Asunder: A Gathering of Chaos Cameron Hopkin (read a book txt) 📖

feel no pulse. The wound in his chest seemed smaller than it should have been, given the size of Khraam’s sword, and the raw red flesh inside was puckered and swollen, sealing his innards from view. Lines of dried blood streaked down his ribs on both sides, and there was more crusted on his lips. She took him by the shoulder and shook him. “Gamarron,” she called, feeling ridiculous. The corpse flopped limply at her push and one arm slid down to hang off the table, but there was no response. Idiot. He’s dead. You gave up power and dominance for a little bit of money. She would never find such an opportunity again. Gritting her teeth in anger, she slapped the cold face as hard as she could. “You looked like a fool out there in your furry underpants.” She stormed toward the door.

“That was your idea, as I recall,” came the whispered reply behind her. Whirling about in disbelief, she saw that pale, limp arm draw itself back up and rub at the closed eyes. His chest rose and fell ever so slightly. She nearly collapsed in relief.

“You paste-grubbing whoreson,” she husked out as soon as she could catch her breath. Striving for a brusque tone, she said, “I should have left you here to rot.” It wouldn’t do to let him know she had been concerned. I was worried for my own future. Not that a man would understand that. “How did you do that? You didn’t even have a heartbeat a moment ago.”

“After fifty years of training in the koda, keeping one’s heart still for a time is no great feat. I once stopped it for an hour to advance to the next level of training.” He flexed his fingers and shook his feet, his motions still feeble. “Give me a few moments, please, and then we can be going.”

“I’m sure rousing yourself from death takes a bit of doing,” she replied dryly, “but the sooner we’re out of this building the better. I don’t know if you could hear it, but those people were not pleased when you lost.” Gamarron was taking deep breaths, rubbing at his bare chest with the heels of his hands. He carefully avoided the puffy, swollen wound just below his sternum. “That monster ran you through,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “How did you do it?”

He hoisted himself into sitting position. The color was beginning to return to his flesh. “I moved my heart,” he said simply. “And my liver.”

Renna blinked, and for once she found herself speechless.

Consumed with his own revivification, Gamarron failed to notice. “If you do it right you can leave a clear channel through the body from front to back – makes for a convincing death. At least, I thought it would; I’ve never tried before. I don’t know if you noticed, but I had to crouch as he struck. His grip on the sword was poor, and he nearly took me in the stomach. That wouldn’t have turned out well.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Not that it felt wonderful as it was. I’ll have to meditate for hours to get this wound to seal properly.”

“So sorry to inconvenience you,” Renna sneered, hiding her amazement. “I was under the impression you were going to take a few light wounds and yield, which seems a mite more sensible than rearranging your guts just so you can get spitted like a roast boar. Maybe if you tell me what you’re planning next time I can help you find a less painful solution. Stew on that while you’re meditating, you idiot northerner.”

He hopped down from the table, seeming reinvigorated. “Honestly, do you think a man wearing that many battle pods would have let me yield? Would the crowd have let him? No, it had to be a good death. I’m sorry I caused you distress, Mistress Renna. But at least we got our winnings, yes?” An uncharacteristically boyish grin shone through his grey beard. “And besides, it was fun. I haven’t fought like that in decades.”

She tossed him the black robe with a sour frown. “Put on your clothes, old man. Nobody wants to see it.”

He bundled himself into the robe in a moment, sighing in satisfaction. Once covered, he wasted no time in discarding the furry swaddling on his loins, leaving the underpants in a hairy bundle on the floor. “Much better. There’s a reason no one wears fur ‘round their nethers, you know.” He gestured to her. “Trousers, please?”

Renna grimaced and tossed the black pants at him, looking away as he pulled them on. “I don’t want to hear about your nethers. And put your hood up. We’re leaving.”

They left the claimant’s room as casually as they could. Most of the waiting grievers looked up, but as soon as they saw that neither of them was bearing a dead body, they all slumped back into private miseries. If any of them noticed that the Weaver Hand had arrived alone and was leaving with a companion, no one mentioned it. They’re probably all too wrapped up in their own little dramas to even notice. Glancing over at Gamarron, she hissed, “Your beard!”

He swiftly tucked the tail end of his memorable and still-bloodstained appendage into the neck of his robe and pulled the hood down lower. He looked suspicious – no one going about swathed in black with a hood during warm daylight hours could avoid that – but at least he didn’t look like the savage that was supposed to have died fifteen minutes earlier. Renna was conspicuous in her own way as she hefted her ponderous sack of gems. Should I have had him put it under his robe? No, it would have made a funny lump, and how would he have carried it? Besides, she really didn’t like letting other people handle her funds.

They swept past the strongbox counter in a hurry. One of the guards, a black-skinned fellow carrying a