Sarg’s question made the large man’s bruised, purple face contort savagely. He ground his teeth and jerked his chin.
“Pin.”
Pin grabbed the woman by the arm and hauled her upright.
Sarg’s expression went rigid when he saw her face. He spoke in a tightly controlled voice.
“Hys…why are you… like that.”
“As you can see. Ran into some trouble.”
The woman shrugged.
“Perhaps if you’d led a more wholesome life, this sort of thing wouldn’t happen.”
“…Living badly has turned out to be inconvenient. I apologize.”
Pin couldn’t believe the composure of the pair of them. He grabbed the woman by the hair and pressed a knife to her throat.
“Stop your chattering! Say another word and I’ll open your wife’s face!”
“Husband. Don’t worry about me. Skalts had his face opened and he’s still perfectly fine. A few stitches and you’re back in business. I’ve been stitched up all over the place.”
The woman remained absolutely serene. Pin erupted.
“Can’t you read the room? Shut up!”
The knife tracing a line somewhere near the woman’s cheek angled inward and came to rest against her throat — cold metal pressing against bare skin.
The woman went stiff.
Pin felt her shiver. He noticed, distantly, that Sarg appeared very alarmed.
The large man struck Sarg across the cheek again. Sarg spat blood onto the floor and said quietly:
“I won’t resist. Just let Hys go.”
Another blow landed and Sarg’s head snapped in the other direction.
“Let Hys go. Please.”
The large man drove a boot into Sarg’s stomach. Sarg spent a long moment coughing and gasping.
“Please…”
“Say something reasonable. You’re next, and then your wife.”
Silence.
“I always wanted to see the great Countess Biche weep. She’s not the same person, but the face is close enough. Let’s call it a reasonable substitute.”
Something murderous flashed across Sarg’s expression. The large man flinched, then sneered.
“Eyes down.”
Sarg was beaten until his head drooped.
Pin felt a smug satisfaction. Gratifying, this — he had always wanted to do something like this to that sacred knight. A traitor deserved no less.
Pin’s left hand had started to itch, as it sometimes did. The phantom sensation where the fingers had been removed. Holding the knife to the woman’s throat for this long was getting tiresome.
“Hey. Trade off?”
“Yeah, Pin. Hand her over.”
The large man wiped his knuckles — the blood on them wasn’t his own — and grinned unpleasantly.
“Lady Gloriosa. Come here. We’ll make you forget all about your husband.”
Pin grinned and withdrew the knife from the woman’s throat. She was trembling so badly she could barely stand — she wasn’t going anywhere.
At that instant, a pain of incomprehensible force exploded in Pin’s right hand. Simultaneously, his entire world tilted violently. The floor rushed toward him, and then something struck his head with tremendous force.
His consciousness snapped out like a candle.
Hyderlin had crushed Pin’s fingers in her bare grip and slammed his head into the floor.
She clawed frantically at her own throat.
The sensation of the axe-blade separating her neck had flooded back into her body, vivid and complete. The memory replayed itself in her skull, again and again, refusing to stop.
Half out of her mind, she drove her boot into Pin’s head where he lay.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it—”
The large man and the other two stared at the scene in stunned disbelief — then snapped back to attention. They drew their knives.
“The crazy bitch — we tried to be decent about this — get the woman first!”
The outcome of a brawl is generally determined by size, numbers, and weapons.
The legends of one person against many are rare. It seldom happens that a lighter person floors someone far heavier than themselves. Disarming a man with a blade using nothing but bare hands is rarer still.
So it made perfect sense for the men to underestimate her.
And it was also a tactically sensible decision — if they could retake the woman, they could control Sarg’s movements.
But she was that Countess Biche.
It is an unfair truth that exceptional skill in a young person is not the product of effort alone but of rare, almost miraculous fortune — and the Countess Biche’s hobby had been gastronomy.
Black pudding made from white dragon’s blood. Consommé brewed from slow-simmered mandrake root. A spirit steeped with unicorn horn and spirit stones.
She had, quite literally, consumed things. Strange potions and brutal training had produced a physical form that far exceeded even a rigorously trained knight.
Hyderlin reversed the knife she’d found on Pin’s belt. Long-sword technique was her specialty, but she was serviceable enough with a short blade and with her bare hands.
She let the first arm that swung at her pass by and took the joint. She struck temples and the backs of necks and solar plexuses, and it did not take very long at all to put the men on the ground.
The former Captain of the Royal Guard caught her breath.
She had, in fact, already cut the rope binding her wrists before Sarg had arrived. She had planned to let him worry for a moment before dealing with it herself in fine fashion — but instead she’d gone and made a fool of herself, trembling like that…
She shut her eyes tight, then opened them. She forced herself back to calm. She tucked the recovered knives into her belt.
Hyderlin moved quickly to Sarg and crouched before him. He was in bad enough shape that she hardly knew where to start. She patted his shoulder carefully.
“Sarg. Sarg. Come back to me.”
Sarg, slumped against the wall, coughed dryly. He looked her over and asked:
“Are you… all right…?”
“You idiot! That’s my line—!”
The anger surged up hot in her throat. She swallowed it back. She pressed her palm roughly over her own face.
She gritted her teeth and examined the damage. His lip was split and bleeding. Bruises were beginning to rise in a dozen places. In a few days it would all be deep purple. Hyderlin chewed back a string of curses.
“God damn it. Can you walk? Can you manage?”
“…I think my ribs may be cracked. It hurts like hell.”
Sarg did not put on a brave face. He told her honestly what it was. Hyderlin pressed around his ribs and winced.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology was always strange on her tongue. Sarg shook his head.
“It’s fine.”
“…Wait here a moment.”
At his nod, Hyderlin walked toward Pin. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him upright, then slapped him back into consciousness. Pin stirred.
“Ugh…”
Hyderlin said, pleasantly:
“Pen. Can you understand me?”
Pin looked up at her through unfocused eyes.
My name isn’t Pen, it’s Pin, he thought.
Hyderlin tore a strip from Pin’s shirt and stuffed it into his mouth, then drove a knife through the back of his right hand. Pin screamed through the gag and wept for a long time.
“Mmf — mmgnh — uhh—”
“Can you understand me?”
Pin nodded frantically. Hyderlin pulled the sodden gag out of his mouth and dropped it on his face.
“I’ll ask questions. You’ll answer. Clear?”
He nodded with great enthusiasm. Hyderlin kicked him.
“Say it out loud.”
“Yes, yes! I — I understand, I understand!”
Pin slurred the words out in a broken voice. Hyderlin was satisfied.
“Good. You were one of Colozzo’s men.”
“Yes, yes, that’s right, yes.”
“Do you know where Colozzo is buried?”
“I don’t know.”
A brutal kick.
“You really don’t know?”
“I really don’t! I swear!”
“A few more hits might jog your memory.”
Hyderlin was prepared to use his head as a ball. As she assumed her position, Pin curled in on himself and screamed:
“Romen!”
“What?”
“I — I don’t know, but — Romen might! He might know!”
“Who is that.”
“That one! The one who went to get Sarg! He was Colozzo’s man too. He was at the funeral — he must know!”
Hyderlin nodded. She knocked Pin unconscious again — a courtesy, of sorts — and walked toward Romen.
Romen had, at some point, regained his senses, and while Hyderlin and Sarg had been occupied with Pin, he had been attempting to escape. But Hyderlin was faster.
She caught him by the back of the neck and drove him into the ground. A heavy impact. The man hit the floor hard.
“Where is Colozzo’s grave?”
“The vacant lot next to the abandoned cathedral! That’s it, that’s the place!”
The answer shot out with extraordinary speed. Sarg spoke up.
“There was no grave for Colozzo there when I looked.”
Romen scrambled over his words.
“A — a different name was carved on the stone. Leo — Leo! That was the name!”
A different name on Colozzo’s headstone — that was apparently all there was to it. Hyderlin scratched her jaw.
“Why was a different name used?”
“The — the Order forbade the burial of the leader on Order grounds, so — so—”
“Ah. So he was buried under a false name.”
“Yes, yes, that’s right.”
“Then how many people know Colozzo is buried there?”
“Probably — probably not many. Only those present at the burial.”
“I see.”
Hyderlin drove a kick into Romen’s stomach. As he retched and doubled over, she rifled through his pockets and helped herself to his valuables. Sarg made a point of looking the other way.
She stripped the other unconscious men of jewelry, weapons, and anything else of value. It was pocket change by her old standards, but better than nothing.
When Hyderlin helped Sarg to his feet, he let out a low groan.
“Ugh…”
His breathing was rough. Hyderlin muttered:
“I really am sorry.”
“I said it’s fine.”
Sarg leaned into her and limped toward the exit.
“…Let’s go home now.”
He said it, again, exactly the way one says let’s go back to our home. This time she felt no urge to refuse it.
Hyderlin answered:
“Yes.”
