The Assassin's Redemption Chapter 2 Pt 2 Redrafted.

Ramar had not been thinking when he’d ran after the rebel. He knew he was old, he bones and joints were always stiff in the morning. He could hardly grasp a sword anymore. But his mind was still sharp; he could still lead the Order. Or so he’d thought. Ramar had been so busy overseeing plans to fight the rebellions, he’d forgotten to add more guards to the duty roster; security was always inhanced when there were parties. They were the most dangerous. Yet he hadn’t done it. And that mistake had almost cost the King his life.

So he’d ran as fast as his leg could carry him, trying his best to keep the rebel assassin in sight. He had followed the man out of the palace and through the keep, noting three dead guards along the way. The rebel had passed out of the castle unheeded and into the streets of Malkinan. Ramar had been on his heels as the man entered the alleys of the great city. At an intersection, the man had slowed.

“Stop there!” Ramar shouted, filling the distance between them. The man turned, as if just now realizing he’d been followed. The rebel drew his longsword at his side; Ramar followed. The two had darted forward, swords meeting, sending a loud “clang” into the darkness.

Ramar struck first, swing his blade in an attempt to decapitate his opponent. The rebel easily parried the blow, reciprocating with an attack of his own. Ramar moved hastely to deflect it, just barely catching the sword before it sliced off his arm. The rebel was fast. Ramar’s eyes darted up and down, looking for an opening to attack, yet finding none. His assasilant continued his onslaught of attacks, keeping Ramar on the defense. The High Assassin could feel his body tiring with every strike. One of his hands cramped up, slipping limply from his sword.

That was when the rebel struck. The man’s sword shot downward, too fast for Ramar to block one-handed. The sword sliced open his right thigh, leaving a deep gash in its wake. Ramar’s leg buckled, the ground rising to meet him.

The old man knew his end was near, yet, for some odd reason, did not fear it. At least he would die in battle, and not sickly in a bed. He waited for his life to begin flashing before his eyes, but his mind felt strangely blank. The rebel brought up his sword for the finishing strike. Ramar tensed.

Then, out of what seemed like thin air, a boy appeared, plowing into the rebel and knocking him off-balance. Ramar’s heart seemed to stop as every single muscle in his body released from its tensed up state. The rebel quickly regain his composure as the boy rushed him, a knife held in his hands. The boy attacked the rebel, aiming to stab him in the gut. The man parried and stabbed, blade piecing the boy’s side. The child dropped limply to the ground. No! Ramar had thought.

The rebel had suddenly looked up, eyes peering into the darkness. A voice all to familiar bounced off the walls.

“Stop!” Dracon had shouted. The man gave Ramar a final look, as if deciding whether to try and kill him or not, then disappeared down the street.