Gerens’s eyes bulged, and his voice growled. ‘You said she would not be harmed if we gave up our weapons.’
The Duke, as Brann assumed he could only be, smiled indulgently. ‘Of course I did, and she was not harmed, was she? But that was then, and this is now. I have further use for this bargaining tool, do I not? Especially as it proved so effective the first time.’ He pursed his lips in consideration. ‘Maybe we should just slice her soft throat now as a statement of intent…’
Gerens roared and strained at his captors, managing a step forward. The Duke turned again to regard Sophaya, but Grakk’s calm voice dragged his attention away once more.
‘Strangely enough,’ he said, ‘it was actually a quick chat with yourself that brought us here. Perhaps we could dispense with the unnecessary gripping of arms and just pull up a chair.’
The Duke looked with intrigue at the precise speech and cultured tone, then laughed in delight. ‘I think I will keep you till last. But unfortunately, you do not seem willing to give me a sensible answer, so…’ He looked at Sophaya again. ‘Kill her.’
Brann moved.
He yanked at the rope to fling himself forward, all of his senses focused on the scene before him and far from any pain in his wounds. In the instant between his hands leaving the rope and reaching for the inner edge of the windowsill, he felt a coldness settle over him, his eyes hungry for movement that made his choices for him. He pulled at the sill and his legs came up under him, bracing on the ledge. As he launched, he saw the Duke’s eyes widen with the sharp surprise that hits hardest at a man who is convinced he has control, and then he was tumbling to roll on one shoulder. On the way down, his long knife slashed, parting, like thread, the rope as it tensed against the wall sconce it had been tethered to, and as he came out of his roll it sliced just as easily across the back of the knees of the guard lifting his blade to execute Sophaya.
The man screamed as his legs buckled and the girl wheeled, the soldier’s knife in her hand. Almost faster than Brann’s eyes could follow, she had cut across the back of the hand of the man to her right, his fingers spasming and releasing his sword and, as her second movement opened his throat, Brann came to his feet and battered his shoulder into the dying man, knocking him into the next guard along. The guard had let go of Konall and was turning towards them, but now found himself entangled in the arms and slipping in the blood of the body thrown against him. Brann’s hand flicked his axe up from his belt and, with a roll of his wrist and a wild swing, cut the black metal through the dead man’s arm and into the neck of the struggling soldier. It was not a time for finesse.
He wrenched the axe free and blood sprayed into the face of a man poised to stab a short spear at him. He dropped to a crouch, away from the line of the lunge, and thrust his axe forward, hooking the head behind the man’s ankle. Jerking the axe as he stood, the man was upended and he continued the movement to swing the axe over and down to stop with a crunch in the centre of the man’s forehead. It was quicker to draw his sword than drag the axe free, and he spun in a crouch, blade held ready, as he sought the next danger.
He saw carnage. It had been a natural reaction for the guards to turn towards unexpected danger, but it had also been a fatal reaction. As the captives were released, each had instantly reached for the closest weapon, either their own from the floor or whatever they could reach from the belt of the guard.
‘Wait!’ The Duke’s voice cut across the room, and they stood, chests heaving, blood dripping, every guard lying dead. Every guard but one – a sound came from a man curled around his entrails, a low bubbling moan was all that could emerge from the half of his face that was left.
Gerens bent down, and now every guard lay dead. They faced the Duke, and saw the captain beside him, Philippe held in front with a knife at his throat. The captain grinned.
Brann’s hand reached fast behind his neck for the throwing knife he kept strapped at the top of his spine, but Konall grabbed his wrist.
‘Too risky a target for anyone, and I have seen you throw when you have time to think about it.’
He let out his breath, the cold fire of combat fading. The Northern boy was right. Brann’s throwing was atrocious.
He flinched as a flash flickered past him, and the captain screamed in agony, his hand clutching at an eye suddenly gushing blood. Philippe stumbled and ran from him and, as the man swung wildly with his knife, Grakk neatly ducked under the swipe and finished him with a thrust of a sword up under his ribs and into his heart.
With a low growl, Gerens leapt for the Duke, but Grakk was quicker, placing himself in the way. ‘Not just now, young Gerens.’
The boy’s eyes burnt darkly still, but he halted and nodded, looking at the captain’s corpse and then at Philippe. ‘Well, at least that has saved us the bother of stopping in to visit that bastard for you on the way out.’
Philippe smiled weakly, but the relief in his eyes was strong.
The Duke glanced at the door, but saw Konall standing in its way, arms folded and a cold smile on his face.
Without taking his eyes from the Duke, the boy closed the door and, with exaggerated deliberateness, slid home the bolt.
The Duke’s eyes lingered on the broken and bloody bodies of his guards but, rather than fear, his expression was lit by an excited fascination.
Grakk came to stand before him. ‘Now,’ the tribesman said, ‘perhaps we could have that chat we mentioned.’ He looked around the room. ‘Although perhaps it might have been easier to have it when I first suggested it.’
The Duke’s eyes were still alight. ‘But then I would have missed your exhibition of such magnificently efficient brutality.’ He turned his lascivious gaze on Brann. ‘And this one – oh, I could find some wonderful uses for one such as he.’
Brann looked back impassively. He had seen this man’s sort before, baying and slavering in the crowds at the pits of Sagia’s depraved City Below. Such people meant nothing to him.
A noise came from behind them and all spun, weapons in hand. A small girl, aged no more than six years, stood at the bottom of a winding staircase, staring up at the group. Barefoot and dressed in just a simple shift, she looked around the room. With a cry, Sophaya rushed to her, sweeping the girl into her arms. She felt over the small figure quickly. ‘Unharmed, I believe,’ she said over her shoulder.
Brann looked at Grakk. ‘And unmoved by the gore,’ he said quietly.
Grakk nodded. ‘Unhurt physically, perhaps, but…’
Sophaya took the girl to a chair at the far side of the room, sitting to cradle her and speak soothingly to her.
Brann turned to Gerens and Konall. ‘I’ll take a look up there with Grakk.’
‘You will not dare!’ the Duke screamed, fury filling the words. ‘No one goes up there but me. No one!’
Brann looked at the sudden emotion with interest. He pointed at the girl in Sophaya’s arms. ‘She did. And now we will.’ The Duke screamed in rage, his eyes bulging, and Brann looked at Konall and Gerens. ‘You two keep an eye on him. If you have to ensure he stays still and quiet,’ he gave a half-smile, ‘please do it in a way that will still allow him to speak.’
The pair said nothing but turned to stand and stare at the Duke. His ranting continued, and Gerens punched him hard in the face. The man fell silent but still quivered and stared, his anger barely controlled.
Grakk followed Brann up the stairs, and they emerged into a room the same size as the one below. A lavish bed sat against the far wall and a desk strewn with documents lay between them and it, but it was the shelves around