Young Writers Society

Dracon ran after the two men, the arrow still protruding from his arm. If he removed it, he ran the risk of bleeding out. His entire right arm was numb, but Dracon didn’t notice. Ramar would need his help.

His master was old and his joints were not what they use to be. He didn’t train anymore and had not gone on a mission in years. From what Dracon could tell, the rebel was young and fit; he would have to be to try and kill the King. If he decided to turn and fight, Ramar would be in danger.

The Assassin rushed through the halls of the palace, finally reaching the exit. He ran through the garden and keep, passing swiftly through the gates. Outside he stopped, scanning the ground for any evidence of recent activity. Finding what he wanted, Dracon continued left down the street.

Not an ounce of daylight still lived. The moon was out, casting eerie shadows along the silent, empty alleys.

Up ahead, Dracon heard a familiar sound break the quiet. Swords. He released his last bit of energy, sprinting as fast as he could down the alley. The two men came into view, swords drawn. As he watched, the rebel sliced downward, cutting into Ramar’s leg. His master fell, and the man stepped in for the kill. No!!!

Just as the man was about to finish the High Assassin, a boy appeared, attacking the rebel with a knife. The man was taken by surprise, but quickly recovered. He parried and stabbed, running the boy through. The child dropped to the ground.

The rebel looked up and met Dracon’s eyes. Then he turned to run.

“Stop!” he yelled, but the man had already disappeared.

Dracon burst out of the alley and into the intersection. Ramar and the boy, who Dracon recognized form the morning, lay on the floor. He instinctively ran to Ramar, who was still conscious. A huge gash was apparent on his right thigh.

“I’m fine, fool! Go see to the boy,” he grunted, his face twisted in pain. Dracon obeyed without hesitation. The child was unconscious, a stab mark evident on his left side and a pool of blood collecting around him. Dracon tore of his shirt and pressed it on the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. But it just kept pouring out. He pressed harder and harder. From the distance came the sound of hooves, gradually growing closer.