1469: A Struggling Heart – Part 8 1469: A Struggling Heart – Part 8 ‘I’m going to die,’ Ferdinand realized, with a sudden pang of terror.
For all his twitching, and frantic pushing, he could not move the much smaller man even an inch.
He must have been half Ferdinand’s weight, and yet he sat there more weighty than a boulder ever could, and certainly, far more nacingly.
“…What do you want?” Ferdinand asked the man.
It was likely the proudest mont of his life there, that he was able to keep his voice level, despite his impending doom.
Sohow it was his irritation that allowed him that – his outrage that he could be so far away from the likes of Oliver Patrick still, after all his efforts.
“I doesn’t want anything,” the man said defensively.
“I ain’t such a sick bastard to do all this just for self.
Don’t you be putting this on .
This is for the sake of the client.” “The client?
What’s he planning?
Who is he?” Ferdinand said.
The man cackled down at him.
“Wouldn’t yer like to know, m’Lord.
Gonna have to beg your pardon on that.
Even if I’m gonna kill you, and no one would ever know, I still ain’t the sort to break the oaths my contract.
Yer wouldn’t think it, but I’m a fairly honourable man, you see.” “Honourable, is it?
Do you call this that?” Ferdinand said.
The man shrugged at him.
“It’s more honourable than what I did in there, anyway.
It’s funny, ya know.
Initially, the man says to , he says, I’s got a job for you.
Take the young Lord Ferdinand’s head, and I’ll pay you all the gold in the kingdom.
Guess who turned it down, thinking it to be impossible, eh?
More fool .
We’ll see if he keeps his word still anyway.
No harm in it.
It’s part of the other job now anyway, ain’t it?” With a sudden flash of movent, the man sliced at Ferdinand’s stomach with his dagger, cutting through his outer coat, and his chainmail that he’d kept beneath it, easily slicing through the flesh.
“There’s a trick, eh.
You thought you’d look braver, not wearing yer full armour on the outside.
But yer still scared enough to wear your chainmail.” He sliced again, once more making it seem as if the chainmail hardly existed.
This ti, the blow cut across Ferdinand’s chest.
“Sorry, m’Lord,” the man said.
“I knows this ain’t exactly the quickest kill.
But ya see, I’ve instructions to make sure it ain’t.
I’m no assassin today, I’m a butcher.” He sliced again.
“See, I’m ant to make this seem like a cri of passion, ya know.
As if I had sothing against you personally…” He paused for a mont, and those lips of his disgusted into a disgusting smile beneath his filthy beard.
“Ah, actually, y’know, I think I do…” “As you have against all noblen, I’m sure,” Ferdinand said back, keeping his voice level, trying to ignore the biting pain that ca from the cruel slashes that had been left on his torso.
“No, no, you in particular, m’Lord,” the man said, taking a certain amount of glee in it.
“See, I didn’t always kick around in the back streets of the Capital.
That’s just where work took .
A rchant moves for work, ‘course a killer has got to do the sa…” He sliced again, as if to remind Ferdinand that he didn’t intend to delay his death any longer than he had to.
“I’m sure you ain’t know nothing about Forgin.
‘Cos your attention is all on bloody Solgrim, ain’t it?
You’re fascinated by that Oliver Patrick, just like the rest of ’em.
Yer just in it for the attention it brings.
You don’t give a damn about people of my class.” The next strike was deeper, just below the other wound in Ferdinand’s shoulder.
He couldn’t help but cry out at it.
The blade must have passed all the way through to the other side.
“Ah, so that’s all it takes to make your like squeal, is it?” The killer said.
“Well, that’s the sound I most wanted to hear, I suppose I’ll admit.
telling you a bit about , I suppose that was only for my own satisfaction.
I don’t need you to know entirely, m’Lord Ferdinand.
You’ve bled enough already.
I’ll snatch the life from your eyes now, and then I’ll have what I really want.” He angled his knife towards Ferdinand’s heart.
A killer thrust, without the slightest ounce of hesitation or theatre.
His look was already stone cold, as if he was already dealing with a cadaver.
Straight through Ferdinand’s chest, the blade ran, pinning him against the floor.
He reached up a weak hand to struggle with the weapon, but it only sliced into the flesh of his palms, and made the blood run all the more slick.
“MY LORDDDD!” Ca a cry, all too late, a Torin raced towards the scene.
The killer gave a tut, but he had expected such interferences.
One could not cry as loudly as Ferdinand had and not attract a deal of attention.
He spared the body of the nobleman one last glance, before he dove into the nearest tent, and slipped away.
Torin hesitated in his pursuit.
He looked to where the killer had gone, and then to his Lord.
He almost gave in to the desire to hunt, but he managed to rember his duty first.
His duty was to protect and defend.
It was his Lord’s life that he had to place above any kind of imagined justice.
He knelt beside the man, and took his hand, swiftly, wrapping his fingers underneath his wrist to check for a pulse.
It was there, but weak, terrifyingly weak.
It didn’t surprise Torin, given the state that his Lord was in, but it quite quickly pushed his heart towards panic.
It was hard not to, when the blood was pooling beneath them both, and there seed too many wounds to plug up.
“Torin,” Ferdinand said, his voice stronger than it ought to have been, given how glassy his eyes had begun to look.
Torin had always thought his Lord to be a handso man.
Sohow, the blood that ran from his mouth, and stained his lips, made that fact even more evident.
It was the ethereal beauty of sothing that was no longer of this world.
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