The Sharded Blade | Part 1 (A Dark Fantasy Novella)

Part 4

Finding Hayman Goodfellow was a simple enough task. Everyone knew where the tax collector and his protruding stomach would be at this hour. He was either in his office, figuring out who to fleece out of their money next, or at a local tavern getting sloshed. The only question was, as always, and after eliminating his place of work, what watering hole he was saddled up at this evening.

Well, one with hookers aplenty. That's which one. And that distinction narrowed it down to about two-thirds of the bars in this city.

I found him at a particularly disreputable establishment near his office. The Open Skirt was just the sort of place a man of his breed would frequent. The place got its name, if I have to spell it out for you, for how easily the women who worked there would spread their legs for any man, and for the right price. And, for giving the owner of that less than distinguished business a thirty percent cut of the take? Well, they were freely encouraged to.

I observed my target from an alley across the street. Through a crud covered window, I watched him partaking in the company of a comely woman. She was in his lap, grinding on him in not the most subtle of manners. He seemed to be rather enjoying it, as any man would. To return the favor, he fondled her bosom roughly.

She appeared to take great pleasure in the way their budding business relationship was going.

On the building to my left, Gertrude's claws clicked as she scampered on the overhang above my head. I smiled with a wicked thought. "If I wait for him to kill this one first, do I get credit for two?"

Gertrude squelched her anger at my insinuation. She was not amused. The rat never was.

My laughter punctuated how much I enjoyed taunting her. And I was pretty sure she knew it.

While the scene played out, I leaned on the side of the building and settled in to get comfortable. The edge of my cloak's hood pulled down in front of my eyes, I'd have to wait for Mr. Goodfellow to leave, presumably with her.

But I didn't need to wait long.

Arm in arm, the two of them blundered out into the street not ten minutes later. Mr. Goodfellow didn't waste any time. And, based on the bulge in his trousers, he was probably very horny.

Their awkward and stumbling strides indicated how intoxicated both of them were. The hooker was obviously much more so than the taxman. But he wasn't sober by any means.

I followed. But not too close. And Gertrude accompanied me. Why? Did she think I wouldn't do this? Did she think I wouldn't kill this man? Especially when doing so would bring myself one shard closer to relief of my condition and ultimately reclaiming the privilege to die? The very freedom that was stolen from me?

The couple took a left towards the river. Then, instead of crossing the bridge, they went to the right so they could head under the pillars for a little privacy.

Just when he thought they were out of view was the moment he grabbed her, tore a dirty handkerchief from his back pocket, and gagged her. She didn't stand a chance in her fight. He was twice her size. She was twice as drunk.

The tax collector tossed his consort to the ground with a thrust hard enough to stun her. He then proceeded to retrieve a piece of rope he had apparently stashed nearby and in preparation for tonight's festivities. Oh, he'd planned this all right. There was no doubt about it. Throwing himself on top of her, she struggled, but he had her rolled onto her stomach and was making quick work of the bindings that would subdue her. His knotwork was actually quite superb. It even impressed me, and I wondered where he had learned such a skill.

Gertrude, upset at my non-action, screeched her disapproval.

"Just making sure he's the one," I chided her.

Gertrude hissed again.

Deciding I'd seen enough, I started up upon the struggling woman and the man interested in her for more than just conversation and tea. As I stood behind him, he was rolling her over to her back, having finished his knots that bound her arms and legs behind her. Just like his last victim.

Her undergarment was out from under her skirt and around her ankles. At that point was when she saw me, and her eyes went wide. While she wriggled and mumbled into her gag, I drew my sharded blade.

Mr. Goodfellow probably thought the response from her was for him. Although he was hardly an impressive specimen of manhood. He didn't even turn around.

Instead, he ripped her skirt wide open and began fumbling with the buckle of his belt to undo his pants.

I put my dagger right between his ribs and into his heart. The twenty-eighth shard broke off with a subtle crack. Withdrawing my weapon, I stepped back while the soon to be dead man grab for the oozing wound without success.

He stood and turned, pants falling down, half-rigid manhood dangling. Then he slumped over, dead and face first into the shallow water of the shoreline.

I knew how to kill quick. The strike had been too fatal for him to even pose a threat once he realized what was happening.

Blood wiped clean on the dead man's shirt, I tucked my knife, now with one less shard, back into my belt. The woman he had tied up squirmed and groaned in the loose gravel as gentle waves lapped at the shoreline.

I turned and left her.

Gertrude hissed at me.

"Someone else will have to free her," I said. "I only have to avenge the innocent dead. She's not dead." I smiled, knowing I was getting to the foul beast.

Gertrude squeaked and then chittered.

I waved a dismissive hand. "Save it for someone who cares."