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“Incapacitate your opponent, then go for the kill,” instructed sword master Trell. “Cut the tendons in the shoulders and legs, then make the fatal strike.”
Maeve eyed her opponent, a straw man, held up with wooden boards and tied together with rope. She envisioned it as a living person, in her mind’s eye she could see tendons, arteries, muscles and nerves. With two quick swipes, she made two deep cuts at its shoulders, stepped behind it and slashed behind the knees before finishing it off with a strike to the back of the neck, cutting through the vertebrae and severing the brain stem.
Master Trell nodded approvingly. “Good, well done.”
Maeve faced Trell with her sword at her side and gave a short bow.
“You’re doing quite well,” he said. “You’re just about ready to move on to more advanced sword techniques.”
Trell was being unusually lenient with her today.
“My form was sloppy, I moved too slow,” Maeve said. “Usually I would get a smack for that.”
Trell glared at her. “Then perhaps I am being too easy on you. I know Pyras wouldn’t have given you the same compliments as I.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Maeve folded her hands behind her back.
“I’ll remember to be harder on you during our next lesson,” he waved her away. “You are dismissed, tell Peyta I’m waiting for him.”
Maeve bowed and left the training room, hanging her sword up on the designated weapon rack before exiting. Peyta was already waiting out in the hall. He walked past her without so much as a glance, closing the door to the training room behind him. Maeve stared at the door, wishing that she could use Peyta as a practice doll instead of the straw man.
She turned and looked at the tall dwarvish clock against the wall. The hands told her that it would be lunch soon and all the other Death’s Hands assassins would make their way to the mess hall. Maeve still had half an hour of free time until then.
As she walked to the dorms, she pondered what to do in her free time. Read a book, perhaps? Maybe practise archery or throwing knives. She could even go for a short run around the base, which was on the inside of the mountains of Varez island, hidden from view. She could challenge Dor to a fight again, that was always an option. It would make Pyras happy to see her fighting with someone, at least.
Then, Maeve remembered that she needed to go see Doctor Daven for some dreamer’s dust, on the opposite side of the base, which was a good ten minute walk away. She cursed herself for forgetting and turned around.
She had a song stuck in her head, but she couldn’t remember the words, so she hummed quietly to herself as she walked. She stopped humming whenever someone was nearby, so no one could hear her.
She came to Doctor Daven’s office and knocked on the door. There was a brief ruffling of papers before Daven opened the door. Daven was the oldest assassin in Death’s Hands. He had been living in the mountain since before Pyras took over as leader. Nobody knew the exact amount of missions he had gone on or how many kills he had. Some speculated that it was in the hundreds.
Daven, like all the other assassins, never smiled. His mouth was permanently angled downwards in a deep frown. He had faint scars all over his arms that hadn’t quite healed and his nose was a little crooked from being broken so many times. He was a lean, well-built man as a result of his life of training. He wore traditional Death’s Hands garb, a loose black shirt with black trousers and boots specially designed to make the wearer’s footsteps silent.
“Yes?” he asked emotionlessly, without looking at her.
“I need more dreamer’s dust,” she told him.
“Mm,” He grunted.
The doctor turned away and Maeve entered his office, which was a mess. His desk had papers stacked higher than Maeve could see and she was exceptionally tall, standing at well over six feet. There were bottles all over the floor, some full, some empty. Daven had charts nailed to the wall, showing the locations of human internal organs.
Davon approached a metal door with a thick lock attached. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. He inserted a key into the lock and twisted it with a click. He opened the door and walked into the medicine closet, emerging a few seconds later with a small bottle filled with white powder.
“You know how to use it,” he said as he handed Maeve the bottle, his gaze directed downwards.
“Thank you,” Maeve said, remembering her manners.
Davon said nothing, but just nodded, escorting Maeve out of his office and closing the door behind her.
Dreamer’s dust was an essential medicine for most of Death’s Hands. All one had to do was sprinkle a bit into their mouth before bed and they would have a dreamless sleep. It was the only guaranteed cure for all the nightmares that made sleep nearly impossible.
Maeve placed the bottle in her pocket, humming as she walked back towards her dorm. Her mind started to wander to what might be for lunch today. Every day had something different on the menu and Maeve had forgotten what day it was. With so little sunlight inside the base, it was hard to tell. Maeve noticed that one of the torches along the hallway she was in had gone out. The sight bothered her, so she took another torch off the wall and used it to light it back up.
“Maeve!” someone called from behind.
Maeve turned and saw one of the assassins, Furos, marching towards her. She straightened her back as he got very close to her face, so close that Maeve could see every hair in his nostrils. Maeve was still taller than him, so he had to look up, making him less intimidating.
“I challenge you to hand-to-hand combat,” he sneered.
“No,” she said without flinching.
“Why?” he demanded, moving closer.
“Because it’s almost lunch and I am hungry.” She turned away, leaving him behind in the hallway. She turned around after a few steps, expecting Furos to be following her, but he was stomping away from her in a silent rage. She gave a short nod and continued walking.
Fights were common among Death’s Hands. Each member was constantly trying to assert their dominance over the other. The only catch was that both the challenged and the challenger had to consent, otherwise punishment would be dealt.
Maeve had had her fair share of fights. She didn’t remember how many she had won or lost. Some of her earliest childhood memories were of being beaten by the older assassins. But as she grew up, she learned how to defend herself and people weren’t so eager to challenge her after she broke both of Dor’s arms one time.
Maeve made her way past the dorms and to the mess hall, where lunch was already being served. Everyone silently stood in line and then made their way to the tables when they got their food. Maeve picked up a wooden plate and a steel fork and waited for today’s lunch. Pork cutlet with beans and a small loaf of bread.
As Maeve stood in line, she looked around to see who had arrived. Everyone except Pyras, Mortagon and Stryga had come to eat, which Maeve thought was strange. Pyras always was the first to arrive at any scheduled event, even something as simple as lunch. Maeve’s mind raced, coming up with possible reasons for Pyras’ absence. The most logical scenario was that Pyras was in his study, working on something important. Maeve shuddered. Pyras’ important plans were never good.
“Maeve,” someone said.
She looked up and the cook of Death’s Hands, Argen was glaring at her from inside the serving window where he stood above the steaming food that he was giving out.
“You’re holding up the line. Move.”
Maeve looked down and saw that she had already been served her food.
“Sorry,” Maeve said as she went to the tables.
She found a spot to sit a few feet away from Ciren, a skinny blond twelve year old, the youngest one of Death's hands.
They both ate in silence without looking at each other.
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179Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡajI0nMp8Ro
