Excerpt: Argenstock

Chapter 1

Redemption

The wolves were out hunting that night. Their howls echoed through the forests and bled into the cities as they tested their own courage to see how close they could get without getting caught. Brave, they were.
But Spirik didn't notice. Instead, his focus was on the street. A light snow fell, sparkling where the streetlights caught them. He was surprised the city hadn't gotten rid of the streetlights by now.
"They will, sooner or later," he muttered to himself, grimacing. He didn't notice his grimace. Grimacing became a part of his daily routine, nowadays. The city never saw the likes of his grimacing, though. He never entered the city in daylight. There were too many people in the day. Too many guards and soldiers. At night, the soldiers were few and sparse, and Spirik could get away with a murder or two.
Squatting in the shadows, Spirik Voldar glanced out into the street. Large, dark buildings hugged the curb of the snow-drenched street. A few cracks here and there split the asphalt. No one bothered trying to fix those cracks nowadays. The government wouldn't allow it.
"Government? One man is hardly government," Spirik muttered. From around a corner, a soldier appeared. A gun was slung over his shoulder, and the customary white head wrap, a sign of allegiance and obedience, was wrapped about the man's head. Spirik grimaced again.
As the soldier walked along, his boots splashed in the puddles of melted snow, and his head hung low. He whistled a light off-tune note. Spirik's grimace turned into a smile as his sword flashed from its scabbard. The streetlight reflected across the blade, sending a dark red light along the street. The guard's head swung up and muttered a curse. Before he had the chance to get his rifle, the soldier watched as Spirik sprung from the damp shadow, the blade dancing in the air. In a blur, Spirik was on the man, blade slashing. Before the man could draw his belt knife, his throat was slashed, and his heart was pierced.
Spirik looked at his blade, smeared with the glistening blood of the now dead soldier. Unraveling the white head wrap the soldier donned, Spirik wiped his blade on that, watching as the congealing blood disappeared from his blade with the swiping of the cloth. All except one blood stain. His grimace turned into a frown as he tried to wipe the unwashed blood from his blade. He knew it was pointless. That stain would never come out. It never had.
Shoving the sword back into its scabbard, Spirik disappeared back into the shadows. With a sigh, Spirik wrapped his cloak about him and slumped against the wall. Maybe he could rest tonight. Maybe.