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The Assassin's Bane

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The Assassin's Bane The rain lashed the stone walls of the shack; the door battered by the unrelenting wind, the murky sky above mimicking the grim mood of death in the shack below. The man lay dead, spread-eagled on the floor in a pool of his own, semi-congealed blood. His face was set in an eternal grimace, the pain of his death written across his pale face. He had lain in this dour repose for a few hours, the stench of death already filling the air. His death had not merely been a chance happening, a fluctuation in the path of fate, but had been a pre-meditated, malevolent murder, orchestrated long before. Our story begins twenty-four hours earlier; it was a bitterly cold morning in the February of 1604. In a dark, dank alley in the backstreets of the city, a man stumbled towards the road. His tall, slender figure moved, without obvious grace, to his destination. His features were sharp, with quick, darting eyes set above an aquiline nose, and thin, emaciated lips. He wore just a dark, long robe over his clothes and light armour. He was stumbling from an injury he had sustained doing his job: assassination. ...read more.


'The target will be at this destination, at midnight tonight.' A piece of paper was handed to him, 'I will have a man following you, in case deviance should slip into your mind,' the master said with unconcealed menace. 'I understand,' he replied. 'Leave, and remember the consequences of failure,' said The Master in a firm tone of voice. He left the room, and was unceremoniously escorted down the corridor, and out the way he came. The door was slammed behind him. There was no turning back now. He wandered through the streets, vaguely picking out his way back to his living quarters. It was approaching evening; he looked up at the sky and observed grey storm clouds swirling in a foreboding fashion. He cursed the weather; his life at the moment had taken an unexpected turn for the worse, and he had taken to venting his frustration on anything which was available. He walked into a nearby inn. He was not a sociable person, far from it. Assassins by nature are not too friendly. He had gone into this inn, not for social reasons, but to claim a debt he was owed. He wandered into the musty, dimly lit room, with a determined expression. ...read more.


The tall, dark figure of the assassin stalked slowly down the empty lane. He moved gracefully and imperceptibly, like a cat stalking its prey. He was, however aware of a presence watching him, following his every move. It must have been The Master's emissary. He glanced around. Nothing. He turned a corner and glanced at his watch. The time read five minutes to midnight. There at the end of the street stood his destination. He paced up to the building, as the thunder roared above. He ran into the room, the door crashing against the stone. But no one was there. He glanced at his watch again. It read two minutes to midnight. He was early. He crept into the shadows and awaited his target. Time passed. He looked at his watch: the time read midnight exactly. He waited. The man might be late. Time passed. He glanced at his watch again: five minutes past midnight. He panicked, terror engulfing his mind. Then, a terrible realisation. He was the man! Panic and horror enveloped him- anger and fear pulsed through his veins - the terrible realisation that he was the target; he had been employed to kill himself! With no escape, and death the only option, he plunged the dagger deep into his chest. His pounding heart stopped as he crashed to the floor. The rain lashed the stone walls of the shack. Avi Rosten 11E Original Writing ...read more.

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