The Blood Hour (Ulric)

[Naama]

15th Winter 511 AV Not far from Alvadas. Petch. The chill breeze swept through a cascade of jet black hair, sending a shiver down her spine. She was cold, petching cold, as if the city of illusions and trickery had lulled her into a sense of comfort then immediately stripped it of her once she decided to finally step outside its walls. Her breaths came in small white puffs, while her boots crunched the frosted earth below, sending what critters remained scattering into the depths of their warm burrows. The cotton cloak she recently bought was wrapped around her, but even the leather vest and leggings, the blouse and vambraces weren't enough to keep the chill at bay. The Myrian was not accustomed to cold temperatures, preferring the humid heat of the jungles and rainforests she often came to miss. "Morwen can keep her petching snow beneath her skirts," Naama growled, rubbing her hands together. Her swollen eye had long since subsided, and the only remnants of cuts now lingered as slight discolorations. Black eyes scoured the forest floor, passing over upturned roots and crumpled leaves, broken twigs and a procession of ants. She bent down and dusted away foliage and frost, scrutinizing until the disappointment was as clear on her face as the snow in the wind. I'm not made to be a hunter, just a killer. She smirked, then cocked her head at the sight of an imprint, a mark that resembled what appeared to be a heavy boot. "We didn't happen to go around in a circle, hm?" A leather glove on one hand was peeled off and held up, fingers splayed. All was silent but the whistling of the breeze and the rustling of the leaves, the trunks of great trees groaning from the strain. A bird far away screeched and took flight, a squirrel skittered up a branch. All of their energies were a single unifed wave that brushed against her fingertips, but it was the motion of something heavier that caught her attention. "To the northwest, something large is moving, and quite fast." Her brow furrowed, "Petch, and it's gone. An elk, might be. My father left me with shyke for senses.."

[Ulric]

Wearily, they trudged over the ridges, through the stony, unrelenting gorges, wending their way through broken rocks, crusted by purple lichens, and creaking boughs, the gray bark weeping a thick, ruddy sap. Why are we here? The trunks crowded him, somber firs and pines, bare birches swaying in the ghastly skirl of gusts. He bore witness to fingers of rock poking at the sky, knelt on a shelf of gray-green granite, every breath a rheumy tuft of vapor, hearing the roar of cascades, enveloped by milky serpents of fog, the wry gurgle of turgid waters.

Waiting.

“Don’t whine, harpy,” Ulric growled, chafing his gloves together. “You should’ve worn a warmer cloak, lass,” he japed in a rasp, idly reaching out, brushing back a stray lock of jet hair. The coppery skin of her cheek was taut, vaguely broken by a shiver. He felt bad. “Here, just wear mine.” Trying to avoid her inky gaze, set down the heavy monster of his crossbow on the hard, frosted ground, leaning against the skirt of armor that hung over his thigh. He yanked away the clasp at his throat, the finely carved ring of bone, set with silver inlay, and furled the heavy fur, making to drape it over her shoulders. He knew she’d probably hurl it away with a snarl, or take it just to spite him, which was nearly what he wanted.

Don't know why I bother, he frowned, mug breakers don't deserve to be warm.

The howl of wind held no answer.

Shyke on this, he grunted, the gusts lashing at his hedge of whiskers, at his short, spiky hair, piercing the layers of armor, leather, and padding, cruel fangs biting at his bones. “Let’s go, then.”

Again, he began to trudge, eyes scrying through the densely somber ranks of trunks, the jagged, tumbled crags, the snaking edges of distant, snowy peaks. He forged through a patch of briars, foul barbs trying to snag at his face, his burly arms. The crudely gnarled, tapering roots drove up to ensnare his boots.

Cursing, he made to clamber over a sprawl of boulders.

[Naama]

Harpy? At least he's getting creative. She smirked. "Who knew jewelry couldn't stave off the cold? Now I know." His meager gesture of kindness was met with a quirk of a brow, almost an incredulous look, but her shivering hand clutched the warmer cloak tightly around her. Interesting... She watched him idly as he scrambled up a conglomeration of rocks, relishing in a moment of warmth. But as the Myrian began to move to follow him, a hand clamped around her mouth, her head jerked back viciously by the fist that grasped her hair. Instinct drove her to clutch at her swords, but they could not be reached within such close proximity to her attacker. His hand was rough on her jaw, and he smelled of sweat and blood, but it was his sour breath against her ear that fueled her anger. She struck him in the stomach with an elbow, making to twist away from his grasp, but his burly arms locked around her, confining her arms. "Back off," She growled, and sent the back of her head slamming against his nose. Two more men arrived to assist their wounded ally, drawing their swords to surround her. Up near the boulders a pair of archers trained their arrows on Ulric while a bald man with a bushy black beard emerged from a copse of trees not far from where they stood. He was garbed in chainmail and leather like the rest of them, with cruel gray eyes the shade of the sword at his belt. He tsked lightly at the sight of the rebellious savage and the warrior, eyeing Ulric's crossbow with feigned interest. "Release one arrow and the woman dies," His voice was disturbingly monotone, wispy and soft. Shoot them, you petching bastard. "I'm no Konti, and he's no useful cook. What have you need of us?" They had struck her with the hilt of their swords for her thrashing, throbbing aches that left her breathless, her arms bound behind her by the strong hands of the burly attacker. "Flesh is flesh. Revenue is all the same," The gray-eyed leader replied curtly.

[Ulric]

Ulric began to whirl, caught off the guard by the crunch of frost, the discordant thwack of her elbow against layers of worn, hardened leather and rusty mail. Shyke, he growled, taking in the hard, bearded men covering her with their cruel swords. He cast a swift, angry glance up at the myriad chaos of rocks, at the archers, the vague jab of their barbs.

That wasn’t all of them, though. Tensely, they came reaving through the trunks, from behind boulders, bearing swords, axes, spears, faces hard, eyes harder. “Lay it down,” came the snarl.

Naama.

Slowly, his jaw clenched, the gusts tearing past his ears. He felt a jolt of fear down his spine, not for his own sake, but for the prick of jagged iron at her side, the peril that clung to gray trunks. He wasn’t going to leave her to this fate. “Go,” he grunted lowly, and the Gasvik crept away, long, angular body furling over the rocks, the snarl of briars, making for the archers.

Don’t be rash, he frowned, making his grip go slack, so the bow’s curving prods jounced on the frosty rocks. He nudged it away with the toe of his boot. He didn’t reach for his axe, just bided there for a long, fraught instant, taking in the iron eyes, the whiskers, idly frosted by gray.

Just delay.

“Don’t you slander me,” Ulric growled at Naama. “Ever had my fish stew, with crusty bread? No?” The pink scar of a grin scoured over his face, nearly breaking the spite of his gaze. “That’s what I thought, and d’know why? Here’s the ugly truth, my dear. The thing is, you’re not nearly as lively as I’d prefer, and what’s more, you break my mugs. I’d rather fix a stew for a pot boy than you, or maybe even the nag of a sundry mule.”

Tautly, he regarded the leader, fingers teasing at spiked, curving head of his axe. “Her cunt is very fine,” he conceded. “Her tongue not so much, if you’ve a mind to tear it out.” He flung the barb at her, even as he let the shield clang on the rocks. He gave a shrug, slowly spun around with his palms held out, mocking as though he was a sour, meager husk of a beggar.

“You should’ve brought more men.”

And then, there was a snap of taut strings, sheared by sharp claws, a curse, and the archers just gaped.

Roaring, he surged forward. Flay them, spoke the whisper in his head. Flay, flay, flay, it echoed ardently, and he caught up the axe, deftly using the curving edge to flip up his round shield by the strap. Flay. He clashed them together. The slavers came in a rush. Then the axe was scything around, crushing wetly into a nose, the dirty ridge of a cheek. There was a spurt of gore, a foul shrapnel of grisly bones, clung by red scalp and lank, greasy hair.

Ulric lifted his shield to deflect a large, top-heavy sword, and clove down, making the spike punch through a knee, then spun, drove his boot into a knob of gut, making the mace wielder stagger, the deadly, round spurs flying just past his eyes. Flay, he growled, warding a spear, then spun past a sword, crushing his plated elbow against the man’s face in a red, misty fog, even as he swept the axe back, tangling a pair of squat legs. “Bring it, cunts,” he growled, savagely swiping with his bulwark, so the rim struck a bare throat with a ghastly crunch, the eyes growing dark, even as he vainly thrust at the wan blur of a face, keeping the other foe away. The man let go of his heavy axe, began to clutch at his neck, trying to suck in air as he hurled back with a gurgle, the wetly keening suck of lungs, breaking out purple cords of veins. “How awful,” Ulric barked a laugh, hewing deeply between shaky legs. There was a spray of viscera, the clank of shifting armor, a rush of pale vapor. The rasp of a grunt.

The screams.

Flay, he snarled, turning a sword, and then his feet were a blur, dancing over the rocks. He swung the axe, hacking deep into the joint of a shoulder, then tore the axe away. He bashed the man in the face, brought his knee up like thunder, then spun, knocking away the spear, and swept the axe’s edge through a skinny neck, drinking in a welter of crimson, a choked grunt.

“Told you,” Ulric growled, surveying the carnage. The crawler with the crushed knee, the wild-eyed slaver with the mace, warily backing away. The crying man, with the shoulder joint nearly severed, dangling by shreds of skin, the bones gaping white and ugly. Weeper.

By now, the archers, having already fumbled for their swords, were reluctant to come any nearer.

Laughing, he trudged for her captors, eyes fever bright, an infernal rapture surging through his chest. “Hands off, now. She’s mine.”

[Naama]

Those cruel gray eyes narrowed in visible discontent. The men's cries swallowed everything, the natural sounds of the forest and the howling wind, even her own thoughts. Naama had paused in her struggle to watch the warrior relish in his element, slicing and thrashing, with a grin and a laugh so palpable and raw it nearly sent a shiver down her spine. If he had a pair of tits he'd have made a mighty fine Myrian. The kiss of a blade pressed against her throat, cold and sharp. Ulric's advances were met with the approach of the leader, his beard dusted with frost, heavy brows furrowed. "Is this what you want?" He asked in his soft, placid voice. "This thing?" He prodded her neck, beads of blood forming where the tawny skin tore. The brute with the bloody nose who bound her arms shifted uneasily behind her, eyeing the broken men and bloodied snow. "Sir Arshaz... Maybe we should let this one go?" "Silence." Arshaz hissed through clenched teeth. "We will indulge the barbarian." The knife sunk into her abdomen, wrenched away then tossed half-heartedly towards Ulric. Something surged in his eyes, thin rivulets of blood that trailed down his gaunt cheeks, while his hands moved to grasp the Myrian's face, forcing her to look upon him. She gasped from the pain and the agony of the pulsing wound as it painted her garb a macabre crimson. But it was his eyes that drew her away. "Look what this man has done. He has harmed you, he is a traitor, not a friend. He is a scoundrel, a snake." He is a snake. A snake. And suddenly her arms were free. Suddenly the hook swords slid into her hands as effortlessly as if they were a part of her. She looked upon Ulric with eyes narrowed and full of unbridled animosity. Except there was no man before her. There was only the serpent, large and sleek, with scales that reflected the opal fields of snow and ice, and ruby eyes that stared so hungrily at her. "Monster." She hissed. "You petching, Goddess-forsaken monster." She charged, sending both weapons sweeping low to catch his legs, her black eyes feverish with the flash of a lashing tail and a flickering, forked tongue. The only sound in her ears the racket of a rattle and the hiss of bared fangs, while fresh blood splattered across the snow from her gaping injury.

[Ulric]

Fear, dredged up from the depths of his chest. Not for his own sake. Never, when there was only hatred. He was held by dread, rusty chains that crept over his wrists, his ankles. He felt his bowels turn to water, eyes widening the bead of red wept from her neck. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, not when he was her only chance. He took a few, halting strides, then gave it up. His jaw jerked back in a grimace.

Now this, this he wasn’t enjoying.

Naama.

Ulric forced a laugh, but it just echoed in his ears, a jaded mockery of his lust for slaughter. He wanted to cry out, to crush their faces to a pulp. Why didn’t we hear them? He glared at the leader, caught up in the tense, gray menace of the knife at her throat. He felt a crawl of regret. “Don’t,” he snarled, his every nerve crying out, jaws grinding with the vaguely sordid throes of an impotent fury. “Just don’t.”

But did they pay heed?

Never.

Because he didn’t hold any of the cards, and he had everything to lose. He stared into her jet eyes, trying to glean something, anything, but he couldn’t. He’d have gone for the leader already, but he’d been so caught up by delusion, by his cloying, drunken capers, that he’d nearly forgot his fear. Men die, he thought bleakly, We betray our hearts, and then we die.

Pity.

“Sir Arshaz,” Ulric spat, the words turning to gray, crumbling ash on his tongue, “There’s no reason why we can’t reach a parley.” But the bones were already cast, and they weren’t in his favor. “Don’t.”

The knife plunged.

And then, the edge of a sword crunched against his left pauldron, beating him to his knees. The archers, he grunted, for while he’d been caught up in his fear, they’d crept up on him. He spun, scything at the man’s legs, his shield a blur as it turned the coup de grace, barely catching the thunder of a mace. He lashed out a foot, drove it into the man’s groin. There was the scrape of a spear, probing from the joint under his shoulder. He flung his body to the side, draping over the slender point as he brought down the edge of his shield, heard a snap.

The axe, flying through the air, caught the man in the jaw, sent him plunging away. And then he was up, just in time to see her.

The curved swords caught him unaware. They cut at his legs, denting the scales, shearing through leather, to draw a smear of crimson, a surge of agony.

Naama, why?

Ulric tumbled at her, forcing up his shield so she wouldn’t be able to hurt him in closer quarters, his pauldron bashing on the frosty rocks, then his cheek, tearing a nasty gash. He came up, limping.

“Naama, it’s me,” he grimaced.

[Naama]

There was a slimy smile lingering on Arshaz's thin, chapped lips. He stroked his whiskers absently, observing the traitorous display with a glint in his bloodshot eyes. "The consequence for breaking my men: I break you, and your woman. All good things must end with a flare." As he spoke, Naama assaulted Ulric's shield with continous battering, slamming the sharpened hilts into it with enough force to leave miniscule dents on its surface. Though it was metal she fought, the threads of delusion warped it into flesh, monstrous, powerful scaled arms that deterred her blows. That serpentine mouth opened, accompanied by a flick of its wet, forked tongue. Pathetic Myrian. You will perish as they perished. There was raw fear in her. A hesitance that was quickly demolished by the rising wave of fury. She swerved her foot to pull Ulric's leg out from under him hoping for a collapse, and hooked the end of her sword on the rim of the shield, viciously jerking it away from his grasp. The body that was once in the serpent's hands landed with a sickening crunch, those soulless eyes laid open, watching, a hallow husk of what once was. Blue lips parted, displaying a rotting, black tongue and scrambling maggots. You let me die. "No," She screamed, "I didn't let you die. I tried. I tried to save you!" Arshaz tsked with feigned pity. "Such sorrow this one has endured." Two more men came round to pierce their swords through Ulric's padded armor, their bodies becoming lithe snake men in the Myrian's eyes, coiled tails slithering through a field of blood. "No," Arshaz called, forcing them to a halt, "Leave him." In her madness, Naama brought her swords down on Ulric's head.

[Ulric]

Her eyes, Ulric gaped, baleful chains of dread coursing through his body, nearly rooting him to the rocks. He brought up his shield, deflecting a heavy slash of the curved sword. Her eyes are dead. He gave a stagger, his knuckles pale where they grasped the haft of his axe.

Naama.

What did he do?

She was crazed. She charged at him, harshly, unrelenting. Her swords sang, beating at his shield, trying to get around the edge, so they could scrape sparks from his plate, crush through the joints. He didn’t understand. He didn’t fight back, just whirled away, eyes skewered by hurt, fear, shock. He couldn’t fight back.

Direly, he gazed at her alien visage, twisted by rage, a surge of scorching enmity. He felt a sickly dismay, an empty heave of his gorge, wondering if he’d lost her. Why hadn’t she fought? Why did she turn so quickly?

Ulric couldn’t harm her, his lover. He’d knocked her around. He wasn’t proud of that, but as he gazed into her jet eyes, he couldn’t bear to swing his axe at her, even to delay the charge. Even now, he wouldn’t destroy the only star in his sky, the painted veil over his heart that eased the cruel, crushing burden of his chains. He gaped at the horrific smear of red, leaking from her gut, panic making him lock up, making him tense and jerky. “No, don’t,” he growled weakly, fearing.

Again, an infernal whisper rose in his ear. Just slay her, him, and the others, flay them to rags, and you can walk away. He could do it, but would he?

Never.

Her foot crunched down, nearly taking out his leg. He winced, sought to spin away, but then a sword was tearing away the upheld bulwark, the powerful tug at the strap making him lurch away. Do it, urged the whisper. Do it.

“Naama, I love you,” he rasped, desperately trying to get through to her, yet it was as though he was drowned by inky waters, shrouded by a forest of murky kelp. He sank to a paltry instant.

Ulric saw the swords, edges curving at his face. They caught the sun, vaguely poking through pewter gray. Even gods die, he thought, but try as he might, he couldn’t even wonder how Xhyvas had felt when they’d come for him. He only thought of her.

NO!

Hot fury, scouring at his chest. Hot agony, where he twisted away from the swords, the flats pounding at his spiky hair. He saw only gray. He gave a grunt, roving past her.

And the axe sang.

The haft, driving out her legs, the shield hurling around to crunch into the curve of her spine. “Arshaz!” The roar surged up, a tidal fury blasting from his bloody lips. He charged, eluding a sword, turning another, and clove halfway through a neck. He ducked under the axe, jerking his own away so he could sever the man’s leg just below the knee, hewing through thickly pale bone and ruddy, pulpy cartilage, so it thumped on the ground. “Fear me, Arshaz!”

Ulric was a blur, the edge of his axe circling over a wrist, tearing the sword away. Raging, cursing, he bashed the man in the face, spun to hack at the spine, crushing vertebrae in a fine spray. Naama, he grunted, forging toward the gray-eyed demon.

He nearly got there.

Swiftly, a shield rose in his way. The crash was as thunder, the axe breaking through the heavy oak. He drove a boot into a gut, deadened by a stout, yet rusty hauberk. The man swayed. Then he was scything up, edging past the frantic poke of the sword, to shear through a jaw. There was a gout of crimson, the flap of wet, fleshy rag as half of the bone came away, tumbling upon the rocks, the scant covering of power.

“Arshaz!” Keeping the shield just below his dark, fever bright eyes, he surged at his foe. To save her, he was going to crush the man until he was a swamp of flesh, bones, and hair.

[Naama]

The blood sea rose higher and higher, lapping at her legs and feet, sinking her. Yet she struck at the vile serpent to no avail. It did not squirm or frighten like a mindless beast. It struck with seasoned prowess, unrelenting, impenetrable. This battle was futile. Why was she fighting? Because he will kill you like all the rest. Her head ached. A throbbing pain that pounded at her temple. There were twisting flashes and moments when the serpent's strong, scaly arms dissolved into a man's armor, then was swallowed by a mass of scales once again. A blow to her legs sent her crashing into the sea of blood, followed by an explosion of pain from her back. Her lips opened as if to scream, but nothing escaped, only a hollow sound. A hollow shell with no voice and no will to find it. In her mind, shadows emerged, starkly familiar, yet distant all the same. Her heart withdrew from the thing it yearned to return to, a life she'd long since abandoned. The voices came nonetheless. "She was too young for this, too full of potential. To have this happen... How can she ever hope to recover?" "She must find the strength gifted to her by the Goddess-Queen. She must endure and turn her pain and sorrows into strength." "She is young, Onaisha. She is broken. If you don't give her a purpose how can she hope to cope?" "It is not in my place to give her a purpose." Was it a mother's wisdom she gave, or a mother's scorn? The roar of men's screams seemed to pollute the air, as one by one their bodies masked the earth with their limbs and entrails. Arshaz stood rooted near a boulder, his piercing, steel gray eyes watching the carnage with naught but a twitch of his lips. The blood tears flowed where his concentration wove the djed into the woman's mind, but it was steadily weakening until it finally broke under the strain of combat. "The rage is plain on your face and in your mind. Such a pliable emotion. Easily warped, easily fueled." The sword was held aloft, dancing across Ulric's shield with flying sparks. Those cold eyes searched and searched for his, hoping to snare his mind with subtle webs weaved of treachery and delusion. Serve me. He called, Serve me and you can quell your thirst for blood. The sound of clashing metal rang, his agile steps avoiding what sweeps of the axe Ulric gave, as if a seasoned veteran. He parried blows and brought his sword sweeping across the warrior's head, and then strong, burly arms came round to curl themselves around Ulric's neck. The man with the broken nose. "Bow to me, warrior, bow, and aid the glory that is Rhysol." Arshaz called. Sprawled atop a mound of red snow, Naama opened her mouth and retched blood. Her head felt like it was about to crack under the pressure. There was throbbing pain against her temple, coupled with the surge of agony along her back and stomach. She felt cold, terribly terribly cold. And the voices and screams only intensified her pain. The vision of the snake was ingrained in her mind, great and terrible, but it was the field of carnage that drew her attention, then the glint of a blade above her head. Ulric? When she glanced up, it was a bloodied, bearded man with a deep, jagged wound in his shoulder looming over her, his body leaning forward where he meant to strike at her head. No, not yet. In her panic, the myrian grasped the frosted earth beside her, and felt the handle of a sword. His blade struck the snow an inch from her face, the warm, sticky blood trickling around the sword that was thrust up and into his chest. The body slumped against her, yet she had no strength to move. Not yet...

[Ulric]

“Rhysol?” Ulric lurched in close, a red, ragged snarl on his broken lips, tangling shield with sword. “Why serve, when you can usurp his power?” He grunted, forcing the man slightly back, but the thick, jingling rings of an elbow coiled around his neck, tearing at the flesh, drawing them closer yet. He spat a gob of spit, seeking to get away from the clinch, and then he was gazing into those dead, staunchly gray eyes. Serve him, they whispered. Serve him, as you were meant to your entire life. Serve, and everything you’ve ever wanted is yours. Harshly seductive, the whisper cast him into a swirling, purple miasma, caught up by a dire augury. He saw himself, wearing dark plate and bearing a furling pennant, at the head of an army.

And on that faded cloth, the sigil of a black orb. He sought to get away, but they crowded him with their dark ranks. He wanted to draw his axe, to wreak slaughter for the sake of betrayal, but there crept before him the somberly breaking face of a dead god, the inky, gimlet eyes of her, and he was bereft.

Abruptly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, drawing him away. Through a field of fog, milky snakes curling around his legs, clouding his dark eyes with worry. Then he heard a hush of voices. They were in a tiny, shabby room, acridly thick with smoke and the reek of unwashed flesh, putrefying food, and sourly sticky puddles of beer. There were cobwebs in the corners, rusty spikes through the low, narrow windows, and cracking plaster, heaping up on the warped, wet timbers. He was young again. Not a boy, for he’d nearly reached his the edge of his huge physique. Hunched under a musty blanket, sucking in the deep, regular breaths of slumber. They were by the door.

Kelhus Taredan, with his blunt, hard face, the gray eyes and grayer beard, the bulging, rounded shoulders. Even now, caught up by his deceit. “Ynara, you shouldn’t be here,” he grated, denying the woman entry. Her lovely jaw clenched, dark eyes blazing. Her body shrouded by a crude robe, slender fingers grasping at the twisted, angular gold-inlay mask of a panther.

“You would defy me?” Ynara’s whisper was thick with menace, scything so thick, so viciously that Kelhus could hardly dredge up air. No longer the young, comely agent, sadly gyrating her hips against a meager, unwary man whose hands were always chafed red and covered by fish scales, until the order had no more use for him, and she’d flayed him to pieces in front of their progeny.

Ulric.

Ynara Dagor-Fyr, the Acolyte, her youthful sheen of beauty departed for hard edges, a string of agents in her wake. Her every step, flushed with a menacing power. Her words tinged by seductive insanity, a waver of chaos. Kelhus kept his ground, though he shifted uneasily, scratching at his patchy beard. They both knew what she could do. The power of her voice was rumor.

“Yes,” he growled, trying not to reach for the axe at his side. He stayed in her way for a long moment, then leaned away, granting her a view of the chamber. “I mean, no.” Ynara glared dagger at him.

“He’s my son.”

Trenchantly, she cut at him with her voice, making him grimace.

“Myleena has spoken,” Kelhus bit his lip, infusing his tone with a measure of his harsh, inner iron, unyielding as rock. “You are not to be near him, Ynara. You, or your motley torturers. You may only answer to Lazarin, but you’re far from those dungeons of yours.”

“You forget yourself.” Ynara spoke coldly, tautly, the contour of her pale face seeming to writhe before his eyes, as though with a sullen whir of gears. “Your comrades forsake you, leave you to drown yourself in bitter ale and sour sorrows, yet mine are biding just outside, waiting for my signal.”.

“Then let them come.” His jaw was like a jut of granite, eyes harder now, eager for a crimson spray, the slither of viscera down a gaping cask of gut. “There are some that remember my name,” he rasped mockingly.

Ynara gave a laugh. “You’re just a gloomy, wretched shade of your former self, my lord. Just imagine, your soldiers used to kneel in your wake, bashing spear on shield and roaring your glory as if you were Rhysol.” Intently, she cocked her head. “Your errors must weigh heavily on you, brother. You’re just a husk, of no use to anybody, least of all us. Have you renounced your vows, too, or just your cock?”


“Never,” Kelhus snarled fervently, the vice of a fist clenching at the folds of her robe, jerking her nearer, so he could glare into her eyes. “Would that my soul would part from my chest. I’ve prayed to him, I’ve given everything for his sake, and you dare to question me?”

“Give us the boy, then.” Ynara forced a smirk, a twitching worm that crept over the pale scar of her lips. Her fingers closed over his, softly, gently, but there wasn’t anything she could do. “Give him up, let him forge past the fiery scourge of the crucible and prove himself worthy of the mantle you cast away in neglect.” The mask rose subtly. The ember worms made it glow redly. Her voice began to seep through the chamber, hanging in the rafters, whorling with a cloying, dread presage, an unceasing whisper that raged through his ears. “Give him up, and the wages of war are yours again."

“No.”

Sulkily, “Can he not fight?”

Kelhus gave a snort, his eyes ruthlessly intractable, shoulders bunching as her jerked her away from the chamber, nearer the door. “You barely scratched the surface, sweet sister. You want him to fight, he fights. You ensured that when you warped his mind, put that animal in there, always lusting for an echo of carnage. You know, it’s trying to break out and destroy you. You’ve made him crazed. You pushed him away from Rhysol.”

“And whose fault is that?” Ynara jabbed a finger at his chest, but he caught it, crushing at the hand, trying to grind her knuckles to dust. She gave a cry, and then he was lurching back, cursing at the red, raw ridges where she’d burned his offending hands. “Your wife sought to murder him.”

“Don’t you dare speak of her, you harpy.” Kelhus deftly brought up the axe, making it sing through the air as a sword swept from around his back, the edges slicing, creating a mad, harshly whirling tempest, teasing a lock of dark hair from under her cowl. “Don’t make me do this, Ynara.”

Boldly, she leaned in, nearly having the nose cut from her face. “You, the slayer of hundreds. You were such a man,” came her husky whisper, eyes smoldering with rapture. “And you gave it up for her.”

“Not just her.” Kelhus gave her an uneasy wraith of a grin, his blunt, scarred face seeming nearly gaunt.

“Tragic, the way she perished.” Ynara forced the dagger deeper, trying to hurl him as far as she could, to make him lash out at her.

But he didn’t.

Kelhus began to swell, his body, the sum of the man growing larger, until he dwarfed her. He swiped away the jerk of her words, laced by foul djed. Ynara gave a frown, her lips curling uncertainly. “Get out,” he growled, and swung the door so it clanged closed just before her dark eyes.

Ulric gave a scowl.

Confusion lingered, forging asunder a stark, unforgiving clarity. But the fragments were there, like an infernal jigsaw. The whisper in his ear, the taunts flung at his back like so many cruel barbs.

Just before, he’d dredged up the cowled, shadowy face of one of her agents, waiting just behind in the narrow, winding stairs. There was no mistaking those gray eyes, harder than chips of rock, the bald brow sloping to a beard, though with less gray. Arshaz.

“Arshaz,” he growled, rage surging through his chest, spawned by a fiery, coruscating urge for vengeance. Give my regards to my mother.”

Ulric reared back, crushing his head into that broad, ugly nose, forcing out a geyser of crimson. He drove his knee into the juncture of the man’s legs, though the shirt of rings negated much of the jarring blow, the broke away, whirling to bring his plated elbow smashing against a cheek. He heard a crunch of bone, but that wasn’t nearly enough. The sword came up, wildly, and he turned it away, making the edge of his axe bite deeply into the that bald head, tearing away an ear, gobs of red, pulpy flesh, until the glisten of bone poked from the hugely jagged gash. He swept the shield around, so the rim caught his foe’s jaw with another, sickening crunch, yet before he could even stagger, the axe was shearing through his fingers, sending three nubs of iron and leather-clad flesh away with the sword, blood spraying on his jubilant, fevered grin.

Smash. Yet again, the shield came around, caving in an eye socket, and the axe’s edge grated through mail, rending swathes of flesh, breaking ribs, nearly ending the fight.

Ulric drew back.

Arshaz was down, groaning, a froth of blood on his lips, making a spider’s tracery over his face. Harshly, a boot crashed into his cheek, and then again, before it stamped on his uninjured fingers. Ulric bent down, probing at the gray, nearly glazed eye that wasn’t weeping a trail of ooze with his finger. “Arshaz,” he growled. “You’re going back to Ravok. You’re going to tell her that I’m coming with an army. You, and the other worms in that city, are already dead.”

“Rhysol can go finger himself.” Ulric pressed down, enjoying the agony he was causing, but swiftly withdrew, bashing his shield against Arshaz’s face to put him out for good, with a tinkle of broken incisors.

Vaguely, he stood, casting about for what he’d lost in his surge of wrath, consumed by the carnage.

Naama.

Desperately, he clove to her side, snaking an elbow under her head. He raised her up, badly shaken by the gash in her belly, the sight of so much red. Her sword lay inside a man, and pushed him away, tearing away a gray cloak to clutch against her. “Naama, it’s nearly over,” he gave a whisper, his cold, leather clad fingers tracing down her cheek, over the ridge of her jaw.