Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Unwelcome Warlock

Kolar saw that movement, and turned to watch. He said nothing, but stared directly at Hanner.

“Mind if I test the tapestry?” Hanner asked quietly.

Kolar glanced over at his sleeping employer, and all the other unconscious forms on the floor, the woman who had previously tested the magic curled up among them. He turned up a palm. “Why not?” he said.

Hanner smiled, and walked across the room, trying to look completely calm and casual. He let his hand fall to the hilt of his belt-knife, and pretended not to notice when Kolar responded by dropping his own hand to the hilt of his sword.

Marl, who had been dozing on his feet, started and straightened up. “Test?” he said.

“This fellow’s going to try the tapestry,” Kolar said.

“Oh,” Marl said. He glanced at Vond, then looked back at Hanner. “All right,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Hanner said, bobbing his head in acknowledgment. His right hand closed on his knife, while his left reached out toward the tapestry. Kolar stepped back to give him room.

This would mean he would be trapped here, Hanner reminded himself. He might not see his children for months, if he ever saw them again at all. He might be killed. He might be tortured. But it would put an end to Vond’s reckless displays of power, his murders and thefts and arrogance. Lives would almost certainly be saved, even if Hanner’s wasn’t among them. He grabbed the fabric of the tapestry in his left hand, then drew his knife and slashed.

“ Hai !” Kolar shouted. “ Hai , what are you doing? Are you crazy?” His sword flashed as he snatched it up.

Marl’s blade was out, as well; the tip was at Hanner’s throat as he said, “Drop the knife!”

Hanner dropped the knife and raised his empty hands.

The commotion had awakened several of the others; now a babble of voices arose as they saw what was happening.

Then silence fell as Vond got awkwardly to his feet and advanced toward Hanner. He stopped and stared at the tapestry, at the long diagonal gash in the cloth that cut a jagged slice out of the attic’s sloping ceiling and rough tie-beams. Then he turned to face Hanner.

“You’ve ruined it!” he said.

“Yes, I have,” Hanner said.

“The magic won’t work any more, will it?”

“No, it won’t,” Hanner said. “It will take a wizard months of work to repair it, if it can be done at all.”

“So we’re all stranded here? Is that what you wanted?”

“Someone will contact us eventually, I’m sure,” Hanner said, trying to keep his voice steady as Marl’s sword-point pressed against a point an inch below the corner of his jaw. Hanner was not sure, but he thought that was roughly the location of his jugular vein.

Vond strode forward and snatched the sword from Marl’s hand, but kept it pressed against Hanner’s neck. He pushed a little harder, drawing a drop of blood. “You did this to keep me from getting my magic back, didn’t you?” he said. “You think you’re in charge now, as the one who someone in Ethshar will contact. You don’t believe Zallin will do anything; you think you’re the one someone will rescue. You think you can leave me here, powerless, or maybe that I’ll agree to whatever terms the wizards set to get them to help me.”

Hanner tried to raise his jaw higher, to pull away from the sword’s point. He did not answer.

“You think I won’t kill you?” Vond shouted, his voice rising in pitch.

Hanner tried to move to one side, to get away from the blade pressing into his throat, but Vond turned to follow. Kolar stepped back to make room.

The pressure on Hanner’s throat increased, and he could feel blood running down his neck and under the collar of his tunic. He would have swallowed, but that would only make the sword cut deeper.

Hanner realized he was going to die. Vond had already demonstrated that he didn’t mind killing people who annoyed him, and Hanner had just done far worse to him than anyone else ever had – well, anyone except perhaps that poor witch who had sent him the Calling nightmare.

A motion above and behind Vond’s head caught Hanner’s eye, and he looked upward for an instant. A panel had opened in the ceiling, and he could see a dark space there. He caught a glimpse of red hair. No one else seemed to notice; they were all facing the other way, staring at Hanner and the ruined tapestry.

Then Vond flicked the sword slightly, drawing a stinging scratch across his skin, and Hanner’s attention returned to the warlock.

“They’ll come for me eventually,” Vond said. “Zallin or one of the others. I’m the one who can bring warlockry back into the World, Hanner. Maybe you don’t want your magic back, but plenty of people do. Maybe you don’t want power, but someone will, and he’ll come here to find me. I don’t need you, and I can’t trust you. You’ll have to die. I’m sorry about that – you were almost a legend, you know. You founded the Council and saved warlocks from extermination, but now you’ve turned against us, and I can’t allow a traitor to live. You understand that, don’t you?” The blade cut a little more deeply, and Hanner felt the stream of warm blood running down his neck thicken. He could feel it trickling down his chest.

He was going to die.

He had faced an inevitable doom before, when he heard the Call, but this was more immediate, more personal. He could feel his entire body tensing; his hands were trembling. He wanted to close his eyes, to not see the killing blow, to not see the hatred in Vond’s expression, but he kept them open; he did not want to give the warlock the satisfaction of seeing how scared he was.

Hanner stared defiantly at the warlock, his heart pounding. Vond drew his hand back to strike.

And Rudhira plummeted from the opening in the ceiling, an iron cooking pot in one hand and her belt-knife in the other. She landed on the warlock’s shoulders, then slammed the heavy pot down onto Vond’s head with ferocious force. Hanner heard bone crunch.

Vond collapsed, with Rudhira riding him to the floor; the sword fell from his hand, and Rudhira’s knife reached around and slashed his throat from ear to ear.

Someone screamed. The crowded room was thrown into complete chaos as anyone who had still been asleep awoke, while some people were trying to escape the violence and others were trying to get a better look.

Blood spurted from Vond’s opened throat as he struggled on the floor, trying to speak, trying to get his limbs under him; his eyes were wide with terror and pain.

Rudhira had not waited to make sure Vond was dead, or to see how the others would react; once she had finished her attack she dropped the iron pot, sprang to her feet, and ran for the door, her bloody knife still in her hand. Two of Vond’s men reached for her, but not in time. The two or three people directly in her path stepped aside; no one wanted to touch the woman who had just appeared out of nowhere and cut a man’s throat. She vanished out the door into the sunlit street.

For an instant Hanner, Marl, and Kolar didn’t move; then Hanner and Marl simultaneously dove for the dropped sword. Hanner did not worry about reaching the hilt, so his hand got there first, closing around the blade. He felt the edge cut into his fingers, but he didn’t care; he snatched the weapon up and stepped back. He was just reaching his other hand toward the hilt when Kolar’s blade pressed against his chest.

He froze, but did not release the sword. He nodded toward Vond. “He’s not dead yet,” he said.

Kolar did not allow himself to be distracted, but others, jarred from immobility by Hanner’s words, moved to roll Vond over. Someone had a piece of cloth, perhaps from a tunic, that he was using as a makeshift bandage to stanch the flow of blood, but it wasn’t enough; the pool of blood was spreading, and Vond’s movements were weakening. His eyes were wide and staring. He was still choking, but more weakly.