Black Heart Stomp

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Hurry little children
Run this way
I have got a beast at bay.

Promise me when the chance comes
You'll run as fast as you can
Don't you dare look backwards
Run as fast as you can.

-Gnarls Barkley, "Run (Natural Disaster)"

(let's go said he

not too far said she

what's too far said he

where you are said she.)

- e.e. cummings, 16

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Author's Note: Good lord this was a tough chapter to write. My very special thanks to kjanuary for all of her help in getting the first half of this chapter not to suck. Also, go read her stuff, she's fantastic.

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"Zieg!" yelled the wagon master from the middle of the caravan. "Sound out! What's going on up there?"

He didn't bother replying.

He looked different. Stood different. Something about having a sword on his hip and a proper haircut made him look like an entirely different man, which might have been why it took me so long to recognize him.

Of course, the man I remembered was a slump-shouldered, beat-down, sad-eyed wimp, not the grim, extremely pissed-off man before me.

Somehow I think he remembered the gates of Deningrad.

(Just a guess.)

But really, there wasn't much to worry about, no matter how mad he was about me ditching him at the city gates. I mean, he was a pushover, had been from the first moment I'd met him. This was going to be embarassing. Just because he found a sword somewhere didn't mean-

In one smooth motion, he unsheathed his sword and brought it whipping round in a wicked arc towards my stomach.

I squawked and stepped out of his reach just barely in time, the barest tip of his sword ripping a gash in the fabric of my shirt, then ducked as his return stroke nearly took my head off.

Shouts of alarm began to come from the center of the caravan, but they sounded puzzled more than anything. Evidently the idea that this was a bandit attack hadn't crossed anybody's mind. They were used to less lame bandits.

I was skidding backwards in the dust, my stomach somersaulting in sheer panic- and somehow, ridiculously, I couldn't get over the fact that Mullet was here, now, and I should have been absolutely fucking terrified right then but mostly I was just kind of, um, confused.

Mullet- er, Zieg- whoever, moved in a way that belied that stiff, uneasy way he used to carry himself- he moved fluidly, like his bones were water. He still had some of that stiffness in his shoulders, and he still seemed to have that same old slouch, but he was good. Good like Dad was with his fists, like Keys used to be, back in the day. And me, I was barely keeping up with him- I jerkily sidestepped one, two strokes, still feeling like I was moving through quicksand in comparison, still trying to get over the fact that he was here, that this was happening, that- holy shit, pay attention, because he's just feinted and now he's going to bring it overhand and block, you idiot, block!

I squeaked and reacted quickly and caught the blow clumsily on the armored plates on the back of my arm with a dull clang.

This.

This was a mistake.

I stumbled back, my lips gone flat and white, trying to get more space between us at any cost.

The impact nearly broke my arm.

He stood and gave me a look of satisfaction.

I sucked in a breath. Looked at him, hard. But then, swimming up cautiously from the furthermost edges of my mind, the question slipped out before I could stop it. "Why didn't you do this before?"

He paused, his sword held out to the side in a grip that was as steady and unmoving as stone.

My breath caught. Just a little. Because he might be too far gone, might, you know, hate my guts a little too much to remember that terrible morning in the inn with bad coffee and bad porridge and the gold piece clattering across the floor, but maybe, maybe

And then, wonder of wonders, he gave me a tight, comprehending smile and dove back into the fight.

I tried to turn things around, to quit acting purely on the defensive, but it was tough going seeing as he was fast, methodical, brutally strong, and a fucking beast with a sword. We were enclosed in a half-circle of gawking spectators at this point, and I shudder to think of what the gang thought, watching this all from back in the trees, but I didn't have any room in my mind for it. Everything I had was focused on not getting my head taken off.

He moved in a way that brushed right on by what I'd come to expect from my bouts on the Continent- he didn't think about what he was doing, for one; instead he was unhurried, and completely instinctual, and it chilled me to watch. The form of things, every move he made came smoothly, one after another, without their having to make a detour to his brain for him to actually think them through.

He hammered on me after that, having noticed how difficult it was for me to block rather than to simply step out of the way and resolved to not give me the opportunity- blow after blow aimed for my head and shoulders. Each one sent a kaleidoscoping burst of white, agonized light to explode behind my eyes, but I put up with it until something screamed its fury inside my head, and I responded with a kick to his chest that knocked him back some, and then, without thinking, crammed every murderous impulse I had into my fist and shot my claws straight towards his throat.

He ducked back, easily, his too-blue eyes tracking my claws through the air and narrowing slightly in thought, or recognition, or some other inscrutable emotion. He made a contemptuous dart at my retreating arm, which stung and rattled all the way up to my shoulder when it bounced off the iron. He followed it up with another, to which I danced straight up and through his guard and grabbed his wrist, twisting his elbow round in the kind of joint-killing move I loved, but the fucker threw his weight into me at the worst possible time and sent me stuttering backwards in the dust. And Black Gods help me, I was sweaty and frustrated as all hell, and this was going to be humiliating once the gang caught up with me, but I was biting a grin between my teeth the whole time because he was good and he was dangerous and so was I.

And then, just like that, things changed.

Black gods, I didn't know how to explain it. It was like… in the midst of the awful, desperate shock that was seeing him, and then him trying to extract the worth of everything I'd stolen from my raw flesh, it was like something clicked. His perfect form and his nearly surgical finesse didn't diminish, that wasn't it- it was like I suddenly found myself dropping into a rhythm buried so far deep in my bones that it felt like second nature. I'd learned this. Rouge Style was all about facing an armed opponent with just your fists and feet- it wasn't invented so we could fight each other. I'd nearly forgotten about this feeling. It wasn't like the desperate, back-alley brawls I'd been hurling myself into headfirst and screaming, this was-

The bubbling, indefinable feeling in my chest finally presented itself. Not fear, not guilt, just a nearly-hysterical appreciation for the moment.

I'd lost this, I thought.

That night, at the fire, with all those guards pouring down the street towards me and Dell chuckling at my back. Or afterwards, in the dining tent, too full and too drunk and too afraid of hurting Bellamy to put myself in the moment, and the brutal shock of a broken nose. In trying my hardest to stay alive, in fighting as quick and as dirty and as desperately as possible, my form had turned to shit quicker than I'd thought possible.

I barely noticed at first, but as my form tightened, and as my technique pulled itself back into the quick, cold precision of a Rouge Warrior, something about Mullet's form seemed to melt into something else as well.

He stopped taking the quickest shots- stopped focusing only on seeking to break through my guard to land on my head or neck. I'd remembered my training, remembered how to take a hit without feeling like my arm was about to break, and his attempts lost some of their effectiveness as a result. He hadn't lost any of the cold anger- his eyes were still as a flat as mirrors, but perhaps a tad more appreciative of what skill I had- but I'd thought him a swordsman before, but fuck me, he drew himself up and held himself like a fucking artist after that.

This is what I thought banditry ought to be about. A fair fight in the middle of nowhere, none of this blood-and-darkness nonsense, no nightmares, no hornets and seagulls in my head, just me and some beat-up swordsman with a score to settle. I shoved the circumstances and the rapidly-forming circle of baffled guards around us to the back of my mind, and concentrated on getting so far inside his reach that he couldn't bring that fucking sword to bear anymore. He reacted as scornfully and precisely as possible, until I noticed that while he still hadn't lost any of the fury in his moves, the bastard was beginning to smile. And not a creepy, skin-crawling Hiram Dell sort of smirk, but the kind of blood-pumping delight that comes from a fight that ain't half bad.

He looked young.

I should have been worried- should have thought of what, exactly, the gang might be thinking watching this, and how dangerously boredDell might be getting, but all I had room for at the moment was the very, very cold thought that crept into my mind just then:

His reach. Get in his reach.

I saw an opening and I took it. He swung, and missed (barely) but I slithered right on up his sword and instead of grabbing his wrist, I pressed real, real close, close enough to bury my nose in the collar of his shirt and smell the tang of his sweat, and slammed my claws up and into his ribs.

They didn't connect.

They got fouled in that awful green coat of his- stuck , and before I could pull 'em free, he twisted his waist and yanked me off balance and while I was too close for one end of his sword to work, he could and didcrack me over the head with the pommel. My feet went out from under me while stars ricocheted through my vision, and I landed on my ass in the dirt of the road, my claws shredding his coat uselessly as I fell.

When my sight cleared, I looked up, and there was a sword at my neck.

"You took something of mine."

His voice was dispassionate, and his mouth a flat line. Looking up at him, I could see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, his dusty blonde hair shining in the faint sun.

I swallowed.

In a small, conciliatory voice, I said, "It's not like I thought you'd notice."

He breathed out hard through his nose, and fuck me if he didn't look annoyed.

Of course, that's when the first arrow buzzed by his ear and buried itself in wagon behind him with a heavy thok.

Mullet blinked.

One of the guards near the back dropped with a shout, a raggedly fletched arrow thudding high into his back. Two more followed.

…The guards figured out what was really going on after that.

To give him credit, when everybody started shouting and things started to go all to shit, Mullet didn't remove his sword, and he didn't jerk and cut my throat either. What he did do was whip his head to gawk at the rear of the caravan like everyone else, and that's when I took my chance. One I was rolling to my feet and two I nailed him right on the jaw three he went down in a heap.

Then I turned on the crowd.

I swear I saw Bellamy in there at some point, and I know I saw Gasche cripple a Runner with that monster blade of his- tearing right through its shoulder in one swing and sending it toppling over its rider, screaming all the while. But I was trapped near the front, where all of the other guards had gathered, and really didn't have enough concentration left over to see what the others were doing.

Though, to put it mildly?

The rest of the pack of guards didn't have much on the opening act.

I whooped and dove into the fight like a hillbilly hurricane, using the armored backs of my claws and the steel in my toecaps to dole out as much hurt as possible. It felt like I was dancing- like I was doing a two-step ragtime across a heaving stage, biting a laugh between my teeth the whole time. I'd won. I'd won and I was winning and being a bandit was fun.

And then, well, it stopped. Most of the guards figured out real quick that standing up and waving a sword around wasn't really in their best interest, and the wagon drivers and merchants that made up the rest of the caravan mostly put their arms over their heads and hid in the wagons. Not that it did them much good once Gasche reached in, plucked them out, and threw them in the pile with the rest of the downed guards, where Bellamy and one of the older bandits were busy hobbling them. They did it with the kind of efficiency that comes from long practice, and I was reminded that this really was a sort of career for them, hiding in the woods and leaping onto unsuspecting businessmen.

Mullet groaned, beginning to stir, and I was gripped by a momentary sense of panic, since I didn't really want to hit him again, and neither did I want to do anything awkward like, talk to him. (Or call him by his actual name.) Thankfully, before he came completely 'round, Bellamy tossed me a length of cut rein, and I was able to hogtie his wrists behind him before he could do anything drastic. I kicked his sword off and into the bushes, just to make myself feel better.

On his belly, in the dirt, the swordsman glared up at me, but then looked away. Very pointedly.

Well fine, I thought.

I wasn't even breathing hard. I hurt, definitely, but it was a stretchy, sapling kind of hurt that meant green growth after one hell of a winter.

Somehow, by some wild, dumbass streak of luck, we'd ended up with a bloodless victory.

Well, mostly. A couple of the guards were still moaning in the back, and that Runner that Gasche'd mauled wasn't gonna be giving the neighborhood kids a ride around the block anytime soon, but still.

The feeling that this dredged up inside of me was indescribable- it was sort of floaty and struggling and persistent, but delight was in there somewhere and a whole heap of overpowering smugness, because I could totally do this if I put my mind to it, I just had to-

"What the fuck was that all about?" snapped Hiram Dell from behind me, somewhere near the wagons.

I turned.

He was wiping one of his knives off on his tabard, the fresh blood looking bright as paint compared to the rusty ruin already there. He gave me a long, lazy look the whole time, one eyebrow canked up in a way that looked perfectly friendly if you didn't know him better, then glanced pointedly at Mullet.

Actually, he seemed kind of pissed off. Which was kind of weird, until-

And then I remembered the fight against Bellamy, and that night in the tavern, and how pleased he'd been to throw me in over my head just to watch me nearly drown, and that seeing me get into a ridiculous dust-up that only served to confuse everybody might not have been what he wanted. It didn't matter that I'd single-handedly provided a big enough distraction to draw all the guards to the front and leave the rear unguarded- the only thing that mattered was that I didn't have gore up to my elbows and a body count stacked up to the eaves.

I swallowed.

But that was fine, I could deal with this. I just had to keep my cool.

Hiding my unrest, I pointed a thumb back at Mullet. "We've… met." I said lamely.

Somehow, I really, really did not want to get into our ridiculous meeting at the Fuenan inn at the moment, and not just because I felt like I'd burst into flames out of sheer embarrassment.

(Or because Mullet might go into frothing, rage-induced convulsions.)

I didn't want to tell him, and that was it.

My last word hung limply in the air for a moment before Dell finally let them drop. He looked Mullet and said mildly, "Old boyfriend?"

Mullet made a noise somewhere between a cough and grunt that sounded absolutely appalled.

I shot him a glare, which he ignored, and was about open my mouth to answer with God no, when-

"We got the cargo situated," said Miles benignly from behind Dell. "Might wanna take a look, Boss."

Dell gave me a long, loving stink-eye at that, but he turned and ambled off to investigate, leaving me behind.

Miles watched with his gloved hands jammed in the pockets of his ratty coat, a dark expression on his hangdog face. "This ain't right," he muttered under his breath.

I glanced nervously at Mullet, but he seemed to be ignoring us. Well fine.

"What isn't?" I asked, just as quietly.

Miles looked at me briefly, then kept his eye fixed on Dell.

His mouth barely moving, he said, "Why the fuck do you think we've been slogging up creek beds and snorting pine needles for the last day and a half? Why do you think we risked circling the center of these haunted fucking woods?"

Grimacing, he rubbed his unshaved jaw. "We shouldn't be pulling this shit so close to the main roads."

"Yeah, but," I said, slowly. "We're getting money out of it, right? I mean, that's the whole point."

He spat on the ground. "We don't need the money, kid. And we don't need the army tracking a string of hits all the way to Magrad."

But we won, I wanted to say. It looked like I was going to fuck everything up, but then I didn't, for once. This is us being fast and cunning and bold, this was us getting away with it all.

He shook his head and muttered darkly, "This'll all end in tears, wait and see."

I didn't want to believe him. Didn't want to right down to my bones, because I'd needed this so badly. But then I remembered, that awful morning under the wagons with blood in my nostrils-

Dell don't like that sort of thing."

".... people taking charge?"

"Things going smoothly."

However, this didn't diminish the fact that I was actually kind of excited to find out what they might be carrying. This was my first serious hit- the first fight I'd had on the continent that hadn't ended in blood, death and darkness.

(Er… some blood, I guess, but work with me.)

Hiram Dell seemed to cheer up from his previous annoyance, and didn't look the slightest bit concerned as he swung up alongside the cargo wagon. The wagon master, a solidly built fellow in thick furs who perched uneasily on the wagon seat like he wasn't quite sure how exactly he'd managed to remain unscathed, regarded him with no small amount of distaste.

This, I felt was unwise.

"Afternoon suh," drawled Dell as he brushed by the men already hauling the canvas off of the cargo wagon. "We're here on the behalf of the Deningrad Better Business Bureau, jus' got a few question if you don't mind." He scratched his head with one hand, still smiling huge and friendly. "What's this you're carrying then? Weapons? Fur? Mother o'pearl inlay for the Queen's shithouse, what?"

"This is unconscionable." snarled the wagon master. "This is a Kashua Company caravan selling directly to the lumber yards at Neet- you're crippling our business with these pointless raids!"

Dell blinked innocently at him. "That right?" he said casually, slinging his hands into his pockets. "Well bless."

Jerking his chin towards the cargo wagon, he snapped, "Boon, what's the story on that loot?"

The Runners had been unhitched earlier (save for the one Gasche had crippled, which Miles had quickly ordered put out of its misery.) and every single guardsman and merchant belonging to the caravan was huddled in a morose pile over towards the trees

The wagon master kept up his sputtering as Boon and a few of the older bandits quickly unearthed the cargo.

There was some commotion during, and a great deal of cursing, but then Boon poked his head out of one of the wagons.

"It's scrap, boss." he rumbled.

"What?" I said.

"What?" said Dell.

("Hmph," said Mullet, only nobody cared.)

Boon tossed a length of iron back into the wagon with a clatter. "Scrap iron. Nails n' lumber too, from the looks of it. Might be worth somethin' in Neet, but shit, we can't use it."

The wagon master glared down at us. "Kashua Company has a contract with the lumber yards- we're their sole supplier. They're buying up every ounce of raw material in a hundred miles."

Dell began rubbing the back of his neck. That same, dangerous look of annoyance from earlier flashed across his narrow face.

"Is that… bad?" I whispered to Miles, lips barely moving.

He snorted, but quietly. "It's typical, anyway. The merchants are spooked, so any kind of shipment needs an armed escort. Could still be worth our while, if they're carrying any cash with 'em."

"How 'bout a cashbox, you got a cashbox, grandpa?" asked Dell, not giving our side conversation a moment's attention.

The wagon master spat, and I saw the surrounding bandits give him identical wary looks usually reserved for dogs with suspiciously foamy jaws.

"We're a company caravan- we don't handle the cash," sneered the wagon master.

At that, everyone seemed to take one step back.

Then I heard a muffled, vicious series of noises that eventually identified themselves as Miles swearing as hard as he could under his breath.

Hiram Dell's grin became slightly fixed as he shook his head. "Lemme get this straight," he drawled. "You're hauling four wagons of yard clippings and no cash through the woods, and you hire ten fully-armed guards and one," he flapped a hand at Mullet, who was watching with no large interest, "show fighter, to stop anyone from takin' it from you?"

"We were concerned," said the wagon master tightly, "about the bandit problem."

…. Oh, hell.

He then glared at Mullet. "As for him, he's a recent hire. Tell me, how long has he been working for you?"

Dell barked a laugh. "Was just wondering that myself, thanks for reminding me."

Still smiling that fixed, brittle smile, he turned and looked at me so coldly, and so directly, that I shrank.

He clapped his hands together, and seemed to come back to his old, canny self. "Well, seems like we won't be makin' a big haul today boys, but I figure we can still scrape something out of this deal."

My unease grew, and I fought the urge to squirm.

I was disappointed, sure. This was supposed to be a sting mission, or so Dell had put it when we'd first seen the caravan. Dive in, break any resistance, then haul ass with as much money or goods we could carry. But they didn't have any money, and unless Dell had a pressing need for nine hundred pounds of scrap metal, we were in an awkward position.

This was… Wrong. And worse, unprofessional. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. We were the victors. We were supposed to be rich and clever and, you know, victorious.

…. And I may have just cost Mullet his job. That too.

Hiram Dell ambled on over to the wagon that Boon occupied, and hopped up on the edge. He sank one arm into the trash pile and rummaged around until he found what he was looking for- a spiked length of iron as long as my leg.

He twirled it idly in both hands. "Way I see it," he drawled. "We can at least leave a message."

With a skip in his step, he crossed the clearing and made a gesture at Gasche. The yellow giant, leaning on his broadsword which he'd sunk into the ground a good foot or so, grunted and hefted the thing over his shoulder as he headed towards the prisoners. He bared his ruined teeth, then hauled a guard by his shirt-collar out of the pack. The guard was young, terrified, and quickly going purple from the pressure on his neck, and he coughed explosively when Gasche planted a boot on his stomach to hold him still.

He was young. I would remember that. He was young, and had brown hair, and freckles on his nose and he looked so scared, but then I lost sight of his face when Dell stepped in between us and brought the spike whistling down with a crunch.

He killed him, and my world cracked right down the middle.

The remaining guards and merchants all began shouting at once- the wagon master was howling- and Dell just stood there with a curl of a smile on his face.

Miles' hand was clamped down on the back of my neck, keeping me rooted, keeping me from doing anything stupid, but then I wrenched free and stumbled to the side to retch into the bushes.

My arms wrapped around my midsection, I heaved. My claws pricked my sides and I panicked. Fumbled with the straps. Had to get them off, had to get away- I wasn't a killer no, I didn't have it in me, I lied, I couldn't do this, couldn't sit by and-

(You are you did you will.)

(You knew.)

My eyes opened, and Mullet, Zieg, this strange, damaged man that I'd hurt and cheated and hurt some more without batting an eye, was staring at me. Blue eyes fixed on mine, and serious. Not angry, like the fight, and not that cautious delight that the fight had turned into, but deadly serious.

He was studying me.

I shook my head. No, don't look at me, don't see what I am. I can't do this, I can't-

"What's the matter, darlin'?"

Dell's voice rang out like a cracked bell, bright and wrong and grating. He'd removed the spike, and dropped it carelessly on the grass, still bloody. The guard was dead. He hadn't taken long.

She hadn't either, she-

NO.

I was shaking like someone in a fever. And my voice shook too, when I spoke.

"You didn't have to do that."

The others had gone silent. The wagon master as well, but mostly because he was currently bleeding from the mouth from where the Fuenan had hit him. He watched wordlessly, his protests dead on his lips.

He understood.

Dell actually laughed. He sounded surprised. Delighted, even. "What, him? Kitten, now ain't exactly the time to get squeamish. You done worse and you know it."

His smile stretched out to his ears, his mad blue eyes dancing like sparks as I went white. He shook a finger at me, like some doting old uncle. "Don' lie now. I seen you. This ain't new for you."

"What's the point?" I spat, ignoring his last remark. No, I didn't I never meant I never-

He shrugged. "Why not? Gift for the army boys. Give 'em something to think about."

"You didn't have to. We won. They gave up." I gritted out.

"No?" he said, pasting a look of surprise on his face. "Honey, have you heard of us?"

I faltered. Looked around.

The gang, and for that matter, the merchants, guards, everyone, were watching with grave interest. Bellamy looked upset,and the look on Miles' seamed face was so black and shuttered that it frightened me even further. But worst of all was the gleaming spark in Gasche's eye as he watched, the waiting I found there.

He thought I was about to fall, and he wanted to be there to stomp on me when I did.

Dell's lips pursed, thinking. He seemed engaged in a ferocious bout of concentration, and then I realized that he was actually puzzled by my inablity to accept his decision. He'd clearly thought what I'd thought, that I was in, for good or ill. That I'd thrown my lot in with no reservations.

So had I. I thought I could. Black gods, I told myself that I was a fighter, a killer, any terrible thing I needed to be to keep moving, but-

I felt like such a child. Like I'd barged into a group of bigger kids with bigger toys and demanded to be allowed to join a game that was so far above my head that it wasn't funny, and now I was horrified that when they played guards and robbers like the rest of us, they killed the guards when they were done.

Dell tried another tactic. One I was coming to know well.

Persuasion.

He smiled, expansively. Took a casual step towards me. His earlier annoyance and puzzlement had vanished like mist under a hot sun- something new had presented itself. The chance to make me do something that I did not want to do was too much to resist.

"Kitten," he said, and I bridled. He paused, midstep, and regarded me with a faint, calm little smile on his crooked face.

He nodded coolly at Mullet behind me. "Do him next."

Before the shock could sink in, before my brain could film over in cold, greasy panic, I heard very faintly from the ground behind me, a sighed, "...ooof course."

Not helping! I snapped inwardly.

I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because Dell grinned.

"He ain't nothing, right?" he said, stepping closer, cool and casual as you please. "So do it. Put those badger-claws of yours to work. See how good it feels."

I suddenly began to regret that I had nothing left to throw up.

I still hesitated, and Dell's face twisted. "Claire, if you ever want to see your fucking cousin again, you get the job done."

That hit.

It was a sucker punch, meant to knock the wind out of me, and it did.

It was like being at the end of a long, black tunnel, with a blinding, terrible light at one end, and all around me was howling darkness. It was standing on the edge of a precipice with the ground crumbling beneath me and claws pricking 'round my throat. A liar I lied I didn't know I didn't want to know I never meant I can't-

Gehrich, he'll kill Gehrich, he'll make me watch.

And for one lightning flash of a moment- I considered it.

I actually considered it.

And Dell saw me considering it, and his face split he was grinning so big.

My voice shook, and without thinking, the words tumbled out like stones. "N-no. No way."

Really? a voice in the back in my head, somewhat relieved. We're not? Oh good.

The other voice, that yowling black presence that harnessed my fury and powered my fists just shrieked.

I shook it off. Tried to think clearly, tried not to give in to my anger just this once. It was hard, harder than I thought it would be when had it gotten this hard to control? But I had to focus, had to keep my head clear, because this was some shaky fucking ground right here. I'd joined up, told him he could do anything he wanted with me, told him I'd do anything to see my cousin again, I handed him the reins and I didn't even stop to consider the fact that maybe he was going to drive me right off a cliff.

But I could do it, could clamp the bit between my teeth, could turn tail and run for the hills now if I so chose, but black gods, Mullet, I owed him better than this, I owed him, this was my fault, all of it, I never, I didn't-

He was talking again, and I strained to listen, and then my blood turned to ice.

"-act like I don't know what you're capable of, like you ain't never dared." He grinned at me, his eyes too pale and too cold to even be human. "What was that you kept wailing that night after the fire, in the wagon? Couldn't shut you up, seemed like, just when it seemed like you was done, you started up again." he mused. "Soa, what was that name you kept moanin', s'onna tip of my tongue. Lorna, Liza, Lettie-"

"Shut up," I snarled. "Shut your fucking mouth."

I actually said it. Quicker'n I could blink, quicker'n I could ever hope to achieve again. An ugly, gut reaction and my voice was ugly-sharp when I said it.

I was in a fighting stance before I knew it. On the balls of my feet, fists cocked, at the ready. Ready to fucking kill him before he ever spoke again. Not her name not you ever I'll fucking gut you. The anger, the killing rage that had eluded me while fighting Mullet swept up around me like a choking fog and my vision went all black and red at the edges, boiling with hornets.

I could do it now. This was all I could ever do. War is my master, war is my art, and I beckon death. I could launch across the clearing and have my claws in his guts before he could ever say her name for everyone to hear.

(I DIDN'T.)

And Hiram Dell just stared at me.

On some level, I guess he hadn't known what an important button he'd found before he'd pushed it. On another level, he was clearly ecstatic to have pushed me so far over the edge that I'd lost all decorum.

On another, he was so visibly annoyed at having his power challenged that something in him actually seemed to snap.

He smiled at me again. A different smile. Not cajoling, not poison friendly, not mocking. A knowing, almost regretful smile. He smiled at me, and he didn't blink, and what it said was that he was going to punish me and he was going to enjoy it.

He went for his knife. My mind raced. Here, this, we're doing this now, Gehrich, I'm not ready, I didn't think oh god he nearly said your name-

KILL HIM. BREAK HIM ON THE ROCKS FOR THE GULLS TO PICK OVER.

The pressure in my head made my ears throb, and the blackness rising in my vision was becoming overwhelming. I shifted, dirt and rocks grinding beneath my heel, getting ready, curling my fists, this was happening, this was now, this was war.

And then, naturally, there was a flash of green light and I fell flat on my face.

Dell, of all things, looked confused.

I admit that I was also sort of puzzled, with my cheek resting on the dirt and my arms awkwardly trapped beneath me. I huffed a breath and tried to scramble back to my feet to give this a second go-round, when my limbs refused to obey me. I very literally could not move.

I was stunned.

No, correction, I'd been Stunned, this was-

The ground rumbled. That was all the warning we had. The ground rumbled and the birds exploded from the trees, and then the trumpets started up, blaring loud and clear like the end of the world, and then it dawned on the gang with all the suddenness of a rock to the head-

I don't know who shouted it, but they sounded strangled with panic-

"It's the army!"

You've never seen a gang of bandits dissolve so fast. They bolted. The men guarding the prisoners vanished into the trees without one more word, followed shortly by the crew who'd been picking through the useless, cursed cargo. Miles was gone in a shot, he didn't spare me a single glance- Bellamy looked over his shoulder once, confusion and shock warring on his wide face, but he was gone too.

Dell paused. Paused for one minute, on the edge of the trees, looking at me, and looking at the approaching horseman, and he didn't have a minute to spare, but he spared one for me. He looked at me, and he looked at the army, and then he appeared to put two and two together and then his eyes narrowed. The look he gave me then was flat and serious and full of fucking promise, and then he vanished too.

What, what did he-?

The army descended.

0.-0.-0

I didn't have the best view of things.

The wagon master, him I heard. Talking to the captain, the one in shining silver armor with the Divine Tree emblazoned on his breastplate, who I'd seen briefly as he approached. Loud and squally as a cat in heat, and outraged. Kept talking about the guard they'd killed and the Runner they'd destroyed and the gall of the man who'd doublecrossed him, and yes, that's one of them, that's the girl, they sent her out first to meet with their man, she's the one. Her and the blonde they'd tied up for the pretense, never should have hired him, didn't even come with a reference.

I couldn't move. Couldn't think. All my energy was being pushed through my useless limbs, struggling in vain against the implacable bindings of the Stun spell. Cheap, bought magick, that was all it was, but it worked. Must have nailed me with it when they were creeping up the road. Thought I'd heard something before about it having only a short time before I wore off, and hoped it would be soon. If I could get free, I could fight my way loose, no problem, give 'em the slip in the trees, meet up with the gang. Get back to Dell, grovel, do anything, anything, get him not to cut Gehrich's throat. Get him to take me back, I'd kill anyone he wanted, I'd do that, I could, just don't let them take me off to jail, don't let them lock me up, I can't do that, I can't.

My field of vision included most of Mullet- Zieg, whoever, that strange, sad swordsman I'd screwed over and left in the lurch, and then screwed over again for the hell of it, because I'm stupid and selfish and that's what I do and I'm sorry, I am. He was bent up almost as awkwardly as I was, his shoulders hunched as if already anticipating a kick. Then his face came into view, and I realized that he'd been inching towards me, his blue eyes on mine. His face was guarded, but worried, and his lips were moving, barely, he was trying to say something to me, but then I felt it, the give in the spell.

I was coming loose.

I didn't waste any time. I thrashed, awkwardly. Already I felt the blood rushing back through my limbs, strength returning to my muscles, and they hadn't taken off my claws yet.

A shout. A clatter. They'd seen me twitching.

They raised the alarm, and then the back of my head exploded in agony as someone slammed something brutally heavy down on it. My nose shrieked as my face was driven into the dust- I feared that it had been re-broken, or shoved out of place. My stiff arms lurched upwards to protect my face and head, but it wasn't enough. Then there were more of them, using the butt ends of their halberds, their boots, their fists.

They then proceeded to beat the ever-loving shit out of me.

There's really no way for me to describe it- I can't remember half of it- so I won't try to. Suffice it to say that they were enthusiastic and thorough, and that at one point, I saw Mullet thrashing in his bonds and roaring, his face purple with fury.

My killing rage, my anger, all of it, vanished. There was nothing I could do. Everything was savage hurt and flashing stars and I couldn't move, couldn't do anything. My hands went limp, and I uncurled from my protective huddle.

When someone's iron-shod toe came whistling 'round in a kick at my unprotected head, the explosion of stars and blackness tore me out of the moment entirely.

0.-0.-0