Tasked To Steel

Tasked To Steel

He removes the cloth smothering the last torch and carefully retreats
down the corridor. His vision totally obscured by the first moments of
darkness. Moments which finally fade into soft shadow. Gradually, as
his eyes begin to adapt, Ridgeway starts to make out faint contrasts of
light, which slowly take form like ghostly pieces of a
three-dimensional jigsaw. A jigsaw that appears far from being
finished. With each passing moment a new shape reclaims its true
identity: the corner of a wall showing a passage entrance to the right,
a thin thread of light outlining a closed door to the left. He knows he
might have to stay here for several hours, or even days. But then
patience is probably his best virtue and his greatest self taught
skill, although many spirits resting in an eternal sleep may
disagree.

Silence.
He tries to relax. To meditate. To not think about time. He has always
been a man of discipline, although things are now starting to change.
As each moment slips by he feels the missed opportunities and
possibilities of life drawing further away from him. Ridgeway drifts
into a somber mood.
"How much time have I wasted in darkened corners? What pleasures have I
forgone? Some men live their lives only for pleasure. To have friends
around them. While I mistrust everyone." The sudden sound of wood
sliding on stone can be heard coming from behind the closed door.
Ridgeway looks up and watches intently, waiting for any further signs
of movement. After a short while the muffled sounds of a conversation
seep into the corridor. He looks down and returns to his
thoughts.
"What do I care about pleasures!" The answers and questions are always
the same. It is becoming routine. First the debate, then the feeling of
never having received a satisfactory answer. Ever since his birth as
the only legitimate son of a wagon following 'hitch queen', the
thirty-five year old has travelled from sewers to palaces, mingling
with every unique race and class. And yet, he has never owned anything
for more than a few days. Never had passion enough to care for objects
or places or people. Each day following whatever opportunity presented
itself. Never planning. Never conforming.
"I like what I am!" Ridgeway's defiance is undermined by the tone of
fading confidence that invades his voice. The light from under the door
vanishes as a shadow draws across it. Ridgeway tenses.

A beautiful young woman enters the corridor followed by two guards.
"All the torches have gone out," exclaims Rachel, the youngest daughter
of the Baron of Erdguard. Her burgundy and blue dress is the only
bright splash of colour in a picture of grey.
"Alvar, go and find a servant to re-light these torches." The
authoritative voice is spoken by Rachel's eternal shadow, master at
arms, Sir William Ironwright. "We'll wait here and ..." Before he can
finish, Rachel whirls around and begins running down the corridor. "I
don't need lights to find my room," she yells, her voice fading as she
disappears into the darkness.
"Wait, my lady." He listens in silence for an answer.
After a few seconds he turns to Alvar. "Get a torch out of there", he
points at the room, "and follow us. Re-light some of these torches on
the way." Alvar immediately steps through the open doorway and Sir
William heads off after his charge.

After a few moments Alvar re-emerges from the room carrying a flaming
torch. He walks over to the first wall sconce and touches the flame to
it. The charred wood explodes into life with a dramatic pop, just as
the flaming torch falls to the stone floor. Ridgeway catches the body
under the arms and drags it back into a dark alcove. He then returns to
the torch and smothers, for the second time, the wall sconce. He picks
up the still burning torch and pushes it into the soil surrounding an
indoor plant. "The time is almost upon us," states Ridgeway, as he
begins to follow the sound of footsteps.

The sounds can be heard faintly echoing down the passage, accompanied
by the occasional excited taunt thrown by Rachel to her protector.
Ridgeway feels a sudden pang of sympathy for the master-at-arms. Having
to sacrifice his life for an arrogant, high-class bitch.
But wait a minute.
He pauses and begins to examine this idea more closely, tying in facts
wherever he can. Here is a professional soldier who, as far as he
knows, has been with this young woman for the past twelve years. And as
such is either hardened to her jibes or knows not to take them
seriously.
While she is well known for having compassion and empathy for those in
need.
Using her position to speak out against those who would abuse others.
"That's probably the reason why I'm here," thinks Ridgeway, as he
approaches the end of the hallway where he stops and listens.

He can hear Rachel's voice a couple of corridors away and so moves to
the next corner and glances around it.
A dagger lunges for his left eye.
Instinctively he bends his knees and drops into a low stance. Sir
William steps in throwing his knee towards Ridgeway's face, but
Ridgeway's already on the move, opening up the distance between them by
rolling to his right across the corridor.
The two men look at each other for a moment. For a fleeting second each
man feels the fear of his own mortality. Then their training and force
of will takes over. Sir William takes the battle to Ridgeway. With
sword drawn, Sir William lunges at Ridgeway's chest, which suits the
assassin's style of counter-attack. As the blade nears his head
Ridgeway twists to the right and prepares a strike to William's ribs.
When Sir William suddenly pulls back.
A feint.
Ridgeway relaxes. He begins to watch his opponent for any hints that
will help him distinguish a feint from the real thing.

During this time, Rachel is pacing back and forth in her room.
Ever since Sir William caught up to her, grabbed her arm and ordered
her into this room, her imagination has gone wild. Was William just
trying to frighten her or had he heard something? Could it be a servant
or someone like the Blackhawk? Her eyebrows knit together and she stops
pacing. She looks slowly towards the door. A faint sound can be heard
coming from the corridor. She slowly draws in a deep breath and reaches
for the hilt of her training sword, lying on a table beside her. Her
fingertips feel the soft leather of the grip just as she notices the
door handle beginning to turn. She lightly drops into a squat and draws
the blade free. The door begins to open. Rachel quickly glances around
the room and then down at herself. Realisation spreads across her
face.
She immediately grabs a cushion from a chair close to her and throws it
at the candelabra. Instantly the room is thrown into darkness,
immediately followed by the heavy crash of the candelabra on the marble
floor. The door flies open revealing an empty corridor. The light from
which casts long shadows throughout the room. Rachel dares not to
breath. Every muscle in her body is poised for action. Gradually, the
seconds slip by and she silently draws in a lungful of air.
Minutes pass.
Suddenly Rachel's world vanishes. Someone has extinguished the flame in
the corridor. Rachel closes her eyes, turns her head to the side and
slightly opens her mouth. It is a technique that Sir William taught her
for fighting at night.
"Darkness is a great equaliser. Size and traditional skill are
no-longer factors in combat. A new set of skills must be learnt. The
first of these is to increase your sense of hearing. This technique
uses your mouth to amplify any sounds; and closing your eyes removes
any concentration which is given over to sight."
She sits in absolute silence. A noiseless void apparently without
end.
Until, from the corridor, a series of soft scratching noises can be
heard. Noises which sound like the scurrying of tiny claws on stone. A
rat, Rachel concludes.
The scratching gets louder and more defined. It has come into the room.
The noises stop. Rachel freezes, afraid that any movement, even of air,
will give her away. The scratching starts again and heads off towards
the far side of the room. Rachel lets out a gentle, almost inaudible
sigh, but to her the sound fills the room. Her thoughts become
desperate, "I must escape. My advantage is lost. If I can make it to
the end of the corridor then I will have won. There is no-way that this
person can know these corridors like I do, even in the dark." She rises
and, creeping as quietly as she can, she makes her way to the left side
of the open doorway. She knows that this will be her biggest
gamble.
Does she run left or right?
She tries to remember her father's rules on making arbitrary decisions,
"Picture a leaf in your mind falling from a tree and a line drawn on
the ground. Which side of the line does the leaf land? Left is yes.
Right is no."
"Although, in this case, left really is left," thinks Rachel.
She moves into a ready position and prepares to sprint out through the
door. With the point of her sword leading the way, she launches
forward. Only to be immediately struck from behind before she completes
a single step. A strong hand clamps around her throat while another
grabs the wrist of her sword arm; painfully digging the fingers into
her flesh. Her hand opens and the sword falls gracefully to the floor,
without ever reaching it. With a speed Rachel didn't think possible,
her assailant catches the sword and places it onto a side cabinet. For
an instant, Rachel's wide eyes reflect moonlight coming from a corridor
window. Before she is spun on her heels and dragged back into the
shadows.