I head up the street a safe distance away from the dark-haired man. He’s not rushing or acting suspicious, just walking casually. He goes along the main streets, appearing to be headed toward the West Gate, and I follow.
He stops briefly to talk to a woman who very quickly dismisses his advances, and then moves on to the gate. It is late afternoon and foot traffic is beginning to slow for the day. He picks up the pace a little once out on the main road, but I have no trouble keeping up.
As we near the woods outside of Nodkis, I think over how I am going to dispatch him without my weapons. Magic, certainly, but I must devise a plan of attack. Since I was in-between patrols and staying in the city, I do not have as many combat spells ready as I would have in the field. Still, I’m not keen on being caught flat-footed by someone who has a problem with me, let alone another assassin, so I’m never without any.
I decide I’ll put him in a magical state of sleep, tie him up, and either drain him or puncture his throat with my scissors.
Once we are under the canopy of the woods, he veers off unexpectedly. I check that no other travelers are nearby to see me follow, and venture off the road myself.
I stay on his trail for another mile, trying my best to not alert him to my presence. Since he went off the road, it will be obvious I am following him if he sees me. Sending a part of my mind out to my owl, I am treated to the sensation of a pleasant dream. My owl is roosting to the north of Nodkis and won’t soon be overhead, but I rouse it in case I lose track of my quarry.
Just as my owl indicates its displeasure but complies with my request, the dark-haired man stops.
I stop.
He turns around and draws a dagger from his boot, sneering at me. His pock-marked face takes on a demonic countenance is the shadow of the trees.
Hmm, he’s probably lured me out here to kill me. I wonder how long he’s known I was tailing him. Was it before or after the gate?
I make no move but I make a mental map of my reagent pouch for the spell components I think I’ll need. First and foremost, a flower picked at night to cast a sleeping spell. I start to concentrate part of my mind on gathering the earth and wind arcanum I’ll also need.
He calls over to me, “Thought you’d got the drop on me, did ye?” He flicks his thumb on the edge of his dagger to test its sharpness and grins menacingly. He is trying to intimidate me.
I don’t respond. They always hate that.
He spits when he realizes no retort is coming. Perhaps he’s got a set of witty responses he’s practiced if someone does reply. He says, mocking, “Scared stiff, are ye? Not to worry. It’ll all be over soon.”
I see his weight shift. He is preparing to run at me. I dig into my pouch, grab one of the night-picked flower buds I carry, and speak the incantation that activates the arcanum I already recruited, all before he can take two steps. The spell pushes on his mind and body, but does not take purchase. He stumbles, but does not fall into slumber.
Shit. I cast a spell of magic armor on myself and take a step sideways to put a tree in between us. He somersaults past the tree and lands facing me, brandishing his dagger just inches from my groin.
I look into his eyes and speak the language of magic, invoking darkness arcana, and infecting his entire being with deep, dark fear. The spell assaults him on a primal level and his eyes dilate as he freezes.
Using the opening, I knee him hard in the face, hopefully breaking his nose and preferably killing him outright. It knocks him over and causes him to drop his dagger. This act, however, snaps him out of his momentary terror and he clutches his face as blood erupts forth from his nose and mouth.
He tries to say something, but I can’t understand him through his hands. It doesn’t sound nice, though, by his tone.
I drop onto him, knees first, hoping to crack some ribs, but he wiggles out of place and only one knee skims his midsection. It’s enough to knock the wind out of him, but I can see that the heat of the moment is flaring inside him and his wounds are becoming a distant concern.
He stops covering his face and grits his teeth, reaching around me for the dagger. I kick out my right leg to impede him and use that leverage to drop my elbow onto his ribs. He grunts and coughs but continues to tear at the ground near the dagger.
I try to punch him in the face, but he blocks and grabs my hand. He has a strong grip but it is slick with blood. Still, it takes a moment for me to pull my hand away. It snaps back to my side.
Distracted with wrenching my hand from his grip, I apparently did not notice him reach the dagger with his other hand, and he arcs it toward my right side. Luckily, my outstretched leg and magic shielding dulls his strike and the blade slices only shallowly—or what I hope is shallowly—into my side below the armpit.
“It’s all over,” he snarls. “You’re a fucking dead man.”
Good guess, but technically inaccurate.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
Follow @LieseAdler