Tamas’s heart beat faster at the sight of the creature that stepped through the door. It was a man, or had been at one time. He wore a long, dark jacket and a stovepipe top hat, though those were hardly enough to conceal his deformities. He was a hunchback with thick, powerful arms and legs. His face was almost handsome, but for an overlarge, misshapen brow. He had no facial hair, and lank blond hair fell down either side of his head.
“Warden,” Tamas said, surprised at the evenness in his own voice. Wardens were often used as errand boys for Kez Privileged, but their creation so many hundreds of years ago by the Kez royal cabal had a single purpose: to kill powder mages.
Tamas had no pistol or rifle with him. His sword remained, but he knew what little good those did against a Warden. He was a fool for going anywhere without a guard, even in the most secure place in all of Adro. He checked his pockets. No powder charges, not even his fine cigar box with false, powder-filled cigars. Those were in his jacket. Across the room, hanging on a coatrack next to the Warden.
The Warden perused the room carefully, sure that they were alone, before he removed his hat and hung it from the coatrack. His jacket and then his shirt and bow tie followed, leaving him in a pair of black pants. He took off his shoes, a grin spreading across his face as he did so.
Muscles moved on their own accord under his skin, tightening and loosening, sometimes jumping in spasms. They writhed in tight balls in some places, while they seemed hardly present in others, the skin tight against the bone, and then it would all shift and change again. It was like watching a mass of snakes inside a bag of silk.
The Warden flexed his shifting muscles and stretched. “Mage,” he said. His voice was deep, vibrant.
“That’s quite the shit-eating grin,” Tamas said. He took his sword belt from where he’d hung it on the back of his chair and drew the sword, tossing the sheath aside. Pitlaugh stood beside him, and the old wolfhound had teeth bared, growling dangerously. Hrusch retreated behind a sofa, growling at the Warden from perceived safety.
“It’s not often I’m given a powder mage so cleanly,” the Warden said. “Nor one with such a reputation. I usually have to eat the dregs the sorcerers can comb from the Kez countryside.”
Eat? Tamas felt vaguely sick.
The Warden smiled. He stretched out his arms as if to embrace Tamas from across the room, the warped limbs long enough to wrap around a mortar barrel.
“How did you find me?” Tamas asked. He stepped away from his chair and held his sword out to the side. Pitlaugh moved between Tamas and the Warden, and a vision went through Tamas’s mind of the Warden tearing apart his hounds. “Pitlaugh,” he said. “Back.”
The wolfhound backed down reluctantly, giving Tamas and the Warden a wide berth.
The Warden shook his head, the grin still on his face. “I won’t risk you surviving this.” He cracked the knuckles of one enormous, malformed hand. “But I will let you die with the knowledge that every one of your precious mages will be hunted down and devoured, body and soul.”
The Warden bent his head like a fighting bull and charged. Thirty paces separated them, yet the creature covered that space in hardly any time at all, one big hand reaching out to grab a hassock as he came, flinging the furniture at Tamas as if it were a toy.
Tamas ducked the hassock and sidestepped the Warden. He aimed for the heart with his blade, striking hard. A meaty fist pounded into the side of his head, sending him stumbling across the room.
The Warden didn’t give him a chance to recover. He changed directions in a split second and flung himself toward Tamas, ignoring the sword aimed at his chest. Tamas jabbed with all his might, then threw himself out of the way of the Warden’s bulk. He ducked, rolling on one shoulder and to his feet.
Blood oozed from the two punctures on the Warden’s chest. Tamas must have hit a lung and the stomach, but the creature smiled at him hungrily with no regard for the wounds. Wardens’ hearts were protected by a shell of sorcerously grown bones, and Privileged sorceries could keep a Warden’s other organs working when they should have long been dead.
The Warden charged once more. Tamas danced to the side for a slashing blow, but one big hand reached out for him. He ducked under the arm and struck from behind, thrusting his sword into the Warden’s armpit until the hilt touched skin.
The Warden howled and jerked away, ripping the sword from Tamas’s grip. Tamas’s heart thumped in his ears and his hands shook.
The Warden thrashed about for several moments before suddenly falling still. His dark gaze was hooded by his overlarge brow, blue eyes beady and bloodshot. His right arm hung loosely at his side, muscles nearly concealing the hilt. The blade of the sword stuck out of his chest, three handspan’s worth of steel. The Warden looked down on it disdainfully. He reached across with his left hand and tried to pull out the sword. The angle made it impossible for him.
“You’ve something in your chest,” Tamas said, though he didn’t have much energy behind the jibe. His lungs burned from the effort he’d just exerted, his muscles ached. He eyed his coat on the other side of the room. He could sense the powder charges in the pocket.
The Warden leapt toward him suddenly, throwing his body like a flopping fish. Tamas reeled back, trying to get out of his range, but felt the Warden’s fingers catch the front of his shirt. He was pulled into an embrace, his neck a mere finger from his own sword blade where it stuck from the Warden’s chest. He felt hot, angry breath on his cheek and smelled the scent of bile reeking from the creature.
Tamas struck the Warden in the eyes with one hand. The creature bellowed like an injured bear, wrestling one-armed with Tamas, dragging Tamas’s chest across his own blade before tossing him across the room.
Tamas caught himself on a sofa and pulled himself up. He spotted the coatrack nearby and ran for it. “Pitlaugh! Kill!”
The wolfhound darted toward the Warden, ten stone of angry teeth and muscle. Pitlaugh snaked around to the Warden’s wounded arm and lunged for the throat. The Warden managed to turn away, and Pitlaugh’s teeth sank into the Warden’s arm.
Tamas reached the coatrack and threw the Warden’s clothes to the floor, snatching at his own jacket. He brought out his cigar case and flung it open, revealing the six carefully wrapped cigars within. He bit the end off one, emptying the secret stash of powder into his mouth. He felt the bitter burn of sulfur on his tongue, then the nausea that came with taking so much powder so quickly. He staggered.
Tamas’s head whipped around at a sharp whine. Pitlaugh had been thrown to the floor. Something was wrong with his back legs and he tried to crawl away from the Warden, whimpering loudly. The sound broke Tamas’s heart, and something inside him snapped. The powder trance took him over completely.
Tamas crossed the room in a few long strides, barely registering the distance. The Warden threw a punch with his good arm. Tamas grabbed the fist out of the air and ignited one of his false cigars, channeling the power. A bone in the Warden’s arm snapped.
Tamas, still holding the Warden’s now-limp hand, twisted. The Warden was lifted onto his toes. His eyes were big, his mouth warped in a silent scream. Tamas grabbed the sword hilt with one hand and yanked, sliding it in and out, feeling it scrape against bone inside the creature’s body. He ripped the sword from the wound and dropped it, letting it clatter to the stone floor.
The Warden bared his teeth in a mad smile and threw himself headfirst toward Tamas. Even in such agony, the creature would not back down. Tamas caught the big head with both hands. He lifted the creature easily with the strength provided by the powder trance. He twisted the head and slammed it into the marble floor, hearing stones crack beneath. He ignited one of the fake cigars in his pocket and shot the energy into the Warden’s brain.