“Not quite,” said Warrick, who nodded at Torgar. The man chuckled, pulled back his sword, and thrust it through Zusa’s chest. Alyssa’s vision exploded with red. She screamed. She flung herself at Torgar, but he let go of the blade and grabbed her by the throat.
“You want to hurt me, bitch?” he asked, punching her in the gut. As she leaned over and gagged, she heard Warrick speaking to Lord Egar.
“Send her to the elves,” said the old man. “We’ll need to pacify them so we can solidify our control over the Ramere. I can’t imagine a better gift.”
“No,” Alyssa said, trying to deny the unfairness of it all.
“You hear that?” Torgar said, pulling her closer so he could whisper. “You’re going to hang for attacking that cute little elven slut. Know what’s best? That was me. My sword. You’ll hang for my crimes, you stupid cunt, while I rule over Laurie’s fortune. I can’t imagine a better, proper fate for a stuffed up highborn like you.”
With that, he slammed her to the ground. Searing pain lanced across her forehead, and she felt blood trickling down her face and hair. Through blurred vision she saw Zusa lying close, facing her. Her body was trembling as it bled out, and she reached a wrapped hand toward her. Alyssa reached back, and their fingers touched.
“I’m so sorry,” Alyssa whispered.
Several men grabbed her, lifting her to her feet. They were taking her away, to the castle, to its dungeon. When they were almost out of sight, she managed to steal a look back. Zusa lay on the dock in a pool of her own blood, all but forgotten.
25
The Wraith fled down the streets, and Dieredon gave chase. More than ever he wished he’d brought his bow with him instead of stashing it. Against someone like Graeven, taking him down at a distance seemed the wisest, and safest, course of action. Instead he had to close in, and when Graeven climbed to the rooftops, he had to follow. They leapt across them, heading away from the docks. The homes crowded together, their roofs forming a slanted, uneven road for them to race upon. As Graeven reached a street, he tensed as if to leap over, but then spun. Dieredon twirled his knives in hand. Other than Ceredon, he was considered the finest fighter of elvenkind. He would show no fear, no hesitation, regardless of the opponent.
They clashed together, this time with far more room to duel than in the home. Despite the unevenness of the footing, Dieredon felt better with the open space. With his two weapons to Graeven’s one, he should have had the advantage, but Graeven kept on the offensive, striking with so much strength that Dieredon could not block with just one hand, nor parry with his thin, light knives. His only hope was in a counter, but every time he ducked underneath a blow and moved to attack, Graeven had already pulled back, or shifted his blade for a thrust.
Dieredon still kept on, refusing to back down. But he was bleeding, and had suffered wounds fighting Haern and Zusa. As the fight progressed, each second an agonizing whirlwind of parry and thrust, slash and dodge, he feared what he’d always known: Graeven was his equal, if not superior.
The sword swung low, and when Dieredon blocked it with both his blades, he tried stepping in to close the distance between them. Graeven continued pressing, forcing the blades to remain low, and then his head shot out, ramming into Dieredon’s nose with his forehead. As stars exploded in his vision, he tried leaping away, but Graeven caught him with his fist. Using his elbow to knock Dieredon’s thrust aside, he rammed his forearm into his throat. Blind and gagging, Dieredon made one last desperate stab, which amounted to nothing. Graeven somersaulted away, his foot catching Dieredon’s chin. The blow jammed his teeth shut, and he felt a piece of his tongue tear. Blood spilled warm across his mouth.
Dieredon fell to one knee, spitting out a tiny chunk of flesh. His breath came in ragged, and he glared at Graeven as the other elf slowly stalked closer.
“You shame us all,” he said.
“I do what must be done. I do what we should have done
Dieredon flung his knives up as Graeven’s blade descended. His arms jarred at the contact, and he felt the muscles in his neck and chest tighten as he fought against its downward progress. Graeven knelt with all his weight into it, his feet positioned so that even if Dieredon tried to kick them out, he’d still be able to dodge in time. Closer and closer came the tip, its edge shifting so it aimed straight for his left eye. And then it thrust, accompanied by a shriek of metal as it slid across his knives.
It stabbed the rooftop instead, shoved upward by Dieredon at the last moment. He kicked for Graeven’s knee, but instead hit only air. The two were both badly positioned, flailing for footing, but it was Graeven who recovered first. The sword slashed across Dieredon’s chest twice, and as he stumbled back, Graeven stepped in behind him and cut his hamstring. The pain was incredible. Crumpling to one knee, he tried to defend, but Graeven smacked the weapons aside as if they were playthings. Another cut, this one on his arm.
Dieredon fell to his back, Graeven hovering over him, smiling out from the shadows of his hood.
“I told you I was the better,” he said. “It’s a shame no one else will ever know.”
Dieredon flung his knives, which Graeven parried aside. He slapped him across the face with the flat of his blade, as if rebuking a student.
“Maybe,” Dieredon said, laying his head atop the roof. “But you forgot someone.”
With a flutter of cloaks, the Watcher arrived, looking like Graeven’s twin in the fading starlight.
Haern landed atop the roof, his sabers drawn and his pulse pounding. Dieredon had clearly been defeated, but he looked alive, so at least there was that. Bracing his legs, he prepared for an attack should Graeven make the slightest threatening motion toward Dieredon.
“Step away,” he commanded. Graeven only laughed.
“Why?” he asked. “Do you care for him? Have you ever seen him before? He is our dog, our hunting beast. You shouldn’t mourn his loss.”
“I said step away.”
Graeven angled his sword so the tip pressed against Dieredon’s throat.
“Of the two of us, I don’t think you’re the one in a position to make demands, Watcher.”
Haern took a single step, watching Dieredon as much as he was Graeven. Another step, and the tip pressed tighter against flesh.
“This won’t end how you want it,” said Haern.
“I beg to differ.”
Dieredon met his gaze, and he could read the desire to attack. Haern leapt forward, and before Graeven could execute him, Dieredon batted aside the sword with his arms, accepting the vicious cut it dealt him. With him rolling away, Graeven could not follow, for in came Haern on the attack. His sabers connected with Graeven’s long blade, and the ringing noise it created was like a death knell in Haern’s mind. His primal instincts took over. His sabers slashed low and high, Graeven batting aside the low while ducking underneath the other. Spinning, his sword slashed for Haern’s knees, but he spun himself, avoiding the cut as well as flinging his cloak into Graeven’s face.
Graeven took the offensive once he could see, using every advantage of his longer reach. Haern parried several strikes with both his sabers, trying to adjust to the elf’s vicious speed, then attempted an attack. His sabers lashed out, but he still hadn’t judged correctly. Graeven batted both aside, stepped close, and then rammed his elbow into Haern’s throat. As he gagged, Graeven stuck again, this time with the hilt of his sword atop his head. Haern collapsed to his knees, and he expected a flash of pain as the elven steel claimed his life, but it did not.
Instead, Graeven paced before him, just outside the reach of his sabers.
“Why do we fight?” he asked. “I swear, human, your blindness is sometimes baffling.”
