Assassin Story with New Strikethroughs

Death By Assassin By Meredith Woodiwiss

The moon was too small to provide enough light, and the street lamps had not been lit in years. Most of the inhabitants of the city knew better than to be out after dark. Yet there were always a few stragglers that missed the unofficial curfew, who had to hurry through the darkened streets with their necks hunched between their shoulders. 

There was a thunk from within the shadows, and all in the vicinity ducked instinctively. They paused, crouching against walls, chests heaving, while a silent figure climbed rapidly up the side of a building.

The compulsion to look up grabbed the curious, and though the light was sparse, metal gleamed on the man as he ran across the rooftops. Hood catching wind, legs a blur on the shingled roof, he jumped and disappeared into the busy sea of tightly-packed buildings. 

Releasing a collective sigh of relief, and the citizens continued their frantic race home. No one could remember when the plague of assassins first appeared in the city, but they now ruled the night, open for hire to anyone from the richest noble to the poorest street gang. They were not known for their discrimination of character; just for their ruthless skill and unknown identities. And by day, the dangerous hooded men could be anyone.

With their doors shut and locked, the quiet inhabitants of Trenell finally felt safer, but never at ease.

Andryn was breathing heavily by the time he got to the house. Panting, he quietly pulled himself in through the unlocked window, making sure to close it tightly behind him. For just a second, he allowed himself to stand and breathe, pushing back the hair that had fallen out of his ponytail and over his forehead before yanking his hood up to cover his face once again.

Metal clinking softly, Andryn walked over to a table covered in shiny knick knacks standing in the hall near the window. He picked up a little golden egg and held it up to the sparse light. The surface was embedded with tiny blue stones, and pressed with a pattern of ducks following each other to a pond. There was a line of mama ducks with a few little ducks, followed by an egg with tiny webbed feet poking out bouncing along behind them all. Turning it around in his leather-clad hands, Andryn inspected the pattern, tracing it with his eyes. It was pretty cute.

Andryn slipped the egg into his pocket. Whatever rich guy lived here could consider it a down-payment.

The thick carpet muffling his heavy-booted footsteps, he made his way down the hall, picking up and examining every fancy trinket that lined the way. There were more artifacts here than in The Conquerer’s national museum, more jewels than in the royal family’s treasury.

Eventually, he made his way to what looked like the main office. It had the classic Big Desk, covered in stacks of official looking papers, anyways. Andryn crouched on a bookshelf, where he thought would be scariest, and waited. 

The bells of midnight had long since chimed when a paunchy man teetered into the office and sat down at the desk. He picked some of the papers and began organizing them, shuffling and placing the already neat piles in different orders. When the man finally deemed them suitable,  he leaned forward in the large plush chair and fixed his eyes on the doors, head twitching occasionally like he had a crick in his neck. He reminded Andryn of a chicken, with his nest of government documents and his bobbing head.

If I cut off his head, Andryn mused. would he continue to run around filling out papers and attending meetings for a few days?

The man continued to stare at the door. Andryn’s legs began to cramp. Was this man really so imperceptive that he didn’t notice what was sitting on his own bookshelf? Somehow Andryn was glad the man wasn’t a target. It would just be too easy. 

Eventually, Andryn tired of the game. He shifted just an inch, letting the wood creak beneath him. He could see the man’s head swivel in his direction, his pinprick eyes wandering gradually over to Andryn’s form on top of the bookshelf. He letting out a squawk and falling backwards into his plush seat. 

Exactly like a chicken, Andryn thought as. He hopped down from his perch. He hoped that it was dark enough in the office that the man couldn’t see his huge, cheeky grin.

He stalked around the room, going over the man’s possessions with his hands. Andryn wondered what he could touch that would make the terrified bloke speak up.

He wandered the office, fingers trailing over the numerous objects that sat in the dim lighting, ignoring the beady stares from his future employer. His fingers hit the polished surface of a medallion, lingering for a moment on the royal insignia.

“Ah… that’s… don’t…” the chicken man’s voice cracked like a schoolboy’s, each word stuttered and hesitant.

Andryn spun around on his heels and stalked towards the desk. The man gulped audibly.

He stopped in front of the desk and peered at the man through his hood. The handy one-way material meant Chicken-man only saw dark fabric where his eyes should be. Very handy for intimidation.

Andryn sat in the chair in front of the desk and put his boots up on the fine wood. Chicken-man let loose another squawk as dirt crumbled onto a letter with an important-looking seal. He pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed at the sweat running down his face.

“I, ah, have called you here because the crown is in need of your….s-services,” the man managed to stutter out the beginning of something resembling a business plan. Andryn remained silent.

“There is a man… we require him to be d-dispatched,” Chicken-man twitched at the mention of murder.

It’s not like he’s the one who actually has to do it, thought Andryn. He never liked the ones who acted uncomfortable with the idea of ordering a kill. They were all overreacting babies.

Chicken-man picked up a folder near Andryn’s feet and brushed off some of the dirt splattered onto its surface. “We’ve compiled a folder of information on the mark. His habits, where he’s staying…”

Ah, the classic Folder of Information. Now Andryn was going to have to pretend he could read. He grabbed the folder out of the man’s shaking hands and flipped it open, inspecting each word-covered page with care before flipping it, looking for something visual to go off.

In the back there was a folded paper, ink bleeding through the waxy surface. He picked it up and unfolded it, hoping for a sketch.

When Andryn’s eyes met the pair on the parchment his heart dropped into his boots. He quickly put the paper back into the folder and stood up, tugging at his hood to make sure it was fully covering his eyes and nose. Chicken-man rose quickly to join him.

“S-so, we have a deal?” he asked, extending a quivering hand. Andryn extended his own and gave the man a quick, firm shake. He, at least, hid his trembling better.

Then he left the office in a sprint.

His feet pounded across the rooftop once again, but this time he had to remind himself to keep quiet. He had always loved the feeling of the wind in his hair, of being out when everyone else remained inside. Andryn could feel his breath rushing in and out as he leapt over the gaps between houses three stories up, defying death like it was an arrogant policeman. But his heart was still beating too fast, and not because of adrenaline. That he was used to.

It seemed to take far too long for Andryn to reach the open window of the Flying Cow, and he vaulted through it so recklessly he almost broke one of the shutters off its hinges with his boot. Once he righted himself, he crossed the room in quick strides to the dusty mirror hanging on one blank wall.

Andryn ripped the drawing from within the file, letting the other useless papers scatter and flutter to the floor like broken feathers. His hands now shaking as hard as Chicken-man’s, he ripped off his hood and unfolded the paper next to his face.

The drawing displayed the same squinted eyes. The same light hair pulled into a half-hearted ponytail. His jaw was dotted with the same stubble as the picture’s, and his ears even stuck out in the same obscure fashion.

His own face was looking out at him from a crown-issued poster, meant for an assassin.

Andryn collapsed onto the bed, but sprung back to his feet almost immediately and began pacing the room. Nervous energy coursed through his body, energy that was usually gone by the time he had ran across the city and back. His shoes made no noise on the worn floorboards as he walked back and forth, thinking and questioning and wondering.

Andryn woke up the next morning with the side of his face pressed uncomfortably to the floor of the room. He vaguely remembered pacing until his legs gave out and falling asleep right where he stopped. He stretched and rubbed his pounding head. Formulations of a half-thought out plan from the previous night began to come back to him. Andryn pushed himself onto his elbows and off the floor.

He had fallen asleep in his assassin’s gear. He removed the hood that had become askew in the night, and hung his heavily padded jacket on a hook behind the door. He left his tool belt behind also, hiding the knife-decorated leather in a sack under the bed with his crossbow. The heavy boots, tattered grey shirt, and thick trousers he kept on.

Andryn walked down the stairs of the inn, adopting a bowlegged swagger as he went. He walked to the front desk and leaned against it, smiling brightly while waiting for the owner of the inn to finished speaking with another guest.

“Tomath!” the owner turned to him, a genuine grin equal to Andryn’s false one lighting his face. “You’re up!”

“Gotta get an early start today, Mr. Fanin,” Andryn said to the portly man, adopting a country drawl. “I’m headed back home this afternoon.”

Mr. Fanin’s smile drooped within the folds of his beard. “So soon, lad? I thought you’d be staying until the Fall Festival.”

Andryn sighed and rubbed his forehead, a picture of worry. “My sis’ fell off one of the horses. She’s broken her wrist. I gotta be home t’ help with the harvest.”

Mr. Fanin tutted. “My! I’m sorry to hear that. But what about your family’s market stall?”

“My gran’s feeling better, so she’s going to take over again,” Andryn said, remembering his original cover story. “I was really just kickin’ around t’ use the rest of the time we paid for.” 

“Oh, lad,” said Mr. Fanin kindly. “I’ll refund the money! You’ve been such a joy to have, never making a peep, cleaning your own room…”

That was a nice touch, thought Andryn.

“… not to mention how you’ve more than earned your keep babysitting! You’re practically family now, lad.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Fanin,” Andryn summoned a blush to his cheeks. “S’what I’d do for anyone.”

“And modest too,” Mr. Fanin winked. “Ah, the inn just won’t be the same without you, boy. Tell you what, get packed and we’ll have a big old family brunch to say goodbye.”

“Oh, sir, you don’t have to do that!” Ooh, free food.

“Nonsense! The girls will want to see you off anyways. I’ll tell the wife. Be back down by eleven, y’hear?”

By that afternoon Andryn was setting off on the dusty road from the inn, with a pack on his back and a belly full of sticky buns. The Fanin family had prepared him a grand send off, with more food than he had eaten since his last payload. It was nice to see the kids, Sashia and Malaya, for one last time too.

But now Andryn had to get ready for the oncoming storm. Somebody wanted him dead? Well, they would get him dead. But it was going to take some figuring.

He would need a body, a match,  a couple of handfuls of straw, and some rope.

It was twilight when Andryn reached the dark alleyway he had chosen for his death. He threw a sack containing some half-rotted guy from the city crypt down onto the cobblestones and dragged the corpse out.

Andryn grabbed his rope and tied it under the dead man’s armpits, throwing the other end over an old flagpole that stuck out over the alleyway. He hoisted the body up until it would look like a regular man standing around from the street. Fixing his hood, Andryn pulled out his knife and waited.

It didn’t take very long for the doors in the nearby pub to open and spill half a dozen intoxicated patrons onto the street. Showtime, Andryn thought.

With quick, practiced motions he began stabbing the corpse in its rotted gut, making noises in the back of his throat that he had heard his marks make before. Hearing the odd, guttural sounds, one of the pub-goers turned to the alley and gasped.

“Ah- ah… Look!” he yelled, nearly losing his balance and falling over one of his friends.

“Murder! Assassin!” screamed a girl.

The crowd erupted into intoxicated shouts of despair, milling around each other uselessly. Andryn finished mauling the dead man and jumped up onto the roof of one of the buildings, scrabbling from windowsill to windowsill until he reached his high perch. Then, he pulled out a match and struck it on the rough stone.

Andryn dropped the lit match down into the alley. The straw he had placed on the cobblestones earlier that day quickly caught fire. The dark alleyway lit up with bright flames, a tiny personal hell, as the terrified people screamed. It was hilarious.

As a final touch, Andryn stuck the knife inside his hood and carefully sawed off his ponytail. He stared at the gold skein in his hands before dunking it into the water in the roof’s gutters.

“Farewell, my friend,” he said, and dropped three years worth of hair down onto the flaming body.

Andryn fled the rooftop to find a more suitable place to watch his chaos from.

Thanks to the screams of the pub-goers, the Royal Guard turned up quickly, dousing the fire with water from a nearby trough. The majority of the city’s makeshift policemen began questioning witnesses, but two were loading what was left of the body into the back of a wagon.

Andryn watched the wagon pull away, headed towards the city pit. He followed on the rooftops, just a few seconds behind the trotting horses on the street.

It was dark by the time they reached the giant hole at the edge of Trenell. The pit in which the military threw the unclaimed dead stank with decay. Andryn wrinkled his nose and leaned just slightly out of the shadows to watch the guards.

They had take “his” body out of the carriage and appeared to be trying to identify it. The guards had multiple pieces of paper and were holding them up to the battered face of the deceased. He saw one holding out his hank of hair as well, which had singed but not burned thanks to the water, and jabbing his finger at one image in particular.

After a while they both seemed to agree and scratched at a piece of paper with a quill. Then they dumped the body with little ceremony, unsaddled the horses from the cart, and rode back towards the city. They left the little guardhouse wide open. Suckers. 

Andryn walked into the unlocked guardhouse. In the din, he found two messy piles of paper on the desk. One was completely made up of written documents; those he put into his coat for later. The other was pictures, very similar to the one he was given of himself. They showed a wide variety of men, all in a simple forward-facing pose. He stuck these in his jacket also, and headed back into the heart of the city under the cover of darkness.

The Pigeon was probably at one point a very respectable pub, meant for tired, law-abiding citizens to relax after a hard days’ work. However, when a few assassins had taken a liking to it, it’s reputation had quickly gone downhill. Now the owner trembled as he served amber whiskey to hooded men, and a for-sale sign was hopefully and permanently lodged in the window frame.

Only one of the three fireplaces were lit to stave off the end-of-summer chill, but it cast just enough light to see by. Andryn made a beeline to a stool by the only oil lamp in the establishment.

Dirty spectacles flickering in the firelight, a young man sat reading a book that was thicker than his forearm. His eyes moved back and forth at such a rapid speed that they looked like they may bounce out of his skull. He was referred to as “Books” by the assassins, for obvious reasons.

Andryn pulled a chair up in front of Books and cleared his throat. Books did not look up, but extended one skinny finger in front of himself. Andryn sat patiently.

After a few minutes Books slammed the novel shut, making a bang that startled the patrons of the pub. He carefully set the book on a cloth spread on the floor, then turned his attention to Andryn.

“So,” he said, looking at Andryn with a vague, languid interest. “Got anything interesting for me?”

Andryn pulled the papers out of his coat, unfolding them and handing them to Books.

“Hrmm,” Books looked over the papers rapidly, lips moving as he processed each one. “Nice.”

He looked up at Andryn blankly, sitting on his information like a hen on her eggs. Andryn pulled a silver coin out of a pouch on his belt and flicked it to him.

Books reached out to catch it, but missed. It hit the floor with a clatter, forcing him to pick it up, muttering curses under his breath. Andryn smiled at the picture of ruined bravado.

Books straightened and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Its mostly just profiles. You know, like the ones officials give when they order a kill. The only one of interest is this,” Books pulled one of the sheets of parchment to the top of the pile. “It’s a list.”

Andryn rotated his chair so he was next to Books, looking over his shoulder at the indiscernible markings. “A list of what?” he asked.

Books shrugged. “I don’t really know what it means,” he said. “But over here are the names of Assassins.” He ran his fingers down one side of the page. “Fire-breath. Stormer. Vanders the Ruthless. Even you’re here, Shadow-smoke.”

He brushed the column of text on the other side of the parchment. “Then on this side there are normal names, like Leon Fellows and Andryn Summenset and Menbran Allahanan.”

Andryn’s eyes widened. Someone had made the connection between him and his career. Even worse, that someone was the Royal Guard.

Unable to see Andryn’s shocked expression, Books continued. “Then someone drew all these lines across the page in charcoal. They connected all the assassins to the regular folk. You got that Andryn guy.” Books shrugged and handed back the paper. “It looks like some sort of master hit list to me. Do you want me to give you all the names as well?”

“No. No, it’s all right,” Andryn said, his mind all ready racing. “Thanks, Books.”

Andryn stood up and took the papers, absently placing another silver coin in Books’s hand. He could barely feel his own feet as he walked out of the Pigeon.

Once outside, Andryn collapsed against the wall and slid down onto the cobblestone. Someone, or more likely multiple, important someones, knew the identities of all the Assassins of Trenell. Not only that, but they were ordering them to kill each other off. They had accidentally assigned Shadow-smoke, him, to kill Andryn Summenset, also him.

It was all so complicated, Andryn almost wished he was dead.