The Unseen Hand

Ch 5: Two Blades

Venedi, Seventh of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel 

A tic tremored in Jarle's left eye as he strained to peer through the hinge slit of the room divider. The sounds of struggle and muffled breaths were growing weaker. The midnighter had ample opportunity to end Avaren's life with one of his blades, but he was drawing out the deed; relishing her suffering. Whispering in her ear?

Jarle clenched his fists. Had the Calantian captain he had made a deal with for the spoils double-crossed him? Had he been setup to take the blame of a far more sinister plot?

Common sense demanded cruel indifference. Jarle knew he should stay hidden, wait until the man had completed the grisly task before attempting to flee, but prudence was not his forte. If he didn't act, Avaren would die, and he'd be blamed for the murder.

Jarle cursed his luck. Coincidence or not, Avaren's attacker had single-handedly ruined his night and possibly his life. Months of stringent planning and hours spent fussing over minute details had all been for naught. That alone merited the intruder's death.

Jarle crawled out from behind the screen. He kept to the shadows, rolling each step to diminish the possibility of noise. Each footfall was calculated; each shadow assessed. He rounded the bed, moved past the armoire.

Outside the wind had picked up. The rustling of the leaves merged with Avaren's wheezing breaths. The night felt cursed.

Jarle crept behind the clashing silhouettes; positioned himself behind the attacker. Slowly, he reached out and grabbed hold of the attacker's blades. His fingers clenched tight around the handles. Then, in a burst of speed, he pulled the poniards free of their sheaths and plunged them into the attacker's kidneys.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Leather, skin, and innards gave way under the stabbing blows. The attacker tensed. He let out an unintelligible gurgle before letting go of the garrote. Instinctively he reached for his dagger; came up empty. The attacker half turned, black eyes wild with bewilderment before collapsing without so much as a cry.

Jarle unlooped the garrote from the unconscious girl's throat and turned her to face him. He pressed his ear against her lips and felt for breath. Disheveled, made paler by the light of the moons, the woman looked every bit like the specter of death.

"Ven be damned," Jarle cursed. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them. Gently, he gathered Avaren in his arms and carried her to the bed. He pulled his mask down, took a deep breath and pressed his lips to hers. The sensation of touching her tear-streaked lips was so sublime that for a moment Jarle forgot his purpose. An inexplicable heat seemed to travel from her mouth to his as he forcefully blew air into her lungs.

Light headed and confounded; feeling as if the floor had suddenly evanesced from under his feet, Jarle pulled back his hood. The tingling that had assaulted the back of his throat when he had first encountered Avaren returned. "Breathe," Jarle said, more to himself than the girl.

After what seemed like an eternity, Avaren inhaled on her own. She coughed and gasped; sucking in air with desperate inhalations. Jarle propped her head on a pillow and drew the sheets over her body. As if in a trance, he fetched plush towels from the toiletry rack and placed them over her shivering body.

Leaving Avaren's side, Jarle approached the dead man whose blood was yet pooling on the floor. He squatted over the body and pulled down the attacker's mask. The gentle profile of the lifeless face sent a chill racing down his spine. He had killed the assassin known as Mast. There was no mistaking the man's solid-black eyes and the cross-shaped scar on his cheek.