A table crashed to the floor, knocking down goblets and the broken carcasses of the feast. The kishion pushed two men at once, and both fell into the firepit. He used the blade to block another screaming man trying to kill him and then punched him in the face, knocking him unconscious in one blow. He turned, and there was Shigionoth with his own sword out, screaming his intent to kill. The kishion dodged the first two slashes. The war chief was an able foe. His son had been too.
The kishion leaped over the flames and landed on the other side, retreating. Another soldier lunged at him, and he caught the man’s wrist and bashed his head with the hilt of the sword. Then Shigionoth was through the flames himself charging, bellowing, screaming in rage. This was a man who went mad on the battlefield.
The kishion blocked his thrusts and kicked him back, but the war chief was desperate to kill him. The two slashed at each other, knocking others out of their way. Still the kishion retreated, watching for the toxin to take effect. Shigionoth winced with pain, pressing his arm against his bowels. He staggered forward, yet still the kishion backed away.
“I’ll . . . kill . . . you!” he groaned.
The kishion cut the man’s wrist with a flick of the sword, and Shigionoth dropped his weapon. With the tip of his boot, the kishion sent the blade into the firepit.
He heard the scuff of a boot behind him and whirled as a man with a dagger tried to stab him in the back. He caught the man’s wrist and torqued it hard. He heard the satisfying snap of a bone, and the dagger fell to the floor. Then the kishion slammed him in the chest with his heel, sending the man falling. He turned, watching Shigionoth on his hands and knees, drool spilling from his lips.
“Craven . . . coward . . . poison . . . ” he choked.
The kishion kicked Shigionoth onto his back, leveling the sword at his throat. He looked around at the disheveled hall, watching others on their hands and knees. Servants huddled behind the tables fearfully. They hadn’t drunk the ale.
Then he felt a queer sensation inside his chest. The cool anger began to soften. Compassion for these people, for the warlord made his veins turn to ice. He looked through the veil of smoke and saw a set of glowing silver eyes. A Dochte Mandar with a kystrel.
He began to step around the firepit, leaving Shigionoth doubled over in agony, his death coming relentlessly.
“Peace, friend,” said the Dochte Mandar, holding up his hands. “I mean you no harm.” There was a pulse of magic, and the kishion felt the two of them had been friends for years. He hated the magic. Hated how it manipulated him.
“Your compatriot is dead,” said the kishion. “The one who was summoned last night.”
“I know. He didn’t report back today from the manor as instructed. So the Victus is still alive?”
“Yes,” said the kishion.
He saw another man step away from the shadows as well. A man with a calm look, a steady set of eyes that were trained and full of death. Another kishion.
The other man had a dagger and threw it at the kishion’s face.
Sensing his threat, the kishion dived forward, the blade slicing past his ear. They met in a clash of limbs. He felt pain go down his arm, realizing he’d been cut, knowing the blade was probably poisoned. He crashed his forehead into the other man’s face. It hurt them both. The two wrestled on the floor, trying to gain supremacy, but the kishion quickly put him in a hold, squeezing against his throat, controlling the arm with the other dagger. The Dochte Mandar, his tattooed face blanching, fled.
The kishion hooked the man leg’s with his foot, sending him sprawling. The other man still in his grip tried to claw at the kishion’s eyes, but he held his face away until the lack of air made him pass out. Then he let go. The Dochte Mandar was scrabbling to his feet and started for the door again.
The kishion wrested the dagger from the unconscious grip of the other killer, turned, and hurled it. It struck the Dochte Mandar in the back, and he arched his body and spilled to the floor, unable to walk. The kishion knew exactly where to throw a knife to paralyze a man.
Rising, brushing off his arms, he looked around the room for any other threats. Seeing no one but cowering servants, who were slaves from other kingdoms, he marched over to the fallen Dochte Mandar, who was grunting and wheezing in pain. He pulled the dagger out of his back.
“Just because you control a kystrel, you think you control the world,” he said with contempt. “Some of us aren’t ruled by our feelings.” The man panted, eyes wide with fear.
The kishion walked back to the front of the hall, where two empty thrones sat. Lady Pressa had already fled. But she would die just like the others. The kishion sat down on Shigionoth’s throne, sheathed the two curved blades that had been left there, and leaned back, watching the flames dance, watching the survivors cower and slink away. He didn’t care about the slaves.
In his memory, he saw Sorieul’s gray eyes. Saw the pleading look in them to free her. He wasn’t used to feeling things, and he certainly didn’t trust his feelings. But as he sat there, on the throne, he imagined another choice. He imagined what it would be like to sit on such a throne and be the one to give commands and have them obeyed. The Dochte Mandar and the Victus liked to control from the shadows. To make kings into puppets to be manipulated and controlled.
What if he were to take control of the strings?
There was that dull ache in his chest again. The memory of Sorieul’s eyes. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to face the emotion that nagged at him.
What if he were to escape the game entirely? Flee to a place where no one would ever find him?
Did such a place even exist?
It was snowing when the kishion arrived back at the manor nestled deep in the woods. The steep roofline had a substantial buildup on it, except around the main chimney, which belched out a plume of gray smoke. He was sore from the winter journey, and his wounds still ached. But pain was just a consequence of living, a reminder that he still breathed.
He rode the horse into the barn and secured it, hanging the tack and harness, and gave the beast a bag of oats to sate its hunger. Then he walked to the manor, where he found several warriors dressed in furs guarding the door. They looked at him, then at each other, and nodded for him to enter.
The interior was pleasantly warm, and he stamped his snow-crusted boots on the threshold before seeking Derriko’s sickbed. For a man who had recently lost his leg, he looked surprisingly hale. He was sitting up, reviewing a stack of papers, and sipping from a chalice. He noticed the kishion’s entrance immediately.
“Back so soon?” Derriko asked with a slight wheeze.
The kishion walked the perimeter of the room, glancing at the corners to make sure no one was hidden. The heavy velvet curtains blocked the limited light outside. He parted the curtains, gazing at the white landscape, at the frozen-over pond. A remembrance of the fight there flitted pasted his memory. But he felt nothing. He always felt nothing.
“Is he dead?”
The kishion turned away from the window, looked at his master, and nodded curtly.
Derriko smiled in relief. “Good. Very good. What about his family? His wife and children?”
“The lady is dead. You didn’t tell me to kill the children,” said the kishion. “Shall I go back?”
“No, it’s not necessary. Wolves will come now that blood has been spilled. Shigionoth was a wealthy battle lord. They’ll fight over his scraps for months. The threat has been checked. Well done.”