Heres the next installment
Death in the Shadows part two

The three men walked down the mud-slicked streets of Bologna. The constant stream of horse and oxen drawn carts and wagons churned the streets into a quagmire that sucked at their boots as they crossed over to the tavern from which the raucous laughter was emerging onto the cold and wet street.

As the men entered the tavern they were assailed with the smells and sights common in most of the most disreputable bars in town. A combination of beer, vomit and burnt food assailed their noses. From up above in the rooms they could hear rhythmic bumping sounds from the beds up stairs. The roaring hearth appeared to be blocked because as well as the blast furnace heat it gave out billows of smoke that gave the entire tavern a smoky and hellish atmosphere.

In the far corner sat a man dressed in a black leather jacket which only just covered his blacked out chainmail. Combined with his black cloak and trousers he looked as if he was a member of the clergy. However what distinguished him from a Dominican monk was his face. It bore the look of a man who had seen, and caused, many premature deaths. It was tanned and scared after many years of hardship and work. His eyes, or eye as one of his most prominent scars ran from his right eyebrow to his nose had taken the sight in one of his eyes which now sat lifeless, however was always moving analysing and evaluating the area around him.

The man watched as the three men entered the tavern and began to look around. His eye met that of the tallest of the three whom immediately leaned over and talked into the ear of the shortest one. The three then made a beeline towards his table. The two tall ones jostling anyone out of the way. Just before they reached the table the tall ones split apart from the short to take up station around the table that the man was sitting at. The shortest of the three came over to the man.
May I sit down?
The man waved his hand and answered with a short. Yes.
What may I call you? Asked the man as he helped himself to some of the man's cheese. With snake like speed the man's hand shot out grabbing the short mans hand in a vice like grip. Shaking the short man dropped the cheese onto the table and haltingly spoke. My name is Guy of Brisbonne.
You may call me Diablo. Replied the man in fluent French.
I did not no you spoke French my English friend. Exclaimed Guy.
I am not your friend and neither am I English. Diablo calmly replied in Arabic. Guy's face became wreathed in miscomprehension. Sighing Diablo repeated himself in French.
Of course. Said Guy. However you might say we are in the same sort of profession.
Snorting Diablo looked Guy up and down, he was short and podgy and had the look of a man who had not done very much in his life. His eyes however, his eyes, they shone with rare intelligence within his fat face. I doubt that you are in my particular profession. Guy begins to interrupt but Diablo raises his finger to stop him. But you do appear to have the look of a purveyor of information. I shall get straight to the point what do your employers want me to see to and when by?
Direct and to the point I like that. He pauses to take a drink from a bottle he had in his robes. There is a certain Bishop who has been rather outspoken of his condemnation of his majesty these past few months. His preaching is causing quite some unrest in the countryside among the peasants and a certain amount of the lords. He is at the moment on his way to Rome on a pilgrimage. It would be most unfortunate if he had an accident on the way. A two thousand florin accident maybe, when his head is delivered here to me at this time in two months time. As he spoke a broad grin cracked on Guy's face.
Two months it is then. With that Diablo got up and walked out of the tavern into the now driving rain.

The sun beat down on the dusty road in Provence as the procession of monks and guards marched down the hot and dusty road. In the middle of the procession was a curtained carriage with a large ornate cross of gold and silver on top of it. As the procession of ten guards and twenty monks wound it's way into the wooded valley that the road went through. The observant guard would of seen a brief glimpse of a man dressed in dark green fleeing deeper into the forest. Unfortunately for the men in the procession none of them were being very observant.

Diablo watched as the column of men meandered through the valley. Selecting an arrow he drew his bow back and sighted along the arrow.

The lead guard had just reached the edge of the valley as an arrow streaked out of the woods catching the horse for the carriage through the throat. The horse went down thrashing, kicking two monks causing them to fall to the ground in agony. Three arrows followed in quick succession one taking a guard in the neck and another hit a glancing blow to a monks head while the final one pierced the chainmail vest a guard was wearing, throwing him back against the carriage.One of the guards cried out. Protect his grace Quickly the guards and monks formed a circle of human bodies around the carriage that contained the Bishop.

Diablo quickly fired of three arrows in secession taking down two guards and a monk. Pulling another arrow out of his holder he drew his bow and let fly. The arrow hit a monk in the shoulder pitching him backwards. Another of his arrows caught a guard in the eye causing him to fall backwards clutching his profusely bleeding face. By this time only three of the original guards were still standing.

Diablo dropped his bow and started to run towards the remnants of the Bishops retinue. As he pounded towards them he drew two swords that gleamed unnaturally in the twilight. As he crashed into them he slashed rights slicing open the belly of one of the monks whilst parrying a blow from one of the guards with his other sword. Quickly he ducked under the blade of the guard, which he had just parried, twirling around behind the guard Diablo slashed through the mans lower back cutting his spine and causing him to collapse to the ground dead. As he did the Diablo stabbed backward catching a monk through the throat. Twirling around, he was confronted by the two remaining guards. Diablo slid the first guards slash whilst driving upward with his other sword through the guards stomach and up through his ribcage.

A sudden pain sliced through Diablo's back as the second guards sword carved through his back. Staggering round Diablo fell to his knees. The one remaining guard stepped over to him and raised his sword for the killing blow. Diablo looked up into his eyes and with snake like speed reached into his robes and drew a dagger and plunged it up through the guard's ribs to pierce his heart. The guard let out a short sigh before he fell to the floor.

Inside the curtained carriage the Bishop was fervently praying as he heard the screams as his monks were hunted down and killed by what seemed to him like a demon from hell, from what he had seen through the curtains. As he kneeled down and clasped his bible to his chest. With a great rip the curtain was ripped back confronting him with a one eyed monster covered in blood dressed all in dark green.
I shall pray for your soul my son. Was the serene response to Diablos raising of a longsword taken from one of the guards.
Soul, I had a soul. Unfortunately for you I lost mine long ago. With that he raised the sword high and brought it down. With a dull plop the Bishops head hit the ground.

The band of traveller's wound its way through the wooded valley road. Suddenly one of the horses reared up and refused to go any further. Grumbling the driver got down to see what had spooked the horse. Come on old girl. Wonder what's got you so spooked all of a sudden? With that he walked ahead for a few meters until he had rounded the bend in the road. What met his eyes mad him retch, the half eaten rotting bloated bodies of monks and soldiers lay all about the section of the road. The stench made him go over to the bushes and be sick. Once he was done he noticed the decapitated body of the bishop crossing himself the man ran stumbling away from the scene of slaughter.

On the outskirts of Bologna a man dressed all in a dark green rode away from the city in his saddlebags was two thousand florins and some pieces of paper. The spy had sung like a bird before he died, reflected the man as he wondered who would pay the highest price for them.

Right that's assassination number two. Give me your thoughts.