hand, shouting something he could never later recall, he charged the invader. What part of his mind still functioned, and had not already been overwhelmed with horror, nearly shut down when he recognized the black-and-bone armor, realized who—what—he was facing. But even through a rising tide of terror, brave Marlo knew his duty.
His blade arced downward in a blow that should have cleaved flesh, or at least broken bone, even through that terrible, infamous armor. Should have, but did not, for the warlord parried with a violent backhand that sent the sword scraping harmlessly along the black vambrace.
Marlo felt himself lifted into the air by a hand he never even saw moving. From below that gaping skull came that same red glow, gleaming from an amulet partially concealed by the armor’s cuirass. And then Marlo was soaring, briefly, until the passageway’s nearest wall ended his flight. He heard his hauberk rattle, heard more than felt the cracking of ribs. He struggled to catch his wind as he slumped to the floor, to breathe around the blood welling up behind his tongue.
Crawling forward on his belly, hand reaching for his fallen sword, Marlo watched in horror as a score of men were torn apart. A vicious axe hung at the armored warrior’s side, but the fiend hadn’t bothered even to draw it. Fists landed like catapult shot, snapping bones. Flames roared from his open palm, and men crumbled to ash before they could scream. One of the guards slid inside the invader’s reach, delivered what should have been a crippling blow to the armor’s chest. Instead the dark warrior simply batted the weapon aside, lifted the soldier in a wrestler’s hold, and slammed him down upon one of his own armored shoulders. Marlo couldn’t tell from where he lay if it had been the spines on that armor, or the brutal impact, that killed the man.
More flames, more blood, and Marlo rose on shaking legs. Struggling through the agony in his chest, sword clapped in both hands to keep it from falling, he moved to strike …
The warlord spun, empty sockets gazing into Marlo’s terrified face. A black-gauntleted fist rose, and the world went black.
“M ARLO WAS ONE OF ONLY THREE SURVIVORS ,” Salia explained, concluding her recounting. “And the other two accounts pretty well match his. None of the soldiers actually saw what occurred within the meeting chamber itself, but between their stories and the state of the bodies, I think we can draw some firm conclusions. We—”
With an inchoate roar, Jassion was out of his chair and lunging across the room, fingers outstretched for Salia’s throat. All semblance of propriety had melted away like so much candle wax, and the veins in his reddened face bulged appallingly.
But Salia Mavere was both Guildmistress of blacksmiths and priestess of their god, her muscles shaped by a lifetime of labor at the forge. A thunderous uppercut snapped Jassion back as though he’d reached the end of a tether. His pupils visibly dilated, and his neck and chin mottled instantly with blood beneath the skin.
And then, though she didn’t particularly seem to require his aid, thefellow who was clearly far more than Salia’s driver stood between them. Before Jassion had finished staggering, as his legs quivered through the process of deciding whether they were willing to hold him, the other man raised a hand and pushed at the air, as though dismissing some unfunny jest.
Jassion hurtled upward, his feet leaving the carpet, to slam into the wall beside the bust adorning the fireplace. And there he hung, held aloft by unseen magics. His jaw—which must already have ached abominably—fell slack. He shook his head as though to clear it, succeeding only in dislodging bits of dust and mortar that had sifted like dandruff into his hair.
Hand still held aloft, the driver aimed an incredulous gaze at his employer. “Are we
sure
this is the man we want? I’ve known mad dogs with more sense.”
“Salia,” Jassion
His blade arced downward in a blow that should have cleaved flesh, or at least broken bone, even through that terrible, infamous armor. Should have, but did not, for the warlord parried with a violent backhand that sent the sword scraping harmlessly along the black vambrace.
Marlo felt himself lifted into the air by a hand he never even saw moving. From below that gaping skull came that same red glow, gleaming from an amulet partially concealed by the armor’s cuirass. And then Marlo was soaring, briefly, until the passageway’s nearest wall ended his flight. He heard his hauberk rattle, heard more than felt the cracking of ribs. He struggled to catch his wind as he slumped to the floor, to breathe around the blood welling up behind his tongue.
Crawling forward on his belly, hand reaching for his fallen sword, Marlo watched in horror as a score of men were torn apart. A vicious axe hung at the armored warrior’s side, but the fiend hadn’t bothered even to draw it. Fists landed like catapult shot, snapping bones. Flames roared from his open palm, and men crumbled to ash before they could scream. One of the guards slid inside the invader’s reach, delivered what should have been a crippling blow to the armor’s chest. Instead the dark warrior simply batted the weapon aside, lifted the soldier in a wrestler’s hold, and slammed him down upon one of his own armored shoulders. Marlo couldn’t tell from where he lay if it had been the spines on that armor, or the brutal impact, that killed the man.
More flames, more blood, and Marlo rose on shaking legs. Struggling through the agony in his chest, sword clapped in both hands to keep it from falling, he moved to strike …
The warlord spun, empty sockets gazing into Marlo’s terrified face. A black-gauntleted fist rose, and the world went black.
“M ARLO WAS ONE OF ONLY THREE SURVIVORS ,” Salia explained, concluding her recounting. “And the other two accounts pretty well match his. None of the soldiers actually saw what occurred within the meeting chamber itself, but between their stories and the state of the bodies, I think we can draw some firm conclusions. We—”
With an inchoate roar, Jassion was out of his chair and lunging across the room, fingers outstretched for Salia’s throat. All semblance of propriety had melted away like so much candle wax, and the veins in his reddened face bulged appallingly.
But Salia Mavere was both Guildmistress of blacksmiths and priestess of their god, her muscles shaped by a lifetime of labor at the forge. A thunderous uppercut snapped Jassion back as though he’d reached the end of a tether. His pupils visibly dilated, and his neck and chin mottled instantly with blood beneath the skin.
And then, though she didn’t particularly seem to require his aid, thefellow who was clearly far more than Salia’s driver stood between them. Before Jassion had finished staggering, as his legs quivered through the process of deciding whether they were willing to hold him, the other man raised a hand and pushed at the air, as though dismissing some unfunny jest.
Jassion hurtled upward, his feet leaving the carpet, to slam into the wall beside the bust adorning the fireplace. And there he hung, held aloft by unseen magics. His jaw—which must already have ached abominably—fell slack. He shook his head as though to clear it, succeeding only in dislodging bits of dust and mortar that had sifted like dandruff into his hair.
Hand still held aloft, the driver aimed an incredulous gaze at his employer. “Are we
sure
this is the man we want? I’ve known mad dogs with more sense.”
“Salia,” Jassion
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