The Blades of Stygia, v.2

Version two of a fanfic written to illustrate my RP character for the upcoming Age of Conan game. Version one can be found here:

 

The clamor of busy pedestrians going about their daily business barely reached Rekh's ears as he nimbly strode atop the roofs of Old Tarantia's Noble District. His silk-padded boots made nary a whisper as he came slow to a stop, eying a cross-bow wielding sentry, eagle-eyed on the busy streets below.

Odd, Rekh thought to himself, didn't see any guards in the common district, and not even the market. Guess the peasantry is for the fishes. With a shrug, he silently drew his dagger, nestled securely at his side. Slowly, certainly, he stalked behind the watchful marksman until he was within arm's reach. He slowed his breathing before swiftly – in a fluid movement committed to muscular memory – placing his hand over the man's mouth, twisting away to bring him off balance, and smoothly sliding his dagger's edge across the guard's neck. A sickeningly warm, metallic-smelling liquid spewed onto his hand. He promptly let go of the man, his soon-to-be-lifeless body meeting the rooftop with a thud. Rekh held his hand in front of his face, examining with odd curiosity the crimson fluid coating his hand. It wasn't as if he didn't know what it was; He'd gotten blood on his hands many times before. He knew how to clean it off of anything to the point that the untrained eye would never been able to tell it had been there to begin with. Yet, it never ceased to fascinate him. A fiery red in the bright light of the sun, but near black in the shadow of the steeple that towered above him. Remembering why he was there, he once again began to briskly carry himself over the rooftops.

After a few minutes of undisturbed travel, he reached the spot his informant had marked for him. The mark of the guild, sketchily inscribed on the rooftop. This was the place. He glanced warily over the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the street below, and then the side of the building he stood upon. He was fortunate; This particular area of the District was slightly less traveled, so he shouldn't have to worry about being spotted. The window was already open; Not that he could blame them. It was a very placid day. A cool breeze was blowing, and it must have felt nice. Rekh wondered if that breeze was worth the price the resident was fixing to pay.

Probably not.

Rekh knelt down and grabbed the edge of the rooftop with his gloved hands. He swung from the roof, then on the return deftly slid feet-first into the window. He landed softly on his feet, then quickly stood and drew his dagger. The room was empty. It was a socializing area of some sort, outfitted with fine sculptures, a variety of house-plants, and a few pieces of wooden furniture that provided seating for the host and his guests. Rekh decided he'd admire the opulence of the household later. Moving with great import through the exit to the room, Rekh began to stalk through the house. The washroom was empty, as was the kitchen. He entered the living room, eyes darting about, when his upper back was introduced to the business end of a heavy, blunt object. He fell with inelegance to the wooden floor. Catching himself barely before his head met the ground, he sprung to his feet while doing his best to ignore the throbbing pain in his back. He turned to face his attacker, but realized he was not alone. He was surrounded by three men, each dressed in a uniform marked with the insignia of the house he was currently intruding upon. They did not attack, and neither did he. They stood, each holding an intricately designed mace, clearly more ornamental than anything else. But they could still pack force, as Rekh could attest.

Footsteps clicked in the silence from the door beyond the living quarters in which the group currently stood. Through the frame entered the owner of the household – a rather trim man, perhaps in his fifties with a half-circle of black hair about the sides and back of his head – followed by a figure garbed in a raiment that appeared nearly black in the dark, but showed to be a deep red in the light that filtered through the curtains drawn over the room's windows. A hood was pulled low over his face, obscuring his eyes entirely from Rekh's view. But Rekh knew who he was; He knew what was going on.

“You son of a b***h, Zhan, you set me up,” he snarled, still standing ready for a fight.

“Why, Rekh, would I let you get away with this when I could turn you over and get paid tenfold what we would be splitting if the job had gone over,” was the hooded figure's reply. “Honour amongst thieves?” He let out a venom-coated laugh. “Such naiveté. There is no honour here; Only blood and money. Namely, your blood and my money.” Arms crossed, the crimson man stood in defiance before Rekh. “Kill him.”

As ordered, the guards simultaneously arced their maces, a series of sickening crunches ensuing as Rekh found himself unable to defend against the onslaught of attackers. He fell unconscious to the floor. Another round of bludgeons from the guards sealed his fate. Blood began to pool around the corpse, a strange expression of shock and anger plastered permanently across his mutilated face. The house lord heaved a sigh of relief, speaking very quietly, “I thank you. For your protection.” He slowly walked across the room to a small, nearly-hidden chest in the corner and unlocked it gingerly. The soft clink of coin rang as he removed a nicely sized silk sack from the chests. He carried it back across the room, stepping carefully over the body as not to get blood on his robes, and handed the pouch to Zhan. “Here is your payment as we agreed. May Mitra watch you.” Zhan turned on his heel and silently departed from the household.

Such a pity. All the teachings by the so-called gods and leaders about honour, duty, friendship. Leads all minds astray. When will they learn that there are only two things that matter in Hyboria? Nothing but blood and money.