'Really?' Shagot set his undermind to work on that, and the fact that the Brotherhood attackers had been entirely familiar with what was supposed to be happening. 'This is what you're going to do. Assuming you want to survive. Finish off those Cologni. Then start hiking. Fast as you can.'
Reluctantly, Gildeo Bruglioni turned on Rodrigo's wounded bodyguards, none of whom were able to resist.
Gildeo finished, turned, discovered that Shagot had slain the rest of the Bruglioni crew. His mouth opened but nothing came out.
Shagot killed Gildeo with a single stroke that took the man's head right off. Then Shagot jogged off after his brother. How long would it be before people moved in to loot the dead? Shagot wondered if he ought not to have done so himself.
How big a stink would come from tonight's evils? A huge one, surely, once the evidence was examined.
Shagot grinned. This was fun.
Rodrigo Cologni's captors were headed toward the Teragi River and the Castella dollas Pontellas, which made sense if they were Brotherhood of War.
Shagot stopped trying to overtake his brother. He ranged out in front of his quarry instead.
Those men moved slowly, avoiding notice.
Shagot knew little about the Brotherhood of War. They were some kind of fighting priests, which sounded like a bad joke, considering the Chaldarean priests of his experience.
He ambushed the party from the side, after letting their point man pass the unnaturally impenetrable shadow in which he crouched. A shadow he did not recognize as unusual, only as handy.
Much happened around Shagot that he failed to notice.
He attacked with an ancient bronze sword in one hand and the demon's head in the other. He thought he was jumping in amongst priests like Sylvie Obilade. It seemed he could see in the dark tonight, a talent of considerable utility.
He had no trouble dropping the first four surprised and previously injured kidnappers he encountered. Then the point man returned and Shagot learned the truth about the fighting priests of the Brotherhood of War.
Shagot's opponent was like none he had faced since those far days when he and Erief practiced against one another. Only the fact that the darkness was no handicap gave Shagot any edge.
He kept dancing away, seizing fleeting chances to strike at the others. He had a chop at Rodrigo Cologni's hamstring when he noticed the old man trying to slip away.
Then Shagot found himself with his back to a wall. The best of three attackers was directly in front of him. Another unwounded man came at him from his right while an injured but capable fighter occupied him on his left, trying to get past the scowling demon's head. All three were wary, cautious, professionals. Shagot would have been calling for the Choosers of the Slain had he not seen his brother behind his attackers.
It was not easy, even so. Shagot suffered several wounds, including one that would have been permanently crippling had he not been touched by the gods.
Svavar fared worse. The Old Ones had placed less of a blessing on him. He suffered slash wounds to both arms and stab wounds to his stomach and chest. They were serious but needed not be fatal if handled quickly.
Shagot performed some hasty first aid, collected the dead — making sure everyone but his brother belonged to that select category — in a heap out of sight of passersby, then settled next to Svavar, shoulder to shoulder, so that his own Great Sky Fortress blessing would rub off.
Shagot the Bastard might be a festering mold on human dung but he did love his little brother.
Shagot soon felt sleep trying to take control. He could not let that happen. He had hours of must-do ahead of him, still.
'Little brother. Can you get up and stumble home now?'
Svavar grunted. He could do that. For Shagot's sake. Thanks to Shagot. But he could not do much more, if Shagot wanted something else.
'Good. So do that, then.'
Svavar murmured, 'We moved our stuff to the backup place.'
'That's right! I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open and my brain working. Go there and lay low. I'll wrap this shit up.”
'Grim…'
'Go on. Can you carry something? Can you take this totem stuff for me?'
'What're you going to do?'
'I'm going to go have a friendly chat with that asshole priest. And make sure we get paid. Take this stuff and get moving.' Shagot hugged his brother before the younger man trudged away, carrying a thirty-pound load and a hundredweight of pain, picking his way through an unfamiliar city in the dark, his destination a flat he had visited only once before.
The bronze sword was the only item of power that Shagot retained. It still cut dead flesh like slicing softened butter. He completed his first task in three minutes. Then he set about systematically relieving the dead of any coins they had been carrying when misfortune overtook them.
The Brothers were not rich men but amongst them they did carry as broad a variety of coin as could be imagined. Shagot failed to recognize the origins of most.
No matter. Merchants would know them. And would weigh them, too. They trusted no one. And trusted those with big names and big reputations least of all.
Plundering done, Shagot slung his sack of heads over one shoulder, then retraced his route to the Madhur Plaza.
The sack was actually a shirt taken off the largest of the dead Brothers.
Shagot's wounds ached terribly. He worried about Asgrimmur, hoped the gods had sense enough to protect his brother. His mission was doomed without Asgrimmur's help.
He returned to the Madhur Plaza. The massacre in the square had been discovered. The bodies had been plundered. Now the righteous folk, with torches and lanterns, were out tut-tutting and recalling the good old days when there was order in Brothe and things like this just did not happen where the right sort of people had to look at it.
Such was human nature.
Shagot headed for the Bruglioni citadel. He might be able to get there before the bad news arrived.
The appointed tradesman's gate was ajar and unguarded. Shagot moved through the Bruglioni back court to Father Obilade's quarters. The priest's door opened instantly. Sylvie Obilade and another man waited behind it. An unfamiliar voice demanded, “What the hell took you so…?” The speaker realized Shagot was alone. And that Shagot was Shagot. He gawked. Father Obilade gawked. The first man dropped a hand to the hilt of a dueling sword but did not draw. Shagot offered him a warning shake of the head.
“You owe me some money, old man.” Shagot produced the head of Rodrigo Cologni.
“Sweet Aaron! Blessed Kelam!” Father Obilade made signs meant to ward off the evil eye and the Instrumentalities of the Night. “Did you have to…?”
“You wouldn't just take my word, would you? You're Brothen. Easy there fellow.” The other man, pale as death now, had begun to ease away. “Stand still. I'm not happy tonight.”
Shagot dumped his sack.
Both witnesses swore. They looked at one another in horror. The man with the sword gasped, “That's Strauther Arnot! And Junger Trilling! They're two of the top men from Castella. What have you done? You killed eight of them?” There were eight heads in addition to Rodrigo Cologni.
“My brother helped.”
“Eight of them. Brotherhood veterans. Just the two of you. What have I conjured?”
Shagot thought this might be Paludan Bruglioni. He said, “We had to kill them. They were taking off with the target.”
“What have you done?” the priest whimpered, to himself rather than Shagot.
Shagot sneered. “You've been asking yourselves a question ever since you realized it was me. You may not
