open, Brug’s he assumed. The other…
The door blasted open as he reached for its handle. He spun immediately in the direction of the door, using it as a shield. A flanged mace cut through the air where he’d been. Ghost bounced off the wall, drawing both his swords. He shoved the mace aside, then slashed blind behind the door. The other sword hit something hard, and then they were both in view of each other. The man, Stern no doubt, glared back at him, a mace in each hand. Their weapons pressed against each other, testing strength. Stern, while stronger than he looked, was still no contest.
This didn’t seem to surprise him, though, and when Ghost tried to push him back, Stern parried both swords to the side and tried to leap past. He wanted the open area, Ghost realized, hoping his speed might win out. Ghost couldn’t stop him, but he could make life more difficult. He kicked a foot as he rotated his body, taking out one of Stern’s knees. Stern didn’t even try to keep his balance, instead rolling forward, around an old wooden chair, and up to his feet before the door. He lifted his maces and grinned.
“Clearly skilled,” he said. “So what person with money did we piss off this time?”
“Don’t matter,” Ghost said. He feinted a charge, then kicked the chair at him. Stern blocked it with his heel, but it was enough of a stall. Double-slashing, Ghost gave him no choice but to block, and block he did. His arms jarred, though nothing broke like he’d hoped. Sometimes, if he swung just right, he could pop a collarbone or wreck the joints in an elbow.
Ghost looped his swords around for an attack from both sides. That left the only opening straight ahead, toward his chest. He wanted this Stern character to try it, to hold his own instead of bouncing about. Maddeningly, he didn’t take it. Stern dropped to one knee, blocking the lower slash from his left and letting the right sail over his head. Immediately after blocking he rolled to the side. Ghost chased, but each slash smashed only floor. Time was no longer on his side. The others would be up soon, groggy and heads full of fog, perhaps, but still up.
How much concentration did it take to turn someone into a toad, Ghost wondered.
Stern at last had nowhere to run. His back was to the wall. To his left were the stairs, and the right, the main door. His eyes flicked from both, deciding. Ghost gave him no time, rushing in while keeping his swords close. He would block a retreat with his own body, and let his blades do the work. Stern had no chance matching strength, and without retreat, dying would be his only option left.
It seemed Stern knew this as well. His eyes widened, and he appeared pressed to the very edge of his control by adrenaline and fear. The look of a cornered animal. Ghost knew Stern would not roll onto his back and hope for mercy. He’d lunge, mad, vicious. And that’s just what he did. Ghost feared those first few seconds as the maces came crashing in, slamming into his swords with shocking impact. He felt kicks strike his body, at one point an elbow, and still the maces looped and struck. But they were fighting Ghost’s fight now, close up and animalistic. He blocked a swipe from the side, then savagely struck its length with his other blade, knocking it from Stern’s hand. Stern’s other weapon came around, straight for his head. Instead of ducking, he stepped closer, chest to chest. The side of Stern’s arm hit his face, but that was far better than the sharp edges of the mace.
One sword slashed his arm, making him drop his weapon. The other thrust into his belly and twisted.
“Shit,” Stern grunted, clutching Ghost’s wrist with both hands. His whole body shook, and his face rapidly paled. Ghost pulled his weapon free, breaking Stern’s grip as if it were that of a child. The man slid along the wall, blood pouring across his hands and down his legs. He held the wound with his palms, slowing the bleeding.
“Should have surrendered,” Ghost said. “Though I respect your defense of your friends, this was all unnecessary.”
He left him there, stepped over Brug, and climbed the stairs. The short fighter was moaning still, conscious but only just. He was no threat. Ghost found the wizard first, glad to see him still out. Unwrapping the rope he’d looped about his waist, he cut a length of it and bound Tarlak’s hands. Thinking for a moment, he cut a smaller length, wedged a piece of the wizard’s own robe into his mouth, and then tied it into a gag. Hefting him onto his shoulder, he carried him back down the stairs and deposited him in a chair. Stern watched him with glazed eyes from where he lay.
Last was the girl. She opened her eyes when he stepped inside, but she showed no recognition, nor any signs of fear. Concussion, he figured. She probably didn’t know the difference between him and the King of Ker.
“To your feet,” he said. “I’d hate to strike you again.”
He grabbed her wrists and held them tight as he escorted her down the stairs. Once she was tied to another chair, he kicked Brug to see how he was faring.
“Damn it,” Brug muttered, his eyes suddenly focusing. “What was that for?”
He saw Ghost standing over him, and then he tried to reach for his weapons. Instead, Ghost slammed his heel onto his throat and pushed him back.
“I’d recommend you behave,” he said, the tip of his sword dangling before an eye. “Otherwise I might just let go.”
Brug ground his teeth, glanced about, then nodded. Ghost bound his hands and feet and then dumped him on the floor beside the others.
“Well, that was disappointingly easy,” Ghost said, sheathing his swords. “I hope the Watcher proves more challenging than you four.”
Stern said something, but his voice was too weak to hear. Ghost stepped closer and leaned down.
“You’ll find out when he kills you,” Stern said, then made a sound like the cross of a cough and a laugh. Ghost slapped the side of his face, the gesture almost playful.
“At least you put up a fight,” he said. “So I’ll forgive your frightened boasting. Stay still, and try not to let your grip slip. You might know something useful to me, and I’d hate to lose it because you can’t keep your guts from squeezing through your fingers.”
The priestess seemed to be getting her bearings, but Tarlak was still clearly out. Ghost reached into a pocket and pulled out some smelling salts. Shoving them under the wizard’s nose, he held his head by his hair and waited. After a few sniffs his eyelids began to flutter, and then he jolted as if splashed by a bucket of water.
“Whmmph,” he said.
“Welcome back,” Ghost said, smacking his shoulder. “Forgive the gag. I know how dangerous your kind is with a few silly words. I may take it out, but only for a moment, and only when my swords are at your throat. Understand?”
A soft gasp came from his right. It seemed like the priestess had finally come to her senses.
“Senke!” she gasped.
Senke?
He followed her gaze to the wounded man against the wall. A pet name, perhaps? Or maybe Bill had been wrong about the name?
“He put up a better fight than the rest of you,” Ghost said.
“Don’t say nothing, Delysia,” Brug muttered. “Just bite your tongue and say nothing.”
“I don’t think I’d listen to him,” Ghost said, placing the name to her face. He’d found with many people he interrogated, it made them that much more compliant when he called them by their name.
“Please, I can help him!” She squirmed against her bonds. “He’s dying!”
“If he’s dying, he’s doing a poor job of it.” He watched her struggle to see if his ropes would hold. Satisfied, he took her chin in a giant hand and forced her gaze to his. “But if you want untied, you’ll have to talk. That’s all, little girl, just talk. No sin in that, right?”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Don’t!” Brug shouted. Ghost turned on him, and this time his kick was lower, and harder. Brug howled like an animal, and his face turned a beet red.
“Enough out of you,” he said. “You’re beaten, and at my mercy. Lies and silence get you pain, only pain. Not honor. Not sacrifice. No nobility. Just pain.”
Tarlak mumbled something into his gag. Ghost debated, but then left him alone. He’d go to the wizard only if the others proved uncooperative. So far, this Delysia appeared the most compliant. He knelt before her, all teeth and smiles.
“Senke’s bleeding over there,” he said, dropping his voice lower. She went to look, but his eyes held her. He knew he could do that, had so many times before. He felt like a snake charmer, controlling them by the sheer ferocity of his personality. “You can feel it, his pain washing over you like a heat. You’re a priestess, so you could help him, tend his wounds. How badly you must wish to go to him. Such sweet compassion.”
