the attack back with both his sabers. In the distance, they heard guards rallying.
“Tell me why,” Haern said, slowly shifting side to side to get his cloaks into motion. “Why did you summon me? Why am I here?”
“I thought you could help me,” the Wraith said. “But it seems you are not the man I thought you were.”
Haern spun, flinging his cloaks about. He let the gray fabric hide his movements, disguise the motion of his hands and the location of his sabers. His cloakdance had only one risk, and that was the brief span of time he lost sight of the Wraith as he turned. On the third rotation, he saw a great puff of smoke where the Wraith had been. Haern hesitated, then realized his error. A heel slammed into his back, and he let out a cry of pain. Rolling across the ground, he desperately blocked as the Wraith came slashing in, repeatedly battering his sabers so they could never settle into position.
The Wraith’s movements grew faster, and Haern fought solely on instinct, nervous to use the cloakdance again. A high feint fooled him, and in came the Wraith’s foot, blasting the air from his chest.
“You made an entire city fear your name,” the Wraith said as his sword stabbed and cut. Nothing about him gave away his intentions, and everything about his stance and reactions was unfamiliar. Haern could not fall into a rhythm. The few times he tried to riposte or counter, he found himself stabbing air, or cancelling the hit to prevent having his throat slashed open. The sound of steel rang out a chorus, and Haern knew he was losing the song.
“I thought you were the best!”
The sword tip cut a gash across his arm, just enough to bleed. Haern retreated on instinct, only to realize he’d put his back against a wall. The Wraith positioned himself directly across, his legs tensed to lunge. There’d be no escaping. The sword was a blur, and Haern blocked the first four hits. The fifth plunged through his shoulder, and he screamed.
“I was wrong,” the Wraith said, twisting the blade, eliciting another scream.
A trio of arrows whizzed by, one punching a hole through the Wraith’s hood. The man freed his sword and fell back as dozens of city guards came rushing in. Haern tried to give chase, but the Wraith suddenly darted back at him, his heel smashing Haern’s forehead. Vision a blur, he dropped to the ground, his sabers falling from his lifeless hands. As he lay there, he watched feet march by. Rough hands rolled him onto his back. Haern screamed. It felt like pain was everywhere in his body, yet nowhere in particular. Through the tears in his eyes, he saw men peering down at him, familiar tattoos across their faces.
“Sure it’s him?” asked one.
“Damn sure. I’d be dead if not for him.”
“Thought he went after Ingram, though?”
The rest fell silent. Haern tried to ask for water, but his voice came out a mumble.
“Take him to the dungeon,” said the biggest of the men. “We got time to figure it out.”
They grabbed Haern by his arms and legs. When they lifted him, his shoulder exploded with waves of agony. He knew ten different litanies against pain, techniques to hang onto consciousness no matter how horrible the trauma. Haern used none of them, and slipped away.
8
When Ingram awoke, he was in an irritable mood. His shoulder hurt despite the tonic his healer had given him, preventing any real rest after the Watcher’s departure. Once out of bed, he bathed in a tub of hot water prepared by servants while he’d struggled for sleep. After bathing, the healer came and changed the wrappings.
“Clean wound,” the old man said as he looked it over. “You’ll be fine.”
“Just keep away the infection,” Ingram muttered.
After he was gone, his captain of the guard stepped inside his bedroom and saluted.
“What is you want?” Ingram asked.
“We have him,” the captain said. “The Watcher.”
Ingram went through the rest of his morning rituals with a smile on his face. Despite the first major meeting with the elves, all he could think about was making his way to the dungeon. Leaving his house, he exited the outer fences, accompanied by a small squad of guards. With murderous elves running about his city, he would not travel anywhere unprotected. Dug into the lower side of the hill he’d built his mansion on was Angelport’s dungeon. It had one entrance, sealed and watched day and night.
“He hasn’t said a word,” said the guard captain as they opened the gate. “Not that we’ve questioned him much.”
“Good,” Ingram said. “I want him all to myself. How’d we capture him?”
The captain shifted on his feet, looking slightly uncomfortable.
“He was protecting two of our guards from the Wraith. He saved their lives.”
Ingram frowned.
“Interesting,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind. Such actions should at least warrant him an honorable death.”
“If you say so, milord.”
Lamps lit the dim hallway. The cells themselves had a small hole dug into the hill to give them a speck of light. Most had eight or ten people within, despite how large the dungeon was. In the far back was the Watcher’s cell, small and solitary. He was manacled to the wall with an absurd amount of chains. The jailor had clearly been terrified of the man’s potential escape. One was wrapped around his neck, then connected with a thick chain about his waist, before bolting to the wall. Another chain kept his arms above his head, his wrists together, and then looped through a second ring attached to the ceiling. He was on his knees, unable to lie down or stand. His hood had been removed, and Ingram saw a handsome man with blond hair and blue eyes. A large welt swelled purple in the middle of his forehead.
“So we meet again,” Ingram said, grinning. “I must admit, I didn’t think it’d be so soon. Did you kill any more of my guards, Watcher? Or would you care to give me your real name, since I now see your face?”
The Watcher looked up at him, and Ingram took an involuntary step back. There was something sinister in his gaze, such certainty of retribution that not all the chains in the world could make him feel safe. No wonder the jailor had gone overboard tying him up. Trying to regain his composure, Ingram smoothed out his shirt, then softly slapped the Watcher across the face.
“Nothing to say? Well, if not a name, how about a reason? My guard captain says you were protecting two of my own from the Wraith. Why’s that?”
“You know why,” said the Watcher, his voice dry and tired. He nodded to the other cells, where men and women sat dirty in their own filth. “Which of them would have hung from your ropes otherwise?”
Ingram scratched at his chin.
“Twenty still will,” he said. “I’d like to be a man of my word.”
“And I’ll be a man of mine,” the Watcher said. “Another body, and I will make you suffer.”
Ingram laughed.
“A fine feat that’ll be. You’re here, Watcher, stuck and chained. You couldn’t defeat the Wraith, from what I was told. That means you’re useless to me.”
The comment seemed to sting more than Ingram expected, so he prodded further.
“It is such a shame. To think all your reputation in Veldaren would mean so little in my fair city.”
The Watcher flung himself against the chains, moving hardly an inch but causing a loud ruckus. This time, Ingram did not back away, nor show fear. Finally, he was in control.
“It only seems appropriate. You stab my shoulder, another stabs yours. You won’t be given a chance to heal, though. You’ll swing from the gallows, in full view of the city. I want that Wraith to know what’s waiting for him when we capture him, just as we captured you.”
“You won’t capture him,” the Watcher said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s beyond you and your men.”
Ingram put his heel on the bound man’s shoulder and pressed. Despite the pain, the Watcher showed not the slightest reaction.
