making sounds would bring pain.
The thugs looked at one another, seemingly confused at the merchant's ramblings.
Kolatch's eyes focused on the tunnel and he whimpered. 'The knight! The black knight!'
Fayne saw a cloaked man silhouetted against the crackling torchlight of the corridor, striding toward them. His worn cloak fell around him like a gray waterfall. She could see no face in his cowl, but she could feel his eyes upon her-upon them all. She shivered.
The figure stalked forward like a great black cat.
'I have no quarrel with you folk,' he said in a cold, direct voice, muted only a little by his full steel helm. He pointed at Kolatch, who gasped as though struck. 'Only him.'
The knight's gaze shifted to Fayne. The torches flickered as though from his glance.
'Leave that woman be and flee,' he added.
The self-assurance in his voice made fear-and excitement-rise in her stomach. He might as well have been delivering the words of a god.
The merchant gagged. 'I'll pay all the coin I have!' he cried to the men around him. He pointed at his attacker. 'Just save me!'
'Bane's blessing.' The half-ore left Fayne and drew his steel. 'I'll take that offer.'
The helm began to pivot as the half-ore charged, scimitar high.
They moved almosr too fast for Fayne to follow. The knight raised a scabbarded sword high, caught the scimitar, and stepped around, bringing his pommel down across the half-ore's face. The thug staggered a beat, snorted, and slashed again.
The knight ducked, moving with all the grace of a master tumbler, and punched the flat of his sword into the half-ore's gut. He could have unsheathed the blade and disemboweled his foe, but instead he slammed the pommel into the thug's lowering chin. The half-ore spun senseless to the ground.
Fayne could have cheered to see her attacker thus beaten, but she saw the sentry nock an arrow and draw the fletching to his cheek. ' 'Ware!' she cried.
The knight turned toward her, taking the arrow in the shoulder instead of the throat. He staggered back a step, and Fayne's heart sank. The archer laughed-then cursed as the knight, undeterred by the wound, bounded forward. The archer fumbled with a second arrow.
As he charged, the knight shifted his grip to the sword hilt. He closed and whirled, blade coming free of the black lacquer scabbard in a silver blur. The sword slashed the bow in two, and the scabbard took the hapless archer in the jaw. He dropped like a stack of kindling.
The pale-faced man fell on the knight, lunging with his sharp nails stretched forth like knives. He'd been waiting arrogantly for his moment, and now it had come. Blue lightning arced around the man's claws, and Fayne realized-horribly-that they were one with his fingers, and not part of his gauntlets at all. A spellscar, she realized- the spellplague had bound razor steel into the man's hands and enhanced it with magic.
As Fayne watched, the malformed hands closed on her rescuer's steel helm, seeking to wrest ir off. The knight wrenched free, but the man caught his left arm. The claws tore into the black leather, and Fayne saw smoke rising from the rent and smelled burned flesh. The pale man's face was rapt in frenzied glee. It was over, Fayne realized- such a wound would stun the knight, and then the spellscarred man would gouge out his throat.
She knew the knight would be in hideous pain, but he did not show it. Instead, he glared into the spellscarred man's face and the ugly smile faded. Then the helm slammed forward, crushing the scarred man's nose and sending him moaning to the ground.
The knight whirled back to Fayne. In one hand, he held the gleaming sword, which flared like a wand of silver flame. His left hand thrust the empty scabbard through his belt, then reached up to snap off the arrow in his shoulder. He winced only a little and made no sound. Through it all, Fayne never saw his eyes waver. They stayed cold and solid as ice.
She stood slowly-no sudden dramatics, and certainly not reaching for the knife she kept in her boot. When the knight didn't react, she realized he wasn't looking at her.
'Draw your steel,' he said,
Across the chamber, Rath shrugged. He stepped forward from where he had been leaning on the wall-as he had throughout the duel. His smile was easy as he idly touched the hilt of his sword in its red lacquer scabbard. 'Another time, if you prove worthy.'
Rath moved to the center of the chamber. His posture did not threaten, but neither did he seem cowed.
'Stop,' said the knight.
'I have done nothing,' said Rath. He pointed to Kolatch, crawling toward the tunnel. 'I think you have more pressing matters.'
With that, the dwarf turned and-bending low in perfect balance-leaped into the air. He grasped the edge of a hole in the ceiling at least a daggercast above the chamber floor. Fayne blinked as he swung up into a tunnel shaft she had not seen before.
How could a mortal creature move like that-jump so high without a running start?
'Ye gracious gods,' she said.
The knight looked after him a moment, then turned to the exit corridor.
'Kolatch,' he said. His voice did not rise.
The merchant squealed, grasped his chest, and fainted dead away at the word.
Then Fayne watched, eyes widening, as the knight in the gray cloak bent low, tensing his legs, as though to follow Rath upward. Magic, surely-she thought. But…
She gave a wheezing sort of sigh and stumbled against the chamber wall, sliding down into the ever-present dungeon refuse. 'Ooh, my head.'
The knight appeared over her and his hand caught her under her arm. He cradled her like the helpless victim she only half-pretended to be. She felt such strength in his hands.
'Are you well enough to stand?' The cold voice broke her thoughts. 'Are you bleeding?'
'My pride, perhaps,' Fayne said, 'and I shall need a new coat.' She plucked at the garment, which was more muck than cloth, grimacing.
'Well,' the knight bid her, and he rurned.
'Wait!' Fayne caught the edge of his cloak and knelt at his side. 'It could have gone worse for me. How can I thank you, my hero?'
As she spoke, her fingers brushed her necklace gently and let her illusory face shift ever so slightly. The bruises remained-his eye would stay on those-but her cheekbones rose higher, her eyes became a little larger and softer, and her lips swelled just a bit. She spoke more softly, her words weak and afraid.
In all, she became a bit more enticing-more the grateful damsel. She played upon his need-the need in all men-to prorect. To feel strong and in control.
'Not necessary,' he said, but she could feel his body relaxing as he considered her.
'How,' Fayne pressed, 'can I thank you?' She stepped closer-into his arms, should he raise them to embrace her. Most men wanted to, when she plied her charm-and most men did.
Her savior, to her brief disappointment, was not most men. He stepped back, out of her reach, and his sword hand moved toward her, interposing sharp steel. Its fierce glow had dimmed, but the blade still glimmered faintly.
'Does your blade caH me dangerous, saer?' she asked, using the form of address for a noble knight of unknown rank. She looked him down and up. 'Perhaps you should listen to it.' She could see nothing of his face, but she was sure his cheeks would be reddening. Unless he had no shame-which she wouldn't mind either.
'These men.' The cold voice startled her-the voice of a killer. 'Do you know them?'
Before she could begin the explanation that came naturally, he held up a hand. 'You are far too capable a woman,' he said, 'for this to be random.'
Fayne grinned. 'You noticed.'
The knight's mask was impassive.
'Yes,' she said. 'I had arranged to meet their ignoble master- the dwarf, Arrath Vir, known to his friends and foes as Rath. Or so I'm told, at least.' She kicked the nearest thug-the half-ore-who groaned. 'These tripelings I do wrknow.'
The knight nodded, once. 'And that one?' He pointed at the slain man.
