Victor spun on him while still halfway down the stairs.
“I will speak with Antonil myself, and I assure you, I will not have my request denied. Take them to the castle. Do you understand me?”
The older man nodded.
“As you wish, milord.”
They continued down the stairs, to where the commoners slept all across the floor. Victor navigated around, and then he and Gart stepped out into the night. Four men stood guard at the door, and they saluted when they realized it was him.
“City guard will soon arrive,” Victor told them. “Help them in any way you can.”
He started toward the castle unescorted. One of his men called out after him.
“Milord…”
Victor glared back, silencing his comment. Gart followed him a little ways, then stopped.
“Nearest guard station is this way,” he said, gesturing east.
“I will be at the castle,” Victor said, not slowing. “Safe travels.”
Gart didn’t look happy, but he left anyway. Victor knew he was being proud, but he didn’t care. He was a skilled fighter, and he wore his shining armor. Piss on anyone that thought him vulnerable. The scum of the city needed to catch him sleeping in his bedclothes to even have a chance. Marching down the quiet night streets, he made his way toward the center of the city, then hooked north toward the castle. Only a few times did he see signs of life, those of taverns burning their midnight oil to fill the poor and destitute with enough alcohol to forget their dreary lives. Victor both pitied them and despised them. They’d be either fodder for thieves, or new recruits. Once their lives continued to fall apart. Once they lost enough to believe they could never replace it without taking by force.
Several times he thought he saw someone following him out of the corner of his eye, a gray blur along the rooftops. Every time he turned back he saw nothing. Just nerves, he told himself, but his instincts said otherwise. So be it. He would show no fear. It was the thieves that must fear him.
As he passed by a row of homes, not much more than a quarter mile from the castle, he heard a soft voice call out to him.
“Sir?”
Victor slowed, and he glanced to his left. A disheveled woman leaned against the side of home at the entrance to an alley. Bruises covered her face, and there was blood in her long brown hair.
“Miss?” he asked, taking a step toward her.
“They’re taking everything,” she said, starting to cry as she limped closer. “Please, they…they…please help. They’re in my home…”
Victor saw her torn clothes and felt his anger grow.
“How many?” he asked, drawing his sword. “And have they gone far?”
“They’re still back there,” the woman said. “Please, sir, don’t. There’s two of them. I need the guard, help me find the guard.”
“Just stay here,” Victor said, hurrying past her. “I’ll bring you justice.”
“I’m not sure you can, Victor.”
Victor stopped cold in his tracks at her words. He didn’t want to believe it, but there was no other way. Slowly he looked back and saw a crossbow in the woman’s hands. Her delicate lips were pulled into a smile.
“Justice,” she sneered, pulling the trigger.
He took a single faltering step, then collapsed to his knees. He felt his muscles going limp, his armor heavier than he could carry. His sword fell from his hand as he rolled onto his side, only his eyes able to move. With mounting dread and disappointment, he watched the woman approach, her smile growing. There was no doubt as to whom she was. He tried to whisper the word, to call her the Widow as was proper, but his lips would not cooperate. Victor thought of the other bodies, of their missing eyes, and the messages written along the walls. Dimly he wondered if she wrote the message first, or last, and whether he’d still be alive to watch her writing with his own blood.
“I know you can’t move,” she said, kneeling down beside him. From within the folds of her dress she pulled out a knife, its sharp edge reflecting the starlight. “You might think you won’t feel it, but I assure you, you will. You’ll…”
A gray shape descended upon her, and she let out a cry as a heel slammed against her chest. Her momentum carried her until she hit a wall, just beside the door to a lightless home. Victor felt hope stir in his chest.
The Watcher loomed over him, sabers drawn.
“I’ve found you,” he said to the Widow. “About damn time.”
Instead of showing fear, the woman started laughing, the sound of it chilling.
“No, Watcher,” she said. “I’ve found you.”
The door blasted open, and out rushed a man in a long red coat. He had short dark hair, and he wielded an ornate blade in one hand. He crashed into the Watcher, his sword a blur. Their combat continued behind Victor’s head, and he could not watch, only hear the shockingly loud clash of steel. From where he lay, he saw two more on the rooftop of the home, both wearing similar red coats. One leapt to the ground, just a wiry thing that barely filled out his coat. The air pulled the coat open in the fall, and Victor saw dozens of small throwing knives. The man threw several as he fell, a vicious barrage. Victor heard them clink and ping against the wall and ground. He could only hope none hit flesh.
Still, outnumbered and surprised, could the Watcher fight off so many?
It appeared he could, at least for the moment, as their fight returned to his line of sight. The Watcher was a twisting confusion of cloak and blade, his sabers fending off the advance of the man with the sword. He kept flinging side to side, his motions nearly impossible to predict, as was evident by the daggers thrown by the other man in chase. Each one missed by inches.
Amid the chaos, Victor watched the Widow flee deeper into the alley, wanting no part of the chaos. Victor wanted to scream out his fury at seeing her escape, but he could do nothing, not even lift his fingers.
As if the two on the ground were not enough, the third up top suddenly clapped her hands, and just like that, the alley filled with fire. It burst along the walls, feeding on nothing. Victor’s eyes watered, for he could not squint against the sudden barrage of light and heat. The Watcher went on the offensive, crashing into close quarters with the swordsman. The man with the daggers closed as well, wielding them instead of throwing them. The skill on display took Victor’s breath away. He’d thought himself capable. He’d thought he could handle any foe. But what he saw wasn’t human. More fire burst around the alley, roping the Watcher in. So far none had scored a solid hit, but Victor could sense the Watcher’s desperation.
Ice lashed across the fire, and white light bathed the woman upon the rooftops, eliciting a shriek of pain. Victor’s hope increased tenfold.
The Eschaton had arrived.
Victor tried to follow, but so much was going on, and he couldn’t shift, couldn’t look. The dagger thrower turned on Brug, who came barreling in decked out in his thick plate. Daggers flew, and they bounced off, unable to penetrate. The Watcher upped his intensity, his sabers twirling as they battled outside his line of vision. Meanwhile spells flew through the air, ice and lightning crashing together as Delysia and Tarlak exchanged attacks with the woman on the rooftop. The sound was deafening, magic shook the walls of the homes, and amidst it all, Victor felt so helpless, so insignificant.
The battle split, traveling both deeper into the alley as well as back out into the main street. Victor had no idea who was on the offensive, and who was in flight. He could only lie there, waiting, and hoping, as he found himself suddenly alone.
When he felt the touch of a woman’s hand against his face, he feared it the Widow, but then he looked up into Delysia’s beautiful green eyes. Blood matted her red hair to her face, but the wound looked superficial.
“Can you not move?” she asked.
He looked left to right with his eyes as a way of answer.
“I will see what I can do.”
