“Made a man out of you, it looks like, which I never managed to.”

There were four of the hedge-witches left at this point, and they spread out in a fan around the two of them, testing their weapons in their hands and thinking before they charged. Giving your enemies time to think was never a good idea, and he wasn’t about to let them do anything to Hot Priest before the man even kissed him. He ran at them and the hedge-witch he charged became a stalagmite the moment he got close. He spun to the side as he felt a weapon whisk by alarmingly near to his neck. Then he jumped backward with a strangled curse when the stone pillar turned back into a human and tried to stab him.

“Hey, um, Ara,” he called.

The Thing appeared out of nowhere directly at his side. Eager, it asked, “Can I do something for you?”

“Is it possible for you to stop them changing shape?”

It shrugged. “Let’s find out.”

Even as Havec opened his mouth to shout out a warning, a long flint sword struck the side of its neck. The Thing turned around to face its attacker, the sword pulling loose with a squelchy sound. Apparently, no matter how swiftly or skillfully you did it, it wasn’t possible to kill him, maybe because he wasn’t really alive. The woman who had struck him took a step back, dropping her sword. Probably she had gone pale with horror, but she was so covered in filth that you couldn’t tell.

“What is that awful thing?” his father demanded.

“A considerable improvement over your awful things,” he replied. “At least he doesn’t smell. Hedge-witches, Dad, honestly?”

“We fight with the weapons that are to hand.”

“Only a good philosophy if you grab the weapon by the hilt,” he retorted. “They’re running wild, they called a pair of giants down from the heights to destroy a Tabbaqeran border town.”

“A town that stood on territory that was ours two generations ago.”

Havec didn’t have time to examine this assertion because the remaining hedge-witches chose that moment to close. Only one of them came for him, the rest trying to rush past him at Farait. He took two wild slashes at the man closest to him, forcing him to retreat, before going in pursuit of the other three. As he closed on their backs, they had no choice but to turn around.

He could see Farait in his periphery, sword raised bravely, attempting to come to his side. “The rest of you, get Hot Priest out of the middle of this. That’s my dead dad, and now he’s come back to life, he’s in the market for a new body.”

He was conscious of the sorcerers surrounding Farait and moving him toward the mouth of the cave. Based on the way he was shouting at them, he didn’t like this plan, but he wasn’t prepared to attack his own allies. Havec paid this little mind, keeping his eyes on his foes. All of them were armed, not with metal but with stone, glossy knapped blades attached to horn handles or long spears. They would be every bit as sharp as his swords, but he had the unpleasant suspicion that getting cut by them would hurt twice as much.

There were two men and two women, and the one who had lost her blade in Hair-On-End had retrieved it from the floor. Havec went for her first because she seemed pretty foolish: when an opponent laughed off a knife in the heart, why would you waste time and effort trying to cut off his head? He took a swing at her face with his right hand, but she was faster than expected and ducked away. She kicked at his feet, and when he tried to cut her ankle, she stabbed at his neck, failed to connect, and twisted out of his reach again.

In the background, he could hear his father saying, “You said you wanted to help me. A man shouldn’t go back on his word.”

“Helping you doesn’t mean holding your hand steady while you cut your own throat!”

He wanted to pursue Doofus, but the man at her shoulder, with his long beard stiffened into two spikes, had other ideas. He wasn’t going to let Havec go past him and chopped at his arms. Havec parried the blow somewhat wildly, kicking Doofus in the belly as he went. He stepped onto her shoulder as she sat down and stepped over her, putting a bit of distance between him and the people closing on his back.

The other two spread out to come at him around the woman on the floor, a small wiry man with a particularly wild gleam in his eye and a woman with a protuberant midriff that could have been pregnancy, malnourishment, or fat. Big Belly had a spear and jabbed at him over Doofus’s head as she came, jab jab, fast as the strikes of a snake. Half Pint was armed with nothing but a single knife, but of any of them, he was the one who made Havec most afraid.

With a bestial roar, Spikes charged around Big Belly, raising his sword. Big Belly jabbed at him again, and he caught the haft of her spear between his blades. He had hoped to destroy her weapon, but the wood might as well have been petrified and didn’t break. He still had hold of it and pushed the jagged stone tip toward the ceiling so he might step underneath. Spikes charged past the place where he had been like the tool that he was.

Half Pint was already waiting for him, though, and Havec had no clue how he’d gotten there first. Before he could get his feet set, Half Pint stepped in close enough to kiss him and stepped on his foot. He couldn’t bring his swords into play, not against someone this small standing this close. Retreat was the only option, and he jerked his foot loose. As he spun away from Half Pint, a stabbing spear appeared out of nowhere, piercing the air where he had been.

He’d only gotten halfway ‘round when Half Pint stepped in again and stepped on his other foot. This time he lost his balance and fell. As he tipped forward, Doofus came to meet him. He struck at her, and the force of her parry knocked the sword out of his right hand. He still had the one, though, and waved it sidearm, keeping Spikes away.

The second he hit the ground, he was rolling over onto his back, just in time to have a nice clear view of all four of them closing ranks. He stabbed upward behind his head at Doofus, barely registering the shock in his shoulder as his sword met with something more solid than air and sank in. Bracing his free hand on the rock floor, he hefted his hips off the ground and kicked Half Pint’s hand hard enough to send his knife spinning.

He sat down an instant later, but there wasn’t time to regain his feet: Doofus was dying behind him, but the other three were still there. He whacked Spikes’ sword away from him, then lifted his hips up again and kicked Big Belly’s spear as she tried to thrust it into his gut. It knocked the thrust off-target and she almost lost her grip. Havec put his butt down and tried to scramble backward, only to be forced to stop and defend himself as Half Pint tried to catch hold of his legs.

It was Spikes who gave him the time to regroup: while Havec was preoccupied with fending off Half Pint’s nasty grabby little hands, the much larger man got in around his sword and picked him up. Hefting him into the air with a fistful of shirt in either hand, the man spun him around and slammed him into the nearest wall. The impact jarred him, and he let go his remaining sword. It didn’t knock the wind out of him, though, and there, conveniently close to his now-empty hands, were all the most vulnerable places on Spikes’ body offered up for him. He jabbed the fingers of one hand into an eye, and when the man dropped him with a roar of pain, Havec drew the knife at his belt and stuck it in his throat.

He took a step around the dying man and looked at the two who were left. He didn’t want to fight a spear with a knife; he didn’t want to face an unarmed Half Pint with a knife, either, come to that. Doofus’s abandoned weapon was lying right at his feet, though. Stooping, keeping his eyes on Half Pint, he picked it up. It was considerably heavier than the weapons he was used to, he noticed as he moved it from hand to hand. It would take time to get used to, time he didn’t have.

He made for Big Belly, closing with her fast so she couldn’t poke him with the point of her spear. That turned out to be a mistake: she shifted her grip to hold the spear like it was a quarterstaff and stuck one end between his legs. Reminded of Stave, he didn’t try to jump out of the way this time; he whacked the haft of the spear with his heavy sword, and only when she withdrew it and thrust the other end toward him did he move his feet. Then he struck at her head, high and outside, well wide. Big Belly was mean and canny, but she had that big damned gut, and that meant the center of her mass wasn’t actually over her feet. She leaned out just a little too far trying to meet his attack, and when she staggered, he stabbed her in the back. Then it was just him and Half Pint, who grinned.

“Oh-ho!” his father said suddenly. “Look at him go! Where the devil did you send him, Gheara? I barely recognize the boy.”

“You really don’t know?” Havec had to ask. His father was behind him, and he would have loved to watch the man’s face. But he was dead and his corpse wasn’t truly reanimated, so it wasn’t like his expression would give anything away.

“Your mother said she could find something suitable. Nice and safe, and far from home.”

So he hadn’t known, and yet he had. “You learned about this after the fact? Or was it already in the works when you died? I seem to remember the heart attack that killed you wasn’t the first.”

“Don’t worry your head about it, son.”

He almost pointed out that it was funny how they complained about his lack of resolve with one breath and refused to level with him with the next. His parents could have done what Xar did: tell him there were things he needed to learn and then insist he did. But why? He didn’t actually regret that things had worked out the way they had, in spite of all of the unpleasantness he’d endured and the scars that it had left on him. Standing in this bleak, sulfur-smelling cavern facing the specter of his stolen future, that was suddenly very clear.

He met Half Pint’s eyes and gave his grin back, testing the weight of the stone sword again. Half Pint had picked up one of Havec’s blades, almost as if the two of them were playing. The hedge-witch saluted him with his own sword, and before Havec could decide to return the gesture, charged. He slashed sidearm, and when Havec deflected, stepped up to his hip and chopped down at his calf. Havec stepped away from him, kicking the inside of his knee as he went. He lashed out backhanded, only to find that Half Pint wasn’t there.

He pivoted to face the man who had flanked him, catching an overarm blow and sagging beneath the weight of the onslaught. It was incredible how strong Half Pint was, given his size. Havec couldn’t tell if his strength was supernatural; looking at him, it wasn’t hard to imagine that this man might have given his soul to some horrific god in trade. The hedge-witch withdrew, cutting at his side, and when Havec turned to strike at him, he stepped gracefully aside, swinging the sword up and over and gripping it with both hands.

Then he brought the stolen sword of Imperial steel down with tremendous force on the blade in Havec’s hands. Havec took a step backward as it shattered, raising the short stone stump before him in a posture of defense. In that moment when he retreated instinctively, Half Pint did something unexpected: he turned around and ran.

It took Havec a moment to grasp that the wiry hedge-witch wasn’t running for the mouth of the cave: he was running at the cluster of people sheltering there. He had remembered, as his fellows hadn’t, that fighting Havec was a distraction rather than an integral part of the plan. And although Farait was supposed to be their target, he was running right at Qanath. Cursing, heart flooding with fear, Havec took off on the man’s heels.

“Stop him, stop him, oh god, fuck!”

Half Pint ignored him. Without having killed him, he had won. Havec was too far behind, his real vulnerabilities exposed, and there was nothing he could do about it. Half Pint was bearing down on the girl, and she staggered back a step before fetching up against the wall. She was as courageous as any warrior in her own way, but she didn’t know how to fight. The hedge-witch raised Havec’s sword.

Then Hair-On-End stepped in front of her, saying, “Don’t.”

Half Pint stopped so suddenly he rocked back on his heels. The shyin cocked its head thoughtfully, then reached out with one finger and touched his chest. Half Pint collapsed like an empty suit of clothing, and it was obvious before he hit the ground that he was dead. Havec stopped running, chest heaving. Hair-On-End turned around while the rest of them were gaping at him and patted Qanath on the head.

Havec glanced at Smooth Guy, thinking that he hadn’t given the man the credit he deserved; Qanath had tried to tell him and he hadn’t understood. Anyone who carried something that dangerous around in their pocket was a person with considerable self-restraint.

Into the stunned silence, his father said, “Now that those savages are out of the way! Come, boy, bring your friends over here and introduce them to me.”

“Dad,” he said sadly, turning to face his parents, “what are you doing? Tabbaqera is the greatest power in the world bar none. They don’t let piss-ant countries like ours massacre their citizens and walk.”

“Paw,” his father said breezily, “but we have sorcery they can’t match. Those giants gave them what-for, eh?”

He gestured around him. “Did I not just kill all the most powerful hedge-witches, the ones who were in on this scheme?”

“More can be trained.”

“Dad, if you wanted war, why not go hassle Tweel like we always do?”

“I mean to,” his father said reasonably. “Of course. I just want to let those arrogant bastards know they should keep away. Why should they get to be the only empire in this world?”