The pot burbled quietly. Shifting a little, a pop indicated the dry twigs being consumed by the tiny fire. Aerrun stirred the pot slowly. The bubbling brown broth gave him somewhere to focus, collect his thoughts.
Ready himself for what he needed to do. The final, deadly motion. It only ever takes one moment. One second, someone is a living, breathing individual, the next; food for the worms.
“A copper for your thoughts, lad?” Aerrun’s companion spoke lightheartedly from the other side of the fire.
“You’d get change.” Aerrun wryly answered the burly knight, forcing a smile to disguise the anxiety boiling up within him. Keep calm. Don’t give away your intentions, until it’s far too late to do anything about it. Just like he’d been taught.
The night was cold, the fire just a token defence against the bitter frost of winter. Yet the concealed knives felt warm, hidden in their cunning spring loaded sheaths, invisible under his loose jerkin. As if they waited in anticipation, hungered for the blood of their target.
The mark, in the language of thieves. And Aerrun was looking right at his mark, just across from the fire. The mark could be for anything. Pickpocketing, mugging, blackmail … or assassination. Final test before entry into the inner circle, the ascension to the rank of Master Thief. The blooding.
This man, Sir Hawkwynde, was the last obstacle in his way. Just one more task, Aerrun told himself, and all his hard work in the Brotherhood would pay off. The years of dedication and discipline to his craft would reap its harvest. This is easy, he told himself, just lull the mark into complacence, then – quick stab – all over. He would never know what hit him. Aerrun was ashamed of his once touted iron nerve replaced with uncertainty and fear. Damn it, he could do BETTER than this, he just had to work up the nerve.
The physical distance between the rogue Aerrun and the knight Hawkwynde was mere yards – yet in the whole scheme of things social and station – they might have been at opposite ends of the world. Aerrun looked at the fellow in front of him as he ladled the soup out into bowls, and tried to focus on the negative aspects. Trimmed moustache and beard, mid-length fair hair. He looked normal. He just looked like anyone else, Aerrun thought. Not like the Knight of the Realm that he was.
But the truth behind the seeming. Here was this rich, arrogant fool, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, a big house to live in, no, a manor – raised with caring parents who fawned over their darling child, given into his every whim and desire. A boy who had everything – had never felt what it would be like to lack, to go without. Tutored in etiquette, which spoon to use at magnificent banquets, taught the fine dances to whirl the night away with some beautiful young maiden at the ball. Instructed in the sword, to dazzle the noblewomen with his pretty fencing, an artful affair was the duel, to first blood, schooled in reading, numbers and history; to appear learned among other foppish lords and ladies.
Aerrun’s father had been killed in a construction accident, the poor carpenter wheezing his last breaths under the pile of building materials the broken pulley had released upon him. His mother, a maid in a noble household, loved Aerrun so deeply that she worked her fingers to the bone to give more food to her growing child, sacrificing herself until she succumbed to exhaustion and starvation.
Forced out into the world far too early, he learned the etiquette of the street – how to walk so you didn’t seem a victim, yet still not a threat, where to walk, whom to stand over, and whom to cower to. No daintily dressed damsels awaited to dance with Aerrun; the only dancing that he was proficient in was a dance of knives, a dance of death. Locked in deadly embrace – the gang border dispute or turf war – the only music was the frenzied beating of one’s heart, reminding you, beat by beat, that for this moment you still existed.
The fighting was no art, but a means of getting things done. It might have been easier to tell the victor than a formal duel – he was the man left standing. No waiting girls to toss flowers and cheer the winner; dark, quiet, dirty deeds that the Watch never heard about. No feminine affections lay in reward – these were conflicts of status, therefore power, carved from blood and ruthlessness. His schooling was of life at its hardest, the cunning and quickness to filch or scrounge meagre scraps of cast-off food, strength and toughness to fight off bare-fisted the other street children to keep them.
His future mentor and sponsor, Arakis, saw the potential of young Aerrun. He took him secretly within a fabulous keep, where they both watched some spoilt noble’s brat abuse his servants with heavy hands and cutting words, discarding and wantonly destroying delicacies and treasures that the young urchin dreamt vainly to possess.
“See there, my son. Look at that noble child that has stolen your birthright. But for a twist of fate, that could have been yours. I know you would not squander such riches as that little piglet does. That piglet, and others like them, have taken the food from your mouth, the clothes off your back. Now, Aerrun, how does that make you feel?”
To see this indulged young hedonist wasting such wealth filled Aerrun with burning wrath and venomous hate. Arakis did not need words from his charge to answer the question – merely gazed into his angry eyes.
“My son,” Arakis put a tender hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “This piglet has cheated you out of what is rightfully yours. It is only justice, a hard but true justice, to take it back. Do you wish to reclaim your stolen birthright?”
Aerrun was calm then, focussed. All those feelings writhing through him just blunted his edge, the knife’s edge of his mind and body working in tandem seamlessly. Without any trace of his former rage, he said quietly, “I will.”
And so it began. The gradual transformation from Aerrun the urchin to Aerrun the thief; from Aerrun the boy to Aerrun the man.
And now, the culmination of that transformation, the final step of that long journey, the end of the road. The status of master thief, riches and power the reward for such prestige. And only one thing lay in his way. This man, this knight, this Sir Hawkwynde. He had uncovered the spies working for the Brotherhood that surrounded the King. Some of them were highly placed in the hierarchy of courtiers and nobles, and the public would be amazed how widespread the corruption was. Aerrun’s job was to find out if the information was true, and if so, to dispose of all the evidence. Including Sir Hawkwynde, naturally.
“Lad! Is that soup so delicious that you can’t speak, for shame of insulting it?” A joke. The soup was vile. “Cat got your tongue? Why so quiet, lad?”
Aerrun forced a calm face as he answered. “Sorry, sir, was thinking of my childhood. And how I grew into the man I am today.” Yes, soon-to-be Master Thief.
The knight lounged back. “Lad, I know how it goes, I do that from time to time myself. Would you like to hear the story of my childhood? You might learn a thing or two.”
Yes, please do tell, you pompous windbag, sink deep into your tale so you do not see me coming to let that hot air out of your gut. Aerrun seemed to relax in response to a promise of a story, yet he was truly quivering in anticipation, as if a viper coiled to strike. To hear this tale of grandiose waste and excessive desire would only inflame the hate in the thief’s heart into a blazing inferno.
“Well, lad, it’s been a strange journey, which has come back full circle to the start, if you can believe that. Let me tell you, everything changed after my father and mother died. We were not wealthy folk, and I was run out of the house we stayed at to live upon the streets.” The thief Aerrun heard the remembered loss in the knight’s voice, and something within him resonated with his mark.
“Was a hard time, very tough on me, tough on any child in such straits. Don’t know how I would have survived without changing my fate.” The knight’s tone lost its jovial quality, in his eyes resided a harrowed, haunted look, tortured memories.
“I overheard some evil men plotting evil deeds – such horrors I do not even wish to speak of, let alone remember. I knew, in my heart, I could not let it happen, that the regret would plague me until my dying day. I thought that death would be better than to survive and always remember my cowardice.”
“So I warned the Watch about this awakening evil. But they were in league with these blackguards – tried to capture me and silence me forever. Running away as fast as my stick-thin legs could take me, but I didn’t know where to go! Was just in a blind panic, not running TO anywhere, but AWAY.” Almost within his eyes Aerrun could see the young boy running for his life, scared and only one step away from death – he’d been that running boy himself.
“I slammed into something hard – just a moment of shock and pain – broken my nose” Hawkwynde unconsciously rubbed the little dent, “and I fell to the ground stupidly as the evil ones got closer. I looked up through a mask of blood, thinking it was the last thing I would ever see. I saw her radiant hand coming down to touch my face, and my wounds were healed.”
“I looked up into her face, saw the virtue, the love and the purity – it was if I looked into the face of the Most Holy. I knew I could trust her – I knew she would help me, she was my surety in this time of madness. I told her everything, quickly, as they came for me. She drew her sword and killed them. Not with hatred of evil, not with triumph of conviction, but with the sadness of regret – that she was forced to take these lives.”
The knight, the man Hawkwynde, tears in his eyes as he spoke of his experiences with hallowed tones and reverent voice, seemed so much different to Aerrun now. To see this man, the knight without his armour of title, status and power, showed Aerrun that they were just human. The thief was rapt in listening to the story, it almost seemed like his own, in so many ways. He felt the despair, the longing for something, anything better, the fear that haunted him like an unquiet spectre – that it all could end in a heartbeat, a final moment.
A smile touched the storyteller’s face. It washed away all the recently remembered terror and pain. “She took me in. She herself was left an orphan, and she had ascended to her … life, I suppose I should say, not a job for her, because someone gave her a choice to change her fate. So she did the same for me. Started working in the soldier’s barracks, just as a cook’s boy to begin with. When I came of age, I joined them. I fought long and hard in service to the King. People wondered how I could be so courageous and calm on the field, and well, lad, it wasn’t courage in my book. Just there was no way that bastard, don’t care what he looked like, was going to take my destiny away from me.”
Hawkwynde smiled slowly. “And here I am today, lad. Pretty good for a starving beggar boy.” He leaned close to Aerrun, spoke softly to him and him alone. “That’s the secret of life, lad. There is no fate but which we make. If we don’t like what fate the world has given to us, we choose another. You have to forge your own destiny, against what trouble the world throws at you. And damn, lad, don’t be frightened to toss a bit o’ trouble back, eh?” The knight laughed boisterously and clapped the thief on the back warmly.
Aerrun cursed silently. He couldn’t go through with this. He felt so much similarity, sympathy for the enemy. One of the cardinal sins in the business was getting involved – feeling for the mark. You always had to keep your emotions separate.
Hawkwynde went on. “You know, lad, I feel I can trust you. You see, as I told of treachery as a boy, it seems I’m doomed to repeat it.”
Yeah, you can trust me, I was only sent to kill you, Aerrun thought woodenly.
“Some time ago, a man named Arakis came to me, and told me of the Brotherhood’s spies in the King’s court. He told me who they were because he felt guilty for being a thief, he confessed all that he had done and threw himself on my mercy. Well, as I said, lad, we choose our own fates. And Arakis wanted a new one.” The Brotherhood had noticed Arakis’s disappearance – there had been a fruitless inquiry. So this is what happened to Aerrun’s mentor?
Aerrun had no doubt that Arakis had told all, a Master Thief’s treasure hoard of secrets, worth more than any amount of gold, resting now with the King’s champion. Aerrun began to wonder how good the position was for Arakis to walk away from it so easily. He thought again through his younger eyes, looking back into the past. Arakis had told him that people like Hawkwynde had stolen his birthright.
He hadn’t! He’d fought for his position, his title and his fate. And, as Aerrun was slowly understanding, how could destiny be a birthright, when you had to earn it for yourself, struggle against the powers that be for a chance of something better?
Aerrun had walked upon a knife’s edge of choice, and had fallen to one side. Would it ever be possible to climb over to the other side, brave the bright blade, the sharpness of Life itself, to become a different person? Aerrun hated what he did now. How could he justify that the world owed him a living when everyone else could have been through the same troubles?
The Brotherhood were motivated by greed and the hunger for power, but Aerrun was driven through a misguided desire for revenge. His ‘revenge’, so very close to being achieved, seemed so hollow. What was the point of gaining this vaunted status if it didn’t finally fill the void in his soul? His dreams of petty vengeance of the haves by the have-nots crumbled to dust to blow upon the wind.
What lay waiting for him back in the Brotherhood if he was successful?
Nothing.
This was the moment of truth. Aerrun now knew why Arakis had chosen a new life.
He asked the question, knowing the answer, but his asking revealed his truth. “Hawkwynde … would it be possible for one of the Brotherhood to make a new life for himself?” The smile that greeted his question was friendly and warm, yet a knowing smile. “Of course, lad. It worked for Arakis, it can work for … another.”
“And please, lad. The name’s Edward. Call me Edward.” Extending an open hand for the rogue to shake.
He gripped the knight’s hand firmly. “Aerrun. The name’s Aerrun. Although, you seem to like calling me ‘lad’, Edward.” he said, amused.
“Nice to meet you, la—- Aerrun!” Sir Edward Hawkwynde, Knight of the Realm, once an orphan beggar, yet now the Protector of the King, let out his well-known boisterous laugh, and Aerrun, almost Master Thief of the Brotherhood, of a similar background, could not help but join in with him.
Cut off, abrupt shock carved into his features as he pitched forward, two dark figures rising up behind the falling corpse.
“Nice going, kid!’ Aerrun knew the distinctive voice of Serrit the Rat, squeaky yet menacing, just like his namesake. Very sharp and quick. And the other sable cloaked figure had to be Ned, known as Granite Head Ned, for his resilience and his dull wit. Both could walk like ghosts, of course. Aerrun, had been distracted; Hawkwynde never had a chance.
A short, vicious, bark of a laugh. “Kept him busy talking so we could get the blade in ‘im. Heh, and congratulations becoming Master Thief!” Serrit let a slow, dirty smile skitter out – he’d mention his own part, and Aerrun’s hesitation – to give himself a shot at his own promotion.
“Yeh. Gratz.” Short, blunt and to the point. Ned was a quiet thug, who enjoyed his job of assaulting people more intelligent than himself.
Aerrun looked at them as if it was the first time. Saw them in a new light. Saw what he had seen as virtue now as sin. Two ruthless people, uncaring of who they might hurt on their way up the Brotherhood’s hierarchy.
They’d never even thought about the other edge of the knife.
The knight Hawkwynde, no, he amended silently, the man Edward had offered Aerrun a new life, and these jackals had stolen that chance. The way across the knife’s edge was dead before him.
And then … he understood. Everything. And what he had to do.
“Eh, look at ‘im, Ned! Smiling from ear to ear, our young new Master Thief Aerrun.” Serrit was so very insincere, he was hoping for the position also, barely hidden envy. “But look at what I did! Now,” he kicked the dead body, “That’s the sign of a true thief – the mark never knew what hit ‘im.”
With absolute sincerity, as he placed an arm over each rogue’s shoulder, brothers-in-arms, “You know, Serrit? You’re absolutely correct. The best thief has the mark never know what hits them, until it’s too late.”
Matched grins of pride, then twisted to twin expressions of shock as Aerrun’s knives slid home.
“Guess that makes me the best thief.”
The soft wry laugh that escaped his lips was bittersweet. But he’d gone through a rebirth, Aerrun knew, as he closed Edward’s eyes and collected what he needed from the campsite. Mounted his dead friend’s horse and set out into the frozen shadow of winter’s night. Aerrun set forth to change his fate, forge his own destiny, he and he alone, because there was no one else to fight that battle.
He did not look back.
Months later, a poisoned crossbow quarrel meant for the King’s heart, flew wide of its target, as the assassin fell from his balcony perch, dead with a knife in his back.
The secret cult of diabolists within the King’s courtiers was exposed in a neatly written list, with accurate locations of evidence hidden within their quarters were delivered to the Captain of the Knights of the Realm. Verified by magical divination, they were all executed the following day.
Cragwatch, the keep on the southern borderlands, home to the infamous robber knight, Sir Averbrook of the Blasted Plains, was quickly overrun after a year long siege when the miscreant’s severed head appeared on the General’s camp table one night.
Those who lurked hidden in the shadows knew those same shadows also hid their own demise. In darkened halls, within the cover of secrecy, the King met the individual that had saved his life, and in many ways, had saved the Kingdom.
And to all, this enigma, was known merely as “Shadow’s Death.”
But to himself he would be Aerrun, the man that had seen both edges of the knife, a man who had changed his fate, had forged his destiny anew.
Helene Kippert, 2 months ago
An intriguing tale – well done
Empress, 2 months ago
and where were you when you thought this one up?
Cailean in reply to Helene Kippert’s comment, 2 months ago
Thank you, Helene :)
Cailean in reply to Empress’s comment, 2 months ago
Can’t recall, this story is like 6 years old. Nowhere consequential, I suppose, hehe. Wrote it for a fellow that fell in love with me, thought I was female – was kind of awkward after I explained that I wasn’t one. It’s got a lot of my childhood prejudices in it, when I grew up poor and was annoyed with other kids having things I didn’t, but thankfully, I have outgrown such things, although those revelling in wealth and power and attempting to overlord others with it still annoy me, with good reason.