The attacker turned, and he removed his hood. Pointed ears poked out from beneath his brown hair, which was long and tied away from his face. He wielded two ornate knives, each one gleaming with silver. His cold eyes stared, and Haern felt his every feature being analyzed.
“Are you the Watcher of Veldaren?” this strange elf asked.
“If I am, will you attack again?”
The elf glared, clearly not amused.
“I have little patience for human sarcasm.”
“And I for unwarranted attacks. Be gone. I have no wish to hurt you.”
The elf chuckled, a small smile pulling at the edges of his mouth.
“You won’t.”
He moved to attack, and Haern went to block, only too late realizing it was a feint. The elf slashed again, one knee bent so his whole body could attack at a bizarre angle. Haern blocked the first, and as the knife slid off with a loud scraping of steel, he used his other hand to parry the second attack. But the elf stood just before contact, and he tilted the knife so it avoided the parry. Pure instinct saved Haern’s life. As the knife went for his throat, he went limp, falling so it only cut the air above his head. When he hit the ground, he rolled, then kicked away, avoiding a double thrust that would have impaled him.
Upon landing, he crouched again, eyeing the elf with newfound respect. No, he wasn’t the Wraith, though he was just as good. If he had any hope, it certainly wasn’t on the defense. The elf remained back for a moment, as if he too were reassessing the skill of his opponent.
Haern assaulted, pushing his skills to their limit. He let his countless hours of training throughout his childhood take over, let his sabers act as if they were their own sentient beings. The elf countered the first three hits, and each time Haern twisted side to side, narrowly avoiding the killing thrusts. His sabers a blur, he slashed with one and thrust with the other, doing so even as a knife passed within an inch of his cheek. The elf battered away the thrust, but he was not fast enough to avoid the other. The saber pierced his shoulder, but he twisted so that the wound remained shallow.
As the elf retreated a step, Haern kept back. He peered from underneath his hood, and he fought to keep his breathing under control. Keeping pace required tremendous exertion, and he knew the fight was far from over. The nameless elf didn’t seem winded, and if not for the tiny trickle of blood running down his chest, he might have looked like he hadn’t fought at all.
“Most amazing, for a human,” the elf said.
“Who are you?” Haern asked, frustrated at how he sounded out of breath.
“You deserve as much. My name is Dieredon, and I’ve been sent to kill you.”
Before Haern could protest, the elf attacked. He fought his initial instinct to retreat, and instead met the charge head on. Their weapons danced, and they shifted their feet and twisted their bodies so neither could find advantage. Dieredon gave him no opening except false openings, traps he refused to fall for. Haern felt sweat drip across his forehead, his vision narrowing so that he saw only his opponent and the dark street about them. Still, he sensed the fight slipping away. Dieredon pressed the attack, his knives scoring a dozen shallow cuts. Haern bled, but would not go down.
At last the elf made a mistake. Haern narrowly ducked a swipe, then vaulted away. As his body curled through the air, his foot connected with Dieredon’s chin, snapping his head back. His vision dazed, he retreated, his knives slashing in a bewildering defense. But Haern had no intention of attacking.
He ran. A quick look behind showed him at least fifty yards of separation, and that would be enough. After the past few nights he’d searched for the Wraith, he felt confident he knew the city more than any outsider elf. He weaved and ducked through the alleys, sometimes looping back, sometimes taking to the rooftops. At last he felt himself safe as he neared the docks, dropped behind a stack of three barrels, and collapsed against the wall of a tavern. He gasped in air as his chest ached and the many thin wounds bled and stung.
“First the Wraith, now you,” he said, remembering Dieredon’s amazing speed with his knives. “Why, Ashhur, does the whole world hate me?”
Ashhur gave him no answer. Frustrated, Haern returned to the small room he and Zusa had rented. He was in no shape to fight the Wraith, and he didn’t want to imagine what would happen if he was spotted by Dieredon again. After bandaging his wounds, he lay on the bed, closed his eyes, and hoped Zusa fared far better.
“I want watch set up in three shifts,” Torgar said as Madelyn clutched Tori to her chest and watched her mercenaries take up positions throughout her yard and along the wall. Several of the men were wounded, and all looked tired, but they did not complain. Even Torgar sported a fresh cut across his already ugly face, but he didn’t seem bothered by it.
“They can’t make it through, can they?” she asked as the minor captains spread out, organizing shifts. Torgar shrugged, and gestured for Madelyn to go back inside.
“No reason they should, not with how many bodies we have watching the gate. Trust me on that.”
“Like I trusted you to handle the Merchant Lords?”
Torgar made a noise akin to a growl, and he put a massive hand on her shoulder.
“Go inside,” he said. “Now.”
She might have argued, but she held Tori in her arms, and feared something might happen to the baby. She slipped inside as told, and to her surprise, Torgar followed. The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy crack.
“Take her,” Torgar said to Lily, who stood waiting beside the door. The servant looked nervous, as if unsure she should follow the mercenary’s orders. Madelyn handed little Tori over, and she whispered soothing words as she stroked her head. Her eyes met Lily’s briefly.
“Get my guard,” Madelyn whispered before turning to face Torgar.
“We need to talk,” said the mercenary. “Either here or somewhere private. I don’t give a damn which.”
“About what, may I ask, that is so important you believe you can give
Torgar grinned, and his tone was full of mockery.
“The Wraith, and how he killed Laurie.”
She swallowed, and forced herself to make no outward reaction.
“My husband’s old study, then,” she said. “Lead the way.”
“Oh no, ladies first,” he said. “I insist.”
Madelyn walked to the study, every muscle in her body stiff. She kept telling herself there was no way he could know, no way he could prove it, but that grin of his… Once inside, she put her back to a wall and crossed her arms over her chest. Torgar walked in casually, his hand resting on the handle to his giant sword. He kicked the door shut behind him, and her heart jumped at the loud bang.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I can assure you…”
“Be quiet,” Torgar said. She did, and that alone worried her. The mercenary paced before her, tapping his lips as if in thought. His eyes never left her.
“You said you wished to talk,” she said, regaining her composure. “We’re here now, so talk.”
“I’ve been thinking about that night,” Torgar said. He stopped pacing, instead leaning his back against the door, as if reminding her she had nowhere to go. “The Wraith’s good, and stealthy, I have no doubt about that. I’ve fought him, seen what he can do. But to make it into your room unnoticed, without killing a single guard? That seems a bit much, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know how he got in, Torgar. I woke with Laurie dead and a hand over my mouth. Perhaps the window?”
“That glass breaking is what alerted us, Madelyn. If he got in, then he got in through the door. He left through the window…at least, looks like it, don’t it? I looked at the window, though, and it don’t seem right. Don’t seem the shape it should be. Course, I’m not the smartest, but then I saw something I really didn’t like.”
He stepped closer, and when she tried to slide away he shoved an arm in her way. Towering over her, he leaned in, grinning. Despite it, she saw the fury that burned in his eyes.
“I saw blood in your wash basin.”
“There was blood everywhere,” she said, her lower lip quivering. It took all her willpower to meet his gaze.
