Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(182)

“You can’t,” Tan said curtly, but Kaden and Phirum were already turning to look.

As Kaden tried to see past a stand of priest pines in the middle distance, the fat monk at his side let out a quiet sigh and dropped to his knees. Kaden surpressed a moan. If Phirum couldn’t even stand, it was going to be almost impossible to drag him up the steep climbs that awaited.

“Come on,” he said, reaching down to grasp him by the robe. “It’ll only be harder to start again if you sit down now.”

The monk didn’t respond.

Kaden turned to him, sharp words on his lips, but as he tugged at the robe, Phirum’s head lolled to one side, and Kaden realized with shock that blood was trickling from his lips, pouring down his fleshy chin in a crimson stream.

“Tan!” he shouted. “Something’s—”

The words died on his lips as he found Pyrre wiping her blade calmly on the leg of her trousers, then slipping it back into its sheath.

For a moment, no one did anything. Kaden stared at Pyrre, Triste stared at Phirum, and the fat monk stared at nothing as his eyes glazed over. Then Tan was sliding between Kaden and the merchant, hefting the naczal in both hands.

“Get back,” the older monk said, his voice flat, hard.

Pyrre spread her hands inquisitively. “Aren’t you Shin supposed to be great observers? I’ve saved Kaden’s life four times in the last half a day—I would think my goodwill would be clear by now.”

“Goodwill?” Triste demanded, her voice quivering with anger and disbelief. “You murdered Kaden’s friend and you want to talk about goodwill?”

Pyrre shook her head as though she’d had this conversation a hundred times before, and to no effect.

“Why did you kill him?” Kaden asked finally, hearing the hollowness in his own voice.

“He was killing you,” Pyrre replied. “He was slowing you down, sapping your strength, making it ever more likely the Aedolians would catch up.” She sighed extensively. “I know I’ve been making this look easy, but saving your life has already proved more … interesting than I anticipated.”

“We haven’t heard the Aedolians in hours,” Kaden replied. “They could have given up already.”

Pyrre widened her eyes in amazement. “You think Ut and Adiv crossed a thousand leagues only to give up after one night? They are still chasing you, and Phirum, may Ananshael look over his fat soul, was slowing you down enough that they would catch you. Then they would have killed him and you.” She frowned speculatively. “And incidentally, the rest of us. I gave him a quick death—no pain, no fear. We should all be so lucky.”

“Who are you?” Triste demanded, shouldering past Tan and advancing on the woman until she stood inches away from her, glaring up into her face. Pyrre was older and taller, Pyrre held the knives, but Triste appeared undeterred. “Who are you to decide which people get to live and die?”

Pyrre looked like she was considering the question, but it was Tan who responded.

“She is Skullsworn,” the older monk said. Kaden felt the muscles of his back and shoulders tighten at the word. “She is a priestess of Ananshael,” the monk continued, voice like a file rasping over stone. “Her god is the God of Death.”

Triste took an abrupt step back, and Kaden shook his head. “No,” he said slowly, trying to work the thing through the way he had been trained. “No. It doesn’t make sense. The Skullsworn only kill. She saved my life.”

“If she saved you,” the monk ground out, “she was well paid to do so.” He rounded on the woman. “Tell me I’m wrong, assassin.”

“No,” Pyrre replied calmly. “You’re not wrong. And at any other point, I’d be delighted to spend a sun-filled spring morning learning about my fellow travelers on the path, but Ut is still alive.” She grimaced, as though the fact galled her. “It’s been a long time since I killed men in full armor, and I’m afraid my skills have softened. Unless you want to end up like Phirum, I suggest we move.”

“You’re not coming with us,” Tan responded, his voice flat, hard.

Pyrre raised an eyebrow. “The only question,” she responded, “is whether you are coming with us. I was paid to rescue the Emperor. No money changed hands for the life of a middle-aged monk or an underdressed whore.” She glanced at Triste, then added, “Begging your pardon, of course.”