The Weapons Master's Choice

“Would you have me do anything else?”


She stared at him, and there were tears in her eyes. Then she reached up with her fingers to stroke his cheek. “Do what you have to. I release you from your promise.”

He wanted to say something more. He wanted to tell her how she made him feel, how just her presence gave him pleasure, how much he wanted her to leave with him when this was over.

But the words would not come.

*

He crept back down the balcony stairs on cat’s paws, feeling his way through the darkness to the corridor below and then moving toward the torchlight burning in the central chamber. He went quickly and smoothly, without hesitation or regret. He still harbored doubts about the secrets he knew Lyriana was keeping from him, yet what difference did they make now? A man like himself made his choices and stood by them. He might die tonight—just as he might have died countless other times in countless other places—but he would not do so out of cowardice or lack of determination. He might be outnumbered, but he was more skilled and experienced than any adversary he would ever face. They were Het—but he was the Weapons Master.

He was at peace.

He brought out a brace of throwing knives from their sheaths, moved toward the door to the chamber ahead, and stepped inside.

They didn’t see him right away. Another victim was being led in, another food source for the warlock. This one, too, was bedraggled and marked by lesions and bruising. All eyes were turned in that direction, and he was through the door and lost in the shadows along the wall before even the closest of those who kept watch saw him coming. As the raucous shouts filled the air, he eased along the wall to where the gloom was deepest, placing himself directly across from the settee and the creature that reclined upon it.

On the way, he passed two of the Het who were close enough for him to reach. He killed them both before they could make a sound and left them where they had fallen.

But there were still too many for him to be able to overcome them all. He reaffirmed this, eyes sweeping the room, tallying up the numbers. He would have to kill the warlock first and hope the Het would lose heart when they saw that their leader was dead.

Except the Het were not usually inclined to back away.

When he was twenty feet from Kronswiff—the other’s attention centered on the unfortunate man standing before him—Garet Jax hurled the first knife. It appeared as if by magic in the warlock’s chest, the force of the blow knocking him backward. The warlock seemed confused, staring down at the handle protruding from his chest. One hand reached up tentatively to touch the knife, fingers exploring.

Abruptly, he was on his feet, seemingly unharmed, eyes sweeping the gloom as he roared in fury. Het scattered in response, searching for the source of his rage. Belatedly, the Weapons Master remembered that knives alone were not enough. This was a dracul as well as a warlock and would only be killed if he cut off the head.

Instantly he was moving, leaving the shadows and emerging into the smoky torchlight, racing for the platform and the monster.

It is a common belief among men that everything slows in battle in a way that allows you to see events more clearly and to react as if the struggle is unfolding in slow motion. Garet Jax knew better. Instead of slowing, everything speeds up, and there is neither time nor opportunity to consider what is happening or to determine what should be done about it. You don’t stay alive because you make the right decisions; you stay alive because your reactions are quicker and your fighting skills better than your opponents’.

So it was here. The Het came at him from everywhere, and he countered them with agility and swiftness. He used throwing stars until his supply was exhausted and then turned to his knives. He killed or disabled his attackers faster than they could act to prevent it from happening. He reacted on instinct alone, going through them like a shadow, barely visible, hardly there, leaving them fallen in his wake. He used his skills, his experience, and his strength; he never paused. His purpose was clear; his goal was settled.

Reach the warlock before he could escape and kill him.

Already Kronswiff was off the platform and lumbering toward the door through which his victims had been led, howling for the Het, his hands turned into claws that ripped the air. He might have more powers still, Garet Jax realized, and must not be given a chance to use them.