“What’s going on?” Turk asked from below.

  “There’s a fire.”

  “Well, that’s bad. We going to put it out?”

  Gregory shrugged, but he doubted it. Within a minute, orders came hollering out from the mansion, and various captains repeated them. No one was to leave. It’d be up to the peasants to put it out themselves. Gregory was hardly surprised. From what little he knew of Ingram, the man would be content to let the city burn, so long as he survived. Of course, there was the question of who had started the fire…

  Smoke blotted out the stars as another fire began, this one closer to the center of the city.

  “Shit,” Gregory muttered.

  “What now?” asked Turk.

  Gregory stepped down so the man could look for himself. Seeing the fire, Turk swore long and loud.

  “You live near there?” Gregory asked.

  “No. Worried that’s the Nag’s Head they burned down. Spiteful little fuckers. That’s my favorite pub. The folks rioting again?”

  As smoke drifted higher, this time from a third location, Gregory began to wonder, as did many of the men circling the mansion.

  “The boats still out there?” he asked.

  Turk looked that way, then nodded. “Sure are.”

  “Then what in blazes is going—”

  He stopped as cries of alarm sounded from the opposite end of the compound. His hand instinctively reached for his sword, and he tensed, looking for enemies.

  “What’s going on?” asked Turk, twisting on the ladder.

  “Quiet,” Gregory said, trying to figure it out. More shouts, plus a shriek of pain. They were under attack.

  “How’d they get back?” Turk wondered. “The boats are still out there.”

  He suddenly jerked backward, losing his footing on the steps. Down he fell, landing hard on his back. Gregory was at his side in a heartbeat, wincing at the thick arrow shaft embedded in the guard’s chest.

  “Bloody cunts,” Turk said, glaring down at the arrow. “They shot me.”

  Outside the wall, chaos erupted. The men on patrol screamed in pain, and the sound of steel on steel rang loud. The men gathered at the gates drew their blades, and cries of warning came from all directions.

  “We need to get you inside,” Gregory said, reaching to remove Turk’s armor so he could better see the wound.

  “To the Abyss with that,” Turk said, slapping his hand away. “I ain’t dying to no elf.”

  Elf? Gregory stepped back, and when Turk snapped the arrow shaft in half, he realized its peculiar make and how much longer it was than their own. Almost in denial, he hurried up the rungs and peered over the wall.

  Over thirty bodies lay scattered across the ground, nearly all of them city guard. Twenty more guards remained standing, but they were surrounded and with their backs to the wall. Fighting them was a squad of fifteen elves, their faces and hands painted in camouflage, their long, curved blades slashing through armor as if it were cloth. One in the back noticed him watching, and he pulled a bow off his back. Gregory ducked, and as the arrow flew over his head, he could hardly believe the sheer speed of it.

  Suddenly their walls and numbers seemed so insignificant.

  “Can you stand?” he asked, offering his hand to Turk. The man took it, and he grunted loudly as he got to his feet.

  “Hurts,” was all he said when Gregory inquired.

  Shouted orders came in, demanding they form up. Gregory understood the necessity. Weight of numbers was their only advantage against such an enemy. From that brief glimpse, he knew they would not win skill versus skill. Turk was unable to run, so they hurried toward the front gate as all around them the city guard did the same.

  Halfway there, he heard the clatter of metal. Glancing back, he saw a rope hurled over the wall, a heavy grappling hook attached to the end. In seconds elves were vaulting over the fortification with ease.

  “Move!” Gregory shouted, pushing Turk along. They joined a formation of about fifty, all men who had fled the walls. Gregory drew his sword, and Turk readied his ax. A captain cried out for them to hold, to stand firm, and Gregory did his best as ten elves raced toward them. They were in no lines, no formations, just a brazen, lightning-fast attack in hopes of catching them unprepared. Bracing himself, Gregory swore not to run. Not to panic. High above, bolts rained down upon the battleground from crossbowmen at the windows. As if the elves could read their thoughts, they weaved side to side, avoiding nearly every one.

  “Stand tall!” shouted their captain. “Fight like men, you bastards, and cut them all down!”

  The numbers were in their favor, and against any other opponent, the fight would have ended in moments. The elves, though, twisted and pushed through their formation in a blur of steel and blood. As one neared, Gregory held back and let Turk slash with his ax. The elf ducked below, and as he twisted to stab Turk in the side, Gregory lunged. His blade hit flesh, and he let out a whoop. The elf turned on instinct, tearing open the hole in his side further. Roaring, Turk swung his ax, and the injured elf could not dodge in time. The heavy blade tore through his shoulder, splitting him like a log.

  “Back!” Gregory cried. Turk heard and obeyed, flinging himself toward the side of the mansion. An elf’s blade missed, and the attacker pivoted to charge again. Turk got his ax in the way to block the first hit, but the second slipped beneath and into his side. Praying it wouldn’t be fatal, Gregory flanked the elf, thrusting for his spine. Instead, the elf weaved back and forth, blocking and parrying both ax and sword with stunning speed. Gregory tried to match it, but he found himself unable to position his blade correctly. What was supposed to be a killing thrust turned into a weak chop, and the elf suddenly lunged at him, smacking the attack away with ease. Defenseless, Gregory tensed, his left arm pulling up as meager protection.

  The elf jerked sideways, then fell, a crossbow bolt lodged in his neck. From one of the windows above, he heard a crossbowman cheer. Turk drove his ax into the dying elf’s chest, just to be sure.

  The elves pulled back, their sudden retreat leaving the remaining thirty guards off balance and unsure. Of the initial ten elves, six remained. In similar smooth motions, they pulled the bows off their backs, drew arrows, and fired. Gregory turned sideways to minimize himself as a target, but they were not aiming his way. They were aiming at the windows. Two volleys later, the guards finally had the sense to rush forward, before the elves could turn that deadly accuracy on them. Gregory tried to be on the front line, but Turk took a few steps before staggering. Refusing to leave him behind, he stopped, one eye on the fight, the other on his squadmate.

  “Goddamn arrow,” Turk muttered before coughing up blood. He fell to one knee and would not stand, despite Gregory’s help. Glancing back at the fight, he watched the elves cut down the initial wave. Without their firm lines, the guards had even less chance of victory. Gregory felt his heart sink as he watched discipline waver, then break. Those who turned to flee found swords stabbing into their backs. Even worse, coming around from the back of the mansion were at least twenty elves, linking up with the six and shredding through the remaining human forces.

  “Get into the house,” Turk said, shoving Gregory away. “You got a chance there.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Now!”

  Turk backhanded him, and that was enough to finally make Gregory let him go. Looking once more to the broken lines, he knew he alone could do nothing to help. Saluting Turk, he ran toward the front gate. Behind him, Turk managed to stand, and he lifted his ax defiantly as the elves came rushing by. Gregory refused to watch the ensuing execution, and he hoped the giant man might find plenty of fun in whatever world awaited him after.

  Bodies littered the ground as he hurried, and he felt strangely alone on the battlefield. Reaching the door, he found the majority of the city guard gathered together, at least two hundred. They had spread from the gate, for the elves had avoided it entirely. The gate itself, though, was open, and the sight horrified Gregory to no end. Lord Edgar’s men, the trained soldiers meant to anchor their defense, were nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s Edgar?” he cried as he joined their ranks.

  “Fled, the little bitch,” said their captain. “How many?”

  Gregory nodded behind him. “Twenty-five, maybe thirty.”

  “Shit.”

  Elves appeared from both sides, Gregory’s twenty-five, and another forty from the other direction. Outnumbered by the human forces four to one, they should have been easy prey, but instead the city guard tightened their lines and prepared for a slaughter.

  “Be brave,” several shouted, but when the elves readied their bows, Gregory knew they were in a dire situation. Break ranks and charge or suffer the arrows. Either way meant death. This time the guards held their ground, and the few with shields did their best to protect the rest. Arrows flew in, deadly accurate. Volley after volley hit, until the elves were out of ammunition. Their opponent’s ranks softened, they drew their swords, cried out in their native tongue, and charged.

  Gregory had never considered himself a man afraid of death, and as the elves came rushing in, he tried to remain true to that. He stood on the front line, and he braced himself to swing, trying to guess the timing instead of reading his opponent, since he’d seen how near impossible that was with the elves’ speed. When he swung, he struck air, but not because his timing was off. Instead, the area before him erupted in a chaos of gray and red cloaks. The elven charge faltered, for a pair of enemies had landed amid them in an explosion of blood and gore. Not willing to risk losing such a huge advantage, Gregory rushed forward, barely aware he was screaming at the top of his lungs.

  The rest of the guards followed, and they slammed into the elves with wild abandon. Many of their attacks were parried or blocked, but they were a wave, and even as one fell, two more surged forward with blades already swinging. Gregory managed to cut down one too focused on dodging a man to his right. A second turned on him, kept him at bay with a shallow thrust, then tried to flee. One of the unexpected allies, a woman with a red cloak and strange, tightly wrapped clothing, dove upon the elf’s back, her daggers shredding flesh.

  Gregory had no idea who she might be, but as the other slipped through their lines to aid the opposite side, he saw the man’s garb and knew him.

  “The Watcher?” Gregory murmured aloud. Without thinking, he followed. The woman remained and seemed to have that side under control. The other, however…

  The Watcher dove into where combat was at its thickest, seemingly unafraid of the flailing weapons and press of the elves. His sabers twisted and danced, cutting down elves who were yet unaware of his arrival. He tore through the city guard, like a phantom come to their aid. When he finally reached the elven lines, he let out a cry. Gregory followed, knowing the cloaked man was their only hope of survival, and he was far from alone in thinking so. The rest of the guard rushed ahead, and though the elves cut them down, the Watcher formed their spearhead, and because of it, they did not break. They did not falter. Gregory kept to the Watcher’s back, hoping to help where he could, but usually just finishing off opponents the man left bleeding on the ground.

  Without any signal he could hear, Gregory saw the elves initiate a full retreat. He let out a whoop and held his weapon aloft. With their speed, he couldn’t hope to chase, and it seemed the Watcher had no desire to either. He turned, and from what little of his face Gregory could see, he was smiling. Of the initial two hundred men, a third remained, but they’d held.

  Gregory looked to the mansion, wondering how the people within fared. At a window, he caught a glint of light, then camouflage. His smile vanished. Without thinking, he dove forward. The arrow struck him in the chest, and he let out a gasp. As he hit the ground, the rest of the guard took up shouts, their heavy footsteps rushing into the house, where elves had no doubt entered through the windows and back entrances. Gregory felt a reflex to cough, but the pain was too incredible, and he forced it down.

  The Watcher leaned over him, and he mouthed a question Gregory suddenly couldn’t hear. Gregory tried to speak, to tell him that it was his life the Watcher had saved from the Wraith all those nights ago, but the words were silent on his tongue, his muscle spasms beyond his control. His vision darkened. Not long after, he left to join Turk.

  As the fires spread, Madelyn watched from the window of her room, sleeping Tori clutched to her chest. When the door opened and she saw it was Torgar, she had to bite her tongue.

  “Our walls are secure,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “It seems we are not their target.”

  “Nor should we be. Laurie helped them, after all. We do share a mutual enemy in the Merchant Lords.”

  Torgar grunted. Madelyn refused to look at him, instead staring out the window. She rocked Tori a few times, trying hard not to show unease at the huge mercenary’s presence. When he didn’t leave immediately, she turned and glared.

  “Do you have something you wish to say?” she asked.

  “I do, not that you’ll listen. The merchants pulled out all their ships, and no doubt got their fighting men with them. You know what’ll happen, don’t you? The elves will kill Ingram, and with him dead, those boats will sail back in. Just like that, we’ll have a new ruler over Angelport. How long do you think we’ll survive once that happens?”

  Her anger grew along with her panic. How dare he try to frighten her so?

  “They won’t dare,” she insisted. “The king would be furious at them for—”

  “The king will be told the elves did the killing,” Torgar interrupted. “And anyone who might say otherwise, anyone like you and me, will find themselves missing a head.”

  “No,” she said. “Ingram has many men at his disposal. They won’t kill him—I know it. The elves will lose, and then they’ll pay for their foolishness, as will the merchants for such cowardly behavior.”

  Torgar shook his head, and his voice hardened as his patience ended. “Even if through some miracle Ingram survives this night, he’ll still want to know why we didn’t help. Why we stood here and hid while the lord of our city fought for his life. Either way, you risk the noose. We must go out there. Let me take half our men. If the battle’s close, we might be enough to turn the tide. The fate of Angelport will be decided tonight, and we cannot remain here and do nothing!”

  “We can, and we will!” Madelyn snapped. “I am lady of the household, and you will do as I say. I control the Keenan fortune, not you. All you have is… guesses. You know nothing. You’re a stupid mercenary, more drunk than sober!”

  Instead of getting angry at her outburst, Torgar only grinned. “You seem to forget a few things,” he said. “Speaking of which… have you named me godfather to Tori yet?”

  She instinctively clutched the babe tighter. “I’ve had my advisors begin preparations,” she said.

  “No,” Torgar said, shaking his head. “No more stalling. I want it done now. Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” she asked, looking at him as if he were out of his mind.

  “Yes,” he said, his grin slipping. “Tonight. Unless you want me to start telling stories to my men.”

  Madelyn felt acutely aware of how alone they were, with not even Lily there to provide witness. Swallowing, she gave him a nod. “If you insist,” she said.

  She left the room, Torgar following closely behind her. Downstairs she found one of her advisors watching from a window, and she ordered him to bring her a quill and some parchment. As he was leaving, she caught his shoulder.

  “I’ll want several of my guards as well,” she said. “To provide witnesses.”

  The advisor gave her a worried look, then nodded. He no doubt knew that the word of those guards would be worthless in any royal court. For her to ask meant she was in trouble. They went to the front parlor, where she found Lily.

  “Please take her,” she said quietly as Torgar lingered behind them at the door. “Take her somewhere safe.”

  The advisor returned, carrying both the supplies she requested as well as a group of six guards. They gathered behind him, their hands on their weapons.

  “Good, you’re here,” Torgar said, grinning at them. “Let’s get this distraction over with, shall we? Just in case someone decides to climb our walls.”

  Madelyn felt better with the guards there, and she took the quill and dipped it in the inkwell.

  “What do you wish me to write?” she asked.

  “The obvious. State I’m the godfather.”

  She sat on the floor, a hardwood table before her. The light of the torches was dim, and she squinted as she wrote the letters. Normally she’d make an advisor do the work, but she knew Torgar would only accept something written in her own hand. When finished, she signed it and offered it to the mercenary. He took it, then glanced at the guards.

  “Jenson,” he said, offering the parchment. “You can read. Tell me what that says.”

  The guard accepted the paper, tilted it so he might see better, then frowned. “Just says you’re charged to protect Tori,” he said.

  Torgar clucked his tongue and shook his head, taking the parchment back. “Not good enough,” he said. “Try again. With loose language like that, someone else might swoop in claiming to be the real godfather. Someone like, say, Stern Blackwater. You wouldn’t want one of them Merchant Lords raising Tori, would you?”

  Better them than you, thought Madelyn, but she bit her tongue.

  “Forgive me,” she said instead. “I’m not used to writing such documents.”

  Torgar chuckled. “Sure thing, milady. Still… try again.”

  This time she wrote the document correctly, deciding she could cancel it at any time. Once the business with the elves and the merchants was over, the troublesome mercenary had to be the next priority. The risk was too great. Signing him godfather and protector of her granddaughter above all others, she gave it directly to Jenson, who read it aloud. Every word the man spoke was like a nail against her spine, but she consoled herself by thinking it was only temporary. It was only a stall until she could regain the upper hand.