No delays. Kill them all. Emotion came through the mind link as well as the words, an eager anticipation with a tinge of arousal in it. It reminded Sicarius of Emperor Raumesys. Hollowcrest had been dispassionate and logical, but Raumesys had darkly enjoyed having an assassin at his disposal, relishing ordering prisoners tortured and standing back to watch. Fortunately, Sicarius had never had to share a mind link with the man. Such emotions distracted one from one’s work.
They are all enemies to your general Flintcrest, came Kor Nas’s next words, a touch defensive perhaps.
All of the heads won’t fit in that bag, Sicarius thought in return, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. Had he spoken, he would have swept it from his voice, but the practitioner was in his head anyway, so it hardly mattered.
Bring Worgavic’s for your general to see. The others don’t matter. No, wait. Bring them all, and leave a mess in the room. I want this story in the newspaper. I want Forge to know someone is hunting them and to be afraid.
Sicarius’s sarcasm, his derision for the practitioner, might be misplaced. Hadn’t he killed a number of the Forge people for the same reason? After he’d learned they intended Sespian’s death? He’d done it to protect Sespian though, not simply to kill, not because he enjoyed it.
Yes, tell yourself that, my pet, Kor Nas purred. We two, we are not so different. We serve our masters, but we enjoy our work, don’t we? We could have found other work long ago if we did not.
Not caring for the conversation, Sicarius pulled out his dagger.
Kill them all, Kor Nas repeated. And leave your mark. I want them to know it was you.
Sicarius paused, his hand on the door. My mark? I have no mark.
No? Too bad. Perhaps they’ll figure it out on their own. I want the world to know we own you. A chuckle followed the words. I want the world-your empire-to be afraid.
For a long moment, Sicarius stared down at the dagger. A couple of quick movements would cut out the stone.
It’ll kill you if you try to remove it.
Sicarius didn’t doubt it. But wouldn’t death be nobler than this slavery?
You want to kill that one anyway, Kor Nas thought, the words coming quickly. With a tinge of… desperation? No doubt he didn’t want to lose his “pet.” Worgavic. She ordered the torture of your woman. Kill the others, too, for they are all of the same ilk. They enjoyed hearing about your woman’s torture.
Sicarius recognized the arguing, the bargaining, for what it was, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He found his mind made up for him. Yes, he’d kill these women and add to the heads in the sack below.
Before turning the knob, however, a new thought arose. He remembered the female shaman he’d seen running out of the Behemoth, the one who might have been responsible for Amaranthe’s death. If the woman at her side had been Worgavic, that shaman could be in the meeting room with the others. She’d be more of a concern than guards. The Forge women weren’t likely to be capable fighters, but that shaman would be a different matter, especially if she had time to marshal her power.
If there is a practitioner, I will handle her. Again, emotion accompanied Kor Nas’s words, this time conveying a sense of satisfaction at the notion of pitting himself against another.
Your powers will be diminished when channeled through me, Sicarius responded.
I am still strong enough to deal with one of those barefoot, tattooed Kendorians. They are uneducated, and their Science is weak.
Sicarius thought to point out the foolhardiness of arrogance, but what did Kor Nas care? If he failed, Sicarius might die, but the practitioner would remain safe in his tent. He might suffer the discomfort of a mental backlash, but nothing more damaging.
An image flashed into his mind then, a memory. He was back on Darkcrest Isle with the vengeful spirit of Azon Amar in his head, the incredibly powerful Nurian warrior mage who had assassinated Emperor Morvaktu. Before dying to a platoon of Hollowcrest’s soldiers, Azon Amar had cursed the island, leaving his spirit to haunt it and aid any Nurians who stepped foot upon it. Though he’d been familiar with the story and the curse, Sicarius had followed Amaranthe out to Darkcrest Isle for a mission, and the spirit had taken over his body, forcing him to chase her, to try and kill her. She’d escaped, swimming back to the mainland. Compelled by Azon Amar, he’d given chase, but as he’d swum away from the island, the fount of the dead practitioner’s power, the grip on his mind had faded and he’d broken away.
He’d reached the mainland before Amaranthe, but he’d hidden while she finished her swim, crouching in the bushes and catching his breath, terrified at what he’d almost done, horrified at the memory of the tender flesh of her neck beneath his hands. In that moment, he’d been fighting the powerful spirit with every ounce of his mental strength, using every trick he’d learned from the Nurian wizard hunter who’d been one of his tutors, yet he would have failed if not for Amaranthe’s cleverness. He’d taken a moment to recover his equilibrium-and brush moisture from his eyes-before walking out to the dock to rejoin her. Her wariness-no, her outright fear-as he approached had made him want to fall to his knees in abject apology. He’d hugged her. He should have done more, but it’d been all he could manage at the time. More might have… he might have lost his composure and cried in front of her. He’d been a fool to think that would have been some world-ending failure on his part. The failure had been in being arrogant enough to go out to that island and in falling prey to the wizard in the first place. And now, he was in the thrall of another one.
One who isn’t dead, Kor Nas whispered in his mind. Do not accuse me of arrogance, and do not doubt my power over others. Or over you.
You’re no Azon Amar, Sicarius thought back mulishly. That Nurian had been so powerful people around the world had heard of him.
Perhaps not, but think about how much trouble he gave you from beyond the grave, his powers a mere fraction of what they were when he lived. Do not believe you can defy me; you will only harm yourself if you try.
The opal at Sicarius’s temple throbbed, its light radiating through the wool cap, creating a bizarre yellowish-green pattern on the closest wall. With no other choice, Sicarius pulled out a throwing knife as well as his dagger. The throwing knife would be for the shaman. If she was in the room, she had to go down first.
He listened again before barging in, placing people by the distance and direction of their voices.
When someone on the far side of the room was in the middle of talking, Sicarius chose his moment; other people’s focus should be toward the person, away from the door.
Silent as always, he’d entered and launched three throwing knives before the first startled shriek filled the room or before anyone leapt from her chair. The tattooed shaman wasn’t there. His first blade took a guard by a fireplace in the throat. The next two hammered into the chests of security men stationed by the main door. They hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t expected an attack in this relaxed parlor.
With his throwing knives spent, Sicarius lunged after the next target, a familiar dark-haired woman with spectacles. Worgavic. She was running for the hallway door, a shout on her lips. Sicarius leaped a table and dropped behind her before her hand reached the knob. He gripped her shoulder, yanking her back, and sliced his black dagger across her neck, severing her arteries with the very technology she’d thought she’d controlled.