manners upsetting any of his privileged guests.”
“You going to make it, Haern?”
“Worry about yourself.”
They rushed along, and this time Haern pushed himself to the front. Despite the help, this was still his task, his responsibility. If anyone should be springing traps, it should be him. But there was only one trap left, and they sprung it together. Finding a long corridor leading to a thick set of double-doors, they rushed into it only to have doors behind them fling open. Out rushed mercenaries, five in all.
“Leave them to me,” Senke cried. “Go after Leon, now!”
Haern accepted the order without delay. He rushed toward those doors, flinging out a leg to kick them open so he might go crashing in, a frightening display of skill and strength.
His foot slammed into the door, followed by the rest of him. His whole body aching, he realized the doors opened outward only. Feeling far more humble, he grabbed a handle and pulled. Instead of a vicious display of skill and strength, he walked inside a hurt, calm, exhausted man.
“You,” said Leon from the far side of the room. Rows of bunks were built into either side of the walls. Four personal guards stood before him, forming a human wall of protection.
“Me,” Haern said, bowing low.
“Who is paying you for this?” Leon asked. Sweat dripped down his thick neck, and blotches covered his face. To Haern, he looked like a pig overfed and then stuffed into fine clothing. “Thren? Alyssa? Maybe the king? Tell me, what did they offer you?”
Haern laughed. He couldn’t help it. Would Leon even believe the truth? Could a man in his position understand there were things beyond wealth and influence? Could he understand a desire for atonement, for a single moment of rest and relief from a life devoted to slaughter and revenge? Or would he just see a madman? Would he hear only nonsense and lies?
“I do it because I want to,” he said, figuring if there was anything Leon might understand, it was that. “And you don’t have the ability to make me not want to. Last chance, Leon. Accept the terms, or accept my blades.”
“Neither. You’re just a rabid dog, and my men will put you down.”
Two of the guards pulled out crossbows. In a single smooth motion Haern unclasped the cloaks from his neck and spun them into the air, just before they pressed the triggers. Twisting behind the cover, he made himself as small a target as possible. The arrows punched holes through the cloaks and sailed on, neither hitting flesh. As the cloaks fell Haern rushed the mercenaries, his sabers feeling light as air in his hands, just extensions of his body, keen edges of his will. This was it. This was the last. His night was done. The men would die, Leon would die, and he would have his truce.
The two abandoned their crossbows and drew swords, falling behind the others who pushed ahead. There was only enough space for two to stand side by side, and even that was crammed. Haern used his greater mobility to his advantage, weaving like a snake preparing to strike. Every thrust he smacked down and then struck with the other saber, cutting thin slashes across their faces and necks. Each hit made them angrier, until at last they tried rushing as one.
Haern wrapped an arm around the post of a bunk, whirling across the mattress and to the other side. A whirlwind of steel, he cut down both mercenaries from behind, then turned on the other two, who were unprepared for the sudden assault. A third fell before lifting his sword into position, and one versus one, the last stood no chance. He was only a sellsword, and had maybe killed a handful of men in his lifetime. Haern had killed twenty just breaking into Leon’s mansion.
When Leon realized he was alone, he fell to his knees and pleaded in his high-pitched voice.
“Please, you’re a reasonable man. You can listen, yes? I’ll pay you, double, triple whatever you were offered. That deal of yours, that’s it, right? I’ll accept, of course, anything you want!”
Haern approached him, his sabers dripping blood.
“You’re lying,” he said. “I see it in your eyes, your lips, your trembling hands. Besides, I’m just a rabid dog.”
He cut Leon’s throat, and he watched the life leave the fat man’s eyes as the door behind him opened.
“He dead?” he heard Senke ask.
Haern turned. He wanted to smile, but he felt exhausted, and he knew getting out of the mansion might not be any easier than entering. Senke stood in the doorway, and he seemed happy enough, but something was wrong. Something was moving…
And then the sword pierced through the front of Senke’s chest. The man arched back, his eyes wide. His limbs trembled, and blood dribbled from his lips. As his body collapsed, slipping free of the blade, Haern was too stunned to even scream. Behind him, now occupying the doorway, stood Ghost, the white paint on his face speckled with wet blood. His grin was as wide as Senke’s had been.
“I found you Watcher,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in the confined room.
“Why?” Haern asked. It was the only question he seemed able to think. “Why? Why now?”
“Because I have a reputation to keep, Watcher. I’ve been paid to kill you, and so you’ll have to die. It’s the way things work.”
He lifted his swords into position, and slowly, as if in a dream, Haern did the same. In the back of his mind he felt anger building and building, like it belonged to someone else but would soon be given to him whether he wanted it or not.
“You monster,” he said, crouching into position.
“Monster? I see one body at my feet, Watcher, and five at yours. How am I the monster?”
What could he say to that? That his kills had a pure motive? That he wasn’t motivated by greed? The arguments felt hollow, petty. They were two killers, and they eyed one another with an understanding so few could know.
“Then I’m the monster this city needs,” Haern said. “But we don’t need you.”
Ghost lunged, no doubt hoping to catch him off guard while he talked. Haern was better than that, though still his heart leapt in his chest. How could the man be so huge and yet so fast? With little ground behind him, he refused to retreat. His sabers met the swords, and they rang with deafening volume. Haern’s tired arms jolted with pain.
“Need?” Ghost asked, and his voice washed over him like a physical wave. With every word he struck again, hammering away at Haern as if he were a door barring his way. “This city needs its eyes opened. It needs its cowardly heart ripped from its chest and held up to the light. It needs to see those it fears go beyond all possibilities. What it does not need is some damn fool vigilante.”
So fast were his movements, and so strong, Haern could only twist and parry without hope of retaliation. The few times he blocked he felt the impact travel all the way up his arm. Even at the peak of his skill he might have struggled to win. Now, a full night without rest, his nerves frayed, his energy spent, he had only one last desperate gasp to hold onto, fueled by the corpse of Senke slumped beside the door.
“No,” he whispered, a denial of everything before him. Of failing so close to his goal. Of letting Senke’s murderer go unpunished. Of succumbing to the anger in those brown eyes surrounded by paint and blood. Of dying.
“No.”
At the end of the room was a single large window, and Haern turned toward it, running with a speed Ghost could not hope to match. He crossed his arms, ducked his head, and leapt through. Glass shattered, and he felt its edges cut into his flesh. It didn’t matter. Hitting the ground, he rolled, then dug his heels into the earth. He glared back at the window, suppressed anger bursting free with a fire he felt sear his veins. Not caring for the blood, not caring for the jagged edges still lodged in his arms and forehead, he took two steps and leapt back through.
He caught Ghost pulling up before the broken glass, and his sabers slashed an ‘x’ across his muscular chest. Their bodies collided. Haern’s knee rammed into Ghost’s groin. His forehead slammed the man’s neck. The glass lodged in his head tore skin, blood ran free, but several shards ripped into Ghost’s throat. Despite Haern’s momentum and surprise, Ghost refused to go down. He held his ground, matching Haern fury for fury. With no room to cut or thrust, he punched Haern in the chest with a hilt, then caught his chin with a roundhouse. Feeling a tooth fly loose, Haern dropped to his knees and rolled forward. His sabers slashed out, cutting the tender flesh above Ghost’s heels. The giant man’s shriek rewarded his efforts.
But Haern wasn’t done. Tears filled his eyes, born of pain both physical and from the torment of Senke’s
