Eobum lay there, helpless, a step just to the left of destructive madness. He’d heard footsteps rushing past him, somewhere behind his head. Whomever they belonged to, Alojz wasn’t happy to see their owner. He’d spat a curse in a tongue that made Eobum’s hair stand on end… or so he thought. Certainly, it made his mind draw in on itself. It was the mental equivalent of having a torch thrust toward one’s face—causing an instant and instinctive need to withdraw.
Next, he knew he was hearing Alojz’s enraged voice directed at one of his remaining men.
“What do you mean all my men are dead? How are all of my men dead, Viktor?”
“Well, my lord, the scouts.”
“What about the scouts?”
“Well, my lord, they… that is, they outmatched—out fought our men. We killed one of them, but…”
“They outfought… why in hells were they fighting the scouts in the first place?”
“I… I gave the order to attack them, my lord.”
“Why!?”
“I wanted… Your father gave the order to—”
“Did I give you the order?”
“Well, no, my lord, but—”
“Do you serve me, or do you serve my father, Viktor?!”
“Y-you, my lord. Always you!” The man sounded afraid now.
Eobum was torn between hope that Alojz would kill the man himself and rage at the loss of one of his own—and his inability to avenge him.
Alojz sighed. “Which one did you kill?”
“I didn’t, my lord. That is to say—”
“You puppeteer’d them. Which one did you kill?”
“I don’t know their names, my lord… a ginger?”
Eobum’s mind shook with unchanneled, impotent rage. Hrothgian… Hrothgian was gone! For years now, he’d been with them—a childhood friend of Aderano’s found bloody and beaten on the auction block. They’d given him a better life, or so Eobum’d believed.
“We’ve lost them to a man, Viktor?”
I hope your men suffered, Alojz… were I free from your master’s wytchcraft, so help me I would make you suffer for taking one of mine—for proving false—for proving… for proving my judgement false. That was the thought he’d nearly seized upon. The thought never flowered—interrupted by the continuing conversation around him.
“Yes, Lord. I’m sorry I’ve failed you.”
“Nonsense!” Alojz sounded delighted suddenly. This tonal shift was so stark and abrupt that it could only lead to one outcome. Eobum waited for Viktor to die. He didn’t have long to wait.
Viktor began to scream. His voice was a piercing, thin falsetto that seemed incongruous with his otherwise rough baritone.
Alojz spoke with undisguised delight. His voice was a loud and full tenor that seemed to shake the very air.
“I shall simply take your life and give it to the ginger man, Viktor, for he has managed not to fail… his… master! Ayom, Hecnkenid… puav ka zeteek wolth ahg iyth uund!”
Viktor’s scream was abruptly cut off, followed by a thudding sound as, presumably, he fell to the ground.
Alojz was quickly at Eobum’s side, kneeling down again. He’d left the dagger beside Eobum’s prostrate form as he’d stood to confront Viktor. He retrieved it now, speaking once more in Eobum’s ear.
“Eobum, I can make this right if you but tell me the man’s name. I know them all but cannot ascribe faces to most of them. Your ginger man is dead, but I have the power to undo that. The man responsible for that death has forfeited his life, and I am prepared to give that life to your ginger man. Fight your way back to me, now, while the power lasts, and while I am not yet missed…”
Eobum tried. He didn’t know whether or not he believed the man or simply wanted to feel his last breath as Eobum choked the life out of him. He thought he could decide that once he’d regained the ability to move.
Battle cries grew rapidly closer. Adric! Adric and Eobald, Alblod, and Riclov! Hells! If they killed Alojz first before he could stop them…
Eobum poured every ounce of his considerable will into moving—into regaining mastery of himself. He screamed, but the scream never left his mind.
He heard Eobald shouting his name, Alojz stammering, trying to explain himself, and then… it was over.
The dull, wet sound of metal tearing into flesh, a gurgled scream, a mumbled last word by Alojz… “Gin-ger,” before the final thump of his body falling to Skolf.
It was over, and he’d been woefully, miserably useless. They’d lost one of their own—Hrothgian—and the fault lay utterly with him. Maksu had been stolen from them, but stolen was far better than taken—than dead. Both, however, were his weight to bear. He had trusted Alojz’s motives, and so consigned them to this.
My responsibility—mine alone. I cannot, must not, show them the miserable truth—that there might have been a chance to save Hroth… that their attack on Alojz locked that door forever. That isn’t bearing it. It’s crying off—calling the burden too damned heavy. They expect… they deserve better—both the living and the dead.
Time would set him free, he hoped. Then he could meet his men’s eyes. They would see to Hrothgian, and he would find Lashjuk and Maksu, or their trail. He would go after them—alone, if necessary.
For now, he would wait. Alojz had acted as if Eobum might be able to fight his way back, so he focused his mind on that.