The Faceless Ones

Chapter Thirty-nine. Crisis of Faith

It was coming for him.

Jaron Gallow could feel it above him, feel it drawing closer. The mark, the one that Batu had made them all burn into their arms--it was a beacon. No matter where he hid or how fast he ran, the Faceless One would find him.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He tore off his belt as he ran, wrapped it around his biceps, and pulled it tight. Already he could feel his circulation being cut off. By the time he reached the yard beside the farmhouse, his left hand was numb.

He dropped to his knees and grabbed a Cleaver's fallen scythe. He laid his forearm flat on the ground and pressed the curved blade to just below his elbow. He was breathing fast and sweating, and he couldn't afford the luxury of doubt.

There was a rush of air and his ears popped. It had found him.

He closed his eyes and bellowed, forcing the scythe down on his forearm. The blade cut through flesh and bone in one smooth movement, and his bellow turned to a scream.

He collapsed, clutching the bloody stump to his body, and when he opened his eyes, he saw his severed arm lying next to him, and the Faceless One was gone.