The first was always a gift, or so experience had told him.
When it came to groups of more than three, the first to fall to whatever instrument he had to hand was the easiest. He was not a man to shout his intent from across the street, save for when such theatricality was demanded or required. No, far more common for his first strike to be from the shadows. From the rear. Some unguarded and unexpected corner, fatally flying into the unknowing form of The First.
They died quickly, usually. But their deaths often served to alert their fellows to his presence, and after that, Kasoria had to work for his purse.
The ragged assassin knew the Bull. He knew where it was, and what it was made up of. He'd been studying it for the last three trials, much like he'd been studying the streets and canals and ferries, waiting for this party to ride in and doom themselves. He knew because he'd been told, of course. Vorund had given him everything his needed, save the fee for doing what he asked.
Kasoria had listened silently as his master laid it all out. Who. Where. When. The Why, well... that hardly mattered, did it? Kasoria knew what it was, anyway.
So he did not need to watch the knot of riders mill around the front of the Bull, dismount, then decide gruffly among them who would lead the horses through the mud to the stables around the back. He kept up a shambling, hobbling, limping pace... that was still oddly swift, for a derelict. Swaddled in his cloak and hat, he lurched across the rough-cut stone pathways and across a rope bridge to the side the Bull rested on. Lights blazed from every window, life and vitality and success shining forth down the dreary, wet little street.
Dreary. Wet. Good words for this place. "On The Way" would be even better ones.
He shoved the meandering thoughts aside, and replaced them with cold, quiet intent. He ignored his targets, for now, and likewise counted on them doing the same to him. He bustled along the street and behind the Brazen Bull, where the lights were lower and all covered in glass-paneled lamps, because back there...
Oh, yes. No mistaking that stink.
The stables were half-full and that didn't just mean horses. Even the dog dirt Kasoria had smeared onto himself paled in comparison to the mounds of festering filth that greeted him when he walked inside. Already he could hear the steady scrape-and-heave of what was probably one of the owner's sons, slaving away for a pittance, as was the fate of all children of businessmen. Cheap labor for the family business: why even breed otherwise?
The boy had his back to Kasoria. Tall and broad-shouldered, growing into his body but not quite yet. He speared a pitchfork-load of steaming dung and then shook it free into the wheelbarrow next to him. He was clearly going front to back, and was halfway done... before vanishing into a stall.
The assassin moved swiftly. His quarry would not be far behind. He kept his feet to the sodden straw and even those fetid piles of shit. Anything to muffle his footsteps and hide his approach. He didn't need the stable boy alerted by his boots slapping on the stones, not when he came out a few moments later-
CRACK
-and wasn't expecting the bottom of Kasoria's gladius to hammer into the side of his head like a wrecking ball, the man himself pressed against the pillar to the side of the stall door.
But it wasn't a crunch. There was no shattering of bone nor a caving in of the skull. For that matter, Kasoria didn't just jam the blade through his throat the moment he came into view, either. Instead the bulbous bottom of the gladius snapped out like a boxer's jab, blasting all perception and consciousness from the Boy. He staggered to the side, feet already dead under him, conscious only of a slight, shadowy figure that darted forwards-
CRACK
That's enough.
Another short, sharp, surgical strike, and the Boy was done. Kasoria's other hand grabbed him by the front of the shirt and lowered him slowly down, not letting him topple over and bang his head a third time. He knew what a solid series of cracks on the head could do; "concussion", the healers called it. He'd read about them before, seen the evidence in men who'd survived and yet... not, in a way. Who they were before was gone, and the being that walked around in their body after they'd been battered to unremittingly about the brain box, well... that was someone new. Usually not an improvement.
Creating such a mental cripple was not part of The Deal. So Kasoria showed restraint.
"Down yeh go, boy..."
He let go of the sword and used both hands to guide the Boy back into the stall he'd just walked into. From the other side of it, a dew-eyed pony watched with a stillness that could have smacked of worry, or boredom. Then after a few moments, it began chewing once more. Looked away and snuffled at the bowl of feed left out for it. Kasoria laid the Boy down on his side, one hand under his head. He almost smirked at the sight of him, bruises like fresh peaches already forming on his temple.
How we used to lay down the drunks, so they wouldn't choke on their own sick or swallow their tongues. Bloody bizarre, the shite you remember, and how it ends up coming in h-
Squelching. Clopping. Whinnying. Muttering.
Approaching.
Enough fucking nostalgia!
"Oi? Anyone in 'ere?"
Kasoria stood in the stall and didn't so much make a plan, as he took the next logical step. The Boy wasn't about to answer, and the wheelbarrow outside spoke of someone else already inside. So, no reply at all would be suspicious, so that meant-
"Aye, m'in 'ere! Sloppin' out, c'mon over an' I'll sort ya!"
The unseen bodyguard started walking again, cacophony of hooves and grunting horse flesh following his steps. Kasoria braced himself in the stall. Held his gladius low and out of sight. Every movement now was planned, purposeful. Designed to both put his target at ease and draw him closer. Until he saw the man's shadow move across the stall, telling the stoic little man that he was right outside the door, and as he turned the two nearly bumped straight into each other-
"Oh, shi-"
Shhhuuuk
It was a slow, wet, ugly sound. Obscene, almost. Far too... organic, for what it really was. Shoving a sharpened hunk of steel into a man's chest cavity from below. A gladius, designed for such deep, piercing thrusts. Wielded with expertise by a man who did not wear the confused and annoyed look that Nicky did. He thought the smelly little fuck was about to walk into him as he left the stall, but instead-
There was pain. White and throbbing and he tried to shout... but his lungs were a flooded mess. He coughed as he tried to clear them, and tasted copper on his lips. Only then did he look down... and see the gladius impaling him. Slid diagonally under his ribcage, through a lung, into his heart... and when he looked up, the man doing the impaling was already yanking it back out-
"Shhhh..."
-other hand cupping him behind the head and sinking down to the straw with him. Down together like lovers among the clover, as the lights started to dim and Nicky's voice was drowned in blood. He panicked, in those last few moments. Heard a horse doing something similar, skittering across the stones and scattering straw and that smell, that smell was even stronger now. Something cold and hard and damp pressed against his cheek, but he couldn't see it. Couldn't see anything, or hear it, now feel, no feel, nothing... nothing...
Kasoria stood back up and wiped the blade clean on the dead man's back. The Boy would be in for quite the fucking shock when he awoke, but that was a problem for later. More accurately, for when he wouldn't be around.
That's one. Six more. One lives, and you know which one. Time to-
"Nicky?" The voice dropped him down into a crouch again, vanishing behind the shoulder-high walls each stall had, and out of sight. "C'mon, you sorted these nags out a'ready? Me an' youse got first... watch..."
Kasoria didn't need to see man's face to know that was the tone of a man realizing something was wrong. The pause between words was telling enough. As slowly as he could, he reached out and closed the stall door. One more barrier, one more obstacle, one more trill of advantage if he should need it. He peered as best he could through the wooden wall, finding a good-sized crack that showed him-
-Xander shrugging that pretty crossbow off his shoulder and into his hands. Nocking a bolt against a taut string without even looking at it. Already searching with marksman's eyes, sweeping back and forth, calling out again-
"Nicky? Nicky, where are ya, man?"
There was no obvious plan, other than wait until he got closer. But Kasoria didn't just need him closer, he needed him close enough. Then the wording begged the question, and the sword in his hand supplied the answer. He looked at it, this weapon he'd carried for nigh-on thirty arcs. More time on his hip than off it, in fact. He knew the exact length, the weight, dimensions... and what it could do. Oh, he knew that most of all.
So he made that sound. Tiny yet insistent, like some kid teasing another. He made it, and he closed his eyes... and listened.
Footsteps. Slow and measured. Not wanting their noise to interrupt the prey it was hunting. Breathing... much the same. Too often marred by the loud, careless huffing of the horses, but his shadow... just like Nicky, it tracked him across the wall for Kasoria. Let him see Xander stalking closer to the stall... until he was right in front of it...
The little man didn't move anything that could make a noise. Not his feet. Not his torso. Just his arms, and so, so slowly. Crouched in the darkness behind the door, he pulled back the gladius and cocked it under his chin. Left hand gripping the handle. Right hand braced behind the pommel. Braced as well was every muscle in his body, it seemed. All that power, sinew, and strength, focused into the single strike he knew he had to make. His breathing became a stalled, silent thing. So slow and gradual he might as well have been dead. For he was listening... and heard...
Shoe leather scraping on the stones.
Outside the door.
Breathing. Slow. An exhale... just a little too loud.
Loud enough to tell Kasoria what he needed to know, and then-
SCHHHRACK
-with a grunt and a great, savage heave, he thrust the gladius through the door like it was a spear in miniature. In less than a trill, the short sword ripped through the elm wood like paper, momentum barely slowing as it passed through it, then straight into-
-the chest of Xander, grinding against ribs, cleaving into a lung. Kasoria could hear a shuddering gasp of shock, and knew there was enough breath there to scream. So he ripped open the door with both hands, yanking the door away-
-and the gladius out, still sticking through the door-
-revealing Xander with his eyes wide and his chest bloody and crossbow held in one hand as another pawed at the hole punched through it.
The two men had all of a half-trill to regard each other, but only one was in the right mind to act. The crossbow started to rise but Kasoria was already moving, darting forward, right hand sweeping out from behind him-
-carrying silver with it, sparking moonshine and starlight even off these weak lamps, carrying an arc of the stuff through the air-
-then into Xander's throat-
-as the karambit killed both him, and the last scream his soul had left to give. Kasoria kicked the crossbow from his grip as an afterthought, watching the man stagger back and back until he slammed into the wall. Clutching at his throat with both hands and doing nothing with either. Just keeping his fingers warm as he died, steaming river of life bathing them, anointing him from fingertips to crotch as his arteries bathed him.
His killer looked him over with cool, professional appraisal... then nodded. A clean cut. A quick death. He turnd from Xander, from the man that had potted more enemies than he could remember from behind Cecile, as if he was a child. Out of instinct he lurched over to where she lay, nocked and waiting for him, but... no... his body would not obey.
Kasoria paid him little mind when he went behind the door and heaved at the sword stuck through it. He adjusted his grip, braced the bottom of his hand against the spherical pommel at the bottom of the hilt and heaved again-
-grunted, sweated, strained, bruised his fingers against the pommel-
-until with a shriek of cloven wood, the gladius came back out and was free. He had to admit, that fat little orb was a help where it came to making sure a man could yank the gladius back out of... whatever it was stuck in. Kasoria was sure that was by design: such a weapon crafted for the practical efficiency of infantry formation warfare was bound to-
There was a cough from the dead man, and Kasoria remembered him. Walked back into the walkways between the stalls, and saw Xander reaching out for Cecile like it was his very life, his soul, a fresh length of veins and organs and flesh for him to replenish himself with. But it wasn't. It was just a crossbow, useless and far away. He looked up at Kasoria and tried to speak through blue lips. The horses were milling away from them now, unwilling to go near this place of wrath and blood any further.
Animals. They always knew the bad stuff before we do. There's so much more of it for them. Kasoria crouched down, and watched the light leave the man's eyes. No malice or mocking or even curiosity filled his own. Xander's last sight was of himself, reflected in those black, serene eyes. Patient and unhurried. Although, that can vary.
He grabbed the body by the shoulders and dragged him into the stall with the other two. The corpse left a smear of blood like a mortally-wounded snail as he did so, but cleaning it wasn't Kasoria's problem. It was that of the softly snoring figure on his side in the stall, probably dreaming deep and blissful at that moment. The assassin couldn't help but sneer as he imagined the sheer, bloody horror of what the Boy would awaken to.
You are a bad man, he told himself, and then the sneer grew teeth at the madness of such a thought.
Oh, aye. Leaving a boy to find fresh bodies, that's badness. But making those bodies? Just business.
He shrugged, sheathing his weapons and flexing his damp body. Nothing seemed to have... opened, to put it delicately. The wounds he suffered fighting that fucking Ithecal were healing well, but so much movement and stress, they were bound to jostle things around. There seemed to be a whole second skin of bandages across his back and shoulder, but they would have to be borne for now
You changed them earlier, just like the healer told you. Fresh dressings, clean scars. Not much more than you can do.
"Aye," he said out loud, murmuring the word before closing the stall door on two dead men and one dreaming. "Cuz a job's a job."
He left the stables, remembering to close the doors behind him. He didn't want the mounts of Turner and Co. going wandering in the streets, letting anyone else know something was afoot. But as he left the horses and the corpses behind, it was with a new prize. Not a trophy, but an asset. Something that could be used, if only once, but to lethal effect.
Don't need to be a dead-eye, he reminded himself, caressing the polished wood and readied bolt of Cecile as he went. Range I'll be firing at, won't much matter.
