Without waiting for permission, Stammel walked up to him. “Well, Korryn—you don’t seem to have learned much in the past hand of years.”
“You!” The man glared. “If it weren’t for you, I’d have had a decent place in the world.”
“You always were a braggart,” Stammel said. “If you’d put the effort into honest work you put into bragging and bullying, you probably would have had a decent life. I’m not the one who made you a liar and a coward.”
“I’m not a coward,” Korryn said. “I’m just not stupid enough to bow and scrape to the likes of you.” He spat at Stammel; Stammel put up a hand in time, looked at the spittle, and then wiped it down Korryn’s own shirtfront.
“Your noble father—if indeed you had such—would not be pleased with his bastard,” Stammel said.
“Would he not?” Korryn grinned suddenly, a different grin. “I think he would—” His arms struck out, the broken chains of his bonds smashing the two guards in the face, and then his hands closed on Stammel’s throat. “I have looked forward to this a long time, Matthis Stammel.”
Arcolin felt a pressure on him like a load of sand: he could not move. He knew at once it was some enchantment.
“It was my honor to serve as the body for one greater than I could ever be,” Korryn said. “And to have an audience—that is best of all.”
Stammel, Arcolin saw, could not struggle; his face darkened to a dusky purple, then bluish. Korryn dropped him, a limp heap, to the floor, then pulled a blade from one of the motionless guards.
“Which should I kill first?” he asked in a light tone. “The captain who never knew me and yet was quick to condemn? The Councilors? The guards? Such a puzzle … who will suffer most from watching others die and being unable to stop them? My pretty captain, I do believe—” He stroked Arcolin’s cheek with the flat of the guard’s sword. “But do not worry, Captain—before you die of shame, I will have my fun with you, too. I think the guards first, as they are such mindless cattle they might escape my spell.”
He did not turn, but backed around behind the guards, slitting the throat of one; blood sprayed out, soaking Stammel’s body. The other, he gutted from behind, slowly, watching with obvious delight those who could not move to stop him. “In favor of my lord Liart, and my lord Ibbirun, I give this blood and this pain,” he said. “May they grant me power to serve them better.” He dipped his hand in blood and then walked around, smearing blood on all their faces.
“I think one of you must become my next body,” he said. “And I think—looking at these flabby merchants, and the paunchy governor of this prison—it must be you, Captain. It closes the circle, you see. To have you become the secret enemy … that is a sweet revenge indeed, even though he whom you injured—the man you thought you injured—gave his life to me, I will revenge him.”
Arcolin, consumed by horror, prayed to every god he knew for help. It was as the prince had described; he could not move at all. Did that mean Korryn was a Verrakai? How could that be? He felt his muscles straining against the smothering force. The prince had been rescued by the unexpected arrival of a friend, but no one was likely to interrupt the Council questioning a prisoner in the prison governor’s office.
Korryn bent over the governor’s desk and drew the sword tip across the governor’s forehead; blood dripped down into the man’s eyes; he could not blink it away. “Your guards are disgusting,” he said. “Your cells are disgusting … you are disgusting.” Korryn’s back was turned; Arcolin struggled harder; struggled to get his hand to his sword hilt, but he could not, though he did feel his fingers trembling against his trousers. Korryn sliced the governor’s cheek, talking all the time, his tongue as fast as the blood running down.
Then Stammel, blood-drenched, crawled out of the welter of blood and guts, dagger in hand, and stabbed Korryn behind the right knee. Korryn screamed; his leg collapsed and he fell sideways, clutching at the desk. In that instant, Arcolin could move; he drew his sword and struck through Korryn’s neck before anyone else moved. The head rolled off the end of the desk and hit the floor with a wet thump. Arcolin wrestled his sword out of the edge of the desk.
“I said he bragged too much,” Stammel said, his voice raspy. Two great bruises stood out on his neck.
Behind Arcolin, two of the Councilors had fainted, untidy heaps on the floor; the other, gasping but still conscious, staggered to the wall and slid down it.
“You’re—”
“Alive,” Stammel said. “The governor …?”
Arcolin looked at the man now slumped face-down on the desk, moaning. “We need a surgeon,” he said. Opening the outside door, he called for guards and surgeon, heard shouts in answer, and turned back. Stammel had pushed himself to his feet; his expression now was blank; his eyes stared at nothing.
“Stammel?”
31
“I can’t—don’t let it—Stammel lurched forward. “He’s still—he’s in—NO!” His eyes showed red, where they should be white, red as fresh blood; he fell into Arcolin. Arcolin tried to hold him up, but the guards’ blood on him was slippery, still wet; Stammel sagged, falling to the floor just as more guards arrived from outside.
By now the Councilors had roused; one managed to stagger outside, retching. Another stared wide-eyed at Arcolin, unable to answer the guards’ questions.
“Prisoner got loose, killed the guards, attacked the governor and my sergeant,” Arcolin said. “I killed the prisoner. Surgeon for the governor; he’s cut but should recover. I need another for my sergeant—” Under his hands, Stammel burned as if with fever, his muscles shivering.
“But how did it happen?” the first guard asked, looking around. He had a sergeant’s insignia but seemed too confused to direct the others; they all stood in a huddle, like sheep startled by blood smell.
“Get the Councilors out of here,” Arcolin said. Nobody moved. “You!” he said to one of the guards. “Help that man outside. Yes, that one. You!” to another. “Help the one in red.” To the sergeant he said, “Did you call for a surgeon?”
“Uh … yes … sir …”
“Then get more guards—you need to clear this room so the surgeon can work on the governor. Get a Marshal, too—Marshal Harak, in the smiths’ street.”
“A—a Marshal?” The sergeant was still staring around as if dazed, though the two men Arcolin had spoken to had obeyed. Arcolin stood up abruptly; the sergeant flinched.
“Sergeant! Wake up! Did you hear me?”
“Y-yes, sir!” The sergeant’s eyes finally focused.
“Tell your men to clear this room of bodies and blood,” Arcolin said. “Send one for more guards and a Marshal.” But one of the guards who had helped a Councilor out was now yelling outside; he could hear a distant clamor of running feet. The sergeant gave a shiver, then began giving orders, sensible enough, if slow. Arcolin knelt beside Stammel again. Stammel’s eyes were open and he was breathing, but he did not respond when Arcolin spoke to him.
More guards arrived; a surgeon followed. “Get that dead man out of the way,” he said to Arcolin. “All that blood, he can’t live.”
“It’s not his blood and he’s not dead,” Arcolin said. “He was strangled, but not killed; it’s the guards’ blood.”
“He looks dead,” the surgeon said. He reached down gingerly. “He’ll be cooling by now—well, he’s not. That’s odd. He’s probably going to die, though, from the looks of him. He’s in my way; move him.”