Armaros Flyleaf gagged at the sight of so much blood on the cold stone floor of his cell, his home for the past twenty-three days. Sick and beaten, he had nothing to vomit either physical or verbal. And so his torturers continued.
In his first nineteen days in the prisons of Raven Hill, Armaros had been extremely cooperative. Almost too much so, his torturers thought. He confessed with little resistance to every crime they’d put before him: multiple accounts of murder (including three captains of the king’s royal guard), multiple accounts of thievery (from the king’s granary), and even treason for plotting against the life of the king himself.
They were surprised he’d been caught so easily, too. Found standing near his most recent victim, a captain, whose blood still flowed through the hole Armaros’ blade had punched in his throat. The guard who caught Armaros prided himself in his stealth, having snuck behind the assassin as he “stood in triumph over his latest kill.”
But now their best behaved prisoner was silent, having not spoken since they asked him his last name and the location of his family. The topic of family seemed to be a touchy one with this prisoner. This turned out to be a good thing for the guards. As one of them remarked, “I was worried ‘e wouldn’t have enough scars on ‘is back,” the whip in his hand before the statement had ended. “Don’t want anyone thinkin’ we didn’t do a thorough job.”
Armaros had a strong heart, and was more than willing to give his life to protect his younger sister and his father. His father was in fact the real criminal whom he’d been following through the city at night for the past nine months, jumping across rooftops, sneaking through dark alleys, and coming home sometimes hours, sometimes days later. His mind was made up, his will was set, and glaring at his torturer who repeated his inquiry, Armaros spat and declared, “You’ll have to take my life and suck the words from my cold lips before I speak a damn thing about my family to you.”
The guard lowered his whip and smiled as if challenged. “Oh I don’t want your life. But I’d be more than happy to take a few of those toes…”
Two days later, after being unceremoniously dumped in the streets, Armaros found himself in his now empty home. Deprived of his family, the carcass of a building mocked him with its rooms’ silence. Armaros did not waste time with delays. His hands worked autonomously preparing the items he would need for the journey. Yes, the journey was inevitable. He would venture across the river, heading north, to ply his trade against the enemy of the Raven Alliance. As he prepared, he realized he was standing in front of his father’s chest. The very chest his father had forbidden him ever to open. The chest he sat by as a boy and dreamt of adventuring. Now, as he stood, the chest’s ornate carvings beckoned, and he could no longer resist.
That’s where he found the spike. He had seen his father wearing the strange contraption when he snuck out at night, and looking at all that was part of it he could see why. The white wrap and two wooden shafts could easily be used to disguise the device as a splint, but the long sharp spike that came with it had a handle which allowed it to be pulled from the hardened leather ring when the weapon was concealed, and locked into a forward position with the second loop in the figure eight against the back of the hand.
Put simply: a concealable punching dagger with a spike rather than a blade. An assassin’s weapon, indeed. The light from a small gap in the rafters glinted off of the metal and Armaros noticed a subtle inscription on the spike.
“To Silence the Prophets of War”
Tossing Silencer in his small sack with a few daggers, a sap, and some food for the road. He looked around the front room where the soldiers broke in, imagining the struggle that took place as he scanned across the broken pieces of furniture. He thought of the Baron’s words: “His life for those of your family.”
I'll get you both out of there. One way or another, I'm coming back for you.
With that he said farewell to his childhood home and headed north.
To Versonton.
