we’ll be noticed.”
Ingram tested the door and found it unlocked. Pushing it open, he entered the small room. A round table was in the center, a candle burning atop it in a glass base. The fire place burned bright, casting long shadows across the far wall. At the back, a set of stairs led to the second floor. In one of the two chairs sat a man Ingram did not recognize. He reached for a weapon, but realized he carried none, only a shield. He didn’t remember forfeiting his dagger. Had it been when they put on his mail?
The door shut behind him, and the sound sent shivers up his spine.
“Who is this?” Ingram asked. “What’s going on?”
The man in the chair stood. He was dark-skinned, bearded, with a long scar running from his lip to his chin. He sipped hard liquor from a bottle, while in his left hand, he held a long blade.
“What do you think?” Egar said, his voice suddenly different. It was darker, angrier. Ingram had never heard someone speak to him with such contempt. He wanted to turn, but feared putting his back to the giant man.
“Glad to see you’re a man of your word,” said the stranger, setting the bottle down atop the table.
Ingram pulled the shield off his back, and for a moment he stood there, shaking. The stranger laughed as behind him, the door reopened.
“Make it quick, Darrel,” said Egar as he left. “We have much still to do.”
“Traitor,” Ingram muttered, eliciting a laugh from Darrel.
“To you, maybe,” said the man, tossing the weapon hand to hand, his grin so big he looked like a child given a cherished present. “But we’ve been paying him plenty, and for years. I’m thinking he might be the most loyal man in the city.”
Ingram lifted the shield, his face nothing but a mask of fear. Darrel slapped at it with his sword, which Ingram barely blocked in time. The big man shook his head, as if disappointed.
“This is going to be way too easy.”
When he pulled his sword back to stab, Ingram gave him no reason to think otherwise. But when he thrust again, Ingram launched himself forward. The sword hit the center of the shield and veered outward. Distance closed, Ingram rammed his knee into Darrel’s crotch, then followed it with an uppercut with his free hand. The man staggered backward on unsteady legs.
“You little shit!” Darrel cried, grabbing his sword with both hands and swinging. Ingram moved his shield to block, but he guessed too high. The sword clipped the bottom before continuing on, striking his mail shirt. The weapon could not cut through, but the blow knocked the air from his lungs and sent him sprawling into the table. Dropping the shield, Ingram fell to the ground, the killing blow missing and instead embedding a solid inch into the wood. Beneath the table, Ingram kicked out Darrel’s knee, and as he fell, did another shot to the man’s crotch, this time with his heel.
The effect was better the second time around. Darrel fell to both knees, and he had to grab the table to remain upright. Despite his trouble breathing, several of his ribs cracked or broken, Ingram flung himself at the man, wrapping his neck in his arms. The two hit the ground and rolled. In the scuffle, Ingram found himself flung off, with Darrel lying on his chest before the fireplace.
“Stay down!” Ingram said, kicking him in the ribs. Darrel dropped, but he pushed up again. Knowing he stood little chance in a prolonged fight, Ingram crawled closer, then wrapped his arms around Darrel’s neck. Darrel’s enormous fists closed about his arms, and they struggled, but Ingram had the better positioning. Inch by inch he lowered Darrel’s face, then at the last moment, twisted and flung him forward. Darrel’s face smashed into the burning coals, eliciting a howl that chilled Ingram to the core. It took all his strength to hold the man there for a moment longer. When he released, he scrambled for what lay beside him on the floor: the spilled bottle Darrel had been drinking from when they first entered.
As Darrel rolled himself out of the fire, Ingram took the bottle by the neck, turned, and swung it with both hands. It smashed against Darrel’s nose, crunching it inward before the bottle broke against his skull. Alcohol splashed across his face and beard, including a few coals that had remained lodged against him. His beard caught fire first, followed by the rest. As the man howled and flailed, Ingram staggered toward the steps. There was no way Egar would leave the front entrance unguarded, not until he saw a body. But perhaps up top, he might escape…
He climbed the stairs to the second floor. The room was even smaller, the roof slanted in sharp angles. Within was a dresser, a bed, and an open, dirt-covered window. On the bed, as if he’d been waiting for him the whole while, sat the Wraith.
“You lasted this long,” the Wraith said. “I will give you credit for that.”
His sword lashed out, cleanly slicing through Ingram’s throat. He collapsed, clutching his neck as blood gushed through his fingers. Gasping for air, he saw the Wraith lean over, a sad smile on his face.
“I could have saved you, Ingram. To think you’d weaken, and offer peace. So disappointing.”
As he died, Ingram watched the Wraith leap out the window and into the bloody night.
Upon seeing his own kind besieging Ingram’s mansion, Dieredon felt torn between loyalty and fury. Surely such a brazen attack had not been condoned by Graeven, nor Ceredon himself. He’d heard of the attempt at the jail, and best he could tell, it’d been initiated by Laryssa. His gut told him Laryssa had done the same tonight. The attack might as well be an admission of war, something she had no authority to do.
But at the same time, as the humans battled and fired their crossbows, he watched many elves, some he’d known for hundreds of years, fall and bleed out on the grass. The sight was enough to make his stomach sick. He knelt from the rooftop of a nearby home, just barely able to peer over the stone wall.
“This is your doing,” Dieredon said, shaking his head. “I won’t help you start a war, Laryssa.”
He wanted to go, but could not. He watched the ebb and flow of the fight, which at first was drastically in the elves’ favor, despite their fewer numbers. The humans gathered at the front, for what appeared to be their last hurrah before dying in a blur of elven steel.
But then they arrived.
Dieredon had never seen the woman before, but the man spinning and slashing with those sabers could be no one else. Suddenly things became far clearer. He might not support Laryssa in her attempts at a pointless war, but to see the one who’d nearly killed elven royalty out there slaughtering elven troops…
Leaping off the rooftop, he hit the ground and rolled, his long, ornate knives flashing into his hands. He wished he had his bow, but he’d left the enormous thing in hiding outside Angelport, knowing he couldn’t carry it around without drawing immediate attention. Still, his knives would be sufficient, despite the Watcher’s surprising skill. Not many opponents fought Dieredon and lived for a second exchange.
Despite his speed, Dieredon kept his approach low and hidden, wanting no one, not even the other elves, to know of his presence. Should word get back to Quellassar he had witnessed the battle and not helped, there’d be many eager to deem him a coward and a traitor. He had no intention of delving into that type of political nonsense. As he was halfway there, smoke billowed out the windows of the mansion, and elves fled from all directions. One side or the other had set it aflame, though Dieredon couldn’t begin to guess which. He dove into the cover of shadows as they fled, and he waited.
The Watcher vaulted over the wall in chase, and Dieredon followed him in return. Far down an alley, his target having eluded him, the Watcher slowed. Dieredon did not. Only sheer honor kept him from stabbing him in the back. Someone who fought with such skill deserved to die in fair combat.
“Watcher!” Dieredon called, mere seconds before he launched himself into an attack. The human spun, his cloaks whipping about. His eyes widened at sight of him, and Dieredon felt the tiniest amusement at the worry he saw. Even against the Watcher, Dieredon still carried a frightening reputation.
Their blades clashed together, and this time Dieredon was prepared for his speed. He settled into an attack routine, keeping on the offense. At last the Watcher tried for a riposte, and Dieredon slid into the opening. His foot shot out, connecting against the human’s chin.
“Blow for blow,” Dieredon said, grinning despite the horror of the night. Armies of humans might soon march upon their forests, but at least for now he could fight an opponent of equal skill and know the human deserved death.
The Watcher didn’t seem as amused. He leapt away, then fled toward a nearby building. Grabbing the side of a low-hanging roof, he vaulted atop it. As Dieredon was about to follow, his finely honed instincts cried out in warning. Instead he dropped back down and spun, his knives already out to parry.
