Denmon awoke with a fright as the wind whipped through his small cabin. He was drenched in a cold sweat from the frightful dream he had been jerked from. He had been dreaming of the past assassinations he had been a part of and how they could have easily gone horribly wrong. He slowly fell back to sleep, gripping the long-bladed knife he had hidden beneath his pillow.
      He had been an assassin since the age of eighteen. Now being in his mid-thirties, he was losing his touch. His father had trained him in the art of assassination. Denmon learnt from his father such things that many people only dream of. He had learned how to hide in shadows, how to run silently, how to disguise himself as many things, and, most importantly, how to kill a man without letting him scream. He had learnt how to handle a broad sword, a katana, a bow, and knives. He also could use such objects as throwing stars. He fought without armor or shields, requiring the silence that their lack would bring, choosing instead the skin on his back and thin cloth pants to protect him. He had impeccable aim, and twice the strength of an average man.
      However, he had the uncanny knack of attracting many ladies to his side wherever he went. He had come back with a different lover from each mission he had been assigned. They all had left him, once his money had dried up, or they found a more suitable man. He had very little money, only scrapping by from job to job. His jobs were personal sometimes, but also sometimes were political, being hired by senators, kings, and other political figures.
      He bore many scars, each telling a story, each more gruesome than the last. His missions so far had all been successes, and he feared that his luck was changing. As he aged, his missions turned from clear-cut in-and-outs, to closer and closer calls. He began to only escape with seconds to spare before he was caught. He began having to rely more on stealth and less on brute force. When it came time though, he was always able to deliver.
      Denmon awoke much later to light outside his window. The storm of the night had passed, leaving a calm April morning for him to enjoy. He stepped out of his door and stretched, thinking of the chores he had to do that day. He heard a strange rustling noise and went inside for his armaments, preparing to defend himself. He reemerged from his door, bow drawn and with an arrow fitted to the string. He glanced around. Unable to see anything from his front porch, he began to walk towards the woods. He heard a faint rustle in a bush and a small rabbit ran out as he went to investigate. He lowered his guard and began to return to his cabin to replace his arms to whence they came. All of a sudden, he had a blinding pain in the back of his head, and as the ground rose to meet him, he passed out.
      He awoke much later. He could not see a thing, and he quickly realized he was inside of a sack. His hands and legs were bound, and he could feel the wood floor of a wagon beneath his back. He could hear two men talking, and chose to stay still and listen.
      “…so I says ‘That’s no horse, that’s my wife!” one voice said, as both began laughing.
      “Ahh, you slay me Regurn,” said the second voice.
      “Don’t try to flatter me because I’m your superior, Carnith,” said the first voice, whom Denmon assumed was Regurn.
      “I apologize, sir.”
      “There is no need, Carnith.”
      There was a significant pause, during which Denmon attempted to think of a way out of his predicament. He realized that one of the two men must have struck the back of his head. He thought that the men were probably armed so he would benefit from staying still. This brought another thought to his mind. They thought he was dead. The men began to speak again and he listened as to attempt to pick up any other information about his well-being.
      “Over by the mill,” he heard Regurn say.
      “Yes, sir.” replied Carnith.
      Denmon could hear the rushing of water and began to realize that his captors were going to dump him into the river, and he knew that there was no way that he could swim tied in a sack. He began to squirm gently, as to not make any noise, attempting to find something to cut his bindings on. His elbow grazed what he thought must have been a small sword of some kind. He slowly worked around and made a hole in the sack. Then by working the blade through the hole, he was able to free his hands and then his feet. He lay still, clutching his new weapon, awaiting the right moment to make his attack.
      Denmon felt the wagon jerk to a stop and then shift side to side as the two men jumped from the driver’s seat somewhere above his head. He brought the sword to a position where he could easily slash out through the sack and attack the two men. Small beads of sweat began forming on his forehead.
      He felt four strong hands grip the sack and lift him from the wagon. Denmon braced himself, expecting to be dropped on to the ground before eventually being heaved into the rushing river. He began to grow impatient from the waiting.
      Denmon could not wait any longer. He slashed through the sack and sprang into the air, landing gently and spinning to face his captors. They stood stunned for a moment, before groping for the swords at their hips. They drew simultaneously, and Denmon crouched, preparing to defend himself.
      One man sprang at him with such vigor he had never seen before. Denmon barely had time to lift his sword to deflect the blow, before it came crashing down on him. He quickly parried the attack and went on the offensive. The man dodged his first attack, and he flew off balance. The man swung down and stuck him across the back with his blade.
      Although he was in pain, Denmon knew he must fight for his life. He swung a blow at the other man’s head, and, as he ducked, swung another at his hips. This blow found its mark and, as Denmon drew back, the man crippled before him. Denmon swung on one foot to face the other man, and was just in time to see his horse disappear into the woods at the far side of the clearing they were in. He turned back to the man he had wounded.
      “Who are you?” Denmon demanded his sword to the man’s neck.
      “I am Stephen Carnith. I am an assassin for the King of Muntainiya, Fourth Degree,” the crippled man said.
      “Who was that other man?” Denmon demanded with more force than his first question.
      “That was Helib Regurn, my commanding officer, assassin for the King of Muntainiya, First Degree.”
      “And why, my good man, did you seek to kill me?” Denmon said with an air of sarcasm.
      “The King sent us himself. He says you killed his brother, and he wants revenge.”
      There was a pause before either man said any more. Denmon drew his sword away from the Carnith’s neck, but only after having kicked the other clear or the man’s reach.
      “You are a good man, but a horrible assassin. You never reveal your mission to anyone, except your partners, especially not your target. But I like you so I am going to let you live, if you swear to never draw a sword again.”
“Anything, sire, just please let me leave in peace. I have a wife and children. I must return to them.”
      “ You may leave, just be warned that if the king finds out what you have told me, your friend, Regurn, might not be so friendly the next time you see him.”
      “Thank you, sir. Thank you,” Carnith said, bowing as he backed away.
      “Looks like today is going to be quite busy,” Denmon said to himself, admiring his new weapon, which he realized he would be depending on for a while.