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Osric sat on his haunches and pressed a friendly hand to the uncontrolled haemorrhage at Brythe’s neck. “Who gave Tristane the Swanstone job?”

“F-fuck you,” said Brythe.

“Who were you sent to kill?”

Brythe’s words came with difficulty. “Fuck. You.”

Osric removed his blaecblade from Brythe’s arm with a tug. He pressed it into Brythe’s tacn instead.

Brythe screamed.

“Who were you sent to kill?” asked Osric. His knifepoint pried into the eyehole of Brythe’s tacn.

“Never going to—you’re a traitor. Hel will curse you for this—”

“I’m Hel’s favourite.” Osric slipped the blade between two metacarpals in Brythe’s palm. “Answer me.”

The blood loss was hitting; Brythe was beginning to fade. Osric turned the blade. The delicate metacarpals in Brythe’s hand separated. He sprang back to screaming life as his tacn was destroyed.

“I will make your last moments a misery,” said Osric. “Who were you sent to kill?”

Brythe’s jaw was set. The death grimace was creeping upon him. He would rather spite Osric and die without giving him what he wanted.

Again Osric’s blade turned. Again Brythe screamed.

The sound attracted attention in the quiet village. People stood upon their stoops, asking one another what was happening.

Osric moved his blaecblade to Brythe’s neck. “Tell me.”

Brythe, full of spite, slumped forwards with the last of his strength. Osric’s blade, honed to the sharpest edge, severed tissue, artery, and vein. Brythe slouched against Osric’s arm, partially decapitated.

No last words, then.

It was time to go. The flames of the glassworks’ enormous forge provided a convenient place to dispose of the body.

Osric retreated to the safety of the sod roof of the Publish or Perish as villagers stepped out to investigate the source of the screams.

The coolness of Fairhrim’s seith was at his tacn. Her deofol was asking to come through.

“Finally,” spat Osric as the white genet took shape.

“What do you want?” hissed Fairhrim’s deofol, its ears so far back that they disappeared and made its head a flat triangle. “She’s busy; can’t your deofol take a bloody hint?”

“A Fyren was headed for Swanstone,” said Osric.

“What?”

Osric held up his wet blaecblade. “Threat extinguished. You’ll find him roasting in the glassworks forge.”

The deofol’s self-possession left it. The fur along its back stood on end. “Why was he going to Swanstone?”

“He killed himself before I could finish enquiring,” said Osric.

“Do you know you’re bleeding?” asked the deofol.

“A few scratches,” said Osric, looking down to take stock.

“That’s a substantial sort of scratch,” said the deofol.