In all his years, Charlot had never been shot with an arrow before. It was a novel sensation, the blunt hammering feel of being struck, and then the sharpness of the arrowhead piercing his skin. Nemonullus was thrumming all the while in opposition, and the pain was nothing like it should have been. If not for the ring‘s power, the arrow would have gone right through his slender arm. The surprise made him drop Flaccaro, but the magic staff stood upright rather than falling. Charlot should have spotted the bowman long before. Blast his failing eyes! Blast his senile, sentimental daydreaming!

“Why did you do that?” Charlot asked, still perplexed. The bowman crashed out of the brush and steel flashed as he scrambled forward. He screamed, rushing forward with a dagger clutched in his hand. Though he’d been shot moments before and was still reeling a bit from the surprise of it all, Charlot was far calmer than the attacker. He could see at once the man had no idea how to fight with a knife.

Fortunately, Charlot was left handed and the attacker had shot his right arm. His hand dipped to the sheath at his belt as the attacker dashed forward, knife arm fully outstretched as if he intended to run Charlot through. Two words of power would send the man’s flesh sloughing off his bones as a smoldering ruin, but then there would be no answers. Instead, Charlot feinted that he was moving right and instead stepped backward. As he was intended to, the attacker went for the feint, dagger leading. At the last instant, he realized he’d been duped and whipped the blade back, but he was too late. Vitserpadag was singing free from its sheath, and Charlot whipped it upward with a low humming note that warbled to a high biting tone as it slid through flesh and bone. The ambusher’s hand tumbled to the ground, still incorrectly clutching the dagger.

Charlot drew a shocked breath–not at the sight of blood, but at the slowness of his own reaction. Only the feint had saved him from being skewered by the clumsy charge! The ring might have saved him again, but he’d likely have died of shame if the unskilled fighter had bloodied him.

Above his own dismay, Charlot could feel the blade’s adulation singing deep in his ears. How it loved to cut!

The bowman stumbled forward, crashing onto the ground. Vitserpadag had sliced so cleanly that the man didn’t even know he was cut yet. He scrambled back to his feet, wheeling toward Charlot as if he still held the knife. Charlot held up his own hand and tapped his wrist, politely letting the fool know he’d been dismembered. The man looked down and beheld the stump, which gushed blood.

Then came the screaming.

The man held up his bloody stump and bawled, curling into the fetal position on the ground and bleeding all over himself. Charlot saw that there was a real danger the man would bleed out. The attacker was rolling about and kicking his legs like a madman. He did not have the good sense to stanch his wound. Sighing, Charlot spoke a luminous sigil, and there was a hiss as the wound sealed shut. The awful stench of singed hair, boiling blood, and burning flesh rose around them, and once more Charlot was drawn into the memory. Visions of Berel burning danced before his eyes once more, but the man’s shrieking swiftly snapped him out of it. Charlot released the spell’s energy, thinking he’d perhaps let it go on a touch longer than he needed to.

Charlot hadn’t thought it was possible for the man to scream any louder but, apparently, he was mistaken. It was some time until the ambusher stopped, his face pale and bloodless.

Charlot inspected his own wound, which was superficial, though he was bleeding a bit. Worse, the arrow had left ugly holes in both his cloak and robe. The attempt on his life had displeased him, but now he was angry. Both garments were older than the impudent would-be assassin.

He removed both, standing there in his smallclothes before the man with the severed hand.

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Rummaging in the many pockets of the cloak, he found a little waxed paper packet of silver dust. Just the sight of it made him recoil and clench his teeth. He wasn’t hurt enough for the silver dust, thank the gods. In that same little pocket, he found another packet containing a bluish green powder. It had grayed a little with age, and he frowned, but he tapped it into the palm of his hand and rubbed it into his wound. It smelled of the sea and stung like a jellyfish, but his wound would not fester. Anemone dust was powerful stuff.

“Now,” Charlot said, donning his robe and cloak again. “Why did you do that?”

“Thought you were a Wick,” the man said, struggling to talk. He was in a great deal of pain.

“So, you just murder every Wiquwic you see? Is that how it goes?”

The man only clenched his teeth.

“Answer me or die,” Charlot commanded. His patience grew short.

“They steal children!” the man sputtered, his eyes illuminated with fear.

“Pah! Ludicrous, why would they steal children? You have to feed children. Find me a Wiquwiq who hasn’t spent their last sunpenny on liquor they spill or fine clothes they wear once or food they toss away half-eaten…”

Charlot trailed off, noticing the man’s look. He was in no condition to appreciate Charlot’s grousing.

“Please! Put it back,” the maimed bowman begged.

“What?”

“My hand!”

Charlot looked pointedly from the hand on the ground to the seared stump, soaked with blackened blood.

“Magic it back, please, I beg you! That’s my good hand. I can’t fight without it!” The man’s voice had gone high and wild. Charlot thought of remarking that he couldn’t fight so well with it either, but this was no time for levity.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Charlot said. He set his hand against the back of his bald head and winced. He realized at that moment that he could perhaps have re-attached the hand if he hadn’t cauterized the stump. But why should he? The fool had shot him. He was lucky to be alive.

“You can’t just go around shooting everyone you see. For all I know, you planned to rob me. I nearly killed you!”

“You’ve killed me! You’ve killed me!” the man bawled.

“If it’s that bad, I suppose I can put you out of your misery,” Charlot offered, but the man shrank from him, and then turned and fled into the bush, crashing about and stumbling. Charlot listened to his progress, in no mood to give chase.

“A Wick,” Charlot snorted. “A Wick wizard. Find me a humble Yarlee, a pale Amechee, and a Wyrth genius whilst you’re at it.”

The bush had no reply for his wit. Gingerly, Charlot pressed the wound on his shoulder. He’d certainly had worse. The sun fell on his face as the clouds shifted, and he yawned. It wasn’t even noon, yet he could do with a nap already.

Now he’d have to worry about the handless man following him and seeking revenge as he dozed. The ambusher would most likely have friends, family, or fellow thieves. Charlot realized he should never have let the man live. There was still time to finish what he’d begun. The man was lightheaded from blood loss and would tire before Charlot. Vitserpadag trilled faintly with excitement, and Charlot sheathed the blade. Instantly, the prospect of chasing after the man and cutting him apart seemed far less appealing. His face contorted with sudden fury.

“Why you conniving cutlery! How dare you try such a thing! I made you, and I can unmake you! Would you like to spend the rest of your existence at the bottom of a river, stuck in mud, sheathed until the end of time?”

The blade had no reply, and Charlot imagined that, to an observer, the whole scene would make him look quite mad. Cutting off a man’s hand and shouting at the dagger responsible. Yet, how dare Vitserpadag try to twist his will! For a moment, he teetered on the edge of casting it into the river, but in a way, he could not blame it for trying its luck. The dagger had been sheathed for a long, long time.

With a shrug, he continued down the path, frowning. Just what the hell was this hapless bowman doing so close to the Crimson Citadel?

Looking at the path, he realized it had been quite some time since he’d had to wither brushes to pass. Men were using this trail. Hunters were venturing much farther north than they ever had before. How swiftly time passed!

“Brandylaine,” Charlot said at last, telling himself he would not forget again.