Melas, knowing what would befall him if he succumbed, steadfastly refused to turn his gaze to the Signora's features, instead accepting the wrenching complaint of his neck and shoulder muscles as he fought against her grip. His vision began to dim around the edges as her iron-hard fingers prevented either blood or breath from passing through his neck. A kick to the Signroa's midsection produced nothing more than her foul, croaking laugh.
"You're too crafty by half, little popinjay. We'll have your hands before you go back in the cell then. And given time you'll tell me all I want to know about your interfering aunt and her sisterhood…."
From the edges of his vision Melas saw a blur of motion then splinters of broken glass and a splatter of port coated his face in liquor and blood. His body spins like a rag doll as the Signora twirls, hurling him towards the third upright chair - the impact reminds the dizzy noble for a moment of falling from his horse onto a rocky field - upsetting the chair and leaving him sprawled underneath it beside the blazing fire.
"No…no...no more!" he hears Antonio spit at his wife, but any further words are drowned out by a shriek of rage from that foul harridan. By the time Melas clears his vision his fellow prisoner was once again held at an arms length by his wife, whose tightening grip caused an audible splintering of fragile man's shoulder. The port bottle lay shattered on the floor, its blood soaked jagged edge indicating that Antonio had landed a second attack on his betrothed tormenter.
Melas, shunting aside the pain from his multiple injuries, does the nobility proud by refusing to succumb - indeed, he literally sticks his hand into the fire for the honor of the empire, freeing the red hot poker from the blaze. The sizzling of the flesh on his palm is a distraction as he swings the heavy iron implement in a fatal arc, its glowing tip burying itself for a moment in the Signora's skull. Even as he wrenches it free for a second strike its heat sparks the oil coating the chaos witch from head to toe. Immolated and wailing the creature that was once a lady of the Republic staggered towards the grim faced noble - the flames peeling away her layer upon layer of squamous skin and rendering her own visage disgusting but ultimately impotent.
The Signora's charge proved more to be an attempt at escape, but Melas would have none of that, his impromptu weapon landing again in a blow to the creature's knee that sent her stumbling into the fire pit. Melas took a moment to wrap his hand in his handkerchief, keeping watch on the body until he was sure that Signora Hueras' threat was ended. A second scrap of cloth served to wrap the fallen ring the Signora had been using to facilitate her communication to her allies, and then he turned his full attention towards his companion.
Antonio, barely conscious and obviously in physical agony, seemed more certain of himself now that he had witnessed wife's demise. Helping the man to his feet Melas shouldered thus burden as he proved the keenness of his mind, retracing his steps back to the stairs that led to the street in front of the Andres shipping concern. Good fortune had a rack of oiled cloaks by the door that might serve to cover their bedraggled state as they made their way through the dark Scornbul night to the de la Erosas household.
There his arrival was met by a shriek from the doorman before Osmundo took control of the situation and had both men brought into a private room and called for a healer. The next day passes in a blur as the men recover from their ordeal. Prompt medical attention prevents the blistering on Melas' hand from scarring or impairing his mobility, and otherwise some bandages and trio of good meals are enough to restore the hunchback's strength. Antonio is not so lucky - magical attention is required to set his shoulder, but his mind is still not what it was. Through it all the young Ema is ever present - fetching food, drink, bandages, and whatever else the noble, pirate-fighting Melas might need.
"There is a monastery in Iselberg, towards' the mountains peak, surrounded by halfling farmsteads on all sides," Osmundo tells Melas as the nobleman prepares to take his leave that evening. "From what I know, the monks abandon their old names and act to strengthen our ties to the spirit of our ancestors. One cannot get farther from the sea and no one will question why Antonio was once reported dead. Our coachman will get him on the road to there once the rain clears. Our family cannot thank you enough for what you have endured on our behalf." The man's handshake was heartfelt, and Melas knew that the fellow was earnest in his restored devotion to the Vienne family, and himself as their agent.
Melas entered the streets of west Serin, oiled hat and cloak protecting him from the downpour, a newly purchased rapier at his hip to replace the one lost to some blind pirate storeroom, and within moments the young Ema lost sight of him in the pounding winter rain.
No comments:
Post a Comment