The Wrong Men to Rob

Tarsakh 4, 1451

He strode through the streets of Theymarsh, his blue cloak flowing around his lean frame and his hood up, hiding his face in unnaturally dark shadow.

Daeric had come.

People around him took no notice, for he walked like many others in the town, possibly a sailor from the docks, or one of the men from the middle class section. They couldn't be more wrong.

Daeric had come.

Behind him, in the shadows, skulked another man, hooded and cloaked as well, but in a black vestment streaked with dark blue veins. His hands, hidden beneath black gloves of similar cloth to his cloak, had long thin fingers. He appeared unarmed, which, as many he had murdered had found, was an impression he liked to cultivate. The gloves on his hands were magical, each capable of storing a single item, and in each glove was a weapon, a pair of narrow scimitars, mirror images of each other.

This was Keiran, Daeric's bodyguard and assassin.

Daeric had come.

In another section of Theymarsh, Eric, the son of a poor fisherman, now deceased, and a poor fisherman himself, sat in front of his house, which consisted of several wooden boards nailed to a wooden frame, with a slightly thicker one serving as its roof. The inside of the shack was bare, the only thing of value being a small jeweled pendant, buried under the fire pit and belonging to Eric's mother, who supposedly died shortly after his birth. When Eric thought hard enough about it, though, he had memories of someone, a beautiful woman, holding and hugging him. He also had memories of a sword, curved and with a design like fire on its blade. He had memories of this blade covered in blood, and of his mother lying on the ground, not waking up, even when he shook her.

This day, Eric was grounded, his canoe sitting tied to the stake in front of his shack, upside down to keep it from being filled with rainwater, which pattered upon the sea, not fifteen feet from Eric's door. With a sigh, Eric lay back, easing his gangling six foot three inch frame onto his straw mattress. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, falling into uneasy dreams, in which he revisited the scene of his mother's death.

Several minutes later, he awoke with a start, his hand on his dagger, ready to draw it, for he had heard footsteps in the mud, footsteps that seemed to be trying to be concealed, though the owner was doing a poor job. Eric lay back down, and peered through cracked eyelids at the doorway. His dagger was out, for ruffians were a common sight in this part of town and their antics were becoming more desperate as winter neared.

A shadow moved outside, and Eric tensed, then relaxed, for the shadow had coalesced itself into the recognizable shadow of Anor, a young child who haunted the docks, and was a friend of his, though many held dislike for him. Anor was a thief, though on their first meeting, Eric finding Anor's hand in his pocket, he had found a kinship between them, for Anor had few memories of his mother and was mostly abandoned as a child. Now, when ever he had surplus, Eric would leave a morsel out for Anor, and Anor would share any theivings with Eric.

Before the doorway, Anor's shadow halted, and Eric slid his dagger away. Then in a rush, the small boy bounded into the hut, his brown hair tousled and a broad grin upon his face. "Hallo Eric!" He yelled "I'm knowin' ye're not asleep!"

Eric sat up "Aye, but any thief might, and would be doin' summat foolhardy, stealin' from poor me. Ye're knowin' I've got nuthin' worth stealin, it'd be akin to searchin' a brothel fer a wife, there ain' nuthin' good."

"I be knowin' that" replied Anor, "Ye're poor as dirt, but, today I has somethin' that'll make ye smile." With that, Anor opened his cloak, and inside it were Several things, several thing's that made Eric's eyes sparkle: a beautifully crafted longsword, it's hilt and pommel set with small turquoise jewels; a dirk, another blade nearly a foot and a half long, of like workmanship; two red bottles of alcohol, Calimshan wine, by Eric's less than learned reading of the labels; and a three small sacks, though it bulged with unseen coins.

"I'm wearin' the best of it" Said Anor, opening his shirt to reveal a dull sea of mail rings, expertly crafted into armor. Further pulling off the garment, Anor revealed it fully, and Eric gasped, for by the top was set a band of gold, with an insignia crafted into the mail below it, five stars arrayed over a knife, the symbol of the Theymarsh assassin's guild, people who Eric wanted not quarrel with.

"Where did ye get these things?" he asked.

"Lucky break" answered Anor "I found my opportunity and took it"

Snatching the dirk, Eric held it up, letting the gems sparkle in the flickering firelight. "This is no common man's weapon, this is a Darkspawn's weapon." He dropped the blade, and shook Anor "Do you know what this means!?" Eric's voice rose shrilly "They're going to come and reclaim these, and kill you and me!" He collapsed, next to the knife, head in his hands.

"I wasn't planning on waitin' for 'em to find me" said Anor quietly "This is our chance to escape, to leave this all behind. To start a new life, somewhere" Anor's voice became excited, rising in volume "We have enough to buy horses, we can live off the land, your skill at fishing and mine at…at…"

"You shut it" said Eric, his voice low "do you want to bring every villain in the guild down upon our head. Return the weapons, I want no part in them"

"Fine, then have this, hope it pleases your heart!" yelled Anor, and, in one motion, he scooped up the dirk, tucked it into his belt, and threw a bag of coins at Eric's face, it shattered upon impact, sending gold coins spinning into the mud. Eric looked up, barely injured, but saddened, to see Anor run out the door.

Pausing only for a moment to scoop some soil over the densest concentration of coins, Eric ran out the door, but Anor was gone from sight. Cursing, Eric charged off in pursuit

Daeric's eyes flashed as a small figure slammed into him, then pushed away, nearly tripping him to the dirt. Daeric's bony hand shot from his sleeve, catching the youth by his arm. His grasp, due to years of holding nothing heavier than a scroll tube, was not firm, and in a moment, the boy had pulled away, and had run straight into Keiran, Whose much stronger grip had him immobilized in a moment, the razor edge of a scimitar to his throat.

"Shall I kill him my lord?" Keiran rasped, his voice oddly resembling that of a snake's "Or just break his bones?" He ended with a hiss-like laugh, and shook Anor, for that was who the unfortunate child was.

Anor's cloak flapped open and the items hidden inside were displayed, drawing a gasp from Keiran, who pressed the scimitar's blade in closer, drawing a line of blood, not deep, but enough to get the message across. Anor struggled in the binding grasp of his other arm.

"Where did you get these" said Keiran, his voice slightly higher than a whisper. When he continued, it seemed as if he was trying to make his voice sweet, though his words were anything but "Surely this little boy did not steal my old guild blades. No, that would result in most dire consequences." He paused then continued, his voice low again "Most dire consequences, if you catch my meaning. I can make you scream a thousand times for death before she spreads her comforting veil over your tortured soul."

Anor wet himself, and with a grunt of disgust, Keiran threw him down upon the ground, gasping for breath and clutching a newly broken arm, a parting present from Keiran, skillfully delivered in his thrust.

Eric saw Anor fall, heard the jarring crack of his bone snapping, but did nothing, fear held him in place.

He recognized Keiran.

Memories assailed him, of his mother, of this same hard faced man, his throat bleeding from a knife wound, stabbing his mother through the chest, her blood bathing him and forming pools upon the ground. He looked up, and though it had been over fifteen years, he recognized the assassin, saw the brown scar across his throat, confirming his identity, and could do nothing, he was petrified with fear.

Anor squealed, and Eric saw his little friend, someone he almost loved as a child, under Keiran's knees, as the assassin coolly lined up a knife, the very dirk he had held so many seconds prior, and began to plunge it into Anor's chest. The scene pushed away the fear, and with a roar of rage, he had his old rusted knife out, had it spinning towards Keiran, a one in a million throw. The knife, on its first ever flight, entered into Keiran's ribcage, puncturing his left lung before stopping, less than a hair's width from the evil man's heart.

With a cry of pain, he leapt up, laboring for breath, and let the dirk fall, to land, point down, quivering an inch from Anor's head. The blue robed man threw back his hood, regardless of the rain, and the tattoos of the rune casters of Calimshan shone forth.

His voice, aided by a spell, thundered forth "Who dares attack the servant of Daeric" Eric, more afraid than he had ever been before, ran forward and scooped up Anor, then fled, running down the street. Keiran moved to pursue, but felt the dagger in his side, could tell his lung had collapsed, and knew death was close. He gingerly pulled the knife from his side, growling away the pain. With a grunt, he pulled it out fully, opening the wound and allowing a fountain of blood to pour forth, for in his initial grasp of the dagger, he had moved it inwards that fatal hair's breadth, and his heart, like a deflating balloon, had widened the prick with a gout of blood, tearing open the hole, and now his blood spilled onto the muddy streets, blood mixing with rainwater.

In less than a minute, Keiran, the founder of the Darkspawn assassin's guild, slayer of hundreds, and murderer of Eric's mother, lay dead, mocking the powerful healing amulet Daeric had used to aid him.

Eric, Anor in his arms, ran on, not looking back, and not fearing pursuit, for he knew Keiran to be dead, His throw was just too lucky for him to be alive.

Taking a roundabout route, just in case anyone was following, Eric brought Anor to his hut. Laying his injured friend upon his bed, he examined first his throat, conscious of the line of red. Finding the cut to be no deeper than the skin, he relaxed, then he looked at Anor's right arm.

The bone had not been broken, it had been snapped, the end of one piece jutting from a tear in the skin. The other lost inside. Wincing, Eric had to turn away, and he vomited violently into the fire, almost extinguishing it. From the floor, he picked up several gold coins, and stuffed then into his pocket, then he picked up Anor, who, through pain filled eyes, regarded him briefly, then slumped unconscious.

Eric, Anor hugged close to him, slowly walked out the door, his eyes teary, hoping beyond hope that the clerics of the nearby temple to Ilmater would be able to save the arm, though he had a feeling in his heart that it would have to be amputated or Anor would be crippled for life.

Anor was stirring by the time Eric reached the church. When the guard at the door said "no admittance" (and held out his hand for payment), Eric paid him a "bribe" of a gold piece, and was allowed inside. The hall of the temple was decorated with several tapestries of Ilmater, ranging from his holiness performing healing to his followers praying while he viewed from the heavens. Eric had never seen such detail in anything before.

Laying Anor before the alter, Eric stepped back and knelt, head bowed in a prayer of thanks. When an initiate finally appeared, he leaped up, begging her to find his friend help. When she saw Anor's condition, for he was white as a sheet then, she sprang away, and a minute later, returned with a pair of clerics, their red robes sweeping along the tiled floor. One performed a quick spell, and before Eric's eyes, a blue spark traced the skin of Anor's arm around the protruding bone, erasing the blood and binding the skin to it. The initiate approached Eric.

"Father Andraeus says he can fix your son's arm, though it will take a month. He also requests that you make a donation to the church so it can continue to serve the people (Eric rolled his eyes at this). Is there anything else that the children of Ilmater can do for you?"

"No, my friend is my only probl'm" answered Eric, conscious of his dockside accent against the girl's practiced speech.

"May I inquire as to how the injury occurred? Your companion is in rather poor condition."

"Yeah, we had a little trouble on the street, tis nuttin'"

"I see"

Eric stayed at the temple that night, and deposited a gold piece in the collection box. The next day, he returned to his shack to retrieve Anor's cloak, and to dig up his mother's pendant.