Az’sroc turned to face the stair leading up to the ballroom. Three men came up it, coughing and choking, amid a cloud of smoke. Stefan Josifov, his sword drawn, led. He was flanked on one side by Fedor Zrinski, brandishing an ax, and on the other by young Jak Turkov, armed with a long knife and carrying a torch.
They started at the sight of the silent, motionless hooded figure, too tall to be human. Stefan maintained enough composure to say, in a strong deep voice, “So we’ve found the girl at last. But where’s the Baron? You! Apparition! Will you let us have the girl and the Baron?”
The silence was punctuated only by the crackling of fire on the floor below.
“Speak quickly! The fire will be on us in moments, and we’ll all perish.” Stefan raised his sword. Az’sroc stood silent and motionless.
“I’ve met your kind before. My cold steel defeated your devil-heads on the door. Do not cross me, demon, wizard, or whatever monster you are!”
Az’sroc eyed the soldier who had planned this raid with such competence. His sword was battle-worn and deadly, and he hefted it as if one with it. A formidable combination, indeed: Brains, ambition, and violence. Should this be the man to rescue the naked girl in the furtherance of the plan?
No. Stefan Josifov was deadly, and would rise fast, but he would not do as a mate for the girl. He would not hesitate to kill a son not his own, nor to subdue his wife to his desires. He was no mate for a proud and ambitious aspiring witch.
Az’sroc studied the red-faced farmer. That Fedor Zrinski was here showed him hero enough. He was a braggart, true, but there was foundation for that bragging. More than once he had brought an end to monstrous life with his ax, stolidly facing rabid dogs, once a rabid bull, and twice rabid wolves.
But he was dull and already married. An affair with him would inevitably be discovered, and the girl be ostracized for adultery.
It studied the boy. Jak Turkov was here because he was lucky and knew whom to follow. He was not a leader, not a warrior.
But he was bright, with a streak of ruthlessness, and the girl found him beautiful.
Az’sroc decided how he would protect the girl.
The men waited cautiously, uncertain if cold steel was a match for this being.
Zrinski hefted his two-headed ax, ready to swing sideways to fell his adversary like a tree or with a mighty overhead blow to split a foe’s skull as he had split countless logs in his barnyard.
Turkov stared at Az’sroc, then at his knife, clearly doubting that rushing it head-on with so short a blade was prudent.
Their leader readied his sword and spoke. “On my mark, boys. Now!” The three men ran toward the creature.
The farmer went down first, his throat torn out by the same skeletal hand that had touched Tina’s amulet.
The soldier had a moment to hear the satisfying sound of crunching bone as a mighty side-stroke hit Az’sroc mid-body, before his sword tangled in the flowing cloak. A bony hand followed his arm back to his neck, and Josifov’s scream was cut off by the crackling sounds of his face and skull being crushed.
The boy, circling around to put his blade into a kidney, if monsters had kidneys, was tripped by a foot even larger and bonier than Az’sroc’s hand. Turkov rolled away, but as he sat up, Az’sroc stared down into his face and reached to grip his throat.
As breath and blood were cut off, the boy hacked furiously at the leather-hard arm with his knife, but the blade bounced off. In berserk anger, he choked, “I want to be a hero, not dead!”, threw away the knife, and shoved his torch toward where Az’sroc’s face might be presumed to be.
Satisfied, Az’sroc released its grip, hissing as though in pain. With cloak afire, Az’sroc backed off, stood, then spun faster and faster until it disappeared into the thick smoky air.