Her claws bit into her palms with the urge to split the lying, betraying bastard from gullet to bollocks. She had no doubt he'd turned on his unwary traveling companions the instant they were out of Serovek's sight, killing them without hesitation. The gods only knew where he'd tossed their corpses.
Had he returned to the valley to ascertain the fate of the rest of Serovek's party and report back to Bryzant? Anhuset smiled thinly. His unfortunate comrades wouldn't be the only ones never to reach their destination.
In no hurry, he kept a leisurely pace on the road. Anhuset eased Magas back into the trees before dismounting and tying his reins to a low branch. She'd cover more ground and make less noise on foot. Keeping parallel to the road, she raced through the forest, descending slope so that by the time she was even with the road, she was ahead of her prey, waiting.
She hurtled out of the concealing tree line so fast Ogran only had time to jerk in the saddle and grunt before she leaped on him, her weight and momentum throwing him clear of the horse to land on his back with Anhuset atop him. The horse bolted, leaving its stunned rider behind.
Ogran howled when she struck him, breaking his nose. Blood spurted from his nostrils, and she shoved his arms down when he grabbed for his face, pinning both under her knees. “Who paid you to betray the margrave, maggot?” Anhuset knew the answer, but she wanted to hear him say it.
He struggled under her, glaring and spitting expletives at her. She grabbed his head by his ears and slammed it back into the dirt, hard enough to make him see stars but not enough to crack his skull. His breathing turned to gurgling gasps when she laid her palm against his throat and pressed just enough to feel his larynx spasm. “I will break every bone in your body, one by one, Ogran, and then I will gut you like a fish if you don't answer me. Who paid you?” She wanted to hear him say it so she could force-feed the words back to him.
“Bryzant,” he finally said on a wheezy gasp. “High Salure's steward.”
Anhuset lifted her palm, and Ogran inhaled a deep breath. Even bloodied and pinned with a vision of Death looming over him, he still glared at her. While she couldn't always read emotion in the bizarre movement and coloration of human eyes, she recognized hatred when she saw it. “Figures you'd manage to survive, you yellow-eyed hedge whore,” he spat.
If he thought to offend her with vulgar disparagement, he was sadly mistaken. She'd played drinking games with her fellow Kai soldiers that centered around the exchange of creative insults that would set his ears on fire. “Worse luck for you, isn't it, maggot?” she said. “What did you do with the bodies of the men you killed?” She didn't bother asking if he killed the other three Serovek sent with him. She knew he did. She struck him across one cheek. “Weson?” A second strike on the opposite cheek as he spewed even more invectives. “Ardwin?” A third strike. “Jannir?” She raised her hand, threatening a forth.
“Enough!” he shouted, cheeks stained scarlet from her blows. “I'll take you to them if you promise not to kill me and get off me.”
Liar, she thought.
She stood up, stepping out of the range of a swinging fist or kick. He scrambled to his feet, and she waited to see if he'd try to run. He didn't, and that told her what she needed to know. “Who's the closest and where did you leave him?” she asked. The question simply bought time. She was saddened and angered to have her supposition about the fate of the three men verified, but she couldn't recover their bodies, not now, even if Ogran had actually told her the truth.
His lip curled into a sneer. “Weson,” he said. “We teamed up together.” He pointed down the road where his horse had bolted. “Another two leagues that way. I left him in the trees.”
After all this time there probably wasn't much left of Weson thanks to the elements and scavengers, but Anhuset pretended to consider. “My horse isn't far,” she said. “I ride there; you walk ahead of me.” She deliberately turned her back to him, ears perked as she put four steps between them and quietly pulled one of her knives from its sheath. Ogran was right-handed, like everyone in their earlier party except Erostis. She'd noted those details for each man, knowledge that always came in handy whether or not you fought with a comrade-in-arms or an adversary.
The warning sound came as she expected, the soft hiss of steel sliding against leather, the shift of dirt under a boot with a step forward. She twisted fast to the side, caught the twinkle of a blade as it flew past her and flung her own weapon in an underhanded throw that took Ogran in the belly hard enough to knock him off his feet. He lay on his back, hand gripped around the knife's pommel, the blade sunk to the hilt. Blood trickled out of his mouth as he stared first at the knife and then at her in disbelief.
Anhuset felt no pity for him. No doubt he'd dispatched his trusting companions in just this way. She crouched beside him and stared into his rattish face, his once-ruddy complexion turning pale. “It takes a long time to die from a gut wound,” she told him. His eyes widened. “And I want my knife back.” She wrapped her hand around the pommel and yanked hard. The blade slid free with a jerk and a gout of blood. Ogran tried to scream, but Anhuset cut off the attempt with a quick swipe of the bloodied knife across his throat. He was dead before his head hit the dirt.
She dragged his
