(25) A Test of Patience

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      Akranhor rotated the knife around his hand, passing it to his fingers and having them play with the weapon then pass it along. A habit he had often done without noticing it. He had already thrown the dart into Queen Crystaine’s neck delivering the message to Saran. Now he had to wait. Taking Saran head on would be suicidal. The man’s skills were to be taken seriously, and when he was furious Akranhor didn’t want to be the target for his anger. So it would brains and some intelligence to carry on this mission. He had to take the young prince, and if possible assassinate Saran. If not, taking the child would suffice.

 But it’s already been a week since he’d delivered the message. And the soldiers were patrolling the streets of Calarant overtime. As every second passed, his assassins and thieves were getting impatient. But luckily, his thief had broken into peaceful house, while his assassins silently killed the people inside. Then they inhabited the place. A temporary hideout until the job is done. He didn’t become the Leader of the Crimson Blades by being stupid and impatient.

  “Lord Akranhor,” an assassin muttered, “how much longer do we have to wait?”

  Akranhor stopped rotating the knife, instead he flung it straight at the assassin’s head. Just as always, the knife met it’s target and silently the assassin crumpled to the floor. Blood soaked through the hood the assassin wore quickly and formed a puddle of crimson blood around the wound. The assassins and thieves looked like they were about to protest but held back. They had seen this before. All who questioned Akranhor’s methods died. He had no use of anybody who questioned his methods, which only meant they weren’t into it, and were confused. He needed people who knew what they were doing; who only spoke when spoken to.

  “Uhh. . . boss should we mop up all the blood? It’s kinda disturbing to have some dead guy on the floor inches away from me, while his empty eyes glare at me,” a thief murmured sheepishly.

  “Do what you want, Casper,” Akranhor muttered.

             The scrawny thief Casper wore a red bandana around his jet-black hair, his chocolate brown eyes were innocent, although the mischievous boy was far from it. His mother had died giving birth to the ignorant fool, and his father was a mercenary, a bit of a pirate who died in a mission sailing the seas. Supposedly a serpent had attacked their ship and he died. The orphan had often stolen to survive, being poor and unable to buy any food. His childhood was one that would bring tears to the eye. As the winter approached, he knew he would die. All the shops were closed, little food was available, already sold out to the nobles. By the end of the harsh winter he would die and it was too late to return to the orphanage he had abandoned on so many occasions. That is until Casper decided to put his skills as a thief to the test and joined Akranhor’s clan of brotherhood.

  Casper grinned then took a mop and began to clean the mess. The other assassins and bandits stared at Casper in a way they would like at a cockroach. They didn’t like having some kid on board with them, and they certainly didn’t approve to the mouthy brat. If not for Akranhor’s insistence he would be dead the moment he stepped foot in the Crimson Blades. He was naive, gullible, did whatever Akranhor ordered him and was a great bandit, knew how to throw his knives and was great at sailing. He didn’t need much food, so what was to point in tossing a servant like that?

    The door burst open, casting blinding sunlight into the dark room. The assassins flinched as the sunlight threatened their eyes. Darkness was an assassin’s cloak, shadows were his only friend. Something that all assassins must realize. Akranhor stepped up and glared at the newcomer. It was the assassins scouts he had sent out, they were back already. And judging by their expressions, something big had happened.

    “What is it,” Akranhor growled.

  “We have big news coming from Vazguerd,” the bigger assassin grumbled.

    The other one bowed, “Do you recall the dragoon? The ex-leader of Vazguerd? T-The one Velgar wanted you to assassinate, but you declined?”

  Akranhor got impatient, he grabbed the assassin’s hood and slammed his face against the oak door, the hard slam resounded onto the streets of Calarant where some soldiers turned their eyes to the noise, but the impact of bone to oak slammed the door shut before anybody could notice what was going on.

  Blood poured from the bruise, splattering all over the assassin’s cloak, Akranhor’s body, and the oak door. The assassin screamed in pain, his knees trembled as his body shook in silent agony. If Akranhor was mad, you do what he wants. A lesson all his assassins and bandits had learned the hard way, or the easy way. The easy way being watching what happens.

 “Yes,” Akranhor growled, “I know! What of Kain? What happened?”

  The assassin coughed up blood, then struggled to talk, “He’s here! S-Sir Kain entered Vazguerd an hour ago! Some people s-swore they saw him land in some kind of flying ship southeast of here! He’s talking with Saran!”

  Akranhor yelled in anger, and drove a knife through the assassin’s head. More blood leaked through the wound, right now blood was the only thing that would calm him. The assassin dropped to the floor. The fur rug on the floor quickly soaked the blood. Casper groaned in frustration and dropped the dirty mop to the floor, as he had just finished cleaning the first mess.

  Akranhor walked to his men, “If Kain is here with Saran. We must progress to the assassination now! At the stroke of midnight, I will abduct the prince, if not him, then I shall take the life of either Saran . . .or Kain! Either way the missions Velgar gave me. They were abducting the crown heir, killing Saran and Kain. If I cannot accomplish one. I shall do the other! Now get ready. Prepare yourselves.”

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