Carson stepped close, and he repeatedly thrust for Haern’s chest, pulling back every time Haern tried to parry. Haern watched, more and more aware of the sluggishness of his reactions. He felt robbed of speed, robbed of strength.
“What’s the matter, Watcher?” Carson asked. Haern noticed the strange, hurried aspect to his voice was not quite so prominent.
Haern gave no answer, only grinned.
It seemed Carson suddenly realized the shift. He pushed his attack, this time without mockery, no longer playing with him. Haern kept his eyes down, watching only Carson’s hands and the movements of his feet. Carson was a viper, trying to mesmerize his prey with his gaze. But Haern was no mouse.
No, he’d been raised a Spider.
Side to side he shifted, avoiding thrusts, smashing aside cuts. Carson tried to step in and strike him with a fist, but Haern ducked underneath, whirling so his cloaks hid his movements. This time when he stood, he counterattacked, the tip of his saber slashing open a bleeding wound across Carson’s cheek.
Much as he wanted to enjoy the shock and fear in Carson’s eyes, Haern pulled his hood lower across his face and stared at the ground.
“What’s the matter, Bloodcraft?” Haern asked. “Aren’t you going to kill me?”
In his childhood, during the years of training by Thren’s hired tutors, Haern had spent several months learning how to fight in pure darkness. He knew how to predict the most common sword placements, how to listen for the movement of feet, the intake of air that marked an attack. In his mind’s eye he could visualize where Carson stood, and from their fights, he now had a feel for his favored routines. The man was good, but he was used to having speed on his side. He’d never been pushed to his limits.
But Haern had fought so much better. He’d met his limits, and surpassed them.
Eyes closed, he lashed out, and the sound of metal on metal brought a smile to his face. He pressed forward, his sabers whirling so that he could control the placement of Carson’s sword, forcing his defenses and countering his attempts to pull it close. His speed had returned in full. His strength was back. He thought of the rest of his friends, battling for their lives, and he would not fail them.
“Have you lost your nerve?” Haern asked, so close to Carson that he could smell the sweat and blood on him.
“You haven’t beaten me yet, you…”
His words confirmed his location, and more importantly, how Carson was falling backward to gain distance. It was all Haern needed.
He lunged, one saber thrusting, the other swinging wide to parry the desperate counter-thrust he knew Carson would try. Metal hit metal, and then his thrusting blade met resistance, just for a moment. Blood poured across Haern’s hand, and he felt the closeness of Carson’s body to his. Only then did Haern open his eyes to see Carson gasping for air, a saber pierced through his chest and out his back.
“Look me in the eye,” Haern whispered. “The fear you see is your own.”
Carson opened his mouth to speak, but he could only cough blood. He slipped back, and Haern yanked free his saber. Carson collapsed, mouth still moving, eyes still locked on Haern’s. The ornate blade fell from his hand and clattered upon the hard stone.
The ground shook, and Haern brought his attention to the other battles still raging.
“Hold on, Tar,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”
Tarlak sat on his rear, legs folded underneath him, as he leaned his chin against his palm and watched the inn. So far an hour had passed, yet no sign of life or movement through the windows.
He sat on the very edge of the bakery’s rooftop, and he kept bouncing his attention between the windows and the alley beneath him. There was always the possibility they were out in the day, and would return sometime soon. He knew he had to be ready, but still…
“Boooored,” Tarlak muttered.
He leaned back to stretch, and as he did, he caught sight of a woman on the roof of the inn, her slender frame dwarfed by the red leather coat she wore. Tarlak froze mid-stretch, wondering where in the world she’d come from.
“Hello?”
She lifted her palm toward him, and fire leapt from it as if it were the gullet of a dragon. Tarlak flung himself onto his back, crossed his arms, and enacted a protection spell. The fire swarmed around him, bathing the rooftop, but it did not touch his skin. The strength to keep the protection going weighed on Tarlak, and the spell of invisibility around him vanished, not that it was doing much good. When the fire subsided, Tarlak rolled to his knees, then pushed to his feet.
“Not bad,” he said, wiping some ash off his yellow robe. “My turn.”
Shards of ice flew from his hands, their points deadly sharp. A dozen shattered across the rooftop of the inn, each one missing their mark as the woman dove side to side, faster than Tarlak could adjust. Without slowing she ran for the edge, and when Tarlak hurled a bolt of lightning, she vaulted into the air, over the blast and across the thin gap between the two buildings. Before landing she crossed her arms, and another wave of fire lashed out, like she was the center of a great explosion. Tarlak braced himself, once more summoning a protection spell. The fire hit, and this time he felt the heat of it on his skin. He gritted his teeth, poured more of his strength into it.
When the woman landed, she pressed her palms together, and the burst of fire was tremendous. But Tarlak had had enough.
“Remember this?” he said, pulling out the sword hilt from his pocket. The crystal on it flared to life, and all about him the fire died as if it had never existed.
“You have Nicholas’s sword,” she said.
At the woman’s shocked expression, Tarlak grinned.
“Just the hilt,” he said, twirling it in his fingers. He’d had Brug remove the blade, and then over the course of a few hours, he’d replenished the magic in the crystal, turning it back to clear. “I must say, I thought it cheating. Shame Nicholas died before I could tell him so.”
The woman rushed him, abandoning the fire. Tarlak took a step back, but she was faster, and her kick connected with his midsection. He let out a gasp as the air was blasted from his lungs. She swiped at the sword hilt, but he clung to it as if his life depended upon it. She unleashed a flurry of punches, half of which he failed to dodge. Her fists struck his face, his chest, and when he collapsed onto his back she fell atop him. Tarlak tensed every muscle in his body as she put his head into a lock, her slender arms choking tighter and tighter.
“What good is that sword if you can’t cast either, you damn fool?” she asked, driving her knees into his stomach so she might apply more pressure on his neck. The hand holding the hilt was caught by her legs, but his other was free, and he pressed it against her chest in a futile attempt to push her off. As the arm of his robe fell back, he saw her eyes go wide, catching sight of the blue tattoo glowing across his wrist.
“I can cheat, too,” Tarlak gasped as her panicked grip loosened.
The magic within the tattoo enacted, flowing through his hand and into her chest. It was a solid force, like an invisible battering ram blasting her entire body, and it hit with a tremendous boom. Her head arched back, her arms flailed, and Tarlak winced at the sound of a dozen breaking bones. Her body flew several feet back, landing in a sprawl atop the roof. Tarlak stood, tossed the sword hilt aside, and rubbed his bruised neck.
“Think I might have overdone it,” he muttered. He glanced at the tattoo, which was already fading from his skin. His entire arm ached, and it itched where the ink had been.
Haern leapt up to the rooftop, landing silently mere feet away from the body. He was bleeding at the shoulder, but seemed otherwise fine.
“Dead, too,” he said, letting out a curse. “Need someone alive.”
He turned and leapt back off, toward the alley where Brug and Delysia had been waiting. Tarlak rushed after, and he peered off the rooftop to see where the fight continued below.
Brug stood protectively before Delysia, hunched over with several daggers sticking out from the creases of his armor. He still held his punch daggers, and he kept them up at the ready. Behind him, Delysia cast a barrage of
