Feivel's hand went to his hilt immediately, pulling one of his swords free, and wheeled around, clashing steel against steel. The man before him was older but handsome, obviously a military officer of some sort, with a thick moustache and dark hair. "Where are they?" he panted, his breath short from the long ride, the wild run through the streets. He hadn't slept in a long time, and he wasn't in the mood to deal with beaurocratic red tape.

"I'm sure you'll meet them soon enough. Aren't you the witch's friend, the horse-caller?"

Feivel stared at him long and hard. "What?!" he managed finally.

"You are the foreigner who brought the witch to us, are you not?"

"If you mean Janice, she's not a witch. She's an oracle."

The military man laughed harshly. "Excuse me, then," he said derisively. "You are the one who brought that scourge upon us, are you not?"

Feivel felt a ferral snarl tear through his throat, his hands demanding blood and justice and balance and truth. He felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck as they had of old, his eyes blackening over.

The military man and his cohorts took a step back.

"You will tell me what I want to know," Feivel snarled, bringing his sword to bear on the man and his moustache, his voice out of the human range and down towards the feline. He stalked forward, following the men, keeping them at sword's length.

One rushed him from the right, and he slid a second sword from its hilt at his hip, parried the blow without hardly looking. "Where are they," he snarled.

The man's cohorts started whispering conspiritorily, worriedly, while shooting each other side-long glances.

"They're to be dealt with properly," the military man said stiffly, his own sword swinging up in the air between them.

Feivel felt the grin split his face. "Wrong answer," he breathed, and leapt forwards.

Just how the whistle made its way to his lips when both his hands were occupied keeping him free from skewering was beyond him. But it was there, and he was whistling. Around them, horses bucked and tugged at their reins, demanding attention, insisting they be freed. Some freed themselves and frenzied through the town, hooves pounding sparks on the cobbles, as Feivel struck sparks of his own clashing swords with the Those That Stayed.

He moved with a grace he'd learned fighting border raids with the Tribes, a grace that, once known, could never leave one's bones. His movements were fluid, ferral, untamed, and against this press of soldiers, entirely effective. While they trained in the art of efficient killing, it was difficult to destroy that which one could not properly predict.

He knew Fate was neither with him nor against him on this front. All he had to survive was his own skills, their own stupidity. And being that they were the Those That Stayed, he had quite a bit going for him.

They danced for a long time, dawn streaking down and finally breaking from grey mist to a sharp blue sky, steel against steel against stone, faces pressing to windows to watch the men of the town apprehend this brigand, this most fearsome foe. Feivel was none too impressed, but he was just one man, and they were legion.

The bodies piled up, and the men screamed and writhed as their limbs were mercilessly sliced into, their stomachs plugged through, their faces mangled by Feivel's blades. But as the blood grew slick around his feet, his legs tired, his arms could not abide this abuse much longer.

He lost his footing.

And he fell.

The military man's foot pinned down one sword, kicked away the other. Feivel grabbed for his third, but a sword pressed cold against his neck. He looked up under the slick of sweat and gore that spattered his face. He panted, glaring up under his russet brow.

"Justice," the military man said, "must be served."

Feivel rolled backwards, pulling a knife from his boot as he went. He scrambled to his feet, swinging wildly, trying to cut a way free of the press of soldiers. But he was just one man. And they were legion. And he was tired. And they were legion.

And he slipped again.

The military man stalked over to him, nodding to two others to hold his arms while a third patted him down, pulling knives and swords and other weapons free of him.

"Go on then," Feivel snarled, pulling against the arms of the soldiers that held him. "Kill me. Maim me. Do what you will. What my Lady wills, my Lady shall have."

The military man smiled a crooked smile, then shook his head. "Tch, tch, tch," he breathed. "You'll see your cursed 'lady' soon enough," he whispered, tilting Feivel's chin up, and wrapping his fist around his whistle.

Feivel glared at him. "She'll test you wanting," he breathed. "You won't suit her. You won't suit her at all. I wouldn't take it if I were you."

The military man smiled cruelly beneath his moustache. "I don't fear your magics, witch," he said, and yanked the whistle free of Feivel's neck, snapping the cord that bound it.

He pulled the jay-bird feathers from his ears, and Feivel screamed, pulling harder against his captors. He kicked his feet on the blood-slick cobbles, and he lunged against their iron-clad grips as much as he could.

The military man punched him hard in the stomach, and Feivel crumpled in pain and loss. His breath came in deep, shuddering gasps, and while his eyes were open and staring, he couldn't focus on anything save the burning pain in his ears.