Reynald took two steps toward the stairs, his back still to us. He wasn’t maneuvering to get into a better position.
It was because of us, I realized. Reynald had a choice: to kill the slavers for his vengeance or to protect us, and he’d made protecting us his priority.
The giant roared.
The two men charged at the same time, the giant from the right and the injured swordsman from the left. Reynald dodged the giant’s swing. His blade kissed the man’s throat. The giant stumbled back, and Reynald continued the swing, letting the sword drop as he turned left and bringing it back up in a beautiful arc to slice the swordsman’s left arm. The blade barely seemed to touch skin. A red drop swelled at the swordsman’s wrist. His arm gaped open, split in half from hand to biceps.
The swordsman dropped his blade, both of his arms awash in blood. He screamed, half from pain, half from frustration. Reynald’s first cut had damaged something in his right hand, and he couldn’t even use it to stanch the flow of blood along his left arm.
The big man was still on his feet, bleeding but mobile, stalking Reynald across the floor.
On the stairs, Talpot had turned blue. His legs drummed the ground.
On the other side, the brawler moaned on the floor in a puddle of blood. His wound gaped open and the intestines inside looked like a mess of bloody rope.
Reynald was torturing them. He could’ve finished each of them with a single strike. Instead, he forced them to experience pain and despair. This was a punishment for every child who had ever come through the doors of this house.
The big man was breathing harder. Reynald had barely nicked him, but the wound steadily bled. He was getting weaker, and he knew it. He had circled Reynald and was now between us and the door, cutting off our escape.
Reynald didn’t look worried.
The huge swordsman raised his sword over his head, lunged forward, but stopped just short of committing to a strike.
The blademaster watched him calmly.
The giant stomped forward again and pulled back.
Reynald sighed. “You don’t have much time before you bleed out. Do what you’re going to do.”
Three men came running from the kitchen.
Kaiden darted forward, right past me.
“Kaiden!”
The boy grabbed Talpot’s knife and dashed up the stairs.
He’d spent so much time being afraid of these men, and here was Reynald shredding them like they were cabbage. They bled, they cried, and Kaiden had endured so much abuse. He was only twelve years old at most. He thought this was his chance. He was going after Derog.
I thrust the girl in my arms at Clover. “Stay with Reynald!”
She bobbed her head up and down.
I grabbed the club from Murt’s corpse and sprinted up the stairs. The door stood ajar. I dashed through it and into an empty hallway. Left or right?
A loud thud from the left. I turned and ran down the hallway, chasing the source of the noise. Rooms flashed by. I turned the corner. More rooms. It didn’t sound that far. I should’ve found it.
Another thud and a short scream. I’d passed it. I doubled back, looking into each room as I ran.
A doorway gaped on the right, revealing a large room, with bookshelves and a desk. To the right, Kaiden had pressed himself against the wall. His right arm was bleeding, the knife gone. Lasa was standing five feet away, a sword in his hand.
Something in me broke. All the energy and will I had exerted to keep from losing it and screaming my head off since landing in that rain-filled ditch turned to anger in a flash of heat. I charged like a bull, swinging my club.
Lasa tried to parry, but I was so mad. The world turned red. I batted the sword aside, growling like some deranged monster, and hit him. My club grazed his shoulder. He stumbled back, and I was on him, screaming, snarling, beating him in a frenzy, again and again. He shrieked and tried to back away, but he was between me and the desk and there was no place to go. One of the blows caught his head. Blood sprayed my face. Lasa dropped down, trying to lift his arms to shield himself, and I hammered him like he was a flying cockroach trapped with me in a shower. I couldn’t swing my club fast enough.
Lasa collapsed. I pointed my club down, grabbed it with both hands, and drove it straight at his face. It hit with a wet squishing sound. I did it again, then again, and straightened.
Lasa’s face was human hamburger meat. His chest didn’t rise. He wasn’t breathing.
