A New Dawn Coming

Chapter Six

Faux shuffled through the long corridor, the bulky servants’ robes weighing him down. He had the hood pulled up, to cover the subtle points of his ears, and tried to mimic the slight limp that Jarvis had struggled with as he helped Faux find a liveried robe to fit him. He’d already passed a couple of guards, none of them giving him more than a cursory look before forgetting him. They seemed more interested in the tray he was carrying. The smell of fresh baked bread wafted from the platter, fighting to escape from under the thin cloth draped over it. The bread was nestled between some plump, dark purple grapes, an assortment of various cheeses, and a soft, oozing slab of butter. A bottle of dark red wine sat to one side on the tray, the same one that had been knocked to the floor earlier.

He rounded a corner and felt his adrenaline spike. This looked like the spot.

Although all the doors looked the same, this one had two bored looking guards lounging just outside, huddled close in quiet conversation. They were wearing the same armour that Faux was becoming all too familiar with. Boiled and hardened leather dyed a midnight blue, adorned with Keswick’s sigil.

With a quick flex of his shoulder, he started towards them. He focused on keeping his breathing even, and trying to sell the limp and weaker posture, in imitation of the old servant downstairs. A few paces from the door the guards took note of him and stopped talking, turning to face him. Faux dropped his head towards the floor, continuing to shuffle towards them, his body tensing.

“Well it’s about time,” the guard to Faux’s left growled at him. “They’re none too pleased at how long it’s taken you to get to the kitchens and back.”

“But don’t worry, you’ll probably only get flogged once or twice.” He grinned to his partner, pitiless eyes mocking the shambling servant in front of him.

Faux bobbed his head and continued to limp towards them, fighting for calm. With his head down, he sensed rather than saw a shift in the two sentries stances. This was as good as it was going to get.

He faked a stumble, pitcing forward. The tray and its contents tumbled from his hands, falling to the floor in a parody of the rain that had lashed the city earlier that night.

“Bloody hell.” The first soldier spat at him, as Faux staggered towards them. “You stupid moron!”

The two men stepped away as he regained his footing. Their eyes drawn to the plump grapes, as they bounced and rolled along the well-polished hardwood floor, the pewter tray clattering at their feet. The bread tumbled down the hallway, while the butter hit the floor with a wet splat. The wine bottle rolled in a wide arc before clunking into the wall.

Like an over coiled spring releasing, Faux sprang into action. He stepped to his left, driving his elbow into the unsuspecting guards exposed face. His nose crunched in a gout of blood, his two front teeth driven into his mouth and down his throat. As the guard crashed into the wall, clutching his ruined face, Faux had already leapt at the other soldier. A dagger, that had been strapped to the underside of his wrist, in his hand.

The dagger pierced the surprised mans throat, severing his spinal cord as it punched through the back of his neck. He collapsed to the floor as Faux yanked the dagger free and rounded on the guard who’s face he’d caved in. He lifted a foot and stomped on the man’s groin as he lay on the floor.

The guard let out a loud “Ooomf”, his hands instinctively covering his groin, an agonizing pain shooting through his abdomen, clenching his stomach. A sour reddish vomit erupted from his mouth, pulsing along the floor. Faux deliverd a savage kick to the man’s forehead, snapping his head off the wall behind him. The body went limp and still.

Faux crouched, dagger drawn, and stared at the door, waiting for it to burst open and Norward or Keswick’s son to come barrelling out. Seconds ticked by and nothing happened. He could hear thin breathing, shallow and weak, coming from the guard he’d stomped, and some muffled laughter filtering through the door, but nothing else.

Relaxing, he shrugged off the bulky servants robe and adjusted the rapiers he’d repositioned along his hips, back onto his shoulders. Sliding the dagger he’d drawn back into the sheath under his wrist, he pulled one of the rapiers and checked the edge. Still razor sharp despite the amount of use it’d gotten tonight.

He grasped the door knob, his palms damp. With a deep breath, gave the knob a quick twist, shoving the door open. He darted through the narrow breach, throwing the door closed behind him. It shut with a sharp crack, announcing his arrival. Two stunned men, sitting in front of a chess board across the room, stared at him with wide eyes.

“By the Blessed One’s ass, who the hell are you?” A tall, youthful, but portly man shoved his chair back and stood. He wavered as he faced the half-elf.

His jet-black hair was slicked back over his head, looking like a hardened shell. The beginnings of a thin moustache shadowed his upper lip, and he had hard dark eyes, red rimmed from too much drink. The cream coloured shirt and beige riding pants reeked of fine tailoring, and money. Faux immediately took him as Keswick’s son. “And where are those two miserable louts who’re supposed to be outside? Guards!” He bellowed.

“You’ll be waiting a while.” Faux said as he took stock of the room. “A real long time for one of them.”

It looked like a private entertaining area for the baron and his family. Several lamps were lit around the room, casting a warm glow off the dark, ebony wall panels. Ancient suits of armour, polished to a sheen, stood sentry in the corners. The sharpened axe blades, held in their lifeless hands, reflected the light. Various tapestries hung from the walls, picturing long forgotten battlefields, beautiful maidens being rescued by noble knights, and stern looking men, Faux assumed belonged to the baron’s lineage.

A series of shelves along the back wall held an assortment of glass pitchers, each with its own liquid, ranging from dark amber to a pale honey. Several small sipping glasses were arranged in neat rows behind the pitchers. A large bookshelf in a corner was full of leather bound books. A few holes among the neat rows, giving the appearance of a mouth missing teeth, showed where volumes had been taken. A roaring fire crackled in a hearth, easily three paces wide, making the room stuffy and overheated. Several glass pitchers stood empty next to the chess board, silent spectators to the match Faux had interrupted.

The other man slid his chair back, and peered at Faux through bloodshot eyes peeking out from under massive, bushy eyebrows. Mighty jowls hung over the man’s drawn up coat collar, and sweat glistened on his forehead and face. A thin ring of salt and pepper hair circled the sides and back of his head, like a tiara put on backwards. Norward. The description he was given fit perfectly. The magistrate’s eyes widened as he finally registered the rapier Faux was holding. The sudden danger pierced the alcoholic fog clouding his mind.

“It’s him Jory! It...it’s the elvish assassin!”

“Nonsense!” the baron’s son looked from Faux to Norward and back again. “By now our men will have carved him up like a yuletide boar! Now tell me who you are, and put that weapon away. Do you know who we are?”

“I’ll give your men credit,” Faux drawled, “They certainly did their best to, how’d you put it, ‘carve me up’. And yes, I know exactly who you are. Especially you.” He raised the rapier, pointing at the magistrate. “But they did make a mistake. They didn’t finish the job. Now I’m here to finish mine. I did agree to a contract, and a man should always keep his word.”

“This is absurd, I’m Jory Keswick, heir to Evanson Keswick, the Baron of Estermont and ruler of Eucrist province. If you’ve harmed any of my guards, you’ve committed an assault against king’s men. For which the penalty is death. Your life is forfeit!” He staggered towards his chair, which had tumbled to the floor as he’d leapt to his feet. “You’ll get no mercy from me.” He slurred, dropping to his hands and knees, rummaging through a tangled mess of chair, a dark blue silken coat, and a leather strap, attached to an ornate gem encrusted scabbard.

His face lit up as he conquered the muddled mayhem on the floor. Rising unsteadily to his feet, scabbard in hand, his face contorted into a leering smile . He pulled a glittering long sword from the sheath. The blade was dark, a mysterious looking shadowy metal that seemed to drink the light along it’s blackened blade. The hilt was worked in gold wire, a giant pale green emerald set in the pommel. With a satisfied grin, he dropped the sheath, and turned to face Faux, swaying as he brandished the sword in front of him.

“Take him down Jory!” Norward yelled, jowls quivering. He backed away from the duelists, trying to put the younger Keswick between himself and the half-elf. “He was going to kill me, put him down like a dog!”

“There’s no need for heroics, I’m just here to finish a job. A job that you’re father paid for I might add. He wanted that man killed, and gave me coin to do it. I don’t leave jobs unfinished.”

“We set that up you dolt!” Keswick the Younger spat at him. “We put up that coin to get you to come out of your hole, like the damned spider you are, you miserable prick! The last thing my father wants, is a bloody assassin running around Estermont.” He reached for his glass on the table, downing the remaining dregs of some dark liquid that made him shudder. “Now, I’ll finish the job that my soldiers were supposed to!” He took a sluggish step forward and lunged at Faux with his sword. The half elf parried the blow with ease, sidestepping the drunken attack.

“Yes, well, as to that; I guess we have our own score to settle too.”

Faux blocked another slow thrust from Keswick and darted in with a s***h of his own, catching the barons son just over his eyebrow. He yelped, staggering back, almost tripping over his own feet until he caught himself against the table. Blood welled along the small gash, flowing into his eye before continuing, in long rivulets along his cheek.

Keswick leaned on the table, breathing hard. The daggers he stared at his attacker should have knocked the half elf over. A little sobriety had returned as he faced his adversary. As Faux advanced, a grim cast to his features, Norward bolted for the door like a rabbit released from a snare.

Faux turned. In one smooth motion he snatched a dagger from his boot top, launching it at the fleeing city official. The hilt struck him just above his ear, splitting the skin but not having the force to crack the skull. The impact knocked the unsteady man off balance, causing him to tip sideways, crashing into one of the decorative suits of armour. The heavyset man and the armour, spilled to the floor, a deafening racket that should have woken the dead. He lay there, panting and groaning. Trying to rise, he collapsed again, a widening pool of blood collecting on the floor from the split scalp.

“You’re a gods damned dead man!” Keswick drew his sword back and bull-rushed the half elf, an animalistic growl emanating from deep in his throat.

He swung the sword in a vicious arc. Faux side stepped, ducking under the swing as Keswick staggered past him. He jabbed with his rapier, a quick thrust into Keswick’s exposed side. Off balance, the drunken youth went sprawling to the floor, his head cracking off the hardwood.

Faux stood there, tensed, waiting for Keswick to get back up. He groaned and tried lifting himself off the floor before collapsing. Seconds passed. Faux straightened up, frowning. He took a few hesitant steps towards the man.

A pool of blood was seeping from underneath the younger Keswick. It inched its way along the floor, a slow molasses, oozing from under the prone man’s midsection and stomach.

Faux reached down and flipped the man over. The youth’s own sword was embedded in his stomach, piercing down and into his groin. Blood pumped in spurts from a severed artery, as the pool widened on the floor.

“You should have left everything alone.” Faux stared at the body. The eyes fluttered for a second at the sound of his voice. A glassy sheen crept over them, then they were still. “He wasn’t worth dying for.”

Faux sauntered over to the magistrate, still lying sprawled amongst the scattered pieces of armour. He gazed at the man who was the cause of his life being turned upside down. He didn’t look like much. Moaning, his arms and legs twitched like a newborn foal trying to get its bearings. Beads of sweat covered his balding head and face, running in patterns through the couple of days’ worth of unshaven beard that stubbled his face. His rich clothes had sweat stains at the arm pits and were splattered with small drops of blood.

He sighed. There was nothing special here. His life turned upside down for a nobody. A corrupt magistrate, in a city filled to bursting with corrupt nobility, bleeding the people dry.

He reached down and collected the dagger. Without hesitation, he slid the blade across the helpless man’s throat. The eyes flew open, as his body jerked, before beginning to fade. Blood spilled from the wound, staining the dark floor boards an even darker hue.

He didn’t feel a thrill of satisfaction from completing the contract, just an emptiness.

Sheathing the dagger, he walked back to Jory Keswick and knelt beside the body. He pulled the five gold marks that had been stuffed in Duggan’s mouth from a pocket in his cloak. There wouldn’t be much doubt about who’d been here, but he wanted to make sure they knew. They’d tried to play him, and lost. He took the marks and jammed them into Keswick’s mouth, the same way he’d found them in Duggan’s.

It was petty, and made him look savage, but he was beyond caring. He wanted them to know. He wanted to be sure they knew the price of crossing him and failing. It wasn’t much, but he hoped Duggan’s spirit was satisfied.

He walked back to the door and pulled it open. Peering up and down the hallway, he expected half the city garrison to be charging down the corridors. The two fallen guardsmen were the only ones keeping vigil with the shadows. The whole encounter had lasted only minutes, but for Faux, it felt like hours. The entire night felt like it had been spread out over weeks. Without a backward glance, he stepped into the hallway, blending into the shadows.

* * * * *

Shifting, silver beams of moonlight pierced the ragged clouds, bathing everything in a cold, icy glow. The storm’s fury had finally relented, releasing the city from its powerful clutches. The wind had receded to a mild breeze, brushing against anything in its path. A gentle caress from a lover to make up for the savage beating it had delivered earlier. A wet chill had settled in now that the rain had stopped, sending shivers through Faux as he watched the building below him.

He sat, perched behind a silent brick chimney on the roof of a warehouse, staring at the Leaky Net. The tavern was deathly quiet, and black. It would have shut down hours ago, maybe even earlier than usual with the onslaught of the storm. Or maybe it would have stayed open later than normal, as people sought company and drink to escape the weather’s fury. One light still shone. A lone lantern blazed behind a dirty window on the second story, above the bar.

His room. And Lydia’s.

His head dropped as he thought about her. She’d be crying. He knew. The fact he wasn’t back by now meant he was dead, or worse, captured. She’d be angry too. Raging at him for his greed and arrogance. Furious at herself for not forcing him to leave sooner. Just take the money and leave. She knew he’d follow, but had been too scared to test him that way. So she put up with his weak delays, all the “one more times”. She’d blame herself. And the weight of that knowledge was crushing him.

He longed to go and tell her, to explain things. Several times he’d stood up and taken the first step, before crouching back behind the chimney. He could make out the shapes of men in the two alleys on either side of ‘The Net’. Three or four on each side, doing a miserable job of staying concealed. Moonlight glinted off a helmet here, a spear point there. Twice he’d heard men cough and spit. Three short storeys below him, in the ally that faced the run down tavern, there were four more soldiers.

All waiting.

For him.

She’d be sat on the bed, her head in her hands. Her soft brown hair would be pulled back into a loose pony tail, the way she always did after a night shift of serving drinks. Her grey eyes, so hard and dangerous when she was angry, would be soft as clay and red rimmed from tears. Every creak of a settling floor board, would produce just enough hope in her chest, to torture her over and over again.

For the hundredth time since leaving Keswick’s mansion he cursed himself; a Fallen One’s fool.

He looked out to the horizon. A faint glow of light was beginning to tickle the undersides of the clouds. The inky blacks and deep blues, were giving way to shades of pink and orange, as the sun began its arduous climb. With one more loud sigh, he gave the glowing window a longing look. A single tear leaked from his eye, running unchecked along his dirt and blood streaked face.

A small grin tugged at the corners of his down turned mouth. Lydia always teased him that his emotions made him more human than elf. With an iron will, he turned from the window and padded away from the chimney. He looked to the city walls, looming just a short distance away. A new dawn was coming, and he’d made a promise he’d be over the walls before it got here. Forcing himself to move forward and keep looking straight ahead, he headed for the walls.