Blood Tempered: Book 1 of the Sword Monk Saga

Blood Tempered: Part 6

When the door closed, Anya took another sip of the awful wine, then put it aside. The splitting headache was abating somewhat. She had invested a great deal of energy in transforming that imperial scout into a shabok, though the results had not been entirely satisfactory. It had clung stubbornly to certain scraps of self, though it had no choice but to follow her explicit commands.

That someone had decapitated it had not concerned her; the shabok was technically already dead and would only be inconvenienced by such a wound. But when the body had been burned and all her investments sundered, the backlash had been painful in the extreme. Someone had either been clever, lucky, or exceptionally learned. A shabok had not been made in centuries, of that she was sure. Hers had been the first since the Axumite's time in all probability. So who then had knowledge of how to destroy them? Not Olvera. The pig of a man had his skills, but knowledge of the ancient arcana wasn't one of them.

Whoever he traveled with, then.

Well. All in all, the shabok had been a miserable failure. Olvera was still alive and it was well and truly dead. And she had no clue as to who had thwarted her plan.

She smiled. She now had Korbo Dogrun to deal with that cipher, when the time came. Or rather, the soldier's dagger, which she had invested with a particularly nasty surprise. That it would also turn the grizzled veteran into a pile of bone and cinder was cause for mild regret. She found, to her own surprise and amusement, that she liked the man.

As much as she liked anyone.

In any case, plans were proceeding apace, barring Olvera's continued existence. If Jaga Khun could keep his ragtag company on a short leash for another few weeks, nothing would be able to stop the juggernaut of events that was even now beginning to fall into place. She smiled. Such was the path of conquest. From possibility, to inevitability, to history.