With a click, the last tumbler fell into place and the door swung open silently on oiled hinges. Sten smiled and stepped back, unveiling the open portal like a farmer revealing his prized pig. The other men shuffled nervously, while the man with the impeccable teeth--Roland had learned his name was Kitch--drew his dagger and stepped forward. "Out of the way," he hissed while giving Sten a shove. His beady eyes gleamed in the sparse light as he peered into the darkened building.
The entry hall was sparsely furnished, with naught but a mildewed rug and a rack for hanging your hat. Immediately ahead the stout hallway forked. From one direction game the bawdy laughter of men who had too much to drink. Light from a hearth spilled dimly under the crack of the door, flickering. The other direction found the foot of a staircase, where a guard who was obviously supposed to be watching the door sat snoring. The wheezing breaths from his nose blew across a bushy mustache, which then tickled his lips, causing him to occasionally flinch in his sleep, giggling. "Nothing more than hired thugs," Kitch mumbled to Roland's father. Marcus nodded and gestured to Rodeck.
A determined look on his thin face, Rodeck crept up to the door. He lifted his spindly leg high over the threshold, taking extra care not to let his feet scuff anything. His foot came down without a sound, and he sighed. Then he was in the house, and Roland lost sight of him. Marcus turned to his boy. "Remember what I said. Once we're inside, you keep your eyes on the road. Keep your eyes open, and just as importantly your ears." He sniffed, eyeing the dark houses that surrounded them. "Most people who come by won't care either way, but if any of their fellows comes along..." A clatter from inside the house drew his attention away.
Kitch hissed a curse and switched the dagger from one hand to the other, eyes on the doorway. Sten gripped his cudgel tightly, huge knuckles white, his lazy eyes wide. A few moments passed, and then the laughter from inside resumed, uproarious. Roland looked from one man to another and saw the beads of sweat that dripped from their faces. One man's nose twitched incessantly, trying unconsciously to shake a drop from the end of the beak-like appendage. The man seemed to want to brush it away, but he would not release his half-drawn bow from his grip. The night was silent except for the sounds from within the home.
After what seemed like a lifetime, Rodeck suddenly popped up next to Sten. The men jumped, and Kitch nearly knifed him. "Watch it ya jumpy git!" Rodeck gasped, pushing the razor-sharp blade away. "Had to take the back exit," he explained quietly in Marcus's direction.
"Did you at least get your job done?" Roland's father asked sharply. His eyes, shadowed under his greasy hair, drifted from the still-open door to Rodeck and back again. The smaller man nodded eagerly.
"Give 'em a minute and they'll be sleepin' like infants." With that, Kitch swung the door shut and leaned his ear against it, waiting for the sounds inside to cease. The other men readied themselves, muffling their boots and equipment with bits of cloth to kill the noise. Roland eased himself into a crouch, leaning his backside against the stunted wall that bordered the small property.
His clothes were as dark as his father could find, and mud had been smeared on his round face to make him harder to spot. He had found the whole process to be uncomfortable but exhilarating nonetheless. Now he shivered against a cool breeze that brushed against him like a ghost. The thought sent a chill down his spine and he returned his attention to the men.
Kitch signaled Marcus and eased open the door. The sounds inside had silenced. Heavy snoring drifted through the halls of the house. Marcus grinned, all according to plan. As he turned away, Kitch grabbed his shirt and gestured with his blade at the guard snoozing on the stairs. Marcus rolled his eyes and mumbled something. With a grin Kitch crept into the house. "Make yourselves ready boys," Marcus said softly. "Anyone messes this up, I'll gut 'im myself." There was a short struggle inside as Kitch drove his dagger up through the guard's chin. Roland looked away, stifling a gasp. Sten swallowed apprehensively while the rest of the men smiled and swiftly but quietly poured into the building. Marcus stopped Sten and set him just inside the building. "Keep the door open a crack and watch my boy. If anything happens to him you're dead." With that, he turned, gave a wink to his son, and disappeared into the house.
Sten did as he was asked, and Roland turned toward the road. He could feel Sten's eyes on his back, and it made him agitated. The young boy didn't like the idea that he was being watched while he watched for others. It was too circular a concept, watching a watcher. Frowning, he shook himself and focused on his job. He wanted desperately to make his father proud, and he tried to follow his advice. His eyes snaked across the ground, moving from shadow to shadow, seeking out movement; his ears tuned in to the smallest sounds.
An ache settled in his knees and shoulders as he stayed still and bunched up. He shifted slightly, moving to one knee while still peering about the town. Occasionally shapes would emerge in the distance, others engaged in similar acts of thievery. These would quickly fade, off on their own business. Once a skittering sound drew his attention and he dropped, wide eyed and prone. His blue eyes sought out the source of the sound, eventually settling on a rat, cradling a tiny piece of rotten meat between its teeth. Its eyes gleamed, gazing right back at Roland. The eyes reminded him of Kitch's, and he desperately wanted to look away, yet the creature fixed his attention. They stayed there, eyes locked on one another, bodies frozen, until the ache returned to Roland's joints once more and he felt he had to move or he would die. Finally, heavy footfalls sounded on the cobbled street and drove the rodent away.
Roland quickly scanned the road for the owner of the footsteps and saw a man with a boiled-leather jerkin a size too small for him lumbering down the road. A sword was belted at his hip, and he carried a torch in one hand while trying to keep hold of a medium-sized keg of ale under the other arm. Roland shrank into the shadows, but it soon became obvious that the man was headed for the building in which Roland's father was currently practicing his trade.
The young boy scrambled on his hands and knees back to the door. "Sten!" he whispered urgently. Them man started and looked down at him.
"Oh! Boy! I was s'posed to watch you! Don't tell your da' I was being bad, I'll do better now, promise!" Roland tried to shush him and gestured wildly down the road. The big man squinted in the dark, but eventually found the glow of the torch. Understanding dawned on him. He babbled something to Roland and took off into the building, his heavy build causing the stairs to creak as he fumbled up them. Roland turned back, saw the man had stopped to adjust his hold on the keg, and swung the door shut behind him. It took him a few seconds to find the latch in the dark. The lock jammed briefly before sliding home with a snap.
Angry voices carried down the stairs, followed by a loud shushing noise. Rodeck led Sten down the stairs, carrying the big man's cudgel. The oaf's own hands were taken up by a large chest that he managed easily. Kitch followed, his jacket painted in red, and one by one the other few men came down after. Last of all came Marcus, who shoved a bloody sheet of parchment into his coat pocket. "Good work lad," he said softly, patting Roland's shoulder. The boy ignored the bloody stain left on his shirt, and watched his father shove his way to the front of the group, favoring his left leg. He motioned for the beak-nosed man to come forward and draw his bow.
Marcus unlocked the door as the man approached, arrow nocked. At his signal, Marcus flung open the door, revealing a startled man struggling to hold his keg of ale. Before he could shout, an arrow sprouted from his throat. The men hurried out, Roland running to catch up. They left the door open. As he passed the fallen guard, Roland felt an icy hand grip his ankle. He shouted in surprise and looked down. The man on the ground held him firm, fear in his eyes. He opened his mouth, struggling to speak, but nothing but a gory gurgle came from his pitiful throat. Wide-eyed Roland stared at this dying man, rooted to the spot by shock and the death-grip of this man he didn't know.
A shadow fell over them both, and strong arms wrapped around Roland. His father kicked the man's limb off of his boy, and he pulled Roland away. "Keep moving," he said simply. Roland dumbly followed his father, lost in his thoughts.
As the group shuffled triumphantly into the night, pride welled up in Roland--the satisfaction of doing a his job well and helping his father. The feeling stopped in his gut and tied a knot. It was strangled there by a sort of sickness, and the eyes of the dying man haunted his sleep for a month.
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by Roland Eir on April 30th, 2013, 11:19 am 
