The Dark Lord

wall, just the way we came in!'

Without looking to see if the maid understood, Thyatis stepped down the stairs, her spatha rasping from its sheath. Shirin and Betia scrambled up past her and Thyatis growled. 'What were you doing?'

'The garden gate leads into an alley...' Betia hissed, short of breath. 'There's no one...'

Thyatis turned, fury building in her face. 'Did you come back from your errand that way?'

'Yes—' Betia fell silent, seeing Thyatis' lips twitch into a flat, hard line. A heavy crash boomed up from below, followed by the sound of splintering wood. Distantly, men shouted.

'Go!' Thyatis jerked her head. Betia, flushing, was gone. Shirin tarried, her hands on the long knife she carried in her girdle. Thyatis fixed her with a piercing glare. 'Take care of the boy.'

The Khazar woman nodded, face dark against the fitful light outside. Her hand brushed Thyatis' cheek, leaving a tingling warmth and she ran the length of the landing and swung easily over the little wall. Terra-cotta tile creaked under her hands and feet as she scrambled across the roof.

'Anastasia!' Thyatis took another step down the stairs. The Duchess appeared in the doorway, hair coming loose, her long gown tangled. Face grim, the older woman swung the panel closed with a bang, then groped for a locking bar set against the wall. 'Leave it!' Thyatis shouted.

Wood shattered, sounding close, and the baying of a dozen throats hot on the hunt rang and echoed in the main hall. Anastasia grunted, shoving the bar down against the retaining slats. One end stuck and she struggled to fit the bar properly into the groove.

Thyatis cursed, but the Duchess whirled as she prepared to leap down to help her. 'Get out!' Anastasia's face was a blur in the dim light, but the snap of command in her voice was unmistakable. Thyatis felt her heart wrench, then turned and sprinted back up the stairs.

—|—

Nicholas loped across the main hall—ears pricked for the sound of running feet on tile—and heard a clank of wood against wood off to his left. He turned swiftly, Brunhilde bare in his hand, her eager voice keening in his ears and the flicker of blue-white along her edge showed him a short flight of ornamented marble steps leading up to a door. 'Vlad, the door!'

The Walach burled past, powerful shoulders swinging, the long-bladed axe in his hands whipping around in a tight arc. The blade crashed into the door, shattering gold-painted panels and knocking a big section out of the frame. Someone shouted in alarm on the other side—a female voice—and the Walach slammed an armored shoulder into the wood. A splintering crash followed and the entire door frame tore away from the wall. Vladimir stumbled inside—he hadn't expected such flimsy construction—and Nicholas caught a glimpse of a woman in a formal stola and gown, her left arm stiff and swinging up at him, thumb twisting.

Blind instinct threw him to one side as he rushed into the doorway. Vladimir was down, sprawled on the floor in a ruin of broken panels and splintered wood. There was a sharp twang and something snapped past the Latin's head. Snarling, Nicholas lunged, the tip of dwarf-steel blade catching the woman under her raised arm. Steel sank into soft flesh and the woman grunted, thrown back against the wall. Without thinking, Nicholas wrenched the blade free with a half-twist and smashed her down with the armored point of his elbow.

Behind him, there was commotion as the legionaries poured into the house and torchlight flared on the walls of the stairwell. Nicholas saw on opening at the top and leapt in pursuit of the enemy, blood slicking away from Brunhilde's blade.

—|—

Vladimir tore his shoulder free from the remains of the door and rose to his hands and feet. Nicholas had disappeared up the staircase. Directly in front of the Walach, a woman was sprawled on the steps, her mane of curly dark hair matted and tangled, one hand pressed against a deep wound in her side. Blood spilled between white fingers, slicking the curve of her breast.

'Ahhh, it's cold,' she gasped, barely able to breath. Vladimir crawled forward, wondering if this were the Empress they sought. He saw she had been blessed with a nearly perfect oval face, hawk-wing brows and plush, rich lips. The Empress has shorter hair, the Walach remembered. He hissed, seeing the depth of her wound.

'Who—' The woman opened her eyes and Vladimir felt cold, stunned shock burn through him. They were a glorious pale violet and his nostrils twitched, taking in a heady smell of blood, sweat, myrrh and honey. She smells like... His hand—moving with its own purpose—brushed back the tangle of dark curls around her face. She is beautiful. This must be Betia's mistress, the Duchess Anastasia. The too-familiar smell registered and he slumped back, stunned beyond measure.

'Vladimir,' he said, barely able to speak. 'I'm Vladimir. My lady... I'm sorry.'

The woman tried to smile, but blood welled from her mouth and she stared to choke. Gently, Vladimir turned her head, letting the fluid pour from her mouth. Her skin was very warm under his fingers. Desperately, he pressed hard on her wound, trying to stop the flow of blood. 'Thank you, Vladimir,' she managed to say and a genuine smile lit her features, shining through sweat and blood. 'Betia... cough... said you had a kind heart.'

The Walach felt his guts twist. 'Nicholas didn't mean... he wouldn't have...' Vladimir stuttered to a halt, unable to express the enormous, overwhelming feeling of grief crushing his chest. 'He didn't know you were his sister!'

The Duchess' brows drew together and for a moment the agony seemed to fade, leaving only a puzzled, beautiful woman. 'I've no bro... oh—oh, I remember—the collar hurt his neck and made him cry... his eyes...'

'Are yours! Your faces—your smell—everything...' Vladimir twisted, trying to see if anyone had come into the house. 'I'll send for a healer, mistress, it'll only be a moment!'

'Vladimir,' Anastasia's voice was barely audible and the Walach could feel a chill mounting in her chest like rising water. Already her legs were heavy with death. 'You must take care of Betia,' she said, face turning pale. Her hand closed tightly over his. 'This is only misfortune...'

She started to choke again and Vladimir tried to roll her over, but she shuddered in his arms and grew entirely still. The Walach started to weep and his tears mixed with the blood fouled in her garments, leaving thin silver trails on the side of her neck and face. Gently, he laid Anastasia down upon the steps and straightened her gown and stole, crossing pale arms across her chest.

For the first time, the smell of so much fresh blood did not spark hunger in his breast.

—|—

Thyatis ran lightly along the roof ridge, her weight making the curved tiles creak and splinter. The sun had set at last; leaving the city sprawled below her dark save for the slow appearance of glowing windows and bonfires in the public squares. Low clouds drifted across the sky, shining with a reflected orange glow, letting her see just a little. On her back, the Empress wheezed in pain with each jarring step.

Thyatis reached the wall at the end of the roof and raised her head. On the floor above in an adjoining building, Shirin's tense face stared down between sections of crosshatched wooden lattice. Upon entering the Duchess' safe house, they had taken one of the lattice sections out. Thyatis waved, then halted, gauging the distance. Coming down had been easy—a light drop after hanging on the lip of the upper balcony—but getting up was going to be difficult.

'Hand her up,' Shirin hissed, reaching down with both hands. 'I'll lift—' The Khazar woman's head jerked up and her eyes went wide in alarm. She scuttled backwards out of sight. Thyatis spun, feet sliding on the tiled roof, her spatha flickering into guard position.

Nicholas advanced towards her, his heavy boots cracking tile, sending slivers of red pottery bouncing down the sloping roof. The Empress' hands tightened on Thyatis' armor and her legs scissored tight around the younger woman's waist. Thyatis felt a great calm come over her—her peripheral vision fading to gray, shutting out the sight of the garden below her on the right, now filling with armed men; and the two-story drop to the street on her left. She took the spatha hand and hand, remembering the power in Nicholas' shoulders and arms.

The Latin advanced, footing unsteady, his boots finding purchase difficult on the rows of terra-cotta, but the blade in his hands was steady, flickering with a sullen, half-hidden light. He said nothing, but Thyatis could feel his