The Weapons Master's Choice

He was close now, the Het ranks thinning, some among them already falling back. He was cut and slashed in a dozen places and felt none of it. His mind blocked out the pain and the distraction of the wounds. His attention was focused solely on the attackers who came at him. His throwing stars were already gone; only two of his knives remained.

He pressed on, but the numbers were too great. He could feel the Het closing in on him. But miraculously, he stayed on his feet. Arrows and darts flew, yet none of them struck him. Blades whipped past, but never touched him. Any number of blows the Het struck at him should have been enough to bring him down, but none did so.

He glanced upward to the balcony where he had left Lyriana and found her with her arms outstretched, her fingers weaving, her lips moving, her face intense with concentration.

Magic! Lyriana is skilled at using magic, and she is deflecting their blows!

He made the most of the opportunity she was giving him. Reaching for the short sword he wore strapped across his back, he whipped it out in a single fluid motion. Using it as a harvester of crops might use a scythe to cut wheat, he slashed at the men surrounding him. The room had descended into chaos, the Het howling and screaming in pain and fury, the warlock struggling to reach the door and an imagined safety that lay beyond.

He caught up to Kronswiff there, hacking through the last of the Het that sought to stop him. Wheeling back in desperation, the warlock fixed his black eyes on his solitary attacker, employing his magic, attempting to form a link that would drain his life. For an instant, it was there, a dark ribbon hanging in the air, joining them.

But Garet Jax was moving too quickly to allow the bonding to harden. Leaping onto the edge of the wooden bin and springing into the air, he rose above the warlock, twisting his body so that he led with his sword, descending like a bird of prey. He watched as Kronswiff stiffened, arms extended in an effort to save himself. But the warlock was already too late. The short sword whipped around with a strange whistling sound, severing both of his upraised hands at the wrists and continuing on to his exposed neck. Kronswiff’s head flew from his shoulders and disappeared into the shadows. His body remained upright for a moment longer and then sagged to the floor.

Garet Jax landed on his feet, his sword streaked with blood. In a crouch, he faced the remaining Het, sweeping his blade in a slow arc from one adversary to the next in unspoken challenge. Then he howled like an animal—an impulsive earsplitting cry born of bloodlust and rage, his black-cloaked form spinning toward the Het as if heedless of the danger they offered.

He was too much for them. He broke the last of their resistance, and they turned and fled into the gloom.

*

When he had recovered enough to call to Lyriana, she came at once. Amid the dead, a solitary pair in the blood-soaked chambers they had claimed, she would not let him move from where they stood until she had examined his wounds and determined none was serious enough to require immediate treatment.

“You were a reaper’s wind,” she said to him, and he could read the wonder in her eyes. “You were death itself.”

Her words made him uncomfortable. “And what of you? A magic wielder all along. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“My magic is small and of limited use. Mostly, I use it for healing. It would never have been sufficient to overcome Kronswiff.”

“It worked against his Het.”

Her eyes lowered. “I was afraid for you. I had to act. I’m sorry for my deception. I should have said something.”

Yet she hadn’t. Again, that twinge of suspicion tugged at him. “We should see to your people,” he reminded her.

She led him through the door to where dozens of them had been held prisoner, waiting to sate the dracul’s thirst. They clustered in small groups, cringing when he appeared, afraid he was another demon to be faced, another threat. But Lyriana was quick to reassure them they were safe now, that this black-clad man was a friend and their rescuer.

As she said these things, chasing the fear from their eyes, he noticed something strange. All of those who occupied the antechamber were suffering from grievous wounds. Their flesh was blackened and raw. Pieces of their faces and bodies were missing. Some walked with the aid of crutches and staffs. Some were cloaked entirely, and he could smell the sickness that had claimed them.

“What’s happened to these people?” he whispered when she turned back to him, unable to keep the anger and disgust from his voice. “What has the warlock done to them?”

He saw at once that he had said the wrong thing. Her face tightened, then collapsed. Tears came to her eyes.

“Kronswiff did not cause this,” she said. “He took advantage of them because they were already this way.”