He finally found his target.
She clutched a basket of fruit close to her, eyes darting from one side of the dirt road to another, as though she knew she was being followed. Or, perhaps, it was the shadows she feared; the full moon above their heads could only provide so much light, after all, and what it did provide only made the darkness more sinister. Her stride was lengthy, nearly causing her to trip over the folds of her faded azure dress, and he could see her shoulders were stiff as a board, even from the roof of the tailor's shop, only fifteen feet behind her.
It had taken a full day to locate her, but his efforts finally paid off. For a young woman with no experience in life, she was crafty. He had lost her twice-once in the cathedral, the other in the market square. Both times a rarity for him, the Black Mercenary.
He followed her silently, matching her hurried pace with his own, across house and shop rooftops. It wasn't long until she approached the only home still lit by candle light. She was about to approach, what he assumed was, her home, when two beefy arms yanked her into the blackness of the night. Her basket dropped to the cobblestone path, spilling its goods as she shrieked in surprise.
He raised an eyebrow. Did the nobleman hire another mercenary to kill the girl? He hoped not. He was a fairly laid back assassin, but there were some lines he wouldn't accept being crossed. Like being one of many killers hired to assassinate a target, instead of the only killer.
"Please, please don't hurt me," her panicked voice pleaded. He peered over the edge of the roof to watch the affair.
It wasn't exactly a startling scene; nothing he hadn't seen before. A large, balding man held the woman against the wood siding of a closed shop. His beefy hands fumbled to grab hold of her dress and flailing hands. The assassin barely held back a snort. It was ironic the large man was trying to get rid of the young woman's clothes, when his own were hardly worth calling rags.
"Shu' up," the man slurred. "No' int'ressed in hurtin' you, girl. Jus'-Jus' want you to make ol' James feel better."
She stilled, stunned. Then, her struggles emphatically renewed. She twisted and turned in the man's grasp, breath coming in panting gasps. "No!" she screamed, suddenly and startlingly clear. "Let me go! Som-"
The man's bear-like hand backhanded her across the face, sending the other side of her head careening into the wall. Dazed, she could do nothing but fall limp in her attacker's arms. The drunkard pawed at the folds of her dress, tugging them upward so he could do the unspeakable.
Distantly, the assassin could see why the nobleman had been so angry with his target. Her hair, while not exactly clean, fell in tangled, golden waves around her slim waist. Her eyes were a deep sapphire and her lips were petal pink, practically white in the moonlight. She had a decent bosom for her age-she had to be no older than sixteen. Not quite developed but getting there. She was pretty enough for a baker's daughter. It was unfortunate she had declined to join some nobleman's son in his bed. If she hadn't refused his offer, she would have lived a much longer life.
He could leave her to the drunken man's fate. So long as Isabella Cormin died tonight, he would be paid. Who cared if it were by his hand or the drunkard's?
And yet, he wasn't the type of man to allow another to settle his business for him.
In one moment, the fumbling pig managed to grab Isabella's dress and began tearing at it. In the next, the mercenary was on the ground, catching his new target's attention. The mercenary laid his hand on the wider man's shoulder and squeezed.
"Let the girl go," he ordered icily.
The drunkard hiccuped, then turned to face him. "Who are you?" the pig barked. No answer was forthcoming. "You wan' a tas'e of 'er? You'll ha'e to wait."
The mercenary's lip curled. "This is your last warning, scum. Let her go." He emphasized the command with a tug of the burly man's shoulder.
Rage twisted the drunkard's face into a gap-tooth snarl. "Why you-!" He swung a meaty fist toward him. The mercenary dodged it easily and gave the man an extra push. The burly man stumbled but caught himself before he could fall into a wall. He couldn't hold himself back, however, from stepping in a pile of animal waste. He snarled in disgust and whirled around, throwing aimless punches in his fury. The assassin dodged the first one, then the second. A well-placed elbow to the man's cheek nearly sent him into his victim. The pig grunted, visibly struggling to right himself, but the mercenary didn't give him the chance. A punch to the throat had the man on his knees gasping for air. A swift, brutally hard, kick to his temple made him pass out all together.
The assassin stepped back. His hands ran down his mud-brown cloak, brushing away imaginary dirt. 'Well, that was hardly a challenge,' he thought.
"Is he...?"
He turned his gaze to the young woman. Her knees were quaking, but she kept her stance, using the wall as support as she inched away from her unconscious attacker. When an answer wasn't forthcoming, she swallowed and tried again, "Is-Is he... dead?"
"No," he replied curtly.
She flinched at his tone. "Th-Thank you. For rescuing me," she clarified needlessly.
He stared at her, uncomprehending. She thought he was her savior? Hardly. She was his ticket to three days' worth of good meals and a comfortable bed. Maybe enough to buy him some decent pleasure for an evening.
Isabella Cormin gazed at him as though he were an angel sent from God. Gratefulness shown in her tearful blue eyes.
"Is there anything I can-" she began.
Screw it. Killing her wasn't worth the gold, anyway.
"Go home, girl," he interrupted.
Without another word, he turned and stalked out of the alleyway.
