The man’s smile fell away. His eyes hardened, grew angry. “Te-tauren sciyrloet? Amauen.”
“I can’t tell what you’re saying,” Chronicler said. “But I don’t care for your tone.” He brought the sword back up between them, pointing at the man’s chest.
The mercenary looked down at the heavy, notched blade, his forehead furrowing in confusion. Then sudden understanding spread across his face and the wide smile returned. He threw back his head and laughed.
It was no human sound. It was wild and exulting, like a hawk’s shrill cry.
The mercenary brought up his injured hand and grabbed the tip of the sword, moving with such sudden speed that the metal rang dully with the contact. Still smiling, he tightened his grip, bowing the blade. Blood ran from his hand, down the sword’s edge to patter onto the floor.
Everyone in the room watched in stunned disbelief. The only sound was the faint grating of the mercenary’s finger bones grinding against the bare edges of the blade.
Looking Chronicler full in the face, the mercenary twisted his hand sharply and the sword broke with a sound like a shattered bell. As Chronicler stared dumbly at the ruined weapon the mercenary took a step forward and laid his empty hand lightly on the scribe’s shoulder.
Chronicler gave a choked scream and jerked away as if he had been jabbed with a hot poker. He swung the broken sword wildly, knocking the hand away and notching it deep into the meat of the mercenary’s arm. The man’s face showed no pain or fear, or any sign of awareness that he’d been wounded at all.
Still holding the broken tip of the sword in his bloody hand, the mercenary took another step toward Chronicler.
Then Bast was there, barreling into the mercenary with one shoulder, striking him with such force that the man’s body shattered one of the heavy barstools before slamming into the mahogany bar. Quick as a blink, Bast grabbed the mercenary’s head with both hands and slammed it into the edge of the bar. Lips pulled back in a grimace, Bast drove the man’s head viciously into the mahogany: once, twice….
Then, as if Bast’s action had startled everyone awake, chaos erupted in the room. Old Cob pushed himself away from the bar, tipping his stool over as he backed away. Graham began shouting something about the constable. Jake tried to bolt for the door and tripped over Cob’s fallen stool, sprawling to the floor in a tangle. The smith’s prentice grabbed for his iron rod and ended up knocking it to the floor where it rolled in a wide arc and came to rest under a table.
Bast gave a startled yelp and was thrown violently across the room to land on one of the heavy timber tables. It broke under his weight and he lay sprawled in the wreckage, limp as a rag doll. The mercenary came to his feet, blood flowing freely down the left-hand side of his face. He seemed utterly unconcerned as he turned back to Chronicler, still holding the tip of the broken sword in his bleeding hand.
Behind him, Shep picked up a knife from where it lay next to the half-eaten wheel of cheese. It was just a kitchen knife, its blade about a handspan long. Face grim, the farmer stepped close behind the mercenary and stabbed down hard, driving the whole of the short blade deep into the mercenary’s body where the shoulder meets the neck.
Instead of collapsing, the mercenary spun around and lashed Shep across the face with the jagged edge of the sword. Blood sprayed and Shep lifted his hands to his face. Then, moving so quickly it was little more than a twitch, the mercenary brought the piece of metal back around, burying it in the farmer’s chest. Shep staggered backward against the bar, then collapsed to the floor with the broken end of the sword still jutting between his ribs.
The mercenary reached up and curiously touched the handle of the knife lodged in his own neck. His expression more puzzled than angry, he tugged at it. When it didn’t budge, he gave another wild, birdlike laugh.
As the farmer lay gasping and bleeding on the floor, the mercenary’s attention seemed to wander, as if he had forgotten what he was doing. His eyes slowly wandered around the room, moving lazily past the broken tables, the black stone fireplace, the huge oak barrels. Finally the mercenary’s gaze came to rest on the red-haired man behind the bar. Kvothe did not blanch or back away when the man’s attention settled onto him. Their eyes met.
The mercenary’s eyes sharpened again, focusing on Kvothe. The wide, humorless smile reappeared, made macabre by the blood running down his face. “Te aithiyn Seathaloi?” he demanded. “Te Rhintae?”
With an almost casual motion, Kvothe grabbed a dark bottle from the counter and flung it across the bar. It struck the mercenary in the mouth and shattered. The air filled with the sharp tang of elderberry, dousing the man’s still-grinning head and shoulders.
Reaching out one hand, Kvothe dipped a finger into the liquor that spattered the bar. He muttered something under his breath, his forehead furrowed in concentration. He stared intently at the bloody man standing on the other side of the bar.
Nothing happened.
The mercenary reached across the bar, catching hold of Kvothe’s sleeve. The innkeeper simply stood, and in that moment his expression held no fear, no anger or surprise. He only seemed weary, numb, and dismayed.
Before the mercenary could get a grip on Kvothe’s arm, he staggered as Bast tackled him from behind. Bast managed to get one arm around the mercenary’s neck while the other raked at the man’s face. The mercenary let go of Kvothe and laid both hands on the arm that circled his neck, trying to twist away. When the mercenary’s hands touched him, Bast’s face became a tight mask of pain. Teeth bared, he clawed wildly at the mercenary’s eyes with his free hand.
At the far end of the bar, the smith’s prentice finally retrieved his iron rod from under the table and stretched to his full height. He charged over the fallen stools and strewn bodies on the floor. Bellowing, he lifted the iron rod high over one shoulder.
Still clinging to the mercenary, Bast’s eyes grew wide with sudden panic as he saw the smith’s prentice approaching. He released his grip and backed away, his feet tangling in the wreckage of the broken barstool. Falling backward, he scuttled madly away from the both of them.
Turning, the mercenary saw the tall boy charging. He smiled and stretched out a bloody hand. The motion was graceful, almost lazy.
The smith’s prentice swatted the arm away. When the iron bar struck him, the mercenary’s smile fell away. He clutched at his arm, hissing and spitting like an angry cat.
The boy swung the iron rod again, striking the mercenary squarely in the ribs. The force of it knocked him away from the bar, and he fell to his hands and knees, screaming like a slaughtered lamb.