Moonshade

An appropriate name.

The moon's light was strong and bright, blotting out all but the most valiant stars in the night sky. Even these were dimmed by the moon's presence, bowing meekly away, offering all the glory of the death-black night to their master.

The night itself could not have been darker, devoid of stars and clouds. It seemed cold, yet alive. Pulsing with desire for things that no human could satisfy.

The moon could be no brighter, the night no darker. And caught in the fray, miles below, were the helpless skeletons of trees, bowing and swaying in the wind, defiantly refusing defeat, denying the gale any hope of throwing them to the ground, where their shadows waited.

For the moon cast shadows that night.

For it was at its whitest, the night at its blackest. And in the struggle between dark and light, a shadow was born.

The Moon's Shade.

It was an appropriate name.

---

A black cloak billowed in the wind as the corpse fell, droplets of blood still raining down from a freshly stopped heart. Its killer rose from her stance and wiped the red liquid from her sword, carefully replacing it in its sheath. She was soaked in sweat, flecked in blood. That would need to be amended, but it could wait. The prize was lying before her, and she had no intention of letting any of the spoils of her victory go to waste.

With the ease of a practiced merchant, she knelt beside the corpse, stripping it of weapons and armor, of money, of valuables. It was host to no extraordinary artifacts; a disappointing discovery, though acceptable. In her late opponents bags were a few parcels of food, of good quality, which was immediately checked for poison before it was moved to her own pack.

Once the corpse was thoroughly scavenged, and the valuables were stored on her being, the survivor removed its cloak, setting it around her own neck. It was a bit large for her, which suited her purposes perfectly. Finally she unsheathed her sword again and brought it down on the cadaver's neck, severing its head in a single, flawless blow. Some blood still spilled from the corpse, and she spared a grimace in disdain as she picked up the head by the hair and put it in a sack, tying it off.

She would have to deliver her new cargo quickly, before it began to reek.

The weapons she had collected were of poor quality. The armor was better, though only a few pieces matched her own. Of all the collection, she only kept two well crafted knives, the cloak, and a leather breastplate. She sold the rest at the next city, gaining a fair price for her trouble. The jewelry and trinkets were sold as well; she had never held any fondness for such petty objects. The profit was more than enough to buy a horse, though it, too, would be sold when she reached her destination.

---

“Are you finished already, Master Moonshade?” the noble asked, trying to withhold his surprise. Moonshade's face did not leave its neutral expression. It was easy enough; all but the assassin's eyes were covered by a black silk veil.

“You underestimate me, my lord.” The voice was well suited to one of such an occupation, it was cold and low, veined with tendrils of the most sublime seduction.

“But I sent you out four days ago!”

“I am aware of the time, Lord Kentaro.”

“Then...you are sure you succeeded?” the noble's voice had lost its commanding pomp for an instant. Moonshade said nothing, but languidly produced a silk bag from within a billowing cloak. With a swift motion, the parcel was thrown to Lord Kentaro. He fumbled it, and it fell to the ground with a rather squeamish sounding thud. Tentatively, one of his servants came forward and picked up the bag, handing it to his lord. Kentaro opened the bag and dared a glance inside. At first his eyes were wide with horror and disgust. And then, as realization struck, the expression faded to surprise, and then to giddy excitement. He looked up at the assassin, nearly wild.

“Three days to find your target. One to return here,” the assassin explained coldly.

“You are a wonder, Master Moonshade!” Lord Kentaro gasped, pulling his enemy's severed head from the bag with a laugh.

“Do not bore me with flattery, my lord. If you wish to please me, then give me my payment. As agreed.” Moonshade's eyes warned enough: no foolishness would be tolerated. Kentaro suppressed a shudder, suddenly sobered by those orbs, shining like chips of frozen jade.

“Of course, Master Moonshade. Bring him his wages!” he barked to one of the servants. A frightened man rushed forward, staggering under the weight of a carved ebony chest. Another opened the box before the assassin, allowing Moonshade to examine its contents. Satisfied, the assassin nodded once and took the chest, carrying it easily.

“And...I trust I can rely on your services if any future problems should arise?” Lord Kentaro asked, finally remembering himself.

“Call to me, and it shall be done.” Moonshade walked away, the ebony chest held under one arm.

---

“You didn't have to do that,” Starblade said, his voice almost reproving, as the assassin returned to camp that night.

“Which part?” Moonshade asked, untying the mask before pulling it off.

“Take the job, for one. We already have enough money.”

“I didn't do it for the money,” Moonshade reminded him.

“Then why? For practice?” Starblade grimaced. It was an unusual expression for an assassin. But then, much about him was unusual. A few flecks of gray already permeated his dark hair, early signs of age for a man of thirty five years. But he was already considered ancient in the world of assassins, who killed quickly and died young. Yet nothing was as odd about him as his eyes. They were filled with remorse and poorly disguised pity. They hardened to ice for business, but they quickly lost their steely glare when in the company of his only companion. “Masako, you don't have to live the way I do. You can have a future. Any one you want.”

“You've already told me that,” Moonshade said, furrowing her brow as she removed several pieces of her armor. They had been damaged in her last fight, though she hadn't bothered fixing them earlier. They were crucial, if she was to be mistaken for a man.

“I promise you, there is no glory in the shadows. There is no happiness. There is no...” Starblade allowed his voice to drift, and he sat wearily down beside his charge. There was no use in arguing with her. She wouldn't listen.

“I've made my choice,” she said simply. She had found what she was looking for in her breastplate—a broad dent that pressed uncomfortably against her body, chafing the leather armor beneath the steel and bruising her skin. She fished a small hammer from her pack and began pounding the steel back into shape, heating it over the fire to soften the steel.

“But why?” Starblade pleaded. He had long since felt remorse for her decision. The problem was that she refused to back away from it, despite all his lectures and begging and orders. Moonshade stopped her work for a moment. Her ice-jade eyes caught his for a moment, and then she returned to hammering the dents from her armor.

“You already know why,” she said simply. “I want revenge.”