Todd
Jones 3,100
Words
734.254.0284
Hushed Passing
Tarough crept through the forest, his
forearms brushing
against the
twin daggers at his hips. The Dobrinion
who killed
his brother
would be coming and he must be in position.
The
years at
the academy kept his honed body in silent motion, while
he recalled
his father's words.
“You’ll make a fine Tarkasian assassin,”
Kyrus Jacob had
said. “You were born for it, boy. Just like your brother…"
His
father’s words trailed off and an empty sorrow fill the
older
assassin’s eyes. Kyrus sighed and with a
half smile
patted his
son on the head and continued, "Keep your mind open,
your body
relaxed, hold true to the code and protect the
innocent.”
They were words Tarough believed…had to
keep believing or
his failure
at the academy would consume him. He
shook the
thoughts
from his mind. He could not afford
distractions, least
of all
tonight.
The night was cool for mid-summer and a
moonless sky
shrouded
him in darkness. He moved with practiced
ease,
settling in
the tall reed grass that covered the small vale’s
slopes. Tarough focused on the overgrown path that
twisted
through the
vale, and waited.
A small part of him trembled with
excitement--a student had
never
accepted a contract against a graduate before.
The wind
brushed
blades of grass against his black leather armor, as it
had when he
played here as a child. However, that
seemed so
long
ago. He took a deep breath and let the
crisp smell of the
valley fill
his lungs.
Child, he thought with grim
amusement. His sixteenth
season had
passed, and a decade of grueling training was all
that filled
his childhood memories. He allowed his
mind to
wander
through those early days at the academy as he crouched
lower in
the grass and waited.
It had been his first week with the
Tarkesh Kata--one of
seven
hand-to-hand Tarkasian combat techniques.
Jarn, an overly
brutal
last-year student, spun around his awkward lunge and
brought the
hilt of a wooden practice dagger down on the back of
his
head.
“Use your anger,” Jarn coaxed in a voice
that dripped with
a thick
Dobrinion accent.
He clenched his teeth, refusing to cry
out; a lump forming
in the
midst of others Jarn had given him this day.
His head
ached, but
he pushed the pain aside and charged.
With amazing
swiftness,
Jarn sidestepped the attack, hooking his foot around
Tarough’s
ankle and sweeping it. He felt his leg
shoot out from
under from
under him and fell forward. Student
onlookers
cringed at
the dull thud Tarough’s chest made when it slammed
into the
unforgiving ground. He stifled his
groans and tried to
lift
himself. But, Jarn leapt on his back,
pinning him to the
ground and
grinding a knee in the center of his back.
“You Jacobs are so predictable,” Jarn
said in his thick
Dobrinion
accent.
Tarough turned his head to the side and
spat dirt from his
lips. He caught a glimpse of Professor Drunah who
stood at the
far end of
the practice yard with a contemptuous look on his
face. Jarn must have felt the professor’s scorn for
Tarough
felt the
older student quickly remove his knee.
“You are an idealistic drone,” Jarn spat
as he turned and
walked
away.
How Tarough longed to wipe the grin off
the Dobrinion boy's
face, but
for now he swallowed his pride and focused on
learning. He went on to master all the deadly lessons
the
academy had
to offer: blades, evasion, stealth, traps, and more.
He knew 22
ways to kill a man with his bare hands…39 ways of
killing him
with everyday objects; cloak pins, broken jug
shards,
sandal laces all became deadly weapons in his hands. His
mind
absorbed each lesson and his body became an extension of
his
thoughts.
Just before finals, news of his brother’s
murder, by the
hand of a
Dobrinion assassin, spread fast through the academy.
Tarough
tried to find out more, but reliable information was
scarce and
his final exam was coming up.
The students named the exam Hushed
Passing and each was
given an
assassination of a known criminal.
Tarough’s exam had
been
fraught with betrayal.
He had slipped past the guards, eluded several
traps, and
even
disarmed a cleverly hidden poisoned needle in the target’s
door
lock. He was right there in the room,
ready to complete
the task,
when it all fell apart. The window
shattered as a
rock broke
through and rolled to his feet. The
target bolted
upright in
his bed. Or more accurately stated, the
Dobrinion
who was
disguised as the target bolted upright in bed, fully
dressed in
leather armor and brandishing two daggers.
At the
same time,
the sound of heavy boots on the stairs outside the
room filled
his ears. They knew he was coming!
Tarough drew his daggers from their belt
sheaths and leapt
at the
target. One dagger’s blade shattered on
the leather
armor--too
easily. Then the other snapped. He sidestepped one
of the
Dobrinion’s daggers and then ducked under the other,
retrieving
the backup blade in his boot. With a
backward flick
of his
wrist, he sent the dagger at the first guard that
appeared in
the doorway. His suspicion was confirmed
when the
brittle blade
shattered on impact.
The next minute was a blur: Tarough
recalled throwing a
chair at
the guards in the doorway, scooping up a low-burning
lantern
from its wall-hook and tossing it at the target. The
lantern
bounced off the target and shattered on the bed,
creating an
instant blaze.
The throbbing in his right ankle brought
Tarough from his
thoughts. Even though it had been a fortnight since the
failed
assassination,
his shoulder was still bruised from slamming it
against the
second story window casing when he dove through and
his twisted
right ankle ached from the shaky landing.
He could
not, would
not, let anything keep him from tonight’s task.
Even
pain would
have to wait.
His brother’s murderer was out there,
breaking the Guild’s
code by
killing indiscriminately for personal gain, and Tarough
would stop
him. That was why he was here…in this
place…at this
time: to
set things right.
<Continued…>