Departure - Confrontation at Teesarich Point

Sablefist recognised the solitary figure on the lone horse that was blocking his path in the near distance. He knew the man recognised him too, though Sablefist had taken the precaution of wearing magical disguise.

He hadn't expected obstacles this far down his journey. After all, this was a secret route, a sparse region in the north-eastern tip of the Great Kingdom. It was a route he used often to get into southern Bone March undetected, and from there to Nyrond. Then again, the purple-clad rider before him had often used the same route to accomplish the same thing. They were, on occasion, fellow spies, agents of the Malachite Throne, who served the whims and fancies of the Overking and his Herzogs. Tonight they were enemies, Sablefist knew, tonight one of them would die.

Sablefist's hand automatically swung to his sword hilt, but instead of drawing his sword, he barely gave a moment's thought before he reached into a saddle pouch and withdrew a vial that he swiftly took a sip from and replaced.

"I've been ordered to kill you, Kyros 'Sablefist' Telliran." Plandarn Relshefer said plainly as Sablefist drew to a halt several feet away. "I thought I'd tell you face to face rather than shoot you in the back or from a distance, something both of us are wont to do at times."

All trace of his usual foppishness gone, Sablefist had long suspected that there was more to this man than met the eye. Relshefer wasn't merely a common thief, nor was he an extravagant bard he normally passed himself off as. He wore none of his usual ostentatious and gaudy clothing; the character of a free-wheeling, double-dealing swindler of merchants was absent from the man whom Sablefist faced. The fair-haired blue-eyed man before him was an assassin, a deadly and efficient killer of men.

Sablefist stared at the loaded crossbow the man held in his left hand, pointing steadily at him. He knew exactly what poison coated the bolt, and what its effects were. The only thing he didn't know was when Relshefer was going to fire that damn thing.

"You've been watched for the last couple of weeks. I knew you were going to leave, even though the rest of your command didn't." Plandarn curled a knowing smile. His right hand twirled a slim unsheathed poniard.

"You've grown soft Sablefist. You've disobeyed orders. You've been remiss in your duties. Not that these are capital crimes in themselves. But this is the great and mighty Aerdy kingdom. Weakness will not be tolerated." Relshefer didn't particularly care that Sablefist had hardly said a word. He knew that the deserter before him was sizing him up, waiting for an opportunity to strike, to escape. Plandarn was not going to give him that opportunity.

"You allowed the score of Johydee's Children, which the Order of the Malachite Palm had so painstakingly captured, to escape. The Overking was very displeased with that, especially because it is suspected that you released them on purpose. You saw it fit to discipline your men for being too harsh with the Merchant's Guild in Eastfair, resulting in a fall in their declaration of import duties. It is believed that you manipulated the captain of the Second Rakersmen, Eastfair regiment, into a duel with you, so that you could kill him."

At this point Sablefist made to speak - Hauptmann Wentrap and his men had sacked an entire village for hiding a man whose crime was to hunt the Overking's deer - but a slight twitch of the crossbow pointed at him and a shaking of Plandarn's head made him hold his peace.

"The last mission you led saw you return alive by yourself. That was highly suspicious. The others had all died, save for myself, who had the good fortune to return by a different route. Both General Klarr and His Grace Grenell had reason to believe that you have hidden the truth of their deaths from him - perhaps you left them to die, perhaps you led them to their deaths, perhaps you wanted them to die. You claimed the mission was a failure, a disaster, and returned empty-handed. I know that is a lie. And they believe that you now are in possession of something that rightfully belongs to the Herzog."

"Yes I know you have the amulet of Asr'adin, though I've yet to determine where you've hidden its companion ring. Maybe you didn't manage to retrieve it after all. I also know what else you carry on your body. You wear a pair of boots that allow you to stride and jump walls and long distances. Your cloak bends light around you when in darkness to allow you to appear hard to detect. On your right hand is a ring that enables you to fall gently without harm. You have a hat of disguise which allows you to appear as someone else. Your other hand bears a ring that reflects certain spells back on its caster. Of your twin short swords, one produces no sound at all regardless of impact and is able to create a soundless environment when necessary. That sword I covet. The other produces wounds that will not heal normally. You wear the enchanted leather armour of some magical creature, and gloves that prevent you from being disarmed. And of course the amulet. Am I right so far?" Plandarn smiled yet another of his cruel smiles. "You own far too much magic for one of your position, thanks to the generosity of His Grace and the supposed demands of your assignments. I know everything about you. I know your fighting strategies and your martial skills, and even the fact that since your return from Degraunce Keep, you are not the swordsman you once were. Nothing you do will surprise me tonight. The penalty for desertion is death."

"Besides, you've discovered more about me than anyone should know. You've kept your suspicions about my involvement with the Midnight Darkness to yourself so far. But I can't risk that, can I?"

Plandarn was good, Sablefist granted him that. Damn good. He had suspected that the Herzog had him monitored in the last few weeks, but found no evidence to believe so. Given the resources the Herzog had at his disposal, finding no evidence of being watched was tantamount to evidence that the surveillance had been most covert.

Sablefist had thought about desertion long and hard. He knew the penalty and the consequences for leaving the employ of the Overking. North Province was his country, Eastfair was his home, General Klarr was his commanding officer and the Herzog his liege. Why choose to leave the land of his birth? Why had his stomach for the methods and activities of his profession left him? He was a good soldier. He was a good, unrelenting leader. He was a good assassin, maybe better than Relshefer. He had found favour with his superiors. He accomplished his duties efficiently and coldly. He was due for promotion. Why jeopardise everything? Why this strange vehemence and distaste for these same things? Why such personal disillusionment at his past life? Something was very wrong with his life, Sablefist thought, and he hadn't quite been able to put his finger on the cause. His hand reached for the amulet around his neck absentmindedly.

"Uh-uh." Relshefer shook his head. "We'll have none of that. Keep your hands where I can see them.  My trigger finger is getting twitchy, and at this range I can't miss. That you know. In the last four days you've evaded two separate squads of the Northmen Army on the lookout for you, and the third is still hot on your heels tonight. About one, maybe, two hours behind you, the last I checked."

The crossbow looked more threatening than earlier, Sablefist noticed. The bolt seemed to edge forward further, the bowstring seemed more taut, the gangrenous poisonmore virulent.  Plandarn must be getting to the end of his spiel.

"I get to keep the spoils of this …engagement. The amulet I will bringto the Herzog. They will offer me your position, which I will decline in lieu of an obscene sum they're bound to give me for my noble refusal as well as the authority to operate as a free agent of the Crown."

Plandarn's cynical smile was not lost on Sablefist. "I wanted to say..."

"Tiresome." Sablefist muttered as he leapt from his saddle towards the purple-clad assassin. His magical boots, leveraged against the stirrups, carried him further and higher than would have been possible as the momentum of the leap threw him into a somersault. The crossbow fired; the height of Plandarn's aim undercompensated as the bolt sank into and passed cleanly through Sablefist's right thigh. The deserter's unexpected, unorthodox move startled the fair-haired assassin, but only for the briefest of moments. Quick as lightning Plandarn's other hand flashed, and the dagger flew towards Sablefist's shoulder, tearing and biting deep into the flesh there.

Sablefist's leap had not been one of sheer desperation, however. In the drone of Relshefer's gloating he had placed his hand by the mouth of his arrow quiver which hung on the right side of his saddle. With the certainty of selecting the correct arrow from its fletching, Sablefist's vault slammed his body full force against a surprised Plandarn, arrow plunging and snapping deep in Plandarn's side.

In their collision both men instinctively knew that it was impossible to draw their own swords due to their proximity, and almost simultaneously both reached for each other and drew the other man's blades even as they bowled over onto the grassy path, Plandarn's black horse rearing in alarm. The assassin's left hand dropped the crossbow and gouged at Sablefist's eyes and was reciprocated by an implacable hand wrapped around his throat. The brutality of their deadly embrace called for a respite as Sablefist sliced downward at Relshefer's knee and Plandarn slashing Sablefist's short sword across his back. Both men fell away from each other as they hit the ground. The respite was momentary as they scrambled unsteadily to their feet, staggering under the effects of poison.

The irony of their mutual poisoning was not lost on both these killers. The venom on the bolt had been meant to slay at the slightest contact. Yet Sablefist remained standing. The toxin on the arrow the deserter selected was equally malignant; its victim would instantly lose all control of the affected body part as the muscles atrophied, and Relshefer had taken it in his side. They stared at each other with palpable hate, eyes narrowed to unforgiving slits.

Then Relshefer dropped the sword with a grunt of pain. He stretched his hand over the arrow shaft in his side, his torso contorted in agony and locked in place like some bizarre rictus.

"Bastard," cursed the assassin as he keeled over, his frame now unable to support his own weight, having lost the power to move his arms and legs. Sablefist lurched forward to deliver the coup de grace… and pitched headlong onto the grass verge.

His entire body felt as if it was on fire. His heart pumped raw pain into every nerve and sinew as the venom coursed through his system. Sablefist began to bleed from his ears and mouth as his eyes became harder and harder to focus. He tried once more to raise Relshefer's own sword at the twisted shape of Plandarn's body, and slid face forward, unconscious, onto the midnight grass.

The drumming of hooves on the ground startled Sablefist. Should he be dead, he wondered to himself? He had earlier already, in anticipation, taken the precaution of quaffing the antidote for the poisons he knew Plandarn regularly employed. But he knew that these poisons were unpredictable. The assassin must have concocted and refined his own formulas. Still, Sablefist thought, he survived what was surely a fatal venom, and had passed out for a moment, he thought.

Plandarn Relshefer still lay on the ground, immobile. Sablefist did not want to get up either, but the sound of horses ridden furiously attested to the fact that General Klarr's bounty squad had almost caught up with the deserter. There was no time to be lost.  By sheer dint of willpower Sablefist dragged himself to his roan stallion, which surprisingly did not bolt but shied quietly a couple of yards away.

It seemed an eternity before he reached his horse, and with a monumental effort hoisted himself up. His back burned with a deep open gash which appeared to split wider because of his efforts. Plandarn must have slashed him with his own sword of wounding. Now, barely able to see or hear, bearing the dead-weight of a pain-wracked body, with a dozen hunters in close pursuit, Sablefist dug his heels into his mount and rode away furiously like a man possessed.

He rode on and on, not caring where the horse was headed. The riders behind him were still in hot pursuit - he could still faintly make out their shouts of excitement. He urged his mount harder, faster and felt the escalating strain of the horse beneath him. Harder, faster he pushed. The stallion, bathed in sweat, began to whinny in protest. Harder, faster he whipped - and neither he nor the horse noticed the river until it was too late.

The horse bucked and reared at the edge of the riverbank, but its momentum caused both horse and rider to plunge unstoppably into the blackly churning current of the Teesar Torrent. The horse neighed in distress and almost immediately picked itself up, hobbling agitatedly out of the water.

But of the rider there was no trace.

The beggars of Innspa were not particularly pleased to discover a new pauper plying their streets. They had no idea as to his origins, only that he emerged in the city less than a week ago. However, the man seemed pitiable enough. He appeared to be a young man, but they weren't too sure of that. They could tell that he was both partially deaf and blind, and could only walk with the aid of a stick, as his left leg stuck out at a grotesque angle. This beggar must be diseased as well, they thought, since his clothes were often stained with blood and pus, and fouled with what they rightly assumed to be his own vomit and excrement. They had a good mind to kick him out of their territory, and wondered why the authorities had not already done so. The more reasonable among them advised compassion - it was evident that this new vagrant was near death anyway, and it would be more expedient to let Istus take her course.

Sometimes the sickly tramp overheard snatches of these conversations, and before turning down to sleep in some swill-slopped alleyway, Kyros 'Sablefist' Telliran would shed a tear for himself and wonder why Nerull had not yet come to take him.