Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #15 June 2015 | Page 61

cut on the forearm as he did. He grabbed the hilt
and tore it loose from Khellus’s hand, tossing the
blade aside.
Long, absurdly strong fingers wrapped around
Khellus’s throat, squeezing as they drove him
down. Khellus grabbed for purchase, tried to tear
the hands away, but they remained fixed as surely
as iron clamps. Groxley pressed all his weight on
top of the assassin, grinding the back of his skull
against stone.

“That... that wasn’t... ”
Whatever final insult or defiance he intended went
unfinished as his grin finally slipped off his face.
He sagged on the blade. Khellus planted a boot on
his chest to force him off, casting him aside like the
trash he was. Then he surveyed the corpse-strewn
room, trying to sort his thoughts through a haze of
unexpected fury.

Khellus snapped blows up into the man’s face,
cracking a cheekbone and mashing his nose. Yet the
thug didn’t flinch. Khellus strained for breath even
as his vision started to blur and grey around the
edges. He tried to jab fingers into Groxley’s eyes,
but the man jerked back, laughing, just out of reach.

As an assassin, he’d always remained aloof from
his victims, never invested in their fate beyond
his role in ending their lives. It often didn’t matter
who he killed or why, so long as he did so under
the king’s command. Remaining focused within a
fight... keeping the killing impersonal... taking time
to plot out every step of the execution... all these
things had helped him complete dozens of jobs over
the years with aplomb.

Khellus slid one hand around in search of anything
he could use as a weapon. His sight narrowed to
focus on Groxley’s hideous grin and strength began
to seep from him. Just then, his fingers connected
with a small blunt object.

This time, though, was different. In his haste, he’d
let things get personal. He’d thought himself able to
withstand the tug of old emotion, able to consider
Abrodail as just a valuable resource he could exploit without consequence.

Eogwen’s wooden fork. She must’ve dropped it
when Asmoran hauled her off.

He’d been wrong.

“Give ‘em my regards,” Groxley said.

He snatched the fork up and rammed it up and
into Groxley’s right socket. The man howled and
lurched back, hands going to cover the wounded
eye. Khellus sucked in precious air as he somersaulted backwards and up to his feet. He recovered
the sword and dashed in, driving the blade through
the thug’s chest.
Groxley screamed and clutched the blade as if
trying to drag it back out. Blood poured from his
fingers, but he refused to let go. He bared teeth at
Khellus and sputtered as crimson bubbles frothed
his lips.

Asmoran still needed to die, but Khellus felt a new
sense of commitment in the act. The noble had
his daughter. His daughter. It didn’t matter that he
hadn’t known of her existence until just earlier in
the day. She was his flesh and blood, and now another sought to abuse such.
Crossing the room, he knelt by Abrodail and
brushed hair away from her slack face. Kissing her
forehead, he whispered, “Forgive me, Abby. You
deserved a far better fate than this. I swear this,
though. Eogwen will be cared for. She will be raised
to defend herself so no one—not even me—can
ever hurt her again.”