kill him.
Deep in his head, Volos was thankful for his sparring partner Seble, who had taught him how to counter quickness. When one of the Juganin swept his sword at Volos, Volos stepped forward rather than away, using the man’s own momentum to help impale him on the tip of Volos’s weapon. That left Volos momentarily undefended as he tried to yank his sword free, and the two remaining Juganin were on him at once, slashing fiercely. One blade bit into his side and the other hit his shoulder. But Volos spun, ducked, and hacked at the nearest legs. His hands slick with blood, he lost his grip on the hilt and dropped the sword. One of the men managed to kick it out of reach. But Volos still had his knife, which he drew from the sheath belted to his chest. He collapsed to his knees and hamstrung one of the Juganin, then stabbed him in the throat when he fell. The last man’s sword cut deeply into Volos’s back. But Volos simply rolled, grabbed him around the legs, and pulled him down to the floor. After that, it was a simple thing to thrust the knife into his heart.
Nobody was attacking Volos any longer— but some of his enemies still lived. With a cry more beastlike than human, he killed them all. One of them was a man he dimly recognized as one of Berhanu’s rapists, and even as the man gasped his last breaths, Volos stabbed the point of the Jugan’s spear into the man’s groin.
It took some time for Volos to come back to himself. When his sensibility returned, he found himself on his knees, surrounded by corpses. He had to use a table leg to pull himself upright, and it took nearly all his remaining strength to cut Berhanu’s ropes. Berhanu collapsed to the floor, and Volos fell next to him.
No. It was stupid to have accomplished this much and yet die anyway on this bloody stone floor.
“Can you walk?” Volos asked.
But Berhanu had curled into a tight ball and didn’t answer him.
If anyone had asked Volos to carry Berhanu up the stairs, he would have said it was impossible. Volos could barely stand upright on his own. And yet somehow he hoisted the prince over his shoulder and got them both up to the ground floor, out the door, and into the muddy side yard. Where, by some small mercy of the gods, the Juganin’s handcart was waiting.
Volos dropped Berhanu into the cart with a thud and didn’t have enough breath to apologize. He realized blearily that the prince was naked and brutalized and that he was a fucking mess himself. His sword and knife were still in the cellar. His cloak was at the bottom of the stairs. And no way in the third hell was he going to be able to retrieve them.
There comes a point when a man’s body is stretched to its absolute limits, when he has done all that the restrictions of muscle, bone, and sinew permit, when he hasn’t the strength left to work his heart and lungs. And then there is the point slightly past that, when he discovers he can do more than he dreamed. When all that’s left of himself is desperation and tenacity. That was Volos’s reality as he stood outside the farmhouse.
He pushed the goddamn cart all the way back to the village.
He made it as far as the inn. He even managed to pound once or twice on the closed door. And then he fell on the cobbles in a senseless heap.
****
Chapter Six
“Well. This is more excitement than I thought I’d ever see.”
Volos opened heavy eyelids to find Mato kneeling beside him, hair in more disarray than ever, eyes sparkling. It took a moment for Volos to recognize where they were: on the ground floor of Mato’s grandparents’ house. Volos lay on a pallet on the floor while Mato smeared a stinging medicinal onto his wounds.
“Berhanu!” cried Volos and tried to sit up.
It was a testament to Volos’s weakness that Mato held him in place with a single hand to his chest. “He’s here,” Mato said softly, jerking his head to the side.
A few paces away, Mato’s mother attended a figure who lay sprawled on his
Deep in his head, Volos was thankful for his sparring partner Seble, who had taught him how to counter quickness. When one of the Juganin swept his sword at Volos, Volos stepped forward rather than away, using the man’s own momentum to help impale him on the tip of Volos’s weapon. That left Volos momentarily undefended as he tried to yank his sword free, and the two remaining Juganin were on him at once, slashing fiercely. One blade bit into his side and the other hit his shoulder. But Volos spun, ducked, and hacked at the nearest legs. His hands slick with blood, he lost his grip on the hilt and dropped the sword. One of the men managed to kick it out of reach. But Volos still had his knife, which he drew from the sheath belted to his chest. He collapsed to his knees and hamstrung one of the Juganin, then stabbed him in the throat when he fell. The last man’s sword cut deeply into Volos’s back. But Volos simply rolled, grabbed him around the legs, and pulled him down to the floor. After that, it was a simple thing to thrust the knife into his heart.
Nobody was attacking Volos any longer— but some of his enemies still lived. With a cry more beastlike than human, he killed them all. One of them was a man he dimly recognized as one of Berhanu’s rapists, and even as the man gasped his last breaths, Volos stabbed the point of the Jugan’s spear into the man’s groin.
It took some time for Volos to come back to himself. When his sensibility returned, he found himself on his knees, surrounded by corpses. He had to use a table leg to pull himself upright, and it took nearly all his remaining strength to cut Berhanu’s ropes. Berhanu collapsed to the floor, and Volos fell next to him.
No. It was stupid to have accomplished this much and yet die anyway on this bloody stone floor.
“Can you walk?” Volos asked.
But Berhanu had curled into a tight ball and didn’t answer him.
If anyone had asked Volos to carry Berhanu up the stairs, he would have said it was impossible. Volos could barely stand upright on his own. And yet somehow he hoisted the prince over his shoulder and got them both up to the ground floor, out the door, and into the muddy side yard. Where, by some small mercy of the gods, the Juganin’s handcart was waiting.
Volos dropped Berhanu into the cart with a thud and didn’t have enough breath to apologize. He realized blearily that the prince was naked and brutalized and that he was a fucking mess himself. His sword and knife were still in the cellar. His cloak was at the bottom of the stairs. And no way in the third hell was he going to be able to retrieve them.
There comes a point when a man’s body is stretched to its absolute limits, when he has done all that the restrictions of muscle, bone, and sinew permit, when he hasn’t the strength left to work his heart and lungs. And then there is the point slightly past that, when he discovers he can do more than he dreamed. When all that’s left of himself is desperation and tenacity. That was Volos’s reality as he stood outside the farmhouse.
He pushed the goddamn cart all the way back to the village.
He made it as far as the inn. He even managed to pound once or twice on the closed door. And then he fell on the cobbles in a senseless heap.
****
Chapter Six
“Well. This is more excitement than I thought I’d ever see.”
Volos opened heavy eyelids to find Mato kneeling beside him, hair in more disarray than ever, eyes sparkling. It took a moment for Volos to recognize where they were: on the ground floor of Mato’s grandparents’ house. Volos lay on a pallet on the floor while Mato smeared a stinging medicinal onto his wounds.
“Berhanu!” cried Volos and tried to sit up.
It was a testament to Volos’s weakness that Mato held him in place with a single hand to his chest. “He’s here,” Mato said softly, jerking his head to the side.
A few paces away, Mato’s mother attended a figure who lay sprawled on his
Similar Books
