"… might have talked his way out of it," Borinder was saying, struggling to keep a straight face. "But then…" A chuckle forced its way through his lips, painting his face red as it passed.
"Yeah…?" Tiviam pressed, amused yet frustrated by his companion's jocularity. The man had some great stories, but he was utterly miserable at telling them.
"Then," Borinder finally managed to sputter, "he left for his shift that morning, and-and he left her a handful of coins on the nightstand!"
The rest of the squad burst into peals of laughter, Tiviam guffawing louder than any of them. Even as he struggled for breath, wiped tears from his cheeks, he worried briefly they might be revealing their presence, but no. Nothing suspicious about a group of workmen enjoying a bit of fun after a hard day's work, was there?
And besides, the captain of whom Borinder spoke was a splinter in the heel of everyone present, and indeed most of the guard as a whole. Not a man or woman at arms in Denathere would waste a single second in sympathy for him.
"Considerin' where Captain Lorkin spends most o' his nights," Arral chimed in, "not to mention most o' his pay, his wife's lucky that a few coins is all he gave her. I'm stunned that neither o' 'em's come down wit' a good, blisterin' case o'-"
All four glanced up, across the yard and the winding walk, as the door to the house drifted slowly open. Tiviam expected a few silk-clad folk within, perhaps guests leaving early, or one of the uniformed guards making a quick inspection of the property.
What he saw, instead, was a glimpse of hell.
Blood and flesh were strewn about the foyer, soaking into the carpet, coating the walls. He couldn't see the faces of the dead, but then he didn't need to, for he knew the names of everyone within.
For a span of several gasping breaths, four trained, experienced members of Denathere's guard couldn't move a muscle, their souls staked to the earth with coffin nails.
It isn't possible! Tiviam could have sworn he heard the words shouted, loud enough to echo from the rooftops; only later would he realize it was all in his mind. We'd have heard something! We must have heard something!
As abruptly as it had been revealed, the carnage was obscured, for the hell that lay beyond that door birthed a devil of its own. It didn't seem to step into the doorway so much as it was simply, suddenly there: a looming figure of naked bone and darkness filed to a jagged edge. Blood ran in rivulets from the grotesque axe in its hand, far more than should ever have clung to the blade.
Tiviam knew; knew how a houseful of people could be slaughtered without sound, knew how so many guards could fall before a single foe.
Knew who it was he faced.
And Tiviam, in the bravest act of his career-an act that would later win him a commendation and a medal that he left to rust on Borinder's grave-screamed at his men to charge.
The Terror of the East emerged to meet them, and shrieks of panic erupted along the street. Passersby, their attention drawn by Tiviam's cry, shoved and tripped over one another, desperate to flee the horror they all recognized. Some would tell later how a band of courageous civilians-Tiviam's men were, after all, dressed in workman's clothes-had hurled themselves at the walking nightmare, bought everyone else the time to flee. It was the only thought that kept Tiviam sane in the months to come.
Borinder, long-legged and fleet of foot, was the first to reach the Terror of the East. Tiviam couldn't even tell precisely what happened; he knew only that he saw a blur of blades, and the jovial soldier's sword was shattered. A second flash, equally swift, and Borinder himself lay in pieces on the lawn.
The Terror raised his hands, palms out, and a gout of liquid flame the envy of any volcano arced through the air. Nassan lacked even time to scream as half his body liquefied, sloughing from his bones. Arral, hurling himself desperately aside, proved more fortunate. Though a portion of his leg sizzled away like so much frying grease-though he would never again walk without a crutch-he would live. The gods were even kind enough to allow him to pass out, that he might dwell for a time in the realm of Shashar Dream-Singer, rather than in the agony of his own ruined flesh.
And that left Tiviam, standing alone before the man who'd inflicted crippling scars upon an entire culture. He was dead; he knew he was dead. But in that, Tiviam was wrong.
He approached in a desperate lunge, broadsword leveled to punch through armor and into the bastard's black and putrid heart. But the Terror of the East moved, far faster than any man, and the guardsman saw a haunting crimson glow emanating from beneath the warlord's breastplate. The broadsword passed harmlessly, and the black-armored arm slammed downward, trapping Tiviam's elbow in a grip of unyielding steel.
A twist, a barely perceptible flex, and Tiviam convulsed in agony. The sword fell to the grass as his arm flapped uselessly, the bones within broken, the elbow separated at the joint.
Empty sockets stared into frightened eyes. Tiviam trembled beneath the weight of death's own regard, and hoped only that it would bring an end to the pain.
And then he was falling, all support gone. For the Terror of the East had simply disappeared. LOCATING CORPORAL TIVIAM had been just as easy as the guard had suggested. Corvis and the others set themselves up in the Three Sheets, and it was only the second evening when a broad-shouldered fellow with cropped hair and his left arm in a leather sling showed up and began drinking as though to douse a fire in his gut. In fact, Corvis realized upon seeing him enter, the man had been present the other day, sitting off alone in a corner and guzzling mead. He'd been right there, had Corvis known to talk to him.
Coaxing the story from him had proved somewhat more challenging. Corvis loosened his tongue with multiple rounds, and left a small but gleaming heap of coins on the counter before him-real, this time, in case the whole escapade should take too long for an illusion to hold. And still, in the end, it was not Corvis at all, but Irrial, who got what they came for. In her huskiest voice, her auburn locks falling across her face, she fawned over the "courageous warrior." Her breath came in sympathetic gasps over his mangled arm, and her eyes grew moist at the account of his fallen companions.
And only when she-and Corvis, sitting rapt at the next table, hanging on every word-had heard it all, did they depart, leaving Captain Tiviam to his efforts at washing the memories away. When last they saw him, his head was slumped over a drinking horn, empty save for a tiny puddle sloshing around the bottom. Into that vessel, over and over, he repeated again the last words he'd said to Irrial.
"He could have vanished at any time. He didn't have to kill them at all…"
Corvis and Irrial pushed through the crowded market, weaving around last-minute shoppers hoping to do a final bit of business before the vendors closed up for the night. This late into the evening, the sounds of Denathere had grown muted but otherwise remained unchanged. Corvis had to fight the urge to stick a finger in each ear and waggle them about, trying to clear an obstruction that he knew was purely imaginary.
It was, for a few minutes, preferable to actually thinking.
Mindlessly, he allowed Irrial to guide him back to their quarters. The rooms stood on the third floor of an establishment far nicer than the Three Sheets (it'd been the baroness who acquired them, and it showed), but truth be told Corvis was so distracted that, if his life had depended on it, he never could have recalled its name. Only when they were settled in one of the two bedchambers-replete with chairs upholstered in cherry red, down-stuffed mattresses lined with clean linen sheets, even a brass lamp with jasmine-scented oil-did he reluctantly crawl from his comfortable mental quilts and direct his thoughts toward the tale they'd been told.