Chapter 31 – A Game of Mills, Part 1
“Time is wasting, Zull, and I don’t like waste,” Melanc said, foot tapping impatiently as he spoke. “I know you have Gerok’s letter with you. You’re far too careful to leave it anywhere or give it to anyone else for safekeeping. Now, I could try and force you to give it to me, but then you might just destroy it. If you hand it over, then everyone wins. Your friends and you can go free.”
“And the Master gets to continue plotting the Empress’ downfall,” Zull said, crossing his arms as he did so. “Who knows how many people will die before he is satisfied? He’s already proven more than willing to do whatever it takes to crush even the slightest threat to his regime.” Zull stared at Melanc with such intensity that for a moment even the assassin seemed uncertain. “You realize of course, the biggest threats to his regime will be powerful hemomancers. Like you.”
“Perhaps,” Melanc said with a friendly but tired smile. “But that is a concern for the future, not for the present. Consider what exactly you are wagering: you are betting the potential deaths of people you have never met and an empress to whom you owe nothing against the assured deaths of your friends. Surely someone as intelligent and logical as you can see the imbalance in what you are wagering.” He waited patiently for a response, but Zull stared at him calmly, saying nothing.” Very well,” Melanc said with a sigh. Turning back towards the gazebo where Sir Kyr, Argus Vyle and the others stood, he raised his hand over his head and snapped his fingers once. In unison the four of them reached to their belts and drew blades of various sizes. Though they struggled, and Sir Kyr had drawn his lips back in a ferocious snarl, looking ready and willing to pounce on the pleasantly smiling assassin, none of them could stop their arms from raising the weapons to their throats.
“Wait!” Vard shouted, reaching out towards Tyer Melanc as he did so. The assassin turned back to look at them, raising a hand as a halting gesture to his thralls. They all paused in perfect unison, blades hovering mere inches from their throats.
“Well, well, well. The bard speaks,” Melanc said dismissively. “And what could you possibly say that could change my mind, Vard Exlis Ffyddlar ?”
Vard, dripping with sweat as his eyes darted back and forth across the yard, was clearly scheming quickly, coming up with an idea on the spot. “I have a proposition for you.”
Melanc laughed at that, covering his mouth with his hand as his humor faded into a prolonged fit of giggles. “If you’re threatening me with a rendition of what you consider a ‘song,’ then I’m afraid you’re only encouraging me to kill your friends even more.”
“No, nothing like that,” Vard said. His expression changed to one of quiet confidence, and it was clear whatever idea had been circulating in his head had fallen fully into place. “Tell me, you said that you do all of this, all this assassin work, for the thrill of the challenge, correct?”
Melanc tilted his head backwards, eyes narrowing as he studied Vard more closely. “…correct.”
Vard narrowed his eyes, wondering whether to take the risk, then committed. “Do you, by chance, play mills?”
Melanc, taken aback by the sheer randomness of the query, stared at Vard, completely baffled. Zull turned to the bard as well, but after a moment he nodded, realizing where Vard was planning on heading with this conversation. “I do, on occasion,” Melanc said at last.
“Well, then I have quite the challenge for you,” Vard said. He gestured with a melodramatic flourish towards Zull. “My friend Zull here is the best player of mills that I’ve ever witnessed in my quite extensive travels across the realm of Waed. He’s unsurpassable, a true genius. Surely, as the meticulous planner that you are, you can appreciate that kind of tactical skill in another.”
Melanc turned his thoughtful gaze to Zull, who returned his expression with a calculating look of his own. “What exactly are you proposing?”
“You and Zull play a game of mills,” Vard said. “Should you win, Zull will give you the letter as you requested, and we will surrender to you. Should Zull win, you will surrender to us, and return our friends to us alive.”
“Hmm,” Tyer Melanc said. “An interesting proposal, but I already hold the upper hand in every conceivable way. What reason could I possibly have to accept this challenge?”
“For the thrill,” Vard said. “And because this way, in a perfectly balanced, fair competition, you will be able to truly know that you are more cunning than Zull Tyrill.”
Melanc mulled this over, wrestling with the suggestion for a moment longer before abruptly looking up and snapping to turn to look beyond the compound. His eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat. “Zaphyr,” he growled, though what she was specifically doing, Zull didn’t know, only that she was moving towards them once more. For a brief second, Zull considered taking advantage of the assassin’s distraction to attack him, but just as the thought was fully formed Melanc had recovered his prior composure, his confident smile returning once more. Nodding with satisfaction to himself, he said, “Your terms intrigue me, Vard. Very well, I accept.”
He's worried about Zaphyr arriving, but knows that if he simply kills us all before she reaches us, then he will have no leverage over her. So, he’s betting on his intelligence against ours, Zull quickly deduced. Unfortunately for him, I don’t have to win, simply to delay.
Melanc gestured impatiently to another of his thralls, who vanished into the large house at the far end of the compound. He returned a short while later, board and pieces in hand, along with a small table. He set the game’s components on the table between Zull and Melanc, who faced each other across the board. Melanc picked up a chalice full of wine and two empty goblets, which had been standing by within the gazebo and set them on the table as well.
“Feel free to drink,” Melanc said encouragingly. “It’s a startlingly warm day.”
Vard looked at Melanc curiously, but Zull obliged the assassin, pouring a glass and drinking the wine in a single swift gulp. “Who will move first?” he asked.
Melanc shrugged. “You can. It’s only fair for me to give you any advantage I can, after all.”
“You really think you are so clever?” Zull asked, picking up one of the white stones and placing it on an empty space in the top right corner of the board.
“I do. A good opening,” Melanc conceded, placing his first black piece in the opposite, lower left corner.
Zull placed his second piece adjacent to his first. I must be incredibly careful, he thought, his expression remaining studiously neutral all the while. Any openings I leave, any weaknesses I present, he’ll exploit. All I must do is drag this out, delay him as long as possible.
Melanc responded by mirroring Zull’s move once more. Zull was unbothered, however. Acting defensively like that will only drag out the game, Zull thought. He frowned slightly as something else occurred to him. Wait. Why would Melanc want to delay things? It would be in his best interests to win this game as quickly as possible…wouldn’t it? Zull felt a chill run down his spine. Unless, like us, he doesn’t truly care about winning or losing this game. He wants to delay and spend as much time as well. In a flash, Zull connected that to the earlier comment that Melanc himself had made about what to eat and drink, as well as what had happened to Shaw. So, that’s how he is controlling people. Something in the wine which, when introduced to the body, lets him use his hemomancy to puppeteer those affected.
Zull reached out with his hemomantic senses, and felt, with a chill, a foreign element in his own body; he recognized it as the blood of the man sitting across the table from him. Pushing down his disgust mingled with his triumph at having uncovered Melanc’s secret, Zull maintained a studiously blank expression, allowing no hint of what he had just uncovered leak onto his face. Now that he knew, Zull felt much more confident. We need Zaphyr here; she’s the key to overcoming his abilities. She’s the only one strong enough to counter his hemomancy. Lowering his hand beneath the table, Zull squeezed it once, then gestured beckoningly several times. He hoped that Zaphyr would pick up on these motions, taking them as a signal to come quicker, if she could. Melanc appeared not to notice any of this.
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“It’s your move, Zull,” Melanc said idly. “Of course, take as much time as you need.”
“I will,” Zull commented. He picked up his third token and placed it in the exact center of the board. A risky move, it left his piece vulnerable to being surrounded from several sides, while simultaneously opening him up to lots of potential moves in the future. Melanc responded with a noncommittal grunt, his eyes flicking from the board to Zull for the briefest of moments before returning to the game before them once more. “Risky,” he said quietly. “You are playing very risky, Zull.”
Zull looked at the assassin, clutching one of the white pebbles in his hand. “When my friends’ lives, not to mention the fate of all Waed, is on the line, I can’t afford to be cautious, Melanc. It’s your move.”
The assassin placed his third piece near his first two, strengthening his position of power on the board, rather than going on the offensive. The two players were surrounded by a small circle of Melanc’s thralls, who watched impassively, their expressions so vapid that Vard wondered if the assassin was forcing them to maintain such a studious look with his abilities. Vard himself stood a short distance away, watching the game with nervous energy, pacing back and forth as Zull and Melanc slowly placed their pieces. This waiting is agony. Why did I ever propose this? he wondered. As he nervously looked around, his gaze fell on Sir Kyr. Rather than looking as blank as the rest of the thralls did, his eyes were narrowed and focused on Melanc’s back. Noticing Vard looking at him, Sir Kyr tilted his head the smallest of degrees, a subtle nod of acknowledgement. Vard felt a wave of relief wash over him; rather than the impossible situation that they were facing a few minutes ago, they had several allies, which Melanc wasn’t even aware of. The most important of which, of course, was Zaphyr herself.
Come on, Zaphyr, Vard thought. All our hopes rest on you.
***
Zaphyr twisted her neck to get a better look at the quarrel sticking out of her shoulder. She felt as if her entire arm and shoulder were on fire, and she desperately clenched her teeth together to keep from screaming. Her kitten mewed at her frantically, jumping off her shoulder and streaking down the street. Ordinarily she would have called out to it, but for now she had far, far more pressing matters.
Craning her neck back, she looked up at the opposite rooftop, where the assassin still crouched, crossbow now at his side as he drew another quarrel and reloaded the weapon. Zaphyr knew she only a short span before he would fire again, and so, ignoring the pain as best she could, she turned and stumbled down the street, hands outstretched towards the smithy shop before her. Even as her vision blurred and her head felt faint, she grasped the door handle, throwing it open and stumbling into the blacksmith’s shop, slamming the door behind her as she did so. A second later, she felt the thump of a quarrel striking the door.
Within the blacksmith’s store, she saw an elderly man, his gray beard reaching nearly to his knees, leaning over an open forge, a horseshoe, gleaming red in the dim light of the smithy, held between tongs which he clasped in his hand.
“Lass,” he said slowly. “You have an arrow in your shoulder.”
“It’s a quarrel, actually,” Zaphyr said, shaking heavily as she leaned against the door and slid down to her knees. “One is used by a bow, the other by a crossbow.”
“Ah,” the blacksmith said, at a loss for anything else to contribute to the conversation. “I see.”
Zaphyr smiled weakly. “There’s someone out in the street who’s trying to kill me. Could I hide here for a bit?”
The blacksmith nodded amicably. “Stay here for as long as you need, Lass.”
Zaphyr mumbled her thanks as she sat there, brain working frantically. First thing I need to do is remove this quarrel. Then, I need to worry about the resulting blood loss. Though, I could use that to my advantage…
Breathing heavily, she reached up and grasped the quarrel by its shaft. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to steady herself, she pulled as hard as she dared. She felt a surge of pain, but the quarrel remained firmly rooted in her shoulder.
“Lass…,” the blacksmith said warningly.
Ignoring him, Zaphyr pulled again, as hard as she possibly could. She screamed in pain as the quarrel came free, slick with blood. The wound began bleeding immediately, and though the pain was immense, it still hurt less than a moment before. You made one big mistake, assassin, she thought. You didn’t kill me with one shot, and now, you’ve given me the means to make my own weapon. She tossed the quarrel, its dip damaged from the blow, aside and stood up unsteadily. Then, she turned to open the door.
“If you go out there, won’t whoever is chasing you just try to kill you again?” the blacksmith asked uncertainly.
“Yes,” she replied. “But this time, I’m prepared.”
The blacksmith didn’t have anything to say to that, and so he simply watched passively as Zaphyr yanked the door open, dodging to the side immediately as she did so. Fortunately for her, an instant later another quarrel flew through the open door, striking the brick wall besides the head of the blacksmith. This startled him enough to make him drop the tongs he was carrying to the floor with a loud clatter.
“Careful, Lass,” he said. “Don’t drag me into this.”
“I won’t,” she promised, stepping outside. She glanced up, squinting slightly against the sunlit glare. The assassin was still crouched at the edge of the roof, crossbow in hand, hastily reloading after his last shot had missed once more. Reaching a hand to her shoulder, Zaphyr drew on her power in the same way she had seen Choler use, drawing a thin stream of blood from her shoulder, which she quickly shaped into a small dart. With her weapon floating above her open palm, she raised her hand, preparing to use her hemomancy to launch the dart at her target, just as he had just done against her. At that moment, however, Zaphyr hesitated, a cold realization striking her. If I simply injure him, he’ll continue hunting me until I’m dead, she thought with a chill. But I can’t kill him! He’s not responsible; he’s acting against his will, Zull said…
At that moment, the assassin finished reloading his crossbow and aimed at Zaphyr’s head once more. She ducked to the side as he fired, and the quarrel missed her face by mere inches, lodging in the doorframe of the smithy. Reacting on sheer instinct, Zaphyr fired the hemomantic dart. She wasn’t sure if it was her haste, or if she instinctively acted to save her opponent’s life, but the blood dart punched a clear hole through the assassin’s shoulder, a mirror of her own wound.
That will teach you, she thought, feeling suddenly light-headed from her ongoing blood loss. She hoped against hope that the wound would prove enough to dissuade the assassin, but he ignored the wound as if it hadn’t even occurred. Once more the crossbow was relentlessly raised as he loaded it once more.
Zaphyr’s face had gone chalk white, and her vision was beginning to blur from the blood loss she was experiencing. Regardless, she tapped into her will once more, drawing enough blood from the still dripping wound to form a second dart, identical to the first. Her hand shaking unsteadily, she held the hovering bolt before her once more, looking up at the assassin, who had not moved from their earlier pose. Clenching her hand into a fist, she sent the dart speeding towards the assassin, striking them in the forehead. They teetered on the edge of the rooftop for a second, and Zaphyr wondered momentarily if he had survived once more. Then, the assassin pitched forward, falling to the street below with a horrendous crash. He lay there, a broken, mangled body, his broken crossbow by his side, unmoving. Zaphyr raised a hand to cover her mouth, leaning heavily against the stone wall as she did so. She fell to her knees and vomited, horrified over what she had just done.
“I killed someone,” she said quietly. She glanced over at the body and felt sick once more. Glancing away, she covered her face with her hands, a single tragic sob escaping from her mouth as she contemplated what she had just done. She looked around, but the street was empty; no one, save for herself, had witnessed the killing. Though a part of her felt that she was justified, having been acting to defend herself, and that Phlegm, Choler, and the Plague Rats had all died during their journey, this time was different. This was the first time that Zaphyr herself had taken a life, had been directly responsible for killing someone. That, however, wasn’t even the most horrifying part for her. What truly reviled her was that, when she looked inwards, she found that she could do it again, if she needed to.
She felt, off in the distance, her bond with Zull fluctuating wildly. She understood instantly that he was gesturing with his hand, calling her closer. She wanted to snap and scream at him but knew that he had no idea, as far away as he was, what she had just been through. With a groan she stood up once more, then nearly fell over. “I need to get this wound treated,” she mumbled, somehow stumbling her way back into the smithy. I could use hemomancy to staunch the bleeding, she thought, but then she realized that their opponent, who was also a hemomancer, could very well restart the bleeding. No, I need a more permanent solution.
The blacksmith looked at her sympathetically but warily as she reentered his store. “What happened?”
“I killed him,” she said simply, her voice hollow and unfeeling. Before he could respond, she gestured to the horseshoe on the floor, still glowing red with heat. “Give that to me.”
The blacksmith picked up his tongs and gingerly grabbed the horseshoe, then passed the tongs to Zaphyr. Before she could hesitate and rethink her decision, she pressed the glowing horseshoe against her shoulder. There was a hiss of steam, and she screamed in raw anguish, before tossing the tongs and the horseshoe aside. Panting heavily, she glanced down at her shoulder, and saw only an ugly red burn where the wound had been. Though it had hurt her more than anything else she had ever experienced, she had sterilized the wound.
“You are completely mad,” the blacksmith noted.
“Maybe,” Zaphyr admitted. She turned to leave once more, but the blacksmith called for her to wait.
“What are you going to do, Lass?” he asked.
“I am going to save my brother, and the rest of my friends,” she told him. “And I am going to kill whoever tries to stop me.”
Not waiting for a response, she slammed the smithy’s door shut behind her. Looking down the street, she whistled softly to herself. To her delight, her kitten came skulking out of a nearby alley and, after mewling in annoyance at her once, jumping back up on her shoulder. At least there’s some good news, she thought. Taking a deep breath and reorienting herself, she focused her supernatural senses on Zull’s location. I’m coming, Zull, Vard, Kyr. I’m coming.