Chapter 32 – A Game of Mills, Part 2
“Is something the matter, Melanc?” Zull asked, confident enough to smile broadly at the assassin standing across from him. He felt surer of himself than he had in weeks. What’s more, he could feel Zaphyr drawing closer with each minute, making her way slowly but steadily towards their location. Whatever Melanc had done to halt her, it had evidently failed.
If Melanc was aware of any of these factors, however, he didn’t show it. The assassin retained his normal stoic expression, leaving Zull and Vard to speculate as to what he thought. “Nothing is the matter,” the assassin replied at last to Zull’s query, turning his watery gaze towards the board once more, pursing his lips thoughtfully as he spoke. “Can you blame me for taking time to consider my moves? I’ve rarely played against an opponent as skilled as yourself.”
Zull tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement. “I could say the same, Melanc.”
After another few moments of consideration, Melanc eventually lifted one of his pebbles delicately and placed it across the board from the rest of his pieces. While it gave him a chance to encircle Zull, it also left him very exposed and vulnerable, should Zull choose to go on the offensive. Interesting. You’re changing your strategy, playing far more riskily, Zull thought as he placed his next piece, moving to trap Melanc. Which means, you’re about to shift your objectives and make your real play soon. What will it be?
Melanc placed another place, seemingly at random. What are you doing, Melanc? Zull thought, mind racing in countless different directions as he tried to guess what the assassin was attempting. Melanc’s expression remained as frustratingly blank as ever, however, and Zull was forced to admit defeat, at least for the moment. If you’re going to leave a weakness on the board, Melanc, deliberate or not, I’m still going to exploit it. Zull placed his own piece, capturing his first black pebble. The first blood drawn, but not the last, he thought as he set the piece aside.
Melanc moved again, placing his piece seemingly at random once more. Zull hesitated for longer this time, carefully studying the entire board, looking for any kind of hidden pattern or trick to Melanc’s actions. It cannot be this easy, Zull thought. There must be another play, somewhere. But try as he might, Zull couldn’t see anything. At last, though he felt somewhat reluctant to do so, Zull took what he considered to be the evident play. Another pebble placed, and he had captured the second of Melanc’s tokens. He felt both Vard and the assassin’s eyes on him as he did so, carefully weighing and evaluating him, though each did so for their own, very different reasons. Zull watched the board, waiting patiently for Melanc to make his next move, knowing that whatever the assassin was truly playing for would be revealed soon. In a flash, it struck Zull that, just as was the case with himself, Melanc’s true objectives surely lay beyond the board itself. He knew then, with a chilling certainty, that Melanc didn’t care about the game, and never had; he had merely used it as an opportunity to prepare for a move in the real world. Just as I have, Zull though, wondering at the irony of the entire scenario.
Zull’s predictions came true when, after placing his third piece in a row in an empty, undefended part of the board, Melanc abruptly said, “I must point out, Zull, that you and your sister have shown quite a bit of ingenuity. You may just be the hardest bounty that I have ever been assigned to kill. And, you have done a marvelous job of evading every trap that I’ve set for you. Now, that is quite the compliment, let me assure you. You and your sister should be very proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
Zull successfully surrounded another of Melanc’s pieces, removing it from the board. “What of it?” he said casually, though he remained razor focused on the assassin sitting across from him.
“I’ve come to appreciate the skills that you and your sister possess,” Melanc said amicably. “If you gave me a trophy- some blood, a finger, something of that sort- to take back to the Master so I can ‘prove’ that I killed the two of you, I would be quite amicable to letting you go free, as long as you go into hiding.” Melanc’s mouth quirked into an attempt at a friendly smile. “I won’t tell the Master if you don’t.”
Zull’s gaze slid from the board before him, to Melanc, then back to the board. “You must be even more desperate than I thought,” he said quietly.
Though his expression did not change, a noticeable agitation seemed to settle over the assassin, as if he was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown at any moment. “Desperate?” he said, a dry, humorless laugh escaping his lips. “I am being merciful. Can you not understand that? I still control every aspect of this situation. Your friends are under my thrall. Your sister is nowhere to be seen. I have my men at the ready, capable of ending your life at a mere thought.”
“Is that so?” Zull said quietly. “Then why do you sound more like you’re trying to convince yourself more then us?”
Speaking up, Vard said, “You already agreed to one deal, Melanc; whoever wins the game of mills sets the terms. Just because you are losing now, doesn’t mean you can change the agreement.”
Melanc glared at Vard with plain distaste, then with a heavy sigh ran a hand through his hair. “Well,” he said. “At least I tried; at least I offered mercy. I want you to understand that what I am about to do, you have left me no choice, Zull.”
Vard frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“I warned you before, Zull, just as I did poor Shaw,” Melanc said chidingly. “The clues were there for you. But you drank the wine I offered. That contained an agent which allows my hemomancy to control you as easily as a puppet on its strings. I tell you all this now because there’s nothing you can do about it.” His smile broadened, becoming genuine for the first time. “It appears that I win our little game. In a minute, I will order you to slit your own throat, while your friend, Vard, the obnoxious excuse for an entertainer that he is, watches in horror. Then, I will have my men beat him to death. That should prove most entertaining.” Vard, expression fluctuating between horror and rage, moved towards Melanc, but instantly two of the assassin’s thralls stepped forward, blades drawn, blocking the bard. “Any last words?”
Zull slowly backed away from the game table, remaining as calm as ever. “Thank you for confirming my hunch,” he said. “I figured the agent was in the wine. You’ve never tried to use your special brand of hemomancy on another hemomancer before, have you?”
Melanc frowned, Zull’s words failing to fully process. “What?”
“The ‘agent’ you used is just some of your own blood,” Zull explained patiently. “Blood which my own hemomancy works on as well. As soon as I drank it, I was able to sense it, counteract it and keep it from poisoning my body. Go on. Try.”
Finally, Melanc’s composure broke, and, sweating and visibly agitated, he focused his attention on Zull. He began visibly shaking, a vein beginning to throb on his forehead as he ground his teeth together. “No.”
“I believe I win our game,” Zull said. “Admit it, Melanc; you’ve been outplayed. Outsmarted.”
“Not quite yet, Zull Tyrell,” Melanc snapped. “I still have numerical advantage. Even if I can’t make you kill yourself, I can still-”
Whatever Melanc was going to say was abruptly cut off when Sir Kyr abruptly made his move. The knight had been waiting patiently for his chance to act, knowing that if he moved too soon, Melanc would simply use his hemomantic puppetry against him. With the assassin’s attention fully diverted, however, Sir Kyr saw his chance, and leapt from the gazebo towards Melanc. Moving with his enhanced speed, Sir Kyr charged past two of Melanc’s other thralls with enough force to send them sprawling on the ground. As the assassin turned, eyes wide with shock, Sir Kyr grabbed Melanc by the throat, lifted him into the air, and slammed him down onto the table, scattering the mills pieces across the ground as he did so.
“No more games, Melanc,” Sir Kyr said in his deep, raspy voice. “Let me and the rest of your slaves go. Now. Or I’ll crush your throat between my fingers.”
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Melanc, his face gone pale, tried to recover his former expression of calm and collectedness, and only partially succeeded. “I think you’ll find that if you try to tighten your grip, your hand will refuse to cooperate,” Melanc whispered.
Sir Kyr snarled, baring his fangs mere inches from the assassin’s face. “Maybe. But you don’t have enough control to force me to release my grip, either. So, it looks like we are at an impasse.”
“Not quite,” Melanc responded. Sir Kyr heard the whine of a crossbow’s string being pulled back from behind him and knew without looking that another of the assassin’s thralls had the weapon pointed at the back of his head. Sir Kyr looked around slowly, so he would not startle Melanc or his thrall into pulling the trigger. He saw that while he had been attacking Melanc, two of his men had grabbed the still struggling Vard by either arm, pinning him in place. Another had drawn his dagger and faced an eerily calm Zull, who watched this entire scene with a remote, almost detached expression.
“Kill me, and I kill your friends,” Melanc said. “A draw. It appears we’re back where we began, Sir Kyr.”
“Not quite,” Zull responded. “I’ve gained one thing. Time. Zaphyr is here.”
Indeed, in response to Zull’s comment, the door of the compound swung open, the quiet screeching of the rust on its hinges sounding painfully loud to everyone within. In the open door stood a pale but determined looking Zaphyr, her hands planted firmly on her hips, her expression one of stormy triumph.
“Free my brother and my friends this instant,” she said. “Or die.”
***
Though Zaphyr had spoken with some bravado to the blacksmith when she had left his shop, in truth she was very uncertain about what to do. Though she could still feel Zull in the distance, beckoning her on, the pain from her shoulder injury was steadily increasing with time, though she had managed to successfully halt the bleeding with her hemomancy. And, while she had felt in the moment and had proudly declared that she was fully capable of killing if she needed to do so, now she felt much less confident in that matter.
As she stumbled from street to street, her haggard expression and bloodied shoulder carving a tunnel through the crowds for her, she felt doubt nagging at the back of her mind, pressuring her with the incessant worry that, if it came to it, she would fail to kill if needed. No, she told herself sternly. That time has passed. My brother’s life and my friends’ lives are in danger. I will kill to save them.
Lurching along, Zull’s bond glowing like a beacon in her mind, she took the most direction route she could. She only strayed from a straight line towards her goal when a building or a wall got in her way. Heading there as swiftly as she was, she had to admit she was surprised she didn’t encounter more resistance. Maybe he’s falling back, holding his resources in reserve for my arrival, Zaphyr wondered. Or, we’ve used up everything he’s got. She could only hope she and her brother were lucky enough for the latter to be true. Based on experience, she doubted it.
At last, Zaphyr knew from her sense of the bond that she had reached her destination. Hand still clutching her aching shoulder, she stared down at a large house surrounded by a wall, whose only door stood firmly shut. She could sense Zull just beyond, though this close, the bond was hardly needed. Zaphyr could hear raised voices from within the compound, as well as sounds of fighting. She was confident she recognized both Zull’s calm, clear voice and Sir Kyr’s raspy one amongst a steadily rising babble of others. Setting her kitten down outside the door, which to her relief sat there patiently, she strode over to the door and shoved it with her uninjured shoulder. It wasn’t locked, and swung inward with an obnoxious creak. Those fighting within froze, momentarily surprised by the arrival of another. Taking in the scene quickly, she saw Sir Kyr holding a man, pinned, to a table, while a group of people she didn’t recognize fought with Vard. Vyle and his men stood oddly still at the edge of the garden within, while Zull faced off against another man.
Hoping that none of them saw how much pain she was in, Zaphyr shouted, “Free my brother and my friends now, or die.”
The man Sir Kyr was holding to the table, who she took to be the leader, let out a short, sharp laugh at this. “So, Zaphyr Tyrell had deigned to join the party at last. I’m afraid you’re a little late; hope you don’t mind that we’ve gotten started without you.”
Zaphyr blinked. “Did you hear what I just said?” she asked incredulously.
“I did,” he said calmly. “I just chose to ignore it. It’s irrelevant to the situation at hand, after all.”
Zaphyr clenched her hands into fists at her sides, shaking with fury. “And why would that be?” she asked in a deadly, soft voice.
“Simple. You don’t kill. Everything I have learned about you and your brother has proven that,” Melanc told her confidently. “So, your threat holds no weight. I still have superior numbers on my side and can control the bodies of three of your friends. Four, depending on how you wish to count it.”
Zull, who had been studying Zaphyr’s expression since she arrived, said, “You’ve made your last mistake, Melanc.”
Zaphyr reached a hand to her shoulder, groaning softly in anguish as she painfully tore the wound open once more and drew from it a sliver of blood, enough to form another small dart of blood. Before anyone else could react, she hurled that dart at the man standing before Zull. It went cleanly through his forehead, killing him in a single, swift strike. He fell to the ground at Zull’s feet, his own blood trickling out from the gash in his forehead.
In that instant, the garden exploded into another frenzy of movement. Sir Kyr spun, knocking the thrall holding the crossbow to his head aside, then lifted Melanc into the air once more and threw him against the far wall of the compound, which he hit with enough force to break several ribs, judging by the pained wheeze he involuntarily let out. Despite this, he maintained enough mental focus to order his two thralls holding Vard, each of whom then used their free arms to draw their knives. The rest of Melanc’s thralls, now totally free with his attention so utterly focused, took the opportunity to flee. Meanwhile, Vyle and his men ran to stand beside Sir Kyr and aid him as they could.
Recognizing the danger that Vard was now in, Zull darted forward and tackled the thrall holding Vard’s left arm, throwing off his balance and making him let go of the bard. Vard used his free hand to then grab his other attacker’s wrist, struggling with him and desperately trying to keep him from using his weapon. They wrestled back and forth for several tense moments, before Vard twisted his opponent’s wrist far enough that the thrall dropped the knife to the ground. Just as Vard seemed to be gaining the upper advantage, however, the thrall kicked him in the stomach, hard enough to break his grip as he grunted in pain. The thrall, still working on the orders of Melanc, picked up its knife and held it ready, eyes focused on Vard. Then, before anyone else could react, Zaphyr struck once more, another blood dart hitting the knife-wielder through the heart, slaying him as well. As he slowly slumped to the ground, groaning to himself, Zull also got back to his feet, the man he had knocked over lying there, stunned, eyes vacant. Eying his sister warily, Zull stepped over to join her, only commenting, “that wound in your shoulder looks serious.”
“I have had worse,” she told him curtly. “Let’s take care of this assassin before he causes any more harm.”
“Not yet,” Zull advised. “There’s still some valuable information he could tell us.”
“The name is Tyer Melanc. Pleasure to finally meet you,” the assassin told Zaphyr, supporting himself with one hand on the wall behind him as he stared at them each in turn. His gaze flicked from Zaphyr’s remorseless expression to Zull, who seemed to be feeling pity, to Sir Kyr, to Vard, to Vyle and his men. Laughing weakly, Melanc commented wryly, “I’m glad I accepted this contract. It’s a truly enlightening experience, to face one’s betters.” He raised his hands in a mock toast to Zull and Zaphyr. “You two would make magnificent assassins; your talents would be wasted as simple healers. Something to consider for the future, I should think.”
“Tell us who the Master is,” Zull commanded Melanc.
Melanc shook his head. “You mean you haven’t figured it out already?”
Zull and Zaphyr’s gazes turned to each other, silently communicating, before they turned their attention back to Melanc. “We have our suspicions,” Zull said. “But you met him.”
“Hah,” Melanc said wearily. “So, I am superior to the unsurpassable Tyrell twins in one area. That’s comforting to know, I suppose.” His gaze flicked over the twins’ shoulders, then back to them. “No, I don’t think I will tell you, after all. It would spoil the fun.”
“Nothing about this is fun, you monster,” Argus Vyle said, Vard nodding his agreement with the sentiment.
“Then you aren’t approaching it right,” the assassin said chidingly. “If you don’t love your work, why do it?”
“You aren’t leaving this garden alive, unless you tell us what we want to know,” Sir Kyr said, baring his claws and fangs in unison.
“I may not leave here alive,” Melanc admitted. “But neither will the twins.”
While they had all turned their attention to him, Melanc had kept his grasp on his thrall carrying the crossbow, who Sir Kyr had battered to the side. Using his hemomancy, he had guided him along stealthily, weapon in hand, until he stood behind the band. Raising the weapon, the thrall pointed it at the back of Zaphyr’s neck. Vard, frowning at the assassin’s word, turned and saw what he planned. “Zaphyr!” he shouted as he shoved her as hard as he could. “No!”
The thrall fired, the crossbow bolt flying through the space where Zaphyr had been an instant ago and instead striking Melanc in the chest. Melanc let out a strangled gasp and, looking down, stared in befuddled amazement at the lethal injury. His final thrall, now freed from his control, blinked sleepily, looking down at the unfamiliar weapon he clutched in his hand with confusion.
“It would appear I have miscalculated again,” Melanc said, sagging against the wall and sliding to a sitting position.
“No!” Zaphyr said, darting forward. “Tell us who the Master is! Please!”
Melanc smiled wearily, his eyes clouding over. His mouth moved, as if he was trying to speak, but no words came out. With a final, soft sigh, his head lolled to the side, eyes staring unseeing at the house behind the others. Tyer Melanc, the last of the Master’s assassins, was dead.