Inspired by Ranger's Apprentice. Assassins... Definition of true and utter fear...
My ears pound as I see the giant bloodred form rush towards me, running and standing similarly to a horse. It looks like a demonic being, with four thick, powerful legs and razor-sharp tusks next to its mouth. It has hatred in its dark eyes and is almost 6 feet tall. I'm scared and I know I'm going to die if the beast comes to me. It suddenly, and quickly, rushes towards me. I quickly pull the knife out of its sheath on my hip.
"Damn it! I'm going to die," I whisper to myself.
It seems to be in a powerful rage, rapidly heading my direction. It makes short work of the good 60, maybe 70 feet of distance between us. I'm scared, but I remember the assassin training that my master, Sir Griffin Young, taught me.
I notice that I am daydreaming just as the beast gets to only 5 feet away from me. It swings its massive foreleg at my upper body, so I instinctively shoulder roll backwards, to give myself a little space. Now that I see it up close, I notice something. It's a very small marking on its head. So small, in fact, that I almost didn't notice it. It appears to be the symbol of the CAA. The CAA, from what I've learned from my master, is the "Clan against assassins."
I happen to know that they had come up with a whole new language. So, I now know that this beast is Anaar, their "pet" that they use to kill assassins. The name derives from the CAA word for killer, which directly translates to "Dennaar."
Sir Griffin also clarified to me that the some 20 distinctly different beasts that the CAA had bred for actual combat are extremely intelligent, having the ability to distinguish targets, ignore non-targets and not be seen by possible threats to them, which I believe is probably everybody not in the CAA.
Anaar is noticeably surprised that I dodged his attack. He is used to targets that use orthodox assassin moves. But unfortunately for Anaar, I'm as unorthodox as an assassin can get.
Sir Griffin had decided to teach me slightly different moves than what other assassins use, mainly because we need to stay unpredictable to be efficient. He also explained the weapons we use. As for the knife we use, the "Flamoche," which translates from the language from our ally's country, Takania.
I decide to do something even a little more unorthodox than what I usually do. It was risky, but I generally have a knack for doing very risky things. This, of course, makes my moves way less predictable and therefore more likely to work.
I choose now to do a move that I know will take advantage of Anaar's initial surprise. I re-sheath my dagger and I roll under it and up behind it. It turns its head from side to side in a fruitless effort to find me.
From what I've learned, Anaar isn't very quick, but it makes up for the lack of speed with an extraordinary skill to overcome an assassin on the physical side of things. But the CAA, obviously, didn't introduce the beast to the reflexes we have been taught.
I smile, "This is going to be easy now that I got it confused," I think. Now that I am behind it and I know my move was successful, I take my blade back out and swiftly slice the blade across its backside. It screams in pain and fury, and jolts forward a few feet.
I use the advantage to close the gap and slice it through its left side, in an attempt to hit its heart. But due to my fear slightly overcoming my training, I accidentally use the dull side.
I make up for it by following up with a lunge thrust towards the heart. I am in utter shock when the blade goes through the skin but breaks as I pull it out. Anaar is obviously wounded, not fatally, but wounded. And I have no weapon other than my meager throwing knife, so while Anaar is momentarily distracted, I draw the knife from its sheath on my lower back.
So, I know my deadliness is severely lessened, but I'm also aware that I have to stay calm and let my knowledge reassert itself.
It inaudibly turns around and I suddenly feel my stomach drop as I know it's going to attack without hesitation. It sees me with the small single-purpose weapon then lifts its head and roars in assumed victory, hurting my ears with the few feet between us. But unbeknownst to the beast, I have a few tricks up my sleeve.
But it doesn't let me use them.
It swipes its leg at my feet. I jump just in time to evade it, but the tips of my feet catch on its limb and I collapse on the floor. And in the attempt to keep my balance by throwing my arms out, I unintentionally fling my only weapon.
I struggle to get up, but it throws me back down to the cool, solid dirt. It displays its teeth directly in my face. It slices two narrow, jagged wounds in my chest with its tusks. They're agonizing, but I see that they're not too deep. I notice that I'm losing a good deal of blood, though. I suddenly get a rush of dizziness.
I lay motionless on the ground, on my side. It walks a couple of paces until it's right over me. I can only just make out Anaar's face, what with the spots drifting across my vision. The only reaction my injured body can manage is a light groan.
Slowly, Anaar brings his head down and opens his mouth. I tense up as my demise is less than moments away. I feel the sharp teeth enter my neck. Then, almost instantly after I feel them, I don't. I notice why.
A throwing knife was deep in the back of his shoulder. And he was bleeding, badly. I can't see who threw it, but by the impeccable accuracy, I can pretty much tell. It had to be another assassin.
And who else but Connor. "Don't worry, Michael," he yells to me as he dashes to Anaar. I see them engage, but nothing more. I black out into oblivion.
I awake with a stabbing pain on the side of my neck, where Anaar had bit into. I couldn't have been unconscious long, but judging by my headache and nausea, I'd guess about a day and a half. I gently lift my head up a few inches and take in the room I am in.
It's a tidy room, with my bed laying linearly on the far side from the door. I have a window next to my bed, shining a light signifying early morning. The room has a small, square coffee table in the corner and two loveseats facing each other on either side of the room. In one of them is Connor, elbow on the arm of the couch and his head resting on his open palm, facing slightly towards me. Asleep.
"Hey, Connor?" I try to say, but it comes out as more of a croak. The sound makes him stir and murmur in his sleep. I try again to call his name.
It comes out intelligible; he stirs harder this time. I call out again. "Connor!" My words urge his body into consciousness.
"Huh? Who..." he mumbles.
"Connor, It's me."
Connor springs up and rushes towards me, perhaps relieved to know that I'm okay.