Too easy, he felt.
He drifted down the hall, every muscle tensed, his pace falling in sync with his heartbeat, and still nothing leapt from the darkness to challenge him. That was worse than if something had. His lungs ached, desperate to expel the stale air he held captive as he crept along. Only when he thought his chest might explode did he hear the shuffle of footsteps ahead; slow, scuffing movements speaking of boredom more than a reaction to his presence. Gryl drew closer to the archway at the end of the tunnel and spied a row of gray bars just beyond. Barred windows against the back wall let slivers of moonlight into the chamber, assuring him he’d reached the dungeon at last.
A sharp sniff sounded just inside the archway and Gryl stepped inside, took the barest of an instant to aim, and stabbed the sentry. Blood spewed from the man’s neck and spattered Gryl’s face with warm dots. A twist of his wrist and a hard yank freed his sword and finished the guard, his head lolling, half-severed. He died without a sound.
“I’d expected someone to attempt a rescue, but I hardly expected you.”
Gryl turned to see Jacquial, the lord of the Guild Infernal, lounging atop a wooden stool inside the barren cell. She stared out at him from beneath wild, raven locks. She hardly looked a prisoner, dressed in her customary plain black tunic and loose-fitting pants clasped tight about her ankles, swallowing the soft leather boots beneath. Only the slight gauntness in her cheeks and the sallow pits beneath her emerald eyes spoke of her predicament.
“Toad sent word of your… predicament, a regiment of knights having come to collect you and Surathanan in the middle of the night. He thought it best that I tempt the empress’s ire rather than the guild. Seemed a reasonable request.”
She smiled, chasing the shadows from her features. “My uncle is a fool if he believes the guild won’t suffer for this no matter who was sent.” Jacquial rose and came to stand at the cell door, shaking her head.
“A well-meaning fool, at least.”
“He is that.” She rapped her knuckles on the bars. “How about we catch up another time and you get me out of this hole before the empress’s dogs realize what you’re about.”
“Too late for that,” a sharp voice said from behind them.
Gryl spun to see a sleek figure in silver blocking the only doorway, a group of knights gathered at her back, the swooping raven sigil of Shytan standing out stark against the black and red of their tabards. Chainmail gleamed in the open spaces beneath, naked steel wavering with impatience.
“By order of the empress, Patah Re Shah, lay down your arms and surrender, Prodigy. You will not be given another opportunity to comply.”
Gryl exhaled slowly as realization washed over him. It had been a trap all along, Surathanan offering the guild lord to the empress, certain Gryl would follow, fool that he is. This gleaming knight had been who the guards spoke of outside, not Jacquial.
“Who are you?” he asked the armored woman, playing for time.
“She’s one of the empress’s Exemplars, her personal guard,” Jacquial answered for the warrior, her words heavy with the burden of apprehension. The sound gave Gryl pause. “She is runesworn. It is rumored they cannot die.”
The woman stepped forward, her slim white blade, mystic sigils woven in gold along its lower half, leading the way. Gryl could feel its essence in the marrow of his bones, his scars throbbing at its closeness. The Exemplar’s eyes glistened like stars through her helm. Her armor looked as if it were crafted of cloth, flexing easily with her every movement, yet there was no denying the authenticity of it, the sheen of fine steel reflecting the dim light. Gryl had never seen such exquisite handiwork and he wondered at its resilience.
If only for an instant.
Not one to offer advantage to a foe, or to believe one couldn’t be slain, Gryl darted low and went to disembowel the woman. She met his attack and turned it aside with casual ease, countering with a speed that made him feel as if he were clawing through a mire. Her blade etched a long gash down his biceps and sent him stumbling back to avoid a second blow.
“You’ve made a poor choice, Prodigy,” she said, though the excitement in her voice told him this was what she’d wanted all along.
He wasted no breath on words, launching himself at her once more. He feinted high and swung low, slipping a dagger out from the sheath at his back as he did. The exemplar stood stoic, parrying his strike with a flick of her wrist and knocking his dagger aside as he tried to jam it into her armpit. Her forearm collided with his nose, the crunch of cartilage reverberating in his skull, only to be followed by a kick to his midsection. Gryl crashed to the stone floor, losing his dagger at the impact. He mouthed a silent prayer to Anklor for allowing him to retain his grip upon his sword. He clambered to his feet as the Exemplar advanced with slow, predatory steps. Even though he couldn’t see her face beneath her helmet, he could sense the smile she bore. The malice shined through.
He lashed out again, letting instinct guide his motions, but the woman was simply too fast. Steel met steel and he was thwarted again and once more as he attempted to counter. Her free hand caressed a sigil on the blade as Gryl retreated, and he swore he saw sparks as the sword began to hum, its steel seeming to blur, leaving a gray trail in its wake as she advanced. Gryl whipped his sword up to parry the blow only to realize too late that was what she intended him to do. The weapons clashed once again, only this time there was no resounding clang. Instead, a sharp crack filled his ears and Gryl felt his sword break before he saw it. Vibrations shot through his palm and numbed his fingers, sending striations of lightning the length of his arm. His blade, cut clean, left nothing but a useless couple of inches protruding from the hilt. He was drawn to stare at its impotent edge, unable to look away.
Molten fire churned in his gut and Gryl realized his hesitance too late. He twisted and threw himself backward, tearing the Exemplar’s sword loose of his flesh. Blood spilled from the wound and he stumbled to a knee. Pain, the likes of which he remembered only in the haze of his nightmares, scalded his nerves and brought tears to his eyes. He gasped, struggling to draw breath.
“Don’t kill him!” Jacquial shouted, banging her fists against the bars. “You don’t need to kill him.”
“But I do.” The Exemplar drove a boot into Gryl’s chest, knocking him to the ground once more. Only then did he release his hold on his ruined sword and draw another dagger. The silver knight gave him no chance to use it.
She stepped in and cut a crevice across his wrist. His hand spasmed and popped open of its own accord, the dagger falling away from numb fingers. Jacquial screamed but Gryl barely heard her as the knight carved a bloody trough along his chest. He howled only to catch an armored fist in the mouth, burying his voice beneath the crunch of broken teeth. Gryl slumped, barely aware he’d fallen to his stomach. Cold stone pressed against his cheek while the Exemplar cut gory pieces from his back. Blood pooled on the floor and every breath gave birth to crimson bubbles as an unfamiliar agony flooded his senses.
Unable to lift his head, his nose and mouth filling with his own blood, he dragged his arm to his face and forced it under his cheek. He moaned as his face slipped inched upward, struggling for breath as warm fluid gushed from his open mouth. It ran across his slashed wrist, the white of his nearly-severed tendons clearly visible in the gash.