Pen’s duck this time was with demonic haste, or he’d have won a fractured skull. But the miss did not impede the attack; the man shifted his thick hands and the staff’s other end followed up near-instantly. If Des had managed to burst it into splinters just before, and not just after, it smacked into Pen’s forearm, that would have been quite helpful. As it was, he yowled and jolted back, arm throbbing and just short of broken.
Singlestick fighter. Trained and dangerous. And possibly berserk, because shattering half of his weapon didn’t even slow him down. He just reversed it, the sharp, jagged end Pen had inadvertently supplied now turned into a short spear; it jabbed savagely. Battlefield reflexes? Pen squawked and burst the whole thing into blazing sawdust in the man’s hands.
That finally got through to him, or at least his eyes widened in astonishment. It still didn’t give him pause: he kept on coming, hands widening out through the cloud of smoke and flames, seizing Pen’s neck. Which was what Pen was due, he supposed, for so rudely interrupting a murder in progress. Wegae yelped and scrambled to his feet, blindly feeling around for some sort of weapon or shield. Pen hoped he’d find something. Meanwhile, he was on his own.
Not quite, said Des. And reached out to snap the bones inside their assailant’s hands. The muffled sound, so close to Pen’s ears, was sickening. Fair payment for the spectacles?
The strangling grip weakened; a last attempt to wrench his neck fell away in what Pen hoped was excruciating pain. For someone besides himself. Choking, he fell back, trying desperately to open some distance between himself and this murderous madman. Because even a sorcerer needed a moment to plan his attack, or defense.
Not this fellow, apparently. Every movement he’d made since Pen had broken in upon him had felt mindless. Practiced? Because in the middle of a such a fight, there was hardly time to think. Maybe Pen should have trained like that. But, sunder it, a divine entrusted with a demon was obligated to think before he acted. He was sure that was in his Temple oaths somewhere, by implication at least.
“It’s Uncle Halber!” Wegae shrieked from the side.
“Figured that out!” Pen wheezed back.
“Quit fighting, you fool!” Wegae shouted. Oh—not at Pen, for he followed up with, “He’s a sorcerer!”
Halber had seemingly not quite realized it yet, or else he was beyond reason, but the result was likely not the quelling one Wegae had envisioned. He plunged at Pen with sudden and renewed ferocity, eyes wide and glaring. Pen barely evaded a thunderous kick. Then Halber actually tried to grip his belt knife in his swelling hands. And succeeded, Bastard’s tears.
Having a few moments longer this time as he was chased around the small room, Pen varied his defense by heating the hilt. Pen, Des chided, this is not the time for showing off. It had actually started to glow before Halber finally dropped it clattering to the planks. He bellowed in pain.
We have to stop this, Pen thought. Before I get killed and you end up in Wegae.
Mm… Des hummed.
His demon, Pen decided, wasn’t so much brave as vicious. Are you playing with him? Only his speed allowed him to dodge a few more fierce kicks.
Wegae had finally located an iron frying pan. He managed one good whack—not hard enough—before he was punched aside again. The pan flew away with a clang. That Halber bent over his fists in agony after was small consolation.
Try to get your hand on his lower back, said Des. Just for an instant. This is going to take some precision.
Bastard’s tears! Well, give me all the speed you can, then.
For the first time, Pen went on the attack, or something vaguely resembling attack. He spun around to face Halber as the man closed the distance trying for another mighty booted kick. Left, right, under, over? The world slowed to its utmost, and Pen, tapping his lips with his thumb, crouched to make springs of his legs. He bolted off the floor and into the air, one hand bracing on Halber’s shoulder, curling his knees to avoid slamming his feet into the low ceiling beams. He swung his other hand, still tingling from the singlestick blow, down to flatten his palm against the man’s lower spine. His touch was quite soft.
The bone-crack this time was sudden, sodden, and final.
Halber’s nerveless legs splayed out, and he dropped like a bludgeoned ox. “Eh?”
Pen’s feet kissed the planks, and his legs bent double to absorb the shock of his landing. He came up and staggered a few steps before finding his balance. His body was dangerously, boilingly hot from the rapid deployment of his magics, even as the pace of the world came back to itself once more. He stood gasping, sweat running down his face, netting in his eyebrows, dripping from his chin. Bending, he tore off his boots and socks, vest and shirt, in a desperate bid to cool.
On the floor, Halber snarled filthy curses and threats and struggled to stand. Futilely, as his body from the waist down had gone as flaccid and helpless as a sack of custard.
Wegae recovered his pan and, holding it like a shield in one hand with the other out before him to feel his way, blundered fearfully to Pen’s side. “He said he was going to kill me,” he choked. “I mean, I always knew he despised me, but I didn’t know he hated me that much!”
“—and that bitch your mother—!” Halber picked up his diatribe; his violence, blocked from physical expression, finding its outlet in words. Venting. Spewing. The targets of his obscene wrath seemed to include Wegae, Wegae’s mother, Penric—not by name, but Pen presumed that you bloodless blond Bastard’s tit meant him—all Temple sorcerers, the demonic fox, and Easthome judges. And his baroness and his brother, both of whom were long dead as far as Pen knew.
Penric steered Wegae to the door. “Run to the house. Find Oswyl. Find everyone. Bring aid.”
Wegae needed help determining which brown blur in the distance was the manor house, but once Penric gripped his head and got him aimed, he stumbled off in the right direction.
Penric turned back to the hut, trying to figure out what in the gods’ names had just happened here. Deposed Baron Halber come back for revenge, obviously, but never before had Pen found the proof of one of his theories to be so appalling.
Deprived of an audience, Halber had fallen silent. Pen could believe he really had fought in a mercenary company, after he’d fled Easthome three years ago. Would Penric’s brother Drovo have turned into something this brutal, if he’d survived his camp fever? Pen shuddered.
Halber’s broken hands must hurt, for he was curled around them, but Pen supposed he wasn’t feeling further pain, or anything else, from his lower body. Is that right, Helvia? he asked tentatively. Because the knowledge of exactly what injury to devise and how must have come from her, or Amberein.
More or less. She didn’t sound happy. Although not nearly as distraught as Pen. He’d never before inflicted a magical wound so intimate and calculated.
But controlled, put in Des. Consider that.
Deep bruises were starting on Pen’s forearm and neck. Any number of pulled muscles were already rioting in protest. He bent to collect his shirt, shrugging it on. He wasn’t ready for the rest yet, but he did don his Temple braids, pinning them crookedly to his left shoulder. He had to be the least dignified divine ever, bloodied and sweat-soaked, blond queue gone wildly askew, judging from the hair hanging in his face. He retied it while trying to collect his scattered wits, staring down in bafflement at his abrupt victim, who stared up in loathing.