Just Part of the Job

In one of the seedier parts of the Capital, where the streets were narrow and garbage-strewn, there sat a little hole-in-the-wall pub called the Rusty Axe. It was the community watering hole for the entire West side of the Capital; anyone looking for cheap drink and palatable food would invariably find their way to the dilapidated wooden sign that bore an image of a rusted axe, and from there into the dimly lit confines of the bar. It was not unusual for the pub to lure many of the Capital's more questionable people into its interior, and tonight was no exception.

The patrons avoided the people who sat in dark corners, lest they find themselves knocked cold--if they were lucky. Those who did not have as much stock in luck were found dead in the pitch-black alley that ran behind the bar. The corner tables were reserved, by unspoken law, for those who wished to hold private conversations. And so when Lord Daeniel walked into the bar, dressed in a black traveler's cloak, the patrons paid him no mind as he walked towards a secluded, shadowed table in the back, where another figure waited, arms crossed, in similar garb.

Daeniel sat nervously at the well-worn oak table, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the putrid odors of the bar. The place smelled as if it hadn't been cleaned since its founding. He was glad that the darkness obscured the layers of scum that had built up on the table over the years. He watched behind him, hoping desperately that no one had followed him into the pub.

The figure across from him reached out and put a hand over his. "Calm yourself, my Lord; we are but two travelers discussing matters that pertain not to other's ears, are we not? I have already requested that we not be disturbed."

Lord Daeniel relaxed fractionally, but not much. He wasted no time in explaining his perdition to the shadowy figure.

"Look," he said, "this man I told you about, this Rychaeth fellow, has caused me much grief and trouble over the past few weeks. I return to my homes to find them plundered of my precious gold! I've lost tens of thousands in gold! He's robbed four of my houses in a row! I want him stopped now!" He pounded his fist on the sticky oak table for added emphasis. Quite a few faces in the bar turned in curiosity at the sudden sharp slap that echoed across the dingy pub.

The figure that sat across from Lord Daeniel didn't so much as twitch at the excessively rich man's fit of anger. His features were effectively hidden by a heavy brown cloak, hood drawn, that shrouded the face inside in deep shadows; Daeniel had no idea what the man beneath the cloak looked like. Which was exactly the way the man preferred it--in these times, to remain hidden was to remain safe. It was extremely unwise to engage in an open-information policy, lest one find themselves at the wrong end of a blade.

From the viewpoints of the other patrons in the bar, the two unlikely men were just another two mysterious visitors who wished to conduct their business in the privacy of the shadowy corner table. That premature assumption was correct. Daeniel hated to think of what might happen if the patrons discovered his true identity. He was most definitely not loved by all. And the gizzled bounty hunter, the best the North had to offer, sitting across from him? His obscurity was his business; bounty hunters were not welcome in many towns.

The bounty hunter in question lifted a gloved hand, motioning for Daeniel to lower his voice before he drew too much attention to the unlikely pair.

"Calm yourself, my Lord," he said, applying a slightly sarcastic emphasis on the last two words. "I will...take care of him...for the right price."

Daeniel took a deep breath, knowing that the price would be exuberantly steep, but was completely necessary to get the thieving scoundrel Rychaeth off the streets...permanently.

"How much?" he inquired, dreading the answer.

The bounty hunter, as predicted, mentioned a ridiculously large four-digit sum, much larger than the amount that Daeniel had been prepared to pay out of pocket.

"Nine thousand? Are you out of your mind? I won't pay a coin over two thousand!"

The figure did not deign to respond to the agitated lord; he simply stood and prepared to leave, obviously somewhat miffed by Daeniel's pitiful counter-offer. He began moving towards the door.

"Wait!"

The robed figure stopped.

Daeniel nervously licked his lips. Rychaeth was costing him, big time, as he worked his way through the lord's myriad of homes scattered over the countryside. Preventing him from reaching the houses that were as of yet untouched would be well worth the money spent on the bounty hunter--however, Daeniel was still unwilling to part with such an extravagant sum.

"All right, damn you!" He said at last, shoving a heafy bag into the bounty hunter's hands. The cloaked figure calmly opened the bag, counted the contents, and slipped it within his cloak. "Make sure Rychaeth doesn't come near any of my homes again. I'll give you the last two thousand when I get proof of his death. And do it right!" he added as the bounty hunter stood up to go.

The figure laughed. "Do it right? Why of course, my Lord...it is just part of the job."

He departed through the pub's ancient door and vanished into the night.

***

A lone figure silently stole through the woods, making not a sound as it examined a section of trampled grass under the light of the full moon. Gloved hands expertly parted the crushed blades of grass, and the figure stood, satisfied that his quarry had indeed traveled through these woods within the past few days, moved onwards.

Over the past few days, the bounty hunter had been hot on the trail of the thieving scoundrel known as Rychaeth Leithyr. Following his path had been difficult, to say the least; the thief was obviously extremely familiar with the woods and methods that could be used to move through them without leaving much of a trail. There were always signs, however; a broken branch here, higher than most animals were tall; a muddy, indistinct footprint left by a shoe designed for silent movement; that sort of thing. That there was a trail at all was something of a surprise for the bounty hunter; this Rychaeth must be fairly arrogant or unprofessional--and Lord Daeniel's description of his thieving acts ruled out the latter. No matter. He'd be dealt with, professional or not.

Up ahead sat one of Lord Daeniel's more prestigious hunting cabins, built in a large clearing of forest next to a little-used road that ran through the forest. The bounty hunter slowed, crouching as he ever-so-carefully crept to a line of bushes that lined the forest's edge.

The house was dark, apparently deserted; not a light burned in the upper-story windows. It was--in theory--the perfect target for a thief looking to gain a lot for just a little work. Now it just remained to be seen if Rychaeth would take the bait...

The bounty hunter froze in the undergrowth as he saw an indistinct form move out from behind of the impressively large house, keeping to the shadows as he did so--smart, but not smart enough. The bounty hunter impassively waited until the figure crept directly below a second-story window before moving into the open, scimitar at the ready.

"Halt, thief. Turn around, slowly."

The figure froze and turned to face the bounty hunter before speaking.

"Well, well, well, if it ain't Gaerth Haryn, feared bounty hunter o' th' north! I musta' made someone mighty angry."

His voice sent chills up Gaerth's spine. He was clothed in his hood and cloak; there was no way that the man could have identified him behind his billowing folds of fabric--and yet he had. But there was no way he would allow the other man know he was spooked.

With his most solid and authoritative voice, he said, "I have been sent by the great Lord Daeniel. It may please you to know that you are worth nine thousand in gold to him. I have been paid to collect your head."

Without further preamble, he leaped, sword swinging in a mighty arc that would intersect with Rychaeth's neck. He expected to feel the slight resistance as his expertly crafted sword parted flesh from flesh, and then he would go and inform Lord Daeniel of Rychaeth's fate, collecting his reward as--

With a mighty clang that shook him to his bones, his scimitar impacted not with the soft flesh of Rychaeth's neck, but the hard steel of a wicked scimitar.

The owner of the scimitar chuckled, and the hair on the back of Gaerth's neck stood on end as the thief said, "I don' die that easily...do ye?"

Gaerth twisted to the side just as a tiny throwing dagger, perfectly balanced, flew from Rychaeth's left sleeve and embedded itself in a tree behind them with a tiny thunk.

"It'll take more than mere tricks to do me in--" he said, but Rychaeth chose that moment to attack; swinging his scimitar like an expert, parrying all of Gaerth's desperate counter-attacks with ridiculous ease. Gaerth frantically swung his sword, trying to find a weakness, any weakness, but Rychaeth's skill was formidable; he blocked and counter-attacked and parried and managed to manipulate Gaerth up against the cabin wall.

"Havin' fun?" Rychaeth said as he swung again, aiming for Gaerth's head. At the last possible instant, he ducked, and the blade impacted in the wall with a dull thump. With a furious yank, Rychaeth pulled it free and swung at Gaerth again--

But Gaerth had taken the opportunity to move behind Rychaeth, and attacked with a vicious uppercut towards Rychaeth's shoulder. The were-fox whipped up his scimitar and managed to deflect the blow, but in doing so tripped and fell backwards--

And as he rolled and came back up, sword held ready, his hood fell back.

Gaerth froze, staring into the revealed face of his opponent. Terrifying amber eyes stared back at him from behind a sharply angled vulpine muzzle, a muzzle that was grinning with a most inhuman expression.

"What the hell are you?" Gaerth stammered as he stumbled back a step, thoroughly unnerved at the sight of the were-fox.

"That's fer ye ta find out." Rychaeth leapt at him again, but this time Gaerth was ready for his surprise attack, and he deflected it easily, as Rychaeth swung in again, this time at a different angle--

The momentum of their fight carried them into the woods, where they had to be careful of their swings--a wild swing could find their swords buried in the trunk of a tree, at which point the contestant who still possessed a weapon would finish the other off. Rychaeth let loose with two more daggers--one whistled past Gaerth's arm and tore his cloak..

Gaerth missed a parry as Rychaeth swung in low, tried to jump to the side, and was partially successful; a line of fire burned its way through his side as the jeweled scimitar hit flesh.

"First blood," Rychaeth said. He swung again, pressing for the kill, but overcompensated, leaving himself open for attack. He barely swung out of the way of his opponent's blade as it impacted against a tree with a dull thump and stuck there.

Gaerth frantically tried to pull the blade free while Rychaeth looked on, simply grinning. He gave up after ten seconds; the blade was simply buried too deep in the wood.

"Did I happen ta mention ta what happened to th' other bounty hunters that tried ta do me in?" Rychaeth asked casually as he watched the blood rush from Gaerth's face in the light of the moon. "They're not around anymore."

Rychaeth debated whether to do him in then and there or let him escape and spread news of the thief's swordsmanship, but before he could decide the rock made his decision for him, right in the forehead. He fell backwards, momentarily stunned from the impact, and in the process lost his grip on the sword.

Gaerth froze, scared out of his wits as the were-fox levered himself back off the ground.

"Nice throw. Now ya die."

He jumped at Gaerth, knocking him over as the two of them fought the way two drunks in a bar would have at each other when no other weapon was available. For awhile Gaerth was on top, trying his best to kick Rychaeth, scratch his face, anything that would give him the advantage--but then their positions were reversed, and Rychaeth was on top, clamping his weight down on Gaerth's neck, leaning forward and applying his weight--

Gaerth desperately tried to pry Rychaeth's fingers from his neck, but the were-fox's fingers were like bands of iron, constricting around Gaerth's throat and squeezing the life out of him. The encroaching darkness had almost overcome him with Gaerth kicked upwards with one desperate, final effort--

And miraculously, the were-fox rolled off of him, doubled over in pain, and Gaerth's probing fingers found the sword that Rychaeth had dropped. He grabbed it, knowing it might be his last chance--and before Rychaeth could recover he plunged the sword straight and true into his opponent's back.

The were-fox twitched once and did not move again.

Rychaeth Leithyr, the most notorious thief of the North, was dead.

***

Gaerth stared at the unmoving body of Rychaeth for a long time. He shook slightly as he realized that he, Gaerth Haryn, had killed Rychaeth Leithyr!

He looked down at Rychaeth's corpse, and said solemnly, "Sorry, Rychaeth. I had nothing against you personally. It was just part of the job."

Gaerth left the corpse behind but took Rychaeth's scimitar as proof for Lord Daeniel--it would have been much too messy to actually deliver Rychaeth's head on a silver platter, as the Lord no doubt wanted. Holding the beautifully crafted sword in the light of the waning moon, he noticed the delicate inscriptions that covered the handle, the many jewels that sparkled as he rotated the sword in the light. He affixed the unfamiliar weight of the sword to his belt and began walking down the road that led back to the Capital. As he walked along, Gaerth noticed that the night was exceptionally beautiful and peaceful. Fall leaves crunched underfoot as he made his way along the road, and crickets chirped serenely from the bare, winter-ready trees that sat at the edges of the dirt road. Gaerth walked along, no longer making any sort of effort to remain hidden--for his quarry had been found and dealt with.

He soon arrived at a little town situated on the road; far sooner, in fact, than he had expected. Gaerth sought out the most respectable establishment, ducked beneath the low-hanging doorway, and headed straight for the sole occupant of the bar. The tavern owner was quite surprised at the amount of gold that Gaerth laid on the bar, and immediately handed him the key for his best room. Gaerth entered the posh suite and fell asleep immediately, without even bothering to slip off his shoes.

But as he drifted off to the land of nod, he was quickly plagued with horrid dreams of an almond-eyed monster that possessed a human body and a glittering, jeweled scimitar. As he sank against his will into the horrid dreams, the figure multiplied itself, first into two, then four, then eight! until he was surrounded by no less than sixteen Rychaeths, all of which were staring at him with that terrifying, inhuman visage. They moved simultaneously, swords raised--

Gaerth awoke, screaming, well into the morning. The image of the were-foxes still lingered before his eyes as he grabbed the jeweled scimitar and ran out of the tavern as if sixteen Rychaeths were still chasing after him.

He relaxed as he made his way towards the Capital, which was already visible in the distance. As had been the night before, it was an absolutely beautiful day; the sun was shining, its warmth offset by a cool breeze that kept Gaerth comfortable as he walked. The sky was an absolutely brilliant blue, a deeper blue than Gaerth had ever seen before in his life; surely the Gods were smiling upon him now for his great deed! He would have to tell everyone in the Capital of the death of the scoundrel Rychaeth by Gaerth's own hand. The bounty hunter would be as revered as the great King Darron Damantium IV, ruler of this fine land!

There was a lovely, delicate fragrance in the air; it took Gaerth a few minutes before he realized that it was the scent of fresh spring-time blossoms. All around him, flowers were blooming in great profusion for the start of the growing season. Trees were covered in leaves. Giant red roses, little blue-purple forget-me-nots, and great daisies surrounded him as he made his way to the Capital gates. The guard on duty took one look at him and immediately said, "Hail, Gaerth Haryn has returned in victory!"

Gaerth decided it wouldn't hurt to bow slightly in appreciation, and he did so as the gates swung wide to admit him onto one of the busy streets that lead straight through the Capital. He was greeted by an amazing sight: all along the road, as far as the eye could see, people were lined up, waving, cheering, yelling, and all shouting, "ALL HAIL GAERTH HARYN!"

"Thank you, thank you!" Gaerth shouted as he made his way down the street. He decided he really should seek out Lord Daeniel and get that last two thousand of gold, when suddenly he found himself directly in front of the Rusty Axe. Strange, he hadn't remembered walking there. He shrugged, thinking about how a man really could get used to being treated like a king, and he really deserved to be treated as a king, because after all he had killed Rychaeth Leithyr, hadn't he? He deserved to be treated this way! He was royal now!

Inside all the patrons were cheering madly for him, dancing on tables and clapping as he bowed deeply to each and every person inside the tavern. Lord Daeniel came up and hugged him and gave him a clap on the shoulder and said that he really was fit to be a king and he really should be king because he had killed Rychaeth Leithyr, after all! And so it went and eventually Gaerth decided to stand up on a table and thank all of his newfound subjects.

He stood up on one of the tables, and the patrons went absolutely mad, stomping their feet and shouting at the top of their lungs. Someone brought in a huge flag that said, "All hail King Gaerth," and King Gaerth thought that it was really quite nice of them, and it was really quite all right, and really, he was fit to be a king and he should be a king because, after all, he had killed Rychaeth Leithyr, hadn't he?

He motioned his subjects for silence. Instantly the entire tavern and the whole world quieted as he took a deep breath to say his address--

--but he found that he couldn't speak. Not a sound came out.

Because something was blocking his throat.

He put a hand to his throat, but there was nothing there, so he tried again, and this time he was rewarded by this really strange kind of half-cough, half-choke, and he found that he couldn't breathe at all. His subjects had gone wild again and had started laughing and jumping and dancing and running and no one was paying the slightest bit of attention to Gaerth as he doubled over, struggling to get a breath.

This wasn't fair, he should be able to address his people, because, after all, that's what kings did, wasn't it? And he was a king now, wasn't he? He was king because he had killed Rychaeth Leithyr after all, and a king should be able to address his people, because, after all, that's what kings did and he was a king now wasn't he? because he had killed Rychaeth Leithyr and it wasn't fair and it wasn't fair and oh Lord why can't I breathe? I can't breathe I can't breathe Ican'tbreatheIcan'tbreatheIcan'tbreathe--

***

Gaerth desperately tried to pry Rychaeth's fingers from his neck, but the were-fox's fingers were like bands of iron, constricting around Gaerth's throat and squeezing the life out of him. The encroaching darkness had almost overcome him with Gaerth kicked upwards with one desperate, final effort--but it was too little, too late. Gaerth made one last, abortive movement before he finally lay still.

"Owww, damn ye, that hurt..." Rychaeth winced slightly as he stood up from the corpse, gingerly fingering the wound in his forehead where the rock had hit him. It was a scratch, no more; it was damn bloody and it hurt, but it would heal.

He looked down at the corpse of Gaerth Haryn. This man had come a lot closer to putting a premature end to Rychaeth's career than most had--and for a brief, intangible moment, Rychaeth saw him not as a bounty hunter, but as a fellow warrior, a man most accustomed to death and dealing with it.

That brief, intangible moment disappeared soon after. Rychaeth stood, and with some rather undignified crawling about on his hands and knees managed to recover his scimitar. He debated whether he should still try to go for that rich snob's house, then decided against it; the moon was beginning to set and it'd be daylight soon, and besides, he'd wasted enough time in these parts of the North anyways. It was time to move on to where the grass was greener.

Just before he left, he bent down and respectfully covered the corpse with its own cloak. "'Ey, nothin' personal, Gaerth" he said with a mocking grin, "I kinda liked ye, y'know. But 's just part 'o th' job."

He turned and with a flick of his tail, a swish of his cloak, Rychaeth Leithyr vanished into the night, leaving behind the corpse of a man who, for the few short instants before his oblivion, had been king.

***