to trust him. I know when he is telling lies, and right now he is not. I remove the blade, but do not put it away.
“I believe you,” I say.
“Oh thank you, Goda, you are most merciful!”
“I shall let you live only for your family, and I suggest you return to them now. When you arrive home, you are to take them and go as far away as you can. Once Malifar discovers that you have led his men into a trap rather than helped them succeed at their mission, he is likely to make good on his threats to your wife and child. Use the money you have been withholding from me to start a new life somewhere else.”
Mendel looks shocked. I am sure that it is because he did not know I knew he was skimming my pay. He regularly underestimates me, much to his peril.
Yes, Goda, thank you, Goda. I shall go right away!”
He starts into the woods, clearly fearing whatever might lurk in the darkness between here and home less than me now. I stop him.
“Hold!”
Mendel stops, and turns to face me, rain, tears, and snot still running down his cheeks.
“Come,” I order, “Give me your hand.”
Mendel slowly, cautiously, approaches me, and extends his shaking right hand to me.
“The other hand.”
He lowers his right hand, and even more slowly raises his wildly shaking left hand.
I know what he fears. When he is not facilitating the murder of strangers for money, he plays the lute, a task for which he requires all of his fingers. He fears that he may have played the lute for the last time.
“You deceived and betrayed me, Hiram Mendel, and that cannot be allowed to stand,” I say, gripping his wrist with my left hand.
“Goda, please.”
“I am allowing you to leave with both your life and lives of your family. Do not beg of me more mercy, for I have none left,” I say, raising the blade.
I could cut off a finger, or the whole hand. Damnation, I could cut off his arm to the elbow right now if it pleased me. Instead, I turn his hand palm down, and slice the flesh on the back of it with my sword; he hisses in pain and surprise. Blood flows, mixing with the rainwater, and pattering down onto the ground.
I release Mendel's hand, “Every time you look upon that scar, remember what happens to people who seek to deceive me. Now go, and should I ever hear of you taking work from Malifar or his followers again, gods help me, but I will come for you. Is that understood.
As Mendel scurries off into the forest, I remain, searching my attackers for information, reclaiming my weapons and also some of theirs. I want to study them, learn what I can of the hand that crafted them. I suspect that this is not the last time I shall cross paths with Malifar's forces, although if he were as smart as he thinks he is, it would be.