Promise of Blood

“That’s quite the shit-eating grin,” Tamas said. He took his sword belt from where he’d hung it on the back of his chair and drew the sword, tossing the sheath aside. Pitlaugh stood beside him, and the old wolfhound had teeth bared, growling dangerously. Hrusch retreated behind a sofa, growling at the Warden from perceived safety.

“It’s not often I’m given a powder mage so cleanly,” the Warden said. “Nor one with such a reputation. I usually have to eat the dregs the sorcerers can comb from the Kez countryside.”

Eat? Tamas felt vaguely sick.

The Warden smiled. He stretched out his arms as if to embrace Tamas from across the room, the warped limbs long enough to wrap around a mortar barrel.

“How did you find me?” Tamas asked. He stepped away from his chair and held his sword out to the side. Pitlaugh moved between Tamas and the Warden, and a vision went through Tamas’s mind of the Warden tearing apart his hounds. “Pitlaugh,” he said. “Back.”

The wolfhound backed down reluctantly, giving Tamas and the Warden a wide berth.

The Warden shook his head, the grin still on his face. “I won’t risk you surviving this.” He cracked the knuckles of one enormous, malformed hand. “But I will let you die with the knowledge that every one of your precious mages will be hunted down and devoured, body and soul.”

The Warden bent his head like a fighting bull and charged. Thirty paces separated them, yet the creature covered that space in hardly any time at all, one big hand reaching out to grab a hassock as he came, flinging the furniture at Tamas as if it were a toy.

Tamas ducked the hassock and sidestepped the Warden. He aimed for the heart with his blade, striking hard. A meaty fist pounded into the side of his head, sending him stumbling across the room.

The Warden didn’t give him a chance to recover. He changed directions in a split second and flung himself toward Tamas, ignoring the sword aimed at his chest. Tamas jabbed with all his might, then threw himself out of the way of the Warden’s bulk. He ducked, rolling on one shoulder and to his feet.

Blood oozed from the two punctures on the Warden’s chest. Tamas must have hit a lung and the stomach, but the creature smiled at him hungrily with no regard for the wounds. Wardens’ hearts were protected by a shell of sorcerously grown bones, and Privileged sorceries could keep a Warden’s other organs working when they should have long been dead.

The Warden charged once more. Tamas danced to the side for a slashing blow, but one big hand reached out for him. He ducked under the arm and struck from behind, thrusting his sword into the Warden’s armpit until the hilt touched skin.

The Warden howled and jerked away, ripping the sword from Tamas’s grip. Tamas’s heart thumped in his ears and his hands shook.

The Warden thrashed about for several moments before suddenly falling still. His dark gaze was hooded by his overlarge brow, blue eyes beady and bloodshot. His right arm hung loosely at his side, muscles nearly concealing the hilt. The blade of the sword stuck out of his chest, three handspan’s worth of steel. The Warden looked down on it disdainfully. He reached across with his left hand and tried to pull out the sword. The angle made it impossible for him.

“You’ve something in your chest,” Tamas said, though he didn’t have much energy behind the jibe. His lungs burned from the effort he’d just exerted, his muscles ached. He eyed his coat on the other side of the room. He could sense the powder charges in the pocket.

The Warden leapt toward him suddenly, throwing his body like a flopping fish. Tamas reeled back, trying to get out of his range, but felt the Warden’s fingers catch the front of his shirt. He was pulled into an embrace, his neck a mere finger from his own sword blade where it stuck from the Warden’s chest. He felt hot, angry breath on his cheek and smelled the scent of bile reeking from the creature.

Tamas struck the Warden in the eyes with one hand. The creature bellowed like an injured bear, wrestling one-armed with Tamas, dragging Tamas’s chest across his own blade before tossing him across the room.

Tamas caught himself on a sofa and pulled himself up. He spotted the coatrack nearby and ran for it. “Pitlaugh! Kill!”

The wolfhound darted toward the Warden, ten stone of angry teeth and muscle. Pitlaugh snaked around to the Warden’s wounded arm and lunged for the throat. The Warden managed to turn away, and Pitlaugh’s teeth sank into the Warden’s arm.

Tamas reached the coatrack and threw the Warden’s clothes to the floor, snatching at his own jacket. He brought out his cigar case and flung it open, revealing the six carefully wrapped cigars within. He bit the end off one, emptying the secret stash of powder into his mouth. He felt the bitter burn of sulfur on his tongue, then the nausea that came with taking so much powder so quickly. He staggered.