Do not waste this opportunity, Erin.

  He dropped atop the mercenary, his sword jamming down through the neck and into his ribcage. The man’s dying cry was weak, and Thren robbed him of it entirely with a savage twist of his blade. The corpse dropped. In the distance, a man and woman saw and screamed.

  Thren ignored them. The second reason he’d chosen this location was the nearby firepit a street vendor used to cook their wares. The coals were smoldering, the fire unattended and the stall currently empty. Thren kicked open the wood gate blocking it off and he pulled a torch out from his belt. It caught easily within the embers. Once blazing, Thren returned to the streets at a run.

  Stall by stall, he set them aflame, the rough canvases and curtains used to segregate them easily catching fire. Smoke thickened as he did his work. People shouted, but none dared engage him, not with his sword drawn in his other hand. Instead those who cared enough to do so called to the guards.

  That’s right, come to me, Thren thought as he started setting buildings alight as well. If it looked like it would burn, he pressed his torch against it. Eventually the fire would reach a point where the citizenry would need to band together to fight it, and that was fine with him. It would only add to the chaos, considering the order for the populace to attend the execution on the other side of the city.

  At last Thren decided he had done enough, and he sprinted for the nearest market exit. His next task was to infiltrate the crowd at the hanging, ready to join when the battle began. The sheer audacity of the plan made him wince. So few of them, against so many, but what other choice did they have? There was no way he could stop Erin from trying to save her mother without imprisoning her.

  He’d considered it, too, but he knew she’d never forgive him. There was a time that would not have stopped him. It did now. So the fires spread, the plan moved in motion, and Thren put his faith in a half-orc that had already accomplished miracles many times before, and would need to create another with his strength and black steel blades.

  I hope you live up to your reputation, Godslayer, he thought as he crossed the road, hooking west upon seeing three Keenan soldiers rushing toward him from the opposite direction. Three against one was hardly the worst odds, but he didn’t have the time to handle them carefully. He sprinted, trusting himself to be faster, to be smarter. A kick of dust at another turn, twisting a foot print to make it seem he went left instead of right. His lungs burned, but he dared not slow. He had to get out, had to meet up with Erin at the hangings.

  Thren’s confidence nearly got him killed when he dashed through a tight corridor between two homes. He saw a hint of movement above him moments before the glint of steel caught the light of the sun. He spun, avoiding the slash, but not the accompanying kick. It sent him staggering to the side, colliding hard against one of the walls.

  The impact left Thren stunned, but he did not let hazy vision and a rolling stomach keep him still. He pushed off the wall while spinning and reaching for his swords. They drew just in time, both crossing to block a downward chop of terrifying strength. He grunted, his arms aching and his legs tensing to hold back the killing stroke.

  “You,” Brit snarled, and the mixture of joy and savagery lit a thousand warnings inside Thren’s mind. Her muscles flexed, all her might pushing the blade of her heavy sword toward him. Thren had the better angle, though, and he stood his ground even as his arms shook.

  “I was unaware you were so desperate for a rematch,” he said, and he grinned to disguise his actual worry. The grin, and the cockiness it conveyed, would aggravate her further. His best hope for a quick victory involved goading her into making a mistake. Anger and frustration were potent forces in that regard.

  Brit finally relented, and she took a step back to twirl her sword into an upright position, readying for another strike. Her blue-green eyes sparkled.

  “Cyth letting you live was a mistake,” she said. Her grip tightened. “One I am eager to rectify.”

  Thren bent his knees and lowered his head, all the energy in his body building for an explosion of movement. His cloak fell over his shoulders, hiding the positioning of his hands.

  “Come try.”

  She did, her sword thrusting for his center mass. He rotated outward, both swords parrying it as he spun toward her side. The alley was tight, their movement restricted. It would normally nullify the advantage of her larger sword’s reach, but he trusted her to know how to position and adjust to the limitations. This meant more thrusts, more vertical slashes. If he could keep her turning, force one of her swings to strike the wall and throw off her timing…

  Upon landing, he tore into her, hacking and slashing with his swords coming in from either side. Her own sword weaved back and forth, expertly blocking. She refused to let him guide her weapon, instead keeping it tight and close to her body as she carefully watched the movements of his hands. Quick hits, her superior strength and her weapon’s greater weight easily knocking about his short swords.

  “I’ve been wondering why you outed yourself,” she said as she suddenly kicked, her heel striking his hip and forcing him to retreat lest his broken balance mean his doom. “Why you cared so much about the recent tournament, but I saw you throw your final match. You let the Gemcroft girl win. At the time I could not understand why.”

  He tried to shut her up with a series of slashes, but his reward before he could even swing the second was a punch to the face. He spat blood, tried to keep swinging, but she held her sword with a single hand, deflecting his strike while pounding her fist into him, layering his chest and neck with bruises. Both gods help him, it felt like being hit with a hammer.

  “But then I learned your true name, and the name she used when entering,” she continued. “Felhorn. She claims your blood, Thren. Who is she to you? Niece? Granddaughter?”

  She gripped her sword in both hands again, thrusting repeatedly with speed that bordered on unfair given the heft and reach of her blade. One was disturbingly close, cutting across his hip to spill blood upon steel. He finally managed a decent hit in retaliation, a swipe across her shoulder that only infuriated her further.

  “Did you fuck a Gemcroft woman, is that it? Were you not content to humble them in your war? You had to plant your damn seed in them, too?”

  She deftly shifted, pinning his back to the wall as she swung. He blocked and parried as best he could, struggling to find an opening. Twice he attempted to sneak past her, only for a heel to his stomach or hilt to his shoulder to knock him back. All the while, she mocked him.

  “It doesn’t matter the connection, Thren. Once I’ve carved your corpse, I’m going after her. Wherever she is in this city, I shall find her. She won’t hang like her mother, either. She’ll suffer at my hands, and I shall enjoy every bleeding second.”

  Thren’s bruises were building, his exhaustion growing. He didn’t risk dodging the next swing, instead blocking it with both short swords. The impact left him regretting it. He skidded a foot backward, his feet unable to find traction. He pushed back, only to stumble as she withdrew her sword at the exact same time, pulling it for one wide, brutal swing aiming to cleave him in half. All her strength was in the blow. In her mind he was trapped, and there would be no blocking this hit, no parrying it aside.

  She was right, and so Thren did not try. He lunged, not at her, but away to the wall, climbing a single step up it before vaulting upside down. Time seemed to slow as he hung in the air. The killing blow swished just shy of his head. He saw the flash of its steel, felt the passage of air. His swords arched, already in position before his feet ever touched ground.

  He landed behind Brit, both his swords stabbing down to either side of her neck so they sank into the gaps of her collarbones. The elf’s body seized from the pain. His lips pressed to her mutilated ear.

  “My granddaughter will live,” he said, pushing the hilts deeper. “You will not.”

  A vicious cry, and he ripped both blades out to the side, tearing gaps in her flesh and cracking open ribs. Her body collapsed in a grotesque pile of gore. He barely had time to breathe out his relief when he heard a harsh voice speak from the entrance to the alley.

  “Yet again, elven blood dies at the hands of unworthy humans.”

  Thren turned from the corpse, his heart plummeting into his stomach. He knew that voice. He straightened his spine, clanged his swords for a comforting ring of steel, and then turned to face Cyth Ordoth, blocking the way.

  “Don’t you have a hanging to attend?” he asked.

  Cyth sneered at him, sword twirling in his hand. “You’ve been such a thorn in my side. I knew it was you killing my soldiers these past few days, and I suspected you would try something in the lead-up to the hangings. What I could never decide is…why? Why fight this hopeless war, Thren? Since when have you cared for the people of Angkar, or who ruled them?”

  Thren glanced over his shoulder. Two more elves protected the opposite end of the alley. There would be no escape.

  “I’ve ever been opposed to authority,” Thren said, wishing he didn’t sound so tired from his fight with Brit.

  “Of course,” Cyth said, slowly approaching. “The only authority you have ever accepted is your own.”

  “As did the uncle you worship.”

  Thren sprinted straight at Cyth, hoping to surprise him. Better to seize the initiative than let the elf dictate the pace of the fight. He barreled straight into his opponent, swords slashing together from the left. He wanted to test the elf’s speed, to see how he’d react once the defense was made. Cyth worshiped the Darkhand, but could he match him in battle?

  It seemed he could. Their weapons collided, Cyth unfazed by the sudden attack. They pressed against one another for a heartbeat, a mutual test of strength. Thren was not surprised but still dismayed by how much weaker he felt when compared to the spry elf. Other than his son, age was the only other cruel foe he could never defeat. His swords bowed inward, and then he was spinning. Raw strength would not suffice. Already he knew his speed would not match up, either. He’d have to rely on pure skill.

  That meant getting the elf to dance. Thren ended the spin with a slash with his off hand and a thrust with his main, both disguised by his turning motion. Cyth easily blocked the slash, but it was meant only to distract from the thrust. The elf noticed at the last moment, and he pitched his body sideways to avoid being gutted. Thren followed up, closing the distance between them. He needed to end this fight quickly. He needed blood to flow before the two elves behind him realized their leader was in danger.

  Cyth’s retreat ended with his back to the wall. Thren’s elbow struck him in the jaw for good measure before their swords re-intertwined. That swelling bruise gave Thren hope as he tore into the elf, hacking and slashing, his talents pushed to their limits. The ringing still drove him onward. He was the true heir to the Darkhand, not this spoiled little pup. He was the terror of Veldaren’s underground, the breaker of the first Sun Guild.

  His hands ached, and Cyth’s blocks grew harsher. Thren felt the battle slipping, found himself responding to counters more often than he kept the assault. He missed a hit, felt steel cut across his forearm. Nothing deep, but the blood still flowed. Thren gritted his teeth, but no matter the iron will of his mind, there were limits to his body.

  Whoever he had been in his past meant nothing in the present. Now he was a tired man in his sixties, worn down from battle, struggling to maintain his breath while wielding swords that felt much too heavy much too soon. Desperation gave him a final surge of energy. He deflected two hits, kicked to gain some separation, and then dove right back into Cyth. One sword thrusted for his neck, the other his abdomen. They came in at strange angles, and Thren twisted his body so it would be difficult to counter in return.

  It didn’t matter. Cyth parried one thrust aside and turned his own body to narrowly avoid the other. The pair collided with one another, and there was no doubt as to who was stronger. Thren gasped as Cyth’s elbow struck his throat, then staggered when the hilt of a sword cracked against his forehead. A new slash, shallow across the chest that tore more fabric than skin. Thren wheezed, disgust filling him. The fight was over. The elf was playing with him.

  “Surely you can do better than this,” Thren said, feigning confidence. He leaned against the opposite side of the alley, hard stone pressing to his back. “It’s hardly a scratch.”

  “Would you prefer I cut deeper?” Cyth asked, twirling his swords. His smile had returned, his confidence revived after the initial shaky start of the fight.

  “I’d prefer you lay down and die, elf, but rarely does Dezrel give people what they desire unless they take it for themselves.”

  One last leap forward. One last swing of his swords. Thren gave it everything he had left, his bruises, exhaustion, and aching bones be damned.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Steel struck steel. Thren’s aching hands could not keep hold. A brutal hit, and both went flying from his grasp. He kicked, missed, cried out as an elbow struck his face. Another cut lashed his chest, shallow, meant only to hurt. His final punch struck Cyth in the abdomen, but it was nothing compared to the hilt bashing against his temple.

  Thren collapsed onto his back, all the world spinning. An intense need to vomit filled him, and it took all his willpower to hold it down.

  That need nearly broke him when Cyth’s boot smashed onto Thren’s neck and pressed down hard enough to seal off his breath. Thren clutched at it as his face turned red and the world around him darkened.

  “There is much I can learn from you,” Cyth said, grinding his heel into Thren’s throat. “But there is no potential friendship left. I will make you suffer for it, Thren. You killed my brethren. You murdered Brit’tari. Whatever wisdom Muzien gifted you, I shall bleed out of your body amid a torrent of screams.”

  33

  ERIN

  Erin crept along the outer wall of the prison, mindful of guards. To the north rose a plume of smoke, a signal from her grandfather that the time was now. His distraction was at its fullest.

  Thank you, she thought as she watched the nearby Keenan mercenary patrol the street outside. Just as Thren predicted, they were spread much too thin, relying on fear as much as actual numbers. With the hanging ceremony soon to begin, their strength would be gathered there, and what few remained would be the mercenaries hired by Tori and not the far deadlier elves of the Sun Kingdom.

  Still, each mercenary would be more than capable of gutting her if she were not careful. Much of the city would be left unguarded, but not here. While Aurelia, Aubrienna, and Gregory were all kept within the royal mansion, the rest of the hostages were taken to the city’s prison. Erin’s mother was among them, and she let that discomfort and fear give her the courage she needed.

  First, she needed to deal with the patrolling soldier. He looked tired, and Erin wondered if the mercenaries were being pushed hard to fulfill their duties. The city had spent the last week constantly on the verge of riot. No doubt the men and women wearing those inside-out tabards were lacking in rest. Erin sure wasn’t going to complain as she crouched low and followed the guard like his shadow. She readied her sabers.

  Her first thrust parted the flesh of his back, bounced off a couple ribs, and slid upwards, piercing his lungs. Her other blade she swung about to the front of his body, the sharpened edge slicing his throat. The man dropped, gasping through the new hole in his neck and unable to cry out warning as he bled out. Erin sheathed her sabers, grabbed the man by the arms, and dragged his stilled corpse toward the prison. The blood would attract attention, but less attention than an actual body.

  There wasn’t much to hide it behind, so she dumped the body off to the side of the building, propping it in a seated position with head bowed forward. Maybe someone would think him napping if they didn’t look close enough…

  Erin redrew her sabers and rolled her eyes. No, no one was going to be fooled. She needed to move fast and trust her grandfather’s distraction to prevent any patrols or reinforcements from coming her way.

  Back to the entrance, an enormous oak door built into the center of the squat prison sunken halfway into the earth. She carefully peered around the corner to study the guard stationed out front. The door was locked, and the key hung from a large iron ring attached to the guard’s belt. There’d be no stealing it from him. It’d have to be taken the bloody way.

  Quick and vicious, she told herself as she prepared for a sprint. Give him no time to alert those inside.

  She carefully watched the guard, studying his movements. When he glanced down, scratching at an itch underneath his armor, Erin raced alongside the prison, keeping as close to the wall as possible. Her eyes widened and her heart thundered, pulse throbbing in her throat as she crossed the space. By the time the guard noticed the movement from the corner of his eye, Erin was already lunging into the air.

  Her sabers jammed straight into his face, one cracking a tooth before sliding into the back of his throat, the other punching through his left eye. They both sank in deep, denying him a death cry beyond a gurgling choke. Her momentum carried her into him, and she bit down a pained yelp from the awkward position it forced her arms into. The guard dropped, and she yanked her weapons free.

  No hiding this mess, she thought, watching blood pool in front of the door. She sheathed her offhand saber, then used her other to cut the key ring off the soldier’s belt. Just one key on it, she assumed for the outside door alone. Another guard inside would have the keys for the individual cells.

  Erin unlocked the door, leaving the key within the keyhole. She breathed in deep, relying on an exercise taught by her mother to calm her nerves. She could do this. However many guards were in there, they would be few in number, so great was Cyth’s focus on the public hangings.

  She pulled the door open halfway, just enough for her to slip through, and dashed inside. Two guards awaited her, both human. No elves. Erin felt a tiny bit of relief as she rushed toward them within the cramped entry room. The pair sat at a small table, chatting with one another. Their weapons weren’t drawn. The nearest, a heavier sort, shouted out a name as he stood, reaching for his sword. Erin flung herself into him, hacking with barely controlled strikes. Eagerness and nervousness mixed within her, a heady cocktail threatening to overrule her training. Regardless, blood flowed when her sharp blades slashed through the flesh of his face and neck. He dropped, flailing wildly, his weapon still not drawn.