of dirt and brittle pine needles.
“I've no more reason to use such persuasion on you,” Chamtivos argued. “The Kai woman told us only the Khaskem can reverse Kai magic.”
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,