It’s too crowded for all of this bullshit.
I duck down as the barstool flies towards my head and smashes into some other unlucky bastard who just wanted a drink. Now all of this is going to make me late—and that’s just not acceptable—not tonight, not this night.
I want to take my daggers out and just carve my way out and let the ancient wood planks of this tavern soak them up. But no blades or magic is the oldest law of our taverns. The rest are wobbly like when to tip or sleeping on the roof—here and there no one notices.
I move into a leap as a fresh recruit of the guard tries to throw a haymaker my way but step quickly to the left, letting him drive it in the bar with a resounding crack—his knuckles bending in an unnatural way. The young man lets out a whimper and collapses onto the floor.
I can see the door but it looks like miles away with the idiots pounding each other in the face. But then I find my way.
I skirt by some old barbarians from different tribes exchanging blows by sliding between them and getting rained on by their beard sweat. I wipe my face and hit the back door, a place verboten by most and pass through the kitchen. A fry pan wings past my head, and I just barely manage to stop as it whizzes by my head, the heat and smell of curry still coming off of it.
A cloaked figure leaps in front of my exit and just the way she reaches up to pull her hood down lets me know that my time has been cut short. Hastur’s blue eyes stare into me and I wonder how long she’s waited in the shadow for the moment my desperation was at its worst to strike. She must have traveled leagues and leagues and waited, what—eight years? Ten? She looks the same, except for the scar under her eye and her hair is longer and still ebony.
You know what my problem is? I stare too long.
She delivers a solid kick to my head that knocks me back and she delivers a series of punches loaded with betrayal and anger directly to my nose. I once told her to always aim for the nose to debilitate your opponent. Great job. Solid advice. Pain shoots up my face and she nearly has me. I grab a kitchen pot and start to block her blows, a twang following each one. She knocks it out of my hand and I grab a cutting board to keep going. My exit is getting farther and farther away.
I manage to toss a mop and bucket her way just to get me out of there. Back in the main room, the brawl is still going on so I leap onto the bar and start to run. I stumble as she slides into the back of my knee. I manage to flip over and land hard on my back, the walnut bar giving no quarter. She smiles that smile I know, when an assassin has their prey and there is nowhere to run. And I know if I tell her to stop, she won’t. I trained her not to listen to the pleas of her targets, her victims. She takes out the ebony dagger, a gift from too long ago and she waits too long to show me how this night will end. I want to stop her, to show her the other paths, but I recognize that look—she won’t look at any other way—especially from me.
I make a quick motion and drive my palm into her blade. For a second, she’s confused on why I’d impale myself, but she doesn’t know the ancient blades. Blood has been drawn and she holds the dagger. Life drains from her instantly, her skin going gray as her chest fills with shadows. The dust of her covers me and as I roll off the bar and head for the door, everyone stops their rows and finally gives me passage.
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