traveled steadily north over the past decade. Haern watched the entrance from an alley, on the opposite side of Iron. This gave him a wide view of the tavern, as well as the positions of the rest of the Eschaton.
Tarlak waited atop the baker’s shop beside the tavern. Haern could not see him, for he’d cast a lengthy spell of invisibility across himself before climbing up. The wizard directly faced the windows of the room, and precautions were necessary for such close proximity. Brug and Delysia were up Raven Street, so that if anyone fled away from Tarlak and Haern they’d be there to intercept. No exits went unwatched, no pathways unprotected. None of them liked the potential collateral damage, but the ambush was set, and at least no innocent families would be butchered like last time when the Bloodcrafts prepared their own ambush.
Time passed, and Haern felt his nerves start to fray. Slowly the sun fell behind the wall.
“Come on,” Haern whispered. “Come on, come on.”
They sky turned red, then purple, and then at last the stars winked into existence one by one. Still no sign. With every passing moment, Haern knew something was wrong. Had the innkeeper’s boy lied, or perhaps just been misinformed? No doubt the rest of his friends were as anxious as he. Maybe he should call the ambush off, or try to sneak into their room to confirm…
It was only instinct that saved him. He saw a flash of something high above, a shadow that didn’t feel quite right, and without thinking he dove to the side. Down fell a man in a red leather coat, longsword slamming the ground where he’d been. Haern pulled out of his roll, sabers drawn, but his attacker remained back. Surprise gone, he seemed in no hurry.
“Hello Watcher,” said the man. He was middle-aged, handsome, with dark hair cut short. Haern tensed. He’d crossed swords with him once already, and been stunned by his near inhuman speed.
“I’d greet you in return,” Haern said, “but I don’t know your name.”
The man grinned.
“Carson Bloodcraft. Consider me honored to meet you a second time. Few have the skill to match blades against me and live.”
“I could say the same.”
Carson chuckled.
“Indeed. Let me make this quick, Watcher. We knew you’d come for us after our last ambush, and we have prepared one of our own. We know where your friends are, all of them. Yes, even the wizard foolish enough to think we couldn’t see through a simple invisibility spell. With but a signal, they’ll attack.”
The man was too confident, the tone of his voice and pull of his smile too consistent. No lie. Tarlak, Delysia, Brug…they were all in danger.
“What do you want?” Haern asked, subtly tightening the muscles in his legs for a leap. “Do you wish to mock me before you try to kill me?”
Carson shook his head.
“Our mission is to eliminate you as a threat, Watcher. This can be done a lot of ways. But you see, your mercenaries killed one of our members, which leaves us with an opening. Your skill is incredible. With your reputation, and your abilities, you’d make a fine addition to the Bloodcrafts.”
Carson stood, held his sword out to the side. Something sparkled in his brown eyes, and it made Haern’s head ache.
“What do you say to that? Leave this pathetic group you serve. Whatever coin they pay you, I promise we can increase it tenfold. They only hold you back.”
Haern took a single step, just enough to shift his weight so he might leap with greater speed. Carson saw it, and he held his sword before his chest.
“If you agree, we’ll leave the rest of your group alive. Decline, well…you’re still a threat needing to be dealt with. Make a choice, Watcher, but do us both a favor…make the intelligent one. You’re too good to be weighed down with petty morality and friendships.”
Despite the danger, Haern let out a laugh.
“You think I do this for the coin?” he asked. “You damn fool. Give your signal. We’ll see who dies tonight.”
It was a bold bluster, a way to keep the fear for his friends hidden. He had to trust them, trust his own abilities to finish off Carson in time to help the others. Carson shook his head, looking disappointed. Their eyes met, and there was death in them.
“And you call me the fool,” he said. Something about his voice had changed, as if he were suddenly hurrying his words. His free hand lifted, and when he went to snap his fingers Haern lunged at him, sabers leading. Sword a blur, Carson parried both to the side, then shifted so his elbow slammed into Haern’s chest as he came crashing in. Breath lost, Haern swung twice in a futile attempt to keep the man on the defensive while he fell back, gasping in air. Carson parried them with ease, holding his sword with a single hand. His movements showed no slowing, no panic. He didn’t even look like he was breathing hard.
During his indecision, Carson snapped his fingers, then winked.
“Time for some fun,” he said, again in that clipped, rapid speech, and then the roof of the bakery erupted in flame. Before he could react, Carson stepped in, sword slashing. Haern blocked, always a fraction of a second away from missing. He kept his swords out wide, using the only advantage he had. No matter where Carson thrust or slashed, Haern had a blade ready, just a flick of a wrist away from parrying. Not that it mattered. Carson thrust, looped his sword around, thrust again, and when Haern tried to block the second, he batted both sabers aside as if Haern were a child. The tip of his sword continued unabated, piercing through Haern’s shoulder.
Rolling away before it could punch deeper, Haern knelt on one knee, fighting off the urge to clutch the wound with a hand. His sabers shook in his grip as blood ran down the front of his shirt.
Carson stepped closer, and in desperation, Haern employed his most skillful delay. Spinning, he grabbed his cloaks and flung them into the air, turning faster and faster so that his movements were a blur, the location of his hands and swords undecipherable to any but the most skilled. It should have worked, but Carson only shook his head, as if disappointed. Something felt wrong. Haern noticed it just before Carson attacked, unnerved by the cloakdance. The cloaks were hanging lower than they should, seemingly falling faster than usual, unable to maintain momentum.
Flinging himself back, Haern realized what was wrong. It wasn’t that Carson was moving faster. It was that he was moving
Carson stalked closer, unworried about Haern’s sudden retreat. And why would he? Could Haern get away if he ran as if pushing through molasses? Forcing himself to stay calm, he continued his backward retreat. High above, smoke blotted out the stars, the results of the fire that continued to burn. Heavy concussion sounds rocked the building. Tarlak was still alive, but for how long?
“Have you given up already?” Carson asked, steadily approaching. “You’ve yet to make me break out a sweat. You fought so well earlier…what happened, Watcher? Have you lost your nerve?”
What had happened? He’d fought both Carson and the dagger thrower simultaneously. Yes, he’d been pushed to the limits, but still he’d endured. What was different now? What slowed him so?
“Come,” Carson said. “Look me in the eye so I can see your fear as you die.”
The eye…
Haern stared into those brown orbs, and again he felt an ache grow in his forehead. Tarlak’s words echoed in his ears.
Something about Carson’s gaze, be it spell or hypnotism, was digging into him, pooling into his mind. Haern looked down, forced himself to watch Carson’s hands and hands only. Normally he might read a man’s face to gauge their tension, to watch for tells and signs of impatience. But not now. Gaze low, Haern breathed in deep. He didn’t know how it worked, or how long it might last, but he had to endure until the effects waned. The first time they’d fought, he’d had his attention split between two opponents, no doubt weakening the effect. If he could survive then, he could survive now. He had to.
