“Bugger my mother!” Carstin cried out.
“Black-cursed bastard!” Ōbhin growled in his native tongue.
The brute wrenched his blade free in a spray of scarlet. Jimet’s corpse collapsed. The woman peeking out of the tent screamed out in shock, her face going paler. The sudden carnage shook Ōbhin like a violet earthquake.
Then he noticed the shape of the strongarm’s sword. It was a thick slab of metal that didn’t narrow to a chiseled point but instead flared into two hooks thrusting from each side of the blade. Spikes of metal that could drive deep into bodies.
“Bloodfire!” screamed Ōbhin as he stared at the famed hooked sword of Bue’csa’i.
At the end of the blistering desert, at the tip of the Ki’mana’s peninsula, warriors swore themselves to the Tone of Fire. Somehow, they had the essence of a ruby gem embedded into their bodies, their blood burning hotter than a foundry furnace.
The hulk brought the blade to his own chest. He cut himself deliberately, drawing the sword’s edge across his torso. It wasn’t scarlet that flooded out, but fire. It burst from him and engulfed his blade. The air rippled from the strength of the flame, a dancing mirage that distorted the placid face of the hulk.
“Elohm’s Colours!” Ust grunted, stumbling to a halt as the hulk’s flaming blade swung at Whiner Creg.
The skinny complainer brought his backsword up in a flashing parry. Sparks flared. Ōbhin ran faster. He charged across the distance. His tulwar hissed as he drew it from his sheath. He stared at that blazing sword.
A worthy weapon to face. A bloodfire of Bue’csa’i. The weight squeezing his heart relaxed. The tone of his actions felt harmonic now. He slid his thumb up to the small point on the crossguard of his curved blade.
He activated the jewelchine.
The bloodfire’s flaming blade drove back Whiner Creg. Backsword flashed in a desperate attempt to keep from meeting Jimet’s fate. The other members of the band already faltered, save for Carstin, who spat out his cigar and whipped out his weapon.
“No!” Ōbhin shouted as his sword hummed. Emerald light flared from the jewelchine in the pummel. The Tone of Earth sang through his weapon, vibrating it, transforming it into a deadly weapon. “Fall back, Carstin!”
Carstin thrust his blade at the brute’s side, exposed when the bloodfire sought to cut down Whiner Creg. In a blur of dark motion and sweeping flame, the bloodfire whirled, the tail of his sash flaring at his waist. His burning blade struck Carstin’s sword, knocking him off-balance.
Ōbhin had twenty cubits to cross. The cold thrill of battle pumped through his veins, sharpening the world. Every sound echoed in his ears. Every movement slowed to a graceful dance. The smells filled his nose.
Coppery blood.
Sizzling metal.
Sour fear.
“Bugger my mother and my father,” Ust groaned.
An arrow buzzed past Ōbhin’s shoulder. The brute flicked up his blade, cutting the missile in half. Carstin had a moment to recover his footing. Determination flashed across his tensed face. His shaggy, brown hair flowed about him as he screamed a wordless war cry.
Ōbhin was ten cubits away.
The flaming blade swept hard. Metal clanged. Sparks erupted. Carstin’s backsword flew from his hand, spinning through the air. Fear flashed across his face. Terror squeezed Ōbhin’s heart. Carstin was one of his few friends.
Five cubits.
The flaming blade swept low. It took Carstin in the leg. In a blurring flash, it severed through his thigh. Carstin’s scream rang in Ōbhin’s ears. Blood fell on the scarlet grass. The follow-up attack slammed the spiked hook at the tip of the brute’s sword deep into Carstin’s chest.
Ōbhin leaped over Jimet’s corpse and landed beside his friend. Carstin crashed onto his back, a sucking hiss filling the air. Blood bubbled with escaping gas from the hole driven deep in his chest. More crimson spilled from Carstin’s lips.
Ōbhin raised his resonance blade, his reward for becoming a lieutenant in the Royal Guard of Qoth. He faced the bloodfire’s flaming sword, the heat kissing his face. His black-gloved hand clenched on his blade’s hilt as he fell into a guard position.
A slight smile, for a moment, twisted the corner of the hulk’s lips.
*
“Stay back, Father,” Avena said, her body trembling as she pulled away from the tent flap. Two men were already dead, and more were charging in. “They’re filthy bandits!”
“Elohm’s bright Colours,” the old man gasped, his hand clutching at the front of his waistcoat.
She spotted the work knife on the edge of the table. It has a serviceable handle of antler with a full tang. She grabbed it, her heart racing. She had to do something. Ni’mod was alone out there. There were so many of them.
“What are you doing, child?” Dualayn gasped.
“Just stay in here,” she said. She couldn’t be helpless and do nothing. The last time she had . . .
She pushed down the swimming, viscous whitewash from her mind and darted out of the tent. Shouts echoed. The men on the ground twitched, blood spurting from wounds. Her heart tightened at the sight. She itched to use a healer or apply bandages, but dangerous men lurked.
Ni’mod’s flaming sword swept before him, driving back a dusky-skinned Tethyrian. The easterner fell back, his curved sword seeming to buzz, an emerald jewel glowing on its pommel. It spilled verdant light that clashed with the crackling fire.
“Stay back!” she shouted at the other bandits. They showed no interest in their companions bleeding out on the ground. She stood firm before the tent, trying to hide the terror surging through her. Her cheeks felt bloodless. Trembles shook her. Ice filled her stomach and stole her warmth. “You don’t want to die!”
“Cut that dark-kissed bastard down, Ōbhin!” bellowed a greasy-haired man holding a blade low.
“Yeah, yeah,
