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Old 02-01-2004, 11:37 AM   #90
The Squatter of Amon Rûdh
Spectre of Decay
 
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Eye

Hazad crouched in the shadow of a dune and went over his equipment one last time. His blowpipe seemed large and clumsy with its outer casing in place, but to a casual observer it resembled a cheap flute: an added precaution, since this work would have to be done at dusk. He opened the small case in which his darts were kept and counted them again. There were five there, just as there had been five when he had prepared them that morning, and when he had checked them again just after noon. He had coated them with a rare plant venom, slow-acting and just as slow to dissolve, but in the heat of the desert who could tell what might be? He extracted a roll of linen from a pocket and unwrapped a small phial, from which he allowed the merest drops to fall on the tips of each of the tiny missiles. The liquid had cost him a king's ransom, bought from a sardonic apothecary who called it 'the elixir of life'. The man's words came back to him as he worked: 'It brings one to eternity by the long road, sure but slow. I know of no cure.'
Hazad smiled. He had smeared the points of his darts with a many-times lethal dose, but even that would not kill for three or more days. Days of sleepless agony in which he would make his way far from the tents of the Clan of the Eagle and collect his fee.

The encampment was away across two rows of dunes, and he would not approach until the twilight that confused the eyes. He dare not leave it later, since he must catch his target in the open; but to attack in daylight was to invite disaster. As the sun westered he began to make his way toward the perimeter, moving slowly and carefully, freezing at the slightest sound or movement. Eventually he found a good place in a hollow on the opposite side of a dune to the camp. He tested the edge of his dagger and placed it loosely in its sheath, then he sat down and waited for the sun to sleep.

***

As the flames of the sunset died away and twilight fell, a dark figure moved around the shadow of a dune and into the long, pale shadows of the Eagle Clan's tents. They were watchful, of course, but many years had taught him to move in silence, and he had watched the sentries for close to an hour before making a single move. He made for the large tent on which the camp seemed to focus, keeping always to the shadows and avoiding any tent that showed signs of occupation. People still moved around the Matriarch's dwelling and it would not do to be caught. 'The music my flute plays would not be to their liking,' he mused; and his smile was thin and cold.

A number of figures were sitting about a fire near their chief's tent. Some were already drowsing as they listened to the strains of a pipe played by one of their fellows. Keeping his eyes from the fire, Hazad crept to the edge of the group, where several people had fallen asleep. He lay near two of these and watched the open door from which he hoped that his target would emerge. If she did not then he would have to do this again the following night; if not then, the risks would be too great to permit a third incursion. After three days of preparation, he was not prepared to spend any longer in the desert than necessary. 'Show yourself, Eagle,' he thought calmly. 'It is time for your wings to be clipped.'

At that moment she came. Walking between two clansmen, taking the air as he had been told that she would. Many of his targets would vary their routines to thwart just this sort of attack, but clearly this one was taking no such precautions here in her own encampment. He hardly dared breathe as he took out his pipe and the flat box of darts, placing one of the missiles into the end of the tube. They were cunning work: scored half-way up their length so that they would break off, leaving in the flesh what seemed a mere splinter or thorn. The sharp pain they caused was so often thought an insect bite, even by the targets themselves, that sometimes the idea that his victims had been murdered was never voiced. This was the purest form of his art: discrete, silent and unobtrusive; the surgeon's extraction of a being from the world while it slept under the knife.

As he watched, the small group was making its way towards the fire, which was more than he had dared hope. The easiest to kill were those who kept the common touch, for they were often among their people; but he seldom had such fortune as this.
The chief and her companions passed within twelve feet of him, and his dart flew straight and true. He had aimed it at the back of her neck, and it struck only a little lower than he intended. She started, the movement of her clothes dislodging the flights from the dart as Hazad had intended. One of her attendants turned towards her, concern in his face, but she shrugged off the attention. They continued on their way and Hazad's work was complete.

He waited until a group of people left the fire and followed them at a discrete distance, taking care to pick up the discarded flights of his dart as he passed. As they dispersed he made his way into the shadows of a line of tents, and from there he reached the edge of the camp. He skirted the watchers with care, although now that darkness had fallen he was silent and near-invisible in his black silks and satins. He put a line of sand dunes between himself and the encampment and then broke into a gentle run, making for the camp where he had left his horse. He would make the most of the time he had given himself and return to the port. Once he had collected his fee it would be time to move on: he had already been too long at Umbar. 'It is time that I visited my dear homeland,' he mused wryly. It was also time to pay another visit to the apothecary.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 12:46 PM February 01, 2004: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]
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