Warslave

Chapter 20: Killers

The Spider

There was little sport in it all.

Spider's rapier slid free from another ribcage, leaving the pale Warslave a second to glance at the mercenary's bones, to see if there was any material of quality.

He found nothing.

To his left, Wolf put in a lot less effort towards keeping the bodies intact. But... Spider always found there was an artistry in his brutality. Maybe it was just the eyes of a younger brother looking on in admiration to his elder sibling, or maybe it was the fluidity and inhuman grace with which the Wolf killed, but Spider always found himself mesmerised by how he would weave between the patterns of blood.

A thought occurred to him. One he would never speak to out loud.

Wolf seemed, in his mind, akin to the descriptions of what an ancient war god should be.

Viper, on the other hand, was somehow both more and less pragmatic in his approach.

It was endlessly fascinating to see the effects of the poisons the green eyed twin would conjure up. Even now, Spider's eye was drawn to another man whose skin was shrivelling up, before he fell to the ground as no more than a sack of skin and bones.

Viper did not go out of his way to be as brutal as he could be, cared very little for how he presented himself.

But when there was a foe worth fighting, all rationale left him. He would even the field as much as he could, to his own detriment, until he felt the fight no longer worth his attention.

Spider, on the other hand, was a case that was unique.

Everything he did was art, from the smallest movement to the most destructive blow. Every move came with a practised grace and precision that either made it impossible for some people to look away.

It wasn't the natural grace that came to any Warslave when fighting, and there was something off about the fluidity of it. It was practised to make sure that anyone, no matter how slow, could see exactly what he was doing.

He could instinctively estimate how fast that was for different audiences, something that had taken a lot of practice. He simply saw them move, and knew.

Today, these humans were not his audience. The show he put on with his every move not meant to entertain. They were meant to elicit a response from his companions. Ruthless efficiency, mixed with...

Humans would not call it art.

The pale Warslave's arms were slick with blood, the colour making it hard to distinguish where his arm ended and the rapier began.

They would think he was enraged. Think someone, somehow, had insulted him, or otherwise pissed him off.

But in the Spider's eye, that was beautiful.

And it ended far too soon.

"No sport. No sport at all."

Wolf shook his head at the childlike tone coming from his little brother.

"Well, there's three of us, and only two dozen of them. No heavy ordnance, no mages. Hardly a fair fight."

"But... look at them! Not even a single bone worth anything!"

Viper rolled his eyes. He thought Spider didn't notice, or perhaps he simply didn't care.

"Not everything is about shape and... ah, hell. Check for yourself."

He motioned towards one of the collapsed shapes, which Spider continued to cut open, only to reveal the bones had been coloured by the poison. He could make out at least twelve different colours-