Misdirection

The rain made it difficult to see down the path, but that didn't bother Sam. He preferred damp and gloomy weather. It made his work easier.

He wasn't looking anyway. He was listening, his ears tuned to the unmistakable creak of leather. The sound that would tell him his mark was approaching.

He pulled his leathers closer around him, feeling the curved end of the horn bow press under his armpit. He patted the inner pocket of his vest where the bowstring nestled, safe and dry. Wet bowstrings wouldn't do for tonight's work.

Looking back at the circumstances that had brought him out into the woods beyond the settlement, he realized he had come full circle.
A long time ago, in another lifetime, he had been a courier, like the man he awaited. Now he was a hired mercenary, tasked with taking a life to sustain his own.

A slight disturbance in the air pressure around him alerted him. The creak of saddle leather and the faintest of whinnies. Destiny approached. He took out the bow and pulling the bowstring from his pocket, bent and strung the weapon in a single practiced movement. Then he picked an arrow from the covered sheath at his feet. Kneeling, he stared down the path.

The rider approached, hunched over his mount, paying no attention to his surroundings.

A fatal mistake. He sighted along the arrow as the figure drew alongside his position, then froze. Something wasn't right. The figure lolled in the saddle like a sack. It was a sack. Even as he started to turn he knew he was too late.

The knife went in under his ribs with a brief stinging sensation. Then his heart exploded.