Contracting
Jasir Othen checked the contract again. The wording was specific but that was fairly standard for this type of assignment – or the type of assignment this should have been.
A moan pulled his attention from the parchment; a guttural sound he’d been hearing more and more often over the course of the last day. He’d been sure to bar the door, just as required by his employers; something he thought was a foolish waste of time and that was now proving to be extremely useful.
Forcing his gaze back to the precisely written script in front of him, he re-read the most pertinent passage.
Shall ensure that the wound is fatal and that the target remains as requested – deceased.
Odd wording, but nothing so out of the ordinary that Jasir had paid it any mind, since the offered compensation had been more than enough, even for his services. Perhaps too much, and perhaps for a very good reason.
Fatal wound clauses were common to ensure that an assassin, even one of such high caliber as himself, didn’t simply tag a target and leave without ensuring that their life had actually been extinguished. In most cases, wounds delivered were deadly but the Guild had faced a number of legal issues over the years, and while they were a largely independent entity, sanctions from local governments could prove detrimental to their good works.
Another moan.
“Shut up!” Jasir was losing his patience; he was an assassin, not a witch doctor, and there was no way that any man, no matter his stature, could have lived through a dagger strike to the chest. The King hadn’t, as a matter of fact – Jasir had caught him at the only moment he spent alone during the day, stabbed him well and made off with the body before an alarm had even been raised. His employers had provided a safe house for his use and for the first twelve hours everything had gone as planned.
Just after the night’s breaking, however, a sound had startled him awake.
Jasir slept warily as it was, and even more so in a home that was not his. The Guild had no qualms about issuing contracts for the lives of its own operatives provided that the price was high enough and more than a few interested parties had been after him for years. He slept lightly and only when he had to, and that had kept him alive this long.
Now, he was facing something entirely new, something the contract clearly predicted for but that he had no idea how to deal with.
Well – one idea. He was going to have to kill the King again.
…
King Menis Tren IV awoke in a strange, low-framed room of dark wood. His memory was cloudy, but the last moment he could recall clearly was the beginning of his daily five minute walk through the garden. Even a King needed a moment alone and though he knew it was foolish to expose himself to potential attempts on his life, he was clever enough to vary his time and route so that no assassin should have been able to accurately predict his movements. What was more, his guards were never out of earshot so even the softest sound out of the ordinary should have alerted them.
Sitting up, Menis became aware of the dried red crust on his chest, along with a gaping hole just under his left breast. Hunching over, he noticed an odd movement behind it and quickly stuck his hand behind his back. Five fingers wiggled back at him, clearly visible through his missing flesh and bone.
He stood slowly, expecting a weakness in his limbs after being – dead – but he felt as strong as he ever had in life. The room was simple and austere, with no furnishings to speak of and only a single entry point – a heavily barred door to his right.
Opening his mouth to call for help produced only a low-toned moan; whatever had returned him to life apparently did not also grant him the power to speak. His memories of exactly what had happened were fuzzy; clearly, he had been killed in his own palace, and the assassin must have been of some skill to manage such a feat. Still, he expected that his vanguard of Trackers would be along soon; he was careful to employ only the best in Kingdom, intended for this specific purpose.
A sound snapped his attention to the door, but there was no movement that his eyes could see, and he turned back inward, considering his current situation. Another sound and he glanced up, and this time a shadowy figure was apparent, slipping toward him, dagger in hand.
Sudden understanding flared; without a light source or window, the room was completely dark but Menis had no trouble seeing – his Herbalist had promised him “sight beyond sight” with the last draught he had consumed but been hesitant to explain exactly how it would be granted. He had heard of such post-death potions but dismissed them as superstitious nonsense. Apparently they were not.
This figure moving so obviously in front of him but thinking itself so clever must be the man who invaded his home. Death contracts were common for the Guild and whatever assassin had been set this task would have been commanded to make sure he was dead before collecting his payment.
Menis smiled. This must be very disconcerting for the professional killer.
He paused as if confused and then shuffled in a random direction, snuffling under his breath. The assassin must be wondering exactly what had happened; hoping that another dagger thrust would well and truly kill the King. Menis waited, swaying slightly on his feet and moaning to himself until he felt the assassin’s breath at his neck.
He felt the dagger pierce him just under the kidney but aside from a sensation of oddity it brought no reaction, no pain. Stepping forward, he clutched at his back and spun, coming face to face with the man who thought himself a remover of royals.
He smiled.
Physical training in combat demanded he reach out and choke the man to death but a new instinct rose up within up, one he had little chance to analyze let alone fight before it took hold. A quick drive forward with his head caught the assassin off-guard, and King Menis Tren marveled at the delicate taste of human flesh.
…
Jasir Othen felt his last dribblings of life spilling out onto the dark wooden floor. Death was merely an inconvenience – failing to fulfill the contract wounded him deeply.
- D
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