James’s hands shook like a tree caught in a furious storm. The dagger he held felt a great deal heavier than he could have ever imagined. He looked to his father sitting on a bench nearby. Raum Nixus was a ragged, tired man dressed in a clean cotton-white shirt, calloused hands resting on his lap. Above James, a hand grabbed his hair tight and twisted his head back toward what he’d been avoiding. Who he’d been avoiding.
Restrained against a featureless stone brick wall was a grimy man in a torn and tattered red uniform coat. The tall man behind James cast a shadow over half of the man’s dirtstained face. He’d been gagged and his arms were held over his head by metal chains pulled tight. Sturdy braces held his ankles to the floor. His eyes were glassy, lips split and cracked. A line of dried blood marred one cheek, and the red-coated man was missing two fingers on his left hand. A shoulder patch marked him as a member of the Feathered Chevaliers.
“What are you waiting for?” the tall man asked.
“Who was he?” James asked softly.
“A murderer of three that we know of and more besides. That blood on his face doesn’t belong to him. His unit crossed the mountains in the night. They avoided detection by cutting the throats of men and women and children just like you sound asleep in the bedrolls of their tents.”
“That can’t be,” he protested, gritting his teeth.
“Are you surprised? That’s the true face of Ganymede’s peace,” the tall man said. The glassy-eyed captive shifted slightly, groaning softly as he did. “More blood and butchery, the same as any commander in these times. No different from the rest. To unite men under one banner and end this spiraling cycle of madness, that is why we serve Munitio.”
Could he reconcile his dream of joining the Chevaliers with the brutal reality? Once, James would have tried. He would carefully weigh it all on a scale before finally coming to a decision. But he didn’t have that kind of luxury anymore. His life, and his father’s life, balanced on a dagger’s edge. That was the dagger he held, so terribly heavy.
And yet… despite its weight, he’d already made up his mind, hadn’t he? The moment he’d asked who the man was instead of who he is.
“You’ve stopped shaking.”
James plunged the dagger through the man’s heart, and in doing so, took his first life. The man’s body jolted only once, then fell still. His glassy eyes remained open, staring sightlessly. James backed away, dagger held tight by his white-knuckled hands. Blood flowed from the mortal wound he’d inflicted like a leak in a chipped gourd.
What he had done, had it been for vengeance? To end a cycle? Just to survive? He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t made a decision before he did it. His tall master told him to kill that man, so he did. He didn’t think things through, not this time. He acted as an extension of his master’s will. A tool used for its purpose. It was easier to think of himself that way.
“Well done, Typhos,” Vega said, patting his shoulder.
“Typhos?”
“That is your new name. And you, dear old daddy, are now called Barbatos. Henceforth you both belong to Cathartes, and thus belong to me. Your old lives are over and your old names are no longer required. Never mention them— never think of them— again. Understood?”
“Understood, Master Vega,” his father said.
“Understood, Master Vega.”
His master pressed some sort of cloth into his hand.
“Good. Clean yourself off, Typhos. With me, Barbatos.”
The door closed behind them, and he was left with nothing but the sound of his heart thumping loudly in his ears and the sight of the man he’d killed, blood slowly collecting inside a basin around his feet.
He watched the blood leak out until his mind finally caught up. His master had handed him a cleaning rag. Specks of red had splattered across his hands as well as the dagger itself. He wiped it off as best he could, sheathing the dagger and leaving the dead Chevalier behind. He clung to that bloodied rag, knuckles white as he’d killed the man with. After he left, he wouldn’t let the attendants of Vega take it away.
It belonged to Typhos.
———
A heavy rain beat down on Typhos as he adjusted the neck of his filthy, sodden cloak and looked out from atop the Alder residence through a pair of binoculars across the pitiable village beneath his perch. Once nothing but a mishmash of little log huts and a scant handful of brick-and-mortar buildings that had survived the Razing, Castitas had transformed in the weeks since its occupation. Those homes, huts and all, were packed full of Daevan soldiers. Tents and campfires and cookpots lined every cobblestone street in sight and beyond, sheltering the full might of the Emperor’s Shield. Asmari Capella’s army.
A few soldiers dressed in the Third’s brown-and-yellow were still milling about, patrolling the tents in patterns he’d spent the last hour observing and studying in detail. He’d already figured out the game. Although the highest concentration of soldiers surrounded a two-story red brick building where Capella had set up her base of operations, there was a separate area of interest— an unusually concentrated cluster of tents several streets over. What the tents occupied was not a street or road in itself, but instead an open space dedicated to the rows of a small orange orchard. It was watched by fewer soldiers, but the paths they walked were smarter; more efficient, less overlapping. It was as if the Third were trying to hide the fact that something important was at that orchard. And that, he suspected, was where they would find Rixator.
When the last of the Third’s campfires went out, lost to howling wind and relentless rain, Typhos lowered his binoculars and gazed northward. The sun had taken a bow and exited its endless stage. A blanket of black clouds rolled across that stage, lit by the occasional bolt of lightning. Booming thunder followed each strike. This storm had been disrupting communications to Ulciscor; the last news they’d heard from Mammon and the Sixth was hours ago, around three o’clock. By now, the populace was firmly in the throes of Highlight, either on their knees begging to be conquered or waging a full-scale revolt against their sworn defenders.
Forced to kill their own soldiers, the Raven said in its childlike voice from inside the coingourd strapped to his ankle. Sounds familiar.
No one’s forcing me to do this, Typhos thought. I made a choice.
He’ll kill you if you don’t. At least, you think he will.
Ever heard of boundaries, Raven?
Not my fault. Try not thinking so loudly for a change. You’ve really got to get a handle on that. Admit it. This is no choice. That master of yours treats you as though you’re a clay doll. He molds you. Plays with you.
Stop bothering me or I’ll chuck your prison into the Sheer Sea. Wait until the mission is over. Then we’ll talk.
Looking forward to it, Typhos or James or whatever your name is supposed to be. You still haven’t actually told me, you know. Bit rude.
After the mission. I want to focus.
The Raven sighed. Oh, fine. Do as you like.
He lowered himself from the Alder residence’s gabled roof down to a flatter section that his boots could just barely touch when holding on to the edge by his fingertips. He crept around to a window and tapped on it twice with a thumbnail.
The window glided open partway without so much as a squeak. Cathartes had lubricated every hinge in the building weeks ago. He kept his head down and climbed inside. He doubted anyone from Capella’s camp would be watching their windows so keenly, but it was good hygiene for stealth specialists to take as many precautions as possible. If there was an outside observer, odds favored they’d be looking around the height of a person’s head and would have missed his entry.
He nodded to Niya. She stood in the dark featureless room, flat against the wall just beside the window. The Samatkaeb woman bowed her head slightly to him and slid the window back down, then trailed after him into the tiny, low-ceilinged hallway of the third floor. Typhos pushed open a door and entered what was once a cramped storage space, now empty grounds for the vultures to gather.
The two veterans inside wore the red-on-black robes like Niya, though theirs had more elaborate patterns to indicate authority. Short-haired Grendelle and snarky-lipped Kudlak, did not bow their heads as he approached. From the perspective of the eldest members of Cathartes, he’d lost trust with Master Vega and needed to earn their respect back by faithfully performing his duties. Grendelle he knew, a Siri woman that managed the scouts and delivered many messages on Levian’s behalf that required the utmost secrecy over the years. Kudlak he was somewhat unfamiliar with, but he knew of him. The wavy-haired man looked irritable; face unpleasant and arms folded. He was tapping his foot impatiently. Kudlak these days led most of the organization’s group missions, directing lower-ranked members through combat situations. Typhos had predominantly spent the last few years on various forms of training and solo missions, so he hadn’t been given the opportunity to get to know the man.
“Well, Ace?” Kudlak asked.
“I no longer believe the target resides with Capella. He’s secluded himself close by, inside an orchard with too many tents and patrols too precise. He may expect this.”
Kudlak’s eyes flicked to Grendelle.
“My best scouts report the same,” she said. “One of the Shield’s brigadiers was spotted in that area. A man named Kresnik.”
“What does he look like?” Typhos asked.
“He is—”
“A pompous, primped fool,” Kudlak said, cutting her off. “Long black ponytail, white gloves and boots. Face drenched in such skincare products you’d think the bastard was made of porcelain.”
Grendelle blinked.
“I take it,” Niya said gently, “there is some history between you and this Kresnik fellow.”
“They entered Cathartes together,” Grendelle said. “The two of them were transfers from Munitio, intended as reinforcements during our wide-scale operations against the remnants of the Chevaliers.”
Typhos could hear the unspoken part as well as if it’d been shouted. One took to the lifestyle of Cathartes, the other didn’t. Even the oft-possessive Levian Vega must have agreed this Kresnik’s talents were better spent elsewhere. He glanced at Kudlak and saw the bloodlust in his eyes. He must have been told by Levian that was a high likelihood he’d encounter his former associate when he agreed to lead this mission.
“You just leave him to me,” Kudlak said with a wicked smile as he crackled his knuckles. “I will put down that porcelain-faced runaway.”
“We’re going with the orchard then?” Typhos asked.
“Yes,” Kudlak said. “We proceed under the assumption that Rixator is somewhere in those tents. Grendelle, you were as confident as our Ace about the target’s location. Did you have your scouts sketch a map?”
She flipped a folded paper along the back of her hand and through her fingers with dextrous skill until it was clutched between her index and middle digits, then offered it to Kudlak. He unfurled it on the floor and spent a moment studying it.
“No doubt about it,” he said. “They’re hiding something from their neighbors in those tents. Let’s talk strategy. Master Vega wants the target alive, but there’s a lot of leeway otherwise. First, those patrols…”
As their mission leader pulled a marker out from his belt pouch and began to elucidate everyone on their individual tasks ahead, anticipation thrummed through Typhos’s blood.
You asked to know me, he thought. Soon you’ll see.
———
Typhos threaded the needle and pushed it through his scarf. He brought the needle around and began using a practiced hand to connect the fraying scarf to the bloody rag with a blanket stitch. He would trim those fraying threads afterward. It wouldn’t do to have the scarf catching on any old thing that he— No, wait. Stop. His name was James. He was James. He’d been doing that more and more as of late. He shook his head as if to ward the thought off.
“Doing alright, son?” Raum asked.
“Fine, father.”
Raum Nixus had a plan to escape. He hadn’t shared all of the details, but James knew it required them to deployed on the same mission. Vega was careful, though. Careful and crafty. More than any man James had ever known, maybe more than he ever will. Only thrice in fifty-eight missions had they been paired together, and always part of a larger unit.
Fifty-eight missions. It had been two, perhaps three years since his initial training concluded and James became a full-fledged assassin of Cathartes. His peers had argued at first, but his skill with the sword held all tongues. How Jubi-ei would weep if the man knew what he’d become.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Sewing work finished, James wrapped the scarf around his neck, the newest rag a different color than the last. A patchwork of cloth that came in all shapes and sizes and colors bound together and stank of unwashed blood and grime. Always he wore it on the days of a mission.
“I’m going,” he said.
“Come back.”
“I will.”
Several weeks later, eighteen assassins of Cathartes infiltrated what appeared to be an abandoned hospital on the mountainside of northern Vega, James among them. Long had the disciples of Levian Vega known it was the base of the ever-reclusive Chevaliers, but only now was the time right for the vultures to descend upon them. A bulk of the crimson-coats had left, headed for Altair on a desperate quest to forge an alliance with a modest band of rebels loyal to the Families of old. Only a skeleton crew had been left behind, and soon they would be skeletons in truth.
He crept through the dark corridors accompanied by one partner, a veteran woman bearing a scar on her left cheek who’d taught him the finer points of an assassin’s footwork. Lightly they stepped, not a sound to be heard in the hospital. Every door the two of them passed he eyed cautiously, expecting Chevaliers to pounce on them at any moment.
It was that cautious, anticipatory state of mind that allowed him to pick up on a well-greased door opening soundlessly behind them. Though it made no noise and no light spilled from the inside, he still managed to notice the door’s opening because the corridor’s air flow had been disrupted, causing a subtle shift in temperature.
How many seconds since it opened? He spun immediately, scarf of rags billowing from the motion. As he did so, he drew the blade from his belt and became Typhos. The child prodigy of Cathartes. Armed with Vega’s swordsmanship, he could humble most of the adult members.
A single enemy. In the darkness, he could not make out detail, but it was definitely the Chevalier uniform. A short man with no hair to speak of, the lower half of his face wrapped in darkly-colored cloth. He’d already taken a stance of attack.
The veteran woman was slow to react and took the man’s blade with a hastily-drawn dagger to divert the blow. It still managed to glance off her side and she muffled an instinctive yelp of pain. The man was wide open, so Typhos struck. He sought the kill— and the simplest way to accomplish that was to sever the man’s carotid artery. His qualms about the value of a stranger’s life had long been quashed; stomped and thrashed and beaten out of him.
The Chevalier was a blademaster or close to it, that much was clear. Like lightning he pulled his sword back to fend off Typhos, then swung at the woman as he stepped back to create distance. He angled himself in such a way that they could not assault him in tandem. His movements were tight and precise, this time there was no opening to speak of. Perhaps he hadn’t expected a child to go on the offensive. Many of Typhos’s peers in Cathartes worked in support roles such as scouting or field medicine. Rarely did the other children take to the bloody work, and none like he.
The female veteran was no slouch. She fought the man to a draw for almost a full minute despite the weapon disparity. It came as almost a disappointment to Typhos when the blademaster was brought down by a knife to the back, courtesy of another Carthates member who’d found them by following the sound of steel.
He tended to his partner’s wounds using a first aid kit strapped to his calf. The worst of it was that first glancing blow she’d taken, but it wasn’t that deep; she would live. She did not thank him. You were expected to help your fellow vultures, but that was where it ended. Bonds between members that did not know each other prior to joining the organization was expressly forbidden.
The third Cathartes member who’d assisted them had vanished as swiftly as he’d appeared. Typhos poked his head into the room the Chevalier blademaster had come out from, but it was empty. An old office, he thought. Distantly, he could make out the sound of men screaming on the other end of the hospital. Just as the veteran was telling him she was ready to move again, the lights in the corridor and the empty room flicked on. That was the signal that the perimeter around the building was secure, along with some key rooms and chokepoints. It was over, barring any other blademasters stowing themselves away in dead end rooms.
He let his vision adjust to the brightness and spared a glance for the man lying flat on his back in the corridor. The man stared sightlessly at the ceiling with pinkish-white eyes and his skin was tinged a faint cyan. The curious colors of the Shinkaian people. Wait. It couldn’t be…
“What are you doing?” the woman asked as he crouched and pulled away the blademaster’s face mask. That mustache, the lines and wrinkles and blemishes of his face. It was unmistakably the man who’d first mentored him in the martial arts. For one fleeting moment he was back in Lumina, practicing his kata under the crimson laurels. A naive boy who wanted the strength to protect a world already hopelessly broken.
Goodbye, Jubi-ei.
“Did you know him?” she asked as he rose.
“I thought I did,” Typhos said. “It seems I was mistaken.”
She said nothing and led the way toward where the other vultures would be waiting with fresh orders to sweep the place and wipe out any remaining Chevaliers.
———
When the rolling sea of black clouds smothered the last patch of moonlight poking through its defenses, Typhos pulled his face mask up and strode quietly into the rainsoaked orchard. No lanternlight reflected off Hagetaka as he drew it in the shadow of the first unwitting patrol and rent the man’s neck with such silent grace as if he’d died in his sleep.
The blindfold he’d worn for the last half hour offered him greater acuity in darkness and enough precision to snatch the corpse by the belt. With one hand he flipped the tachi into a reverse grip and sheathed it as he gently lowered the corpse face-down in the mud and swiped the lantern away, lowering the hood’s narrow opening the rest of the way to snuff its blinding flame. Distantly to his left and right dropped two more dark outlines. Niya and Grendelle grabbed their respective victims and did much the same. Kudlak, he could not see. Their mission leader was on the other end of the orchard, nearest the destination: the central tent in a tight cluster of tents numbering a dozen or so. Only a few rows of properly-spaced outlier tents barred Kudlak’s way to the cluster, less than half as many for the trio whose job was to draw the soldiers out and create the opening necessary for Kudlak to breach the cluster.
Twenty seconds until discovery. He stalked through the orchard as fast as he dared, not allowing his boots to slosh in the mud. Through the corner of his eye he saw Grendelle reach her second target and bury a smallsword between their ribs. He came upon his own, a hooded figure short as he was and struck the blow. He must have missed her carotid by a fraction of a hair, because the figure turned to him with horror in her eyes. A woman that looked not much older than he, the act of turning sealed her fate by allowing Hagetaka to finish the grisly deed. Her blood splattered across his patchwork cloak. Those eyes rolled back and one soft, futile gurgle escaped her throat as he lowered her to the ground. He pushed the woman from his mind and looked for Niya. She’d succeeded too. Three lives traded for twenty seconds more. On to the next.
Again and again they bartered lives for time. The strategy wouldn’t last. Discovery was inevitable, but the more they killed, the clearer Kudlak’s path to Rixator became. When the alarm was to be raised, the three of them would head straight for the cluster to engage the enemy from behind. Confusion and panic would sweep through the Third like a contagion. That was the plan. At least, until a drunken soldier stumbling toward a nearby tent looked right at Typhos and asked who he was. A flash of lightning illuminated the muddied corpse that laid at his feet.
You’re not at all the person I thought you were, the Raven said. Oh, what a pretty smile you’re making under that mask. Finally some honesty.
“Now,” he said softly, caressing Hagetaka’s sheath. “I’ll show you.”
Mouth agape, the soldier had the presence of mind to shout a call to arms as Typhos closed the distance in two splashes and cleaved, parting head from shoulders. The crashing of thunder overpowered the twin thumps into the muddy earth. It didn’t matter— the next patrol was only a few feet away and saw the entire exchange.
He faced his next victim, a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard echoing the call to arms. He brandished a broadsword and Typhos became acutely aware of the wedding ring on the man’s finger. The thought was gone from his head the moment he plunged his tachi through the soldier’s neck, evading his first and only strike. The man sank to his knees and fell forward into the mud.
He closed his eyes and saw the chained Chevalier hanging limp inside the execution chamber. Even now he could feel the blood running down his fingers like droplets of rain. As the storm pelted his reflective gloves with rain, he wondered which sensation was more real.
Where was Niya? He scanned the tents for her crimson-on-black robe. There. It only took a moment to reach her position. That moment was all it took for cries of alert to spring up all around them. He grabbed her by the hand and made for the nearest tent, one that hadn’t made any noise yet. They entered, pushing through the flaps to find six stuffed bedrolls. He pointed at the three on the left. He crouched and methodically dealt with them before they could rouse. He glanced at Niya and she nodded, her side done. He motioned toward himself with his fingers and sliced through the back of the tent, creating a second flap that led out toward the cluster.
“Are you sure?”
“Scared, Samatkaeb?”
She grimaced. “Never again, my Ace.”
“Then keep your wits about you. We’re improvising.”
They ducked back out into the rain-drenched orchard and crossed two rows of tents before a half-dressed soldier in his boxers shouted at them, demanding to know why two Cathartes agents were this far inside the camp. Typhos left that one to Niya, turning his attention toward a bald man and a muscular woman in brown-and-yellow that had just entered his tachi’s range. He stepped between them and laid a hand on Hagetaka’s sheath, making no attempt at concealing hostility. The pair made no demands like the first soldier had. Instead they drew their swords and skipped straight to trying to kill him. He passed through them as they lunged, keeping his body perpendicular to dodge both strikes. Typhos slipped a knife out from underneath his glove and slashed across the back of the woman’s hand. He wrapped one arm— then two— around the man’s hands and put his entire body weight behind shoving the soldier’s sword farther than he’d ever intended to strike. The man cried out as his sword went through the woman’s left breast and into her heart. His cry grew shrill and ragged as Niya came from behind and opened his neck. Typhos stepped out of the way as the man dropped his sword and pressed both hands to his neck, eyes bulging; screaming. Niya shoved him aside and he collapsed.
“You look bored,” he said, replacing his knife. He circled in place to make sense of the shouting and running amid the flashing rain and thunder. There was some semblance of organization near the outermost tents of the cluster, six or seven of the Shield’s soldiers conversing at the intersection of three bunched-together tents. One pointed somewhere— he wasn’t sure at what exactly— and another went running in that direction. Six was already too much for a pair of assassins. Unless they split them up. He could deal with three at once. Four was pushing it.
“And you look excited,” she said coolly. “Split them up?”
“That’s what I was thinking. I need you to—”
The distinct crack of a thunderflute split the air, but that wasn’t what stopped him short. Right then, he glanced off into the tent rows and happened to catch sight of a Shield soldier running a lance through the chest of another Shield soldier.
“Was that Rixator’s?” Niya asked.
“Change of plans,” Typhos said and yanked her into a run.
“We’re leaving?”
He didn’t answer, focused on the darkness ahead. Where had that soldier gone? He didn’t have to wait long to find out. From a blind spot behind a tent came a dark-mustached man in Shield garb. He swept his lance to ward off Typhos, rain spraying. Lightning illuminated the pink scar that ran horizontally across his face.
“I’ve brought a kettle for the wake,” the soldier said.
So that’s what was going on. Even the veterans had refused to explain the full scope of the plan to him. He was just supposed to take them at their word that Kudlak would be fine diving into the ringwasp’s nest by himself. He assumed that Calliphlox had been accompanying him since he hadn’t seen the man all day— which, admittedly, wasn’t new.
“So you have,” Typhos said. “Can I borrow you?”
In response, the man thrust his lance at him. That was a serious attack, and would have pierced his shoulder had he not evaded. He stepped back, wary. This man was a Cathartes agent, was he not? He didn’t recognize every single one— there were thousands. But that stage of the plan was over. Shield soldiers were killing Shield soldiers. It didn’t take a radio scientist to figure out what was going on. The Third would identify the false soldiers quickly and eliminate them. His forehead felt slick, not all from the rain. Was he wrong?
“You cannot,” he said. “See to your task, as we must to ours.”
He slowly backed away and withdrew. Niya said nothing— she’d lost weeks to Cherima too; she was probably as lost as he was. He filed the encounter into the back of his mind and set his sights on the soldiers at the outskirts of the tent cluster. Their group was eight strong now, a ninth en route to join them, their back to Typhos.
Never put your back to Typhos.
He approached without a sound, deliberately slowing each step just before his boots touched the mud. Then Hagetaka danced, slicing apart raindrops in freefall and plunging through the Shield soldier’s back in one fluid motion. The body slid off his tachi down face-first into the mud as lightning flashed. A few of the group shied back as they saw him. He knew what he looked like. He bore what they called the emperor’s own eyes, scarlet-red and afire as if glowing in the pitch-black. Typhos pulled his face mask down and gave them his most unnerving grin. Oh, he knew what they saw. What everyone always saw. Not a person. An instrument of death.
He stepped on the back of the dying soldier. More than a few shouted angrily as he flicked his wrist to splatter blood sticking to Hagetaka onto the body below. He sheathed the blade and broadened his smile. Two livid-faced men broke formation, hammer and broadsword raised.
That’s right, he thought and let the smile slip. Lose your composure.
He stood his ground and tilted his body. Heavyset Hammer charged like a bull, nearly stumbling in the mud as he clubbed empty space. Typhos took one step back to avoid gaunt-cheeked Broadsword’s swing, then unsheathed his tachi and reclaimed the step, burying Hagetaka between the man’s ribs. Hammer’s nostrils flared; the man roared, swinging from the side. Typhos abandoned his stance and slid underneath Hammer. Mid-slide, he switched to a one-handed grip and slashed a half-moon arc. Blood leaked from Hammer’s bicep, but he didn’t go down. He kneed Typhos, who barely kept a handle on Hagetaka as he went tumbling to the ground. He found his feet and somersaulted just as the soldier’s hammer crashed into the mud with a mighty roar and a clap of thunder, spraying puddled water like a boulder dropped into a lake. His landing wasn’t perfect— he splashed down on one knee, rolling out of the way of another slam of steel.
Mud squelched all around him. The black sky flashed upon three more soldiers joining the fray. Breath hot and heart pounding, Typhos stopped thinking. Sink or swim. He threw himself at Hammer, leaping over a low swing. He grabbed onto the soldier’s bulging right shoulder for leverage and jammed Hagetaka into the left side of Hammer’s trapezius muscle like a fork plucking sausage. With a guttural grunt Typhos tore upward until he broke through bone and freed his tachi in a fountain of red. He brought his knees up and kicked off the screaming soldier’s chest, using the abandoned handle of the hammer to vault over the chest-height cleave of a fresh opponent’s axe. Biting wind and freezing rain buffeted him as he rolled and somersaulted around a relentless assault from the three new attackers. He sheathed Hagetaka and shook a knife free from both his wrists, flinging one through the eye of a wiry spearman and grazing the cheek of a broadsword-wielding woman with the other. The spearman was on his left, so he dove that way to avoid prune-faced Axe’s next rain-spraying cleave. To his credit, the blinded spearman actually tried to strike him. The spear narrowly missed as Typhos angled his body out of its path and lunged at the female soldier. He unsheathed Hagetaka and tore through the yellow-throated part of her uniform, then spun around and buried the tachi in the back of Axe’s neck. He couldn’t get the blade out before the wiry spearman’s thrust forced him to step back. Twice more the soldier thrusted as his comrades toppled over, but this time Typhos stood perfectly still. The loss of an eye had destroyed the man’s aim. All that was left was to free Hagetaka and—
Arms like tree trunks wrapped tight around his chest, squeezing. He hadn’t noticed the splashing sounds behind him in the chaos of battle and bodies toppling. He wasn’t dead? Typhos thought, sweat and water beading down his forehead as he turned to face hammerless Hammer. The pressure increased, the hulking soldier’s grip tightening. The man had to be lightheaded with all that blood gushing from his shoulder. He threw his head back, trying to hit Hammer’s chin. No good, he wasn’t tall enough. He glanced at the spearman. Lining up the killing thrust.
No.
Point-blank, tip to Typhos’s heart. It wouldn’t miss this time.
No!
The spearman had Jubi-ei’s face. Then his father’s. Korsak Vankka. Levian Vega. Suri. Calliphlox. More.
NO! NOT HERE!
He banished the faces and willed all his strength into pressing one arm against his chest and slipping it out the top. His glove fell off as he did so, and he pushed that bare, pale hand into the fountaining wound and clawed like a savage beast. Hammer passed out, arms loosened. Typhos grabbed one arm and held it like a shield to absorb the thrust, then threw himself out of the way. Hammer’s corpse hit the earth with an enormous splash of grime-soaked water and soil.
“I will decide my death,” he growled, breathing hard. His rag cloak was coated in gore, trousers caked with mud. He trudged over to the heap that was once the axe-wielder and wrenched Hagetaka free. “On my own terms. No one else decides. Only me.”
An instrument of death, his song the frenetic drumbeat of freedom.