I reach my hands around his throat and rise to my feet so that I am bent over him, pressing him into the dirt with my choke hold. I unfetter the channel between myself and Ner Ngal and begin drawing his life energy through me and into the End of All Things.
His eyes go wide and he grabs at his throat with one hand, and tries to stab me in the torso several times with his other hand. His jabs find no purchase since I am holding him at arm’s length and my arms are significantly longer than his, even with a short blade at the end of it.
Realizing this, he turns his attention to my vulnerable arms that have him trapped, choking, and dying. My magic armor provides some protection, but he lands blow after blow trying to discourage my act. Blood seeps from my wounds down onto him, but then heal quickly and cut off the flow—my draining touch repairing the damage almost as fast as he can inflict it. It hurts, but I hold on, made easier by the downward angle I am strangling him at.
He begins to panic and kick his feet, but his feet also can’t reach anything that would deter me from grappling him. He stabs the dagger through the bicep on my left arm, which has what I imagine is the desired effect for him. My grip loosens on that side.
He rolls away to the right, toward my left, and puts his hand up instinctively to keep me from grabbing onto his throat again. The dagger still rests in my upper arm. He let it go to roll away.
He’s lost a lot of vitae and is sluggish. I am impaired by the wound on my left arm so decide a different tactic is in order. I grab a nearby branch on the ground and strike at his face. The wood is rotted, however, and easily breaks over his defenses. He doesn’t try to fight back.
Seeing that I have a moment, I stand up straight and grab at the dagger in my arm with my right hand. The hilt juts out to the left and it is an awkward and painful thing to get a decent grip on. Rolling my shoulders in and caving my chest, I push the dagger out about halfway. I wince from the pain, which feels searing hot. Taking a deep breath and using a nearby tree as a brace for my elbow, I am able to press my fingertips against the hilt of the dagger and push it out the rest of the way. It rips the wound further as it tips backward by the weight of its hilt and falls out, landing on the ground.
The man makes a weak attempt to grab the dagger, but he’s much too far away. Sighing, he pushes himself to his feet.
I reach down and grab the dagger myself. Taking a stance I learned nearly a lifetime ago—bringing the point across my body and sinking low—I prepare to lunge. To his credit, he takes my attack seriously and turns his whole body so that my strike goes into his shoulder instead of the base of his throat. It is a weak attempt, however, and I grapple him while standing.
His now-wounded arm is held tight against my body and my left hand grips his neck. Though my grip is weakened from the gash in my bicep, my right hand wields the dagger and is free to strike his back.
“Please,” he says, mournfully.
Though I have a deep and sincere interest in interrogating this man, my ability to control the situation is dwindling. He’s proved to be an effective fighter and has more than enough interest in remaining among the living so, despite his weakened state, I do not delude myself into thinking that the fate of our battle is now a foregone conclusion.
If I kill him, I am safe from having the tables suddenly turned on me in this battle for survival between us. I am also safe from retaliation by whomever he is working for. At least for this agent’s death. There is still the matter of his employer wishing to collect private information about myself or other members of the party.
If I let him live, I’ll be killed. Maybe not by him, maybe not any time soon, but whatever I know will be too much. Whatever he tells me, he can expect it will come back on him and whomever he’s working for. Even if he is grateful for his life, even if he doesn’t initially tell them, they’ll probably interrogate him for what he knows, in time.
I take a calculated risk.
“Who do you work for?” I ask, pressing the tip of the dagger against the base of his skull to focus his attention on my question, rather than escape.
He makes a pained expression, but whether it’s from the dagger or the question is unclear.
I begin draining him again, once it’s clear he’s not inclined to answer. He most certainly heard my question, so I don’t repeat myself.
He struggles against me, but stops when his own thrashing causes the dagger to puncture the flesh at the top of his neck. His eyes go wide and I watch him lose all hope. It isn’t actually hopeless for him yet, in my assessment, but I’m relieved to see that he believes it is.
He makes a panicked gurgling sound and pats my arm urgently.
I am not squeezing his neck enough to keep him from speaking—only my thumb is across his windpipe. He begged a moment ago, after all. If he’s trying to trick me into loosening my grip, I won’t fall for it.
My bicep heals quite nicely from the energy flowing out and through me. Feeling greater strength in my arm returning, I tighten my grip.
He gurgles again and taps my arm. He squirms slowly, still trying to free himself from my grip, but trying to be mindful of the dagger’s position. When that doesn’t work, he whimpers and begins to cry. Growing weaker and weaker, all he can muster in his last moments are a couple staggered breaths and steady stream of hot tears that cascade down his face and neck, making my grip on his neck quite slippery.
He goes limp and nearly drops from my grip, but I keep a hold on him. I swivel the dagger in my hand and use the hilt and my hand to lower him to the ground, maintaining contact and continuing to drain him. He isn’t dead yet, but he will be soon.
Collapsed in a heap, he draws his last breath and the channel ebbs.
I release my grip and stand. I am covered in blood, much of it my own, but am fully healed.
Searching his body bears no fruit. He has nothing on him of any interest. No symbols or identifying marks that reveal his allegiances, no orders from his employer, and no report from Rakatha.
Do I have the wrong man?
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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