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That was true and probably the only truth Chamtivos spouted among his negotiations of ransom and promises to let Serovek live.
The hunter easing in from the right paused for a moment. Afraid he'd done something to alert him of his quarry's awareness of his presence, Serovek employed the same trick of distraction, continuing his conversation with Chamtivos as if ignorant of the approaching danger.
“What assurances do I have that your archer won't put three arrows in me the moment I step out from behind this tree?”
If there was one thing he'd learned during the long grueling hours bound in Chamtivos's tent, having his teeth loosened and his ribs caved in, it was that his captor loved to talk. Mostly about himself and his imagined greatness, as well as his puzzlement over why King Rodan hadn't bequeathed the valley to him instead of the Jeden Order or why he couldn't be king of Belawat himself instead of the “old fly bait” currently sitting on the Beladine throne. During the less torturous moments, when he spat out blood or breathed its iron scent through his broken nose, Serovek came to the conclusion that Chamtivos had bid farewell to intelligence, or sanity, or both long ago, trading them for the delusional dreams of a madman.
Chamtivos laughed. “Considering your current situation, I don't have to give any assurances, but just for the sake of argument...”
Serovek didn't hear the rest. He'd judged the quiet hunter's height based on his shadow—a shorter man than himself with a slimmer build. One more step and Serovek pivoted away from the tree, crouched down enough that his would-be assailant blocked the archer from a clear shot at him.
He caught a glimpse of the man's surprised face just before he hurled the dirt into his his eyes. Anagan. The one who'd gotten away earlier to warn the others of Serovek's location. Anagan stumbled back with a cry, but not far enough. Serovek lunged forward with an upper jab, impaling Anagram. The blade sank all the way through his chest wall and out his back. The man's eyes eyes bulged, and a bubble of blood burst from his half open mouth.
Using the impaled man as a shield, Serovek hoisted him on the blade and rushed toward Chamtivos and the archer. The mortally wounded Anagan convulsed when two thumps sounded in quick succession. Serovek almost lost the momentum of his charge as the archer planted a pair of arrows into Anagan's back in the hopes of hitting Serovek as well.
“Kill him!” Chamtivos bellowed, his face pale with shock as he met Serovek's gaze over Anagan's drooping shoulder.
In the moment, time slowed to a series of vivid images: the archer reaching back for a third arrow, horror on his face at the sight of Serovek charging them with a dead man as his shield, Chamtivos's mouth wide as he shouted to the archer, his body leaned forward in the act of lunging toward Serovek.
Serovek had one chance—only one—to survive. He let go of the sword and the dead Anagan, freeing both his hands, and pulled one of the pilfered knives from his belt. He flung it hard, praying for accuracy.
The gods answered. The blade took the archer in the throat. He dropped to his knees, letting go of the bow to clutch the hilt as blood streamed over his hands, then fell face first into the dirt. Fueled by battle fury and pain, Serovek spun back, braced a foot on Anagan's corpse and yanked the sword free just in time to block a skull-cleaving strike from Chamtivos.
He deflected a second blow, delivering three of his own which Chamtivos defended against with ease.
The two fought on the uneven ground, through the maze of trees. Serovek, vision graying at the edges, felt the strength draining from him like water from a cracked ewer. Chamtivos, sensing his foe's diminishing prowess, renewed his attacks with even greater force and speed. And with more boasting.
“I will take your head, margrave,” he said between pants. “And parade it through my stronghold for all my followers to see. I'll do the same to the monk and to the gray bitch. The people will cheer and praise my name, and the Jeden Order will fear me again. I will rise to my rightful place in these lands, not as lord but as king.”
Fury, cold and resolute, cleared Serovek's vision and pumped renewed vigor into his limbs. He beat back Chamtivos's next attack, fierce enough that the other man staggered, nearly losing his footing. Serovek saw his opportunity, pulled one of the rocks from the pouch at his belt and pitched it straight into Chamtivos's face. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. The warlord screamed and staggered, clutching his face one hand.
Serovek followed him, circling to the side to slash at the warlord's leg, severing the tendon behind his right knee. Chamtivos howled and fell, holding his crippled leg.
The ragged gray edges once more began their creep across Serovek's vision. He struggled to maintain a grip on his sword. He stared at Chamtivos, feeling no pity or mercy for this creature who murdered his own family to rise in the world.
Every breath he took felt as if he inhaled broken glass, and he spoke between exhalations that made a mule's kick seem gentle. “I rode into battle against thegallawith a man who is king in all but name. A man who stood tall under the weight of a heavy crown. Who sacrificed much to save many. That man understands the meaning of kingship.” He raised the sword, heavier than a blacksmith's anvil now. “You know nothing of kingship.”
He swung the blade with the last vestiges of strength still in his arms. The sword, slick with Anagan's blood, offered mercy in its sharpness. It effortlessly cut through flesh and tendons, bone and arteries, with one strike. Chamtivos's body fell to one side while his head bounced once on the ground before tumbling in the opposite direction.
The scenery in front of Serovek melded together in a watery mural of greens, grays, and blacks. He blinked several times, ignoring the sharp agony in his eyelids each time he did it. He wove a meandering path to Chamtivos's head, lifting it up by the hair before staggering to the closest tree where he dropped down to recline against the trunk.
Footsteps sounded nearby, but he remained where he was, finished. If this was more of Chamtivos's lackeys, he was easy pickings. At least once he was dead, he wouldn't hurt or feel like retching up his insides.
He peered at the two figures striding toward him, one a tall gray-skinned woman with yellow eyes and a mouth he'd sell his soul to kiss one last time. The other figure he didn't know but recognized the clerical garb. A Nazim monk. Before passing out, Serovek lifted Chamtivos's head and tossed it toward the monk. “A gift,” he said, slurring the words. “You're welcome.”
Chapter Eleven
She had never been, and would never be, a prey animal.
The island'srugged terrain provided numerous opportunities to hide, to slip away unnoticed, and especially to ambush. What it didn't offer was the ability to easily escape its confines. It boasted only one patch of beach and sat in the middle of a lake patrolled by large serpentine shadows, discouraging anyone from swimming in the waters.
Anhuset shrugged off her grim thoughts and took up a lofty post that gave her a bird's eye view of the beach where she expected Chamtivos to return with his party of bloodthirsty minions in a couple of hours. She'd used the time to create false traps, lay down more misleading spoor, and make a strap in which to keep the makeshift spear Serovek had made for her tied to her back until she needed it. Three throwing were tucked into her tunic for easy reach.
Things could be worse, she thought. She could be waiting on an open plain, easy pickings for anyone who could draw a bow and hit the side of a castle wall. At least the warlord liked a challenge when it came to stalking his quarry, and she intended to give him one he wouldn't forget. Or survive.
Leaving Serovek behind to act as a distraction didn't sit well with her, even when she acknowledged—and he agreed—that it was the most practical thing to do. He was too injured to go running about the island like she could. He was also more valuable to Chamtivos than she was. Killing the Beladine margrave of High Salure was a notch on the belt and would raise his status among his followers. Killing the Khaskem'sshawould only sweeten the triumph.
“I will bury you, warlord,” she said, watching as long, sinuous shapes glided just below the lake's surface, following the paths of fading moonlight plating the water.
