Re: Desperate Times [Westguard]
Posted: Mon Jul 01, 2019 6:25 am
[Continued directly from here]
I know you'll be okay. You're a clever man, and you know your way around a blade. And if you ever need me, all you have to do is dream.
"Fates, what a load of fuckin' shite."
He was actually rehearsing his lines. Like he was some fucking mummer shitting his britches before going onto the stage. Trying to edit his words as he thought them, rearranging and agonizing over them. He tried to imagine the boy's face, all pale and wide eyes like captured rainbows. He didn't know whether to be struck or irritated by such naivete... no, he definitely did. It irked him, that anyone could remain so annoyingly positive and difficult to deceive.
Not over the last few trials, though.
Kasoria and Zarik and the kids... Fates, what a motley blood crew. During a normal Hot Cycle, they would have been a burden, to his patience and his attentions. Another gaggle of mouths and wandering bodies to watch over, like a shepherd over sheep. But this was nothing close to normal. This was the chaos and anarchy of n Oh'Pee riot, spread over an entire nation. They'd traveled on roads clogged with refugees, or bodies, or both. They'd seen the passing of monsters in tracks no natural beasts could make. They'd stayed up all night, with no fire to give them away, unable to sleep for the sound of... things, out there, in the distant dark.
Every morning, he'd seen one more shred of Zarik shrivel away. Then the girl Hazel got sick, and Kasoria stopped being annoyed. He saw his son in that coughing, confused face. The way she said it hurt, that she just wanted it to stop, and Zarik tried to hard to comfort her. She had her own room in the house, her own bed. Water, warmth, as best they could provide. But she started coughing more, and Kasoria winced the first time he heard that thick, choking, phlegm-filled sound in it.
He'd gone outside to smoke his pipe, and not said a word. He didn't know how to tell Zarik the truth.
Wonderful, now I'm thinking of telling her, too.
The little man huffed as he wound his way through byways and alleys well-known to him. Most were deserted, of course. There was officially a curfew on, but enforcing it was difficult, when the town militia was either marching south, maintaining the mammoth refugee camps, or simply deserted. Kasoria knew that they weren't roving in bands, truly turned against their country, but when chaos like this struck, a man looked to his own. A uniform, an oath, pretty words from his commanding officer... what was any of that nonsense next to the life of a wife, a daughter, a father? Kasoria had ears, and he'd used them. A quarter of the militia had just walked out once word of what was coming reached them. Vanished into the night, and back to their homes. A few trials later, that number had doubled, and only the staunchest true believers were left.
So it was not spear-bearing soldiers he had to avoid that night, which worked out well for him. Instead it was skulking shadows, much like himself. Most seemed to see like forms in him, and didn't approach. Then there were the gaggles, the clutches, the pairs and trios, made brave in their numbers. They leered and jeered at him, so he hurried onward. Once, a pair of men had followed him. Whispering too loudly to themselves, before finally making their move. They'd just wanted his coin, they said. Any food or water he carried, probably.
"Probably" because he hadn't given the designated speaker a chance to demand it. The robbery began, coin was demanded... and then he just moved.
Kasoria had already forgotten the man. Choking on his own vomit with a crushed throat and shattered elbow. His "friend" had bolted with nothing but a shallow whinny of horror in his wake. The man that spoke and touched Kasoria's arm had not been given the chance to flee. The little man had hit him exactly twice, crippling him at best and mayhap killing him at worse... but what mattered it?
Don't be a bad man if you don't want bad things to happen.
How he would tell Zarik was bothering him far more than some trivial scrote puking his guts up a few streets back. He was... familiar with the boy. Friends? That was unlikely. But he'd shown Kasoria so much, and not just knowledge. Thanks to him, he'd been able to fashion his dreams into memories he could walk through, even remember. More than that, he'd whisked the little Etzori away from Yaralon, leagues and oceans and countries away, slap into the hold of a ship traveling back to Etzos.
A journey of a season, in a handful of trills. And he asked nothing from me, save protection. If you'd gone your way, you wouldn't have come back until late Saun, at least. Jessye and Martyn would be gone. Alsome would be gone. This place would have finished eating and emptying itself and maybe the cottage would have been burned and sacked, too. No letter. No clue. No hope.
You owe him your child, and you're leaving him when his own is dying.
Kasoria swore in a stream of creative Ith’esson so vicious it made a passing couple jump back a few feet. He pegged them with a neck-cracking stare that had them shriveling further away. Without another word, he marched on, almost stomping across the stones.
Definitely irritating.
"This is bigger'n what I owe ya," he muttered to himself again, navigating as much by smell as sight. "This is bigger than what I... aye, that's better... bigger than what I owe yeh. An' now I need to protect... no, c'mon... to fight for... eh, that's better, I sup-"
He turned the corner and saw unfamiliar faces. Beefy bodies. Torches held in steady hands illuminating eyes that seemed to veer crazily between animal aggression and pack animal fear. He'd seen these faces a lot over the last few trials. These men weren't even bothering with the gossamer pretense of "protecting the neighborhood" anymore. No, the time for such shameless lies was long gone. These men were looters, and didn't try to hide it anymore. An array of weapons filled their hands, from short swords to farmer's tools. Torches, too. What threats and steel could not take, fire would destroy. They'd rather burn to ash than have anyone else take what they couldn't rightfully steal.
Which wasn't to say they wouldn't burn down the houses they robbed, anyway. Just for the fun of it.
Kasoria had ears, and he'd used them. He stopped on the corner, and used them again.
"Fuck me, fuckin' state a' Andrew."
"Hardly fuckin' recognize him. Shite, lookit that fuckin' eye-"
"Denis, too. Dagger inna neck."
"Stone me, bled out so much his fuckin' shirt changed color!"
"Fuck's sake, will you lot shut yer cuntholes an' just heave?!"
There were half a dozen of them, and four more than would never stir again. Battered, skewered, gut-stabbed and throat-cut. Laid out in a neat row on the cobbles in front of the house Zarik and his flock called home. Blood still wet and red, telling the little man this was recent. His gaze flickered up and there was light in the upstairs windows. Torches. Moving and bobbing, bigger than the scarce, dwarfish candles they had inside. He could smell the shit and the bile that always told him men had died messily, cacking themselves as they'd gone.
But he saw no children. No girl with a copper-skinned face, eyes closed in death. Just men he didn't recognize, who'd apparently died... doing what?
Kasoria blinked. He didn't make a quip in his head. He didn't make a face or even smile. He just put one hand in his pocket, sliding his fingers into what was in there... and started walking across the street.
"Gerry, hurry the hells up and... oi, what're you doin'?"
All eyes turned to the little man walking towards them. Dressed simply, almost ragged. Long beard, long hair. Barely up to Young Marsden's ears, and he was the baby of the bunch. Six rough men who'd done terrible things over this season; gone from laborers and farmers and clerks to... something else. But they'd had to. They didn't choose this. It was kill or be killed, be weak or be strong, and weak meant dead in Etzos this season. The Season Of Ruin.
"You don't live here."
Nesbitt's face darkened as the little man spoke. "City boy, eh? What're you doin' out here?"
They closed in on him with admirable speed, but a little too much laxity. Two in front, one on each side, and two hanging back with the bodies of their friends. But they didn't press him. Didn't get so close that any sudden moves would have been doused by their big bodies, buying them time to pile onto him. They don't think you're any kind of threat, Kasoria thought, and could have smiled, but didn't. He was not of the mood. Not at all.
"S'right," he said, voice eerily calm in a way that made one or two of the looters look nervously about. Hoping they'd make eye contact with a friend. "How many more of yeh are there?"
They didn't answer. Nesbitt looked around and laughed. Like obedient little peons, they echoed him. Kasoria smiled mildly, as if it were all just a great shared jest, and looked beyond him. Down at the dead bodies, mangled and bloody.
"He took four?" He said aloud, snorting softly in surprise. "Fates. Dint know the lad had it in 'im. Well, protectin' the kids an' all-"
"Fuck're you talkin' about, kids? There's no kids in there!"
The little man looked up at Nesbitt. He didn't look afraid. Nesbitt didn't like that. People had to be afraid of them, all the time, or it just wouldn't work. They wouldn't do as they were told and things got messy. This sawed-off fucking runt, barely up to his shoulder, and he was staring at them all like some slack-jawed idiot. Then he had the nerve to point past him.
"Think youse should lemme past, find me friend."
"Who the fuck do you think you're talkin' to, city boy?"
There was a long pause. Long enough for Nesbitt's face to go from ruddy to red with anger. Kasoria blinked a few more times, and finally he sighed. It was not an altogether regretful sound. More... resigned, to a bad bit of business. But it ended lightly. As if there were still some enjoyment to be found even in dirty work. He smiled at Nesbitt, lips together, and made like he was scratching his arse.
"Y'know... you picked the wrong fuckin' trial for this."
Shock. Surprise. Anger. Disbelief. All these things played over their faces. All these things froze them, in some way, in some fashion. Kasoria didn't take the time to enjoy the sight; he'd crafted it so he could get that time, and wouldn't waste it. After a few scratches his right hand moved up, gripped the handle of Traitor's Claw-
-ripped it out of the sheath at the small of his back as Nesbitt started to raise his cleaver, moving with the smooth speed of bloody experience-
-and slashed it sideways as he burst forward, closing the distance between them, carving open a beautifully straight red line across the man's throat-
-that suddenly split, and tore, and gaped, and vomited blood and bubbling red broth. Nesbitt gasped and clutched at the gushing wound, hands turning scarlet-
"F-Fuc-"
Kasoria didn't stop moving. He spun on his heel as he twisted to the side, left hand coming out of his pocket, punching forward with a gleam of dirty gold wrapped around his knuckles that the torches caught briefly.
Young Marsden was too slow to get his precious sword up. The sight of Nesbitt getting his throat cut was... well, he'd seen plenty of the like, the last few trials. The things they'd done, they'd been nasty. Bad. But Nesbitt was a smart man, and tough. Just like he'd been when he was running a tavern, not working with Ma and her bastard sons. Now he was dead, or dying. Laying on his back and crying and coughing up blood and-
Too slow.
The brass knuckles hammered into his nose and broke it like a hammer smashing a twig. Instantly his world was sightless, soundless; he couldn't feel anything but pain, not his limbs or even his face. He staggered back and Kasoria followed it up with a kick between the legs that took him right off his feet and burst something under the steel toecap-
Move!
Kasoria didn't stand his ground. He'd removed two pieces from the board, but he was still almost surrounded, and outnumbered. With Nesbitt down and Marsden senseless, he'd made an opening for himself where the boy had been. He slid across the cobbles, bounding over Marsden as he lay screaming in a fetal position, the turned-
-seeing the other men surging towards him. Not getting a chance to grab him before, but now coming on at him, rage and vengeance in their eyes-
Kasoria spit on the ground between them, and he charged.
Now that, they were not expecting.
Big Anthony swung a blacksmith's hammer at the little man and Kasoria ducked under it with ease. All the infirmities of the past two seasons, from Andaris City, from the voyage, from Yaralon, they were healed now. He was himself again, whole and healthy and death on fucking legs. The hammer hurtled towards his head and struck air instead, Kasoria ducking low-
-karambit slashing across the fat man's stomach, cleaving it open with that even, reversed curve made for such a cut. The baker's apprentice (he'd stolen the hammer) reeled back and started to sob as he saw all the steaming, wriggling things bubbling up from the hole in his stomach. He let go of the hammer and just before he heard it clang to the ground-
CRUNCH
-a straight left from Kasoria fractured his shaven skull and sent him down to a death while dreaming. Still they came on, but more careful now. One man had a scythe, modified more like a spear. The curved blade now straight up, and he stabbed at Kasoria's belly from a distance-
-little man dancing away from it, other two men coming in from the flanks as The Scythe kept him at bay. The four of them exchanged looks for a moment. Still in their eyes and quick, assessing gazes even as Marsden kept screaming and crying. Finally, one of them made a move, stabbing at Kasoria's with a dagger, little man's snapping his arm up to block the blow-
-The Scythe seeing his opening, lunging to skewer Kasoria through the belly while he was "distracted"-
Because that's what it was. Something worthy of quotation marks, because whatever it looked like, it simply was not. Kasoria saw the man's muscles bunch and tense as he started to move, and as that ragged spear thrust towards him, he stepped back sharply-
-dragging Dagger with him by the wrist-
"S-Shit!"
The Scythe cursed as his weapon went straight through the back of his comrade instead of Kasoria's belly. Worse than that, it was stuck on something. As Dagger fell, gasping and cursing breathlessly, his lurching body pulled the weapon away from Scythe's hand-
-and Kasoria vaulted over Dagger as he collapsed before him, one hand steadying himself as he flew across the back of the impaled man, foot lashing up and out as he went-
-steel toes smashing into the unarmed Scythe's stunned jaw. His head snapped around and there was a crack so loud it echoed down the empty street. The final man saw his friends die, saw Willy stabbed through the back out out the gut, and Gerhardt's neck snap and his teeth shower out of his head and scatter across the stones. He turned to run as the little man landed, and Kasoria watched him go.
He shrugged the brass knuckles off his fingers as he did. Flexed his sore hand as he looked at what he'd done. Still bodies, bleeding out. A couple still gargling, writhing, spitting. He ignored Nesbitt, and Dagger. Both were on their way out, and he'd wager Nesbitt was a bitter enough loser not to be forthcoming. Instead, he focused on Young Marsden, who was now able to speak. Almost.
"muh nuz... muh nuz... misuh nezbiut... urrrhh!"
What crouched down in front of Young Marsden was not Mister Nesbitt. It was that little bastard, that fucking monster who'd killed his friends. The weird, curved dagger he'd had in his right hand glinted wickedly... and now another one was in his left. Drawn from his boot, with a long, straight, blade serrated on the back end of it. It was flawless. Pure silver, gleaming and without a mark-
-and Young Marsden pissed himself though it was agony to do so, as Kasoria held it against his neck.
"Y'get one chance t'live, boy," he said, speaking very clearly, almost reasonably. As if he wasn't squatting in a slaughter house he'd helped make. "How many more of yeh are in there?"
"I... I... Uh..."
"Y'don't need to die here," Kasoria said gently, pressing the blade a mite harder. "Jus' tell me... how many are in there?"
"S... s'jus Ma... Ma... annuh buhs... an... an... muhbe Juzzy, inna-"
"So... four?"
"Y-Yehz!"
"Good lad."
The Raggedy Man yanked the dagger sideways and sliced open Marsden's throat. Simple, efficient, like he was killing a lamb at market. He stood up as the boy's eyes popped open wide and looked down with black eyes. Watching him die with that same, cold assurance. The blade had been worth taking, that was for sure. A fine blade, and the handle had a delightful hard around it. Like the unholy child of brass knuckles and a dagger. Kasoria liked the idea, but he did not smile.
He looked up slowly, and saw the bobbing lights had stopped. As if they were watching from upstairs. Had they been, they'd have only seen a face utterly masked by shadows and darkness and a row of lank, black hair. But maybe, just maybe, they'd have seen the glint of wet obsidian, looking back up at them. With dead men at his feet he'd made thus, flicking the blood from his blades. Without another word or gesture, Kasoria walked into the house.
"Zarik?"! He called out, voice dropping deep and growling as he raised it high enough to fill the house. "Stay where y'are 'til it's over! Dun' want youse gettin' inna way."
But he wasn't done. He stepped into the dark doorway, eyes and ears sharpening as he stood there. Listening for any scrape or grind or creak, any hiss of breath or shuffle of fabric. Then he spoke again, and his voice was... different. Like night from day, and wrath from mercy.
"Ma? Juzzy? Boys? Youse can run, an' live... or youse can stay, an' die. But youse leave him be... or I won't send yeh over the river quick, or easy. S'your choice... see yeh soon."
He didn't speak anymore. Just slid into the shadows infesting the old house, to begin the hunt.
I know you'll be okay. You're a clever man, and you know your way around a blade. And if you ever need me, all you have to do is dream.
"Fates, what a load of fuckin' shite."
He was actually rehearsing his lines. Like he was some fucking mummer shitting his britches before going onto the stage. Trying to edit his words as he thought them, rearranging and agonizing over them. He tried to imagine the boy's face, all pale and wide eyes like captured rainbows. He didn't know whether to be struck or irritated by such naivete... no, he definitely did. It irked him, that anyone could remain so annoyingly positive and difficult to deceive.
Not over the last few trials, though.
Kasoria and Zarik and the kids... Fates, what a motley blood crew. During a normal Hot Cycle, they would have been a burden, to his patience and his attentions. Another gaggle of mouths and wandering bodies to watch over, like a shepherd over sheep. But this was nothing close to normal. This was the chaos and anarchy of n Oh'Pee riot, spread over an entire nation. They'd traveled on roads clogged with refugees, or bodies, or both. They'd seen the passing of monsters in tracks no natural beasts could make. They'd stayed up all night, with no fire to give them away, unable to sleep for the sound of... things, out there, in the distant dark.
Every morning, he'd seen one more shred of Zarik shrivel away. Then the girl Hazel got sick, and Kasoria stopped being annoyed. He saw his son in that coughing, confused face. The way she said it hurt, that she just wanted it to stop, and Zarik tried to hard to comfort her. She had her own room in the house, her own bed. Water, warmth, as best they could provide. But she started coughing more, and Kasoria winced the first time he heard that thick, choking, phlegm-filled sound in it.
He'd gone outside to smoke his pipe, and not said a word. He didn't know how to tell Zarik the truth.
Wonderful, now I'm thinking of telling her, too.
The little man huffed as he wound his way through byways and alleys well-known to him. Most were deserted, of course. There was officially a curfew on, but enforcing it was difficult, when the town militia was either marching south, maintaining the mammoth refugee camps, or simply deserted. Kasoria knew that they weren't roving in bands, truly turned against their country, but when chaos like this struck, a man looked to his own. A uniform, an oath, pretty words from his commanding officer... what was any of that nonsense next to the life of a wife, a daughter, a father? Kasoria had ears, and he'd used them. A quarter of the militia had just walked out once word of what was coming reached them. Vanished into the night, and back to their homes. A few trials later, that number had doubled, and only the staunchest true believers were left.
So it was not spear-bearing soldiers he had to avoid that night, which worked out well for him. Instead it was skulking shadows, much like himself. Most seemed to see like forms in him, and didn't approach. Then there were the gaggles, the clutches, the pairs and trios, made brave in their numbers. They leered and jeered at him, so he hurried onward. Once, a pair of men had followed him. Whispering too loudly to themselves, before finally making their move. They'd just wanted his coin, they said. Any food or water he carried, probably.
"Probably" because he hadn't given the designated speaker a chance to demand it. The robbery began, coin was demanded... and then he just moved.
Kasoria had already forgotten the man. Choking on his own vomit with a crushed throat and shattered elbow. His "friend" had bolted with nothing but a shallow whinny of horror in his wake. The man that spoke and touched Kasoria's arm had not been given the chance to flee. The little man had hit him exactly twice, crippling him at best and mayhap killing him at worse... but what mattered it?
Don't be a bad man if you don't want bad things to happen.
How he would tell Zarik was bothering him far more than some trivial scrote puking his guts up a few streets back. He was... familiar with the boy. Friends? That was unlikely. But he'd shown Kasoria so much, and not just knowledge. Thanks to him, he'd been able to fashion his dreams into memories he could walk through, even remember. More than that, he'd whisked the little Etzori away from Yaralon, leagues and oceans and countries away, slap into the hold of a ship traveling back to Etzos.
A journey of a season, in a handful of trills. And he asked nothing from me, save protection. If you'd gone your way, you wouldn't have come back until late Saun, at least. Jessye and Martyn would be gone. Alsome would be gone. This place would have finished eating and emptying itself and maybe the cottage would have been burned and sacked, too. No letter. No clue. No hope.
You owe him your child, and you're leaving him when his own is dying.
Kasoria swore in a stream of creative Ith’esson so vicious it made a passing couple jump back a few feet. He pegged them with a neck-cracking stare that had them shriveling further away. Without another word, he marched on, almost stomping across the stones.
Definitely irritating.
"This is bigger'n what I owe ya," he muttered to himself again, navigating as much by smell as sight. "This is bigger than what I... aye, that's better... bigger than what I owe yeh. An' now I need to protect... no, c'mon... to fight for... eh, that's better, I sup-"
He turned the corner and saw unfamiliar faces. Beefy bodies. Torches held in steady hands illuminating eyes that seemed to veer crazily between animal aggression and pack animal fear. He'd seen these faces a lot over the last few trials. These men weren't even bothering with the gossamer pretense of "protecting the neighborhood" anymore. No, the time for such shameless lies was long gone. These men were looters, and didn't try to hide it anymore. An array of weapons filled their hands, from short swords to farmer's tools. Torches, too. What threats and steel could not take, fire would destroy. They'd rather burn to ash than have anyone else take what they couldn't rightfully steal.
Which wasn't to say they wouldn't burn down the houses they robbed, anyway. Just for the fun of it.
Kasoria had ears, and he'd used them. He stopped on the corner, and used them again.
"Fuck me, fuckin' state a' Andrew."
"Hardly fuckin' recognize him. Shite, lookit that fuckin' eye-"
"Denis, too. Dagger inna neck."
"Stone me, bled out so much his fuckin' shirt changed color!"
"Fuck's sake, will you lot shut yer cuntholes an' just heave?!"
There were half a dozen of them, and four more than would never stir again. Battered, skewered, gut-stabbed and throat-cut. Laid out in a neat row on the cobbles in front of the house Zarik and his flock called home. Blood still wet and red, telling the little man this was recent. His gaze flickered up and there was light in the upstairs windows. Torches. Moving and bobbing, bigger than the scarce, dwarfish candles they had inside. He could smell the shit and the bile that always told him men had died messily, cacking themselves as they'd gone.
But he saw no children. No girl with a copper-skinned face, eyes closed in death. Just men he didn't recognize, who'd apparently died... doing what?
Kasoria blinked. He didn't make a quip in his head. He didn't make a face or even smile. He just put one hand in his pocket, sliding his fingers into what was in there... and started walking across the street.
"Gerry, hurry the hells up and... oi, what're you doin'?"
All eyes turned to the little man walking towards them. Dressed simply, almost ragged. Long beard, long hair. Barely up to Young Marsden's ears, and he was the baby of the bunch. Six rough men who'd done terrible things over this season; gone from laborers and farmers and clerks to... something else. But they'd had to. They didn't choose this. It was kill or be killed, be weak or be strong, and weak meant dead in Etzos this season. The Season Of Ruin.
"You don't live here."
Nesbitt's face darkened as the little man spoke. "City boy, eh? What're you doin' out here?"
They closed in on him with admirable speed, but a little too much laxity. Two in front, one on each side, and two hanging back with the bodies of their friends. But they didn't press him. Didn't get so close that any sudden moves would have been doused by their big bodies, buying them time to pile onto him. They don't think you're any kind of threat, Kasoria thought, and could have smiled, but didn't. He was not of the mood. Not at all.
"S'right," he said, voice eerily calm in a way that made one or two of the looters look nervously about. Hoping they'd make eye contact with a friend. "How many more of yeh are there?"
They didn't answer. Nesbitt looked around and laughed. Like obedient little peons, they echoed him. Kasoria smiled mildly, as if it were all just a great shared jest, and looked beyond him. Down at the dead bodies, mangled and bloody.
"He took four?" He said aloud, snorting softly in surprise. "Fates. Dint know the lad had it in 'im. Well, protectin' the kids an' all-"
"Fuck're you talkin' about, kids? There's no kids in there!"
The little man looked up at Nesbitt. He didn't look afraid. Nesbitt didn't like that. People had to be afraid of them, all the time, or it just wouldn't work. They wouldn't do as they were told and things got messy. This sawed-off fucking runt, barely up to his shoulder, and he was staring at them all like some slack-jawed idiot. Then he had the nerve to point past him.
"Think youse should lemme past, find me friend."
"Who the fuck do you think you're talkin' to, city boy?"
There was a long pause. Long enough for Nesbitt's face to go from ruddy to red with anger. Kasoria blinked a few more times, and finally he sighed. It was not an altogether regretful sound. More... resigned, to a bad bit of business. But it ended lightly. As if there were still some enjoyment to be found even in dirty work. He smiled at Nesbitt, lips together, and made like he was scratching his arse.
"Y'know... you picked the wrong fuckin' trial for this."
Shock. Surprise. Anger. Disbelief. All these things played over their faces. All these things froze them, in some way, in some fashion. Kasoria didn't take the time to enjoy the sight; he'd crafted it so he could get that time, and wouldn't waste it. After a few scratches his right hand moved up, gripped the handle of Traitor's Claw-
-ripped it out of the sheath at the small of his back as Nesbitt started to raise his cleaver, moving with the smooth speed of bloody experience-
-and slashed it sideways as he burst forward, closing the distance between them, carving open a beautifully straight red line across the man's throat-
-that suddenly split, and tore, and gaped, and vomited blood and bubbling red broth. Nesbitt gasped and clutched at the gushing wound, hands turning scarlet-
"F-Fuc-"
Kasoria didn't stop moving. He spun on his heel as he twisted to the side, left hand coming out of his pocket, punching forward with a gleam of dirty gold wrapped around his knuckles that the torches caught briefly.
Young Marsden was too slow to get his precious sword up. The sight of Nesbitt getting his throat cut was... well, he'd seen plenty of the like, the last few trials. The things they'd done, they'd been nasty. Bad. But Nesbitt was a smart man, and tough. Just like he'd been when he was running a tavern, not working with Ma and her bastard sons. Now he was dead, or dying. Laying on his back and crying and coughing up blood and-
Too slow.
The brass knuckles hammered into his nose and broke it like a hammer smashing a twig. Instantly his world was sightless, soundless; he couldn't feel anything but pain, not his limbs or even his face. He staggered back and Kasoria followed it up with a kick between the legs that took him right off his feet and burst something under the steel toecap-
Move!
Kasoria didn't stand his ground. He'd removed two pieces from the board, but he was still almost surrounded, and outnumbered. With Nesbitt down and Marsden senseless, he'd made an opening for himself where the boy had been. He slid across the cobbles, bounding over Marsden as he lay screaming in a fetal position, the turned-
-seeing the other men surging towards him. Not getting a chance to grab him before, but now coming on at him, rage and vengeance in their eyes-
Kasoria spit on the ground between them, and he charged.
Now that, they were not expecting.
Big Anthony swung a blacksmith's hammer at the little man and Kasoria ducked under it with ease. All the infirmities of the past two seasons, from Andaris City, from the voyage, from Yaralon, they were healed now. He was himself again, whole and healthy and death on fucking legs. The hammer hurtled towards his head and struck air instead, Kasoria ducking low-
-karambit slashing across the fat man's stomach, cleaving it open with that even, reversed curve made for such a cut. The baker's apprentice (he'd stolen the hammer) reeled back and started to sob as he saw all the steaming, wriggling things bubbling up from the hole in his stomach. He let go of the hammer and just before he heard it clang to the ground-
CRUNCH
-a straight left from Kasoria fractured his shaven skull and sent him down to a death while dreaming. Still they came on, but more careful now. One man had a scythe, modified more like a spear. The curved blade now straight up, and he stabbed at Kasoria's belly from a distance-
-little man dancing away from it, other two men coming in from the flanks as The Scythe kept him at bay. The four of them exchanged looks for a moment. Still in their eyes and quick, assessing gazes even as Marsden kept screaming and crying. Finally, one of them made a move, stabbing at Kasoria's with a dagger, little man's snapping his arm up to block the blow-
-The Scythe seeing his opening, lunging to skewer Kasoria through the belly while he was "distracted"-
Because that's what it was. Something worthy of quotation marks, because whatever it looked like, it simply was not. Kasoria saw the man's muscles bunch and tense as he started to move, and as that ragged spear thrust towards him, he stepped back sharply-
-dragging Dagger with him by the wrist-
"S-Shit!"
The Scythe cursed as his weapon went straight through the back of his comrade instead of Kasoria's belly. Worse than that, it was stuck on something. As Dagger fell, gasping and cursing breathlessly, his lurching body pulled the weapon away from Scythe's hand-
-and Kasoria vaulted over Dagger as he collapsed before him, one hand steadying himself as he flew across the back of the impaled man, foot lashing up and out as he went-
-steel toes smashing into the unarmed Scythe's stunned jaw. His head snapped around and there was a crack so loud it echoed down the empty street. The final man saw his friends die, saw Willy stabbed through the back out out the gut, and Gerhardt's neck snap and his teeth shower out of his head and scatter across the stones. He turned to run as the little man landed, and Kasoria watched him go.
He shrugged the brass knuckles off his fingers as he did. Flexed his sore hand as he looked at what he'd done. Still bodies, bleeding out. A couple still gargling, writhing, spitting. He ignored Nesbitt, and Dagger. Both were on their way out, and he'd wager Nesbitt was a bitter enough loser not to be forthcoming. Instead, he focused on Young Marsden, who was now able to speak. Almost.
"muh nuz... muh nuz... misuh nezbiut... urrrhh!"
What crouched down in front of Young Marsden was not Mister Nesbitt. It was that little bastard, that fucking monster who'd killed his friends. The weird, curved dagger he'd had in his right hand glinted wickedly... and now another one was in his left. Drawn from his boot, with a long, straight, blade serrated on the back end of it. It was flawless. Pure silver, gleaming and without a mark-
-and Young Marsden pissed himself though it was agony to do so, as Kasoria held it against his neck.
"Y'get one chance t'live, boy," he said, speaking very clearly, almost reasonably. As if he wasn't squatting in a slaughter house he'd helped make. "How many more of yeh are in there?"
"I... I... Uh..."
"Y'don't need to die here," Kasoria said gently, pressing the blade a mite harder. "Jus' tell me... how many are in there?"
"S... s'jus Ma... Ma... annuh buhs... an... an... muhbe Juzzy, inna-"
"So... four?"
"Y-Yehz!"
"Good lad."
The Raggedy Man yanked the dagger sideways and sliced open Marsden's throat. Simple, efficient, like he was killing a lamb at market. He stood up as the boy's eyes popped open wide and looked down with black eyes. Watching him die with that same, cold assurance. The blade had been worth taking, that was for sure. A fine blade, and the handle had a delightful hard around it. Like the unholy child of brass knuckles and a dagger. Kasoria liked the idea, but he did not smile.
He looked up slowly, and saw the bobbing lights had stopped. As if they were watching from upstairs. Had they been, they'd have only seen a face utterly masked by shadows and darkness and a row of lank, black hair. But maybe, just maybe, they'd have seen the glint of wet obsidian, looking back up at them. With dead men at his feet he'd made thus, flicking the blood from his blades. Without another word or gesture, Kasoria walked into the house.
"Zarik?"! He called out, voice dropping deep and growling as he raised it high enough to fill the house. "Stay where y'are 'til it's over! Dun' want youse gettin' inna way."
But he wasn't done. He stepped into the dark doorway, eyes and ears sharpening as he stood there. Listening for any scrape or grind or creak, any hiss of breath or shuffle of fabric. Then he spoke again, and his voice was... different. Like night from day, and wrath from mercy.
"Ma? Juzzy? Boys? Youse can run, an' live... or youse can stay, an' die. But youse leave him be... or I won't send yeh over the river quick, or easy. S'your choice... see yeh soon."
He didn't speak anymore. Just slid into the shadows infesting the old house, to begin the hunt.
