Chapter 54: The Perriot Broker

Beeran slumped back against the wall, dazed, blood running from a split lip and the ruin of his wrist.

Emeric knelt over him, breathing hard.

He caught Beeran’s good hand before it could reach for anything else, twisted it up and away, and had a dagger at his throat before Beeran’s vision fully cleared.

Silence, except for Beeran’s ragged breathing against the wall, and the drip of cave water. Emeric turned back to him.

Beeran hadn’t moved. Couldn’t, really — one wrist broken, a dagger’s edge still resting where Emeric had left it.

"You said you’d tell me who hired you," Emeric said.

Beeran’s eyes darted to the bodies. Back to Emeric. "I—if I tell you, will you—"

"No," Emeric said, having no interest in letting him believe he was leaving here alive. "But I’ll make it quick either way. That’s more than you were going to give me."

Beeran’s composure finally broke all the way. "It was — there’s a broker, works out of the lower district, goes by the name, Perriot. I don’t know his real one, he came to us three days ago, said there was a mark , said it’d look like an accident, a cave-in, nobody would—"

"Why me?"

"I don’t know," Beeran said, and for the first time it sounded true. "He just said you’d be at the guild. Said it was worth more than a season of contracts. We didn’t ask questions. You don’t ask a man like that questions."

Emeric studied him.

"Please," Beeran said again, smaller this time. "I gave you the name. That’s worth something."

"It is," Emeric.

"You’re a monster."

Emeric stood over him. His daggers dripped blood. His eyes were empty.

Beeran looked up at him. His face was twisted with fear and hatred.

"Do it," he spat. "Kill me. See what happens. My family will hunt you. My guild will—"

Emeric drove his dagger into Beeran’s heart.

The man’s words died in his throat.

[TARGETS ELIMINATED: 6/6]

The passage went quiet.

[COMBAT FRENZY DEACTIVATED]

His body suddenly got hit by a barrage of pain that sent a blinding flash into his vision. Everywhere hurt.

He looked down at his hands. They weren’t shaking.

That, more than anything else tonight, unsettled him.

Perriot. He turned the name over, committing it to memory, filing it away next to everything else he’d have to deal with once he was out of this rift.

This was the second time someone had tried to kill him in two weeks.

Somewhere above him, he could feel the rift’s edges starting to fray, the pull of the exit tugging at the air.

Ten minutes left, maybe less.

He crouched down, retrieved what gear was worth taking, and started walking.

—-

The rift vanished behind him.

Emeric stood at the cave mouth for a long moment, watching the grey shimmer flicker once, twice, then collapse inward with a soft rush of air. Nothing remained but a barren hillside and the smell of ozone. The stars were beginning to emerge, faint pinpricks of light against the deepening blue of the sky.

He was alone.

He took one step. Then another.

His legs gave out.

He hit the grass hard, his body refusing to obey. The combat frenzy had drained everything in him. From his mana to strength and now his will to even moves

The system had told him that there would be effects. It was worth it.

His mind was numb to the feeling of taking lives.

He tried to move but every muscle screamed at him, protesting with each step he took. His nerves burned.

Emeric’s mind felt like shattered glass, thoughts scattered all over the place.

Was this the effect of combat frenzy too? His thoughts were piecing themselves together rather slowly.

He lay there unable to move. He was staring at the darkening sky, and didn’t know how long he stayed like that. Minutes, maybe hours even. The sun dipped below the horizon and cold began to creep into his bones.

Eventually, he forced himself up.

He had to get home.

The walk home was a blur.

He staggered through the city streets, his cloak covered in blood. People saw him and they moved aside. No one stopped him. He hoped they didn’t recognize him or maybe it was that they didn’t care.

He didn’t either. He just kept walking.

The house was dark when he reached it.

He stood at the door, his hand trembling as he reached for the handle. He didn’t want her to see him like this. But he had nowhere else to go.

He opened the door.

Isolde was in the sitting room, the candle lit, waiting. She turned when she heard the door, and her eyes found him.

He stood in the doorway, swaying. His face was pale, his eyes hollow, his clothes torn and stained. His hands were red.

He took a step forward. Then another. Then his legs gave out.

He fell against her chair, his body crumpling against the armrest, his head dropping to her lap.

"Emeric—"

"I’m fine," he mumbled. "I’m fine."

"You’re not fine. You’re—"

"I’m fine." He lifted his head, looked at her, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "You’re so beautiful."

She blinked. "What?"

"You’re so beautiful." He reached up, touched her face with bloody fingers. "I thought about you. The whole time. I thought—if I don’t make it back, she’ll be alone. I couldn’t—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I couldn’t let that happen."

Her hands found his face, cupped it, held it. "You’re covered in blood."

"It’s not mine."

"Then whose—"

"Doesn’t matter." He pressed his forehead to hers. "It doesn’t matter. I’m here. You’re here. That’s all that matters."

She stared at him, her eyes wet. "You’re scaring me."

"I’m sorry." He kissed her hands in a soft manner. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to."

"Emeric—"

"I just—" He stopped and swallowed. "I just need to hold you. Can I hold you?"

She didn’t answer him, she simply pulled him closer.

A few minutes later, she helped him to the bathroom.

He leaned on her chair as they moved, his legs unsteady while his body ached a whole storm. But he didn’t fall. Thank the gods he didn’t fall.

She stopped at the doorway of the bathroom. "You need to clean up."

"I know."

She looked at him, her expression unreadable. "Sit. I’ll get water."