Feledias grunted, his soldiers glancing around uncertainly as more and more men and women appeared. They did not wear armor, did not have proper weapons, but the villagers did not look afraid. Instead, their expressions were grim, their jaws set. Hundreds of them, it appeared, nearly all of what was left of the village and, at their front, the old innkeeper, Netty, holding a firepoker of all things.
“Prince,” Commander Malex said, and Cutter could hear the uncertainty in his voice, “perhaps it would be best if we—”
“No,” Feledias rasped, his voice raw with emotion. “No, we cannot, we will not, go, not when my revenge is so close.”
“But, sir,” Malex said, “there are too many, they—”
“They’re villagers, Malex!” Feledias screeched, his voice full of rage, full of madness. “Farmers with sticks and rocks! Kill them—kill them all!”
Judging by his expression, the commander clearly did not agree, but he waved to his soldiers, barking orders. The soldiers started forward slowly, obviously hesitant to face the mob that, while it may have been made up of villagers with no training in combat, still outnumbered them five to ten times.
Feledias, meanwhile, turned back to Cutter, his face twisting with rage. “No, brother,” he hissed, “you will not escape your fate, not again. This ends, now, and as I told you before, I am not the same warrior you once knew.”
Cutter sighed, hefting his axe, for there was no help for it. “Come on then, brother,” he said. “Show me.”
And then the time for talk was past. Feledias let out a growl more akin to a noise that might come from some feral beast, and he charged, his twin swords held out behind him at an angle. The first blade darted out, lightning-quick, and Cutter grunted as he leaned backward, shifting his axe to knock the questing steel away. He saw another metallic glint and tried to turn to the other side, to bring his axe around, but he was too slow, and he felt the kiss of his brother’s second sword as it traced a line of fire across his side.
He grunted, staggering, and then he was dodging and parrying, desperately trying to keep his brother’s blades at bay as they moved with the speed of two metallic serpents, striking from seemingly every direction at once. He moved as quick as he could, but he was unable to keep up with Feledias’s assault, and he grunted and hissed as he accepted one minor wound after another. It became obvious very quickly that Feledias was toying with him just as it became obvious that his brother had not been lying when he said that he had improved.
But then, Cutter thought, as he staggered away—as he was allowed to stagger away—there were few better motivations than hatred, he knew that better than anyone. After all, it had been his hatred for pretty much everyone around him, himself most of all, that had been the number one reason why he had committed the atrocities he had.
He panted, watching his brother dance from left to right easily a few feet away from him, a wide grin on his face, enjoying this moment, this moment which he had looked forward to for fifteen years.
For Cutter, it was all he could do to remain standing. The throbbing in his arm from the wound he’d taken earlier was so strong, so overpowering, that he could barely focus on anything else, not to mention the way the blood loss made him feel light-headed and dizzy.
“Ah, brother,” Feledias said, grinning, “I told you that I am not the same man you once knew, not the dog to follow at your heels hoping that you might throw me some scraps. I am my own man. I am your better.”
Cutter was barely listening though. There was no need to talk, not now, for there was only one way the thing could end. He looked away from his brother, toward the others, his companions, and the villagers who had engaged the soldiers. The soldiers might have been more skilled, but the villagers were angry—no surprise that considering what they’d gone through over the last few days—angry enough that they did not hesitate as most might have at the sight of the bare blades, did not stop to question the fact that they faced professional soldiers while they themselves were farmers with sticks and rocks for weapons.
Instead, they charged the soldiers, as if they were all too eager to come to grips with these men who, had they had their way, would have burned them and their families to death. And while the soldiers gave far better than they got, he saw that the villagers would win out, for the soldiers were quickly becoming overwhelmed by the villagers’ superior numbers and their ferocity. Not that it would make any difference for him, of course, for he would be dead long before then.
And that thought did not scare him as it might have. The truth was, Cutter was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of walking the trail of blood which it seemed he had traveled his entire life, one that led from death to more death and nothing else. Matt would be okay, that was what mattered. The others would be okay without him. They would not just be okay. They would be better. He would be better. After all, there was nothing here for him, in this world. Perhaps there never had been.
Feledias started toward him, and Cutter knew that the death he had avoided for so long had finally arrived, could see the pleasure of that knowledge reflected in his brother’s eyes. But then, Feledias froze, his face suddenly leeched of all color, and he gasped, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes looked past Cutter.
Cutter frowned. Perhaps it might have been a ruse, one meant to draw his attention, but Cutter did not think so.
