Iron and Magic (The Iron Covenant #1)(32)

Her magic touched it.

A living disease, boosted by magic, a disease that would spread like fire and kill within hours. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose. She spat the word out. “Cholera.”

“Mhm,” d’Ambray said. “Our new friends planned to drop a present into our well. What would you say, honey, six hours and everyone in the castle would be dead and the disease vector would jump to the settlement, then to the lake? Or do you think it would be more like eight?”

She was too focused to answer, wrapping her magic around the vial, containing it.

The two mercenaries stared at him, the first still angry, the second still bored.

She finished the cocoon of magic and called, “Emily! Get Malcom and Gloria!”

Emily took off at a run.

Elara held the vial gently. They would have to dispose of this thing properly, with a lot of acid and fire.

Her gaze fell on Skolnik. It had to be him. He knew that once he walked in, everyone in the castle would gather around him, because he was a threat. While they were watching him, the two mercenaries would scale the wall and infect the well.

The fingers of her free hand curled like claws.

D’Ambray faced the two men, still smiling.

“Just get on with it,” the shorter of the men said.

“Good attitude.” D’Ambray pulled a knife out. It was a wicked blade, razor-sharp and thirteen inches long, with a tapered, slightly curved tip. The metal caught the sun and shone in Hugh’s hand. “Let him go and give the man a knife, for goodness sake.”

The two Dogs released the mercenary and took a big step back in unison. One of them pulled a black, foot-long blade and threw it. The knife bit into the ground by the mercenary’s feet. He grabbed it and grinned, dropping into a fighting stance.

D’Ambray stood motionless, seeming to ponder the shorter man.

Elara clenched her fist. D’Ambray was strong, but he was also large, and in a knife fight strength didn’t count and size was a detriment. Knife fighters were quick and small, and the mercenary looked like he’d been born with a blade in his hand. If d’Ambray lost…

If he lost, she would take matters into her own hands, Skolnik or no.

D’Ambray glided forward with predatory grace. His knife flashed, almost too fast to see. The front of the man’s dark shirt turned darker. He blinked. The gap widened, and she glimpsed the rosy clumps of intestines through the cut. It was so shocking, it didn’t seem real.

D’Ambray slashed again. The mercenary tried to counter, but the knife slid past his defenses, and he howled. Blood poured from where his left ear used to be. D’Ambray paused, frowning, like a painter examining a canvas, holding the knife like a brush. The mercenary charged. D’Ambray sidestepped and sliced off the man’s other ear. The mercenary spun away and somehow d’Ambray was there. A man of that size shouldn’t have moved that fast, but he did. The knife flashed again, slicing a gash across the man’s cheeks, widening his mouth.

“What the fuck?” the other mercenary cried out.

D’Ambray stepped forward, his movements beautifully liquid. His left hand caught the mercenary’s wrist. D’Ambray yanked the man’s arm straight, and stabbed into the inside of the elbow, twisting the blade. The man’s arm came off in d’Ambray’s hand. Blood poured.

He deboned him like a chicken. This isn’t happening, this can’t possibly be real, it’s too horrible to be real…

D’Ambray tossed the forearm aside.

The mercenary fell to his knees, his eyes wide, and toppled over. His intestines fell out in a clump.

The world had turned into a nightmare and she skidded through it, stunned and petrified.

“Look at that,” d’Ambray said. His voice froze the blood in her veins. “He’s going into shock. This won’t do. Not at all.”

D’Ambray held his hand out. A current of pale blue magic poured out of him, bathing the man.

The mercenary coughed.

“That’s right,” d’Ambray said. “Come on back. We’re not done yet.”

The blood over the stump clotted, sealing it. The mercenary tried to rise.

“Come on. Almost there. Let’s get your guts back in.”

The intestines slid back into the man’s stomach. He stood up, shuddering and gripping his knife with his remaining hand.

“Very nice,” d’Ambray said.

The current died.

The mercenary charged, trying to take a swipe at d’Ambray. He sidestepped and slashed across the man’s back, stopping just short of the spine. The mercenary turned, ripping his stomach wound open. The innards slipped out again. They were hanging from him like some sort of grotesque garlands. The air reeked of blood and acid.

Elara finally saw the crowd around them, dead silent, her people horrified, the Iron Dogs impassive. Skolnik stared, his face completely bloodless. The other mercenary shook like a leaf, clamped tight by d’Ambray’s people.

“Let’s do the nose next,” d’Ambray said.

“Hugh,” she called.

He halted. “Yes, darling?”

“Please stop.”

Hugh glanced at the disfigured stump that used to be a man. “My wife wants me to stop. We’ll have to cut this short.”

The mercenary stumbled toward him. Hugh stepped forward, clasping the man as if in an embrace, and slid the knife between the mercenary’s ribs in a smooth precise thrust. The mercenary shuddered, held upright by Hugh’s strength. His eyes dulled.