Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards Ch. 18 Pt. 2

 Notes: We're getting there, friends! Forgive me a bit of a cliffhanger in the interim...

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards Ch. 18 Pt. 2

***

Chapter Eighteen, Part Two

 

Photo by Yoksel Zok

Settling Down

 

One would think that, since the healer was already there, actually doing the healing would be a simple matter.

Naturally, it wasn’t that easy.

“This house isn’t consecrated to Bayd,” Filian fretted as he worked his fingers in and out of the standard prayer symbol to his god. “I’m having a hard time drawing on His holy power here.”

Mistress Michelson huffed. “You’ve healed people in town squares, in forests, in caverns—I saw you heal someone underwater once! Why should a little thing like a roof matter to Bayd?”

“They matter more than you might think,” Filian said snidely. “Natural environments are fair play to all gods unless you’re dealing with a druid temple or the backlash from a massive festival or the like. Personal quarters are much more attuned to the owners of the home and their deities. Who do you pray to most often?” he demanded of Hiram.

“Ah…no one in particular.” That was the gift of the wizard; they drew primarily on internal power, not external. It meant someone with a vast reservoir or personal energy like himself almost never had to pray directly to the gods in order to get something from them. “But this hasn’t been my house for long,” he added when Filian’s brow began to get thundery. “I don’t know the preferences of the prior tenant. Probably Melemor.” It would make sense, given the temple.

Tilda nodded from where she sat on the loft’s only chair. “Raileen was a devout follower of Melemor.”

“That explains it, then! Melemor is a jealous healer. Even if his worshipper has been gone for a while now, his presence is still too strong to allow for a rival.” Filian stood up and brushed off the knees of his robe. “Well, I suppose that’s that. You can call upon a minor priest of that temple to come and—”

“The man’s not hurt so badly he can’t go outside, you daft thing,” Mistress Michelson snapped. Without her new acolyte around to model behavior for, her acerbic side was running free. Letty was getting her nerves out by weeding the garden and giving the choicest bits to Knight as she went. Knight… Hiram was relieved the rabbit was okay, far from a given after they were ambushed by such a terrible excuse for a human being.

His earring warmed slightly, Phlox’s usual way of soothing him when he wasn’t free to speak. He wasn’t exactly sure why Phlox thought he needed soothing, he’d seen him go through far worse, but he didn’t mind the kind touch. “I’d like to go outside,” Hiram agreed. The air still smelled coppery, and the sooner he could get these people out of his private chambers the better.

“But—”

“Filian.”

The pallid man glowered at Mistress Michelson. “Fine. Fine. But when I collapse on the road and you’re left with no one to wrangle the children on the path to Garrison, don’t blame me!”

“Given that you always ride next to me in the wagon, I don’t think I have much to worry about.” The stout lady sat down beside Hiram and tapped her shoulder. “Loop an arm over the top and lean on me, I’ll steady you.”

Hiram wanted, on principle, to refuse the assistance, but as he was an old hand at being beaten up, he knew it was better not to tempt the gods of mischief with his aching head. The last thing he needed now was to fall down the stairs. “Thank you, Mistress,” he said instead, and bit back a hiss as he slung his arm over her shoulder. His broken shoulder blade was on the other side, but the entirety of his back was a solid sheet of fire at this point. Luckily, Mistress Michelson had the constitution of a mule; all she did was shift her weight slightly and get a firm grip around his waist.

‘Good lad,” she said, and Hiram laughed breathlessly. “Let’s get it done, then.”

The trip down the stairs took several minutes, with Tilda in front of them to act as a support in case one of them stumbled, but eventually they made it down and out the front door…where more steps awaited them.

And Uriel, stalking toward them from down the road, a fearsome look on his face.

“Blood!” he shouted, shaking his fist. “Sunk into the dirt almost an inch down!” He stopped just in front of Hiram and flung his hand behind him. “Not fifty feet distant! How did you do it, eh? How did you kill him?”

“Uriel!” Tilda snapped. “What—”

“No, no,” he interrupted her, “none of your smooth words this time, no intervening on his behalf. He killed Granth Devane, I know it! The amount of blood out there on the road, no one could survive that.” He turned his beady eyes on Hiram. “How did you lure him out there? What did you say, hmm? Did you make him some sort of offer? What did he tell you?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” Hiram said with total honesty. His earring pulsed once.

Tilda’s eyes narrowed as she caught sight of her cousin’s hand. “Is that a flogger’s friend you have?” The flogger’s friend was a slender piece of silken cord, or occasionally leather, that had been soaked in the blood of whoever it was spelled to. It responded to that blood, twitching the bearer out like a hound after a rabbit as long as the scent was fresh. They were an ancient device that had once been a common way to track down escaped slaves. “Why in Melemor’s name do you have a flogger’s friend linked to Granth Devane?”

Uriel’s rage settled as he realized he’d given something he hadn’t meant to away. “He…he gave it to me himself,” he said after a moment, tucking the thin, rust-colored piece of silk away in his breast pocket. “Told me it had been made long ago and that he didn’t trust it in his own house. And you can’t simple destroy a flogger’s friend, you know that. It opens too many dark doors. I promised I’d preserve it for him.”

Hiram had so many questions, but now didn’t seem the time to intervene as Tilda folded her arms. “And why would you think to bring it here? What made you assume that Granth was going to be with Hiram?”

“Well, where else would he be?” the mayor blustered. “After being so viciously disrespected yesterday—”

“You mean, when he finally lost control of the poor family members he spent years and years abusing? That disrespect?”

Hiram wanted to lean into the conversation, but in that moment all he could do was sit down. Mistress Michelson helped him sit on the stairs, leaning him up against one of the porch posts. “Far enough, Filian?” she asked tersely.

“Hmm, well, deeper into the trees would be—ah, I mean, I’ll try,” he concluded after seeing the Guide’s glare. The Priest of Bayd closed his eyes and made the symbol of Bayd with his knotted fingers, then smiled suddenly as his hands began to glow pink. “Yes, yes, now I can feel him once more. Blessed Bayd, God of marvels, He who succors the wounded and eases the bodies of the diseased…” The prayer went on for a bit, but the culmination of it was a wash of warm pink light over Hiram, homing in on his head and back. He felt skin knit in an instant, and the break in his shoulder blade went from a stabbing ache to a mere throbbing one.

“That’s all I can do,” Filian said after another moment, releasing his hands with a gusty sigh. “I’m exhausted from so much healing lately, and this porch is still very close to the purview of Melemor, and—”

“Thank you very much,” Hiram cut in, easing himself to his feet. Yes, that was much better; he could handle the rest on his own. A few quick sips of his cure-all or a touch of the right talisman and he’d be bright as bluebells.

“—don’t get to question my methods when it comes to preserving the safety and security of our town!” Uriel was shouting in Tilda’s face. “I’ve known there was something off about this man from the moment he arrived in Lollop!” He turned his florid face in Hiram’s direction again. “Everything was too smooth and easy with you,” he said, spittle flying from his lips. “You’re not what you pretend to be, I know it. I know it! And whether I can prove you killed Granth Devane or not, you better believe I’ll be keeping my eye on you from here on out!”

Well, damn it. There went the use of the cure-all. Hiram couldn’t afford to look suspicious right now, not with Uriel clearly convinced he was more than a simple herbalist. Which, of course, was absolutely correct, damn the man. “I’m sure I’ll be safer than ever under your watchful gaze,” Hiram said, letting some of his own irritation come through at last. “Given the depths of your devotion to the well-being of the men of Lollop.”

Tilda smirked, and Uriel turned from red to purple. Hiram looked back at Mistress Michelson and Filian. “I truly appreciate your time and care,” he said. “I know it’s caused some problems for you, but I’m fine now. You can be on your way without worrying Letty.”

“Oh, it’s already too late for us to leave today,” Mistress Michelson said with a shrug. “Don’t want to get caught between inns in that forest if we can help it. Gnolls and such, you know. No, we’ll leave tomorrow instead, early. One day’s delay won’t hurt us.”

“Robb will enjoy prolonging his performances at the tavern as well,” Filian added. “He’d been earning coppers off people since breakfast!”

The tension in Hiram’s back eased a bit more hearing that. If Robb—Marlon—whatever he went by was busy at the inn, then Avery was safe for now. Perhaps Hiram could go to him tonight, once it was dark enough out he didn’t have to worry about being seen.

And perhaps after he’d had a shower to take the rest of the blood out of his hair.

 

The attack took more out of Hiram than he’d reckoned. He wasn’t left alone until after lunch, a meal that Letty made and served up for him, Mistress Michelson, and Tilda. Uriel and FIlian returned to town shortly after the mayor’s outburst, and Hiram was glad to see the back of both of them. It was ungracious, perhaps, seeing as Filian had done his best to heal him, but Hiram was tired, grumpy, and in pain. The longer he had to put on a pleasant face, the harder it got.

It was Tilda who saw it and made his excuses for him. “You must be desperate for some more rest, Hiram,” she said as she set down her empty teacup. “We’ll give you some privacy.” Mistress Michelson followed suit by standing up and heading for the door, but Letty paused.

She leaned in toward Hiram and whispered, “Do you really think my father could be…dead?”

“I really and truly do,” he told her. He almost apologized as tears welled up in her eyes, but then she beamed a smile at him.

“Thank you, Master Emblic!” She bounded over to the door like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and finally it was just Hiram and Knight once more.

And Phlox.

“Honestly, you’d think they have better things to do than hang around here all day.”

“Don’t start,” Hiram murmured, rubbing his fingers across his aching temples.

“And that healing. So shoddy.”

“He did the best he could.”

“That doesn’t speak very well of his god’s power or favor, does it?”

Hiram groaned softly, then said, “He is dead, isn’t he? Granth?”

“Quite. Esme made very certain of that.”

Ah, Esme. Of course it had been her. She could have eaten Granth whole, no telltale blood stain left behind. That she’d done so meant she’d intended his death to be known. Now there would be no uncertainty haunting the rest of the Devane family, no fears the man might ever come back. He was gone, forever and ever. “She’s a good friend,” he said.

“I think she did it for the boy, personally. You know she’s grooming him to be her next high priest.”

That should have alarmed Hiram more than it did, but honestly he was so tired right now he could barely sit upright. He glanced over at the stairs, and just the sight of them fatigued him more than he could say.

His armchair, though, was quite close and very comfortable in and of itself. Hiram got up and staggered over to it, settling back with a wince. “I might be getting too old for this sort of thing,” he muttered.

“Sleep then, old man,” Phlox said, his voice taunting and gentle all at once. “I’ll guard your slumber.”

Hiram leaned his head back and let go of consciousness. Unkempt and ill-healed as he was, he still slept like the dead until a loud knock on his door jolted him awake. There was almost no light coming in through the windows now; he’d dozed off for at least five hours, perhaps more. He felt as though he could easily sleep another dozen.

Maybe I can just ignore it…

The knock sounded again, louder.

Or not. He pressed wearily to his feet and forced himself to methodically place one foot in front of the other on his way across the room. He opened it on a yawn, then—

“Master Emblic.”

Oh. Oh. What in the name of all the heavens was he doing here?

 

Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 18 Pt. 1

 Notes: Time to wake up and smell the consequences!

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 18 Pt. 1

***

 

Chapter Eighteen, Part One

 

Photo by Joshua Bayliss

Unsettling

 

“…blic! Master Emblic!”

Hiram’s sense of hearing came back to him ungently and all at once. Right after that, he was treated to the return of his other senses, none of which were registering anything very pleasant.

Especially his sense of touch.

He groaned at the rising intensity of the pain in his back, made worse for the fact that he’d apparently been lying on the floor all night. His mouth tasted of bile, his head ached fiercely, and as he tentatively rolled out his neck, his hair made a crinkling, crackling sound against the wood, like it had been frozen and never thawed.

Blood. You’re covered in your own dried blood, fool.

The last events Hiram remembered flooded into his mind, and he forced his eyes open with a wince at the brightness of the morning sunshine pouring in through the window next to his bed. He stared up at the tearful face right above his for a moment, then forced out, “L’tty? What’re yuh doin’ here?”

“What am I doing here?” his protégé demanded in a high-pitched voice. “You said you’d come to see me off! We waited for more than half an hour! I had to beg Mistress Michelson to let me double back and make sure you were all right before—”

Hiram blanked the rest of her complaint out as the first half registered. Oh damn. She was supposed to be leaving today, of course. And now she’d seen him, was worried for him, might delay things for him. Hiram couldn’t be the reason Letty was held back. He tried to press up onto one arm, but fell back with a grimace. “Go on,” he said roughly. “I’m all right, I swear. Just…” He smiled weakly. “Had a bit of a fall.”

Letty stared at him, the tears in her eyes contrasting to the furious expression on her face. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” she exclaimed, and Hiram’s head reverberated with pain at the sheer volume of her accusation. “These wounds aren’t from a fall, you were beaten. I would know! And Mistress Michelson isn’t going to let the Thread go anywhere without me. She’s—she came, she’s downstairs, hang on—”

“No, wait—” Hiram tried to stop her, but Letty had already vanished down the stairs, calling out for her new mistress in a panic.

Well. Shit. All right. He glanced at the faint glyph he’d carved at the top of the banister and grimaced. It was completely dead; there was nothing to prevent anyone from coming up here and rummaging around except his own presence. He glanced toward the chest at the foot of his bed and sighed. There were too many valuable—and dangerous—things up here to allow anyone who might stop by to rummage through if he let himself be chivvied elsewhere.

Admit it, Xerome. You need help. But given that he felt like the rough side of a sphinx’s tongue right now, Hiram figured his best bet was to stay and quietly ask for help in-house. If Granth tried to come back…well, hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

Hiram breathed deep for a moment, then reached out with his good arm, grabbed the edge of the end post of the banister, and pulled himself into a sitting position. The change left him feeling uncomfortably nauseous, and he waited for it to quell for a moment before continuing to try and get to his feet.

Ha, no. Nope. Not happening. His head spun too severely the moment he tried to stand. You’re concussed, old man, he chided himself. A broken old fool. Gods, he should have laid in more precautions, should have charged more items ahead of time to give him an edge in case of an attack. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore, damn it; he didn’t move like a young man.

Hiram, intensely grateful that no one was there to see him, dragged himself across the shining wooden floor to the edge of the bed, which felt like a major accomplishment. He leaned his good side against it and contemplated the next step—getting up onto it.

“Master Emblic!”

Ah, hells. Too late.

“You shouldn’t be moving around,” Letty scolded as she rejoined him, her hands fluttering like birds as she tried to determine the safest place to touch him. Stumping up the stairs after her was Mistress Michelson, the slight irritation on her face giving way to alarm as she caught sight of him.

“Hells hounds,” the Guide said as she crouched down, her keen eyes roving over his body. “I thought the girl was exaggerating, but if anything she undersold the damage done. We need to get you to a healer, Master Emblic.”

“No, no,” he managed through gritted teeth. Gods, his head was pounding. “It’s not that bad.”

“It looks terrible, from where I’m sitting. Your head alone…and what’s wrong with your back?”

Hiram smiled weakly. “Took a poker at a bad angle.”

“A poker?” Letty’s hands flew to cover her mouth as her face drained of color. “Did Pa come here?”

Oh, shit. “I couldn’t see who it was,” Hiram tried to dissemble, but Letty wasn’t having it.

“He did, didn’t he? He always—the poker, it was his favorite, he called it better than a switch and more memorable than a hand, he—when he didn’t show up this morning at the square I thought he was still sleeping off a drunk, not that he’d come and—Hiram!” She burst into tears.

“None of that!” Mistress Michelson said before Letty could truly lose the dregs of her composure. “Time to keep a straight head about you, girl. Ride my horse back to town and get a healer out here, now.”

“Truly, there’s no need,” Hiram tried. He had a rare tincture in his bag that would handle the worst of the wounds, if he could only have a moment’s privacy. “I just need some rest.”

Mistress Michelson scoffed. “You need a damn miracle, man. Letty, go.” Letty responded to the command, clomping back down the stairs with a quickness. When the door slammed shut again, Hiram sighed.

So much for keeping this whole mess a secret.

Mistress Michelson seemed to follow his mental meanderings. “Not much of a chance that this wasn’t going to get out anyway,” she said briskly. “Not with everyone in the entirety of Lollop on tenterhooks waiting to see how the patriarch of that family was going to react to the loss of them all. I heard everything from apoplexy to a suicide charge to trying to burn the mayor’s house down.” She shook her head. “Not the sanest of men, I take it.”

“Not even close,” Hiram whispered.

“Mm. Good that they left him, then.” She glanced over at the banister. “Good he’s not here.” She got to her feet, and every nerve in Hiram’s body stood on end for a moment as he waited for her to make her next move. Would she reenergize the glyph and accidentally send herself out into the road? Do some sort of analysis on it that informed her of more than she ought to know about his magic? Take advantage of his incapacity to interrogate him further?

In the end, all she did was wipe her hand over the wood, then brush a few shavings off her palm onto the floor. The banister itself was perfectly blank when she moved away from it. “No one’s business,” she muttered, then turned back to Hiram. “Right, let’s get you more comfortable then if you’re not going to be sensible about leaving.” Since you’ve already taken care of the problem, Hiram heard, and grinned weakly at the stocky woman.

By the time they heard the racket of people—multiple people, unfortunately—arriving outside, Hiram had been helped out of his boots and bloody outerclothes, and Mistress Michelson “just say Wynne, damn it” had used up every rag he had taking care of the mess on his face and in his hair and, embarrassingly, helping him use the chamber pot.

Tilda was the first one up the stairs, and the sound she made when she saw him was wrenching. She came over to the bed, sat down beside him, and put a careful arm around his shoulders as she leaned into him. “Oh Hiram, my dear, oh no,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “What did that bastard do to you?”

“Nothing I couldn’t take,” he replied. He was happy to see her, but unable to relax. “Who else…”

“Ah.” Tilda dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. “Letty, of course, she wouldn’t be left back in town. Filian, the Healer of Bayd. And…Uriel is here too.”

The mayor? Why the hell had he bothered to come? And where was…

Hiram cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose Master Surrus was around this morning?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “But I’m sure he’d come in an instant if he knew what you’re going through.” Their courtship was a rather open secret, at this point. “Do you want me to bring him here?”

Hiram did, actually. More than anything right now, he wanted the comfort of Avery’s presence. For once, he wasn’t afraid of being too much, of showing a part of himself that a lover wouldn’t want to see. Avery had already shepherded him through an illness that could have killed him; he’d seen Hiram weak, and he hadn’t taken advantage of him or turned away from him.

But Avery had more important things to think about right now. He was probably worried sick over the geis that had been laid on him. Maybe he was being compelled to go to the Tower right now, even. The thought gave Hiram a chill.

I’ve got to heal up, fast. “No, that’s all right,” Hiram said. “Let’s see about healing me some first, hmm?”

Tilda pressed her lips into a thin, hard line as she cast a gimlet gaze toward the stairs. “Let us indeed.”

Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch: 17 Pt. 2

 Notes: Let's have some just desserts, shall we?

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch: 17 Pt. 2 

***

Chapter Seventeen, Part Two

 

Photo by Jony Melikov

Spill the Cup

 

There were so many things to think about, Hiram scarcely knew where to start as he hooked up Mule and began to head for home. He’d said his goodbyes, joyous and tender and slightly fearful on Letty’s part, and promised he’d be there the next morning to see her off with the Thread. He’d made sure to let Tilda know to come to him if she needed help caring for Celiane and her children, then slipped out of the still-bustling crowd and onto the darkened road with Knight sitting calmly at the front of the wagon with him.

He took a breath and closed his eyes, doing his best to think of nothing at all for a moment. Inevitably, his mind would sort the problems from most into least dire, and he could tackle them accordingly. Soon enough, now that his hopes for Letty had come to pass, the next great barrier presented itself: Avery’s connection with and binding to the bard, Robb—or Marlon, whatever his name was.

The thought of him trying to penetrate the dark morass that was Gemmel’s Tower gave Hiram chills. It was more than unsafe, more than reckless—such a thing was suicidal. Hiram had never tried to penetrate Gemmel’s Tower himself, but he’d come up against plenty of wizard holes in his day. Some of it had been purposeful, a piece of adventuring that he was uniquely suited to, and some of it had been because there was no other option. Never, in any of those instances, had he walked away from the experience unscathed. Such reservoirs of power, imbued through will and blood and death, took a piece out of you no matter how strong you were.

Hiram huffed as he remembered the first time he’d come up against a wizard hole, back when he was first adventuring on his own. He’d been so full of himself, young and strong and determined to investigate tales of the Wizard of the Wood in eastern Dortheon. Supposedly the man had been able to make the trees talk, the birds share their secrets, and the flowers themselves dance when he walked by.

It had sounded quaint, idyllic, and if the man was gone then it was worthwhile investigating what he’d left behind—Hiram had never been much of an earth-oriented practitioner. He’d found the wizard’s home, an enormous tangle of a treehouse in the middle of a glen, disarmed the obvious traps with aplomb, and headed inside.

That was when the man’s death-curse found him. Hiram had ended up fighting for his life against the roots of the tree house, which had done their damndest to clamp onto him and drag him down into the depths of the wet, worm-dark earth with them. He’d ended up having to set the whole thing on fire to escape, which once he was clear-headed enough to think about it had been an awful outcome. All that knowledge, all that potency, destroyed just because he’d been careless instead of cautious.

And Avery had lived through Gemmel’s Tower twice. How had it hurt him? What was he carrying, even now, that left him in lingering pain and made him wary of letting others in? And what would the Tower do to him if he dared to try it a third time? Often such magics were cumulative, after all; a slap on the wrist with the first infraction, and knock to the head the second, a knife to the heart the third.

Not for Avery. There had to be something Hiram could do for him, a way to break the geis, a way to hide him from Marlon’s sight until the chance was past. Hiram couldn’t do magic himself right now, but he had a veritable repository of magical items tucked away in his private rooms. He hadn’t looked through them for a long time, preferring to leave as much of his past as out of sight as possible, but he’d brought the spoils of a lifetime along with him. Hmm, what did he have in his bags that might help? Hiram racked his memory as he arrived at home and began to put Mule away.

The Vanishing Cloak of Melekanthos… Ah, but that one was purely physical and wouldn’t stop music from reaching Avery’s ears. If he heard Marlon’s music, he could still be compelled by it, especially in light of the geis.

The Glittering Glass of Heliador… That was a full-on aura blocker; nothing that traveled the ethosphere was getting through that sucker. A start, but still not in and of itself sufficient. Perhaps if he combined it with the Cloak—no. No, that was too dangerous without prior testing. The last thing he needed was to combine two reagents and end up making an explosion with Avery in the middle. No.

Hiram idly patted Mule’s nose as he refilled her food bucket, adding a dollop of a sticky mixture that the local harness maker had assured him would do her joints good. He checked her water—plentiful—and patted her one last time before taking Knight’s makeshift leash and heading for the back of the house. He could go in the front, but the last thing he’d seen on his porch was the faces of the Devane children, all grouped together with his former assistant, and he wasn’t ready to replace that image in his mind yet.

A Wayfarer’s charm, perhaps…or one of the Reflectors to confuse the geis… Hiram ambled up the stairs and opened the unlocked door, stepping into the darkened interior of his home. He made it two steps before he realized that something was wrong.

The sound of his entrance was different, not breaking an emptiness but stepping into a silently occupied space. And the smell…sweat and salt and the stench of sour beer…

Hiram barely had time to drop Knight’s leash before a fist like a blacksmith’s hammer struck the center of his chest. He staggered back, arms raising protectively, but he couldn’t avoid the heavy kick to his side that sent him falling—straight into the side of Mistress Shore’s heavy, ancient iron stove. His head struck the corner, and then all Hiram could see was light flickering across his vision as he gasped in pain.

“You think you can fuck with my family, you piece of filth?”

Oh damn. Granth. He wasn’t still locked in an oblivious, drunken stupor at home or making a nuisance of himself in town. He’d come straight to the architect of his problems, in his mind—Hiram himself.

“Give my oldest girl delusions of grandeur, eh?” He leaned over and hit Hiram hard in the face, twice, three times. Hiram felt the fragile skin over his cheek split, and he readied himself to blast this bastard through the ceiling—

Then stopped. No magic. I can’t touch him with magic. He tried to use his own fists instead, striking at the man above him, but Granth was longer and stronger than Hiram, and avoided his blows with ease.

“I will stop him!”

“No,” Hiram croaked. Phlox’s magic was just as trackable as his, he couldn’t—

“Oh, you don’t think it’s your fault Letty’s gone from heeding my words to being as much of a bitch as her mam used to be?” Granth dragged Hiram up by the front of his tunic and threw him further into the living room. There was a bit of light in here through the windows, enough that when Hiram turned he could make out the man’s hulking form. One of his hands was empty, but the other held a long piece of iron—a poker, perhaps.

This was meant to be more than a beating. He would kill Hiram if he could.

Better me than the children. But neither would be best.

“Hiram…”

“No,” Hiram said again. It hadn’t gotten that far yet. He could still figure a way out of this without using his magic.

“You can’t run from me now, old man,” Granth sneered. “Caught you out like a fish in a barrel, I did.” He slapped the length of the poker down against his palm. “And I’ll gut you like one, too.”

“You’ll be found and tried,” Hiram said, casting about for a weapon even as his mind worked desperately for another way out of this. “They’ll hang you in the town square if you murder me in cold blood.”

“You’re nothin’ but an outsider,” Granth said, spitting to the side. “You think Uriel cares about outsiders? You think the priests do? They’ll call it a random attack an’ leave it alone as long as I don’t leave evidence behind, same as always.”

Same as always…was Hiram not the first person Granth had done this to? Was he more than a slovenly rabbit breeder and patriarchal tyrant?

Hiram didn’t have time for more thinking, not with the poker coming his way. He ducked, and it hit the wall hard enough to leave a gouge in the wood.

Come on, solve this! Before Phlox solves it for you and puts an end to your time in Lollop! He couldn’t use new magic, he hadn’t had time to go through his things but if he could make it up the stairs perhaps he could—

The stairs. The stairs, the charm! Hiram twisted past Granth and ran for the stairs.

He caught the very tip of the next swing across his upper back, and Hiram gasped as his shoulder blade made a hideous cracking sound that reverberated through his upper body. Breathing became difficult as the pain made itself known, and he fell onto the first few steps with a gasp.

“Hiram!”

“No,” he ground out, pressing onto his knees with his good hand. Behind him, Granth chuckled.

“Oh, yes.” Hiram heard the swoop of the poker swinging through the air from side to side. “I’ll beat your damn head in, old man, and the last thing you feel will be me ripping your fingers from your hands. I’ll joint you like a plucked chicken.”

Somehow, Hiram got his feet under him in time to start up the stairs again. Granth could have stopped him, could have reached out and grabbed his ankle and tugged him back into range with ease, but he let Hiram scramble, still laughing low and dark.

Just a little further…a little further… Hiram finally crossed the threshold of his bedroom at the top of the stairs and turned, breathless, to watch Granth follow him up. His head spun with pain, agony radiating from the broken scapula, and for a moment as his pursuer stepped up in front of him Hiram wondered if the charm had failed.

He was going to have to strike, and ruin everything.

Granth’s mouth twisted in a smile, and he took a step forward.

Then he vanished, poker and all.

Hiram exhaled a relieved breath that turned into a moan of pain. The pain spread like a fire across his tormented muscles, and his intention to make a new plan came to nothing as the pain in his back joined that in his head and finally, inexorably, overwhelmed him. He collapsed onto the floor, unconscious, as the power in the translocation charm sputtered and ran out.

Phlox pulsed with indecision and worry, but didn’t act.

Hiram was still alive. As long as he lived and could recover, Phlox wouldn’t take the step of ending things here for him. But if Granth returned…

Phlox would protect his master with Granth’s life.

***

Granth barely kept his feet as he stared around at the…trees? What the fuck?

He turned, gripping his weapon tighter as he spun in a slow circle. He was…he was in the road. In the light of the moon, he could just barely make out the point of that bastard’s house in the distance. What in the…how had he…

He growled in annoyance. So that filth had hired someone to give him a few little tricks. No matter. If he couldn’t afford a spell that was strong enough to kill, he deserved what was coming to him.

For so many reasons. Granth was going to enjoy this.

He started back toward the house, swinging the poker and muttering about the ways he was going to take Emblic apart under his breath. The front door was less than fifty feet away when a sudden wash of hot air poured over Granth’s body, startling him so badly he stopped mid-step.

“What the hells?” he grunted, spinning once more. It was nighttime in early autumn; there was no good reason for heat like that to strike with no reason. “Who’s there?” he demanded, raising the poker. “Come out and face me, you worthless trash!”

A pair of glowing green eyes appeared in the darkness at the edge of the woods. Out stepped a dainty little cat-like figure with a human face, and Granth shook his head at the incongruous sight. “What kind of crazy little thing are you, then?”

“I sit with eyes of stone in the morning and eyes as clear as the moon at night,” the creature said. “I run with children in the woods and stalk the prey of my master. I am she who guards the forward path and steps unseen in the mist. I. Am. Death.”

Granth laughed. “Here to take a bite of him too, puss?” he asked.

“Mm, not him,” the sphinx replied. “I am here to fulfill a vow. Several, in fact.”

What the— That was all Granth had time to think when the creature leapt forward, somehow crossing twenty feet in a single bound and growing at the same time, growing large enough that he could see its claws glisten like silver in the moonlight. An atavistic fear gripped him, and he got out the very first note of a scream.

A second later, the poker hit the ground. If the metal had been sentient, it might have winced at the sounds of chomping and chewing, but it was just a poker. It didn’t know what had just happened.

Neither would anyone else, Esme decided once she was done. She burped delicately, sniffed to ensure there was no scent of death that didn’t belong to her dinner, then turned and made her way back into the forest, purring with satisfaction.