Old Hakim clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. These assassins were fools. Half of them seemed to think the Grym Man was some sort of assassin. They didn't seem to understand that this thing, this supernatural force, hunted assassins. That, at any time, they might find the Grym Man coming after them as readily as it was the doomed woman at the other end of the bar. Nobody knew why the Grym Man avenged some deaths and not others. The only thing that seemed consistent was his focusing on those who'd lost a true love. He had even sang for them the poem, the old children's rhyme that was as old as any ever told.
Eyes bright and absorbing everything old Hakim, the ancient storyteller, stroked his beard and watched. It was rare that a story, a legend, came to life and he felt privileged to bear witness to the events currently unfolding. He was already taking note of the reactions of each participant, each assassin. Not that he would ever use their true names, nor report unfavourably on their reputations. One didn't tell stories about bloodthirsty assassins, that would be tantamount to suicide and he rather cherished life.
Erisheth, after bearing witness to her third knife buried to the quick in the Grym Man's chest, began to panic. Pulling down a lantern ensconced on the wall she hurled it across the tavern towards the approaching figure. Again the Grym Man seemed to shudder, his image moving in a dozen directions at once and then the lantern passed through him and smashed onto the floor, spilling oil in a wide flaming pool amidst the sawdust and old straw that covered the floor.
The chestnut haired assassin then ducked right, leaping from table to another, landing amidst clay crockery and knocking a man's ale into his lap before leaping again for the chandelier. Shadows flew as she swung, her curls stretching out behind her, several candles falling from their perches to the floor and creating more of a fire hazard. She was mid-way though her wild leap when the rotting arm of the Grym Man suddenly caught her out of the air. She hadn't seen him move. One moment he was advancing and then next he had his corpse like hand wrapped around her throat. Kicking and struggling, her fine snake skin boots that she'd had custom made windmilling beneath her, Erisheth clawed at the pallid limb even as the Grym Man squeezed. She pulled swathes of flesh away, crimson fingernails digging in, sloughing skin and muscle from the arm. A half dozen kicks slammed into the Grym Man's thighs and torso, some triggering the distinctive sound of snapping ribs.
Finally, with a gurgle, face gone purple Erisheth stopped struggling, a bloated tongue issuing from between her lips. Having lost consciousness, her scissoring legs slowed and she stared blankly towards the rafters. Showing no emotion at all, the Grym Man paused only a moment, then twisted his grasp. There was a loud snap as the Grym Man crushed Erisheth's throat before tossing her onto one of the tables, smashing crockery and spilling ale.
Then the Grym turned, showing not on whit of emotion, squared his shoulders and strode towards the exit and away from the corpse as if it were nothing more than a walk through the market.
