Free Darkvision by Bruce R. Cordell Page B

illuminate—his tunneling vision or the black hazing in his prosthesis.
    Revi wound up with the iron bar. Warian concentrated on the threads of darkness in his arm, willing them to shrivel away, to light up, to be revealed in the clarifying light of the sun.
    The prosthesis flashed into bonfire brilliance, lilac in hue. Sensation shot from his shoulder to his crystalline fingertips, as if transformed from an inert sculpture to a live arm, or something that felt even more vital than flesh.
    It was alive again, as it had been at the tavern in Dambrath.
    His captors’ grip on his arm suddenly seemed as light as tissue paper around a name day present. Lavender luminance lit their faces as they stared at him, alarm slowly overtaking what had been naked glee and the anticipation of a beating. They seemed caught and slowed in the syrupy radiance.
    Warian laughed and gave his artificial arm an experimental shake.
    He was free. The three on his left arm, his crystal prosthesis, scattered a few paces, yelling warnings with strangely deep, distorted voices. Warian lifted his left arm high, triumphant. He made a fist, thinking to scare those who’d grabbed him with an impressive threat.
    The iron bar clipped him on the forehead and pain sawed through his brain. All the quickness in the world couldn’t protect him from inattention. He’d seen the brutal end of the bar at the last instant and managed to flinch away, just enough so his head hadn’t shattered like an egg… he hoped. It sure hurt, though.
    Dazed, Warian went down on one knee. He cradled his throbbing head with his right hand. His aggressors moved in, thinking to fall on him, Revi in the vanguard, the bloodied metal bar raised high to finish the job.
    Without standing, Warian reached with his left hand and grabbed Revi’s lead leg just below the knee. He could feel Revi’s muscles and bones through the crystal. He squeezed. The muscles and bones pulped in his hand like rotten fruit.
    Revi dropped sluggishly to the floor, screaming and clutching at his ruined leg. The iron bar spun free, then clattered dully to the floor.
    The downed man’s friends failed to grasp Warian’s strength and speed—they continued to move forward. Or perhaps they didn’t have a chance to react in the brief interval Warian allowed them.
    He stood up, still rubbing his head with his right hand. The eyes of his attackers had trouble following Warian’s movements. Good.
    Warian strode to the fellow who stood nearest the entry hall, grabbed him, and threw him out the doorway. Ditto for the man’s nearest friend, who had just enough time to scream and try to run, though it did him no good. He sailed, flailing, through the air, and was gone.
    The other two, seeing their plan going horribly awry, turned to dash back the way they’d come, farther within the tenement. A few quick strides let Warian catch the hindmost. He plucked the man right off his feet. The weight of Warian’s quarry was astonishingly little. The man’s legs kicked, and he yelled in protest. As if he held a doll, he bumped the man’s head against the ceiling. The man went limp, and Warian dropped him.
    Who’s next? he wondered.
    Fatigue ambushed him.
    The light in his prosthesis guttered out. Dullness flooded the crystal, and the world jittered back to its natural timeframe.
    Warian stumbled and nearly fell flat on his face. Exhaustion hammered him. He sucked breath like he’d just finished a marathon race. His living arm trembled as he used it to support himself against the wall. Now that he’d returned to normal perception, he understood what the men were yelling. “He’s killing us! Gods, he’s killing us!”
    Warian didn’t have the strength to protest. Hurting badly, yes. Killing? No. At least, he hadn’t tried to kill anyone. He looked at his left arm again. It looked as it always had, save for the dark tendrils at its core. Were they growing? Hard to tell. But one thing was certain—he’d managed to