Loose Ends

[Cirath]

Author's note: I meant to post this at least a month ago, but life has been doing horrible, unspeakable things to me that would turn even Cirath's evil little stomach. With that said, on with the show.
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His hand trembled as he stared at the heel of bread he held. His stomach roared with hunger, the cramps tying it in knots. Finally, he crushed the bread and flung it away. Cirath hadn’t eaten in days, but not because he didn’t want to. He would have quite literally killed a dozen infants for a single bowl of the worst prison gruel imaginable. He just couldn’t keep anything down.

It started a few days after he had reclaimed his body. At first he simply wasn’t hungry, or, at the very least he was distracted by the pain in his chest and gut and the disorientation that the remnants of the Warden’s abilities were causing. When it finally did come, he was suddenly ravenous. It was as if he had not eaten in months, which, he realized, he hadn’t. However, every time he tried to ease his hunger, the food turned to ashes in his mouth, and would not stay down. He had managed to actually keep down enough stale bread and tepid water, the only things his stomach would accept, to stay alive and conscious, but not a crumb more.

Thinking it might be caused by the injury done to him during his possession, he sought out healing, but priests, surgeons, apothecaries, and anyone else that tried all said the same thing. If his ailment could be cured, it was beyond their skill to do so. The last, a priest of Ilmater and healer of some repute, had told him that it was as if something had rotted him from the inside and left a hole that absorbed any magical or mundane remedies that he tried. Looking back now, perhaps driving a blade through his eye and out the back of his skull was a bit of an over reaction.

So now he sat, starving, in the dark on the side of a rarely used road that wound through a forested area in southern Cormyr. To help take his mind off his problems, Cirath had started examining the other changes his recent trials had wrought. The ability to feel living things had remained, though he found that he had to be much closer to sense anything. It wasn’t really a smell, the way the Warden had thought of it, but he supposed that was the easiest way to describe it.

Along with this new talent had come the specific sense of three distinct points, none of them closer than a hundred leagues. He didn’t understand what these points were right away, but soon it came to him. The three he had taken to be possessed, then sent out in search of more hosts. It had to be them. The locations matched, and it was the only thing that made sense.

Convinced he was right, and eager to find the creatures and settle things between them, Cirath had set out for the nearest one. From what he could piece together of his patchwork memory, the one he had sent north was the largest of the group. He didn’t imagine that would have any bearing on his physical strength, but it would make him easier to spot in a crowd if he could just remember the face.

It didn’t take long to find him. He was driving a wagon full of sullen, dejected men and women, much like the one Cirath had taken out of Luskan. This one didn’t have a cage, but the people were obviously prisoners. He was traveling south on a quiet road through the southern edge of the Dalelands, obviously returning from his harvest. Cirath followed along for a few days, staying far enough away to not be noticed, sleeping only an hour or two at a time so he would not fall too far behind. Once it became clear that the thing had no intention of stopping for more hosts, the assassin rode ahead to prepare.

Now the moment was upon him, the target was approaching. He was just as large as Cirath remembered, and was sure to be monstrously strong and fast as well. If it came down to fighting toe to toe, the human was certain to be ripped apart by the beast. There was little chance the Calishite would be able to match his opponents speed either. His injuries had slowed him, and even at the top of his form, he did not have the supernatural advantage that would be required.

As the wagon creaked closer, he weighed his advantages and disadvantages again, and once again a battle, no matter the circumstance, ended the same. With him dead… again. Soon the beast would be close enough to sense him, and it would begin. There was only one way to do this. He had to make sure there was no battle. Any other way and he would surely die.

Just a few more feet…

The creature’s eyes widened slightly, he glanced around, then locked his gaze on the tree that sheltered Cirath. He had finally sensed the human. The wagon continued forward, another second and the creature would be able to see around the tree. See the wounded assassin.

One more second.

With a flick of the wrist, a small knife was in his hand. The blade was so small that it was almost worthless in a fight, but it was more than large enough to slice through the taut cord beside him in a single swipe. The thin rope snapped, the groan of wood sounded above Cirath’s head, and in an instant, the creature was a foot shorter, his skull making a wet crack as it struck a rock after falling from his shoulders.

The trap had performed beautifully, the wide axe blade he had fixed to a branch sliced cleanly through, killing the creature instantly. The look etched on its face was completely blank, showing no hint of anger, surprise, or any other emotion. Somehow, that was more satisfying than any mask of terror Cirath had ever left on a corpse. Reaching for the head, he placed it in an oiled leather sack and cinched it shut. With a cursory glance at the prisoners, all of whom were staring at him with a mix of fear and hope, he turned and left them still chained to the wagon.

There were still more heads to collect.