“Take what is mine,” he responded.
“There are thirteen of them…,” she began.
He held up his hand, “No, there’s only one that I’m worried about, the Prathion.”
“Are you daft? You think you can walk in there and just kill twelve or thirteen of them? They all have strange powers, like you. You didn’t see them when they came into the house. There wasn’t a thing we could do, we were helpless, Daniel. Helpless!” She stopped before her emotions got the better of her. Taking a deep breath, she spoke in a more reasonable tone, “And what about Brigid? What about your father? Do you think they won’t use them against you?”
“Hostages are only useful against the just.”
Kate glared at him, her eyes speaking volumes.
“You should go home, Kate. I’m not the man you think I am. I’m not any better than the ones I’m about to kill. They know it, and I know it. They won’t bother trying to use Brigid as a hostage because she’s just as valuable to them as she is to me. They won’t bother with Alan either, because they don’t even understand the meaning of the word ‘father’.” He looked away, unable to bear the accusation in her eyes. “All they know is blood, and all they know of me is that I’ve spilled more of it than all of them put together.”
“Brigid or your father could still get hurt during the fight,” she insisted, ignoring his declaration.
“So?” His eyes were dead when he met her gaze, it was an expression he had perfected during his years among the She’Har—complete indifference.
She suppressed an involuntary shiver. Daniel was changed. She had no doubt of that, but despite his improved acting skills, she knew there was still something more hidden behind the mask. But not very much, she suspected.
“A good man couldn’t win this fight, Cat,” he said, calling her by her childhood nickname. “Me? I’m willing to roll the bones.”
Kate caught herself grinding her teeth and forced herself to stop. “Fine,” she said at last. “What’s your plan then?”
The look on his face unsettled her when he spoke again, “Did you get that bruise before or after they took Brigid?” He used his hand to indicate the purpling around her eye and over one cheek.
“A—after,” she said, uncertainly.
“Perfect, a new slave always has a few marks.”
“Slave?” She gave him a hard stare.
“Get used to the word. It’s what you are now.” Reaching out, he gave in to his impulse and pulled her forward, kissing her roughly, then he added, “Just like me.”
She pulled away as soon as his hand relaxed. Flustered, Kate searched for a response, “And what would you have done if I hadn’t already been ‘marked’?”
“Marked you,” he said immediately, but even he didn’t believe his words.
“Liar,” she spat back, finding her balance. “You’re a liar, Daniel. I haven’t forgotten.”
Her accusation brought back painful memories. “Hand me the crossbow,” he said, pushing the past from his mind. Pulling one of the quarrels from the quiver she carried, he organized his thoughts.
The situation was hardly ideal for enchanting, but Tyrion had spent years honing his focus. His finger was far too large, so he used his imagination alone to envision the lines he wanted on the steel point. Carefully he released his will, burning them into the metal, linking small triangles and their interior runes one by one, until the head of the bolt was covered in tight magical lines. When he was finished it was sheathed in an impossibly sharp field of pure force, similar to the blades he often created around his arms.
Kate stared at it when he handed it back, noting the fine engravings, but the magical blade that capped it was impossible for her to see. “What will this do?” she asked.
“Penetrate a mage shield,” he replied. Even a spellwoven one, he added mentally.
“There’s only one,” she noted.
“You’ll only have time for one shot.”
“There are thirteen of them.”
“I only need you to shoot the Prathion,” he answered.
Kate frowned, “The Prathion?”
“The forest-god.”
“Oh,” she said, holding the weapon in her hands. “Won’t they be suspicious if I’m carrying a loaded crossbow?”
He snorted, “They won’t even see it as a threat. Besides, I’ll be carrying it. You’re my prisoner, remember? When the time comes I’ll hand it to you. Take careful aim, and put the bolt through the Prathion’s chest.”
“And what will you be doing?”
“Killing. Stay as far away from me as you can after you take the shot. If you get a chance, grab Brigid and run. If that isn’t possible, just run,” he said.
“And if I miss?”
“The Prathions can make themselves invisible. The She’Har will probably escape. If that happens we’ve lost, whether I kill the others or not,” he told her.
“And you think you can handle all the others by yourself?” Kate didn’t bother trying to hide the doubt in her voice.
In fact he wasn’t sure of that at all. Killing them wasn’t the issue, preventing them from escaping once they realized what he was capable of, that would be the real problem. Taking out the She’Har first would simplify things since he thought he could keep any Prathion wardens from escaping, but if the group included Mordan wardens he had no way to keep them from teleporting home. The chance of that was fairly small, but he knew from past experience that the Prathion Grove had several Mordan slaves. He could only hope none of them had been included in the party they were facing.
“I can kill them,” he assured her.
Kate reached down, gathering her skirt and drawing it up. She pushed the excess material between her thighs before spreading it behind her and then pulling it around on either side of her hips. She tied the two ends in front of her.
Puzzled, Tyrion asked her, “What are you doing?”
She gave him a wry smile, “Girding my loins. You said to run after I shoot the forest-god.”
“I haven’t seen that before,” he admitted.
“That’s because you don’t wear dresses,” she told him. “If you have to wade a creek or run, this is a lifesaver.”
He eyed her attire, “Technically, She’Har slaves are supposed to be naked, but I guess since you’re newly captured they won’t expect that. You’ll have to give up your clothing once we reach the Grove.”
She gaped at him, “They let you wear clothes.”
“We can discuss that later,” he added. “There’s plenty that can go wrong in the next hour that would make this a moot point.”
“I’ll take that into consideration when I decide who to shoot,” she said pointedly.
Chapter 8
All eyes were on the two of them as they stepped into the small clearing. The fire in the center cast strange shadows of the cruel men and women who had arrayed themselves around it. The wardens all wore their usual leathers, swords made of Eilen’tyral at their sides. Tyrion recognized all of them but one, including the She’Har who stood apart.
“Good evening,” Tyrion greeted them in Erollith, dipping his head in deference to Branlyinti.
The Prathion She’Har accepted his gesture but watched him carefully as he replied, “Tyrion, I am surprised to see you so far from your mistress.”
“I am here on her behalf.”
None of the wardens had shields up, in deference to the presence of the She’Har trainer. Tyrion had made certain to follow their example as well, otherwise he and Kate would not have been allowed to approach. Brigid sat on the ground in front of the ebon skinned Prathion, her head bowed. Alan Tennick lay on the other side of the fire.
Tyrion’s father was a miserable sight, stripped of his clothing, his body was a patchwork of bruises and small burns. The wardens had been using him for their amusement, since a human without any gift was worse than useless in their eyes. Alan Tennick wasn’t even considered fit to be one of the nameless. Barely conscious,
he watched his son with one eye, for the other was too swollen to see.
“Lyralliantha sent you?” said Branlyinti with some interest. Unlike his wardens, the She’Har was fully protected by a spellweaving, a defense that would be impenetrable to anything a human mage could produce. “Does this mean the Illeniel Grove has abandoned their long standing principles?”
“The Mordan discovery has forced them to reevaluate their priorities,” answered Tyrion.
“And so they send you here alone,” noted the She’Har. “How sad, or perhaps simply foolish.”
“I am worth at least five of these,” said Tyrion, lifting his chin with visible pride.
The She’Har’s face became more animated, “Do not overestimate your worth, baratt. If I take offense, you will suffer the consequences.”
“Forgive me,” said Tyrion obsequiously, bowing his head. “I did not mean to be rude. I meant only that my abilities will be more than sufficient to deal with any resistance from the baratti. I do not mean to engender conflict between Prathion and Illeniel.” His statement both reinforced his subservience to the She’Har and served to remind Branlyinti that any action against him might create problems with the Illeniel Grove.
“What is your purpose in coming to our camp?” asked the Prathion.
Kate spoke softly at almost the same time, “Daniel I can’t under…”
“Silence, slave!” barked Tyrion. Lashing out suddenly he backhanded her, knocking her from her feet. The other wardens laughed as she fell. Shocked, she stared up at him from the ground, blood dripping from a split lip.
Damnitt, cursed Tyrion mentally. She can’t shoot from the ground. Reaching down he gripped her by the hair and hauled her roughly to her feet, ignoring her cries of pain. “You stand in the presence of your betters, bitch. When I want you prone, you’ll know it.” Turning back to Branlyinti, he apologized, “Please forgive the interruption. I thought I might share the fire with your servants. I will make my own way in the morning, without seeking to interfere in your mission.”
The Prathion watched him for several long seconds before speaking, “Very well. You may spend the night with us, so long as you respect my authority and the Prathion claim on the wildling.” He gestured at Brigid.
“Of course,” said Tyrion. “May I talk with your wardens?”
Branlyinti nodded, waving his hand in dismissal and then returned to the spellwoven chair he had apparently been sitting in before Tyrion’s arrival.
Tyrion pulled at Kate’s arm, dragging her along as he went to stand beside one of the wardens who was particularly well known to him. “Garlin,” he said by way of greeting.
“Tyrion,” responded the older man using the human tongue, Barion. “You’ve chosen a strange prize.” His eyes indicated Kate.
Tyrion smiled, answering in the same language, “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”
“She isn’t even fit to be one of the nameless,” noted the other warden, referring to Kate’s complete lack of magical ability.
“That’s not what I want her for.”
“You think Lyralliantha will permit you such a toy?” said Garlin with some wonderment.
Tyrion shrugged, “She has proven to be very unusual for one of the She’Har.”
Garlin glanced in the direction of his own master to make sure he hadn’t taken an interest in listening. Reassured, he replied, “You are lucky in many ways.”
Another warden leaned in, a woman with a face marked by a long scar that ran from one eye to her chin on the opposite side, “Are you suggesting his wins were nothing but luck?” She gave Tyrion a smile that was so poorly executed it came off as more of a lopsided leer.
“I think everyone knows better than that, Braya,” said Garlin, glancing at her in annoyance. “No one defeats five at once with luck alone, and no one will ever forget his last fight.”
Tyrion was making a mental list as he looked from face to face. Braya was a Prathion, as were most of the others, except for Garlin who had the Mordan gift, and one of the others, a tall man named Laori whose talent came from the Gaelyn Grove. There was one final warden he didn’t recognize at all, a woman with blonde hair and skin with deep pockmarks.
“Did you really defeat one of the Krytek, wildling?” asked the stranger.
“I’m standing here,” he answered. What gift does she have? If she was Mordan his plan might fail. She would have to die second, unless he could discover her origin.
“They say a freak storm stunned your opponent; that you would have lost otherwise,” she added in a challenging tone.
Kate listened with interest, questions on her tongue, but she dared not ask them.
Garlin spoke up then, “That’s what they say, Trina, but most of us believe that storm was no mere chance.”
Tyrion looked at the woman, “Where are you from, Trina?” It was an unusual question to be asked among the slaves of the She’Har.
Garlin had known him longest. He was one of the first wardens Tyrion had met, and the only one to ever call him friend, though that was something they kept secret. He looked at Tyrion with sudden interest, “Why would you ask that?”
“Just curious,” said Tyrion, keeping his face smooth. “You’ve known me long enough to know I’m a little different than those who grew up among the She’Har.”
Garlin’s eyes moved rapidly, studying his face, shoulders, and legs. Tyrion feigned being at ease, but his body was taut with hidden tension. Garlin had been on the wrong side of Tyrion’s anger a few times in the past, when he had had to guard the man he now called friend. Returning his gaze to Tyrion’s face, he spoke calmly, “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m sorry, Garlin,” said Tyrion, his tone somber. He shifted the crossbow he still carried and he could almost feel the other warden’s attention being drawn to the enchantment on the tip of the bolt it was still loaded with.
“Just relax, old friend. It isn’t as bad as you think,” added Tyrion.
The older warden’s eyes stared into his for a second, “I should have known it would come to this…”
Trina had latched onto Tyrion’s last statement with shock, “Did he just say the two of you were friends?!” Her question ended in rising laughter. Among the slaves of the She’Har, the term ‘friends’ generally meant sex partners. It was also a thing no warden would reveal, being synonymous with foolishness.
Garlin was probably the only human raised in the slave pens who truly understood the meaning of the word. He was the only friend Tyrion had, other than Lyralliantha. Blinking, he responded quickly, “Yes, Trina, Tyrion and I have been friends for years now, but then that’s something someone from the Centyr Grove probably wouldn’t understand.”
Tyrion knew the last part of his friend’s statement had been a gift. He wished there was another way, but his path was already set. He knew Garlin would understand that as well. Centyr will be last, for she is the least likely to evade me, he thought to himself. The other wardens were laughing amongst themselves now, finding the new revelation to be humorous.
“Thank you, Tyrion, for the music,” said Garlin.
He ignored the mockery of the wardens around them. “I wish I could play for you again, my friend, but I have only one trick left to show you.” Over Garlin’s shoulder he could see that Branlyinti was approaching, drawn by the raucous laughter around them. The She’Har stared at them, wondering what had his slaves so worked up. Tyrion handed the crossbow to Kate.
She lifted the weapon, fitting it against her shoulder smoothly and without hesitation, sighting along it to line it up with the Prathion She’Har’s chest.
Everything happened quickly after that, although the moment seemed to draw out into a long timeless second. The She’Har stared at her in amusement, for he knew such a weapon offered him no real threat, and then his attention shifted as Garlin’s head exploded.
They all stared in shock at Tyrion, who had slain his oldest friend without warning. Reflexively, the other wardens raised their shield
s, while the harsh crack of the crossbow firing rang out. Branlyinti looked in shock at the quarrel standing out from his chest before collapsing silently to the ground.
“No one move!” shouted Tyrion.
The air was tense with uncertainty. “You won’t leave here alive,” said Laori Gaelyn.
“Hear me out and you might,” responded Tyrion.
“He doesn’t even have his shield up yet,” noted Trina. “He can’t win. There’re twelve of us.” Then she remembered Garlin, “Well, eleven…”
Kate stood warily beside him, the empty crossbow feeling heavy and useless in her hands. Brigid and Alan Tennick stared at her from across the fire.
Tyrion’s voice was resonant, “Listen to me, and I will let you live.” Meanwhile, his heart was whispering to the wind, and a sense of chaotic detachment fell over him.
“Without a shield you’ll die if we all attack at once,” suggested Laori.
“I will kill the first one who tries to use his aythar before they can do a thing,” he responded with dead eyes.
“You’ll still be dead,” said Trina.
The sky rumbled and then a flash lit the night. A second later, a cracking boom rolled over them from a lightning strike in the distance.
“Looks like there’s a freak storm tonight,” said Tyrion, looking into Trina’s eyes. “I’m feeling lucky.”
“Wait,” said Laori. “Tell us what you want.”
“Let the prisoners go,” he told them.
“They’ll kill us if we do that,” said one of the men.
“Not necessarily,” said Tyrion.
“The collars will force us to return. There’s no other option,” reminded Laori.
“I can remove them.”
They glared at him, disbelief warring with fear and hope in their features. “Human magic can’t affect a spellweaving,” said Trina.
“It can’t pierce a spellwoven shield either, or kill one of the Krytek,” replied Tyrion confidently.
“I don’t believe you,” she responded.