He opened the door with his good arm. So lost in his thoughts, so focused on what he might say to them, and they say back, that he was unprepared for the sight before him. Tarlak sat bound and gagged in a chair. Brug lay on the floor, also bound. Senke slumped against the wall, blood covering his clothes. Delysia knelt before him, her hands also covered with blood. And there amid them all was a giant stranger, skin like obsidian, face painted white as a skull. It seemed the stranger was as surprised as he was, and they both froze for a split-second. Haern looked into this man’s eyes and saw death.
“Watcher,” said the painted man. Not a question, just a statement. His deep voice chilled Haern to the bone, telling him it was time to act. This was no game. Their lives hung in the balance.
“Run!” Delysia screamed.
But he couldn’t leave them like this. Damn it, what he’d give to have his swords!
The stranger lunged, drawing two swords as he did. Haern dove further into the house, tumbling to avoid his attack. His eyes searched for a weapon, any weapon. There, on the wall, he saw the shortswords Senke had used when pretending to be Thren. Scrambling to his feet, he ran for them, not even slowing when he slammed into the wall. His good arm snatched one free, and then he rolled aside, the stranger’s sword cutting several inches into the thin wall.
“Who are you?” Haern asked as he held the blade before him and crouched into position.
“I am Ghost,” said the man. His brown eyes shone beneath the paint. Sweat dripped down his neck and arms, every inch seemingly nothing but muscle. His swords lifted and dipped into a stance, perfectly smooth, perfectly calm. Haern felt terror at the sight. For all his reputation, all his killings, this man faced the Watcher unafraid. He even smiled.
Every instinct told Haern to retreat, but he wouldn’t. He thought he’d lost Senke in a fire, and he’d never come back to look. He’d been dragged off by his father while Delysia bled. This time, he’d stay until the end, whatever that might be. Death or victory, he thought. His father would be proud.
“Come then,” Haern said. “Kill me if you can.”
He kicked aside the table, and in the limited space, began spinning in place. His multitude of cloaks dipped and rose, hiding his presence. Ghost watched it, the concentration in his eyes frightening. When he moved to attack, out lashed Haern’s shortsword, nearly slicing off his nose. Again Ghost watched, waited. Haern knew his cloakdance could defeat lesser foes, and give him advantage against several attackers at once, but against someone so skilled, it was a stalling diversion, nothing more.
“Stop dancing and kick his ass!” Brug shouted, unable to do anything but watch from his spot on the floor.
A sword swung in. Haern dipped below it, his spine nearly parallel to the floor. Out went his blade, cutting into Ghost’s knee. It’d be painful, but not debilitating beyond a bad limp. He hadn’t been able to get enough force due to his awkward position. Worse was that the blade caught on the bone instead of slicing free. Ghost stepped in, unafraid of the cloaks and defiant of the weapon lodged in his flesh. He swung downward with both swords. Haern’s momentum had him rising to a stand, so he kicked out his own feet to fall instead. The swords missed, but only barely. Haern landed flat on his back, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. His wounded elbow hit hard as well, and the pain of it filled his vision with black dots. Ghost twirled a sword in his right hand, pointing the blade downward, eager for a killing thrust.
But then Delysia was there, her hands raised, palms facing the Ghost. Bright light flared, blinding even to Haern. Ghost roared, and he took a step back as if struck by a blow. Haern swung his legs wide, taking advantage of the distraction. His heel struck the wounded knee, hard enough to dislodge the sword stuck in the joint. Down Ghost went, the knee crumpling. Again Delysia let out a cry, shouting out the name of her deity. Her hand moved in a downward arc. A golden sword materialized in the air before her, mimicking the motion. It sliced into Ghost’s chest. Blood sprayed across her, but she didn’t appear to notice. Another prayer was already on her lips, demanding the strength of Ashhur.
“Be gone!” she cried. Haern saw a faint outline, almost like an enormous hand, shimmer and vanish in the blink of an eye. Ghost flew back several feet, as if hit by a battering ram. When his body met the wall, it was the wall that gave, the cheap plaster breaking. Haern took to his feet, his wounded elbow held against his chest. It had started bleeding again, staining the gray of his clothes red. Ghost took a woozy step forward, then collapsed when he tried to stand on the other leg. Haern reached down and grabbed his sword while the giant man crawled toward the exit.
“Don’t,” Delysia said, grabbing his shirt. Her voice had authority now, and something in him was unwilling to challenge it. “Please, don’t kill him.”
“Are you mad?” Brug asked, still squirming against his ropes. Haern felt inclined to agree.
“He’s beaten, and leaving,” she insisted. “Don’t. He let me save Senke. He deserves as much.”
“He’s also the one who did it in the first place,” Senke said with a sleepy voice. “Just thought I’d point that out.”
“Phggrrmpf,” Tarlak chimed in.
Ghost looked at them as if they were all mad. He used a chair to brace himself as he stood, then limped toward the door, his teeth clenched against the pain.
“You were beaten,” he said as he took a lumbering step outside.
“Sure thing,” Haern said, Delysia still clutching his shirt. The moment the door closed, he slumped backward, sitting atop the edge of the overturned table. Delysia checked his elbow.
“Senke needs my help more than you,” she said. “It can wait. Untie Tarlak and Brug.”
“As you wish.”
Delysia returned to Senke and knelt before him. Haern heard her prayers, and white light shone around her hands. No wonder the wound on his chest had healed so quickly those few days ago.
“Friend of yours?” Tarlak asked once the gag was removed.
“You aren’t funny,” Haern said.
He cut the ropes around his hands and feet, and while the wizard stretched, he did the same for Brug.
“Son of a whore ambushed me coming up the stairs,” Brug said, grabbing his punch daggers. “Otherwise I’d have torn him a new hole.”
“You mean like this one?” Senke asked.
Brug flushed and looked away. Haern tossed his shortsword to the floor. He felt sick, and he still hadn’t recovered from the blow to his head earlier in the day. His elbow throbbed, feeling even worse than when he’d first received the cut. He saw Brug and Tarlak glaring at him, and he felt like he deserved their ire. He tried to stumble for the door, but Tarlak blocked the way, holding it shut with his arm.
“Not yet,” he said. “And not anytime soon. It’s time we talked, Watcher.”
*
M atthew’s relief upon seeing Felwood Castle lasted only as long as it took him to see one of Hadfield’s men standing watch far from the other guards. It was as he’d feared. Less than ten minutes ago he’d had to drag them off the road, and when the horsemen rode on by, his gut told him who it was they served.
“What do we do?” Tristan asked. Matthew had abruptly turned them both around and back north on the road, hoping the soldier hadn’t seen their approach. Given the distance, it seemed probable.
“I don’t know,” he said. He could imagine what would happen if they tried to pass by. The soldier would cut them down before letting them reach lord Gandrem. Whatever explanations or punishment the soldier received would still be preferable so long as no one identified the one-armed boy as the son of Lady Gemcroft. Given his disfigurement, the dirt on his face and the plain clothes he now wore, it seemed doubtful.