Grisel

On the cold winter night, the shacks' flimsy frames groaned in the wind. The poor huddled inside in nothing but ragged sackcloth, their teeth chattering.

But the cold air had its benefits. At least it slowed the decay of garbage and excrement, making the stench less pungent.

Grisel let his mind wander as he enjoyed his brief moment of post-coital clarity.

He pulled up his trousers, tightened his belt, and looked down at his "masterpiece." His cooled nerves began to burn again.

What was her name again? Mary? He could barely remember, but it no longer mattered. She had no further need for a name.

The woman's swollen tongue protruded from her mouth, and several fine scratches marked her jaw-left by her own fingernails. He would never be so ungentlemanly.

The rope bit into her neck, giving the flesh a strange translucence through which pale purple blood vessels showed.

She was a woman of skin and bones. Grisel liked that bony feel: utterly powerless to resist, able only to plead meekly for mercy, so fragile she seemed liable to shatter at a touch.

He still remembered her desperate cries for help before she died. But in a slum like this, who would care?

I can't take it. Grisel drew a deep breath, suppressing his bodily urges. He needed another "lady" to relieve them.

Just as he was about to leave, he spotted a suspicious man in a linen robe standing at the mouth of the alley, blocking his way.

His muscles tensed abruptly. When did he get here?

Grisel had great confidence in his senses. During his time in prison, he could clearly hear the guards "enjoying" female prisoners on the third floor, even from his underground cell.

Either this man was an expert at stealth from the Assassins' Guild, or he had used magic.

Neither possibility boded well for Grisel. He drew the longsword from his back and watched for the man's next move.

He could not make out the man's face, which was hidden beneath his hood.

An old adventuring companion? Could it be Duren? No, he wasn't this tall. Little Jimmy? I only owed him two silver crowns. It's been seven years. Surely he wouldn't...

As he pondered, the man opposite him removed his hood and drew his longsword.

He was extraordinarily young. Grisel suspected he was not even twenty, with black hair, black eyes, and handsome features. He wore a silver elven circlet, its inset moonstones glimmering faintly in the night.

Most striking of all was his sword. Though ordinary in design, its blade appeared dark teal in the moonlight. It was certainly not made of common iron.

The light around its edge bent and refracted slightly. Grisel's heart sank. He knew what that meant: this was a magical longsword.

The swordsman's bearing and attire convinced him that the man must be a noble. No, someone so young, carrying such an expensive toy, might well be the pampered youngest son of one of the city's councilors.

Why would someone like that come looking for me? There must be some mistake.

Grisel chose his words carefully and spoke.

"My lord, what can I do for you? I was merely passing through..."

The noble swordsman moved without a sound. In an instant, his blade was descending toward Grisel's head.

No footsteps, no hiss through the air. For a moment, Grisel thought he was hallucinating, but more than a decade of swordsmanship took over. He raised his blade and barely blocked the blow.

Before he could even feel surprise, the noble swordsman's blows came down like a raging storm. Grisel could only retreat, desperately parrying.

Dozens of strikes later, he finally managed to disengage when his opponent's assault briefly slackened. Pressed against the wall at the end of the alley, Grisel's fingers trembled as he gasped for breath.

Though their exchange had lasted less than twenty seconds, Grisel was certain this was no councilor's spoiled son. His strength was overwhelming, his swordsmanship superb, and his attacks bore none of a fencing instructor's rigid formality.

This was a seasoned swordsman who had personally taken countless lives.

Someone like him came specifically to kill me?

There was no way back. Grisel rested his longsword against his shoulder. Its edge was covered in notches.

The Wolf Gang's cheap junk, Grisel cursed inwardly.

With savage determination, he snapped the longsword forward. He would seize the offensive and force his opponent back!

Grisel knew perfectly well that he did not need to fight to the death. He only needed to drive the swordsman back two steps, then he could abandon his sword and use his agility to escape the dark alley.

He knew the slum's streets inside out. A few twists and turns would be enough to shake off this noble madman.

Since escaping prison, Grisel had stayed in the slums and had not dared touch a single hair on anyone from the inner city. He considered himself a law-abiding man.

Who the hell did I offend? Rotten luck.

His sword tip sliced through the air, thrusting toward the noble swordsman. Yet the man made no attempt to dodge, merely turning sideways and presenting his shoulder to the longsword.

Has he gone mad?

A teeth-grating clash of metal rang out. Grisel's longsword tore through the linen robe, but its tip slid aside, revealing gleaming plate armor underneath.

What?!

A sharp pain in his right arm cut off Grisel's thoughts.

His studded leather armor offered no protection. His forearm was severed cleanly at the elbow, and blood gushed out.

The longsword fell into the filthy mud. Grisel collapsed, clutching his severed arm as he writhed and wailed.

"My hand! Aah-!"

"D-don't kill me! My lord, I, I can..." He scrambled backward on his remaining hand and feet, screaming himself hoarse. "Help! Murder! Someone, help!"

The noble swordsman remained silent. Beneath the moonlight, his pauldrons reflected the light like mirrors, showing Grisel his own ugly, terrified face. Without hesitation or mercy, the swordsman silently brought his blade down.

Renato could not hear what the short, sleazy man shouted before dying. Probably pleas for mercy, but he did not care.

He cut off the man's head, wrapped it tightly in scraps of the linen robe, and began his old routine of searching for loot.

Risking discovery, he spent several minutes rummaging through the headless corpse, only to find a few dozen copper coins and a ruined longsword.

Rotten luck. The bastard was broke!

He put all the odds and ends into his Bag of Holding, then rose and left the dark alley, heading for Grisel's home.

He could not let this trip go to waste. Perly's Silence spell still had a few minutes left. Following the marks on the parchment in his hand, Renato broke into a run.

The Silence magic Perly had researched was remarkable, keeping every movement he made from producing any sound. The young mage herself was exceedingly modest, always insisting it was merely a simple incantation, not a proper spell.

Renato, however, found it immensely practical. Although hearing nothing during combat did have its drawbacks, the thought of a heavily armed warrior in full plate armor approaching someone's side without a sound was frightening enough.

Renato's armor still lacked the crucial breastplate and gauntlets. Once this job was finished, he should have nearly enough...

It was not far. He arrived in front of a dilapidated wooden house. According to the address, this should be Grisel's home.

The door was padlocked. Renato took out the key he had found on the man and inserted it into the lock.

The lock mechanism was badly rusted, but before the key could snap under the strain, it clicked, and Renato opened the door.

The Silence spell had ended sooner than Renato expected. Perhaps the fighting had affected its duration.

On his guard, he gently pushed the door open. The darkness did not hinder Renato's vision, and everything inside lay clearly before his eyes.