Billick’s Oddities wasn’t too far away, and he knew the shop well. The man was a notorious cheat, and he showed no loyalty to any guild. Because of that, everyone liked him, and everyone used him to deal stolen goods. With him, gold was all that mattered, which meant you knew exactly how far to trust him. Thren grinned at the thought. It looked like Billick had found a partnership worth far too much for him to turn down.
Pierce had said they only used Billick’s place to store their goods, not stay themselves, but Thren had a feeling Grayson would always be nearby. His takeover of Veldaren depended on his product. He wouldn’t leave it unguarded. Thren approached cautiously, watching for any inquisitive pairs of eyes. He couldn’t rely on cloaks and colors anymore. With so much in flux, everyone could be a snitch.
When he was at the top of the road leading down to Billick’s, and almost within sight of the store, Thren heard the first of the horns. He stopped, confused by what they meant. When a second sounded, further away, he realized what it was, but could hardly believe it.
“What madness is this?” he wondered aloud.
Troops marched into the southern district, coordinating their movements with the blows of trumpets. It couldn’t be the city guard, at least not alone. The King was too cowardly for that. Only one person made sense, and given the audacity he’d already shown, Thren knew he shouldn’t be as surprised as he was.
Victor was coming to play.
Thren rushed toward Billick’s. He wouldn’t let Victor get Grayson. That was his kill, his chance to send a message west to the guilds in Mordeina. They would never fear Victor, no matter how many men he had. He was still an outside lord, a man not of their world. No matter how bright he shined, he would never find them all in the shadows. For it to matter, Thren had to be the executioner.
Sounds of combat reached his ears, first little, then gradually louder. The marching of feet soon followed. Screams, scattered and few, accompanied the progressive movement south. As Thren ran, he saw Suns joining him on the street, all fleeing to the same place. Thren drew his swords, stabbed a man beside him wearing their colors. Without losing a step he shifted to the side, overtaking another fleeing woman. She sprawled headfirst into the dirt after he slashed out her heel.
At the doors of Billick’s Oddities, several men gathered, simultaneously dispersing as a squad of ten armored men turned the corner. One of the soldiers lifted a horn to his lips and blew. Thren hooked a right, finding the alley occupied with a man furiously pulling at a scrap of cloth sewn into the sleeve of his shirt that identified his guild allegiance.
“Having second thoughts?” he asked the dirty man, grinning. Thren cut out his throat before he could answer, his fingers still in the hole he’d torn in the fabric. Glancing side to side, he gauged the cramped distance between the two buildings, decided them close enough. He leapt from wall to wall, constantly kicking himself higher so that on the third kick he landed atop the building directly adjacent to Billick’s. As he’d expected, Grayson was up there, surveying the movement of the troops. Thren knew well how he felt, for he’d done the same when Victor stormed his headquarters. But how had Victor discovered Grayson’s place?
A black fire gave him his answer, firing up from the ground toward the rooftop. Grayson dropped to his stomach, avoiding Deathmask’s attack. Glancing over the edge of the roof, Thren saw the Ash Guildmaster leading a squad of six armored soldiers, Victor at his side. Grayson looked up from where he lay, saw Thren watching. His lips were grinning, but his eyes promised death. Thren grinned right back. The two were about to be kindred spirits in their homelessness. Grayson, as if imagining his thoughts, only shook his head in disagreement.
Thren turned and ran, still shaking off surprise that Victor would ally with someone as despicable and unpredictable as Deathmask and his Ash Guild. On the only safe path out he raced across the rooftops toward the edge of the sweeping net Victor created. And sure enough, when he glanced back, Grayson was in chase. They understood each other well, knew neither would settle for capture by the meddlesome lord. They had a score to settle. Behind them, smoke billowed into the air as Billick’s shop went up in flames, burning away the last of the Sun’s leaf.
Thren ran, ran, leaping over the gaps between buildings without slowing in the slightest. His shortswords grew heavy in his hands as he held them. Grayson had often defeated him when they sparred, and he’d near fatally wounded his son, as well. Could he win now?
Digging in his heels, Thren came to a halt, spinning on Grayson like a deer turning on a chasing wolf. He’d made a promise, sworn his vows. He was Thren Felhorn. How could he lay claim to a city yet fear to fight one making similar claims? He would not let Grayson be right. No running, not from this. Standing firm, he held his swords together in an X, eyes locked on the giant man barreling toward him.
They crashed together, Grayson’s weight and momentum pushing him back. In the light of the stars, upon the rooftops, the two battled. Thren constantly circled, refusing to give Grayson a chance to bring his full strength to bear. The ringing of their swords was a song, and the battle felt so comfortable, so familiar, that only the pounding of his heart in his ears assured him that it was not some old training match, not some unimportant spar, but a meeting to the death.
“This stops nothing,” Grayson said, hammering at Thren’s defenses. His shortswords, dwarfed by his enormous arms, moved with both speed and unmatched power. “Veldaren is ours, Thren.”
Thren dove underneath a swipe, circled to his left, then slashed upward at Grayson’s side. One sword he parried, but the other cut into flesh. It was a minor wound, like a bee stinging a bull, but it angered him nonetheless.
“It’s mine, Grayson!” Thren shouted as he retreated once more, leaping back and forth in the constrained limits of their chosen place of battle. “Veldaren, its people, its fear…mine, and I do not share!”
“Liar! Wretch!” Grayson continued on, showing no impatience despite Thren’s stalling tactic. He knew better than to give Thren any sort of edge. When Thren fell too far back, Grayson took the moment to catch his breath, and rebalance his stance before slowly approaching. “You’ve lost that title, that respect. The Watcher took it from you. I fought him, Thren. Whatever miracle kept him alive doesn’t change that he should have died, and by my hand. You could have killed him at any time, yet you haven’t. You coward…”
Thren stood there, hunched low, ready to spring into an attack at any time. Grayson shifted his feet, ready to meet it.
“Coward?” Thren asked. “Is that so?”
“You let him live. Why?”
Thren’s grin spread ear to ear, and despite his exhaustion, despite his inability to score more than a single scratch on his opponent, he laughed.
“Because he’s my son,” he said.
“Your son?”
Grayson froze, just for a moment, as he realized all that meant.
“Marion’s son,” Thren said. “Your blood as well as mine, you damn fool. The Watcher and I are two sides of a single coin. Every man, woman, and child of this city fears one of us. Together we own the night. You are nothing to him, nothing to me. He lives, as do I. Come, Grayson. Let’s see if the same can be said of you come the dawn.”
Thren leapt at him, every ounce of his speed sending him flying toward the giant man. Once more their swords clashed, but Grayson’s mind was overcome for just a moment, unable to maintain the balance needed against such an opponent. But Thren had cried his tears for Marion, and he’d long since buried her in his heart. Grayson’s wounds, though, they’d stayed fresh, and because of it new ones slashed across his chest as Thren pressed harder and harder. He felt rage boiling in his veins, and it gave him strength. Looping closer, he slashed through Grayson’s left wrist, severing tendons. The blade dropped to the ground. Thren hammered the other, staying close, denying him the chance to flee. The other fell, its handle soaked with blood as Thren hacked into his arm.
Grayson tried to sweep out his feet with a kick, but Thren leapt into the air, his knee catching Grayson’s forehead. The man fell back, and Thren stabbed through his side, the blade puncturing the roof so it held him there like a stake. Grayson screamed, and he pulled against the blade. Another stab, this one through the shoulder, kept him down.
Thren leaned close, so they were mere inches away.
“You know who he is,” he said. “Your arrival was not coincidence. You’ve spat in my face, and for that you’ll die, but first you’ll tell me who.”
“What are you talking about?” Grayson asked, still struggling against the two blades. Thren had purposefully
