Medneth and Moyan (revised)

Medneth and Moyan





The night was pitch black, and the streets of Moberab were unlit seemingly to facilitate the sneaking of the Marazín. Guards patrolled the streets around Moyan’s Palace. Their long black cloaks swished along the ground, their loose mail jangled erratically and their heavy boots crunched and scraped on the sand sprinkled flagstones. This sand was blown from Fathfél, the Eternal Desert, which lay to the north.

Medneth lurked in the shadow of an empty brothel, breathing silently and surveying the movements of a nearby guard, watching for any signs of inattention in him, for it was then he would strike.

The guard, seemingly asking for death, settled himself against the wall of a derelict building, shut his eyes and began to hum.

Medneth saw his chance, he ran at the guard. The guard opened a terrified set of eyes, but it was too late, Medneth had already jammed a knife in his throat. He then hid the body in an alley.

He took a small pouch from his belt; it was filled with dozens of blue poisonous pellets. He took out three and rolled them each separately between his forefinger and thumb, checking for any signs of damage. Finding none he popped them into his mouth and rolled them under his tongue; if he was captured they would be used to kill himself.

Medneth was a Marazín, a ninja. It was his job to kill, spy and steal for whoever employed him. Most Marazín served the various lords of Moberab or went north across Fathfél to the lands of Men where their skills would be more greatly sought after and paid. He, however was one of the few Marazín employed by the Emperor. He had been employed by his predecessor, and the emperor before that, for many generations.

This night his job was to kill Moyan, a Lord who had become too powerful for the Emperor’s liking. It was lords like these who every few years usurped the existing emperor. The position as emperor was as dangerous as it was powerful.

Medneth crouched and crept forward, the padded soles of his feet making not so much as a whisper on the cold slabs of stone. Black apparel covered every part of his body, rendering him just another shadow in the night and hiding his lithe but immensely muscular body. A thin but strong belt tightened his waist and from it hung most of his vital paraphernalia: a grapnel, a medicine bag, a few shuriken and several sheaths, one for his sword, the rest for his knives.

A guard came around the corner, and Medneth quickly backed himself against the wall to his left and held his breath. The guard walked straight past him.

‘Nemoreth,’ the guard called out in a croaky, clearly frightened voice. The guards never moved from their posts.

The biggest mistake of your life thought Medneth. He jumped behind the guard and grabbed his head, wrenching it violently to side until he heard the satisfying crack and the body fell limp. He dumped the body on top of Nemoreth’s, crouched again and crept forward once more.

Shadow Medneth thought, that was what his name meant. It was reputed that the only part of him that was visible when he donned his Marazín uniform was his shadow, but he knew it not to be true, noone else did.

He pulled Bozimith, his sword, out of its ornate but practical sheath and turned left down a smaller road.

Bozimith was made of Bethred, a metal stronger than any else. Its name meant Blade of Vengeance for he had used it to kill the man who had murdered his father when he was just nine years old. He was now much older (7189), wiser and known as the best Marazín there ever was or will be.

As he pressed on the moon slid out from behind a cloud and shone down accusingly on him. Bozimith glinted with the bluish tinge all Bethred weapons held. He cursed his luck but continued on, now even slower.

He heard the sharp twang of a bowstring and looked up; an arrow was hurtling towards him. He raised Bozimith and deflected the arrow harmlessly away, another came at him but again he was able to halt its flight before it could reach him. He saw a dark shape on the roof of the building opposite him, and threw a shuriken at it. The shadow vanished, and he heard his shuriken clack uselessly on the tiled roof. He ran across the road and sprinted on, now favouring speed over stealth. He had to kill that bowman before he could raise the alarm.

A rush of air sounded behind him. Medneth spun around and, with a clash, locked swords with a Marazín. He slid Bozimith down to his enemy’s hilt and kicked the Marazín firmly in the chest, knocking him backwards. Medneth swung but a sword was raised in defence and his blow was blocked, but so great was its force that his enemy’s sword fell clattering to the ground. He stood on the sword and his opponent, knowing he was defeated, jumped over him and fled.

Just as he was about to turn a corner Medneth flung a shuriken at the fleeing shadow hitting him in the lower leg. The Marazín turned the corner, and Medneth gave chase. Around the corner a wide road led directly to the Palace gates, but they were still some distance away. The Marazín was running straight for them. Medneth had to stop him. He threw another shuriken, this time hitting the figure in his back, forcing him to his knees. He ran up behind the dying, defeated and disgraced Marazín. He drove Bozimith through his neck and pulled his shuriken from his victim’s leg, but the one in his back was too deep to be retrieved.

He took a glance up at the gate; it sat wide, flanked at either side by two tall towers. The great, black, wooden doors looked like a gaping orifice against the light grey of the walls. It seemed as if no one had noticed anything; Medneth just hoped that the Marazín was also the bowman who had attacked him.

He lifted the body and carried it with him, as he merged with the shadows of the buildings to his right. He took a right turn, glad at the opportunity to get out of the line of sight of the gate.

He dropped the corpse and took a left, the road led straight to the Palace walls. From his position Medneth could see only three guards between him and the wall, but he knew there would be many more around the corners, in the tributary roads.

He went on a little farther before deciding to take the roofs of the buildings as his route. He threw his cloth-wrapped grapnel onto the overhanging eave of the building to his left and pulled himself onto the roof, before drawing the grapnel rope up after himself. Just then the moon which had been threatening his mission pulled a cloud from the west to cover itself, the cloud was flimsy however, and some light was still able to reach Moberab.

He crouched as low as possible for his silhouette would be his greatest enemy up there. He looked ahead at the walls, they were taller than any of the surrounding buildings, so if he stayed low, when looked at by someone on them, he would be set against the dark city not the sky, and if he was lucky, he would remain undetected.

He reached the edge of the building, below him was a guard. The gap to the next building wasn’t beyond his ability to jump so he decided to continue on the roofs. He bounced up and down on his flexible muscles in preparation for the jump. He leapt across the gap, all the while looking down at the guard to make sure he wasn’t spotted. He landed noiselessly, and the guard was none the wiser of his stealthy actions.

He crept on a little quicker now, anxious to get into the Palace grounds. The next gap he came to was not as wide as the last, and though there were two guards below, he was safe, for they were talking and paying no attention to their surroundings. He made the jump without difficulty and continued on.

The next gap was a real challenge, it was wider than any of the previous ones, and on the other side of it were the Palace walls. The walls were about a metre higher than the roof Medneth was on, not only would it have to be a long jump, it would have to be a rising one aswell. He thought fleetingly of using his grapnel but realised even cloth-wrapped it would be easily heard. He would have to jump. Strangely and luckily there was only one guard on the wall, and none on the street below. Medneth waited until the guard was on the move and then propelled himself into the air. He was just able to catch hold of the edge of the wall with his left hand, but nearly dislocated his shoulder, his knees smashed into the wall and pain washed through his body, but he held on, he was trained to handle pain. He grabbed the wall with his other hand and swung himself up onto it. The guard on the wall had his back turned and didn’t notice Medneth drop himself into the Palace garden.
*
The trickle of a fountain greeted Medneth on the other side of the wall. It masked the little sound he made as he crept over the fallen twigs from the surrounding trees. He crawled under a lone Fuchsia and sat down to plan his route. Trees and bushes were dotted haphazardly around the lawn which surrounded the Palace. Cover would be easy to find. But Medneth knew there would be a bare patio surrounding the base of the Palace; all places of importance were guarded by such patios. That would pose a problem, but not one Medneth had never dealt with before. Security was sparse, only a few guards were patrolling the lawn but they were armed with torches, weakening Medneth’s greatest ally, the darkness.

He set off for the Palace, low on the dewy grass. SNAP! Medneth heard a twig crack behind him and spun around swiftly. He found himself facing another Marazín. He was about four metres away, from what he could see unarmed and poised still.

‘I sport no weapon,’ he said nodding at recently drawn Bozimith. Medneth put Bozimith away; there was no honour in killing an unarmed Marazín if you yourself were armed. It was said that the honour system of the Marazín was introduced because it was believed such puissant killing machines without morals would be impossible to control.

Medneth made the first move; he jumped at his foe, fists clenched and knees drawn into his stomach. He drew his legs from his stomach as he reached his opponent and when he did, he kicked at his chest. The kick was blocked but its force knocked the Marazín to the ground.

The Marazín quickly jumped to his feet and sent a rush of punches and kicks at Medneth, but all were blocked with ease.

Medneth retaliated with a similar combination, they too were all blocked. He realised he had underestimated his opponent. A smile formed on his face, for a good opponent was what all Marazín wished for.

They sprang at each other and exchanged blows and blocks, no attack ever hitting its mark, they were too good for that. All the while they were unbothered by guards, maybe the Marazín had ensured they were left alone, or maybe it was a terrible leak in defence.

The silent combat lasted for how long Medneth did not know, but he knew it lasted too long. Maybe the fight went on for so long because both were reluctant to end it, for them it was the ultimate joy, no woman could satisfy them so.

Eventually Medneth began to tire of the fight and exerted himself in trying to take victory, but to no avail. I am the greatest, how could this be. He eventually convinced himself that he was the greatest and he didn’t have time for games.

A swift fist flew at his face, he raised his hand in a reflexive block but suddenly the fist fell and swooped at his stomach, he didn’t have time to react. He felt for the first time in nigh three millennia the wind being knocked out of him. He jumped away from the other Marazín and gasped, sucking in as much air as he could.

With his back turned to the Marazín, Medneth drew a small knife and concealed it in his sleeve. He ran at his opponent and aimed a deadly punch at his face. As he had guessed an arm was raised to block it, but just before it landed Medneth slid the knife out from his sleeve, it cut clean through his opponent’s left hand. From the look on the Marazín’s face it was clear he had not expected such a furtive attack. He didn’t scream, just clutched his bleeding hand and said bitterly ‘You have no honour.’

‘You have no intelligence,’ was Medneth’s swift, pre-prepared reply. Medneth went at him with his knife. The Marazín tried to defend himself; he flailed his arms madly and cursed Medneth under his breath. It was no use; Medneth stabbed him in his right arm and left leg.

His opponent was now kneeling on the grass, arms limp by his side, almost passed out from blood loss. ‘Time to die,’ said Medneth sardonically ‘honour over intelligence, whatever were you thinking.’ He held his opponent’s head up and stabbed him in the chest, staring into his eyes as he killed him. He wiped his knife clean on the honourable Marazín’s clothes and dumped his body under a bush.

I never liked that honour system Medneth thought as he set off once more. He took cover behind the abundant trees and bushes and made rapid progress across the lawn. Ahead of him a long, low, dark shape appeared, as he got closer, he recognized it to be a hedge.

He pushed his body through the hedge and poked his head out the other side, there the patio lay and the Palace beyond. Guards with torches patrolled and there was little shadow for him to work with. Risking a run would be foolish; if he was spotted, he’d be surrounded and outnumbered. Even if he somehow made it into the Palace, the alarm would be raised and he would be easily caught. He pulled his head back into the hedge and pondered. Though there was little shadow for him to work with, there was still shadow, and he’d have to find some way to exploit it. Eventually, he decided to creep between the circles of light given off by the guard’s torches.

He emerged from the bush and crouched by its edge. Two guards were walking towards each other from his left and right. If he stayed where he was he would be caught, he had to move quickly.

He purposed to dash through the darkness between the two circles of light for they had not yet met. Just as his legs stretched in acceleration his resolve wavered, if he was caught he would have to kill himself. But if he didn’t move he would definitely be caught. It was too late to retreat; if he went back into the bush he’d be heard. Why am I being so irrational? He thought. For the first time what had been instilled into him in training failed to make him make the right choice. The circles were just about to merge, it was too late for a dash so he jumped. The light closed in around him but he heard no sound of discovery, just a mutter about the size of bats nowadays.

He followed the Palace wall to the left and came to an iron door. He slid Bozimith into the lock and fiddled it around, cutting through the iron like cheese. He withdrew Bozimith, opened the door and stepped into the Palace.
*
The room he entered was darker than the night outside, and Medneth could see nothing save for some light coming from under a door. He felt his way along the wall on his left and came to a wooden door. There was an inch high gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. Medneth looked under, on the other side there was a well lit but unguarded passageway. He opened the door. He heard muffled voices and dropped into a crouch. He tiptoed on and came to another wooden door and opened it a crack. The voices were clear now.

‘Moyan is strong; he may well be Emperor one day. There is no use in betraying him,’ a voice said.

A second voice replied, ‘he thinks he is strong, he is not.’

‘He has many Marazín in his service, some of the best,’ the first voice retorted.

‘Not Medneth,’ said the second voice.

‘Medneth is not real,’ the first voice said patronizingly. ‘He’s just a tool used to encourage mutiny.’

‘How would you know?’ asked the second voice.

‘Common sense and the intelligence not to believe in rubbish,’ said the first voice.

‘Say what you wish, I just hope he doesn’t get you some day.’

‘You honestly talk the biggest load of rubbish.’ The feet of the first voice carried him away from the other guard and into another room.

The owner of the second voice began to mutter angrily to himself, and Medneth took the chance to open the door and enter the room. He emerged on the left side of a staircase in a bright hall. The guard was on the stairs to his right, but out of view because of the stairs.

He backed himself against the staircase and moved to his right. The guard stepped off the stairs and walked directly across the room to a wooden door on the opposite wall. The guard began to turn, Medneth grabbed a throwing knife from his belt and threw it at the guard’s neck. It hit its mark and the guard fell to the floor, completing his turn as he did.

The door by which the body lay, Medneth guessed was the one which the other guard had left through. He looked under the door, the shape of feet were clearly outlined. He drew Bozimith and kicked the door open, hitting the guard and knocking him to the ground. He quickly sprang into the room, grabbed the guard, pulled him back out the door, closed the door and thrust Bozimith in his disorientated face.

‘Where’s Moyan?’ He asked menacingly.

The guard didn’t answer, he just stared, terrified at his fallen comrade’s face. ‘Where?’ Medneth repeated, but the guard just shook his hands, so Medneth punched him sharply in the nose. ‘I can make your life very painful.’

‘Probably in his study,’ the guard said nasally.

‘Where’s that?’ Medneth asked.

‘Up that stairs,’ he pointed at the stairs his comrade had last descended before he was killed. ‘In the door, first left, up the stairs and it’s the only door.’

‘Thank you,’ said Medneth.

‘Do not kill me,’ the guard pleaded.

‘I must. You see I am Medneth and how could I live up to my name if I did not,’ with that he sliced the guard’s throat. The expression of fear mingled with surprise was frozen onto the guard’s face.

He picked up the bodies of the two guards, put one on each shoulder and carried them back to the dark room, and dumped them.

He then climbed the stairs and put his ear up to the door which met him at its vertex. From what he could hear, he guessed there were two guards. He burst through the door into a long corridor, a throwing knife in each hand. He flung one at each of the guards, both fell, one dead. The other threw his own knife at Medneth before collapsing from his wounds, it missed and Medneth picked it up. He walked over to the guard, who was now lying unconscious and stabbed him in the chest, finishing him. He then took the two bodies to the dark room where the others lay.

In the first door on the left was a small, bright room with a spiral stairs in the far, right corner. Medneth with his sensitive ears heard footsteps coming from above and quickly ran behind the last spiral. The steps had vertical gaps between each step. A bare foot landed before Medneth’s face and sprayed sawdust into his eyes, burning them. The stairs was obviously new. In pain and rage Medneth drew his knife, paused to contemplate if it was the right thing to do, and drove it into the heel in front of his nose.

‘Agghhhhh,’ shouted the owner of the heel and fell down the last few steps. Medneth put away his knife, drew Bozimith with smooth fluidity, pounced on the man and slashed him, spilling blood and the contents of his stomach on the floor.

Medneth looked at the body, it was without arms or armour. Strange, wasn’t he near Moyan? ‘That guard better not have lied to me’ he whispered to himself. Medneth could sense most lies and that guard didn’t seem to be lying, but he had no time for riddles so he put those thoughts to the back of his mind.

He started up the stairs, leaving the body where it lay; the blood and entrails were so obvious no body was needed to show that trouble was afoot. The stairs was long and Medneth took it slowly. It was creaky but Medneth with his sharp ears could hear the first rumour of a creak and thus reposition his foot to prevent any sound giving away his presence. When he saw light around the seemingly endless corner he crouched and moved even more slowly.

He emerged from the stairs into a small landing with double doors facing him. Voices were coming from behind the doors.

‘Where’s the food?’ a voice shouted, Medneth guessed it was Moyan’s. An inaudible mumble followed, Medneth guessed it belonged to some servant. ‘Well get it’. A mumble replied.

Footsteps were coming towards the doors so Medneth backed himself up against the wall beside the doors. The opening doors shielded Medneth from view, but the servant turned to close the doors, he acquired a slice of Bozimith across the chest.

Medneth walked around the still open door into the study. A man Medneth presumed to be Moyan was sitting at a desk facing him. Strange Medneth thought, for there were no bodyguards and nobility usually had at least two with them.

‘Weapons or not?’ the man asked.

‘What?’ questioned Medneth in surprise.

‘I, Moyan was once a Marazín, a good one I was told, and I will not die without a fight.’

Medneth didn’t answer, he expected it to be quick, he didn’t have time for a fight.

‘Well, then I will choose unarmed,’ said Moyan. He stood up and walked from behind his desk.

Medneth didn’t want to fight, but what could he do?

Moyan came at him swift; he ducked and slid across the well-sanded, wooden floor. It was a stupid move; Medneth stood his ground and kicked Moyan in the face, knocking him back. He saw his chance and jumped on the Nobleman, pummelling him with punches. He thought it would be over soon but Moyan threw him off and sprang to his feet. He seemed unhurt by the ordeal, Medneth flushed hot with rage, his punches were more powerful than anyone else’s, a retired Marazín shouldn’t be able to take them so well.

Moyan spun towards Medneth who hurled a punch at him, but it glanced harmlessly off his twirling body. Moyan kicked sharply at Medneth’s legs, knocking him to the ground, and sprang on him. One of his strong hands he clasped around Medneth’s neck, holding him down as he rained punches like a catapult on his face.

Medneth barely felt the blows as they fell, soaking his face with blood, they seemed far off and irrelevant. His consciousness began to slip away, he knew he had to do something but the pain was so easy to ignore.

Why was I not told Moyan was a Marazín? He thought suddenly, it enraged him that the Emperor had sent him on a mission that hadn’t even been fully researched.

His anger opened some deep reserve of strength and will and he was able to activate his lethal arms that were lying limp by his side. He grabbed Moyan’s waist and ripped him off, flinging him to the floor. He rushed at Moyan and gained the upper hand with several well placed, cracking punches. He had been taught never to fight with anger, but it worked.

Moyan gave up trying to defend his torso, instead he concentrated on keeping his head safe. He raised his furious fists in front of his face, a final fight for survival.

Medneth threw his hand with an open palm at Moyan’s face, he grabbed Moyan’s left wrist and wrenched his arm away, leaving his face open to attack. Quickly, he flung in his fist, hitting Moyan’s nose with a sonorous crack.

Moyan stepped back shaking his head and splashing blood on Medneth’s pitch black garments.

Medneth struck again, booting Moyan in the chest and cracking some ribs. He then kicked him in the chin, severing off the end of his lolling tongue.

Moyan fell to the ground and lay gasping, swallowing blood and holding his chest. ‘I lose…kill me,’ he said unemotionally between gulps of blood.

Medneth drew Bozimith and cut through Moyan’s neck. He shook the decapitated head, emptying the arteries that were pouring blood.

He took the head and opened the study window. He saw that he was in a tower rising out of the main Palace. He hooked his grapnel onto the windowsill and jumped out, the grapnel rope in his left hand, Moyan’s head tucked tightly under his right arm. He lowered himself gracefully onto the wooden, tiled, Palace roof.

He jumped carefully from the sloping roof and dashed across the patio; he had to get out quickly, for soon there would be guards everywhere. He cleared the hedge and sprinted towards the wall.

Halfway through the garden, a guard appeared in front of his path, he met Bozimith and Medneth continued on. He climbed a stairs onto the walls, grabbed a guard who was looking over the ramparts and threw him over them. He sprang over the ramparts himself, it was quite a drop, but the body of the guard cushioned his fall and he came out unhurt.

He ran to his left, but stopped, for the gate was only about twenty metres away. At either side of the gate there was a tower and if he was seen the amount of arrows that would spew from them would be deadly. He leapt onto a small, one story building on his right and began to creep along its roof, heading away from the Palace, Moyan’s head still in his grasp.

‘Intruder!’ shouted a voice from behind. A hail of arrows came flying from the walls, Medneth ran. He wasn’t hit, but another flurry came, he waved Bozimith behind his back and deflected an arrow which otherwise would have pierced his back. He kept running, he jumped the gap onto the next building, more arrows fell around him. He jumped another gap and kept running, fear keeping him alert and out of the path of many arrows. The arrows stopped, the guards must have lost him in the darkness. Relieved, he came to another gap but this time he didn’t jump.

He hopped off the building, spat out the poisonous pellets from his mouth, darted to the right, took a left turn into a refuse lined lane and raced away from Moyan’s Palace, towards the Emperor’s, to get his pay.

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