Erasmus rubbed his mouth. “With the weapon in his hand, not even you could beat him. I think the Arch-Rike planned it that way.”
Tyrus nodded sagely. “I am counting on it anyway.”
There was a rumble of thunder, though no clouds mottled the sky. It was a bubbling, spurting noise. Annon glanced up at the sky through the screen of branches and yew leaves, seeing something flash.
A man stood behind Tyrus, perhaps a dozen paces off. A cowl covered most of his face. He stood resolutely, appearing from nowhere. He wore a woodsman’s garb, dull browns and grays with leather bracers buckled across his forearms. A scar ran from his lower lip down across the side of his chin.
Tyrus withdrew a cylindrical object studded with gemstones from his belt. It was the size of a baton, made of brass or gold, and thick around the middle with caps on each end. He stared at each of them, smiled tiredly, and suddenly he was gone.
“I rarely speak of the Kishion, the Arch-Rike’s personal bodyguards. They administer the city’s justice on those convicted of heinous crimes, such as murder, rape, and treason. Only Bhikhu and Finders are chosen to be Kishion and are given extensive training in survival, diplomacy, and poison. They are unswervingly loyal to the Arch-Rike and to the ideals of Kenatos. They are few in number, perhaps less than fifty. There is one who is feared above the others. He is never seen at state functions or even in the presence of the Arch-Rike. He is always in the background, fulfilling the greatest service to protect the city. He is reverentially spoken of as the Quiet Kishion. They say, and this is purely speculation, that he cannot be killed.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Erasmus’s breath whistled in a rushed gasp. He dropped to his knees and showed his hands. “This is the Kishion!” he hissed.
Annon turned and faced the intruder. “He is gone,” Annon said curtly, his stomach clenching with fear. “You are too late.” His mind raced quickly, but he remembered the words. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
“Where did he go?” the Kishion asked softly, his voice deep and full of menace. He started toward them.
“Hold there,” Annon warned, raising his hands with his fingers shimmering with blue streaks. But the Kishion did not flinch. He came resolutely, closing the gap between them.
“I will do this,” Paedrin said, bringing his broken staff around in a whirl. He shouldered past Annon and Hettie and faced the Kishion first. “Greetings, brother. Perhaps we should talk before…”
The Kishion did not slow. It was impossible to determine who attacked first. It was as if two crossbows released in the same instant. The staff end whished around toward the Kishion’s head, met nothing but air, and the two were suddenly enmeshed in a struggle of arms and legs. Paedrin’s damaged arm was still bound to his side, giving him a decided disadvantage in the match.
Annon scrabbled backward, nearly tripping over Erasmus, who watched the battle rage with wide eyes, muttering under his breath. He did not move.
The blows exchanged were dizzying. Paedrin’s feet snapped out, trying to clip the Kishion’s head, but the other man was impossibly fast, dodging the hail of blows with studied preciseness. The staff came down again and was caught by the Kishion, who yanked it out of Paedrin’s grip and flung it aside. He stepped in fast, landing two blows into the Bhikhu’s ribs that would have felled another man.
Paedrin grunted and was suddenly floating. The Kishion grappled with him as he rose and cuffed him on the side of the head, expelling his breath. He sank like a stone. Landing awkwardly, his face contorted with anger, Paedrin struck with his palm first, right at the Kishion’s face, directly at his nose to smash it.
The blow never landed.
There was a loud snapping sound that Annon realized with horror was Paedrin’s arm bone. The Kishion had crossed his arms in front of him, blocking the blow toward his face, but his forearm bracers caught Paedrin’s extended arm in a vulnerable spot, and the bone had broken.
Hettie gasped.
Paedrin’s scream shattered the air in the grove. The Kishion used the arm further to draw him in, delivering a vicious blow to his temple, and he went silent as he collapsed to the forest floor.
Annon and Hettie had retreated and stopped as the Kishion turned on them next. Annon raised his hands and focused his rage, his shock, and all the antipathy he had toward his uncle and unleashed it on the Kishion. Searing pain went through his fingers as he channeled the magic at the intruder, sending out a bloom of bright blue flames in a surging mass of writhing fire. It slammed into the Kishion with the force of a storm’s fury. He was lost in the searing blue for a moment and then reappeared suddenly, stepping through the fire as if it were a harmless mist. His boot struck Annon squarely in the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs and sending him backward into a tree, making sparks dance in his eyes.
Tyrus nodded sagely. “I am counting on it anyway.”
There was a rumble of thunder, though no clouds mottled the sky. It was a bubbling, spurting noise. Annon glanced up at the sky through the screen of branches and yew leaves, seeing something flash.
A man stood behind Tyrus, perhaps a dozen paces off. A cowl covered most of his face. He stood resolutely, appearing from nowhere. He wore a woodsman’s garb, dull browns and grays with leather bracers buckled across his forearms. A scar ran from his lower lip down across the side of his chin.
Tyrus withdrew a cylindrical object studded with gemstones from his belt. It was the size of a baton, made of brass or gold, and thick around the middle with caps on each end. He stared at each of them, smiled tiredly, and suddenly he was gone.
“I rarely speak of the Kishion, the Arch-Rike’s personal bodyguards. They administer the city’s justice on those convicted of heinous crimes, such as murder, rape, and treason. Only Bhikhu and Finders are chosen to be Kishion and are given extensive training in survival, diplomacy, and poison. They are unswervingly loyal to the Arch-Rike and to the ideals of Kenatos. They are few in number, perhaps less than fifty. There is one who is feared above the others. He is never seen at state functions or even in the presence of the Arch-Rike. He is always in the background, fulfilling the greatest service to protect the city. He is reverentially spoken of as the Quiet Kishion. They say, and this is purely speculation, that he cannot be killed.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Erasmus’s breath whistled in a rushed gasp. He dropped to his knees and showed his hands. “This is the Kishion!” he hissed.
Annon turned and faced the intruder. “He is gone,” Annon said curtly, his stomach clenching with fear. “You are too late.” His mind raced quickly, but he remembered the words. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
“Where did he go?” the Kishion asked softly, his voice deep and full of menace. He started toward them.
“Hold there,” Annon warned, raising his hands with his fingers shimmering with blue streaks. But the Kishion did not flinch. He came resolutely, closing the gap between them.
“I will do this,” Paedrin said, bringing his broken staff around in a whirl. He shouldered past Annon and Hettie and faced the Kishion first. “Greetings, brother. Perhaps we should talk before…”
The Kishion did not slow. It was impossible to determine who attacked first. It was as if two crossbows released in the same instant. The staff end whished around toward the Kishion’s head, met nothing but air, and the two were suddenly enmeshed in a struggle of arms and legs. Paedrin’s damaged arm was still bound to his side, giving him a decided disadvantage in the match.
Annon scrabbled backward, nearly tripping over Erasmus, who watched the battle rage with wide eyes, muttering under his breath. He did not move.
The blows exchanged were dizzying. Paedrin’s feet snapped out, trying to clip the Kishion’s head, but the other man was impossibly fast, dodging the hail of blows with studied preciseness. The staff came down again and was caught by the Kishion, who yanked it out of Paedrin’s grip and flung it aside. He stepped in fast, landing two blows into the Bhikhu’s ribs that would have felled another man.
Paedrin grunted and was suddenly floating. The Kishion grappled with him as he rose and cuffed him on the side of the head, expelling his breath. He sank like a stone. Landing awkwardly, his face contorted with anger, Paedrin struck with his palm first, right at the Kishion’s face, directly at his nose to smash it.
The blow never landed.
There was a loud snapping sound that Annon realized with horror was Paedrin’s arm bone. The Kishion had crossed his arms in front of him, blocking the blow toward his face, but his forearm bracers caught Paedrin’s extended arm in a vulnerable spot, and the bone had broken.
Hettie gasped.
Paedrin’s scream shattered the air in the grove. The Kishion used the arm further to draw him in, delivering a vicious blow to his temple, and he went silent as he collapsed to the forest floor.
Annon and Hettie had retreated and stopped as the Kishion turned on them next. Annon raised his hands and focused his rage, his shock, and all the antipathy he had toward his uncle and unleashed it on the Kishion. Searing pain went through his fingers as he channeled the magic at the intruder, sending out a bloom of bright blue flames in a surging mass of writhing fire. It slammed into the Kishion with the force of a storm’s fury. He was lost in the searing blue for a moment and then reappeared suddenly, stepping through the fire as if it were a harmless mist. His boot struck Annon squarely in the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs and sending him backward into a tree, making sparks dance in his eyes.
