A boot moves forward, and I see the blue-white leading to a solid, well-built man of about thirty. His stained travel cloak shifts for a moment, and I see the royal crest beneath. It’s him.
Time blurs and stretches yet again, only this time I am moving like lightning in the space between each second. I tap the nearest man, who is looking away from me, on the shoulder. The instant his head turns, I bring the heavy pewter tankard up and catch him square across the face, a spray of blood squirting from his crushed nose. He doesn’t feel it, his eyes rolling back as he drops like a poleaxed steer.
With the boy being held by one of the other ruffians and this one out of the way, I have a clear shot at the man they’re guarding.
Flexing my wrist, I feel my real’gais slip down and lock into place. Before anyone can react, I take one step and drive the twin blades up through the bottom of his chin, deep into his brain.
“Guh-” is all he has time to say before the cold iron pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Death is instant, and so should be the severing of the fate line that binds us together. Pulling my blades out of his head, I glance down, expecting to see it dissipate, the way it always has whenever I have killed a member of my own family.
Instead, it flares again and twists on the barroom floor, still leading away from me to my brother. Something is very wrong.
“You imbecilic fool! You killed their decoy! Destroy them all!” the Master shrieks in my mind. That pause, however, is enough for one of the guards to sound the alarm.
“Deadhand!” he yells, and the tavern erupts in panic. Half the patrons and all of the staff scramble for the nearest exit, be it door, window, or even the narrow chimney. The rest produce weapons of various makes and purposes, from coshes to daggers to one swarthy Easterner who ratchets out a real’gais of his own and advances toward me, along with a half dozen newfound allies. When one of my kind is found, all rivalries and grudges are forgotten until I am destroyed. It is the one law all obey Aboveground.
My bloodthirsty hands would love to oblige each one of them, but I only have eyes for my prey, who is still somewhere among the herd of men crowding into the back room. I choose the easy way to get to him.
My own real’gais flicks out, and one of the noble’s bodyguards staggers back, clutching his gaping crimson throat. Two others, seeing this, rush me from both sides, thinking numbers can make up for experience. A stab and a slash later, neither of them will ever think anything again.
I have just reached the doorway to the back room when hands grab my shoulder, my cloak, my tattered tunic. I spin around, slashing fingers off with a vicious upswing. The others fall away, and the rest of the crowd draws back for a moment, working up their nerve.
Knowing where the noble’s party is headed, I leap onto the table once occupied by the thugs that had provided my distraction, and dive through a small window near the chimney, slamming open the crude shutters and just scraping through.
Falling out, I land with boneless grace on the muddy ground. The rest of the noble’s group are mounting their horses, the reins of which are being held by one man; a woodswalker, by his dark leathers and broadsword.
“By the Gods!” he exclaims as I stand up, uncaring of my dislocated shoulder and cut face, and step forward. He brings up a heavy crossbow and looses a barbed quarrel into my gut, a wound that would drop any other man in shrieking agony. I keep walking, the fearful neighing of the horses an unwanted balm to my ears. The woodsman shouts at the others to get the lordling out of there as he swings up onto his own mount. They herd him away, surrounding the white-faced youth in a tight pack, while the hunter faces me. I keep walking forward, but the man is ready, goading his wild-eyed horse straight into me. The animal’s withers strike my chest, bowling me over. It is a minor distraction, but the forester has done his job, buying time for the noble to escape.
Wheeling his mount around, he claps heels to hide and gallops down the alley, racing to rejoin his comrades. Rising, I try to follow, but am suddenly paralyzed, unable to lift even my evil fingers. With my left leg out, I lose my balance and topple over, sinking into the chill mire of mud, horse droppings, piss and vomit. The stench is almost unbearable, even to me.
Cold, hard fury invades my mind like a physical blow, and I know exactly what is coming next. “You pitiful wretch, I send you to do one simple task, and you fail at that. He was right next to you, and you could not even reach out and take his life, a task you have demonstrated you are capable of time and time again.
The Master is so furious he can barely get the words out. “You will lie there until I fetch you again, thrall. Think about your failure, and of the punishment that will be your world when I bring you to me.”
With that he is gone-not completely, but away from my mind, going to another of his vassals to pick up my half brother’s trail. It is a good thing, too, as he will not know the grim smile of satisfaction frozen on my face as I lie limp and motionless in the slime.
Several of the other tavern patrons come outside now and encircle my inert form. I hear muttering as the various criminals and vagabonds decide what to do with me. The general consensus is to burn my body. They carefully reach for my real’gais and try to remove it. The weapon is a part of me now and doesn’t budge. The motion causes my arms to twitch, making everyone leap away. They confer again and decide to burn me right there.
Brush is brought and piled around me, but before a torch can be applied, pounding hoofbeats are heard, and a group of the local constables thunder into the back square, scattering the mob to the shadows and trampling me farther into the mud and filth. It is ironic that those who were doing right would be punished for it if the law catches up with them.
My arms and legs, now bent and twisted, still refuse to function. I know I must leave, but the Master will not let me. I know he won’t sacrifice me because I am too valuable to him. He is trying to scare me, as if that is even possible after all I’ve been through. Even his threat of punishment strikes no chord in me now. The one thing that remains is the smile frozen on my face. All has gone as I had first planned when the Master gave me this task.
At first, when he had ripped me from my final rest and bound my struggling, confused soul back into my lifeless body, he had total control over me-every movement, every impulse. He sought to break my mind and spirit by sending me to my home to slaughter my own family. If he had gotten to me when I had just died, it might have worked. But he was too late, and by the time he raised me, the other side had worked its own designs on me as well, protecting some of my thoughts from his constant prying mind. Now, years later, he has grown complacent, distracted, and that has worked to my advantage.
It was I who attacked too early, I who went after the wrong person. While my hands are no longer a full part of me, true, they are still weapons that I can wield, pointing them in the right direction. It is difficult but worthwhile, especially at times like this.
If my Master wanted this prince dead, that alone was an excellent reason to make sure he survived my ambush. The fact that he is a blood relative is a lesser reason, for I bear as little resemblance to him now as a mouse does to a hawk. But in time, perhaps, someone will defeat the Master, and make sure that I am freed from this unholy condition, this constant unlife. If this man can help that happen faster, then I will do everything I can to help from the other side.
Perhaps, someday, that will happen. But that thought is little comfort to me as I lie in the cold, stinking mud, water and dung filling my eyes and mouth, trying with all my might to make my hands move.