Chapter 13

Day Six – Sunrise

Dawn went by and Father Sun hid away behind the clouds. It had cooled down again with the onset of rain, merging with the ever-present gray veil that lay upon the city. The inhabitants of Teblen didn’t know nor cared about this particular day. It did not stand out. It was like every other court day.

Many had gathered behind the caged wagons made from sturdy wood. Sixteen men and three women, penned together with no room for comfort. Shackled and restrained, an imposing iron lock weighing down on their freedom.

Only one of them stood out as darker and stranger. But among this criminal bunch of the worst offenses, not even that mattered. Even at this early time of day, the spectacle was too appealing to miss. Many accompanied the procession, the public shaming of these murderers and rapists, even if it was only for a couple hundred yards. Armed with latrine buckets to empty into the sewage, as the laws of the Baronet decreed. A handy opportunity to show these outlaws what civilized townsfolk had to say. And if a bucket slipped, just for this occasion, it may be overlooked.

Sagir sat in the far end of the second cage. The one up front was only half as long, as it also had the coach box on it, separated from the cage by thick planks. A plain looking commoner, old, with a hat made from straw and a woodchip between his teeth, sat at the helm. Right next to him, a fully tinned fella with a bascinet helmet that had a latticed visor. An old model, most likely second hand. A hefty chestplate, arms and legs adorned in iron that loosely fit and some faulds covering his hips. No rivets or maille peaked out from beneath, but paddings that had good coin poured into them. The weapons of the man were hidden away, under the seat or behind the planks. But a dagger in an ornamented scabbard showed the crest of his patrician family. A green shield with a silver gulden and two hands shaking in agreement.

The guards escorting them were clad in maille and cheap paddings, each wearing a different kind of kettle. Only the crossbowman on top of the transport wore additional platings around the neck, shoulders and shins. Clopping sounded through town from the bumpy, cobbled street. The man on top, of rank corporal, kept his feet steady though. The coachman took his time, slow, to let the commonfolk savor the show. As long as no one sullied a watchman, or approached them with dangerous tools, the humiliation could continue. If anything, the guard’s grins and mockery encouraged it.

Whenever an inmate would speak up or misbehave in the eyes of a spectator, the soldier above them drew his sidearm. To threaten and rattle at them good with the arming sword each guard wore. If it wasn’t him, another one would smash the flat of their halberd into the cage’s side. Give them a good scare. With all their humanity lost, there was nothing else for them to do but cover their eyes and mouths and keep quiet.

The curtains of the house conquered by the vile defiler of Westwatch and his cronies were left open by a finger’s width. Seyfe was on the lookout. Nobody but she and her sister Dīnyā were expected to come over that early, in service to their masters. Anyone else coming in search of friends, family or masters would be sent away disappointed. If anybody would be too insistent, a warm welcome at Zaber’s hands would be waiting for them. But gladly, none did.

Kovada and Seyfe had two different spears, neither really made for warfare. A proper pike would have been too long to take inside a house. And throwing spears hadn’t found use in warfare for centuries in Albion. Javelins and boar spears were for hunting, but would serve well enough. These sturdy weapons were all Asher could muster in this short amount of time. The more sophisticated weapons he and Zaber owned were not what the Yesilians were used to.

The mentor had helped his apprentice into his first fitting of armor, after which the boy’s dream of squiring finally became true. It was a complicated disappointment. Torm himself wore Zaber’s worn-out gambeson. It perfectly fit beneath the old hauberk that got it’s rust oiled off. With the lange messer at his hip, too, he even tried to act and move like Zaber. The crossbow cocked and loaded, with a quiver and a hook hanging from the boy’s belt. Every now and then, he fiddled around at the chinstrap of the skullcap.

As a man-at-arms of many years, Zaber stood slightly offset to the door. One hand held its handle, ready. A two handed kriegsmesser rested over his shoulder, held in place by his dominant hand. He wore a brigandine of smooth red-brown leather, with rusted rivets. It covered him down to the hips and a bevor made his mouth disappear behind steel. The visor of his sallet, in lower albinian fashion, was still open. From shoulders down to the gauntlets and from codpiece down to sabatons, all limbs were in full platings. Old, dented and clawed, but solid steel. Tarnished but not dysfunctional. A thick belt over the armor held the sheath of his arms in place and the trusty stiletto was waiting for action. The bolt cutter was tucked in too, as if it was a second sidearm. And around his torso, a thick leather baldric held Airich’s longsword in its scabbard. Pressed against his back, with no space to get tangled or lost.

None of them had spoken a word since the street became busy. The excruciating silence was only broken when Seyfe finally reported, “Horses. I see horses”, picked up her spears and nodded. “Four. And guards.”

Zaber let go of the knob and held out a fist. “One, two–” He opened his hand one finger after another, pausing for one long breath before finishing the count. “Three!

A startled scream and damp cracks of wood announced the party starting. A pompous man in colorful garments and a fine cloak nearly lost his poofy beret when he got the door slammed into his face. Stumbling backwards, he held his nose. Quick on his feet, he tried to look like he was shielding a young companion with his body. He shrieked once more when Torm let loose the first bolt. Out of the darkness of the house, a buzzing went by in front of the passerby’s faces.

Torm’s body had moved without thinking and the drill proved itself effective. He hit right beneath his chest and a face full of lumber shocked the crossbowman on top of the transport. Eyes closed and with a distorted visage, a painful “Argh!” opened the crowd up to panic.

Reloading, the boy stepped aside to make room for the vanguard. The carriage had come to a halt with an elongated “Hooo”. Slapping down the visor, an anticipating smile flared up and Zaber set foot outside. The same man that got his nose bumped before had made the wrong decision and fled into the line of fire. Without looking at him, Zaber swung his free gauntlet to the side and knocked the pompous man down. He grabbed the Kriegsmesser with both hands and lowered his stance, taking aim at the closest escort. The crowd was like a flock of hens, all over the street. The veteran took a horizontal swing at the coiffed neck of the baffled guard. Before his foe’s halberd changed into a defensive position, Zaber had cracked the man to the side and switched into a shoulder-push. The weight of a well trained man-at-arms, fully tinned, pushed the guard sidewards. Made room for another upwards swing that threw the overwhelmed soldier off his feet.

Surrounded by hysteria, Kovada paced into the street. The smile on his face was not due to witnessing Zaber’s craft. After years under their heel, Seyfe and he reveled in the beyazı’s reactions. It was like he never left the steppes, the deserts, the mountains and battlefields of his homelands. He flung the javelin effortlessly. With arms and a body like Kovada’s, the crossbowman on top could barely withstand the pain. Blinded by the splinters and hurt by the tip of a javelin piercing the maille at his chest ever so slightly, the guard’s first bolt shot above the door. Accompanied by a guttural warcry, the next javelin went into his hip and the woman that threw it became even louder afterwards. The corporal above the prisoners fell off his position. After a ‘jangle’ of his armor and a teeth-grinding ‘thud’ on the pavement, his movements came to an abrupt end. In glee, Seyfe switched to the boar spear, took position and stabbed the first felled fella by Zaber in the face.

“Two down,” she exclaimed, while Torm reloaded.

The veteran and his flankers looked menacingly mad. With each step that Zaber took, lowered in stance, the second guard shifted backwards. He wrapped his left hand around the edge of the Kriegsmesser for half-swording. The shaken escort took the initiative and hammered his halberd down on the armored assailant, only to be faced head on. Before the polearm retreated, Zaber stepped into its range and bound it from the block. A slow gait became swift steps and the length of the guard’s weapon became an obstacle to himself. Not for the lack of options or versatility, but for a lack of training and experience. Close enough, Zaber shifted his body and struck the guard twice in the face with the pommel of his blade. Bones shattered and blood splattered, truly delightful. The man-at-arms even caught a glimpse of a tooth breaking. Before the guard stumbled backwards, Zaber wrapped his arms and blade around the soldier’s neck and shoulders. A powerful kick swept the halberdier into the pavement. The guard’s last sight was the enormous hairy arms of Kovada, the boar spear he held and a fatherly expression that told him that it would be over soon.

Sagir didn’t believe his eyes at first. He had hoped and prayed for something to happen. Anything. But when it did, it was as unexpected to him as it was to the guards. The inmates around him were just as awestruck. The moment a patrician got hit in the muzzle, zest overtook their faces. The men and women grabbed their chains and shook them. Thrilled, their hollering was heard throughout the street.

“Shut up! Quiet!” Sagir tried to calm them down. “Zaber?!” He reached out to the armored man. Torm still hid away inside the house to reload. Sagir recognized Kovada and Seyfe, but none of them reacted. Everyone was too focused on the plan. “Kovada, Zaber! Listen, please–”

The tinned veteran looked straight at Sagir, through the slits of his sallet. It seemed like Zaber might have nodded, but he turned his head too fast to be sure. He looked around and searched for something else. Where was Asher? Where were the others? The guards on the other flank were on the move and the door where their comrades should have come out from was still closed. And so were the curtains. With heavy metal steps, Zaber closed in on the cages and moved between them.

“Metal man! Metal man!” chanted the captives. “Free us!”

“Zaber! Listen, they–” Sagir was barely audible through the heat. He had lost the brief eye contact they made and frustration set in. The stranger among the prisoners tried to gain his friend’s attention. “–quick, look ahead–”

When Zaber grabbed the pliers from his belt and held them in front of the cage, he had no answer for Sagir. “Free yourself,” he said to the closest prisoners. “If the Yesilian doesn’t make it, I’ll murder y’all.” For a brief moment, Zaber’s eyes shifted away from their enemies. Sagir was on the other end, closest to Seyfe. But Zaber had to say something, directed towards his foreign friend, even before he needed to find Asher. “I am s–” The words didn’t go through. A loud ‘clang’ hit Zaber’s head, deflected by the helmet, and slid down onto the pauldron.

While one guard was about to take the long route around the transport, the other one had taken the opportunity to charge Zaber. They faced off between the coupling of the wagons. A pressing pain went through Zaber’s spine and he had to take a step to the side to not stumble. There was not much space between the cages and these soldiers were not trained to fight in confined spaces like a formation. It took too long to draw the halberd back for another strike. Plenty of time for Zaber to grab it after the shock had faded out of his head.

“I’ll fix this!” he yelled at Sagir as he skipped over the coupling. The leverage of a polearm was much to withstand, but it was over quickly when Zaber landed on the other side. With a one-handed thrust, the former mercenary jammed the kriegsmesser’s tip into the guard’s stomach. Whether the maille or padding was penetrated at all wasn't important. Zaber drove all air out of this man’s body and shocked him into a cringed position. A loud cough signified success. The veteran let go of the polearm, grabbed his sword with two hands, and moved in. A swing to the face flipped the kettle helmet of the guard up and left a cut across his chin. Screaming, the private went to the ground and got his face stomped by Zaber.

“Ego ventilō!” A sonorous tenor raced through the streets. Ripples rushed through the glass that folk around this part of town were able to afford. As if a sudden storm had erupted, loose fabrics danced to the melody. Zaber braced himself against a gust of wind, even with an additional fifty pounds of armor. The steel sabatons grinded over the pavement.

The man-at-arms that sat next to the coachman had jumped off the seat and entered the battlefield. It took way longer than Zaber had expected and had the added surprise of being… that. They have sent a patrician to guard the transport. His arms were cast forward, as if he had pushed an entire block of air with the melody of his voice.

“Ego lapis~” From open palms, he turned them around and grabbed onto nothing. A sudden pull accompanied the end of a clear tenor that dipped into a falsetto for the last pitch. “Trahō!” A cobble, ripped right from the pavement, accelerated towards the singer. When it hit Zaber, the patrician’s wrists clashed against his own cuirass.

A resounding ‘clonk’ banged through the streets, demanding everyone’s attention. Torm finished reloading and stepped into the open door of their refuge. At that very moment he saw a stone getting splintered against Zaber’s helmet. For three days, the boy had been told that good armor was the most important asset to survive a war, not good weapons. That it gives a soldier the capability to tank through lesser men in droves, with no regard to his own well-being. The force needed to knock out a man in armor with one blow had to be immense. And it happened, right in front of Torm’s eyes. To the man he thought of as indestructible.

“No!” screamed Torm and took aim at the biggest threat yet. “Get up,” he continued and shot right into the side of the mage’s visor. The tip of the bolt stuck out between the latices of the bascinet and the patrician’s head was thrown to the side. Another, hunched over, high pitched tone came forth, all over the battlefield. But this time it was broken by faltered breaths and violent shivers. “Get up, get up, get up!” Torm yelled on and on.

The other guard had charged around the cages. The prisoners did their best to cut the links of their chains. One after another got rid of their shackles, jumped out and ran away. To no concern of the last remaining soldier to keep watch over them. He confronted Seyfe head on, who had also run around the transport. She deflected a first stab to the side, but her own counter-stab bounced right off the maille. She hadn’t fought in close to a decade and she and her family had avoided taking their victims head on like this. Nonetheless, a stroke to her head was easy to avoid. The beyazı were slow and she ducked under it without much effort. At least, that is what she thought before the soldier stepped in and attacked with the blunt pole. Seyfe was pushed to the right, but the gambeson softened the pain. A flick with the tip of her boar spear and she forced space between her and the guard again. Once more, she did no damage and the next thing she felt was intense pain. The axeblade of the halberd had entered her shoulder, but the weak arms and spirit of that beyazı could not split her bones. By the Stars, she thought, thanks to the padding.

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“Sandwhore, who are you?” asked the guard.

She fell to her knees and let go of the spear, but still had enough fight left. The woman tried to move her right hand, but the pain of shattered bones and split flesh was too intense. With her other hand, she grabbed the seax in her belt. “Senin ölümün olacağım…”

As the soldier withdrew his polearm, with a cruel grin on his face, a foreign humming closed in. “Dumb bitc–”

The guard had not noticed his impending doom. Did not notice the large, hairy man with arms that made wild animals jealous. Only noticed him when a spear went through his maille and paddings with uncanny strength. Kovada had chosen to thrust into the watchman’s armpit and split open the converging rings. So deep, that the tip emerged from the shoulder, right next to his neck. Noble Kovada had intended to drive it into his heart, but even he had become rusty after all these years, and nothing but hums available.

Their foe was overtaken by shock. The guard’s hands trembled and Kovada took away the soldier’s polearm before tossing it to the side. The watchman tried to grab his sidearm, but more steel was pressed inside him when Seyfe regained the strength to stand up. Her blade was driven through his chin, up his skull, before she fell to the ground, panting. Kovada took the guard’s arming sword and left Seyfe her own, before shouldering her.

“Whip it,” yelled the tenor between gasps. “Get going!”

The coachman had ducked away behind the wooden planks that separated him from the convicts. He held his straw hat when the patrician ordered him to get out and a squeak of relief escaped his mouth. Spitting out the woodchip from his mouth, he grabbed onto the reins and cracked them hard. About half the convicts of the second wagon had snipped off their chains and jumped out, everyone for themselves. One of them fell out of the wagon when the horses began to gallop, just after freeing himself. The wheels ran him over and his cheering holler turned painful.

Zaber had blacked out for a brief moment, as if a flash of light had sent him flying. Several feet away from where he stood, his clouded mind regained consciousness. A twitch ignited his limbs and the veteran dragged himself up from the ground. This was not his first bout. And it wouldn’t be his last. “Asher?” He murmured to himself, realizing that he laid right next to the other house. Braced against the wall, his instincts made him punch the windows into smithereens and tear down the curtains. This sight filled Zaber with so much rage that it helped him regain a clear and focused mind.

Yarış’ face had been busted up. A gash from his neck bled all over the floor, next to a toppled table. The tablecloth, drenched in red, covered half his body. Van and Nazik were only hinted at, feet behind some furniture, their weapons and armor lay all over the room. And in the middle of it, throned on a rocking chair, sat Asher. His doublet ripped open, blood spreading all over his chest, nearly slipping out of his seat. He looked at peace with himself, one hand on his bloodied sword.

“Ego ventilō,” chanted the tenor again, shriller and sharper than before. It blew Kovada right into his back, forcing Seyfe out of his arms and down from his shoulder. She screamed when she hit the ground, and Kovada turned around like the Sun Maiden turned a new dawn.

“You big, beautiful beast of a man!” Zaber’s voice rose up. The slow and confident steps of before had become volatile. Zaber picked up the kriegsmesser with both hands and marched towards the patrician. “This ain’t over, we have some more killing to do.”

Kovada looked down at his own body. These big hands used to be more capable and the barrel of his belly used to be filled with more strength. But today was the day. The day he would become Kovada again. He nodded more to himself than to Zaber and flipped the hunting spear over in his palm. With the looted arming sword still in the other hand, Kovada threw back his arm and began to hum, smiling. Before Zaber reached the patrician that was already aiming with his hands, Kovada spoke…

“Qūa~ṭı tarta~fie…” The words were slow and missed the melody. Slurred and barely intelligible, even for his own. He tried; Kovada wanted to give it his all, like he used to. But without the required instrument, the spell fell short and only the melody carried its meaning. With boosted strength, above even his extraordinary physique, he flung the spear not made for flinging. Noble Kovada hit his target like he was young again, but the cuirass withstood.

Before the patrician could say a word, his whole body lunged to the side. The spearhead gouged deep into the metal before the pole broke. He stumbled backwards, arms flailing. But he still stood, screaming off the top of his lungs. “I was–” His tenorous voice could not hide the terror. “Why are there two of you?! I was told–”

Torm forgot to reload when he saw Kovada’s might and how the spear flew faster than the bolts he shot. Even Zaber stopped, his brain still recovering from the hit. “You are outnumbered,” said the veteran after shaking off the surprise. “Running is your only chance.”

“I–” Their enemy looked around, his ill-fitted armor wiggling after these hits. “I can’t,” he said. The decorated dagger from his hip was unsheathed and it became obvious that exhaustion slowed him down.

“Shut him up!” Zaber yelled at Torm, who went head over heels to reload again. “Quick, before he–”

“Ego accelerō,” rang the words of the sonorous tenor. His voice had a slight taint in it, but the volume made up for it. He threw the dagger, revealed to be imprinted with dust like amber, at the Yesilian who had threatened his life so much. The patrician’s arms were weak, but he burned all scripture in one go. It catapulted the steel further away and pierced right into Kovada’s heart, with no armor to protect him.

For the first time in over a decade, the man known as Kovada had smiled. Respected and revered by his people, this had been the first day he was truly alive again. He pointed the arming sword at the foe who had slain him as his garments turned red. The whimpering to his side, coming from Seyfe, had stopped and turned into a silent sob. His head collapsed onto the pavement, Kovada’s beautiful face lay next to her.

“Help…” A surge ran through the woman. “Help, by ar-Ruḫḫ, help me! Get your pale beyazı ass over here!”

“Ego lap–” The tenor broke. A paving stone behind Seyfe had moved with a slight tremor, but couldn’t be fully grasped by the music. Another bolt to the patrician’s helmet had interrupted the spell and showered him in lumber. “I’ve had it with you,” he said and looked at Torm. Wheezing colored the shrill exclamation, exhausted. But not enough to not spread his arms wide open. Then they collapsed, as if he grabbed the air. “Ego incendō!”

A piercing high pitch raved around the boy and his hands combusted into raging flames. Overwhelmed and surprise by the heat, Torm let go of the crossbow. the eruption had been brief, and the wood had only been charred. But for long enough though to snap the string, ruining it for good. If he hadn’t been given gloves, the boy’s hands might have suffered a similar fate. But Torm recognized the patrician for who and what he was. His Mentor was a masterful thrower and had taught his apprentice well. The man they were facing was not a fighter and Torm felt empowered by the thought.

Zaber looked past the patrician, the wagons moving around a corner. One more prisoner had jumped off far away, but he doubted it was Sagir. With his attention back on their enemy, the voice became louder and louder. He knew this amateur was still a threat. But the voice was wrong, Brenz was wrong. They had lost and needed to retreat. The veteran wanted to save at least one fella on this starforsaken day.

“Keep him busy; I need to–”

“Got it,” yelled Torm and drew the lange messer. He was the closest to the patrician and charged.

Straight after getting interrupted, Zaber turned around and ran towards Seyfe. The voice screamed at him, but when he arrived next to Kovada, more urgent thoughts were able to usurp it. One last check, looking into Kovada’s smiling face, and Zaber moved on. “Damned, I really needed you,” he said to himself and knelt next to Seyfe. He grabbed her hand and stared at her through the slits of his helmet. “Don’t you dare fuck off into the Stars.”

“You promised,” replied Seyfe and clenched her teeth. “You–” Her strength dwindled, but not her anger.

“Keep that up,” said Zaber. He ripped a piece of Kovada’s clothes and put it into Seyfe’s good hand and press it onto her bad shoulder. “Just a little more.”

The veteran lowered the woman with much care before getting up again. He looked at his protégé, filled with vigor. Clad in maille, Zaber’s maille, while Seyfe wore paddings. The rear guard of his formation and the front line, armed so very different. The boy did not play around, going for the patrician’s neck. That would hinder the mage’s speech for sure. But the patrician had moved and made the blade connect with metal instead. If their foe would have proper training, singing and fighting could have been done at once. Pleased with Torm, it still hurt Zaber to see how one mere man stopped them. One mere…

“You ain’t that Beobold,” said Zaber loud and clear, attracting everyone’s attention. He tossed the Kriegsmesser to the side and opened the buckle around his torso. “Nor the other one. Rommul or so.” With a swift pull, Zaber brought forth the longsword from his back. Its scripture was filled with two differently colored dusts, mostly black and some reds. The reds crumbled out while he walked towards the patrician and Torm. The boy gained distance with a push kick and retreated to the side. “What are you doing, Torm?!” Zaber yelled and sped up. “You don’t get a second chance with a line magician!”

The patrician was wheezing and bent over to relieve his chest from pressure. The eyes behind the bascinet were fixated on the sword Zaber carried. Airich of Belge’s sword.

“I–” The tenor panted like a steam kettle. “I can’t. My obligation–” He halted his words and he looked at Torm. The patrician’s helmet twitched back and forth between the threats he had to deal with. What he already had accomplished and what was still ahead of him. “I am Genhard Kyfer, of the Silver Street Kyfers. I do not fear–” He stopped again. A thought flashed through his mind and he took a long, visible breath. “Sine pondere fierī~” He sung as quick and loud as he could, straightening his back and raising his arms. A snap was audible at the end, but he forced himself through the pain in his lungs. “Terra exsurge!” He fell onto his knees, coughing and trying to get his hands behind the chestplate he wore.

Zaber felt how his steps became lighter. Life or death fights did that to a man, but this was more than he had hoped for. The ground beneath his feet rose up and erupted into the air, lifting him into the sky. It was only for the blink of an eye. The pavings became rubble and he saw the battlefield from several yards above the ground. “Ignam Vo–” Zaber tried to sing, but it was more like a scream with a surreal view, spinning out of control. He grabbed onto the sword, holding it tight like a dear friend. The weight of his armor had returned and the cobble and soil had already rained down, some of it on Seyfe. Tossed through the air, the greasy and unkempt man hit the wall of a nearby house – far behind their fallen allies. Right at the entrance to an alleyway, all movement had ceased.

The lange messer was about to slip from Torm’s grip. He saw his mentor crash head first against a wooden edge, leaving a gruesome dent in it. His mouth opened ever so slightly before he clenched his fist and lips again. Torm did as he was taught and kicked the patrician to the ground. Now that he had overdone it, struggling for air, stomping his head wasn’t hard to do. After that, the boy turned around and ran. Ran as reckless as he could, like never before. The boy saw the stones next to Seyfe’s chest and head but ignored it. She didn’t move either and the only thing Torm had eyes for was Zaber. They had lost and he had to save what was most important to him. The man who taught him everything.

“Zaber!” screamed the boy and wrapped his arms around his mentor. “Wake up! Get–” He fiddled around with the veteran’s helmet before giving up. Torm’s head turned left and right and left and right again, his eyes were all over the place. When he saw the patrician twitching, he sheathed his blade and rose. Torm tried to pull Zaber up and shoulder him, but with his own armor and the armor Zaber wore, he simply couldn’t. One more try, but he had to settle on grabbing the former mercenary’s shoulders and dragging him. Thanks to the Stars, Torm’s brain was still working enough to recognize this back-alley. With all the strength he could muster, they made their way behind the houses.

…

For Genhard Kyfer, this had to be the worst day of his life. His chest, neck and legs were burning and it took a while for him to get up again. He had waited until he the voice of that youngster faded away. With more than just a limp, he pulled himself up and followed the ambushers. That Yesilian woman was not moving much, but enough for him to not get close. Bracing himself against the walls, he turned around the corner, behind the houses. Genhard only wanted to know so he could inform the reinforcements in what direction this Zaber and the boy fled. When he saw the open drain cover to the sewers, the patrician moved to its edge and looked down.

“No,” said Genhard and removed his helmet. “Absolutely not.” He let it fall to the ground and wiped an abundance of sweat off his short blonde hair, which flowed right into some bushy sideburns. His fingers ran over the spot where the bolt had connected with his flesh through the lattices. Right under his eyes, nothing but a scratch. Still, it was enough for him to elicit a sharp, painful, “Kch!”