He waited. Crouching in the darkness skirting the realm of flickering torchlight.
Night was his only friend, but she would still betray him. He could not rush her. When ready, she would provide the distraction and the cover he needed.
Only then could he work.
Wrapped in patience and comforting dark, he watched and listened. Learning. Remembering. Every soldier, every person, had their own habits, fears and blind spots, whether actual or purchased.
Winter brought huddled conversations around fires, and short brisk walks along cobbled streets, which squeezed between soot-stained timber buildings. Winter was easier. This was not winter.
Long days and warm nights loosened tongues, prolonged the time patrolling soldiers, and meandering civilians, took to traverse the city's cobbled veins and increased the stench, literal and figurative.
He could do nothing about the open drains, trickling household waste along the street edges, to eventually join other thickly flowing streams feeding the muddy river. He was paid to reduce the other stench.
The stench of evil. Although few were truly innocent, those who abused power, position and trust were his targets. Only those needing his skills talked to him. When victims raised the funds for a death warrant, it was him they came to. Even they stared and turned horrified eyes away, choosing instead to communicate though notes and payments.
Some gave him names. God's Avenger. The Devil's Tool. The posters, offering large sums for his capture, used the least polite options. He had never chosen one.
He had a name, long ago. It was used when, as a child, people looked at him, talked to him and called him friend. That name was dead. The Cutter's blade slowly reduced him, until the damage was all that remained.
It was the Cutter, the slicer of other’s flesh for their own pleasure, he loathed most. Those he killed for free.
Night was his only friend, but she would still betray him. He could not rush her. When ready, she would provide the distraction and the cover he needed.
Only then could he work.
Wrapped in patience and comforting dark, he watched and listened. Learning. Remembering. Every soldier, every person, had their own habits, fears and blind spots, whether actual or purchased.
Winter brought huddled conversations around fires, and short brisk walks along cobbled streets, which squeezed between soot-stained timber buildings. Winter was easier. This was not winter.
Long days and warm nights loosened tongues, prolonged the time patrolling soldiers, and meandering civilians, took to traverse the city's cobbled veins and increased the stench, literal and figurative.
He could do nothing about the open drains, trickling household waste along the street edges, to eventually join other thickly flowing streams feeding the muddy river. He was paid to reduce the other stench.
The stench of evil. Although few were truly innocent, those who abused power, position and trust were his targets. Only those needing his skills talked to him. When victims raised the funds for a death warrant, it was him they came to. Even they stared and turned horrified eyes away, choosing instead to communicate though notes and payments.
Some gave him names. God's Avenger. The Devil's Tool. The posters, offering large sums for his capture, used the least polite options. He had never chosen one.
He had a name, long ago. It was used when, as a child, people looked at him, talked to him and called him friend. That name was dead. The Cutter's blade slowly reduced him, until the damage was all that remained.
It was the Cutter, the slicer of other’s flesh for their own pleasure, he loathed most. Those he killed for free.
- Author notes
- This piece is the inspiration for a longer story I wrote about an assassin who finally escapes from the darkness of the world in which he lives.
- Story length
- short story